Trials and Confessions of a Housekeeper Read online

  Trials and Confessions of a Housekeeper

  T S Arthur

  Project Gutenberg’s Trials and Confessions of a Housekeeper, by T. S. Arthur

  This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with

  almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or

  re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included

  with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net

  Title: Trials and Confessions of a Housekeeper

  Author: T. S. Arthur

  Posting Date: August 30, 2009 [EBook #4622]

  Release Date: November, 2003

  First Posted: February 20, 2002

  Language: English

  Character set encoding: ASCII

  START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TRIALS, CONFESSIONS OF HOUSEKEEPER ***

  Produced by Charles Aldarondo. HTML version by Al Haines.

  TRIALS AND CONFESSIONS OF A HOUSEKEEPER.

  BY

  T. S. Arthur

  PHILADELPHIA:

  1859.

  INTRODUCTION.

  UNDER the title of Confessions of a Housekeeper, a portion of the

  matter in this volume has already appeared. The book is now

  considerably increased, and the range of subjects made to embrace

  the grave and instructive, as well as the agreeable and amusing. The

  author is sure, that no lady reader, familiar with the trials,

  perplexities, and incidents of housekeeping, can fail to recognize

  many of her own experiences, for nearly every picture that is here

  presented, has been drawn from life.

  CONTENTS.

  CHAPTER

  I. MY

  SPECULATION

  IN

  CHINA

  WARE

  . II.

  SOMETHING

  ABOUT

  COOKS

  .

  III

  .

  LIGHT

  ON

  THE

  SUBJECT

  . IV.

  CHEAP

  FURNITURE

  . V. IS IT ECONOMY? VI.

  LIVING

  AT A

  CONVENIENT

  DISTANCE

  .

  VII

  .

  THE

  PICKED-UP

  DINNER

  .

  VIII

  .

  WHO

  IS

  KRISS

  KRINGLE? IX.

  NOT

  AT

  HOME

  . X.

  SHIRT

  BUTTONS

  . XI.

  PAVEMENT

  WASHING

  IN

  WINTER

  .

  XII

  .

  REGARD

  FOR

  THE

  POOR

  .

  XIII

  .

  SOMETHING

  MORE

  ABOUT

  COOKS

  .

  XIV

  .

  NOT

  A

  RAG

  ON

  THEIR

  BACKS

  . XV.

  CURIOSITY

  .

  XVI

  .

  HOUSE

  CLEANING

  .

  XVII

  .

  BROILING

  A

  LOBSTER

  .

  XVIII

  .

  THE

  STRAWBERRY-WOMAN

  .

  XIX

  .

  LOTS

  OF

  THINGS

  . XX. A

  CURE

  FOR

  LOW

  SPIRITS

  .

  XXI

  . A

  BARGAIN

  .

  XXII

  . A

  PEEVISH

  DAY

  AND

  ITS

  CONSEQUENCES

  .

  XXIII

  .

  WORDS

  .

  XXIV

  .

  MAY

  BE SO.

  XXV

  . “

  THE

  POOR

  CHILD

  DIED”

  XXVI

  .

  THE

  RIVAL

  BONNETS

  .

  XXVII

  . MY

  WASHERMAN

  .

  XXVIII

  . MY

  BORROWING

  NEIGHBOR

  .

  XXIX

  .

  EXPERIENCE

  IN

  TAKING

  BOARDERS

  .

  XXX

  .

  TWO

  WAYS

  WITH

  DOMESTICS

  .

  XXXI

  . A

  MOTHER’S

  DUTY

  .

  CONFESSIONS OF A HOUSEKEEPER.

  CHAPTER I.

  MY SPECULATION IN CHINA WARE.

  THIS happened a very few years after, my marriage, and is one of

  those feeling incidents in life that we never forget. My husband’s

  income was moderate, and we found it necessary to deny ourselves

  many little articles of ornament and luxury, to the end that there

  might be no serious abatement in the comforts of life. In furnishing

  our house, we had been obliged to content ourselves mainly with

  things useful. Our parlor could boast of nine cane-seat chairs; one

  high-backed cane-seat rocking chair; a pair of card tables; a pair

  of ottomans, the covers for which I had worked in worsted; and a few

  illustrated books upon the card tables. There were no pictures on

  the walls, nor ornaments on the mantle pieces.

  For a time after my marriage with Mr. Smith, I did not think much

  about the plainness of our style of living; but after a while,

  contracts between my own parlors and those of one or two friends,

  would take place in my mind; and I often found myself wishing that

  we could afford a set of candelabras, a pair of china vases, or some

  choice pieces of Bohemian glass. In fact, I set my heart on

  something of the kind, though I concealed the weakness from my

  husband.

  Time stole on, and one increase after another to our family, kept up

  the necessity for careful expenditure, and at no time was there

  money enough in the purse to justify any outlay beyond what the

  wants of the household required. So my mantel pieces remained bare

  as at first, notwithstanding the desire for something to put on them

  still remained active.

  One afternoon, as I sat at work renovating an old garment, with the

  hope of making it look almost “as good as new,” my cook entered and

  said—

  “There’s a man down stairs, Mrs. Smith, with a basket full of the

  most beautiful glass dishes and china ornaments that you ever did

  see; and he says that he will sell them for old clothes.”

  “For old clothes?” I responded, but half comprehending what the girl

  meant.

  “Yes ma’am. If you have got an old coat, or a pai
r of pantaloons

  that ain’t good for nothing, he will buy them, and pay you in glass

  or china.”

  I paused for a moment to think, and then said—

  “Tell him to come up into the dining room, Mary.”

  The girl went down stairs, and soon came back in company with a dull

  looking old man, who carried on his arm a large basket, in which

  were temptingly displayed rich china vases, motto and presentation

  cups and saucers, glass dishes, and sundry other articles of a like

  character.

  “Any old coats, pantaloons or vests?” said the man, as he placed,

  carefully, his basket on the floor. “Don’t want any money. See here!

  Beautiful!”

  And as he spoke, he took up a pair of vases and held them before my

  eyes. They were just the thing for my mantle pieces, and I covetted

  them on the instant.

  “What’s the price?” I enquired.

  “Got an old coat?” was my only answer. “Don’t want money.”

  My husband was the possessor of a coat that had seen pretty good

  service, and which he had not worn for some time. In fact, it had

  been voted superannuated, and consigned to a dark corner of the

  clothes-press. The thought of this garment came very naturally into

  my mind, and with the thought a pleasant exhilaration of feeling,

  for I already saw the vases on my mantles.

  “Any old clothes?” repeated the vender of china ware.

  Without a word I left the dining room, and hurried up to where our

  large clothes-press stood, in the passage above. From this I soon

  abstracted the coat, and then descended with quick steps.

  The dull face of the old man brightened, the moment his eyes fell

  upon the garment. He seized it with a nervous movement, and seemed

  to take in its condition at a single glance. Apparently, the

  examination was not very satisfactory, for he let the coat fall, in

  a careless manner, across a chair, giving his shoulders a shrug,

  while a slight expression of contempt flitted over his countenance.

  “Not much good!” fell from his lips after a pause.

  By this time I had turned to his basket, and was examining, more

  carefully, its contents. Most prominent stood the china vases, upon

  which my heart was already set; and instinctively I took them in my

  hands.

  “What will you give for the coat?” said I.

  The old man gave his head a significant shake, as he replied—

  “No very good.”

  “It’s worth something,” I returned. “Many a poor person would be

  glad to buy it for a small sum of money. It’s only a little defaced.

  I’m sure its richly worth four or five dollars.”

  “Pho! Pho! Five dollar! Pho!” The old man seemed angry at my most

  unreasonable assumption.

  “Well, well,” said I, beginning to feel a little impatient, “just

  tell me what you will give for it.”

  “What you want?” he enquired, his manner visibly changing.

  “I want these vases, at any rate,” I answered, holding up the

  articles I had mentioned.

  “Worth four, five dollar!” ejaculated the dealer, in well feigned

  surprise.

  I shook my head. He shrugged his shoulders, and commenced searching

  his basket, from which, after a while, he took a china cup and

  saucer, on which I read, in gilt letters, “For my Husband.”

  “Give you this,” said he.

  It was now my time to show surprise; I answered—

  “Indeed you won’t, then. But I’ll tell you what I will do; I’ll let

  you have the coat for the vases and this cup and saucer.”

  To this proposition the man gave an instant and decided negative,

  and seemed half offended by my offer. He threw the coat, which was

  in his hands again, upon a chair, and stooping down took his basket

  on his arm. I was deceived by his manner, and began to think that I

  had proposed rather a hard bargain; so I said—

  “You can have the coat for the vases, if you care to make the

  exchange; if not, why no harm is done.”

  For the space of nearly half a minute, the old man stood in apparent

  irresolution, then he replied, as he set down his basket and took

  out the pair of vases—

  “I don’t care; you shall have them.”

  I took the vases and he took the coat. A moment or two more, and I

  heard the street door close behind the dealer in china ware, with a

  very decided jar.

  “Ain’t they beautiful, aunty?” said I to my old aunt Rachel, who had

  been a silent witness of the scene I have just described; and I held

  the pair of vases before her eyes.

  “Why yes, they are rather pretty, Jane,” replied aunt Rachel, a

  little coldly, as I thought.

  “Rather pretty! They are beautiful,” said I warmly. “See there!” And

  I placed them on the dining room mantle. “How much they will improve

  our parlors.”

  “Not half so much as that old coat you as good as gave away would

  have improved the feelings as well as the looks of poor Mr. Bryan,

  who lives across the street,” was the unexpected and rebuking answer

  of aunt Rachel.

  The words smote on my feelings. Mr. Bryan was a poor, but honest and

  industrious young man, upon whose daily labor a wife and five

  children were dependent. He went meanly clad, because he could not

  earn enough, in addition to what his family required, to buy

  comfortable clothing for himself. I saw, in an instant, what the

  true disposition of the coat should have been. The china vases would

  a little improve the appearance of my parlors; but how many pleasant

  feelings and hours and days of comfort, would the old coat have

  given to Mr. Bryan. I said no more. Aunt Rachel went on with her

  knitting, and I took the vases down into the parlors and placed them

  on the mantles—one in each room. But they looked small, and seemed

  quite solitary. So I put one on each end of a single mantle. This

  did better; still, I was disappointed in the appearance they made,

  and a good deal displeased with myself. I felt that I had made a bad

  bargain—that is, one from which I should obtain no real pleasure.

  For a while I sat opposite the mantle-piece, looking at the

  vases—but, not admiringly; then I left the parlor, and went about

  my household duties, but, with a pressure on my feelings. I was far,

  very far from being satisfied with myself.

  About an hour afterwards my husband came home. I did not take him

  into the parlor to show him my little purchase, for, I had no heart

  to do so. As we sat at the tea table, he said, addressing me—

  “You know that old coat of mine that is up in the clothes-press?”

  I nodded my head in assent, but did not venture to speak.

  “I’ve been thinking to-day,” added my husband, “that it would be

  just the thing for Mr. Bryan, who lives opposite. It’s rather too

  much worn for me, but will look quite decent on him, compared with

  the clothes he now wears. Don’t you think it is a good thought? We

  will, of course, make him a present of the garment.”

  My eyes drooped to the table, and I felt the blood crimsoning my

  face. For a
moment or two I remained silent, and then answered—

  “I’m sorry you didn’t think of this before; but it’s too late now.”

  “Too late! Why?” enquired my husband.

  “I sold the coat this afternoon,” was my reply.

  “Sold it!”

  “Yes. A man came along with some handsome china ornaments, and I

  sold the coat for a pair of vases to set on our mantle-pieces.”

  There was an instant change in my husband’s face. He disapproved of

  what I had done; and, though he uttered no condemning words, his

  countenance gave too clear an index to his feelings.

  “The coat would have done poor Mr. Bryan a great deal more

  good than the vases will ever do Jane,” spoke up aunt Rachel, with

  less regard for my feelings than was manifested by my husband. “I

  don’t think,” she continued, “that any body ought to sell old

  clothes for either money or nicknackeries to put on the

  mantle-pieces. Let them be given to the poor, and they’ll do some

  good. There isn’t a housekeeper in moderate circumstances that

  couldn’t almost clothe some poor family, by giving away the cast off

  garments that every year accumulate on her hands.”

  How sharply did I feel the rebuking spirit in these words of aunt

  Rachel.

  “What’s done can’t be helped now,” said my husband kindly,

  interrupting, as he spoke, some further remarks that aunt Rachel

  evidently intended to make. “We must do better next time.”

  “I must do better,” was my quick remark, made in penitent tones. “I

  was very thoughtless.”

  To relieve my mind, my husband changed the subject of conversation;

  but, nothing could relieve the pressure upon my feelings, caused by

  a too acute consciousness of having done what in the eyes of my

  husband, looked like a want of true humanity. I could not bear that

  he should think me void of sympathy for others.

  The day following was Sunday. Church time came, and Mr. Smith went

  to the clothes press for his best coat, which had been worn only for

  a few months.

  “Jane!” he called to me suddenly, in a voice that made me start.

  “Jane! Where is my best coat?”

  “In the clothes press,” I replied, coming out from our chamber into

  the passage, as I spoke.

  “No; it’s not here,” was his reply. “And, I shouldn’t wonder if you

  had sold my good coat for those china vases.”

  “No such thing!” I quickly answered, though my heart gave a great

  bound at his words; and then sunk in my bosom with a low tremor of

  alarm.

  “Here’s my old coat,” said Mr. Smith, holding up that defaced

  garment—”Where is the new one?”

  “The old clothes man has it, as sure as I live!” burst from my lips.

  “Well, that is a nice piece of work, I must confess!”