such a man—is it degrading her into a household drudge—to ask her to see that, when he comes home wearied from his store, his meals are in time, and well and healthily cooked?—to ask her to think of his comfort, and to even work some with her hands to secure for him this comfort, if it can be done in no other way? Does she degrade herself by consulting his appetite, for instance, and seeking to gratify him by having something on the table that she knows will please him? or by seeing that order and comfort are in all parts of her household? We cannot believe that any woman truly loves her husband, who leaves all these matters to the cook or the housekeeper. What do they know of his peculiar tastes, or, knowing, care? They do their part for hire; but she should do her part for love, and love is ever seeking some new mode of blessing its object.
How there is any thing more degrading in making up and baking a loaf of bread, for instance, or in thinking about and giving directions for a dinner, than in selling goods over the counter, is something inconceivable to us. False, indeed, are her ideas of life, who can see any degrading distinctions here. In matters of this kind, our modern ladies have reached a degree of refinement far in advance of the ladies
