University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.
MORE RULES THAN RIGHT.

Judy Phealan was with Bridget when Lucy returned.
Bridget's countenance was lowering.
“You've been in mighty haste,” she said.

“I was afraid Mrs. Broadson would be at home,
and wanting something; and I did not wish you
to have the trouble of my work, Biddy.”

“I don't care how soon I have it all—but you
are sure to keep on the blind side of Mrs. Broadson.”

“Indeed,” said Lucy, “I did not know she had
a blind side, Biddy.” With all Lucy's fidelity she

had never extracted from her hardbound mistress
one approving word, it being one of that lady's
golden “rules” not to praise servants, lest they
should take advantage of it!

Nearly two weeks passed without any recordable
event in the life of our humble heroine, but
they were not profitless. The Father of all leads
his faithful children by no barren way. For them
there are gleanings in the most steril fields. Lucy,
while serving others, was educating herself. Besides
the daily exercise of difficult virtues, she was
increasing her value by learning to perform domestic
offices well. Mrs. Broadson had not given
her life and her soul to house-affairs without excelling,
and Lucy learned in her novitiate the most
thorough mode of dusting, how most accurately to
make a bed, the best way of cleaning plate, and
that heavy duty of our winters, polishing brasses.

“Mother was mistaken about one thing,” thought
she, as day after day passed without her painstaking
winning one compensating smile. “I shall
never make friends here.” Lucy despaired too
soon.

Mrs. Broadson's spouse had some infirmities that
were particularly annoying to her. He had an inveterate
habit of dropping his handkerchief, misplacing
the newspaper, mislaying his spectacles,
and leaving his snuff-box on the mantelpiece.
These misdeeds called forth strictures from his
lady that, in their irritating effect, were much like
a smoky chimney, or a shower of hail in the face.
“How strange! Mr. Broadson,” she would exclaim,
“why can't you just tuck the newspaper
under these books—I always do; there! you've

sot down your box in the old place—if there's anything
that tries me, it's living in such a litter!—
it's so unnecessary when there are only two of us!”
Now our friend Lucy had an uncommon portion of
that sixth sense, which enables a person to see, hear,
and feel for others, called in polite life tact; and by
rectifying these little blunders of Broadson, slipping
the newspaper into the right place, picking up
the handkerchief before the argus' eye had fallen
on it, &c., &c., she had, though he was rather oyster-like
in the selfish independence of his existence,
begun to elicit sparks of gratitude which appeared
in a “bless me!” and then, as his sensibilities were
roused by a sense of the pattering escaped, a
“thank you, child!” “an attentive little girl!” and
finally, when one evening, as he heard his wife's
quick step approaching through the entry, he shoved
a lamp off the table, which Lucy dexterously caught
before a drop of oil had touched the Brussels carpet,
he actually thrust his hand into his pocket with the
intention of bestowing a half dollar, as the reward
of his signal preservation, when he was prevented
either by the too sudden entrance of Mrs. Broadson,
or the recollection of one of her economical
“rules,” that “it was never best to give presents
to servants—it always led to expectations!”

When the tea-apparatus and Lucy had disappeared,
some secret thought of his sudden deliverance
prompted him to ask his spouse “what
wages she gave that little girl.”

“Three dollars and a half, my dear—high—considering
her years, and considering there are only
two of us.”

“Why, no, my love, I don't think it is extrava

gant, considering she makes out to do all Jaboski's
work, and a good deal besides; indeed, I was thinking,
as you `make it a rule' not to give presents,
that perhaps we could afford, now Jaboski's wages
are saved, to give her four dollars a month.”

“My dear! are you raving? You know I make
it a rule never to raise wages. You would directly
give them the idea we sot a great value on their
services.”

“So it would, my love—you are right,” replied
the acquiescing husband, his natural sense of justice
soon lost in his habitual subjection to the
strong current of his wife's superior selfishness.

The next day, when Mr. Broadson came home
to dinner, after two or three extra pinches of snuff,
and a-hems and ha-as, he announced to his wife
that Jaboski had given him warning he should leave
him when his month was up.

“Leave you!—why, what an ungrateful wretch!
What reason does he give?”

“Oh, he says he must get porter's wages for
porter's work!”

“What impertinence! but 'tis astonishing how
soon they all learn it here. Somebody has been
talking to him. I thought it was a risk to let him
out of the house.”

“Yes—that was a mistake. As soon as they
learn English, their working for half price is all
over.[1] He made out to tell me that the major of

the regiment he served in in Poland was in the
city, and sick and poor, and it was for him he
wanted to earn more money.”

“Foolish fellow! I wonder what good money
does them! Well, I'll look out for another; you
know I have never failed yet, my dear. But I
think I never was so plagued as now. Bridget has
not been the same since Lucy came here.”

“What does that mean?”

“Why, Bridget has got a king of a cousin, you
know—the Irish are all cousins—one Judy Phealan,
that she has been wild to get here, and I had told
her she might come, when Lucy applied. I liked
Lucy's looks and her mother's, and those Irish are
so sluttish and hard to teach, and Lucy was in a
desperate hurry to get a place, and t'other one I
could have any time, and so I concluded to take
Lucy, and Bridget has really sot up about it; but I
expect she'll come to; if she don't, I must take
Judy, for I can't part with Bridget?”

“I should think it would be easier supplying
Bridget's place than Lucy's.”

“My dear! give me leave to say you know
nothing about it.”

“That is not your fault, my love, for I seldom
hear you talk about anything else.”

Mrs. Broadson hardly knew whether to understand
this reply as a compliment or sarcasm, and
she answered accordingly. “To be sure, my
dear, as there are only two of us—and everybody
says, as well as me, that it's the most momentious
subject in this country, and will be as long as we
are at the mercy of our servants.” Mrs. Broadson
then proceeded to detail to Mr. Broadson, for the

fortieth time probably, the nature of Bridget's services,
but rather too circumstantially for the entertainment
of our readers. The amount of it was,
that Bridget was a woman of great strength, capacity,
and industry; that she accomplished more
work than two ordinary women; and that all her
work was well done, and that Mrs. Broadson had
“made it an object,” as she had stated to Bridget, to
stay, by paying her above the average wages, and
giving her many indulgences. “These cost us
nothing, as there are only two of us,” the lady truly
thought.

The Saturday night preceding Lucy's third Sunday
at service, and the day of her promised periodical
visit home, arrived. Judy stole in about tea-time,
as was her custom, and Lucy was the first to
observe and remark that she did not look well. To
Bridget's eager inquiries she answered that she
had had a sore throat, and chills and burning heats
all day, and the people were out, and nobody to go
for a drop of water.

“And ye'll get your death in that cold garret, ye
will, Judy—I'll have no more of it,” said Bridget,
bursting into tears, and taking Judy on her lap.

“Something must be done to-night,” said Lucy,
more in the habit of remedying an evil than crying
over it.

“Ye need not tell me that!” replied Bridget; and,
wiping away her tears, and swallowing her sobs,
she went up stairs and electrified her mistress with
the information that she must look out for another
in her place, as she “would not live in the king's
palace to be queen of it, if she could not have Judy
to be with her—the lone thing, that had nobody in

the wide world to care for her but her!” Though
Mrs. Broadson was resolved upon the sacrifice of
Lucy rather than part with Bridget, yet it being
one of her golden “rules” “never to let servants
feel that they have the upper hand,” she carefully
avoided sudden concession, and merely said, “Perhaps
I can make it an object for you to stay; at any
rate, don't look out for a place till next week.”

“I've something else to do,” thought poor
Bridget, as she hastened back to the sick child,
“and what in the world am I to do with her?”
She met Lucy at the kitchen door, who, shutting
it so as not to be overheard, said, in her most gentle
voice, “I think you did not understand me, Bridget,
when I said `something must be done to-night;' I
meant Judy could not go out of the house, for it's
a cold storm, and she's getting worse every minute.
Now, if you will put her into your bed, I can sit up
in the kitchen, and I can keep her drink warm and
bring it up to you. If we can get her in a perspiration,
she will be better directly—that's always
mother's way with a sudden cold.”

“But,” said Bridget, in a softened voice, “you
can't sit up all night, and you such a childer.”

“Oh, yes, I've often done it with our Jemmie,
and not felt it; and,” she continued, encouraged
by Bridget's softened manner, “I'll go first of all
to Mrs. Broadson, and ask for some liniment for
Judy's throat.”

“Bless your kind heart!—stop a bit—she'll be
after sending her home! First we'll just get her
snug in the bed, and then my old lady must make
the best of it.”

This mode of proceeding was not according to

Lucy's code, which prescribed to her to act openly;
but this was Bridget's affair, and she quietly followed
her with the lamp while she carried Judy to the
attic. “Now, Lucy, honey,” said Bridget, “keep
a dumb tongue, and take this shilling, and fetch the
liny-stuff from the `potecaries.' It will be soon
enough to be after telling her when we can't help
it.”

“But if the bell should ring, and we both out of
the kitchen?”

“You're not such a natural, Lucy, you can't give
a rason when it's wanted?”

“But I must give the right one, Biddy.” Bridget
was too much absorbed in Judy, and too grateful
for Lucy's services, to be offended by the implication
of Lucy's reply, and she had quite forgotten it
when Lucy returned, sooner than she expected, with
the liniment, and a bag of warmed sand, which
“Mother said (and truly) was the best thing in the
world to lay to cold feet.”

“Ah, how should ye know everything, and ye
such a childer?”

“It's having our Jemmie always sick, and mother
to teach me.”

“Och, poor Judy! All her mother did for her
was to bring her into this miserable world, poor
darlint! God help her! But hark! there's the
bell!”

“And what is all this pattering up and down
stairs for?” asked Mrs. Broadson, who had an ubiquitous
pair of ears. Lucy explained. “And who
proposed putting that sick child to bed in my house,
and no leave asked?”

“I did, ma'am; she was too sick to go out such

a night, and I did not think you would have any
objection to my giving up my place to her.”

“She was not too sick to come out, if she was
to go out. In future, remember, I make it a rule
never to take a sick person into my house—it's
very dangerous—we might get our deaths—and
there are only two of us. Well, I trust Bridget
will send her off before breakfast—don't tell her I
know anything about it.”

“If she asks me, ma'am?”

“Nonsense! she won't; but if she does you
can turn it off without telling a lie.”

“I don't wonder,” thought Lucy, “mother gave
me so many, many charges about being steadfast in
the truth. Who could have thought that a lady as
old as Mrs. Broadson could have as good as told
such a child as I am to lie! but I guess I shall
find there's not many like mother, who thinks everybody
ought to try to make everybody else as good,
as well as as happy as they can.” Alas, no! there
are not many governed by these divine principles
—these moral steam-engines.

Lucy's evening was a busy one. One of Mrs.
Broadson's rules being, that “whatever was left
undone, the work must be done.” All human concerns
were by this lady divided into two parts; the
work was the kernel, the remainder the shell.
Fortunately for Lucy, work was no evil to her, as
appeared by her answer to Jaboski, when he said,
in the course of the evening, “You too much work
for one so little girl.” She replied, “Oh, no, Jaboski,
work keeps off bad feelings; when I am so
busy, I can't think of mother and Jemmie.”

“Ah! the same with me, Lucy; when I too

much work, I not think of mine poor country-people.”
With what blessings has a beneficent Providence
begrit labour; with health and appetite,
sweet sleep, and peace of mind!

When her last task was done, Lucy crept softly
up stairs. Bridget was sleeping soundly, and Judy
too was asleep, but her cheek was of a scarlet die,
and her breathing so oppressed, that Lucy, after
another hour's watch, repeated her visit to the
attic. She found Bridget just waked from her
sound sleep by Judy's suffocating cough, and terrified
out of her wits. The poor child thought herself
dying; her terror increased her oppression, and she
clung around Bridget's neck with the grasp of a
drowning person. “Lord Almighty help us!” exclaimed
Bridget, “she's the last of all my people,
and she's going! Och, Lucy, could you be after
going for the priest this stormy night, and the Almighty's
blessing on you?” While Bridget was
uttering these ejaculations and entreaties, Lucy
was wrapping a cloak round Judy. “We must
first take her to the kitchen, and put her in a warm
bath—the water, and the tub, and all is ready—I
knew she'd want it; and then, Biddy, you can run
for the doctor that lives up the street. We'll get
the priest, if wanted, to-morrow; I've seen Jemmie
as bad as this, and quite easy before morning.”

“Ye're the Almighty's own comfort to me,” replied
Bridget, her energies rekindling with the light
of hope; “and if she wins through, poor lamb, I'll
down on my knees to you for all my ungrateful
thoughts!” This was said while she was hurrying
down stairs with her precious burden in her arms,
regardless of the danger of offending the mistress

of the house, who, roused from her cat-sleep by the
unwonted noise, surlily called to know “what all
the racket meant.” Lucy stopped and respectfully
explained. “La, it's only a cold,” replied
Mrs. Broadson; “the Irish are always scared out
of their wits—it's hard we can't be allowed to sleep
when there's only two of us!” and she closed the
door, thinking it was no further her concern than as
it invaded her comfort.

Judy was immersed in the bath and the physician
called; and his prescriptions harmonizing with
the restoratives Lucy had advised, Judy was speedily
relieved. “Bless the sweet eyes of ye, Lucy,”
said Bridget, “you it was that saved her to me, and
I it was that wronged ye; but true as the word stands
in the Holy Bible, I thought that, as St. Paul says, I
had the right of it. But ye will be after forgiving me
when ye know all the bad luck that's broken my
heart. We were but five of us in Ireland, and that
was before Mike, God rest his soul, was killed fighting
with the rebellion-ruffian about the cow that
kept poor Judy's breath in her, for her mother's
husband, that was to be, was taken off for a soldier,
and so she fretted herself to death for that it was,
and not borning the baby that killed her; and then
the old gentleman—my father that was, was took
off to the Limerick jail for Mike's business, and
the boys got him out, and hid him in the rocks up
the country, and there of hardship, and starvation,
and fretting, and the like, he died. My own father
it was, Lucy, and he that had a kind word for even
the dog at his door; and then my mother, ah! her
heart was always bending like, not breaking, went
to live with her sister's son's wife, and Judy with

her, and I came off to America to earn money to
fetch them over. Here I thought it was but asking
service, and getting it, and pay for it! The first
lady I went to, she asked me, `Did I understand the
work in a gentleman's family?' and I said, `Troth
and I did not, but I was asy tached;' but she'd not
take the trouble of taching a raw hand, and so to
the next I just rubbed down the truth a bit, and
said sure there was some things I did not quite understand;
she asked me would I take lower wages
till I learned; upon no account, I told her, for the
learning was the sevarest of all; so she laughed and
took me, and a happy time I should have had there,
but the lady found fault with my dress not being
smart like the others. And would I be after buying
clothes, and my mother and Judy starving-like,
and every month a year to me till they came. But
I kept my rasons to myself, and got another place,
where work was light, plenty of everything spent
and wasted, and the lady riding all the day, and out
all the evening; but in three months they failed, so
that place was gone; but they paid me handsomely,
good luck to them! Then I went to another great
house, where I did my best, for my wages were high,
and paid when I asked for them; but the lady was
always finding fault with my `Irish ways,' as she
called them; and what ways would she have of me,
I asked her, that was born and bred, and passed all
my happy life in Ireland, save ten miserable months
and six days in America, with ladies that could find
fault with my Irish ways and never tached me better?
so she called me `partinent,' and I looked out
for another place. This time my luck changed.
It was to Mrs. Tilson's I went—the Almighty bless
her. It was but middling wages I got there, and
plenty of work, for I was the only one they kept,
and he but a bookkeeper, and she a dilicate woman
with plenty of small children. But then she laid
out the work complately for me, and gave a lift herself
when it was heavy, and was always taking
thought for me, and asking when I heard from
mother and Judy; when a letter came to me there
was a rejoicing from the very top to the very least
little one in the family. Mr. Tilson would say,
`So you've good news, Biddy?' and then Mrs.
Tilson—bless her sweet voice—`You've good
news, Biddy?' and Harry Tilson—their oldest—a
bright lad he was, `You've good news, Biddy?' and
so they handed it down to little Archy, who could
just lisp it out, `You've good news, Biddy?' Och,
they were just like the angels in heaven; where
there was joy with one, there was joy with all.
Everything I know I learned there; Mrs. Tilson
was always telling me there is a right and a wrong
way to everything, Biddy, and she showed me the
right way to do this, and tached me the right way
to do t'other. Ah, if the ladies were the like of her,
half the trouble with their people would be over,
and t'other half would not be to spake of. And when
the bitter news of my mother's death came, she
cried with me, and they all cried, from the top of
the house down to Archy; sure, Lucy, it lightens
the heart to have others fret with you.”

“Oh, Biddy, how could you leave such people?”

“Sure and they left me, Lucy. It was a burning
day in August when Mr. Tilson fell in a fit;
the doctors said it all came from writing too constant,
so they moved off into the country. I would

have gone with them, but there was poor Judy yet
to be got over. Mrs. Tilson recommended me
here. I told her, was it the work I cared for, so I
was sure of being well paid; she said I would get
plenty of work, and she would see I was well paid,
and she it was herself that made the bargain for
me; but sure, Lucy, I would rather live with the
Tilsons' for the salt to my gruel, than with this
woman for the best wages in New-York. But
when you have a rason for it, Lucy, you can do
and bear till you die. At last the money went,
and Judy came, and sure I was as plased as if all
Ireland had been in my arms; and it was all to
me, my poor father, and mother, and Mike, and
my sister, that was the last and least of us all,
lying low, and her husband that was to be, gone—
the Lord knows where! Sure I have wronged you,
Lucy, and sorry am I for that same; but was not it
natural-like I should want Judy to snug down under
my wing. I did not let on to Mrs. Broadson she
was my own dare sister's child, for the ladies are
not fond of getting near kin together, lest they
should favour one another, bad luck to them that
would keep all God's blessings to themselves. I
said she was my cousin, and is not she? and a
dale more; and Mrs. Broadson engaged with her,
and the steps were scarce cold from her feet when
you came with your mother. You know the
rest; but maybe you don't know that, when poor
Judy came that morning with her bits of things, Jaboski
had orders to send her away without calling
me; and when you came, my breast was all on
fire, and so it kept burning, for Judy was fretting,
and I looking for a place for the two, and could
find none, and you every night lying warm at my
side, when poor little Judy, the last of all the Phealans,
was sleeping alone quite in a cold garret.”

“I don't wonder at your feelings, Biddy; I should
have felt just so if any one had come between me
and our Jemmie. But you should have spoken out,
Biddy. Mother says the simple truth spoken saves
many a heartburn.”

“Sure that's just the truth of it—you have tached
me a good lesson—it's asy learning of them that's
good to us! It was in a pet that I was when I
gave Mrs. Broadson warning, but I'll find a place
for Judy and me; now that I am rid of the bad
blood, it all seems quite asy.”

But not to poor Lucy did it all seem quite so
“asy.” Her nice sense of right bade her relinquish
her place in Judy's favour. Bridget's wants
it was not easy to supply. Lucy was sure of procuring
some place; and though she dreaded the
horrid business of going again in search of one, she
did not hesitate; but, without consulting Bridget,
who, in the flood-tide of her gratitude, would be
sure to oppose her intentions, she hastened to the
breakfast-room.

“The breakfast things are waiting for you,
child,” said Mrs. Broadson; “you must not give
the day, as well as the night, to that sick child.”
When, after a host of directions to Lucy as to the
petty domestic duties of the day, she stopped to
take breath, Lucy said, “I believe, Mrs. Broadson,
you had engaged Judy before I came?”

“Well—what of that?”

“I would rather not keep a place that another
has a better right to.”

“It is your choice to go—is it?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“But we choose to keep you,” interposed Mr.
Broadson.

“My dear! my dear!” exclaimed his wife, “allow
me to settle this—it's your rule that I should
see to the servants. Lucy, you know the consequence
of going before your month is up?”

“I hoped, ma'am, as Judy is not well, and there
is but one week of my month, you would be willing
to let me stay till my month is up.”

“Oh, no—it's your own choice to give up the
place—I did not ask you, remember—if you choose
to go, you must go now—I make it a rule never to
have my kitchen cluttered up with folks.” Lucy,
unused as she was to maintain her rights, was now
nerved by a strong motive, and she ventured to say
that she thought, under the circumstances, she was
entitled to her wages. “We must go according
to rule, child,” replied Mrs. Broadson; “I can't
spend any more time talking—I must dress for
church—I never talk about business on the Sabbath.
Remember what I said to you about the apples,
and nuts, and dusting the glasses,” &c.

Mr. Broadson looked after his wife, and listened
till her last footstep died away, and then he took
out his purse, and paid Lucy, to a fraction, the
money due for her three weeks' service. He was
an honest, though not a generous man, and as he
put the money into her hand, he said, “You have
a right to it, Lucy.”

“I believe I have, sir,” replied Lucy, with true
dignity; “but, for all that, I thank you, and so will
mother—and so will our Jemmie.” And the tears,

before restrained, now gushed forth, and, like dew
from heaven, brought forth fruit. “Here, take this
dollar,” said Broadson, for once indulging in the
luxury of a spontaneous kindness, “and buy something
for our Jemmie—but mind, say nothing to
Mrs. Broadson about this or the pay either.”

“No, sir—but I wish you would tell her yourself.”

“For what, in the name of wonder?”

“Maybe she would do right herself next time.”

“Ah,” muttered Broadson between his teeth, and
smothering a laugh, “it's hard teaching an old dog
new tricks.”

Mrs. Broadson would not have changed Lucy
for Judy if she could have helped it; but, after
Bridget's warning, she was aware that was the only
alternative if she would retain Bridget, and Bridget
was too profitable a person to lose. An actual
fraud like that by which Mrs. Broadson would have
deprived Lucy of her earnings is, we are sure, not
common in domestic diplomacy. But where such
power by common law exists, abuses will prevail
more or less. We have on the best authority one
instance much worse than that which has been selected
to illustrate the evil. A certain lady in this
city was in the habit of picking a quarrel with her
servants within the first month, in order to force
them (to use the phrase of our Eastern friends)
“to take up their connexions,” and thereby avail
herself of the common law, which exempted her
from paying them. The servants submitted, because
submission was easier than redress. Our
servants are, for the most part, strangers in the
land; they have no powerful friends to interpose

for them, and the aid of the law is expensive and
uncertain. But the worst of these abuses is their
demoralizing effect upon the weaker and more
ignorant party.

Bridget, when she had recovered from her astonishment
that such “a childer” should so soon
decide and arrange her affairs, poured out the gratitude
of her affectionate heart. “It's me and Judy,”
she said, “will love you, Lucy, to the day of our
death, the same as if ye'd been born one of our own
people. The Lord Almighty bless ye, child, and
give ye a better mistress to mind after than this
same. Judy and I will be after finding another
place, for I'll serve no longer than I can help one
that's no more heart than a hollow potato. The
Lord above go with you, my dear!” And blessed
and kissed by both Bridget and Judy, Lucy set her
face homeward, thinking as she went, “Well,
mother was right—we can, if we try hard, overcome
evil with good, and we can get people to love
us if we make the most of our opportunities!”

We once heard a friend boast that he had
studied, in a very short time, a treatise on anatomy,
“But,” said he, “I skipped the arteries!” Now,
lest the effect of our humble friend Biddy's autobiography
should be lost by a similar mode of reading,
we would venture to ask whether the right
principles and feelings either for employers or employed
are in exercise in relation to Irish domestics
—they are for the most part persons who are driven
forth by stern want and inexorable misfortune
from their native land. The abuses of government
have left them ignorant, degraded them, and

deprived them of their birthrights as members of
the human family. They have been bred in miserable
dirty cabins, where they had no means of
learning the arts of domestic economy. Their
faculties have been, for the most part, devoted to
evading by every subterfuge the cruelties of oppressive
laws. Fortunately for them, their oppressors
are not their own people. They are of
another blood and another religion, and this circumstance
it is that binds the Irish so closely in
the ties of nature, and preserves their affections in
such freshness and warmth. “God is love,” and
affection is the sanative principle in his creatures.
By addressing this principle, the poorest of our
brethren may be redeemed. The Irish come to us
with their habits formed. They require knowledge,
energy, and patience on the part of their
employers. Some of them may be unteachable
and irreclaimable; but, for the most part, do they
not repay real disinterested kindness with fidelity
and affection? It is very common to say, “There
is no use in trying to teach an Irish person.” Is
an Irish person less docile than any other who
has arrived to maturity in ignorance? We know
it requires great virtue, conscientiousness, efficiency,
and, above all, patience, on the part of the
mistress; but let her think of the missionary who
abandons her country to carry light to the distant,
and bless God who brings the ignorant to the light
of her home, and makes that the field of her mission
.