As Mr. Stanton did not come home to dinner, we made a picnic of our noon meal on Mondays, and all thoughts and energies were turned to speed the washing.  No unnecessary sweeping or dusting, no visiting nor entertaining angels unawares on that day—­it was held sacred to soap suds, blue-bags, and clotheslines.  The children, only, had no deviation in the regularity of their lives.  They had their drives and walks, their naps and rations, in quantity and time, as usual.  I had all the most approved cook books, and spent half my time preserving, pickling, and experimenting in new dishes.  I felt the same ambition to excel in all departments of the culinary art that I did at school in the different branches of learning.  My love of order and cleanliness was carried throughout, from parlor to kitchen, from the front door to the back.  I gave a man an extra shilling to pile the logs of firewood with their smooth ends outward, though I did not have them scoured white, as did our Dutch grandmothers.  I tried, too, to give an artistic touch to everything—­the dress of my children and servants included.  My dining table was round, always covered with a clean cloth of a pretty pattern and a centerpiece of flowers in their season, pretty dishes, clean silver, and set with neatness and care.  I put my soul into everything, and hence enjoyed it.  I never could understand how housekeepers could rest with rubbish all round their back doors; eggshells, broken dishes, tin cans, and old shoes scattered round their premises; servants ragged and dirty, with their hair in papers, and with the kitchen and dining room full of flies.  I have known even artists to be indifferent to their personal appearance and their surroundings.  Surely a mother and child, tastefully dressed, and a pretty home for a framework, is, as a picture, even more attractive than a domestic scene hung on the wall.  The love of the beautiful can be illustrated as well in life as on canvas.  There is such a struggle among women to become artists that I really wish some of their gifts could be illustrated in clean, orderly, beautiful homes.

Our house was pleasantly situated on the Chelsea Hills, commanding a fine view of Boston, the harbor, and surrounding country.  There, on the upper piazza, I spent some of the happiest days of my life, enjoying, in turn, the beautiful outlook, my children, and my books.  Here, under the very shadow of Bunker Hill Monument, my third son was born.  Shortly after this Gerrit Smith and his wife came to spend a few days with us, so this boy, much against my will, was named after my cousin.  I did not believe in old family names unless they were peculiarly euphonious.  I had a list of beautiful names for sons and daughters, from which to designate each newcomer; but, as yet, not one on my list had been used.  However, I put my foot down, at No. 4, and named him Theodore, and, thus far, he has proved himself a veritable “gift of God,” doing his uttermost, in every way possible, to fight the battle of freedom for woman.