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Shadows and sunbeams: Being a second series of Fern leaves from Fanny's portfolio cover

Shadows and sunbeams: Being a second series of Fern leaves from Fanny's portfolio

Chapter 22: SOLILOQUY OF A HOUSEMAID.
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About This Book

A varied collection of short essays, sketches, and soliloquies mixes humor and sentiment to portray domestic and civic life. Vignettes range from rural scenes and bereavement to city routines and boarding-house experience, emphasizing financial dependence, household labor, and the social pressures on women. The pieces alternate pointed satire of fashion, clergy, and public manners with practical reflections on housekeeping, parenting, and charity, using anecdote and direct address to balance wit, moral observation, and sympathetic portraiture.

SOLILOQUY OF A HOUSEMAID.

Oh, dear, dear! Wonder if my mistress ever thinks I am made of flesh and blood? Five times, within half an hour, I have trotted up stairs, to hand her things, that were only four feet from her rocking-chair. Then, there’s her son, Mr. George—it does seem to me, that a great able-bodied man like him, need n’t call a poor tired woman up four pair of stairs to ask “what’s the time of day?” Heigho!—its “Sally do this,” and “Sally do that,” till I wish I never had been baptized at all; and I might as well go farther back, while I am about it, and wish I had never been born.

Now, instead of ordering me round so like a dray horse, if they would only look up smiling-like, now and then; or ask me how my “rheumatiz” did; or say “Good morning, Sally;” or show some sort of interest in a fellow-cretur, I could pluck up a hit of heart to work for them. A kind word would ease the wheels of my treadmill amazingly, and would n’t cost them anything, either.

Look at my clothes, all at sixes and sevens. I can’t get a minute to sew on a string or button, except at night; and then I’m so sleepy it is as much as ever I can find the way to bed; and what a bed it is, to be sure! Why, even the pigs are now and then allowed clean straw to sleep on; and as to bed-clothes, the less said about them the better; my old cloak serves for a blanket, and the sheets are as thin as a charity school soup, Well, well; one would n’t think it, to see all the fine glittering things down in the drawing-room. Master’s stud of horses, and Miss Clara’s diamond ear-rings, and mistresses rich dresses. I try to think it is all right, but it is no use.

To-morrow is Sunday—“day of rest,” I believe they call it. H-u-m-p-h!—more cooking to be done—more company—more confusion than on any other day in the week. If I own a soul I have not heard how to take care of it for many a long day. Wonder if my master and mistress calculate to pay me for that, if I lose it? It is a question in my mind. Land of Goshen! I aint sure I’ve got a mind—there’s the bell again!