The New York Journal, And Daily Patriotic Register

From the SALEM MERCURY.

Mess. Editors,

I have lately seen a piece on the subject of whitewashing, in which that necessary duty of a good housewife is treated with unmerited ridicule. I should probably have forgot the foolish thing by this time--but the season coming on, which most women think suitable for cleaning their apartments from the smoke and dirt of the winter, I find this saucy author dished up in every family, and his flippant performance quoted wherever a wife attempts to exercise her reasonable prerogative, or execute the duties of her station. Women generally employ their time to better purpose than scribbling. The cares and comforts of a family rest principally upon their shoulders! hence it is, that there are but few female authors--and the men knowing how necessary our attentions are to their happiness, take every opportunity of discouraging literary accomplishments in the fair sex. You hear it echoed from every quarter--"My wife cannot make verses, it is true--but she makes an excellent pudding: she cannot correct the press--but she can correct her children, and scold her servants with admirable discretion: she cannot unravel the intricacies of political economy and federal government--but she can knit charming stockings." This they call praising a wife, and doing justice to her character--with much nonsense of the like kind. I say, women generally employ their time to better purpose than scribbling. Otherwise this facetious writer had not been so poorly answered.

We have ladies, who sometimes lay down the needle, and take up the pen--I wish some of them would attempt a reply. For my part, I do not pretend to be an author--I never appeared in print in my life; but I can no longer so bear saying something in answer to such impertinence. Only consider, sirs, our situation. Men are naturally inattentive to the decencies of life--but why should I be so complaisant?--I say, they are naturally nasty beasts. If it were not that their connection with the refined sex polished their manners, and had a happy influence on the general economy of life, these lords of the creation would wallow in filth, and populous cities would infect the atmosphere with their noxious vapours. It is the attention and assiduity of the women, that prevent men from degenerating into swine. How important, then, are the services we render! and yet, for these very services, we are made the subject of ridicule and fun--base ingratitude!--nauseous creatures! perhaps you may think I am in a passion--no, sirs, I do assure you I was never more composed in my life--and yet it is enough to provoke a saint, to see how unreasonably we are treated by the men. Why now there's my husband--a good enough sort of a man in the main--but I will give you a small sample of him:--he comes into the parlour the other day, where, to be sure, I was cutting up a piece of linen. Lord, says he, what a clutter here is--I cannot bear to see the parlour look like a tay lor's shop--besides, I am going to make some important philosophical experiments, and must have sufficient room. You must know my husband is one of your would-be philosophers. Well, I bundled up my linen as quick as I could, and began to darn a pair of ruffles, which took up no room, and could give no offence. I thought, however, I would watch my lord and master's important business. In about half an hour, the tables were covered with all manner of trumpery---bottles of water, phials of drugs, pasteboard, paper and cards, glue, paste and gum arabick, files, knives, scissors and needles, rosin, wax, ink, thread, rags, jags, tags, books, pamphlets and papers. Lord bless me! I am almost out of breath, and yet I have not enumerated half the articles. Well, to work he went; and, although I did not understand the object of his manoeuvres, yet I could sufficiently discover, that he did not succeed in any one operation; I was glad of it I confess, and good reason to. for, after he had fatigued himself with mischief, like a monkey in a china shop, and had called the servants to clear every thing away, I took a view of the scene my parlour exhibited; I shall not even attempt a minute description; suffice it to say, that he had overset his inkstand, and stained my best mahogany table with ink; he had spilt a quantity of vitriol, & burnt a great hole in my carpet; my marble hearth was all over spotted with melted rosin; besides this, he had broke 4 china cups, 4 wine glasses, 2 tumblers, and one of my handsomest decanters; and after all, as I said before, I perceived that he had not succeeded in any one operation.

By the bye, tell your friend, the whitewash scribbler, that this is one means by which our closets become furnished with halves of china bowls, cracked tumblers, broken wine glasses, tops of tea pots, and toppers of departed decanters." I say, I took a view of the dirt and devastation my philosophical husband had occasioned--and there I sat, like Patience on a monument, smiling at grief--but it worked inwardly--yes, Mess. Printers, it worked inwardly---I would almost as lieve the melted rosin and vitriol had been in his throat, as on my dear marble hearth, and my beautiful carpet. It is not true, that women have no power over their own feelings,--for, notwithstanding this provocation, I said nothing, or next to nothing I only observed, very pleasantly, that a lady of my acquaintance had told me, that the reason why philosophers are called literary men, is because they make a great litter---not a word more.--However, the servant cleared away and down sat the philosopher. A friend dropped in soon after--."Your servant, sir, how do you do?. Oh Lord! I am almost fatigued to death--I have been all the morning making philosophical experiments." I was now more hardly put to it to smother a laugh, than I had been just before to contain my rage. My precious went out soon after; and I, as you may suppose, mustered all my forces--brushes, buckets, soap, and, lime-kits, and cocoa nut shells, with all the powers of housewifery, were immediately employed--I was certainly the best philosopher of the two, for my experiments succeeded, and his did not--all was well again, except my poor carpet, my vitriolized carpet, which still remained a mournful memento of philosophic fury, or rather philosophic folly. This operation was scarce over, when in come my experimental philosopher, and told me, with all the indifference in the world, that he had invited six gentlemen to dine with him at three o'clock. It was then past one--I complained of the short notice--poh, poh, says he, you can get a leg of mutton and a loin of veal, and a few potatoes, and it will do well enough--Heavens! what a chaos must the head of a philosopher be? A leg of mutton, a loin of veal and potatoes!--I was at a loss whether I should laugh or be angry--but there was no time for determining, I had but an hour and an half to do a world of business in. My carpet, which had suffered in the cause of experimental philosophy, in the morning, was destined to be most shamefully dishonored in the afternoon, by a deluge of nasty tobacco juice. Gentlemen smokers love pipes better than carpets. Think, only think, what a woman must endure under such circumstances, and then, after all, to be reproached with her cleanliness, and to have her whitewashing, her scourings and scrubbings, made the subject of ridicule--it is more than patience can put up with. What I have now exhibited is but a small specimen of the injuries we sustain from the boasted superiority of men--But we will not be laughed out of our cleanliness.--A woman would rather be called any thing than a slut, as a man would rather be thought a knave than a fool.

I had a great deal more to say: but I am called away we are just preparing to whitewash, and of course I have a deal of business on my hands. The whitewash buckets are paraded---the brushes are ready--. my husband is gone off--. so much the better --when one is about a thorough cleaning. the first dirty thing to be removed is one's husband.--I am called for again.

Adieu.

Yours,

LIDIA.