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Conversation between W. Manby & T. Hopper. 215
“But, Martha," I said, “if servants should not contradict or disobey their superiors, they may leave them, I suppose; may they not?”
Yes, Sir,” she replied, " that is true, no doubt.” "And ought they not to leave them," I inquired, « when obedience is sinful ?"
“Yes, Sir," she answered; " but you forget how hard it is for poor servants to get places, and Mrs. Bryan was a very indulgent mistress, and never scolded any of us, and we had plenty to eat and drink. Such places are not to be got every day, Sir."
“ So then," I said, “ it never once came into your head, Martha, that it was your duty to look out for another place, in which it might be possible for you to serve and worship God ? If you ever thought of God at all, you thought to reconcile the love of God and of the world together, which cannot be. You were going on fast in the high broadway to destruction: but He graciously interfered to save you, by sending this grievous sickness and distress upon you."
CONVERSATION BETWEEN WILLIAM
MANBY AND THOMAS HOPPER.
William.—Why, Thomas, I've not seen you for a very long time. Where do you think you have been all this while ? I hope you have not been ill!
Thomas. - Why no, William, I am thankful to say that I never was better in my
life. W.-Well, I thought you did not look much amiss : and to tell you the truth, if you'll excuse me, I think I never saw you look so well, and so comfortable, and so cheerful, in all my life. Why the last time we met
looked all out of sorts, and you were
* See Vol. 2, p. 122.
full of complaints and grumblings. You remember it, don't you?
T.–Yes, William, I remember it well. And I remember, too, all that you said to me that day. I remember how I then envied you your comfortable way of living, and I felt dissatisfied with every thing, and every body. Things seemed to be all going wrong with me: and I said the blame upon every body but myself: when, if I had seen the truth, I should have known that I ought to have found fault with nobody but myself.
W.-Why it's a great matter to find that out, Thomas. But what has turned up so much in your favour?
T.-Why, don't you remember, that you told me how you got on? You said, that whatever you earned, you always determined to lay by something. Then you said you never would toss up for a single halfpenny, nor have any thing to do with gambling of any sort or kind, even for the smallest trifle. Then you said you never would go into an alehouse to throw away your money in beer; and that when your fellow-servants threw away their money in that fashion, you took care not to be led by them,—and that as to being laughed at, and called particular by them, you did not care a button about that. And so I e'en thought I would try and follow your example, and it has made a man of me. I was in misery and poverty before. But now I am quite comfortable. It takes a good while, however, to get things about, when they have once got wrong ;---but I have to bless God for giving me health,-and I am thankful to say, I have every thing about me that a man in my station can reasonably want. I know that it was you that set me to think about this plan first; and, since that, every thing has gone well with me. But I tell
you more particulars about our way of living, some other day.
On Domestic Cookery.
ON DOMESTIC COOKERY.
To the Editor of the Cottager's Monthly Visitor.
SIR, Much as that useful work entitled or Domestic Cookery," has been read and followed in many families, there is one part of it that has not obtained so much attention as my own experience convinces me that it deserves. It is that which teaches us to think of the Poor, and as the observations are particularly good, and may be useful, I venture to copy them, although the work is so well known.
“ The cook should be charged to save the boilings of every bit of meat, ham, tongue, &c. however salt, as it is easy to use only a part of that, and the rest of fresh water, and by the addition of vegetables, the spare bones, the pieces of meat, rice, Scotch barley, or oatmeal, there will be some gallons of nutritious soup, two or three times a week. The bits of meat should be only warmed and put in, the bones boiled till they yield their nourishment. If the things are ready to put into the boiler as soon as dinner is served, it will save firing. In every family there is some superfluity, and if it be prepared with cleanliness and care, the benefit will be very great to the receiver, and the satisfaction no less to the giver.”
It now several years since I first adopted the plan here suggested, and although, from having no garden, I am unable to have vegetables used as advised, yet I have found that the superfluity of a family of not more than eight persons, furnishes a comfortable meal of broth, at least once a week, to four or five poor families, by whom it is most gratefully received, and, having often tasted it myself, I know that it is sweet and good. I have almost al
NO, 5.-VOL. VII. L
ways found cooks very willing to second my wishes with respect to their poorer neighbours, and I think any mistress of a family who would give the necessary orders, would be surprised at the means it would afford her of assisting the poor.
I have also found very gratefully accepted, a pudding made of Scotch barley, soaked during some hours, then mixed with a little dripping and treacle; and, where there is a dairy, milk would be an agreeable addition, and when well baked, it makes a substantial and wholesome meal. Though well aware that your little work is chiefly intended for those who require, rather than bestow gifts, I know that it is so often read in the drawing-room as well as in the kitchen, that I have hoped these remarks might not be deemed misplaced.
THOMAS THE WAITER.
Several years ago, a Mr. F. travelling through the South of England, passed an evening at the pleasant cheerful town of Sin what appeared to him, at first sight, a comfortable and quiet, though a small, inn. But Mr. F. soon found that the outward appearance of the Rose and Crown had deceived him, and that there was a disorder about every thing, and an inattention about the waiter that made him repent his choice of an inn. The waiter took no trouble, to attend him when called ; and, in answer to his remonstrances, only grumbled out replies in a manner which soon shewed Mr. F. that the real cause of the confusion arose from the man's intoxication; and his unhealthy pale countenance and trembling hands, soon made him. conclude, what he found on enquiry to be the case,
Thomas the Waiter.
219 that this was not an accidental thing, but that such intoxication was habitual to him.
Mr. F. left the town early the next day. Having seen by the poor man's miserably weak appearance in the morning, how very much he suffered in his health from his intemperance, and that it made him quite incapable of doing his work properly, while he determined that he would not again visit the Rose and Crown, he pitied the man for the bad habits that perhaps his situation had led him into, feeling, at the same time afraid, that it was too likely that he would go on from bad to worse.
Some years afterwards, Mr. F. again arrived at S-, he remembered his former uncomfortable evening at the little inn, and therefore determined to go to the King's Arms, the best inn in the town, and a fine large building. As he drove to the door, all the usual number of waiters that attend at such large places, rushed to wait upon him, to know his pleasure, and to do with the greatest alacrity, every thing that he wished. Mr. F. thought he remembered the face of one of them, but it was not until he had looked at him a good many times, that he could believe that the active, attentive, and civil head waiter, was the very same man, whom he had thought so uncivil, dirty, and drunken, some years before, at the Rose and Crown.
While he was waiting on him, Mr. F. ventured to ask whether he had not formerly been at that inn; for he could not help doubting, as the man seemed so much changed both as to health and manners. “ Oh yes, Sir," said Thomas, “but I wonder, Sir, you should remember me, for it is six years ago since I left, and I am thankful to say
I am another man since then. Mr. F.-Indeed you are! You seemed then in a fair way of killing yourself by inches, and now you are quite altered in every respect. I should like to hear, very much, if you do not mind telling me, how this great change came about.