University of Virginia Library

19. CHAPTER XIX.
A HAPPY FAMILY.

Mr. Hyde, one of the wealthy and busy merchants
of the city of New-York, was happy in the
confidence, resulting from long experience, that his
home was regulated in the best manner without
his interference or supervision. In all important
matters, such as the proper amount of their annual
expenses, the destiny of their children in life, their
religious, moral, and intellectual education, the father
and mother consulted and co-operated. In his pecuniary
affairs Mr. Hyde had no secrets from his
wife. He did not cautiously hide from her his
successes, and pour into her troubled ear his losses
and disappointments, nor did he show only the
bright side, and conceal every rising cloud, as if
she were as weak as a sick child, till the storm
burst on her unprepared head, but she was made
perfectly acquainted with his affairs, and conformed
her expenditures thereto. She kept her accounts
accurately. Within the limits she prescribed to
herself she expended liberally, acting nobly up to
that truth which most admit, that in our country
there are manifold reasons against, and none for,
accumulating fortunes for children. She never
disturbed her husband with the details of her domestic
economy. She never bothered him with

complaints of her servants, with consultations about
her table, her furniture, or her childrens' dress; all
these matters she arranged, and he enjoyed the
results. We would not imply that all husbands
who do not adopt this system of noninterference,
and who do not act up to the spirit of a confidential
and equal matrimonial partnership, are in fault.
We acknowledge, with sorrow and humiliation,
that there are many wives not capable of acting
“well their part” in their own sphere, and that
few deserve the unqualified confidence Mrs. Hyde
had painfully earned by her self-education. But
since the discovery is made that a woman is capable
of something besides praying, loving, sewing,
and spinning, or, to cite Molière's own words, that
it is not enough
her talents should be cultivated with reference to
her whole domestic duty.[1] It is as consummate
a folly to permit an American girl to grow up ignorant
of household affairs, as it would be to omit
mathematics in the education of an astronomer,
or the use of the needle in the training of a milliner.
But, leaving our theory to the consideration of
mothers, we proceed to the homely details of Mrs.
Hyde's housewifery. This lady had now been
married seventeen years. Her eldest daughter
was sixteen, her youngest less than a year. After
the four years of her novitiate, she has rarely
changed her domestics, “preferring” (we quote the
words of an admirable mistress of a family) “the
trouble of dismissing her servants' faults to the pain
and manifold disadvantage of dismissing them.”
She bore in mind that they were the weak and
neglected children of the great family, doomed by
circumstances to be wanderers and aliens, and
subject to wrong biases and bad influences. She
was patient and long suffering with them, willing
to forbear, to toil, and wait, if, in the touching language
of Scripture, she might “thereby save a
brother.”

About the time of Lucy's entrance into the family,
there had been a general change of operatives,
and none of those long proved remained save
Clara Lane, better known by her alias of “mammy.”
Davis, Mrs. Hyde's man, had served her for
fourteen years, and continued to perform his humble
duties accurately, after the avails of his industry,
fortunately invested by Mr. Hyde, amounted to
three thousand dollars.[2]

Then his attachment to the Hydes being mastered
by a long-ripening attachment to Mrs. Hyde's
seamstress, he married, and removed to the land of
promise—the indefinite West. Mrs. Hyde's cook,
a worthy maiden of fifty, and most accomplished
in her art, having succeeded to an inheritance of
some half dozen nieces, was advised by her mistress
to set up a pastry-cook's establishment. The
young girl whose book of accounts Mrs. Hyde
was overlooking at the moment of Lucy's introduction
was one of the aforesaid nieces, whom Mrs.
Hyde had rescued from a drunken father some
years before, and who had recently been qualified
for bookkeeper to her aunt by Ella Hyde's instructions.
The chambermaid had achieved the
usual destiny of our countrywomen, had married,
and (unlike most persons in her condition) had
completely furnished a snug little house from her
savings, besides reserving something against a wet
day. Now all these virtues and prosperity, to be
transmitted and spread in widening circles, were,

for the most part, the result of the fidelity of one
mistress of a family!

Before Lucy retired for the night, Mrs. Hyde
took her aside to give her the necessary instructions.
“Are you an early riser, my child?” she
asked.

“I have not been of late, ma'am—I used to be;
but I find what mother said is true—it takes a
great while to form good habits, and a very little
while to fall into bad ones.”

“You will find, too, that it is not difficult to recover
good habits once formed. In the mean time
my daughter Susan will call you.”

“Your daughter, ma'am!—do your young ladies
rise as early as the servants?”

“Yes—often earlier. Time, you know, Lucy,
is most precious to those who make the best use
of it. I do not like to see one minute wasted,
and least of all by my children.”

“I always thought, ma'am, that young ladies
must have more sleep than servants.”

“No,” replied Mrs. Hyde, smiling; “I believe
that young persons who live in one part of the
house require just as much sleep as young persons
who live in another part of it. In those families
where there are idle members and working members,
the workers, of course, require most.”

“Ma'am!” said Lucy, in a sort of maze. We
believe that Lucy's surprise was owing to her very
limited experience; but certainly, in the three
wealthy families in which she had lived, she had
never seen a practical acknowledgment that all the
members were governed by the same physical
laws. “I mean, Lucy,” resumed Mrs. Hyde,

“that all my family must have as much sleep as
their constitutions require, and no more. It is a
kind of suicide to allow more time than is necessary
to sleep. When you are up, Lucy, do you
not wish, before you begin your day's work, a little
time to yourself?”

“I always had it, ma'am, when I lived at home
and at Mrs. Lovett's; but no one else that I have
lived with ever spoke to me about it, or seemed to
remember that a servant might want time to say
her prayers.”

“Have you lived without them, then?”

“Indeed I have not, Mrs. Hyde. Mother always
told us that the heart can rise to God in
prayer at any time, just as a little child, when it
is in the room with its mother, whatever happens,
turns its eyes to her. Sometimes in the thickest
of my work, and always when I feel either very
glad or very sorry—” Lucy paused, and a blush
overspread her cheek; she was abashed at the
thought of how freely she, who had never spoken
on such subjects but to her mother, was confiding
her spiritual experience. “Go on, my child,”
said Mrs. Hyde, with a smile so sweet and kind
that Lucy forgot everything but that she was talking
to one who listened with interest. “I was
only going to say, ma'am, that I could always pray,
even at Mrs. Hartell's, where there was no outward
sign there was a God—except little Eugene,
and he seemed to me just like an angel from heaven;
and I felt sometimes, when his head lay on my
bosom, as if we were worshipping together.”

“Oh, how much better is this true worship,”
thought Mrs. Hyde, “than formal prayers and set

days.” “Maintain this spirit, my dear child,” she
replied; “this is praying without ceasing. Take
a few moments before you leave your room to consider
your duty to God and your duties in the family.
A sense of our responsibility to God will
make us faithful in the discharge of our duties to
one another. I try to make all who live with me
feel that they are working for something besides
the wages I pay them—for something higher than
my favour—far better than my affection—for the
love of God. In this service we are all fellow-workers
and fellow-servants. Is not this a bond
strong enough to bind us all together, Lucy?”

“Oh, yes, ma'am!” Lucy wiped away the
tears that poured over her cheeks. “If mother
only knew what a place I am in now, I should be
willing she should know all my troubles.”

“Wait, Lucy, till you have tried us—you young
people are apt to take anticipations for experience.
But I am getting on slowly in my instructions to
you. You will have the waiter's work to do till
my new waiter comes. One thing will perhaps
be new to you in my house, Lucy. I do not confine
any person to a single department, and I will
tell you why; for I find, if the reason of my arrangements
is understood, they are apt to be better liked.
In the first place, I wish my domestics to remain
with me as long as it is for our mutual welfare to
live together. I have observed that the jealousies
and bickerings among domestics often arise from
disputes about their work. One says, this is not
my work; and another, that is not mine; and Mary
imposes, and Biddy shirks. Now I wish each one
to be capable of performing the duty of the other,

and to have that spirit of kindness that she will be
willing to do it, and sure that the favour will be
returned. And besides, Lucy, if a woman spends
years in nothing but cooking, when she has a
family of her own how will she know how to take
care of her house, take care of her children, make
their clothes, &c.? or, if she spends ten years in
the nursery, she will not know how to cook her
husband's dinner. My girls all get married after a
while; and I wish that, while they are serving me,
they should have that sort of education that will
enable them to make their own homes prosperous
and happy.”

“That's very kind of you, ma'am—but does not
changing works so make a great deal of confusion?”

“No confusion arises, Lucy, from your being
my chambermaid this summer and my seamstress
next winter—to be sure, I must teach you to sew
well, but the next year that will prove a great gain
to us both. No, Lucy, confusion in families arises
from ignorance, bad temper, jealousy, and disobligingness;
never, I believe, from being well qualified
to perform any office, and willing to serve in it.”[3]

“I am sure you will find me willing, Mrs. Hyde,

and it will be my fault if I do not become capable.
Who shall I ask to show me where to find the
breakfast things, ma'am?”

“It is Susan's turn this week to see to such
matters. You will have everything ready at half
past seven precisely. Susan will show you how
to arrange the breakfast-room.”

“Miss Susan, ma'am!—is not that the young
lady who was taking the French lesson?”

“Yes.”

“She show me, Mrs. Hyde! she does not seem
older than Miss Ophelia Hartell.”

“Susan is past nine.”

“And Miss Ophelia is ten. What a difference!”
Lucy did not explain further, nor did Mrs. Hyde
inquire. Poor Ophelia's operative faculties were
as undeveloped as a child's born without hands.

“When you go up to bed, Lucy,” resumed Mrs.
Hyde, “take a pail of water with you. You will
find all conveniences for washing. Wash yourself
from head to foot. This I require of all persons
under my control at least once in twenty-four
hours; it will contribute to your health, and in a
little while you will find it essential to your comfort.”
She then commended Lucy's very neat arrangement
of her hair, and enjoined particular attention
to her teeth; and Lucy, all astonishment at
this maternal interest, was reminded of Mrs. Broadson
having on a certain occasion said to her, “A
fine pass things have come to when even servants
must brush their teeth—why, I had never heard of
a toothbrush at your age!!”

“She seems just as kind as mother, or Mrs.
Lovett,” thought Lucy, as Mrs. Hyde bade her

good-night; and, grateful for the storm that had
driven her into such a harbour, she retired to her
sleeping apartment. This she shared with Martha,
the chambermaid. They had separate beds. A
portable screen divided the room into two parts,
securing to each, if desired, privacy. Martha,
having had sole possession for three or four weeks,
seemed to feel it her part to do the hospitalities of
the apartment. She was, as is obvious, an American.
“Here,” she said, “is a tub to wash you,
and plenty of nice soap. Mrs. Hyde is the most
musical woman about washing, and the whole family
are like ducks—but every one has notions!
Here is a large closet, with shelves and drawers—
no locks—and there's none on their own! You
must keep your things in their places; for, when
you least expect it, Mrs. Hyde or one of the girls
goes the rounds, and everything is put in a heap in
the second story entry. I tell you I felt beat when
I found my flannel petticoat there beside one of
the little ladies best bonnets! Is not it a pretty
room? this nice matting is so easy to keep clean,
and blinds, and as good mattresses as any lady
could wish, and everything so tidy about the beds,
and a looking-glass that don't make you look as if
your face was all agee; and only see here!” she
added, withdrawing a little green curtain, “see
this shelf of books; not the Bible only, but a whole
row, to instruct and entertain you too—and, what is
more, she loves to have you get time to enjoy yourself
reading; and the long and the short of it is, that
she and all her children seem to have a realizing
sense that their help have minds and hearts as well
as they. I have lived in a great many places, and
with good people that behaved, some of them, I am
free to own it, handsomer to me than I did to them;
but never did I see a family I respected as I do
Mr. Hyde's. It makes you feel like folks to have
such a room as this, instead of a little stived up
place, with just a nail here and there to hang your
gowns on, broken chairs, a tottering table, and a
bed that looks and feels any how. Such things
show which way the wind blows; what rich folks
think of poor folks. The ladies' rooms will be
fixed off with everything, wardrobes, bureaus, dressing-tables,
sofas, lounges, looking-glasses of all
shapes and sizes, curtains, and piles of mattresses,
perfumes enough to strangle you, and all sorts of
notions that have no use but just to be taken care
of and make work for us—something of a contrast
to our sky-rooms! It gives one thoughts to think
of it, and feelings too. Times are changed. It's
no longer lords and ladies in the parlour, and slaves
in the kitchen; but it's a kind of partnership concern,
and in this family your share is fairly divided
out to you; and I freely own, that if I could stay
here, I should be contented to be help all my life.”

“Contented and most thankful, I should think,”
said Lucy, availing herself of Martha's very first
pause to express her sentiment.

“Why, yes, kind o' and kind o' not thankful,
that, if you must live out, you live in such a place;
but not thankful that you have not a home of your
own—home is home, and we always hanker after it;
but contented—yes—quite contented.” How long
Martha's garrulity might have led her on expressing,
in her homely way, her not very dim perceptions
of the present modification of the relation between

employers and employed, we know not, for
her harangue was cut short by Lucy's adverting to
her vigil of the preceding night; and both, after
duly honouring Mrs. Hyde's notions by performing
the prescribed ablutions, retired to bed.