lifelong tribulation, I like to refresh my mind by repeating certain golden utterances of the man whom we regard as one of the wisest of living Englishmen—­“There is only one way to have good servants—­that is, to be worthy of being well served.  All nature and all humanity will serve a good master and rebel against an ignoble one.  And there is no surer test of the quality of a nation than the quality of its servants, for they are their masters’ shadows and distort their faults in a flattened mimicry.  A wise nation will have philosophers in its servants’-hall, a knavish nation will have knaves there, and a kindly nation will have friends there.  Only let it be remembered that ‘kindness’ means, as with your child, not indulgence, but care.”  Substitute “mistress” for “master” in this passage of John Ruskin’s, and we have a little lesson which the mean shrew might possibly take to heart—­if she had any heart.  What is the kind of “care” which the mean one bestows on her dependants?  “That’s my little woman a-giving it to ’Tilda,” pensively observed Mr. Snagsby; and I suspect that a very great many little women employ a trifle too much of their time in “giving it to ’Tilda.”  That is the “care” which poor ’Tilda gets.  Consider the kind of life which a girl leads when she comes for a time under the domination of the mean shrew.  Say that her father is a decent cottager; then she has probably been used to plain and sufficient food, dressed in rough country fashion, and she has at all events had a fairly warm place to sleep in.  When she enters her situation, she finds herself placed in a bare chill garret; she has not a scrap of carpet on the floor, and very likely she is bitterly cold at nights.  She is expected to be astir and alert from six in the morning until ten or later at night; she is required to show almost preternatural activity and intelligence, and she is not supposed to have any of the ordinary human being’s desire for recreation or leisure.  When her Sunday out comes—­ah, that Sunday out, what a tragic farce it is!—­she does not know exactly where to go.  If she is near a park or heath, she may fall in with other girls and pass a little time in giggling and chattering; but of rational pleasure she knows nothing.  Then her home is the bare dismal kitchen, with the inevitable deal table, frowsy cloth, and rickety chairs.  The walls of this interesting apartment are possibly decked with a few tradesmen’s almanacs, whereon Grace Darling is depicted with magnificent bluish hair, pink cheeks, and fashionable dress; or his Royal Highness the Prince of Wales assumes a heroic attitude, and poses as a field-marshal of the most stern and lofty description.  Thus are ’Tilda’s aesthetic tastes developed.  The mean shrew cannot give servants such expensive company as a cat; but the beetles are there, and a girl of powerful imagination may possibly come to regard them as eligible pets.  Then the food—­the breakfast of weak tea and scanty bread; the mid-day