“’MOST EXCELLENT MR. CROWFIELD,—­Your thoughts have lighted into our family-circle, and echoed from our fireside.  We all feel the force of them, and are delighted with the felicity of your treatment of the topic you have chosen.  You have taken hold of a subject that lies deep in our hearts, in a genial, temperate, and convincing spirit.  All must acknowledge the power of your sentiments upon their imaginations;—­if they could only trust to them in actual life!  There is the rub.

“’Omitting further upon these points, there is a special feature of your articles upon which we wish to address you.  You seem as yet (we do not know, of course, what you may hereafter do) to speak only of homes whose conduct depends upon the help of servants.  Now your principles apply, as some of us well conceive, to nearly all classes of society; yet most people, to take an impressive hint, must have their portraits drawn out more exactly.  We therefore hope that you will give a reasonable share of your attention to us who do not employ servants, so that you may ease us of some of our burdens, which, in spite of common sense, we dare not throw off.  For instance, we have company,—­a friend from afar, (perhaps wealthy,) or a minister, or some other man of note.  What do we do?  Sit down and receive our visitor with all good-will and the freedom of a home?  No; we (the lady of the house) flutter about to clear up things, apologizing about this, that, and the other condition of unpreparedness, and, having settled the visitor in the parlor, set about marshalling the elements of a grand dinner or supper, such as no person but a gourmand wants to sit down to, when at home and comfortable; and in getting up this meal, clearing away, and washing the dishes, we use up a good half of the time which our guest spends with us.  We have spread ourselves, and shown him what we could do; but what a paltry, heart-sickening achievement!  Now, good Mr. Crowfield, thou friend of the robbed and despairing, wilt thou not descend into our purgatorial circle, and tell the world what thou hast seen there of doleful remembrance?  Tell us how we, who must do and desire to do our own work, can show forth in our homes a homely, yet genial hospitality, and entertain our guests without making a fuss and hurly-burly, and seeming to be anxious for their sake about many things, and spending too much time getting meals, as if eating were the chief social pleasure. Won’t you do this, Mr. Crowfield?

    “’Yours beseechingly,

    “‘R.H.A.’”

“That’s a good letter,” said Jennie.

“To be sure it is,” said I.

“And shall you answer it, papa?”

“In the very next ‘Atlantic,’ you may be sure I shall.  The class that do their own work are the strongest, the most numerous, and, taking one thing with another, quite as well cultivated a class as any other.  They are the anomaly of our country,—­the distinctive feature of the new society that we are building up here; and if we are to accomplish our national destiny, that class must increase rather than diminish.  I shall certainly do my best to answer the very sensible and pregnant questions of that letter.”