Only a few, lest the patience I have already had occasion—and more than once—to praise, should fail at the last pages. And if, in my desire to be brief, I seem abrupt, you will understand that it is not because I do not enjoy talking with, and at you.

Be honest with me! Have you ever, in studying these two volumes which I have tried to make as little dry as the subject would admit, whispered, or thought something that implied a likeness between the author and the anonymous gentleman, in whose garden—

I used to know Watts from title-page to “finis.” I have taken pains to forget the creaking numbers of his pious machinery of late years. But wasn’t the aforesaid personage the one who “talked of eating and drinking?” Have you ever said, ’twixt amusement and impatience, “This woman thinks all women born to be cooks, and nothing more?” As I look at the matter of every-day and necessary duty—the routine of common life—“common” meaning anything but vulgar—there are certain things which must be learned, whether one have a natural bias for them or no. All men and women who would maintain a respectable position in this enlightened land at this day, must learn how to read and write; must possess a fair knowledge of the multiplication-table, have a tolerably correct impression as to what hemisphere and zone they live in, whether in a kingdom or republic; must be able to describe the shape of the earth, and to tell who is the President of the United States. Next to these, in my opinion, stands the necessity that every woman should know how to use her needle deftly, and have a practical acquaintance with the leading principles of cookery. The acquisition of these homely accomplishments can never, in any circumstances, harm her. The probability is, that she cannot perform her part aright as spinster, wife, mother, or mistress without them.

I have a lovely child waiting for me on the “thither shore,” whose many playful and earnest sayings are still quoted by us in our family talks, quite as often with smiles as with tears. Hers was a sunny life. We knew that should the Father prolong her earthly existence into womanhood, the power of making her happiness would be no longer ours. But while our children were children, to us belonged the precious prerogative of flooding their hearts with delight, making of home a haven of joy and peace they would never forget, whatever the coming years might bring. Our darling, then, was a happy, healthy child, and symmetrical in mind as body—learning readily, and usually with ease, the simple lessons suited to her years. Yet at nine years of age, she said to me one night before going to bed:

“Mamma, when I remember as I lay my head on the pillow, every night, that I have to say the 9 column of the multiplication-table to-morrow, I could almost wish that I could die in my sleep, and the morning never come!”

With my heart aching in the great pity I could ill-express to one so young, I took her in my arms and told her of the need she would have, in after-life, of the knowledge gained so hardly; how, setting aside the actual utility of the multiplication-table, she would be better, wiser, stronger, always for the discipline of the study.

She lived to laugh at the recollection of the fearful bug-bear. Do I recall the incident with the least shade of remorse that I did not yield to my compassion and her pleading eyes, and remit, for good and all, the dreaded exercise? On the contrary, I am thankful the strength was given me to teach her how to battle and to conquer. And—I say it in no irreverent spirit of speculation—I have faith to believe that in the richer, deeper life beyond, she still, in some way or sense, reaps the good of that which she won by resolute labor, and by the victory over her faint-heartedness.

I have thought of the little circumstance, a hundred times, when women have bemoaned themselves, in my hearing, over the hardship of being compelled to “understand something about housekeeping.”

Since the “understanding” is a need, and patent even to their unwilling eyes, what say Common Sense and Duty?

My dear, I would not breathe it if there were a man within possible hearing—but are you not sometimes ashamed that women are content to know and to do so little in this world?

“So are many men!” True, but that is the look-out of masculine philanthropists—not ours. How many ladies in your circle of acquaintances are willing—much less eager to do anything, except the positive and well-defined work laid upon them by custom and society? How many enter into the full meaning, and have any just appreciation of the beauty of the duties especially appointed to them, of the glory and solemnity of maternity, the high honor of being the custodians of others’ happiness so long as life shall last; God’s deputies upon earth in the work of training immortal souls; of forming the characters and lives that shall outlive the sun?

How many—to descend to a very plain and practical question—could, if bereft of fortune to-morrow or next week, or next year, earn a living for themselves, to say nothing of their children?

I talked out this last-named question on paper, a few months ago; threw arguments and conclusions into a form which I hoped would prove more attractive to the general reader, than a didactic essay. The last favor I shall ask of you before closing this volume, is that you will read my unpretending story through, and answer to yourself, if not to me and the public, the question put in the title.