Woman\'s Trials
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11 WOMAN'S TRIALS;
OR, TALES AND SKETCHES FROM THE LIFE AROUND US.
BY T. S. ARTHUR.
PHILADELPHIA:
1851.
PREFACE.
THE title of this volume sufficiently indicates its purpose. The
stories of which it is composed have been mainly written with the
end of creating for woman, in the various life-trials through which
she has to pass, sympathy and true consideration, as well in her own
sex as in ours. We are all too much engrossed in what concerns
ourselves--in our own peculiar wants, trials, and sufferings--to
give that thought to others which true humanity should inspire. To
the creator of fictitious histories is, therefore, left the task of
reminding us of our duty, by presenting pictures from the world of
life around us--moving pictures, in which we may not only see the
effect of our actions upon others, but also the relations of others
to society, and thus learn to sympathize with the tried and the
tempted, the suffering and the oppressed, the grief-stricken and the
mourner. It is good for us, at times, to forget ourselves; to think
of others and feel a heart-warm interest in all that concerns them.
If the perusal of this volume has such an effect upon the reader's
mind, it will accomplish all that its author desires; for right
feeling is but the prompter to right action.
This book is to be followed, immediately, by other volumes, to the
number of twelve, printed in uniform style: the series, when
complete, to be called, "ARTHUR'S LIBRARY FOR THE HOUSEHOLD."
"MARRIED LIFE," the volume to come after this, is passing through
the press, and will be ready for publication in a few days.
CONTENTS.
A LESSON OF PATIENCE
I DIDN'T THINK OF THAT
TAKING BOARDERS.
PLAIN SEWING; OR, HOW TO ENCOURAGE THE POOR
JESSIE HAMPTON
THE NEW YEAR'S GIFT
AUNT MARY'S PRESERVING KETTLE
HOME AT LAST
GOING HOME
WOMAN'S TRIALS.
A LESSON OF PATIENCE.
I WAS very unhappy, from a variety of causes, definable and
undefinable. My chambermaid had been cross for a week, and, by
talking to my cook, had made her dissatisfied with her place. The
mother of five little children, I felt that I had a weight of care
and responsibility greater than I could support. I was unequal to
the task. My spirits fell under its bare contemplation. Then I had
been disappointed in a seamstress, and my children were, as the
saying is, "in rags." While brooding over these and other
disheartening circumstances, Netty, my chambermaid, opened the door
of the room where I was sitting, (it was Monday morning,) and said--
"Harriet has just sent word that she is sick, and can't come
to-day."
"Then you and Agnes will have to do the washing," I replied, in a
fretful voice; this new source of trouble completely breaking me
down.
"Indeed, ma'am," replied Netty, tossing her head and speaking with
some pertness, "_I_ can't do the washing. I didn't engage for any
thing but chamber-work."
And so saying she left me to my own reflections. I must own to
feeling exceedingly angry, and rose to ring the bell for Netty to
return, in order to tell her that she could go to washing or leave
the house, as best suited her fancy. But the sudden recollection of
a somewhat similar collision with a former chambermaid, in which I
was worsted, and compelled to do my own chamber-work for a week,
caused me to hesitate, and, finally, to sit down and indulge in a
hearty fit of crying.
When my husband came home at dinnertime, things did not seem very
pleasant for him, I must own. I had on a long, a very long
face--much longer than it was when he went away in the morning.
"Still in trouble, I see, Jane," said he. "I wish you would try and
take things a little more cheerfully. To be unhappy about what is
not exactly agreeable doesn't help the matter any, but really makes
it worse."
"If you had to contend with what I have to contend with, you
wouldn't talk about things being _exactly agreeable,_" I replied to
this. "It is easy enough to talk. I only wish you had a little of my
trouble; you wouldn't think so lightly of it."
"What is the great trouble now, Jane?" said my husband, without
being at all fretted with my unamiable temper. "Let us hear. Perhaps
I can suggest a remedy."
"If you will get me a washerwoman, you will exceedingly oblige me,"
said I.
"Where is Harriet?" he asked.
"She is sick, or pretends to be, I don't know which."
"Perhaps she will be well enough to do your washing to-morrow,"
suggested my husband.
"Perhaps is a poor dependence."
I said this with a tartness that ill repaid my husband's effort to
comfort me. I saw that he felt the unkindness of my manner, in the
slight shade that passed over his face.
"Can't you get some one else to do your washing this week?"
I made no reply. The question was easily asked. After that, my
husband was silent,--silent in that peculiar way that I understood,
too well, as the effect of my words, or tones, or state of mind.
Here was another cause for unhappiness, in the reflection that I had
disturbed my husband's peace.
I am sure that I did not much look like a loving wife and mother as
I presided at the dinner table that day. The children never seemed
so restless and hard to manage; and I could not help speaking to
them, every now and then, "as if I would take their heads off;" but
to little good effect.
After my husband went away on finishing his dinner, I went to bed,
and cried for more than half the afternoon. Oh! how wretched I felt!
Life seemed an almost intolerable burden.
Then my mind grew more composed, and I tried to think about what was
to be done. The necessity for having the clothes washed was
absolute; and this roused me, at length, as the most pressing
domestic duty, into thinking so earnestly, that I presently rang the
bell for Netty, who came in her own good time.
"Tell Agnes that I want to see her," said I, not in a very
good-natured way.
The effect was that Netty left the chamber without replying, and
slammed the door hard after her, which mark of disrespect set my
blood to boiling. In a little while my cook made her appearance.
"Agnes," said I, "do you know of any one that can get to do the
washing this week?"
Agnes thought for a few moments, and then replied--
"There's a poor woman who lives near my mother's. I think she goes
out to wash sometimes."
"I wish you would step round and see if she can't come here
to-morrow."
Agnes said that she would do so.
"Tell her she must come," said I.
"Very well, ma'am."
And Agnes withdrew.
In an hour she tame back, and said that she had seen the woman, who
promised to come.
"What is her name?" I asked.
"Mrs. Partridge," was answered.
"You think she won't disappoint me?"
"Oh, no, ma'am. I don't think Mrs. Partridge is the kind of a woman
to promise and then disappoint a person."
It was some relief to think I was going to get my washing done; but
the idea of having the ironing about all the week fretted my mind.
And no sooner was this leading trouble set aside, than I began to
worry about the children's clothes, and the prospect of losing my
cook, who had managed my kitchen more to my satisfaction than any
one had ever done before.
The promise for a pleasant hour at home was but little more
flattering to my husband, when he returned in the evening, than it
had been at dinner time. I was still in a sombre mood.
In the morning Mrs. Partridge came early and commenced the washing.
There was something in this woman's appearance that interested me,
and something in her face that reminded me of somebody I had seen
before; but when and where I could not tell. Although her clothes
were poor and faded, there was nothing common about her, and she
struck me as being superior to her class. Several times during the
morning I had to go into the kitchen where she was at work, and each
time her appearance impressed me more and more. An emotion of pity
arose in my bosom, as I saw her bending over the washing tub, and
remembered that, for this hard labour during a whole day, the pay
was to be but seventy-five cents. And yet there was an air of meek
patience, if not contentment, in her face; while I, who had every
thing from which I ought to have derived happiness, was dissatisfied
and full of trouble. While in her presence I felt rebuked for my
complaining spirit.
At dinner time Mrs. Partridge came to my room, and with a gentle,
patient smile on her face, said--
"If you have no objections, ma'am, I would like to run home for a
few minutes to nurse my baby and give the children something to eat.
I'll make up the time."
"Go by all means," I replied, with an effort to speak calmly.
The woman turned, and went quickly away.
"Run home to nurse the baby and give the children something to eat!"
The words went through and through me. So unexpected a request,
revealing, as it did, the existence of such biting poverty in one
who was evidently bearing her hard lot without a murmur, made me
feel ashamed of myself for complaining at things which I ought to
have borne with a cheerful spirit. I had a comfortable, in fact a
luxurious, home, a kind and provident husband, and servants to do
every thing in my house. There was no lack of the means for
procuring every natural good I might reasonably desire. But, between
the means and the attainment of the natural blessings I sought,
there were many obstacles; and, instead of going to work in a
cheerful, confident spirit to remove those obstacles, I suffered
their interposition to make me unhappy; and not me alone, but my
husband and all around me. But here was a poor woman, compelled to
labour hard with her hands before she could obtain even the means
for supplying nature's most pressing wants, doing her duty with an
earnest, resigned, and hopeful spirit!
"It is wicked in me to feel as I do," I could not help saying, as I
made an effort to turn away from the picture that was before me.
When Mrs. Partridge came back, which was in about half an hour, I
said to her--
"Did you find all safe at home?"
"Yes, ma'am, thank you," she answered cheerfully.
"How old is your baby?"
"Eleven months old, ma'am."
"Is your husband living?"
"No, ma'am; he died more than a year ago."
"How many children have you?"
"Four."
"All young?"
"Yes, ma'am. The oldest is only in her tenth year, but she is a good
little girl, and takes care of the baby for me almost as well as a
grown person. I don't know what I would do without her."
"But ain't you afraid to leave them all at home alone, for so long a
time?"
"No, ma'am. Jane takes excellent care of them, and she is so kind
that they will obey her as well as they do me. I don't know what in
the world I would do without her. I am certainly blessed in having
so good a child."
"And only in her tenth year!" said I--the image of my Alice coming
before my mind, with the thought of the little use she would be as a
nurse and care-taker of her younger brothers and sisters.
"She is young, I know," returned the washerwoman--"too young to be
confined down as much as she is. But then she is a very patient
child, and knows that her mother has a great deal to do. I often
wish it was easier for her; though, as it can't be helped, I don't
let it fret me, for you know that would do no good."
"But how in the world, Mrs. Partridge," said I, "do you manage to
provide for four children, and do for them at the same time?"
"I find it hard work," she replied; "and sometimes I feel
discouraged for a little while; but by patience and perseverance I
manage to get along."
Mrs. Partridge went to her washing, and I sat down in my comfortable
room, having a servant in every department of my family, and ample
means for the supply of every comfort and luxury I could reasonably
desire.
"If she can get along by patience and perseverance," said I to
myself, "it's a shame for me that I can't." Still, for all this,
when I thought of losing my cook through the bad influence of Netty,
the chambermaid, I felt worried; and thinking about this, and what I
should do for another cook, and the trouble always attendant upon
bringing a new domestic into the house, made me, after a while, feel
almost as unhappy as before. It was not long before Netty came into
my room, saying, as she did so--
"Mrs. Smith, what frock shall I put on Alice?"
"The one with a blue sprig," I replied.
"That's in the wash," was answered.
"In the wash!" said I, in a fretful tone. "How came it in the wash?"
"It was dirty."
"No, it wasn't any such thing. It would have done very well for her
to put on as a change to-day and to-morrow."
"Well, ma'am, it's in the wash, and no help for it now," said Netty,
quite pertly.
I was dreadfully provoked with her, and had it on my tongue to order
her to leave my presence instantly. But I choked down my rising
indignation.
"Take the red and white one, then," said I.
"The sleeve's nearly torn off of that. There isn't any one that she
can wear except her white muslin."
"Oh dear! It's too bad! What shall I do? The children are all in
rags and tatters!"
And in this style I fretted away for three or four minutes, while
Netty stood waiting for my decision as to what Alice was to wear.
"Shall she put on the white muslin?" she at length asked.
"No, indeed! Certainly not! A pretty condition she'd have it in
before night! Go and get me the red and white frock, and I will mend
it. You aught to have told me it was torn this morning. You knew
there was nothing for the child to put on ut this. I never saw such
a set as you are!"
Netty flirted away, grumbling to herself. When she came in, she
threw the frock into my lap with manner so insolent and provoking
that I could hardly keep from breaking out upon her and rating her
soundly. One thing that helped to restrain me was the recollection
of sundry ebullitions of a like nature that had neither produced
good effects nor left my mind in a state of much self-respect or
tranquillity.
I repaired the torn sleeve, while Netty stood by. It was the work of
but five minutes.
"Be sure," said I, as I handed the garment to Netty, "to see that
one of Alice's frocks is ironed first thing to-morrow morning."
The girl heard, of course, but she made no answer. That was rather
more of a condescension than she was willing to make just then.
Instead of thinking how easily the difficulty of the clean frock for
Alice had been gotten over, I began fretting myself because I had
not been able to procure a seamstress, although the children were
"all in rags and tatters."
"What is to be done?" I said, half crying, as I began to rock myself
backward and forward in the great rocking-chair. "I am out of all
heart." For an hour I continued to rock and fret myself, and then
came to the desperate resolution to go to work and try what I could
do with my own hands. But where was I to begin? What was I to take
hold of first? All the children were in rags.
"Not one of them has a decent garment to his back," said I.
So, after worrying for a whole hour about what I should do, and
where I should begin, I abandoned the idea of attempting any thing
myself, in despair, and concluded the perplexing debate by taking
another hearty crying-spell. The poor washerwoman was forgotten
during most of this afternoon. My own troubles were too near the
axis of vision, and shut out all other objects.
The dusky twilight had begun to fall, and I was still sitting idly
in my chamber, and as unhappy as I could be. I felt completely
discouraged. How _was_ I to get along? I had been trying for weeks,
in vain, to get a good seamstress; and yet had no prospect of
obtaining one. I was going to lose my cook, and, in all probability,
my chambermaid. What would I do? No light broke in through the
cloudy veil that overhung my mind. The door opened, and Agnes, who
had come up to my room, said--
"Mrs. Partridge is done."
I took out my purse, and had selected therefrom the change necessary
to pay the washerwoman, when a thought of her caused me to say--
"Tell Mrs. Partridge to come up and see me."
My thoughts and feelings were changing. By the time the washerwoman
came in, my interest in her was alive again.
"Sit down," said I, to the tired-looking creature who sank into a
chair, evidently much wearied.
"It's hard work, Mrs. Partridge," said I.
"Yes, ma'am, it is rather hard. But I am thankful for health and
strength to enable me to go through with it. I know some poor women
who have to work as hard as I do, and yet do not know what it is to
feel well for an hour at a time."
"Poor creatures!" said I. "It is very hard! How in the world can
they do it?"
"We can do a great deal, ma'am, when it comes the pinch; and it is
much pleasanter to do, I find, than to think about it. If I were to
think much I should give up in despair. But I pray the Lord each
morning to give me my daily bread, and thus far he has done it, and
will, I am sure, continue to do it to the end."
"Happy it is for you that you can so think and feel," I replied.
"But I am sure I could not be as you are, Mrs. Partridge. It would
kill me."
"I sincerely trust, ma'am, that you will never be called to pass
through what I have," said Mrs. Partridge. "And yet there are those
who have it still harder. There was a time when the thought of being
as poor as I now am, and of having to work so hard, would have been
terrible to me; and yet I do not know that I was so very much
happier then than I am now, though I confess I ought to have been. I
had full and plenty of every thing brought into the house by my
husband, and had only to dispense in my family the blessings of God
sent to us. But I let things annoy me then more than they do now."
"But how can you help being worried, Mrs. Partridge? To be away from
my children as you have been away from yours all day would set me
wild. I would be sure some of them would be killed or dreadfully
hurt."
"Children are wonderfully protected," said Mrs. Partridge, in a
confident voice.
"So they are. But to think of four little children, the youngest
eleven months and the oldest not ten years old, left all alone, for
a whole day!"
"It is bad when we think about it, I know," returned Mrs. Partridge.
"It looks very bad! But I try and put that view of it out of my
mind. When I leave them in the morning they say they will be good
children. At dinner time I sometimes find them all fast asleep or
playing about. I never find them crying, or at all unhappy. Jane
loves the younger ones, and keeps them pleased all the time. In the
evening, when I get back from my work, there is generally no one
awake but Jane. She has given them the bread and milk I left for
their suppers, and undressed and put them to bed."
"Dear little girl! What a treasure she must be!" I could not help
saying.
"She is, indeed. I don't see how I could get along without her."
"You could not get along at all."
"Oh, yes, ma'am, I could. Some way would be provided for me," was
the confident reply.
I looked into the poor woman's face with wonder and admiration. So
patient, so trustful, and yet so very poor. The expression of her
countenance was beautiful in its calm religious hope, and it struck
me more than ever as familiar.
"Did I ever see you before, Mrs. Partridge?" I asked.
"Indeed, ma'am, I don't know. I am sure I have seen you somewhere.
No, now I recollect; it is your likeness to a young schoolmate that
makes your face so familiar. How much you do favour her, now I look
at you more closely."
"What was her name?" I asked.
"Her name was Flora S----."
"Indeed! Why, that was my name!"
"Your name! Did you go to Madame Martier's school?"
"I did."
"And can you indeed be my old schoolmate, Flora S----?"
"My maiden name was Flora S----, and I went to Madame Martier's.
Your face is also familiar, but how to place you I do not know."
"Don't you remember Helen Sprague?"
"Helen Sprague! This can't be Helen Sprague, surely! Yes! I remember
now. Why, Helen?" and I stepped forward and grasped her hand. "I am
both glad and sorry to see you. To think that, after the lapse of
fifteen years, we should meet thus! How in the world is it that
fortune has been so unkind to you? I remember hearing it said that
you had married very well."
"I certainly never had cause to regret my marriage," replied Mrs.
Partridge, with more feeling than she had yet shown. "While my
husband lived I had every external blessing that I could ask. But,
just before he died, somehow or other he got behind-hand in his
business, and after his death, there being no one to see to things,
what he left was seized upon and sold, leaving me friendless and
almost penniless. Since then, the effort to get food and clothes for
my children has been so constant and earnest, that I have scarcely
had time to sit down and grieve over my losses and sufferings. It is
one perpetual struggle for life. And yet, though I cannot now keep
the tears from my eyes, I will not say that I am unhappy. Thus far,
all things necessary for me have come. I yet have my little flock
together, and a place that bears the sacred name of home."
I looked into Helen's face, over which tears were falling, and
wondered if I were not dreaming. At school she had been the
favourite of all, she was so full of good humour, and had such a
cheerful, peace-loving spirit. Her parents were poor, but
respectable people, who died when Helen was fifteen years old. She
was then taken from school, and I never saw her afterward until she
came to my house in the capacity of a washerwoman, hundreds of miles
away from the scenes of our early years.
"But can't you find easier work than washing?" I asked. "Are you not
handy with your needle?"
"The only work I have been able to get has been from the clothing
men, and they pay so little that I can't live on it."
"Can you do fine sewing?" I asked.
"Yes, I call myself handy with my needle."
"Can you make children's clothes?"
"Boy's clothes?"
"No. Girl's clothing."
"Oh, yes."
"I'm very much in want of some one. My children are all in"--rags
and tatters I was going to say, but I checked myself--"are all in
need of clothes, and so far I have not been able to get anybody to
sew for me. If you like, I will give you three or four weeks' sewing
at least."
"I shall be very glad to have it, and very thankful for your
kindness in offering it to me," returned Mrs. Partridge, rising from
her chair, and adding as she did so--
"But I must be getting home. It is nearly dark, and Jane will be
anxious to see me back again."
I handed her the seventy-five cents she had earned for washing for
me during a whole day. Promising to come over and see me early in
the morning about the sewing, she withdrew, and I was left again to
my own reflections.
"If ever a murmurer and complainer received a severe rebuke, it is
I!" was the first almost audible thought that passed through my
mind. "To think that I, with my cup full and running over with
blessings, should make myself and all around me unhappy, because a
few minor things are not just to my satisfaction, while this woman,
who toils like a slave from morning until night, and who can hardly
procure food and clothing for her children, from whom she is almost
constantly separated, is patient and hopeful, makes me feel as if I
deserved to lose what I have refused to enjoy."
On the next morning Mrs. Partridge called quite early. She cut and
fitted several frocks for the children, at which work she seemed
very handy, and then took them home to make. She sewed for me five
weeks, and then got work in another family where I recommended her.
Since then, she has been kept constantly employed in sewing, at good
prices, by about six families. In all of these I have spoken of her
and created an interest in her favour. The mere wages that she earns
is much less than what she really receives. All her children's
clothes are given to her, and she receives many a bag of meal and
load of coal without knowing from whence it comes. In fact, her
condition is more comfortable in every way than it was, and, in
fact, so is mine. The lesson of patience I learned from Mrs.
Partridge in my first, and in many subsequent interviews, impressed
itself deeply upon my mind, and caused me to look at and value the
good I had, rather than fret over the few occurrences that were not
altogether to my wishes. I saw, too, how the small trouble to me had
been the means of working out a great good to her. My need of a
washerwoman, about which I had been so annoyed, and the temporary
want of a seamstress which I had experienced--light things as they
should have been--led me to search about for aid, and,
providentially, to fall upon Mrs. Partridge, who needed just what it
was in my power to do for her.
Whenever I find myself falling into my old habit, which I am sorry
to say is too frequently the case, I turn my thoughts to this poor
woman, who is still toiling on under heavy life-burdens, yet with
meekness and patience, and bowing my head in shame, say--
"If _she_ is thankful for the good she has, how deep should be _my_
gratitude!"
I DIDN'T THINK OF THAT!
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