From Kitchen to Garret: Hints for young householders

by J. E. Panton

down’; it is an action I scorn when I am well; but I know, alas! too well how necessary it is to be ready for an ‘emergency,’ and to know one has a place of refuge and rest if life grows too much for one, and one’s headache is just a little too bad to bear without retiring into private life for a while. At first, of course, Angelina will have the house to herself, but that will not last—at least I hope for her sake it will not—and she will then be glad to have opportunities of resting for five or ten minutes, secure of safety from interruptions, and servants, and children, or visitors. Besides, when she is recovering after any illness there would be her sofa ready, and she would not be perpetually fretted and worried by seeing the room disorganised by the sudden introduction of a strange piece of furniture; the bringing in of which, and the bumping and banging inseparable from this same movement, often brings on a nervous attack, and fidgets her so much that she would rather be without it than witness the commotion caused by the moving.

If one’s home has these little conveniences it adds immeasurably to one’s comfort, and they are not costly; and here I may mention that I consider a screen indispensable too, for this can be moved to circumvent draughts or too much light, and can also be used to protect the patient from worry when the bed is made, &c.; things that always drive me distracted to witness, and that screened off cease to be, as far as I am concerned.

In most houses, too, the door opens confidingly on the only place where the bed can stand, and then a screen is invaluable; it hides the bed itself, and does not leave it exposed as it would were curtains used as a substitute. Curtains, too, are things I always disapprove of. I do not even like Mr. Arthur Smee’s most excellent arrangement of wing-like brackets, to which curtains are attached, as I think people should have as much air as possible, and I see no more reason for curtaining a bed than there would be for curtaining one’s chair or sofa. A screen insures privacy; curtains hide one’s head only, and cannot possibly avoid being stuffy; if, however, the bare appearance of an uncurtained bed is objected to, the draped alcove sketched on the previous page will be found easy to arrange and very pretty indeed. This alcove is one of Messrs. Collinson and Lock’s designs.

I have been very sorry to notice a very strong attempt made by those who ought to know better to revive that truly unhealthy and impossible thing in a properly managed house—the wooden bedstead. I hear that these detestable things are considered artistic—that to have a heap of feathers sunk into a carved oak box in the height of luxuriance and æstheticism, so I must beg my readers to carefully consider what a wooden bedstead means and used to mean.

It meant immense trouble with certain small animals that came there mysteriously with the clothes. It meant a taking to pieces, a scrubbing, and a putting together again continually; and, above all, it meant a bonfire were any person with an infectious disease to sleep upon it; and, in fact, I do not know one single thing in its favour, and yet folks in their craving after a false sensation of antiquity are actually thinking of going back to the wooden bedstead.

One of the worst and silliest things I know is to go back into the middle ages for those very articles that used to make our foremothers—I don’t think our forefathers troubled much about their houses—miserable, and when I see tiny diamond panes of glass, for example, when invention has given us large sheets of glass through which light comes, and by throwing open which we can admit as much air as possible; or when I hear of the wooden bedsteads, I feel like a Philistine entirely, and long to uplift my testimony on the great superiority of this present nineteenth century of ours, when we are nothing if we are not sensible, and ought to know enough to make use of all the beauty of past days, while we reject unconditionally the futile, unhealthy nonsense that clings to them. Still, after this no one will be surprised to hear that I consider a brass or iron and brass bedstead a sine quâ non. Nothing is so clean, so cheerful-looking, and so healthy. There are no draperies to catch dust or to give the sleeper a headache, and, moreover, I never have a valance—never will allow one. Why should there be one? Not one single thing of any sort or description should be put under the bed, which, in a servant’s room, or the room of an untidy person, serves as a regular hiding-place for boots, boxes, even soiled linen, and if there be nothing to hide there is no necessity that I can see for a valance. A brass and iron bedstead can be bought, full size, at Maple’s for 3l. 10s., and, of course, very much handsomer ones can be procured; but plain beds are much the best, for they can be rubbed free from dust in a very few moments, and always look clean because they are so.

I do not think any one who has ever tried it can for one moment doubt that a spring mattress made entirely of finely woven chains is the very best and healthiest sort of bed that one can have, it never seems to get out of order, it is quickly made softer or harder by being wound up tighter or unwound, and, above all, it is easily kept clean, and is as easily disinfected, should any fever or other infectious disease attack the owner thereof.

I have had, and still possess, one of the old-fashioned spring beds that resemble very large mattresses, and, though this is extremely comfortable, it is not to be as highly recommended as a bed one can brush and know is quite clean, for it is covered with a tick, and has a mysterious internal arrangement of spiral springs that is apt at times to get out of order, and invariably groans and squeaks in an agonising way whenever one turns in bed, while the noise and motion are both very trying when one’s nerves are a little unstrung and one is restless and cannot sleep. It is expensive to have it taken to pieces and cleaned, and the tick washed, which is not done half as often as it ought to be, because it is costly and tiresome. There are several sorts of chain-spring mattresses, and the ‘Excelsior,’ which is inexpensive, answers every purpose; but I personally much prefer a very fine woven chain, almost like chain-armour, which is expensive, but wears splendidly, and only requires a nice hair mattress over it to be complete. I always put over the chains themselves a square of brown holland, tied to each of the four corners of the bedstead. This should be washed twice, or even oftener, during the year, and it is also an excellent plan to put the nice new hair mattresses and pillows into neat brown holland pinafores, or cases; which can also be frequently washed in order to keep the ticks themselves clean as long as we possibly can. Unless this is done, the ticks become soiled and nasty-looking and shabby, because housemaids are but mortal, and will not remember to wash their hands and put on spotlessly clean aprons when they go up to make the beds. If brown holland is too dear, ‘crash’ serves every purpose, but the glaze on the holland resists dust better than anything, and insures cleanliness.