But though men like clean houses, they do not like house-cleaning.  They have certain absurd notions which they would wish to carry out; such, for instance, as that constant-quiet, preventive care, or frequent topical applications, carefully applied, would gradually renovate the whole interior.  But who wishes to be cleaning all the time?  Who wishes to be always dusting?  Indeed, at the best, we are constantly with broom, brush, or besom in hand; but the men will not perceive it, and we receive no credit for our tidiness.  What is to be done, then?  Evidently there is nothing better than a “demonstration,” as the politicians say—­a demonstration that may be felt; a mass-meeting of brooms, buckets, brushes, paint-pots, white-wash pails, chairs overturned, tubs, coal-skuttles, dust-pans, char-women, and all other possible disagreeables, all at once summoned, and each as much as possible in others’ way.  In this there is some satisfaction.  It looks like business.  It seems as if you were doing something.  It raises the value of the operation, and demonstrates its usefulness and necessity; for if there is little difference apparent between the house before cleaning and after, there is a world of odds between a house-cleaning and a house cleaned.  There is a perfect delight in seeing what order can be brought out of chaos, even though you are obliged to make the chaos first, to produce the effect.

I had inflicted several of these impressive lessons upon Mr. Smith.  He had become so much horrified at their confusion, that I do believe he had fully reconciled himself to dust and dirt, as the better alternative.  They were, to be sure, at some little cost of comfort to myself, and reflectively produced discomfort for him; for he traced, with a correctness which I could easier frown (sic) a than deny, many a week’s indisposition to my house-cleaning phrenzy.  And when a man’s wife is sick, if, he is a man of feeling, he is unhappy.  And if he is a man of selfishness, he is wretched, too; for what becomes of husband’s little comforts, when wife is not able to procure or direct them?  So Mr. Smith,—­for the better reason, I believe—­pure compassion—­declared, long ago, against wholesale house-cleaning.  And he has so often interfered in my proceedings with his provoking prophecy, “Now, you know, my dear, it will make you sick,” that I have striven many a time to hide pain under a forced smile, when it seemed as if “my head was like to rend.”

Now, a woman can carry her point in the house by stubborn daring, but “the better part of valor is discretion,” and I have learned quietly to take my way, and steal a march upon him;—­open the flood-gate—­set the chimneys smoking—­up with the carpets—­throw the beds out of the windows—­pack the best china in the middle of the floor distributing pokers and fire-shovels among it—­unhang the pictures—­set all the doors ajar—­roll the children in dust—­cover my head with a soiled night-cap—­put on slip-shod shoes—­and streak my ancles with dust and dirty water.  Then, if he pops in opportunely, I can say, with Shakspeare—­amended: