“‘Dear me, no; I never could have thought it. What! he only drink water? Well, that’s a good un! I’d drink water, too, if I thought I could get such a headpiece as his out of it. I said to myself, on Sunday, when I was hearing him, “Now, you are a right sort of a man; if I could be like you, I shouldn’t get tired of being alive, as I do now sometimes.”’
“‘No, indeed; if you were like him, you would not get tired of living, nor be afraid of dying, either. Now, suppose you set up from this day to try to be like him. You know that his nature is no better than yours. God has made him what he is; and is ready to do everything for you that He has done for him.’
“‘Well, I think, as we are not to work here to-morrow, I shall go and hear what he has to say about things; for perhaps he’ll preach a sermon about the country, or something of that sort. I have been wondering, this week, how he thinks about what’s going on. I have thought of a lot of things I should like to ask him about.’
“He not only went himself to Surrey Chapel, but took some of his comrades; and many of their future discussions were grounded upon what they there heard.
“I saw this man once more, about a month after the house was finished. He told me, he went every Sunday to hear Mr Hall; and ‘ma’am,’ he added, ‘I do believe I am beginning to see some things very different from what I did.’”
We separated that evening with the pleasant feeling that we had become better acquainted, and had found more subjects of common interest than we had expected.
Exception may be taken, and with apparent justice, that I have made no effort to disabuse the mind of this man of its many prejudices and antipathies. Formerly, when I was not so well acquainted with the habits of thought and feeling among working-men as I now am, I used to expend considerable time and trouble in endeavouring to remove their prejudices; but it never appeared to me that I effected any real good in this way. The men were usually so far beyond me in acuteness and capacity to detect and expose what they considered inconsistencies, that if I succeeded in clearing one victim from imputation, another was readily substituted. I have, therefore, come to the conclusion that it is better from the first to treat it as something altogether irrelevant, and not worthy of notice. Instead of wasting precious time, and losing opportunities that may never again present themselves, in arguing about the right and the wrong of other people, I usually meet such attacks in this way:—“Supposing these people are as bad as you say, I cannot see that their faults can make any difference to you, beyond inducing you to be more careful that you yourself entirely abstain from what you seem so to dislike in others. God’s law is, ‘So then, every one of us must give an account of himself to God.’ He has written a perfect law that we may study it, and seek to conform ourselves to it; and to prevent the possibility of our erring through the want of living example, He has Himself, in the person of Jesus Christ, lived our earthly life to teach us how to live. Your making your own conduct depend so much upon what other people do, is like the folly of a man who would shut the shutters of his room, excluding all daylight, and then complain that the dim, flickering, uncertain light of the rushlight he had substituted, was insufficient to enable him to do his work properly. If this man, when taking home his work, were to excuse himself to the master for its being so badly done, on the ground that the light of his rushlight was insufficient and uncertain, the master would reply, I never intended you to work by that light; it is none of my providing. You wilfully shut out the glorious sun set up for your use in the heavens, and which I knew would be more than sufficient for every purpose. Whilst you were groping about almost in the dark, it was even then surrounding you, waiting only to be permitted to enter. The blame of this bad work, therefore, returns upon you, and upon you only.”
It will often happen at a later period of intimacy with such characters as the one previously described, and when a more reasonable state of mind has taken the place of harsher feelings, that the subject of these antipathies can be renewed with advantage. I remember, in the case of this man, one of the last conversations I had with him was in reference to remarks he had been making about some distinguished person whose conduct to him appeared inconsistent. I said to him, “A few days ago, I had to insist upon one of my children doing something she did not like to do. A short time afterwards, I happened to hear her saying to herself, ‘When I am grown up to be a mamma, I shall not do as my mamma does, I shall do a great deal better, and let my children do every thing they like.’
“If you had been by, you would probably have said, ‘When you are a mamma you will alter your opinion on that subject.’ You would not, probably, by this remark, do much to remove the impression from the mind of the child that she was right and I was wrong; but you would be satisfied that experience would justify you in what you had said.
“I believe we often resemble this child in the estimate we form of people who are moving in an entirely different sphere from our own. I have no doubt, if you could for one week occupy the palaces and take upon yourself the responsibilities of these people against whom you have so much to say, as great a transition would take place in your mind respecting them, as there will probably be in the mind of this child if she ever assumes the duties she now supposes are so badly performed; and your wonder would rather be that, amidst the trials, temptations, and heavy responsibilities attached to their exalted position, you had not been able to detect even more apparent inconsistencies of conduct.”
“Well, ma’am,” the man replied, “I see what you mean, and I will think it over, for I have begun to see lately that I am not always so overright myself. But, ma’am, I don’t think this ill judging that you complain of is all on one side. If we poor men do make the mistake of judging the rich too harshly, I am sure the rich don’t forget to ‘pay us back in our own coin.’”
“I am afraid there is much truth in what you say. This want of consideration for one another is a general evil that pervades all society and is at the present time causing a great deal of unhappiness in this country. I have no doubt you have had masters whose conduct towards you seemed to be entirely influenced by the amount of work they could get out of you; but whilst you could justly charge them with this, must you not at the same time have pleaded guilty if you had been accused of entertaining much the same sentiment towards them? It is not because one man is rich and another poor that there is so little kindly feeling between the two classes, neither is it altogether that one is learned and the other unlearned; for much as there is to deplore in the present state of society, we have still beautiful instances of the most faithful and genuine friendship existing between the serving and the served. It is not, I am persuaded, this difference of position that is at the root of the mischief; it is the mistaken feeling that one class bears to another. It is the hard words that you speak, and the unjust thoughts that you and your comrades encourage each other to entertain towards the rich, that help to make society wrong; and it is because the higher classes do not honour you for your skill, industry, and ability, and acknowledge their dependence upon you, that this wrong is perpetuated.”
I have sometimes wondered, if an angel were to be sent from heaven to endeavour to set us all right on the subject of our duties and feelings one towards another, whether he would give his first lesson to the employers or the employed; but neither party need wait for the extraordinary teaching of a celestial visitant. An angel would bring with him no new lesson-book—he would point out to us for our guidance a few verses from an old and inspired volume; that have been trying to make themselves heard amongst us for the last eighteen hundred years.
“For all the law is fulfilled in one word, even in this, Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself.”
“But if ye bite and devour one another, take heed that ye be not consumed one of another.”
“And be ye kind one to another, tender hearted, forgiving one another, even as God for Christ’s sake hath forgiven you.”
“Finally, be ye all of one mind, having compassion one of another; love as brethren, be pitiful, be courteous.”
“The workshop must be crowded
That the palace may be bright;
If the ploughman did not plough,
Then the poet could not write.
Then let every toil be hallow’d
That man performs for man,
And have its share of honour
As part of one great plan.“Ye men who hold the pen,
Rise like a band inspired;
And, poets, let your lyrics
With hope for man be fired;
Till the earth becomes a temple,
And every human heart
Shall join in one great service,
Each happy in his part.”
CHAPTER V.
Homes and No Homes.
“The grief that aits beside the hearth,
Life has no grief beside.”
Towards the close of 1853, I commenced a Mothers’ Society, and the following letter will be found to contain an account of its establishment and early progress. It is addressed to a dear friend, in answer to a letter of inquiries from her. As similar inquiries have frequently been made since, by persons interested in the same way, I think it best to give the letter entire:—
7 St James Square, Dec. 8, 1854.
My very dear Friend,—I fear you must have thought me very dilatory in replying to your last kind letter, containing so many inquiries respecting the Mothers’ Society. In consequence of your asking for a minute history of its rise and progress, and putting, besides, so many definite questions, I felt that the limit of a common letter would be quite insufficient, and I have therefore been compelled to wait for a day of more than ordinary leisure. As, I see, you request me to go back so far as to tell you what made me think such a thing desirable or possible, I must, indeed, lose no time in beginning.
Although it must be more than ten years since I had the pleasure of working with you in the management of the Bath Female Friendly Society, I dare say you have not forgotten what queer characters we used sometimes to come in contact with. I remember a few desperate cases, where, when everything else had failed, we at last succeeded in making some impression through their children. One of the most remarkable instances of this kind I have related, just as it occurred, in a letter which I addressed to the society, when I was obliged to be absent a few weeks in the spring. [110] From that time, I have always been deeply impressed with the idea that, under judicious treatment, this softer and better portion of woman’s nature might be so taken advantage of as to lead to excellent moral results.
But I never had any definite idea of reducing these thoughts to practice; and they would, in all probability, have remained quietly in my own mind if I had not come in contact with those whose juster views of the value and shortness of life had led them to work, as well as think, whilst it is day.
One afternoon, the autumn before last, I was sitting alone, and had taken up the Times, when my attention was arrested by a speech from the Earl of Shaftesbury. I forget the object of the meeting, neither do I remember the exact words used, although the idea at once impressed itself. He was speaking hopefully of the good effected through ragged and other schools. ‘But,’ he said, ‘I have long felt that until the homes of these poor children are better—until the fathers and mothers are better men and better women—our schools can accomplish comparatively little. I believe that any improvement that could be brought to bear on the mothers, more especially, would effect a greater amount of good than anything that has yet been done.’
I laid down the paper, and thought for some time, wondering what could be done, and wished that somebody would do something. But I had advanced no further than this, when the arrival of visitors gave my thoughts another direction.
The next morning, whilst I was busy with my children, I was told that the city missionary wished to see me. The object of his visit was to tell me that a large room in the neighbourhood was to be rented for a Girls’ Evening School, and he thought it could be spared one evening in the week for a Mothers’ Meeting. He knew some poor women who would attend; and he asked me to take the management of it. From my ignorance of the practical working of such a society, I felt very much at a loss to know how to commence it, and was inclined to think that I had neither the ability nor the time to conduct it.
I could not, however, but remember how remarkably my attention had been several times drawn to this subject, and the various incidents which had again and again impressed it on my mind. But the thought that weighed most of all with me was—I knew I had a most entire sympathy with poor mothers; that of all things in the world, I most wished to try and do something to shew how much I cared for their great difficulties and sufferings; and though I might fail to render them much real service, I trusted the truthfulness of my feelings towards them would manifest itself, and that this might lead to some good result. At any rate, I resolved to try, and to trust that the way would open, and that light would come.
It was on the first Monday in November 1853, that I walked to the nicely lighted and pleasant room provided for us. About seven or eight women were assembled, and two or three came in afterwards. I thought they looked at me much as they would have done at the entrance of the white bear from the Zoological Gardens, that is,—provided he were caged; for the stare had no fear in it, though abundance of curiosity.
They said they were glad I was come, for they did not know what they were met there for; they ‘s’posed I did.’ I said, I was prepared to explain it to them; but I wished to begin by reading a few verses of Scripture. This they submitted to pretty well; but as soon as it was over, they began talking all round to each other, in by no means particularly soft voices. I knew that, as long as the game of ‘Who can shout loudest’ was to be played, I had no chance; and not wishing to shew my weak side at the first meeting, I remained perfectly silent, and listened, as far as I could, to the observations which were made principally at me, but not to me.
At last, they seemed rather struck at the isolation of my position, and there was a lull. Then I told them I certainly had not called them together without having something to say to them. I had far too high an estimate of the value of their time. As soon as they caught the idea that some kind of improvement was contemplated in their domestic affairs, they began again. If that was what I was after, I should have had such and such an one, ‘she sarved her children dreadful.’ Then followed no end of narratives of the wickedness of their neighbours; and many of the cruelties that mothers can be guilty of, came out in detail. One woman said, she was ‘always a-trying to do ’em good, and told ’em what they should do; but, instead of doing it, they jist up and sarced at her in a minnit.’ I was the more amused at this last expression, as I thought it rather aptly described my own position just then, though I must, in justice, pause here to remark that, with only one exception, I have never from the very first received direct impudence from any of them. When the hour expired, and we rose to depart, I knew that very few who were there would return; but I requested them to send those very wicked neighbours of theirs; and as they themselves seemed impressed with the desirableness of doing so, I left, with the hope that the publicans and sinners might be brought to hear, though the Pharisees would not.
As I am giving this history simply from recollection, having kept no kind of memoranda, I cannot be certain of perfect correctness when I speak of numbers; but I remember the attendance became less and less, until—I think it must have been about the fourth evening—I entered the room at the usual hour, and no one was there. The general arrangement of the room had been even more than usually carefully attended to, through the thoughtfulness of our kind city missionary. It was well lighted, and the fire burned cheerfully. My chair was placed in a ‘chosen spot,’ and a Bible lay on the table before it; but no one came. I opened the Bible, and read; and though I cannot give any effect to this narrative by speaking of the remarkable appropriateness of the passage that happened to fix my attention, I distinctly remember losing, under the influence of its holy power, all sense of vexation and disappointment; and the solitude soon appeared in the light of a most valuable opportunity for praying, long and earnestly, for those I so much desired to serve. I felt perfectly resigned to His will; either to fit me for it, to raise up others, or to give me to see clearly that this was not the work He had appointed me to do. About a quarter of an hour before the time for closing, a woman came in with a bottle of medicine in her hand. She had been coming to the meeting; but her husband had been taken ill, which had obliged her to go in search of medicine for him instead. On her return, she thought she would just step in and see how we were getting on. I had noticed that this poor woman had seemed far more interested than any one who had yet attended; and I was glad of an opportunity of becoming better acquainted with her. She told me that her husband had formerly been an infidel; but through the influence of a tract that was left at the house, combined with the effect of the visits of the missionary, he had become an entirely changed character. She described, with great simplicity, how the alteration gradually manifested itself; how, at first, he did not like her to see him praying; and how she took care to keep out of the way at the time. Then he came to praying before her, and then with her and the children; and now, no day passed without their united supplications ascending to the Author of their mercies. Then followed the description of what John used to be, and what he now was; what the house was then, and now. All this was narrated with beautiful simplicity. I never felt more emphatically that ‘surely I know it shall be well with them that fear God, which fear before him;’ and that the only cure for the sting of poverty was, that every family should be governed by the principles which influenced this. I need hardly add, that the meeting that night was for my benefit.
But I am entering too much into detail, and must pass on more rapidly. About six weeks after that solitary evening, there were at least twenty-five present; and let me give you an idea of the improvement in their manners. I was a minute or two late. They were nearly all assembled. As I entered the room, they all rose, and remained standing till I was seated. And this was by no means in consequence of any lectures I had given them on manners: I should have considered it as much as my place was worth to have offered such instruction.
From having frequently heard a difficulty as to the time which these meetings took from their work, I thought of a plan for supplying their fingers, whilst their minds were occupied in listening to what was passing in the way of instruction. Various materials for clothing were provided, and issued to members of the society, as required by them, at a reduction of twopence in the shilling. Good patterns were also provided, free of charge. In this way, during the winter, most of these women made several garments for themselves and their children; and as the payments were usually only a few pence at a time, the total cost appeared to them very trifling. In addition to this, a Savings’ Bank was established, and some of the depositors saved as much as seven or eight shillings.
As the summer advanced, the attendance, of course, lessened. The greater part of the poor people living in the Potteries, being brickmakers, can follow this occupation only in the summer, when they work early and late; and the wife often works too. We therefore thought it best to give up meeting, from July to the end of September.
As we parted, one of our members, a good woman, who had interested me very much, came to me, and, with tears in her eyes, spoke of the happy hours we had enjoyed there, and said the time would seem long till we met again. We then little thought how long it would be. The Potteries was one of the first places visited by the cholera that year; and this good woman, to whom I was most sincerely attached, was one of the first victims. She was attacked one morning, and died in the evening. A sickly child, too, who had been long the object of the greatest care and solicitude to his poor mother, followed her in a few hours, and one grave received them both.
When we assembled in October, in addition to the inroads which death had made, a few members had left the neighbourhood; but still so many returned, and brought with them so many companions, that I saw it was quite impossible to carry on the society longer single-handed. Neither was there any occasion for doing so. Several ladies kindly offered their assistance, and we are now regularly organised.
Another great advantage which we now enjoy is, that, within the last few months, a new clergyman has come to the parish, who, by his occasional presence among us, and the kind interest that he takes in all connected with the society, is a source of much encouragement to us, as well as valuable assistance.
And now having given you an account of what may be called the building up of these meetings, I will answer your next inquiry—‘How do you manage to interest the mothers?’ I must begin what I have to say on this subject by stating that I believe there is no society in existence where there is so little difficulty in creating an interest, as in a society of mothers. In fact, you have not to create, but to take advantage of what already exists. A woman who will come to such a meeting at all, will be sure not to be perfectly indifferent to the improvement of her children; although it is lamentable to see how habitual selfishness will sometimes almost obliterate even this first principle of nature. But, believe me, there are few cases, very few, where, under right influence, this feeling cannot be restored, and brought into living action, and always with great benefit to the general character.
We commence by reading a passage of Scripture, and with prayer. In the prayer, besides mentioning the peculiar difficulties and sufferings incident to a poor mother’s life, any cases occurring amongst them particularly demanding sympathy are mentioned, in order to be made the subject of our united supplications. I believe that this has done much to give a kindly interest in one another; for the instances we have had of their sympathy for each other in times of distress have been truly beautiful.
When they have all settled to their work, and the money affairs are over, I generally make a few inquiries as to what occurred at the past meeting; whether any plan then recommended has failed or succeeded. For instance, a better domestic observance of the Sabbath was the subject for two evenings. This led, among many other things, to a conversation on the best way of arranging about the Sunday dinner; so that it really might be the best in the week, and yet leave as little work as possible connected with it to be done on that day.
Experiments in cooking, and, indeed, anything belonging to their pre-eminently practical life, they seem much to enjoy, and they are eager to relate, at the next meeting, either success or failure.
I find that, when they can be induced to make the effort, their experience helps them to arrive at conclusions of far more value than any mere theoretical suggestions; and I have often the pleasure of seeing the ideas which I may have thrown out serve them as a kind of scaffolding, useful only as enabling them to erect a building more adapted to their own mode of life and circumstances.
A few evenings since, I was saying to them how much better it would be to try to employ and direct children’s energies, than to be so often punishing them for inconvenient manifestations of them. I shewed them the German plan of amusing children for a length of time, with little bundles of sticks that could be arranged in a variety of forms; also, how to cut out paper, patchwork, &c. I said—
‘You will find that children will keep themselves amused much longer, and far more earnestly, if you will treat their rational play with some respect, and not do violence to their feelings, by applying to it such terms as “mess, stuff, bother.”’
One woman looked up from her work, having evidently thoroughly received the idea, and said—
‘There, now, how often I’ve said to ’em, “Get along with your bother:” I jist wish I hadn’t.’
At the next meeting, I asked this woman if she had tried any of the amusements; she said—
‘O ma’am, I have never had such a week before with the children; they builded all over the table two or three times a-day; and I told them, when they made a very nice house, to let mother see; and the little “critters” were so pleased, and “we haven’t had no beatin.”’
About a quarter before nine o’clock, our missionary comes in, and concludes all with a concise, well-adapted address, and a short prayer. I must take this opportunity of stating, that I attribute our success, under God’s blessing, quite as much to the excellent influence which he has exercised without, as to anything that has been done within. In visiting the women, and inducing them, in the first place, to attend the meeting, he has taken a part which I could not; and, by his wise and timely suggestions, he has often saved me from mistakes.
We did not start with the rules as they now exist,—we were not then ripe for them; but as the right time came, I introduced them, and they were passed with the full consent of the whole meeting. Hence the mothers view themselves—and justly—as governed by their own laws.
I see, you still further inquire how, with so many domestic claims of my own, and not enjoying good health, I find time to attend to such a society. Now, in alluding to this, you no doubt were influenced by the recollection of Mrs Jellaby’s celebrated establishment; and have been thinking, when you pay us your long-promised visit, whether you will be able to trace a resemblance in my children to the poor little neglected ‘Peepy;’ how much semi-cooked meat you will have to eat; whether the potatoes will sometimes be lost by being placed in the coal-scuttle, and so forth.
After all that has been written and said, both for and against mothers of families being allowed to do anything besides ‘minding their own business,’ it seems to me that the question resolves itself simply into this:—Is the occupation in unison with home duties, and can it chime in with them? or is it something that will divert the thoughts and actions into an entirely different channel? Now, although we may imagine it possible to work one’s own mind up into a strong interest in some ‘Borrioboolah Gha,’ it is rather too much to expect that the minds of those about us will be equally interested. But if you could see the great pleasure which my children derive from hearing about the society, and working with me, you would be the first to beg me to continue it for their sakes. On the morning succeeding a meeting, they come round me with numerous inquiries after some mother or baby, whom they have learned to know through hearing me speak of them. They have, of their own accord, set apart one day in the week for working for the little children of those mothers who are very poor; and when, the other day, they heard me speaking of a poor woman who was lamenting she could not read, they immediately offered to go two or three times a-week to teach her.
It seems to me, that the few hours a-day which we set apart for teaching our children, (for ‘school,’ as we call it,) has far less to do with the formation of their character, than that which they see and hear constantly going on around them. It is the every-day incidents of life that impress children; and if it had only been for their sakes, I do not know that I could have thought of anything better fitted to prepare them for what I wish them to be,—followers of Him ‘who came not to be ministered unto, but to minister.’
There is another thing that helps me. You know, our servants are neither ‘necessary evils’ nor ‘natural enemies;’ they are, indeed, our friends and helpers; and from remaining with us so long, they become as much interested as we are, in everything that is going on; and, by their sympathy and thoughtfulness in clearing away impediments, they render us most valuable assistance. Thus, no mornings are taken up abroad in inquiring for characters, or at home in what is called ‘looking after them.’
Another plan I find very useful is, not to allow every day to be encumbered with every kind of work. One day is set apart for everything connected with this society, which has then the best of my thoughts, and as much work expended upon it as can be given without interfering with regular duties; and if it attempts to intrude itself upon the wrong day, it is told to ‘bide its time.’
‘But the “ill health” you mention?’ Yes, that is a drawback, yet not entirely so. It is certainly true that I have sometimes risen from my bed to attend the meeting; but then I always tell the mothers so, and appeal to their compassion; reminding them, that though I cannot speak loud, they can be quiet; though I cannot enforce order, they can maintain it; and I really believe that the secret of our so soon getting into order was the working of the spirit of sympathy with me. As soon as they felt that something depended upon them, they set about it in good earnest. But that I may not by this convey to your mind any wrong idea of the kind of discipline necessary, I will just say that such appeal must always be made en masse; that anything approaching to a monitorial system would be ruinous in such a meeting, since nothing requires more watchfulness than to keep down the spirit of jealousy. A good president must be really absolute, though as little apparently so as possible.
Long as this letter is, I will not apologise for it. I feel that to you there is no occasion for apology; for I have perfect confidence in your sympathy. I could write another still longer; and it would give me far more pleasure to do so than this has given. It would be full of incidents, shewing how the sunshine of kindness will bring to life that which, having been so long covered up by the frost and snow of neglect, had been supposed to be extinct.
But adieu, my dear friend,
Yours most affectionately,
M. B.
CHAPTER VI.
Difficulties.
“Be useful where thou livest, that they may
Both want and wish thy pleasing presence still.
Kindness, good parts, great patience are the way
To compass this. Find out men’s wants and will,
And meet them there. All worldly joys go less
To the one joy of doing kindnesses.”George Herbert.
Some time ago, I received a letter, in which the following remark occurs:—“Amongst the number of women whom you have had to do with in this society, you surely cannot always have escaped meeting with, what we call, queer characters, even if not desperate ones. There is a class of unmanageable women in the world, of whom I am more afraid than of anything else; and the very thought of them has deterred me from commencing a society open to any one, and, consequently, open to such as I have referred to.”
The difficulty mentioned here will generally be experienced, to a greater or less extent, at the commencement of these societies; and in the establishment of them it should by all means be anticipated and considered. But, after a time, when the greater part of the members have conformed to law and order, the general disposition will be manifested so strongly in the right direction, that the rebellious individuals will either make up their mind to conform, or to leave. There is a quiet way of meeting sauciness, which very soon disarms it. It is some trouble to be saucy; and when nothing is gained by it, not even amusement, the attempt is generally relinquished as not worth the effort.
I think it was the second winter after we were established, that a fine, tall woman presented herself, and said she wished to be admitted. I told her of our usual arrangements, and asked her if she would like to have some material for work. She said, “No; not that night: she should look about her, and see how she liked it.” She took a seat just before me, sat with her arms crossed, and hardly kept her promise of looking about her, as she stared at me all the time. In about half an hour, she got up, and said she should go, as it was duller than she had expected.
The next week, to my great surprise, she came again. She said that she wanted some material for work; and asked if we had anything good enough for her. She was supplied with what was required, and she took it away to her seat; but brought it back again in a few minutes, saying, “It wasn’t such stuff as that she wanted.” I took the flannel from her, put it back into the box, shut the box, and went on reading, leaving her standing at the table; while every one else was quietly working and listening. She looked at me steadily for some minutes, in the hope of my “having a row with her;” but as I took no kind of notice, and continued to read without even raising my voice, she presently walked across the room, upsetting a few things in her way, opened the door, and, bouncing out, banged it after her, so as to shake the whole room.
During the next week I made a few inquiries about her, and was told she was “the best hand in the Potteries at a row.”
“Law, ma’am! have you got Mrs A— among you? Why, she’ll soon upset you all. Why, when she goes with the men into the public-house, they’re all afeared of her. There’s never no peace where she is.”
This account quite confirmed the opinion which I had formed, that she was a woman of great energy and uncommon ability; while, if that energy and ability could only be turned to some proper use, she might be just as valuable as she was now mischievous. But the difficulty was how to get at such a person, with whom one had so little in common. I confess, I rather hoped that I should see no more of her. But the next week she was there again, and again asked for work. I gave her what she had refused the week before, which she took without saying a word, and went away to her seat.
Whilst taking the money for the work, and settling the accounts, I did not require the women to be quiet,—that is their time for saying to one another what they wish; so that I did not take any notice of the very loud tone in which my new and formidable member conversed, nor of her subject, which was principally a running commentary upon my proceedings. At length I took the Bible, and sitting down, all the mothers put aside their work, and remain quite silent. This woman, however, kept cutting out, and talking on, pretending that she did not observe the change. After waiting a minute or two, I said to her—“We do not continue the work while the chapter is being read. We think it a respect due to the Word of God to sit quietly and listen.”
“Then, I suppose, I must waste my time too?”
“I am sorry you think it waste of time; but you certainly must do as the rest. No one is obliged to come here, but whoever chooses to come must conform to our rules.”
She threw down her scissors, and sat out the reading with a very ill grace. Had there been any one to side with her, I believe we could hardly have escaped “a scene,” but she seemed rather an object of dislike to the rest; they were annoyed at the interruption which she had caused, and she met with no encouragement. She subsided considerably after another week or two; and her sole mode of annoyance consisted in saying, partly to herself, and partly to her next neighbour, while I was speaking, in a tone that I might or might not hear, as I pleased—
“That’s nothing new.” “Everybody knows that, I sh’d think.” “I wonder where she pick’d that up!” &c.
I tried at first the effect of not hearing, but as that experiment did not succeed, I thought I must adopt some other means. One evening, I heard her muttering, in reference to something which I had just said—
“I knew all that long ago, and a pretty deal more, too.”
I stopped, and looking directly at her, said—
“Mrs A—, I have just heard you say, ‘I knew all that long ago, and a pretty deal more, too.’ Now, if that is the case, I should like you to tell us what you do know. The object of this meeting is to get all the information which we possibly can, upon subjects of this kind, and I shall be delighted to learn anything from you; and so, I am sure, will every one else here. One of our rules is, that one person shall speak at a time, but it does not at all follow that I should always be the speaker. I will leave what I was going to say, as any other time will do, and we will listen to you.”
There was a murmur of dissatisfaction at this; but I quelled it directly, stating, that “I wished there should be no interruption; we would all be perfectly quiet, and would listen to what Mrs A— had to say.”
After a minute or two another woman attempted to speak, but I stopped her.
“Anything you like, presently; but this is Mrs A—’s time.”
Poor Mrs A—! it was her time, indeed. There we sat, the clock went “tick, tick,” the needles went “click, click,” although most of the workers stopped in astonishment. Even the babies did not relieve us by a squall. The silence was terrible, Mrs A— would have known how to have acted in a storm; there she would have been in her element,—none could outstorm a storm better than she; but this calm was dreadful. She had sense enough to know she had brought this difficulty upon herself; that I was simply standing on one side, to let her folly fall directly upon herself. She did not say anything, but it was evident she inwardly writhed under the infliction, even more than I had expected; and I have thought since, that the punishment partook of the refinement of cruelty. After this silence had lasted three or four minutes, I observed, that I supposed she did not remember what she had intended to say; and I went on again where I left off, as if nothing had happened.
When the meeting was over, and the women were going out, I saw Mrs A— standing irresolutely near the door. She evidently did not like to leave without “giving it to me well,” and yet she had sense enough to know there was no one to blame but herself. I called to her, and asked her if she would arrange the work-bags for me; she came back, and before she had finished, the other women were all gone, and we were alone. I then said to her—
“Mrs A—, it has been no pleasure to me to make you feel so uncomfortable this evening; I have been waiting for some weeks past, in the hope that your own good sense would shew you the necessity of accommodating yourself to our plans and rules. I can scarcely make as much excuse for your behaviour as I should for a child. A child is often compelled to go where he does not like; but every one who comes here, comes of her own free will, and need never pay a second visit, if it is not agreeable.”
“I wish I had never come a-nigh the place.”
“You have been uncomfortable this evening, I know; but you forget how many evenings before this you have made me uncomfortable. If only a very few were to act as you have done, our meetings would be brought into such disorder that it would be folly to attempt to meet at all. One principal thing for which many of these women value the meetings is, that they are quiet. It would be no kindness to them to bring them out of the bustle and confusion of home into another scene of bustle and confusion. Now, will you answer me this one question? Do you think I should be a fit person to preside over this meeting, if I could not, and did not check such annoyance and interruption as you have caused?”
“Why, no; I do think I am a sort of a fool;” and the long pent-up feelings of mortification began to vent themselves in tears.
“I did not think that,” I replied. “I have often looked at you, and admired the ability and energy which you have shewn. Why, I think you could cut out work fester than any three of the rest of us put together; and you have a good idea of order and arrangement, too. I have already learned some things of you, and you could help me a great deal, if you would.”
“I don’t think I shall come here any more.”
“I would advise you to stay away for a month. By that time all that has passed will be forgotten. If you will call on me at my house, this day week, in the afternoon, I shall be happy to see you; and when we have had a long chat together, we shall be better acquainted.”
She came. I found it as I had expected. Next to the unrenewed nature, the evil had its rise in great physical strength, and mental energy never fully expended. Her husband was what they call “a quiet man,” perhaps more easily managed than she liked; and her two children went to school, and did not give her much trouble. But it was not so much the want of occupation, (for her pig-feeding establishment must have made great demands upon her time,) as a kind of mental restlessness, which nothing in her mechanical life could absorb. The mischief done by a river in overflowing its banks will never be remedied by damming the water back on itself; it will only return again and again. Fresh channels must be dug for it, and then the same element that previously spread destruction, will produce verdure and fertility.
I was able to suggest several subjects to this poor woman, which both interested and occupied her. She was one of the most expeditious cutters-out of work that I have ever seen. She reminded me of the lady who said “her scissors knew the way.” During the first winter, and before the society became so large, I was in the habit of cutting out most of the work for the mothers, but now I engaged Mrs A— to come to the room half an hour before the time, to help me. I used to take patterns of some things that were not made up in the room—things that I thought would be useful to them. These I confided to her, with a quantity of paper, by which she could reproduce them to any one who might wish for them. Many a well-fitting garment to be seen in the Potteries has been procured in this way. Since our plans have been altered, and each member cuts out her own work, many an unskilful, trembling hand has been relieved by these “scissors that know the way.” Several of our little orderly methods, also, for which I have been complimented by visitors, were originally suggested by the former disturber of our peace. She is now a great reader. One of the last books which I lent her was “Sandford and Merton.” She told me, when she returned it, that she often kept her own boys, and half-a-dozen others, quiet for an hour or two together, by reading aloud to them.
The deep attention with which she always listens to the reading of the Word of God, and the great improvement that has taken place in her habits of life, induce me to hope that, if she has not found, she is, at least, earnestly seeking Him who can “save to the uttermost.”
There is another character, however, which is met with—to me, far more difficult and trying than that to which my friend has referred. Saucy women are seldom deceptive. The surface is often worse than that which remains hidden. But the bland, smooth-faced ones, who agree to everything you say, compliment you upon everything you do, smile sweetly alike at either censure or praise, and talk against you as soon as your back is turned—what can be done with such people? Fortunately for me (for I am still as much at a loss as ever to answer this question), this is not a common type of character in the Potteries. Although I have, of course, had constant money transactions with the women, I cannot now recall more than seven or eight cases in which the least attempt has been made to overreach and deceive; and only in one instance have I lost money by lending it.
But the climax of evil in a woman is the habit of drinking. There are many more drunkards amongst men than amongst women, certainly; but whilst I have known many men reform, I have known but very few women amend, after having thus once fallen into this horrid vice. Whether it be that a woman who has given way to intemperance feels so utterly degraded and out of place, as to be hopeless of ever righting herself again, and that she consequently proceeds desperately from bad to worse, I cannot tell; but certainly the effects of this vice upon herself, her husband, and her family, are terrible in the extreme. No tongue can express what the child of the drunken mother suffers. I cannot think of such misery without tears. Two wretched little children, almost destitute of clothes, came to my door one bitterly cold day. The very sight of them made my children cry; and, contrary to my judgment (for, alas! experience has made me wise), I allowed them to dress them in warm woollen jackets. Not many yards from the door, the mother was waiting for them: she took them at once to the pawn-shop, stripped the little shivering ones of the only warm garments which they had known for many a day, disposed of them for a trifle, and got drunk with the money. The next day, the sufferings of one of these children were happily closed by death. I say, happily; for death is the only release—a release to be desired beyond everything for the drunken mother’s child. Here we must weep for the living, and not for the dead.
The duties of life assigned to our working men and women require a well-developed physical constitution, as well as that mental power which gives firmness to endure. The early sufferings, privations, and exposure which attend the infancy and childhood of the drunkard’s offspring, almost preclude the possibility of the first; and the poor mind has, if anything, a still worse chance. Then, with this enfeebled body and mind, the child grows up to take his place in society, unable to contend with physical labour, tortured with the constant cravings for stimulants which he has inherited, and is an easy prey to the numberless temptations which beset his path. Again, I ask, is it any wonder that those who are daily watching these things with unspeakable sorrow, should refuse to touch, taste, or handle that which is the cause of such infinite misery?
Only a few women addicted to this fearful vice have joined our society, and they have never continued long in it. When the Word of God is constantly read and explained, when it is made the foundation of all that is taught,—for our relative and domestic duties have not there been passed over,—deliberate living in sin becomes incompatible with the pureness of the moral atmosphere diffused around. Many a deep sigh have I heard, as the prayer for the poor drunkard has gone up.
One evening, I was reading the fifteenth chapter of St Luke. When we came to the words—“I will arise, and go to my father,” I said that some seemed to think that only a certain kind of prodigal would be received back in this way. I had often heard poor drunkards remark, that there was no mercy for them—they were given up—they must be lost; whereas if we went back a little in the history, and remembered that it was said of this particular prodigal, “he wasted his substance in riotous living,” it would seem that the drunkard was especially meant. I observed a poor, untidy, dirty woman sitting near me; she was weeping bitterly: her distress was so great, that I never felt so much difficulty in steadying my voice and going on. After the meeting was over, she staid behind to speak to me. She said—“Oh, ma’am, I have felt lost for years, as if nothing could save me; and the thought that I might hope quite overcame me; it was so new to me, I thought I should have sunk!” This woman attended regularly for a few weeks, and then she was obliged to remove to a distance. I have not heard of her since. The neighbours told me she was “a deal steadier afore she left;” and I have hope in that word which “shall not return unto me void; but it shall accomplish that which I please, and it shall prosper in the thing whereto I sent it.”
In order to impress a portion of Scripture upon the minds of our members, I request them, after the prayer is over, to repeat a verse. This is not, of course, compulsory; but most of them comply, or attempt to comply. As some of them cannot read at all, and others very imperfectly, there are not many who repeat the passage correctly. I generally make a few remarks upon the verse which I select, with the hope that they will better remember it, and take it as their motto for the week. I remember, one evening, I repeated—“Fear not, little flock; it is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom.” I told them I once heard of a man who had a great deal of money—more than he really knew what to do with. He had a brother, who was very poor, and who used sometimes to ask his rich brother for help. One day, he begged for the loan of £20. The rich brother said he would advance the sum, on the condition that the poor brother would write and promise never to trouble him any more. I contrasted this with God’s way of bestowing His gifts upon us. He not only gives, but it is His good pleasure to give (as we say, sometimes, we are happy to do so and so), and bestow, not a perishing sum of money only, but a kingdom. A poor chimney-sweeper’s wife, sitting near me, was evidently listening with even more than her usual earnestness. She could not read, neither could her husband, and they had no children old enough to go to school; therefore, repeating a verse was to her a considerable undertaking. She was, however, one of those energetic people who cannot bear to be left behind. A fragment of a verse, if nothing more, we were sure to get from her; and the mutilations did not trouble her, as she was not conscious of them. I saw, upon this occasion, she was bent upon getting possession of this verse; and I therefore took care to repeat it distinctly two or three times. Next week, when it came to her turn, she repeated, in a triumphant voice, as if she thought her verse now as good as any one’s—“Fear not, little flock; yer Father will be very ’appy to give yer the kingdom.”
The narratives of Scripture, when explained and illustrated, interest them more than any story-book that I have ever found. The pressure of their domestic duties prevents many of them from attending a place of worship; and the imperfect way in which they read, obliges them to give more attention to the words than to the sense, and keeps their stock of book-knowledge very small. The history of Daniel in the lion’s den has the same charm for them as for children. I remember once, when reading the verse—“Then said Daniel unto the king, O king, live for ever.” I said, these words strikingly shewed how perfectly calm and self-possessed the prophet was. We might have supposed, from the terrible position in which he was, that he would have said at once, “Oh, take me away from this dreadful place!” but instead of that, he did not even forget to preface his answer to the king with the usual courtly phrase, “O king, live for ever.” After the meeting was over, I observed two women standing together, and talking about this. One of them was an Irishwoman, and a professed Roman Catholic. She was saying to the other—“And jist to think now, that he should have minded his manners, and all, at sich a time as that.” Little expressions of this kind are not only amusing, but valuable as a criterion by which to judge how far the women understand what is said, and are interested in it. A friend of mine, who attended the meeting once, was so much diverted by some of these original sayings and doings, that she said afterwards—“I am afraid you must find the society of polite people, who never say or do anything but what is strictly correct, rather dull after this.”
CHAPTER VII.
Giving and Receiving.
“The world’s a room of sickness, where each heart
Knows its own anguish and unrest!
The truest wisdom there, and noblest art,
Is his who skills of comfort best;
Whom by the softest step and gentlest tone
Enfeebled spirits own,
And love to raise the languid eye,
When, like an angel’s wing, they feel him fleeting by.”Keble.
One principal motive which has induced me to write this little book is the hope that, by facts and illustrations, I might remove the idea of difficulty which many people attach to the management of such institutions as I have described. Many excellent and kind-hearted ladies have said to me, “I should be so afraid to attempt it.” “It must require a person very clever, I am sure; I should never be able to interest them.” These objections arise out of the mistaken notion that the necessary qualifications belong more to the head than to the heart; that some great thing is required of us, rather than a good thing.
I received a letter, a few days ago, from a gentleman at Plymouth, in which he tells me of the progress of a Mothers’ Society in that town, conducted partly by his wife. Speaking of one of their tea-meetings, at which he had been present, he says, “Whilst there, I was much struck by the fact that, notwithstanding the great difference in our circumstances, our wants are much the same. We all have anxieties to be allayed, weaknesses to be supported, sins to be forgiven, hopes to be assured, and aspirations to be encouraged. The maladies of all classes are the same, and require the leaves of the tree given for the healing of the nations. In this view we are one with the poorest and the lowest, and we speak to them as one of them.”
It is the realisation of this great thought of being one with them, which is the true qualification. No amount of ability will avail without this. When the head is simply to be stored with knowledge, the greater the ability which the teacher possesses the better. But the evils that we hope to remove by meeting the poor in this way, have more of a moral than a mental origin; and consequently they must be met as moral evils, proceeding from the frailty to which we are all liable. The great object of the teacher must be to awaken in the mind of the poor mother a deep sense of her responsibility; and this must be spoken of (and how truly!) as our responsibility. The very slighting way in which poor girls generally hear themselves mentioned, the little account in which they are held, the absence, in fact, of almost everything that can make them feel of importance in society, induce a habit of thought very unfavourable to a conscientious discharge of their duties. The feeling I speak of is something perfectly distinct from either vanity or pride. It is the conviction that interests of great importance are committed to us, out of which arise duties for whose performance we shall be held responsible, not only to society, but to Him who has consigned these sacred trusts to our care, saying, “Occupy till I come.”
I was lately visiting one of our poor women, whose progress I have now had the pleasure of watching for some years. She was lamenting the death of one of her favourite plants, and said—
“I do like to see them pretty green things agin the white curtains; ’tis something cheerful, like, for the children to watch; they looks after the buds and flowers as if they could see ’em grow.”
I replied—“The little slips you planted a few weeks ago will soon be up; and in the meantime, your nice white curtains will make the room look very neat.”
“Yes; these white curtains I bought last ar’n’t quite so nice as I should like ’em to be.”
I smiled. I could not help looking back a few years, and remembering the wretched hovel in which I had first become acquainted with her and her children, when even a pair of clean hands or a clean face would have been as great a rarity as snow in harvest.
“Why, Mrs R—,” I added, “you have become particular, indeed. I see something new every time I come. I don’t know where you are going to stop.”
“Never, I hope, ma’am. We saves up, and gets one little thing after another; and such rejoicing goes on here at every fresh thing that comes. The children have saved their halfpence for a long time past, and last week they bought two new hymn-books; and the first thing we hear in the morning, when we wakes, is their singing; and their voices is so pretty.”
The children rushed to shew their treasures, carefully unwrapped them from the paper, and produced two threepenny “Curwen’s Hymn-books.” No landed proprietor could have felt richer, or looked happier.
“I often think, ma’am,” said the mother, “of how we was when you first came to us; and I often think, too, how I could dare to keep such a place for my poor husband and children as I did then. I hope the Lord have forgive me.”
Here was the secret of all this social improvement. “How can I dare to keep so much misery about me, that I could and ought to prevent? How can I dare to leave these children, whom God has entrusted to me to train for Him, without trying in any way to prepare them either for time or for eternity? How shall I dare to stand before God’s judgment throne, to give an account of the deeds done in the body?” It is this awakening of conscience that alone enables a poor mother to see her true position, and gives her the courage and resolution to do her best for her husband and children, in the face of difficulties of which the rich have scarcely any idea. Where conscience has slumbered long, or, as in most cases, has never been aroused, the progress will often be slow; but let this right principle be once established, and the work is done.
In introducing subjects of a domestic nature, the word “us” should be more frequently used than “you.” It is well sometimes to speak particularly of our own difficulties and mistakes; it helps our listeners to regard us as fellow-sufferers—as friends, who can understand and sympathise with them. When a poor mother tells us how much misery the bad behaviour of her children is causing her, we must not say (though it might be true), “Ah! that is just the natural consequence of all your bad management; if you had only done what I advised, it would not have happened.” It must be—(and what mother cannot truthfully say so?)—“Ah! I can feel for you; for my children trouble me a good deal sometimes, and occasion me much anxiety. I don’t know what I should do, if I could not bring them to God in prayer, and hope in His mercy for them.”
On one occasion, while about to leave home for a few weeks, I received a message from a poor woman that several of her children had been attacked by fever. I could not, of course, go to her then; but I wrote to her the next day from the sea-side. I happened to mention, in my letter, that I was under some anxiety for the health of one of my children. In her reply, after thanking me for my remembrance of her, she said, “And I thank you very much for telling me about your own child being ill. I pray for her, too, when I pray for my own children; and I seem to feel more sure that God will hear me.”
During the first year, as I have already mentioned, I had to conduct this society alone; being without the kind assistance which I now enjoy. I was, of course, very anxious that nothing should ever prevent my being there at the appointed time. I had at one time, for some days, been suffering from toothache; and when the day for the meeting came, I was in such an unnerved state, that the slightest noise distressed me very much. But when the evening came, I felt that I must go. I remember standing at the foot of the stairs, trembling in every nerve; and wondering how it was possible to mount to the top, and go into the room to face all the women. I had, indeed, to look up to “Him who giveth power to the faint;” and He did not forsake me.
After the preliminary business was over, and as I sat down to read, I said, “Now, though you are generally so quiet and orderly, I must ask you to-night to be, if possible, still more so. I have been suffering very much from pain in my face; and it has made me so nervous, that I cannot bear any noise. When my children came to me to-day, after dinner, though they tried to be quiet, yet even their moving about made me so much worse, that I had to send them away to the nursery. After they were gone, and the room was still, I thought that some of you, no doubt, suffered sometimes just in the same way, and that you had no nursery to send your children to; and I felt very sorry for you.”
The Mrs A— mentioned in a former chapter was there: she had become a most zealous champion of mine. I cannot help laughing now at the recollection of her tall, commanding figure, as she sat that evening bolt upright in her chair, looking round with an air of defiance, as much as to say, “Let me see any one dare to make a noise.” If a chair creaked, or scissors dropped, her head was round in an instant. A little, unfortunate boy, about four years of age, who came with his mother because he could not be left at home, was singled out as her special victim. He could not move, however quietly, without her threatening face and finger being directed towards him. She seemed to exercise some mysterious spell over him, as he scarcely withdrew his eyes from her; and at last, when a halfpenny rolled off his lap under the table, he instantly followed it, and remained out of sight, as if unable to face her again after that. The energy of her character communicated itself to her needle. Presently this noisy needle stopped. I did not notice it at first, thinking that, perhaps, she was watching some fresh victim; but, as she continued idle, I looked up from my book, and said, “Are you waiting for anything, Mrs A—, that I can give you?”
“Why, ma’am, you see I forgot to bring the sleeves out of the box, when I fetched my work, and I can’t go on any longer without ’em; but I have got such thick shoes on, I thought I should make such a racket in fetching ’em, that I should upset you altogether, and I had rather not finish my work than do that.”
I knew what a self-denial it must be to her not to drive on to the end of her work, when she had intended to do so; and I appreciated her kind consideration accordingly.
It has been quaintly said, that “there are more points in which a Queen resembles her washer woman than in which she does not.” Without dwelling upon these extremes, nothing is more certain than that whenever a lady goes amongst the poor, hoping to benefit them by her influence, she must be impressed much more by the points of resemblance that exist between them, than by the points of difference. Mothers’ Societies have a peculiar advantage in this respect. The sufferings and joys attendant on the mother’s life are common to all, and enable us to realise, more than any other circumstance or relation in life, that we are all children of one great family. The best lessons we can find for our poor sisters will be always those which we learn from our own hearts—from our own actual every-day experience. Sometimes I have repeated a portion of Scripture with them, which I had previously read with my own children; telling them what remarks I made upon it, and what the children said about it. This, besides interesting and amusing them more than a common explanation, has a better effect than saying, “You should teach your children so and so.”
I should be afraid of the accusation of “telling as new what everybody knows,” if I had not so often seen good and excellent people, from whom I could learn much on most other points, almost entirely fail in anything which they attempted amongst the poor, just because they did not recognise the fact that the law of “doing as we would be done by” applies as much to our intercourse with the poor as with our equals. I remember a case in point. One of our poor mothers had for some months brought with her a very fine baby. He was a beautiful child, and so sweet-tempered, that she had no difficulty in keeping him quiet. She was very proud of him, of course, and used to seat him on the table, and resort to a variety of little manœuvres to induce us to notice and praise him. But when he began to cut his teeth, a sad change occurred. He became thin and pale, and so did the poor mother, through her night-watching, and hard work; and we could hardly recognise in them the bright child and happy mother we used to see. At last, the little fair head became covered with sores—very sorrowful to witness; and, instead of now shewing off her child, the poor stricken mother concealed him as much as possible with her shawl, and sat apart from the rest of the company.
One evening, a visitor came in and staid about an hour with us. She evidently had not been much accustomed to such society, and did not feel at home in it. Whilst I was taking the money for the work, she tried to talk to some of the women, but I saw that she found great difficulty in it. Presently, a feeble cry attracted her attention to the poor baby; with a look of great disgust, she said to the mother—
“Why, what have you been doing with that child’s head?”
“What did you say, ma’am?” answered the mother, hoping, I suppose, that she had mistaken the question. It was repeated. The mother looked very angry, and replied, “I hav’n’t been doing of nothing with it. I suppose rich people’s babies get bad heads, sometimes, as well as poor people’s?”
Many in the room sympathised with her, as I plainly saw, when looking up from my account-book. It seemed as if an evil spirit had suddenly alighted amongst us, and taken possession of us all; for every countenance looked more or less angry. Such is the wonderful power of a few words. When shall we ever duly estimate the omnipotence of words? I had finished my accounts, so I rose from my seat, and went across the room to fetch something that I did not want; and, as I passed the offending head, I stroked the little pale face, and said—
“Poor baby! how sad it is that it must begin to suffer so soon, and give its poor mother so many anxious nights and weary days.”
The baby smiled upon me its accustomed smile; and, by the time I was back to my seat, I saw the mother’s head bent over the child; the quiet tears were dropping upon its face, and the evil spirit was gone.
Now, this lady was by no means of an unkind disposition; she would have given us money if we had asked for it, and would have exerted herself far more than many, to render us any real service. She might truly have said—
“And yet it was never in my soul
To play so ill a part;
But evil is wrought by want of thought,
As well as want of heart.”
The most beautiful and touching lessons on this subject are to be found in the life of our Saviour! Of course a word or a message from Him could have conveyed the miraculous healing power; but in most cases He chose to touch the sightless eye, to put His finger into the deaf ear, and to take her that was dead by the hand. Even the poor leper, whom no one would scarcely pass on the road—who had “sat apart” for years, a stranger to all human sympathy—what must that touch have been to Him! Jesus knew that a double healing was required here, not only for the body covered with sores, but for the spirit, wounded by long neglect and estrangement. Each must be healed, before the feelings of a man and a brother could return. A word or a message could have effected the first, but the touch accomplished both.
And yet how incomparably greater was the distinction that existed between Jesus and this poor man, compared with that which exists between the highest lady of the land and the poor cinder-picker at Paddington! We hear often about the condescension of the high towards the low; yet, how it all fades away in the light of the life of Him “who, though He was rich, yet for our sakes became poor!” We are commended sometimes for the few spare hours which we give to the poor; but what are these to His gifts, who always “went about doing good;” who sought not “to be ministered unto, but to minister;” and who closed all by “giving His life a ransom for many?”
Haydon remarked, about his pictures, “I was never satisfied with anything I did, until I had forgotten what I wished to do.” With the example of Christ before us, at which to aim, it will surely be long before any of His followers will be able to say of their work that they are satisfied.