But without any suspicious lunges into that dubious region which lies outside of woman’s universally acknowledged “sphere,” (a blight rest upon the word!) there is within the pale, within the boundary-line which the most conservative never dreamed of questioning, room for a great divergence of ideas.  Now divergence of ideas does not necessarily imply fighting at short range.  People may adopt a course of conduct which you do not approve; yet you may feel it your duty to make no open animadversion.  Circumstances may have suggested such a course to them, or forced it upon them; and perhaps, considering all things, it is the best they can do.  But when, encouraged by your silence, they publish it to the world, not only as relatively, but intrinsically, the best and most desirable,—­when, not content with swallowing it themselves as medicine, they insist on ramming it down your throat as food,—­it is time to buckle on your armor and have at them.

A little book, published by the Tract Society, called “The Mother and her Work,” has been doing just this thing.  It is a modest little book.  It makes no pretensions to literary or other superiority.  It has much excellent counsel, pious reflection, and comfortable suggestion.  Being a little book, it costs but little, and it will console, refresh, and instruct weary, conscientious mothers, and so have a large circulation, a wide influence, and do an immense amount of mischief.  For the Evil One in his senses never sends out poison labelled “POISON.”  He mixes it in with great quantities of innocent and nutritive flour and sugar.  He shapes it in cunning shapes of pigs and lambs and hearts and birds and braids.  He tints it with gay hues of green and pink and rose, and puts it in the confectioner’s glass windows, where you buy—­what?  Poison?  No, indeed!  Candy, at prices to suit the purchasers.  So this good and pious little book has such a preponderance of goodness and piety that the poison in it will not be detected, except by chemical analysis.  It will go down sweetly, like grapes of Beulah.  Nobody will suspect he is poisoned; but just so far as it reaches and touches, the social dyspepsia will be aggravated.

I submit a few atoms of the poison revealed by careful examination.

“The mother’s is a most honorable calling.  ’What a pity that one so gifted should be so tied down!’ remarks a superficial observer, as she looks upon the mother of a young and increasing family.  The pale, thin face and feeble step, bespeaking the multiplied and wearying cares of domestic life, elicit an earnest sympathy from the many, thoughtlessly flitting across her pathway, and the remark passes from mouth to mouth, ’How I pity her!  What a shame it is!  She is completely worn down with so many children.’  It may be, however, that this young mother is one who needs and asks no pity,” etc.