last dawning for the most
cribbed and crippled of Eve's unhappy daughters.

It was while living in Seneca Falls, and at one of the most despairing
periods of my young life, that one of the best gifts of the gods came to
me in the form of a good, faithful housekeeper. She was indeed a
treasure, a friend and comforter, a second mother to my children, and
understood all life's duties and gladly bore its burdens. She could fill
any department in domestic life, and for thirty years was the joy of our
household. But for this noble, self-sacrificing woman, much of my public
work would have been quite impossible. If by word or deed I have made
the journey of life easier for any struggling soul, I must in justice
share the meed of praise accorded me with my little Quaker friend Amelia
Willard.

There are two classes of housekeepers--one that will get what they want,
if in the range of human possibilities, and then accept the inevitable
inconveniences with cheerfulness and heroism; the other, from a kind of
chronic inertia and a fear of taking responsibility, accept everything
as they find it, though with gentle, continuous complainings. The latter
are called amiable women. Such a woman was our congressman's wife in
1854, and, as I was the reservoir of all her sorrows, great and small, I
became very weary of her amiable non-resistance. Among other domestic
trials, she had a kitchen stove that smoked and leaked, which could
neither bake nor broil,--a worthless thing,--and too small for any
purpose. Consequently half their viands were spoiled in the cooking, and
the cooks left in disgust, one after another.

In telling me, one day, of these kitchen misadventures, she actually
shed tears, which so roused my sympathies that, with surprise, I
exclaimed: "Why do you not buy a new stove?" To my unassisted common
sense that seemed the most practical thing to do. "Why," she replied, "I
have never purchased a darning needle, to put the case strongly, without
consulting Mr. S., and he does not think a new stove necessary." "What,
pray," said I, "does he know about stoves, sitting in his easy-chair in
Washington? If he had a dull old knife with broken blades, he would soon
get a new one with which to sharpen his pens and pencils, and, if he
attempted to cook a meal--granting he knew how--on your old stove, he
would set it out of doors the next hour. Now my advice to you is to buy
a new one this very day!"

"Bless me!" she said, "that wou