All women are not as feeble as Mrs. Fennel? This is true; yet she represents a large class, and one which is rapidly increasing. Mothers of families calling themselves well and strong are hard to find. They too commonly either break down and die, or break down and live. Go into almost any town, any country village even, where pure air and other conditions of health abound, and mark in the sharpened, worn, pinched faces of its elderly women, the effects of overwork and unwholesome food.

Work is necessary. I believe in it; believe in eating too, and in eating what “tastes good,” as the phrase is. But to a person of healthy appetite plain food “tastes good,” and “topping off” is quite unnecessary. The words “topping off” express the exact truth: implying, that, when the stomach is already full, something is put on the top. (By the way, it is doing this, unless the something be very simple, which spoils the appetite for the next meal.)

No: far be it from me to scorn the pleasures of the palate. I would by no means consider it wicked to eat, semi-occasionally, a bit of cake; and there may be times in the year when even pie would be in order. But I protest against making these things the essentials; against its being taken for granted, that in whatever press for time,—in sickness and in health, in strength and in weakness, in sorrow and in joy,—the table must be spread with this prescribed, though needless, variety of food.

And, as it is the men-folks who are to “be satisfied,” I appeal to them to “be satisfied” with that which requires less of woman’s labor and of woman’s life.

III.
CONCERNING COMMON THINGS.

WHOEVER would be tranquil, let him not investigate. Ever since I began inquiring into household affairs, my mind has been disturbed by a doubt—not quite a doubt; call it an uneasiness—as to the mental superiority of the dominant sex. No, it cannot amount to positive doubting. That would be to fly in the face of facts. History proves that the greatest philosophers, the greatest artists, the greatest writers, the greatest thinkers, have been men. If woman has the ability to be as great in these directions, why has she not been as great? There has certainly been time enough,—six thousand years at the lowest calculation.

Well, then, since facts cannot be disputed, there can be no reasonable doubt upon this subject; but—No, I won’t say but: I won’t admit the possibility of a but. I will only say that it is very puzzling and very annoying to have one’s daily observations tend to undermine—not undermine, conflict with—one’s belief. And it may happen, that, if a man watch too closely what goes on in-doors, the idea will be suggested to him, that while he prides himself, very likely, on working well at one trade, a woman may work well at half a dozen, and not pride herself at all.

Mr. Fennel is a carpenter. Mr. Melendy is a shoemaker. Each is master of one trade, and only one, and works at that all day. Mr. Fennel doesn’t stop to mend his shoes. Mr. Melendy doesn’t leave off pegging to make a new front-door.

Mrs. Fennel is mistress of many trades. Mrs. Fennel is cook, tailoress, dressmaker, milliner, dyer, housemaid, doctor, and boy’s capmaker; also, at times, schoolmaster, lawyer, and minister. For she hears the children’s lessons; she adjusts their quarrels with the judgment of a judge; and she gives them sermons on morals which contain the gist of the whole matter.

Of all these occupations, cooking, I observe, ranks the highest. That is sure of attention: the others take their chance. That is cut out of the whole cloth: the others get the odds and ends. I have observed also, in this connection, that the day in-doors resolves itself into three grand crises, called the three meals. It is surprising, it is really wonderful, the way these are brought about with every thing else going on beside. Indeed, this prying into domestic affairs has made me surprised twice. First, at the amount of physical labor a woman has to perform; second, that she can carry so many things on her mind at one time, or rather that her mind can act in so many directions at one time, and so quickly. This in-doors work seems commonplace enough; to the fastidious, repugnant even. The same may be said of a mud-puddle. But dip up a dipperful of the mud, examine it closely, and you will find it teeming with life. So, examine an hourful of household work, and you will find it all alive with plans, contrivances, forethoughts, afterthoughts, happy thoughts, and countless trifling experiences, minute, it may be, but full of animation. The puddle is often set in commotion by a passing breeze, or by a stone dropping in. Well, household work, too, has its breezes of hurry and flurry, besides its regular trade-winds, which blow morning, noon, and night. And, if company unexpected isn’t like the stone dropping in, then what is it like?