We
toil in our kitchen from morning till night, and we render the whole
feast tasteless for want of a ha'porth of salt--for want of a
soupcon of amiability, for want of a handful of kindly words, a
touch of caress, a pinch of courtesy.
Who does not know that estimable housewife, working from eight till
twelve to keep the house in what she calls order? She is so good a
woman, so untiring, so unselfish, so conscientious, so irritating.
Her rooms are so clean, her servants so well managed, her children
so well dressed, her dinners so well cooked; the whole house so
uninviting. Everything about her is in apple-pie order, and
everybody wretched.
My good Madam, you polish your tables, you scour your kettles, but
the most valuable piece of furniture in the whole house you are
letting to rack and ruin for want of a little pains. You will find
it in your own room, my dear Lady, in front of your own mirror. It
is getting shabby and dingy, old-looking before its time; the polish
is rubbed off it, Madam, it is losing its brightness and charm. Do
you remember when he first brought it home, how proud he was of it?
Do you think you have used it well, knowing how he valued it? A
little less care of your pots and your pans, Madam, a little more of
yourself were wiser.
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