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“Is there a heart that never loved,

Or felt soft Woman’s sigh?

Is there a man can mark unmoved

Dear Woman’s tearful eye?

Oh, bear him to some distant shore,

Or solitary cell:

Where none but savage monsters roar,

Where love ne’er deigned to dwell.”

Popular Ballad.

It has been as wisely as beautifully remarked by the Rev. Robert Montgomery, in his delightfully truthful and sweet, pretty Poem, entitled “Woman an Angel!” that the lovely daughters of Eve (I quote from memory, giving rather the sentiment than the words of that talented and elegant divine,) were born to suffer; for not only have they their own severe afflictions to put up with, but they are expected also to become willing partners in those of the sons of Adam by whom they have been led to the altar, and whose hands and fortunes they have consented to accept and share. Without lovely Woman to soothe, restrain, and look after them, I should like to know what would be the fate of those impatient, obstinate, selfish, and poor helpless creatures—Men? Would they not unpick every social tie? and go about like the brutes of the fields, with scarcely a thing fit to put on, and their stockings all full of holes—a prey to their all-devouring appetites—the slaves of their ungovernable passions, and be robbed right and left by their servants? And why, I ask, would this be the case?—why, because every Woman, with her proper feelings about her, knows as well as I do that it certainly would.

The immortal Swan of Avon has somewhere charmingly said—

“Give me that man who is not passion’s slave,

And I will wear him in my heart of hearts;”

and if such a being was ever created, I certainly must say that I should not hesitate to follow so worthy an example as that of the immortal Swan,—that is, indeed, were I not a married woman.

Yes, lovely daughters of Eve! ours is a horrid, bitter cup. To us the Earth is truly a Vale of Tears, without e’en one pretty flower growing up among the shoals and quicksands that beset our briery path, to gladden us on our way. Indeed, the trials of us poor, dear, confiding Women form a sad—sad history; and, Goodness knows! that the humble individual who is now addressing the courteous Reader has had her share of worldly troubles to bear up against. What I have suffered in my time few would believe, and none but myself can tell. In fact, if I had not had a very fine constitution of my own, my frame must have given way under it,—for I am sure the heart-rending ordeals that I have been condemned to go through with—in a word, the overwhelming—but more of this hereafter.

It was a cold Autumnal midnight, and the wind was blowing frightfully, and the rain was beating against the windows, and not a sound was to be heard in the streets, unless I mention the noise of some two or three cabs tearing past the house, and bearing homewards their gay and youthful votaries of fashion from some festive ball or joyous theatre. Indeed, it was just such a night as makes the sympathizing heart of Woman, when seated quietly by her own comfortable fire-side, bleed with pity to think of the poor houseless wanderer, who is obliged to pace the streets without e’en so much as a shoe to his feet, or anything to live upon. I was sitting up-stairs, in my snug little bed-room, my thoughts fixed only on Edward’s (that is, my husband’s) return; for having a heavy cause which stood for trial in the Exchequer on the morrow, he was, I knew, detained at his Chambers, in L—nc—n’s I—n, on important business.

I always made it a rule, even when I had an establishment of my own, (why I have not one now, the reader shall learn by-and-by,) of sitting up for Edward myself, in preference to letting the servants do so. For, in the first place, we never dine until six o’clock, although I am naturally a small eater; and, secondly, it is unreasonable to expect that, if the servants are kept up over-night, they can be down stairs in the morning, in time to get through with their next day’s work; and, thirdly, I have always found Edward come home much earlier when he knew that I was staying up for him, instead of the maid.

I was then, as I said before, sitting up for my husband; and, to pass the time, I was unpicking my green silk pelisse, with the view of making it into a couple of best frocks for my sweet little pets, Kate and Annie (my two dear good girls); and as I had worn it, I should think, not more than one or two winters altogether, and it was getting to look quite old-fashioned, I thought it would be better to make it up for my darling girls, and try and prevail upon dear Edward to buy me a new one next time we went out for a walk together.

So, as I said before, I was sitting up for my husband, and whilst I was busy at work, I could not help contrasting my then new situation in life (I had been in the house only one day,—but more of this hereafter,) with the domestic comfort I once thought I should have enjoyed. “Here am I,” (I said to myself,) “closely connected with one of the oldest families in the kingdom,—the wife of a highly respectable professional man,—the mother of five strong and (thank Heaven!) healthy children,—and three of whom are boys, and the other two girls,—without an establishment that I can call my own,—positively driven from my home,—obliged to sell my elegant furniture at a sacrifice of five hundred and eighty pounds and odd,—glad to take refuge in the venal hospitality of a Boarding House!! in G—ldf—rd St—t, R—ss—ll Sq—re, near the F—ndl—ng H—sp—t—l, and at the mercy of a set of people that one really knows little or nothing about.” And why is this?—alas! why? Why, because we were obliged to leave our own house, and all through a pack of ungrateful, good-for-nothing things called servants, who really do not know when they are well off.

Ever since we first commenced housekeeping, I cannot say the creatures have let me know one day’s perfect peace. A more indulgent master and mistress I am sure they never could have had. For myself, if they had been my own children I could not have looked after them more than I did—continually instructing them, and even sometimes condescending to do part of their work for them myself, out of mere kindness, just to show them how; and never allowing a set of fellows from those dreadful barracks in Alb—ny Str—t to come running after them, turning the heads of the poor ignorant things, and trifling with their affections, and borrowing their wages, and living upon me. And yet the only return the minxes made me was to fly in my face directly my back was turned, and to drive me nearly mad; so that at times I have been in that state of mind that I really did not know whether I was standing on my head or my heels. For what with their breakages—and their impudence—and their quarrelling among themselves—and their followers—and their dirt and filth—and their turning up their noses at the best of food—and their wilful waste and goings on—and their neglect and ill treatment of the dear children—and their pilferings—and their pride, their airs, and ill tempers—and those horrid soldiers—(but more of this hereafter)—I’m sure it was enough to turn the head of ten Christians. But I do verily believe that both my body and mind were giving way under it; and, indeed, our medical adviser, Mr. J——pp, (as I afterwards learnt,) told Edward as much, and that if he did not get me away, he wouldn’t answer for the consequences; adding, that it was only the very fine constitution I had of my own that had kept me alive under it all. So that when Edward communicated to me what our medical adviser had said, and proposed that we should break up our establishment, and retire to a boarding-house, where at least we might enjoy peace and quiet, I told him that I had long felt (though I never liked to confess as much to him) that my domestic cares had been making inroads upon my health and constitution that I never could restore, and that I would gladly give my consent to any course that he thought might add to his comfort; that all my anxiety had been to protect his property, and prevent his furniture from going to rack and ruin before my very eyes, but that if he wished to part with it, I would not stand in the way; for, to tell the truth, I was sick and tired of house-keeping and servants, and only too glad to wash my hands of them altogether.

And now that they have driven me and my husband to seek an asylum in a respectable boarding-house, (and where, thank goodness! I have nothing at all to do with the creatures, or the furniture—for as the things about one are not one’s own, why, of course it’s no matter to me whether they’re broken to bits or not; and it isn’t likely, indeed, that I should be quite such a stupid as to go putting myself out of the way about another person’s property,) I suppose I shall be allowed to taste a little peace, and quiet, and comfort, for the first time since my marriage. For, indeed, such has been, as I said before, my wear and tear, both of mind and body, that, though Edward and I have been married scarcely fourteen summers, I’m sure that if my courteous readers could only see me, they would take me to be at least ten years older than I really am—which I am not.

As I was saying, then, these thoughts floated through my mind the second night after we had entered our new abode, and I inwardly wished to myself that I had my time to come over again—when suddenly!—all of an instant!—a brilliant idea rushed across my brain. It was a noble idea!—one that would have done honour to any of our great philanthropists, or even Mrs. Ellis herself. And, yet, was I capable of doing justice to the idea? Alas! I feared not. Then, would it not be rashness to attempt it? Alas! I feared it would. Still, it had so benevolent an object, that I should be ten times worse than a blind heathen to shrink from it. But, even if I decided upon entertaining the idea, how was I, weak, timid, and bashful as I was, (I have always been of a retiring disposition ever since I was a child,) ever to be able to carry it out? It seemed to be madness to think any more of the idea. It might all come to Edward’s ears, and he would chide his dear, foolish Caroline (that is, myself) for undertaking it. Yet I might be the proud means of saving hundreds of my fellow-creatures, who have unfortunately got weak constitutions of their own, from suffering as I have.

And when I thought of this, I no longer hesitated, but determined to publish to the world all my long experience with servants of all kinds, and countries, and colours, so that I might, as it were, become the pilot of young wives, to steer their fragile little barks through the rocks and precipices of domestic life, and prevent their happiness being wrecked as mine has been—I may say, at my own fire-side—and their household gods turned neck and crop into the streets, to wander to and fro, without so much as a place to put their heads in.

But how was all this to be done? Who was to help me in bringing this charitable work before the world? At length I remembered having bought some books of a publisher in Fleet-street, who had been, on two or three occasions, very polite to me. To him I would go in the morning, and get him to assist me in my noble undertaking. I did so. But the courteous reader shall learn what transpired in another chapter.