“All may of Thee partake;
Nothing can be so mean,
Which, with His tincture (for Thy sake),
Will not grow bright and clean.
A servant with this clause
Makes drudgery divine;—
Who sweeps a room, as for Thy laws,
Makes that and th’ action fine.”George Herbert.
“Now, all this kindness, sympathy, and so forth, that you talk about, are very well in their way; but you surely find you cannot do everything you wish amongst the poor by these means? What do you say to them about their dirty ways, their bad management, neglect of their children, and all that sort of thing?” The answer to this question, put to me a short time ago, would occupy more space than could be spared in the limits of a small book. I will not, therefore, attempt more than a single illustration in reply.
One subject that comes under my notice, very frequently, is the inquiry for places of service for the daughters, sisters, and friends of the higher class of women in our society. Many secrets of service have been confided to me; and I ought, therefore, to be wise; but the subject is difficult. It is painful to be constantly hearing from mistresses that there are scarcely any good servants to be met with; and from servants, “there is no good places going, scarce.” Something must be wrong. That two classes so necessary to each other, and intended by the wise Disposer of all events to bless and benefit each other, should entertain such feelings of animosity and ill-will, is deeply to be deplored. If there is any remedy for so great an evil, if any solution of so difficult a problem is possible—here, almost more than on any other subject, is there room for the whole energy of the philanthropist—here is one of the most direct roads that can offer, to the elevation of those who greatly need raising, and to the amelioration of our whole social system.
I think it must now be three or four years since several circumstances brought this matter more prominently before us. I said that we would give up one evening to the special discussion of it. I appointed the next week, and invited the mothers to bring with them their own daughters, and any young people they liked. The number that came, shewed that the subject was popular with them.
It was not difficult to find an appropriate Scripture lesson for the evening. The Old Testament abounds with interesting reference to servants. It is remarkable that the first-recorded appearance of an angel in this world was to a servant—Hagar. Abraham’s servant, Eliezer, was to him as his right hand. The character which we particularly dwelt upon was Rebecca’s nurse, Deborah,—beginning at the first mention of her. “And they sent away Rebecca, their sister, and her nurse.” We traced her probable life, as can easily be done from the history that is given us of the families in which she lived; the long quiet years with Isaac and Rebecca alone, when she doubtless had her trials, arising, perhaps, from the want of perfect truthfulness in her mistress, or from the quiet, contemplative disposition of her master, who did not always appreciate her efforts to please. Then came two little boys to be nursed, who, while they gratified her pride, gave her as much trouble as little boys of the present day. How often the nurse and mother conversed together about them, as they grew up to be young men!—Deborah sometimes, with a heavy heart, not liking to tell the mother all that went on behind her back. Her earlier discovery of the vast difference in the dispositions of the brothers, had already awakened in her mind a fear that trouble was in the distance. And when the trouble came—when the little household, once so peaceful, was distracted by the contention of the brothers—when the uncongenial daughters-in-law, who were a grief of mind to Isaac and Rebecca, were introduced into the family—when her mistress discovered too late, that whatever is purchased at the expense of truth, brings only sorrow—and when at last she had to witness the distress of her mistress in parting with her favourite son,—through all this, how often must the kind assistance and sympathy of this faithful servant have been sought! how many tears shed by the poor mother in secret were wiped away by the hand of this unfailing friend!
After the last kind offices were performed for Rebecca, we find Deborah in Jacob’s family, living her old life over again in the care of his children, and winning love and respect even from Rebecca’s lawless descendants. Is it any wonder, if, after all this, a chosen spot, “under an oak,” was selected as the place of her burial, and that the numerous family who attended her to the grave should have wept so much, that the name of the place ever after was called “Allon-bachuth,” the “oak of weeping?”
Now, how many times, through all these eventful years, difficult and trying circumstances must have occurred: long illness, perhaps; quarrelsome children to contend with; great changes in the household management; and so forth? A modern servant would have said, many times over, “Well, I can’t stand this; I must be off, and try for something easier.” “If people will get into such messes, they must get out of them.” “It is no business of mine: all I have to do is to take care of myself;” and off she would have gone. After repeating this many times, is it any wonder that, instead of finding a home in the house of a master’s favourite son, and attended to her grave by a weeping family, she finds herself an outcast in the world, and understands the true and bitter meaning of what, in the heyday of her health and strength, she used boastingly to sing—
“I care for nobody, no, not I,
And nobody cares for me?”
“But now, ma’am,” said one of the women, “I don’t think it’s fair to speak of places as if they could be always stopped in. I have had my daughter ill at home for months. She was expected to be on her legs from seven o’clock in the morning till twelve at night, and only two hours out every other Sunday: she had to sleep in a room beside the kitchen, so that she never changed the air hardly; and she got so ill, that I am sometimes afeard she’ll never get well again.”
“And, ma’am,” said another, “some missuses is so mean, they wouldn’t like anybody like you to know; so that you might go to a house many times, and never find it out: but they stints the poor servants in their food and their rest, and seems to be always a-thinking how much they can get out of ’em, and how little they can give ’em. I’m sure I know people about here that ain’t fit to take care of a dog.”
Several others spoke to the same effect.
At last I said, “I should, indeed, be sorry for you to suppose that I think it is entirely the fault of servants that we are doing so badly in this way at the present time. So far from it, I think mistresses are quite as much to blame as servants. But it would not be a wise thing for us to spend the little time we have together here in talking about what we cannot help.
“Mistresses tell me, that it is the bad servants that put them out; and you tell me it is the bad mistresses that put you out. The sooner both parties begin to make some alteration the better. But as I am the only mistress here to-night, it is only waste of time talking about mistresses. And I want to ask you, first, if you do not think you have something in your power? Is there nothing you can do to make things better than they are now?”
No one answered; so I continued, “I will tell you about a servant I once knew very well. Her name was not Jane, but I will call her by that name now. From fourteen to sixteen, she was employed, under an upper-nurse, in taking care of some little children; but, as she wished to be a cook, her mother found a place for her as kitchen-maid, where she was under a servant celebrated for her good cooking and bad temper. The only time Jane had for going out was Sunday afternoon, when she always went home to see her mother. For the first four weeks she brought home nothing but complaints of her place: it was so hard; the tyrannical cook was intolerable to live with; the kitchen was so hot, &c. With many tears and lamentations she besought her mother to take her away from the place. The mother, after making careful inquiry, found that the cook was really a difficult and trying woman to live with; but that she was a good teacher; and that the toil of which Jane complained would, in the end, be the means of her getting a more thorough insight into her work. She ascertained, too, that though Jane was fully occupied all day, she was never kept up at night; therefore, she was not likely to suffer in health: and as to the hot kitchen, that was the more trying to Jane, from her having previously been accustomed to be out of doors half the day with the children; but as cooking is usually accomplished in a hot kitchen, the sooner she learned to bear that the better.
“The Sunday after all these inquiries had been made, Jane came home, and, as usual, began her complaints; the mother stopped her, by saying—
“‘I have been inquiring this week all about your place, and I find there are in it some things very uncomfortable and trying; but it is just the place where you can learn to be a good cook, and, whatever you may think of it, Jane, I mean you to stop there two years.’
“‘O mother!’ said Jane, ‘how can you be so cruel!’ and she burst into tears.
“‘Jane,’ said her mother, ‘when the boys went out to work, you know how Jim used to complain about how he was teased in the carpenter’s shop, and how bad Harry’s hands used to get with the bricks; they used to come home awful tired in the evening; but I said to them, as you know, “Well, boys, it is no good to give in; we can’t have nothing in this world without trying for it. All this suffering and hard work will make men of you, and make you worth something. I don’t want my boys to be gingerbread people, that can’t do nothing, and can’t bear nothing; you must just face about, and meet your troubles, and it’ll be the making of ye by and by.” And so, Jane, now I say the very same to you. I had to pay something for the boys’ learning their trades, and to keep ’em, too; but you are both paid and kept while you are learning yours; and so you must make up your mind to leave off grumbling, put your own shoulder to the wheel, and I say to you, as I did to them, it will be the making of ye by and by.’
“Jane knew her mother always meant what she said, and after she had made up her mind it was no use arguing with her; and she went back to her place, feeling that, whatever she might have to endure, all she could do was to make the best of it.
“At the end of the two years she left; but she was a good cook,—not hurt by her hard work, although I know well—for I have heard her speak of it many times—her work was very hard for the body, and trying to the mind. She was immediately afterwards engaged by a family, who lived near her old mistress; and had twelve pounds a-year. After being there six years, through some changes in the household, she left; but she enjoyed the reputation of being the best cook in the neighbourhood, and was immediately offered a situation in a large establishment, at wages of sixteen pounds a-year. Here she remained ten years, and then married, having saved upwards of two hundred pounds: for, besides good wages, she had occasionally received presents from various members of the families in which she had lived, who valued her exceedingly, and speak of her to this day with respect and affection. She was married from her mistress’s house, where a wedding breakfast was provided. When she went off with her husband, the whole family assembled to bid her farewell, and express their good wishes; and one of the great boys did not forget to throw an old shoe after them, for luck. The last time I saw her, she was in a most comfortably furnished cottage, nursing her baby; and, amongst other things, she said to me—
“‘The best thing that ever happened to me in my life was my mother saying to me, ‘Whatever you may think of it, Jane, I mean you to stay there two years.’”
One of my party was a gipsy-girl, about thirteen years of age. She seemed to listen to this story with great interest; and after I had ended, she exclaimed, without addressing herself to any one in particular—
“I will learn to do something well; I am determined I will.”
“That is capital,” I said: “it is just that resolution which is wanted; everything else is sure to follow.
“The best servant I ever had was entirely self-taught: she was the eldest of ten children, and spent her life, till she was fifteen, in ‘holding the baby;’ then she went to a house in our neighbourhood, as under-nurse, and to help the other servants when required. She was so obliging, that she became a favourite with every one. The nurse taught her to read and sew; the young ladies taught her to write; the cook found her so handy that, after she had been in the nursery three years, she begged her mistress to allow her to have her in the kitchen. She came to me two years after that, able and willing to put her hand to any kind of work required; she remained with me six years, and then married a respectable carpenter. She is now in America; and in the last letter which I received from her, she told me that her husband was earning four pounds a-week by his trade, and she could earn one pound a-week by her dairy.”
“But, ma’am,” said one of the women, “don’t you see, it wasn’t all good management that made these people you tell us about so prosperous; it was partly good luck,—they got good places.”
“Yes, I see that; but it was their good name that got them the good places, and their good behaviour that enabled them to keep them.”
“Ah! I see,” said another; “’course they wouldn’t have stopped there, if they hadn’t been worth something.”
“It is this ‘being worth something’ that has a great deal to do with it, I assure you. Supposing I were to send for a carpenter, and give him some wood, and tell him to make me a box; and that in the evening, when I looked at his work, I found that he had made such mistakes in cutting it out and putting it together, that it was all spoilt; that there was no possibility of making a box out of it; and all that he had done for me was to make the material good for nothing. I should say to him, ‘I cannot pay you for your work. You have deceived me in professing to be able to do what it seems you cannot do; you have injured me by destroying my property; and I cannot recommend you to any one else.’ Now, who would call me unjust for this? But what would be thought of a master if, when he had sent away one spoilt dish after another from his table, he were to send for the cook, and say to her—‘I engaged to give you a home in my house, and to pay you certain wages, on condition that you cooked my food nicely, and took care of the property committed to your charge. I have fulfilled my part of the engagement; you have not fulfilled yours. If you really cannot cook properly, then you did me an injustice in taking my money, and accepting the shelter of my house. Perhaps it only arises from carelessness;—I will give you another trial, but I must be just to myself at the same time I shall not pay you any wages for this day’s work,—you have not earned any; and your being paid for the future will depend upon whether you do what you engaged to do, or not.’ Now, who could say this was unjust? and yet, I dare say, the self-styled cook would go back to the kitchen and say, ‘She had never heard of such a thing in her life.’
“I do not remember ever employing a carpenter who could not do what I required of him; not so well always, perhaps, as it might have been done, but still he did it. But how many cooks, housemaids, and nurses have I seen entirely fail in their engagements. It arose, not from inferior capacity, but from the great mistake which the girls had made, in supposing that they could perform the very important duties assigned to them in life, without preparation. A boy who intends to be a carpenter, begins, as early as he can, to observe how the work is done; he spends years in patiently learning one branch of his trade after another, before he asks for wages; consequently, he generally gives satisfaction to his employers, and often remains with one master for many years.”
“But, ma’am,” said one, “how are we to prepare our girls for service? Our houses and our ways is so different from gentlefolk’s. I really don’t know what we can do.”
“I do not wonder at your saying this; I have often felt for you in this difficulty. I think your houses are not, perhaps, quite so much like gentlefolk’s as they might be. A person with good taste would prefer a clean cottage, any day, to a dirty palace. A bright, clean grate is just as much an ornament to your room as to a lady’s drawing-room; and when you set your eldest girls to clean, if you were more particular about how they did it, many a good lesson might be given. But your principal hope is, I think, in this kind of apprenticeship of which I have spoken. Neither wages nor comfort, so long as the health is not endangered, should be the chief consideration in choosing a girl’s first place. She should go from you with the impression on her mind that the future of her life depends very much upon herself; that what makes people valued, is their being valuable; that wealth is not to be obtained by wishing for it, but by a long, determined course of patient continuance in well-doing, and a resolution not to be daunted by difficulties.
“A girl prepared for her work in this way, would feel a self-reliance that would tend very much to keep her from letting herself down to anything low. She would also be in a condition to make, what is called, ‘her own terms’ with her mistress. By this, I do not mean to ask for high wages,—there is no fault to be found with the amount of wages given at the present day; but to ask for those privileges, without which a servant cannot long continue to keep herself respectable. I will tell you what I think a girl, who could faithfully perform her part of the contract, would be justified in asking.
“1st. That she might have as much of the Sunday to herself as the general arrangements of the household would permit. The commandment which tells us all to ‘remember the Sabbath-day to keep it holy,’ has especially said that servants are to rest on that day. No one is likely long to go on right who has no time to read the Bible—that great chart intended to guide us through life,—without time to attend the public means of grace, and without leisure to prepare for that world where the serving and the served must stand side by side, to give up their account to the great Master and Judge of all.
“2d. She has a right to ask for the punctual payment of her wages on the quarter-day.
“3d. She has a right to ask that some little portion of the day may be considered her own time. The precise time must depend upon the habits of the family. Generally, after eight o’clock in the evening would be convenient; but when the dinner-hour is late, and much company is kept, some other hour must be fixed. Sometimes—with nurses, for instance—it has been found better to let them take all the needlework time, on one or two days of the month, for their own work. Some time there must be, or a servant cannot do credit to her place, by keeping herself neat and respectable. But the time should never be stolen: a mistress pays for time, and it is her right. There must be a distinct understanding between the mistress and servant; and I do not hesitate to say, from my own experience, that such an arrangement would be found mutually advantageous.”
After the meeting was over, several little groups might be seen in various parts of the room, engaged in earnest conversation. I heard one of them say it was “a sight clearer to her than ever it had been before.”
About two years after this conversation, a woman called at my house, one morning, bringing her two daughters with her, apparently about seventeen or eighteen years of age. I remembered she had formerly attended our meeting, but she had since removed from the immediate neighbourhood. After the first inquiries had passed, she said—
“I don’t know whether you remember, ma’am, about two years ago you talked to us at the Mothers’ Meeting, one evening, all about servants and missuses, and such like. I was there, and these two girls. We had been puzzling ourselves a deal, for some time before, to know what was best to do; and we understood what you said, and liked it; and it seemed to make us see things better than we had ever done before. I had heard of some places for them; but we were afraid they would be overworked, and all that. As we were going home, the girls said they would try for it: they didn’t want to be ‘gingerbread people,’ either. So they took heart, and went to work, and they have been hard at it ever since. They ar’n’t very stout, you see, ma’am; for they’ve had plenty of work, and none too much to live upon. But she’s a cook (pointing to the eldest), and I’ll be bound no master’ll ever send for her to say she’s spoiled his dinner; and she’s been in the nursery (pointing to the youngest), and learned to do needlework well, as I can shew you (producing a piece of work). There, ma’am, ar’n’t that something like it should be? She won’t have to bargain for what she can’t do, that’s certain.”
There stood these two girls, looking rather pale and worn, but by no means unhappy. They were very plainly, though neatly, dressed; for no finery could have been afforded out of the small wages which they had received. There was dignity about them, arising from a feeling of conscious worth, and a sense that they were not simply asking for employment as a favour: they were prepared honourably and truthfully to give back in labour, the value of what they received in board and wages. The contract would be advantageous to both parties, proving that our wise and kind Father has allowed and designed all these distinctions for good; that, by mutual dependence, we may be led to cherish those feelings of respect and regard for each other which are the strongest cement of society.
“For the body (of society) is not one member, but many.
“And the eye cannot say unto the hand, I have no need of thee; nor again the head to the feet, I have no need of thee.”
“That there should be no schism in the body; but that the members should have the same care one for another.”
“And whether one member suffer, all the members suffer with it.”
I need hardly say that places were easily found for such girls. The gipsy-girl, too, has kept to her determination of doing something well, and has been in one place for the last fifteen months.
“The poor are the poor’s best friend.”
“Little words of kindness,
Little deeds of love,
Make this world an Eden,
Like to heaven above.”
Those who have watched the “Mothers’ Society” from the commencement, will see that every year has been marked by steady progress; and not merely in numbers: the moral and spiritual tone has deepened, become more real, more earnest, more active. Nothing was so distressing to me, when I first commenced this work, as to observe the unkind feelings which these women manifested towards each other. It was no unusual thing for me to receive a call from one of them, for the purpose of telling me, that if I allowed Mrs So-and-So to come to the meeting, then she should not come. “They hadn’t spoke for months, and never meant to speak any more; and there was no pleasure in coming and seeing such a ‘ippocrit’ as she was, ‘sitten up there.’” Then, again, I was warned not to take up with such a one; for she was as false as she was high, and “nobody never believed a word she said.” Once, a mother came to complain against her own daughter, telling me she was quite undeserving of the assistance I was rendering her, and that the only thing that brought her amongst us was to get all she could. I often spoke to them very earnestly about these accusations of each other, and assured them that this sin would be to our meetings what Achan’s crime was to the camp of Israel; that we could neither expect the blessing of a God of love ourselves, nor hope that our united prayers for our children would be heard and answered, whilst we were hating instead of helping one another.
But this is not so much a thing to be lectured against, as to be lived down. The constant reading together of the Word of God, especially of His life who so loved us, sinners though we are, as to die for us, soon had its effect upon us. We have always, from the first, made a point of referring in our prayers to any particular family affliction which had occurred to any of our number, and also of sending kind messages to the absent; and as I persisted in doing this to saints and sinners alike, and never took any further notice of the evil reports brought to me, than to pray more earnestly than ever, that we might all be delivered from the particular sins complained of, the evil spirit seemed gradually to die out, and I hailed with joy many evidences of a very different spirit. The elder women began to remember that they could sometimes help the younger ones, by nursing their babies, so that the work for the many little ones at home might proceed the faster. The younger members, in their turn, would stop to thread the needle, which the failing sight of some companion made a difficult operation. The warmest seat by the fire was given up to the poor invalid, who came with a bad cough, or to the newly made mother, with her “wee baby.” The only two footstools in the room were given up to those who most needed them, instead of keeping them, with the remark, “I got it fust, and I shall keep it,” which at one time might have been heard.
One evening last winter I read to them, from “The Book and its Mission,” some account of Marian, and what she was doing for her poor neighbours in St Giles’s. I saw they were extremely interested in the narrative; and I said to them—“Now, many of you, I know, feel to those about you as kindly as Marian; and if any of you think that you have time, and strength, and spirit, for this work, I believe that, without giving up your whole days to it (as, with you, that would be impossible), you might, by a little planning and arrangement, accomplish a great deal of good.” After the meeting was over, three of the women came to me, and offered their services in any way I thought best. As it was then too late to go into the subject, I invited them to tea on the following Wednesday. The three came, bringing with them a fourth, the mother of several little children, who apologised much for coming, especially as she had to bring her baby with her. She knew she couldn’t do much, but she couldn’t bear to be left out. She thought she might take her baby, and sit with a sick neighbour sometimes; or take care of some little children, with her own, now and then, if that would do any good. Two of the women were upwards of fifty years of age, and had then no children living with them; the other was one of those who attended our first meeting, and then told me, that she thought, if we went on with the society, she might look in now and then upon us: not that she wanted to learn anything; for, “I ’spect,” said she, “I know everything better than anybody can tell me.” In fact, that her visits would be to give us her patronage. However, as we became better acquainted, we were soon good friends. She lost her husband a few months afterwards, and was left to struggle alone, with a family of boys, to whom she has done her duty, and they are truly rising up to call her blessed. With a very limited allowance from the parish, she managed, by washing and mangling, to earn enough to support them, and send them all to school; but the work was too hard for her. After the first year or two, I began to observe that she walked uneasily, and that the expression of her countenance indicated constant suffering. I soon found that she was suffering from an internal complaint, which, I feared, at first, admitted of no remedy. But, notwithstanding all she endured, she worked on, always saying she could bear anything but the workhouse, and separation from her children; and managed, in spite of such difficulties as would have sunk many a strong man’s heart, to keep her little home to herself, and retain over her great boys an almost unbounded influence. She became so very ill last summer, that I took her one day to “The London Home,” a kind of hospital for chronic diseases just established in our neighbourhood. The doctors spoke of her case, not only hopefully, but as one that could certainly be cured; but it must be by an operation; and it would be necessary for her to become an inmate of the hospital for four or five weeks. Under the skilful and humane care of Mr Baker Brown, the cause of her suffering was entirely removed; and the gratitude of this poor woman for so great a mercy seemed unbounded. During the evening on which she and her companions came to my house, she said—“After I was sure I was going to be well again, I used to lie in my bed in that hospital there for hours, with my heart lifted up with gratitude to God; and I asked Him so many times to shew me what I should do for Him for all His great love and kindness to me. I really did feel that love and thankfulness to Him, that I thought the first strength I had I must give to Him; but I couldn’t exactly see how. Last Monday was the first time, since then, I have been able to come to the meeting; and as you were reading about Marian, I says to myself, ‘There, that’s your sort of work; that’s what you’re to do;’ and I began to think how God had tried me, and how I had suffered in almost every way, and that He had helped me through everything, and never left me; and I knew then that this was His way of teaching me, and preparing me to help others. And now, ma’am,” she went on to say, “you see, people is very kind to me; and my children’s beginning to help me; and I shan’t have quite so much hard work as I have had; and though I can’t do a great deal yet, I think I could give up two afternoons in the week for doing what I can for those who want help. And I have thought of what you often have told us, too, ma’am, that if we will but make a beginning in what is right—even if we don’t see exactly how—that the way will open to us as we go along, and God will send the light as we want it. We don’t, none of us, feel very wise about it at present; but we are all ready to do, as far as we can, anything you think best.”
We spent a very pleasant evening together, and talked over various plans. The women were of varied capacities, and I saw that they were not all fitted for the same work; but they were all actuated by the same spirit—love to their Saviour, and willingness to work for Him.
At our next meeting, in the following week, just as I sat down to read, a little girl entered the room, and, coming up to me, said—
“Please, ma’am, mother sent me here to ask you to pray for her.”
“What is the matter with your mother?” I replied.
“She is very bad, ma’am, and hasn’t got nobody to do nothing for her.”
When the little girl was gone, I inquired if anybody knew this person (Mrs S—), as she had only attended our meetings for a few times. Only one woman present knew anything about her, and she not much.
“I only know,” she said, “that she is a poor troubled thing, as has known better days, and likes to keep herself to herself, like; for her husband spends everything in drink, and never leaves her anything to make herself decent with.”
I said to them, “I feel sure this poor woman wants just the kind of help and sympathy that some of you know how to give. I leave her in your hands, and you can let me know if you want any help from me.”
The next afternoon, one of these newly appointed missionaries called on me. She said she had just come from Mrs S—, and described her visit as follows:—
“I really could hardly help crying, ma’am, when I first went in, and saw what a state the poor thing was in. Her baby was born on Saturday afternoon; and because she was too poor to pay the midwife the whole of the sum due to her, the woman did not return to her the next morning, as they usually do, to wash and dress the baby; but there she had been left, without a creature going near to do anything for her. She was too ill to do anything for the baby herself; and there they and the other children had been crying for hours. I tried to speak cheerfully to her, and told her I would soon set it all to rights; so I made up her bed clean and comfortable, first, while the water was heating, and then I got a great washing-pan and washed the poor miserable little baby in it, and put on it some clean things, which I found in the bag of baby-linen that had been lent her. The little thing had been crying for hours; but it soon felt comfortable, and went off to sleep before I had finished dressing it. I put it into bed with its mother, and then I got the Bible and read a few verses to her; and then I knelt down and prayed with her as well as I could. I asked God to help her out of her trouble, and keep her from thinking hard thoughts of Him, and make her to see He meant it for her good. Then I talked to her a good bit; and she told me how she had been well off once, but that her husband’s drinking had ruined them all. She cried very much, poor thing, and said she had been praying all the morning that God would send some one to help her. I tried to comfort her as well as I could, and told her that we would all pray for her, and that God could change her husband’s heart. Then I kissed her, and so I came away: and now, ma’am, I am come to you, if you please, for some food for them; for they all want that badly enough.”
The next morning another of these self-constituted missionaries went. She was not so gifted in many ways as the one who first called. She had fewer words at command, and her hands were stiff, having suffered from rheumatism, in consequence of which she found it impossible to dress the baby; so she went for the mother mentioned above, who wished to do something to help; and took care of her children while she was gone. After this she returned, carried away everything that wanted washing, and brought it all back clean in the evening. This she continued to do for three weeks: in fact, these three kind women took the entire charge of the poor sufferer, and watched over her till she was able to work again.
I shall not easily forget the evening when Mrs S— came amongst us again, bringing the new baby, as they usually do, to introduce to the meeting. The regular business had not commenced, and I was going about from one to the other, taking the money for the work. After congratulating her upon her recovery, and welcoming the new baby, she passed on to a seat by the fire, that some of them were trying to make extraordinarily comfortable for her. I saw a little group gathering round her, talking about the baby (we are rather in the habit of making a good deal of the last baby); and presently, as in the course of my work I passed near this group, I heard her say, “You have been just like kind sisters to me. It was the best day of my life when I came here, and I shall never forget how kind you have been to me.”
“O Mrs S—,” said a kind, cheerful woman, who had the good sense to see that the expression of strong feeling was too much for the poor, weak mother just then, “never you mind about that; it did us good to do it: and you must make haste and get well and strong, and then we shall come upon you to help us some day.”
The sequel to this story is too pleasant to be omitted.
During the Christmas week, or as soon as possible afterwards, we invite the poor women of this society, with their husbands, to partake of a social cup of tea together. The nicely lighted and prettily decorated rooms presented last year a most cheerful appearance. About a hundred and fifty of these poor people assembled, with fifty or sixty of their richer neighbours.
That evening I saw, for the first time, the husband of Mrs S—. They were sitting together, and she was nursing her baby; but they both looked uneasy. The drunkard and his family are so accustomed to “hide themselves away from view,” that the bright light and numerous company made them feel how shabby they were. A few kind, encouraging words were at first necessary to reassure them, and make them feel that they were welcome. Presently, I had the pleasure of observing that they had become thoroughly interested in what was passing, and the clouds had passed away from their countenances.
I do not think that any exhortation was given that night to drunkards especially,—in fact, I believe that the subject was never once mentioned in any way. The platform was occupied by gentlemen of no common standing. Amongst the speakers, were some of the leading philanthropists of the day; and it is not matter of surprise that the words of these earnest men should have conveyed to their audience something of the intense love and sympathy which pervaded their own hearts. It was an evening that many will long remember with pleasure; but to our poor friend (Mrs S—) it was the beginning of a new life. After the meeting was over, her husband said to her—
“Wife, I am done for; I can never go back to those drinking ways again. I can stand up against a good deal; but those people there would have moved a post, let alone a man.”
This man was a fishmonger, and once had a business in this trade which he sold for £300. The greater part of this money was squandered in drink. Since then, the only means by which he could support himself and his family had been by hawking fish about the streets. For many hours of a Sunday morning, his loud voice might have been heard resounding through the streets and squares of the neighbourhood; even the church doors were not thick enough to shut out the noise; and the annoyance was often the subject of complaint.
I went to see them, one morning about the beginning of March, but not in the damp cellar where our acquaintance was first made. They had taken a neat little shop, and, though it was not well stocked, they were getting on.
The eldest girl, who was appointed to look after the shop, certainly looked as if she felt herself “a person of consequence.” I could scarcely recognise in her the poor “crushed-out” thing whom I had seen working for the family in their former dark abode. The other children—who used to remind me of the plants which we shut up in our cellars in the winter, keeping them without nourishment or light, that they may not exhaust their powers in growing—were now gambolling about the shop, while the sun was shining on them so brightly that they had to shade their eyes with their hands as they looked up. The mother, though she had lost that look of abject distress, still seemed anxious.
“It is hard work, ma’am,” she said, “to get right when things have been going wrong so long; but I hope, by God’s blessing, we shall get out of trouble after a bit; for my husband keeps steady, thank God. The children go to school now, and the elder ones have joined the Band of Hope. I don’t think anything in the world would make these two boys drink. They go errands sometimes for people, and have drink offered to them, but they will never touch it. I do pray every day that they may never know what it is to suffer and sin as we have done.”
And so the poor mother, with the full consciousness before her of the cause of her own blighted life, looks at her children, and with uplifted hands and streaming eyes prays—as none but the wife of a drunkard ever prays—“Deliver them, oh, deliver them from evil!” And the children, with the recollection ever before them of their joyless childhood and sorrowful home, band themselves together, trying thus by union to strengthen their moral courage to resist evil, and they pray—“Oh, lead us not into temptation.” Let us kneel with them and pray too, that God, in mercy to these poor captives, sighing for deliverance, will awaken the consciences of those who still dare to offer the intoxicating cup as a remuneration for labour. If they will not pause and listen to the groans of humanity, the wail of despair, that is ascending night and day from every corner of this land through this accursed thing, let them, for their own sakes, ponder the meaning of the terrible words too lightly passed over, even by those who tell us that He who uttered them is their Lord and Master. “Woe to that man by whom the offence cometh!” “It were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and he cast into the sea, than that he should offend one of these little ones.”
But to return to our missionaries. One of them spends the greater part of Monday morning in collecting money for the savings’ bank. She has occasionally brought me as much as £2 in the evening, all obtained in small sums, even as low as a penny, and rarely higher than 2s. 6d. This poor woman suffers very much from a swollen foot and leg. I have said to her—
“I am afraid you must find it very painful to walk and stand about so long.”
“Well, ma’am, ’tis rather,” she will say; “but it does me good: and I think how happy I shall be when I take it back to them in the winter, and they tell me it is all as if I had given it to them, for they haven’t a-missed it.”
On Monday afternoon, they bring me their report of what they have been doing during the week. I learn from them the general state of things, and what is actually transpiring, much better than I could from any investigation of my own making. The poor have no hope, in their dealings with one another, of getting at a “blind side,” as they sometimes do with a lady; and the positive facts which I obtain are of great use to me in many ways, and have often saved me from making mistakes.
In order to keep up a vigorous and lively interest at the “Mothers’ Meetings,” the subjects that are brought forward must usually have some reference to what is passing among them. I have frequently, at home, thought of a topic to form the basis of our conversation in the evening; and on my way there, or even after I have entered the room, I have heard of events which I knew must so absorb their attention, that there could be little chance of their following out my train of thought; and that if I wished to do them good, I must follow theirs instead.
I once heard our city missionary make a remark, which has been very useful to me. He said—
“We must remember, in our intercourse with the poor, that they have a constant pressure upon their minds, as to how they are to provide for their ever-returning wants; and we must not expect more abstract attention from them than we feel we should be inclined to give ourselves, supposing that we were so situated as not to know certainly how the dinner for to-morrow was to be provided.”
I have thought that our interviews may be compared to meeting men on a battle-field. How absurd it would be to call them aside, and endeavour to fix their attention on some of the abstruse metaphysical questions of the day! “Oh,” they would say, “pray do not trifle with us; we are ready to sink under the heat and burden of this protracted contest! Talk to us of the battle, and how we are to sustain this conflict; and tell us, oh! tell us, is there any hope of peace at last?”
None, I believe, feel more emphatically that life is a battle than the poor mother, with her many children and few helps. The demands made on her strength, patience, and resources are beyond what those in easier circumstances can conceive. I have felt ashamed sometimes, after speaking of the virtues of patience and forbearance, to think how utterly I might fail in all these, were I tried as they are tried.
I once persuaded a poor man to attend a place of worship. He went to a dissenting chapel. The next time I saw him, I asked him how he liked it.
“Well, ma’am,” he said, “I dare say it was all very good, if anybody could have understood it. I thought I should have got on a bit with the prayer; but there were such a lot of hard words in it, I couldn’t make nothing of it. Parsons don’t understand nothing about us, or, instead of praying for all them outlandish things, they’d pray a bit for us, now and then, and for our poor wives at home, that can’t never get out to pray for themselves, and got work to do that would frighten them to look at.”
This remark will shew the estimation in which the very poor generally hold the services in our churches and chapels. It would be unwise to argue from it, that some great alteration must be necessary; that the language and thoughts of every preacher should be so simplified as to be brought to the level of the uneducated. There would be a want of justice in this. The higher classes have a right to be considered, as well as the poorer; their tastes and requirements must be thought of and provided for; and as they are satisfied, edified, and instructed by things as they are, for themselves, let things remain as they are. What we want is something in addition to that which we already have, and, we think, something very different.
The college education received by our ministers of religion would not be the best possible preparation for our Ragged School Teachers and City Missionaries. The clearness imparted to the intellect by mathematical studies, the extensive knowledge of words derived from the acquirement of many languages,—in fact, the general discipline through which the mind of the student passes, gives him a mental power which sets him at an immeasurable distance from the man who does all his counting upon his fingers, and whose only knowledge of language is derived from what he has picked up in the streets.
Our City Missionaries are doing what they can to supply this want. The hired room where they sit, surrounded by the unwashed and uncombed, picturing out to them a passage of Scripture, applying its lessons to their daily life, and then praying to Him who can bless their daily toil, and give them daily strength,—these are the services appreciated by the “sons of toil,” and we thank God for having raised up these simple, earnest teachers.
It is the deep conviction which I hold that the poor can be best helped, as well as taught, by those who thoroughly understand them, that has induced me to hail with delight the introduction upon the field of labour of the Female Missionary. A sensible, true-hearted Christian woman, very little removed above the poor herself, will accomplish much more amongst them than any lady, however well inclined she may be. So many minutiæ must be considered in endeavouring to improve the home habits of these people, such a constant watchfulness is necessary to prevent a degeneration into merely amateur work, that it requires all the method, skill, and determination of the professional hand.
There are modes of argument which the poor know how to use with the poor, which would never occur to people differently situated. A few weeks ago, I requested one of our missionaries to call upon a family, where there were a number of children growing up in great ignorance, and to see if she could not persuade the mother to send some of them to school. Next time I saw her, I asked her what success she had had.
“At first, ma’am,” she said, “I couldn’t get on at all; the mother did not seem to care about the children’s knowing anything, and she said she was sure she could not afford the school-money. I told her I found it was always a saving in the end; for their shoes didn’t get worn out so fast, nor their clothes torn, and I hadn’t a-near so much washing to do for ’em, as if they did run in the streets. I told her, it often cost me more in the holidays for mending their shoes than as though I had paid the school-money. She took up with this directly, and said, if that was it, she’d send the most rackety of ’em; and if it answered, she’d send the rest after a bit.”
Now, it is just possible that it might have occurred to a lady to use this same kind of argument; but would have lost its force with the mother, because she would have known it was not the result of actual experience.
We hope, if spared to another winter, and if we are fortunate enough to obtain the requisite funds, that we shall be able to establish a paid missionary in the Potteries. Great as the improvement has been, much still remains to be effected. This poor place, that was left so many years literally wallowing in the mire, is still much behind-hand in cleanliness and home comfort. The keen eye, the ready hand, and the loving heart of some good Christian woman, who can devote the whole of her time to the work, is just what we want. We must trust in Him, who has already done so much for us, that He will open the way as we go on, and raise up for us, in our time of need, both the person and the pay.
“The cup of life first with her lips she prest,
Found the taste bitter and declined the rest;
Averse, then turning from the face of day,
She softly sigh’d her little soul away.”
I MENTIONED in the last chapter that I had often seen the necessity of deferring a subject previously prepared for the evening of our meeting, and adopting, in its stead, a topic more appropriate to passing events. As I consider this point of much importance, I am glad that my journal can furnish an illustration.
One evening, in the year 1854, as we were putting aside our work, one of the women reminded me that the day of our next meeting would be a fast-day; and she asked if we were to assemble as usual. I replied, “That as that day would be set aside for a special purpose, and one in which we were all deeply interested, I thought it would be better for us to make a point of all attending some place of worship, and uniting with others in our prayers for the deliverance of our country from the great evils which threatened it.”
Two or three voices exclaimed at once—“Then, if that is it, we shan’t go nowhere.” “Why not?” I asked.
One of them replied—“My master never lets me go to any place. We have neither of us ever been inside a church since we were married.”
Two or three of the others said that was just the case with them.
“How is it, then, that your husbands let you come here?”
“Why, ma’am, we goes on with our work here; and it helps us to get many a nice bit of clothes, that we should have to go without if we didn’t get them here, by paying a little at a time; and the children, too, you see, ma’am, is mostly in bed before we come.”
“Do you not think that some of you could persuade your husbands to go to church with you, for once?”
They shook their heads, and said they were afraid not. There were a few in the room who said they would go, if they could. I told them, if they would express to me what their wishes were, I would adopt any plan they liked best. With the exception of about six or eight, they said they would rather the meeting were continued as usual.
“If that is the case,” I replied, “I will be here at the usual time next week, to meet any of you who cannot make it convenient to attend any place of worship; but remember, we must have no work done. I should not think that right on such a day.”
When I entered the room the following week, I found thirty of the poor mothers assembled. We sat and chatted together for about a quarter of an hour; for we felt, on that occasion, that we were not bound to observe our rules with our usual strictness. I intended to read about our Saviour’s entrance into Jerusalem, and to dwell particularly on the tears He shed in the prospect of the destruction of that city, shewing from this how unwillingly God allowed His judgments to descend upon a nation, and that “He would rather they would turn from their wickedness and live.” The rest of the evening I thought we could occupy in the relation of a few anecdotes of soldiers, that had reached me from the seat of war. I had just begun to read, when the door opened, and a woman, passing hastily up the room, took her seat on a low box by the side of the fire. She leaned forward, resting her head on her arms, and began to weep bitterly. I looked up for an explanation. One of the women said, “She lost her baby, ma’am, a day or two ago, and she takes on terribly about it.” We all sat silently for some minutes, for we felt the sacredness of the presence of grief; they were precious minutes to me, full of earnest thought and feeling.
About ten months previous to the time of which I am speaking, this woman first came amongst us, bringing her baby, then about six weeks old. I thought I had scarcely ever seen so sweet a child; the expression of the little face reminded me of something holier and purer than is usually to be met with in this fallen world; and I did not wonder that it was said, “Of such are the kingdom of heaven.” I knew both the father and the mother. The father was a genius of no common order, and, but for the fatal habit of drinking, would have risen in the world. The mother had known better days, and not having much spirit, she had too easily resigned herself to her fate, and scarcely exerted herself as much as she might have done, to avert the evils that surrounded her; consequently their home was an unhappy one.
On the first evening of the introduction of these little ones, we are in the habit of commending them in prayer to the especial care and protection of our heavenly Father. I am afraid the prayer that night was not mixed with faith, as it ought to have been. I remember thinking of the home in which this child was to be trained, and of all the evil influences to which he must be exposed; and I wondered how he was to be “led straight through this world of sin, and get to heaven at last.” I thought of him “tossed on the tumultuous sea of human passions and temptations, without any strong, kind hand to guide the helm;” and I could have wept, as I prayed that he might be shielded from life’s bitter trials and temptations.
“I long’d for that happy and glorious time,
The fairest, and brightest, and best,
When the dear little children of every clime
Shall come to His arms and be blest.”
I could not sleep that night without again committing this sweet child in prayer to Him who “carries the lambs in His bosom.”
This mother and baby were so constant in their attendance, that we should have suspected something wrong if they had not made their appearance. As the baby grew, he became still more lovely; he smiled sweetly when he was noticed, and we all loved him so much, that he was universally called “our baby.” I occasionally took him on my lap when I was reading, that the mother might get on the faster with her work. He used to sit quietly, making playthings of my fingers, or looking intently into my face, that he might be ready with his sweet smile when he was noticed.
And it was for the loss of “our baby” that the poor mother’s tears were flowing so fast. No wonder that many hearts there sympathised in her grief; and thoughts, too deep for words, kept us silent. The mother was the first to speak; she said—
“Ma’am, do you remember the first evening I brought him here? You looked at him so, and said he was a pictur’ child.”
“Yes; I was just thinking of it.”
“We liked that name for him so much, it made his father think more of him; he would watch him asleep in the cradle, and say, ‘Well, that is a pictur’ child, if ever there was one.’ I never had nothing so good belonging to me before, and I never shall again.”
“Do you remember a little while ago,” I remarked in reply, “when the weather was so cold, telling me you feared the baby suffered for want of warmer clothes than you were able to procure for him, and that the coarse food, which was all you could get, did not agree with him?”
“Yes, I mind; he made me feel how bad it was to be poor. I never cared about it so much before.”
“Supposing I had promised to take the baby into my house, and surround him with every comfort, and care for him as for one of my own children, would you have given him up to me?”
“Why—yes—I think I should, if I could have seen him very often; for nothing troubled me so much as to see him suffer.”
“If I had taken him you would still have had to see him suffer; for though I might have made him more comfortable than you could, I could not have shielded him from the attacks of disease and death, But he is gone now to a home where he will never suffer any more. The kind hand of his heavenly Father has wiped away the tears that distressed you so much. As the Scotch song says—
“‘There’s nae sorrow there, Jean;
There’s neither cauld nor care, Jean;
The day is aye fair, Jean,
In the land o’ the leal.’”
As soon as the mother could speak again for her tears, she said—
“Do you think, ma’am, he is gone there for certain? ’cause some of ’em have been saying to-day that nobody goes to heaven, not even babes, except they are ’lected.”
“That is quite true; but when Jesus died upon the cross, He did intend all infants to be saved. He there atoned for the sin we inherit from our first parents, which is the only sin with which an infant can be charged, as no one can be said to break commandments until they understand what commandments are. No one has so much cause to love the Saviour as mothers of little children. Ages before our children were born, their safety was provided for by the death of Christ. When you go home, I should like you to take your Bible, and read the account of our Saviour’s crucifixion; and as you are reading, just think—‘Now all this suffering was to save my baby, amongst many others.’ God has told us that He is satisfied with the price Christ has paid for sin; therefore, of course, there can be nothing else wanted. And just think of this for a moment—God has given up His Son to suffer for us, that we may give Him back our children to be happy for ever.”
“O ma’am, I am so happy to hear about it! You have made it clearer to my mind than it ever was before.”
“I want to make it clear to you, also, that this Saviour, of whom we are speaking, must be your Saviour, as well as the Saviour of your child; for there is none other name given among men whereby any of us can be saved.”
“But, ma’am, you don’t mean that Christ’s dying has made it certain that we shall all get to heaven!”
“Christ’s death was intended, and is sufficient in itself, to make all safe for heaven; but there are many who will not accept this salvation. Supposing, now that provisions are so high, I were to send to every man, woman, and child in the Potteries, and say, that every day at one o’clock I would have a good dinner provided for them at my house: I would take care there should be room and abundance for all. It is said, there are a thousand inhabitants in the Potteries. Supposing, out of this number, only two hundred came. Some might be too proud to accept my kindness; others, too busy in seeking food in other ways. But the most extraordinary thing of all would be, that some should have forgotten all about it. They would go on eating the most miserable food, suffering in every way in consequence, and grumbling at their unhappy fate; while, if they would only come to me, I would receive them, and give them abundance of the best. Complaints might still reach my ears, how greatly the people were suffering; but I should say—‘I really cannot help it; I have done all I possibly can to prevent it. It grieves me very much to see so many vacant places at my table—to see bread enough, and to spare, whilst they perish with hunger. I wish they would come to me, instead of suffering as they do.’ Now, this is just how it stands between us and God. He wishes all men to be saved, and to come to the knowledge of the truth. It is not the will of our Father, who is in heaven, that one should perish. He has provided, by the death of Christ, for the salvation of every one; and none that come unto Him will He cast out. But we must come. Just as certainly as those poor people would lose the benefit of my dinner if they did not come, so shall we lose the benefit of the great salvation provided, if we do not come.”
All present seemed much interested in this conversation, and several began to ask me questions. One woman told me that some ladies had called at her house some time ago, and inquired particularly if her children had been baptized; telling her, that if they had not, they had no chance of being saved.
“That can’t be true, can it, ma’am?” she asked.
“If it were, it would, indeed, be a lamentable fact; for how many children there are who are born and die, without the possibility of being baptized. This often happens at sea, for instance; and sometimes, especially in the country, where the distances are great, it is not unusual for an infant to die before there is time to obtain any minister of religion to administer the ordinance. How very imperfect would be the salvation which God has provided for us, if our reception of it was made at all to depend upon circumstances that we could not always control! Think for a moment, again, of the comparison I was using just now. Supposing, when I sent out my invitation for the people to come and dine at my house, I should say, ‘Though you may come, I cannot admit you inside the house, unless you bring a card of admission with you.’ I should mention where these cards could be procured; but when applying for it, you might find that the person, whose business it was to provide them, was ill, or not at home, or something might prevent his attending to you till it was too late; and, consequently, you must lose the benefit of my dinner. You would say, and justly, ‘Why, she is deceiving us in professing to provide for our wants.’ It is of no use the dinner being there, if there are obstacles which we cannot remove in the way of getting at it. And God would have deceived us, too, in saying—‘The blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth from all sin,’ if there were still something left for us to do. And Christ hath deceived us in saying on the cross—‘It is finished,’ when all the time He knew, that if we were not baptized by an ordained minister of religion, all that He had done and suffered for us would be worth nothing. There are few errors at which I feel so indignant as this. It is so dishonouring to our heavenly Father, and it is such a reflection both upon the wisdom and justice of Him whose work is perfect.”
“Then, ma’am, isn’t it any consequence whether children are baptized or not?”
“I am glad you asked me that question; for I should have been sorry for you to have gone away with the idea that it was of no consequence. Do any of you know what circumcision means?”
No one knew; it was simply a word in their minds, unconnected with any ideas. At last, one woman said she thought it was something that the Jews did.
“When I was talking to you about Abraham, a little while ago, do you remember my telling you that God had called him away out of an idolatrous country; because He intended, from Abraham and his children, to raise up a nation, in which the knowledge of Himself should be preserved? God then commanded Abraham, that he and all his children—meaning all the Jewish nation—should be circumcised; intending, by setting this mark upon them, to shew that they were a distinct people, and not intended to mix with any other nations of the world. From that time, until the advent of our Saviour, every male child amongst the Jews was circumcised on the eighth day after its birth.
“After the resurrection of our Saviour, He commanded His apostles to go into all the world, and preach the gospel to every creature. It was no longer to be confined to this one nation. Christ had died for all, not for the Jews only: and all must hear this good news. Circumcision was a painful rite; and as Christ had suffered for us, He no longer enjoined this upon His followers: in its stead, the simple, beautiful, and expressive ordinance of baptism was instituted; and all who call themselves Christians should thankfully use it, as making a line of separation, as it were, between them and the heathen world, as the Jews used circumcision to distinguish themselves from the idolatrous nations by which they were surrounded.
“When, therefore, we take our infants to be baptized, it is as if we said—‘I call the Church and the world to witness that I desire for my child that he may be brought up in the faith and practice of a Christian. I beseech you, that are here assembled, to unite with me in prayer to Almighty God, that, through the mercy of our Lord Jesus Christ, He will grant to this child that thing which by nature he cannot have; that he may be baptized with water and the Holy Ghost, and received into Christ’s holy Church; and that I may have grace given me so to train my child that he may be a blessing to the world as long as he lives, and, finally, through the righteousness provided by the death and sufferings of our blessed Saviour, may come to the land of everlasting life and happiness, and dwell in His bright presence for ever.’”
This explanation, although it was broken up and illustrated in a way that it would be tedious to repeat here, was not perfectly intelligible to them at first; but as they asked questions about it, a clearer light seemed gradually to dawn upon their minds. One woman said she “always had a-done it, but never had no thought in her mind about it before.”
We concluded the evening by reading of the little children who were brought to Jesus; and then, in united prayer, we commended the sorrowing mother to Him who came to comfort Martha and Mary concerning their brother. We thanked Him for the loan, though so short, of this sweet and lovely child, whose mission on earth seemed to have been to awaken in its mother a purer and holier nature. And we thanked Him, too, that “ere sin could blight, or sorrow fade,” the Good Shepherd, who had laid down His life for this lamb of the flock, had resumed the care of this precious one, had spared him the contest of life, and taken him to Himself, to be safe and happy for ever.
I always feel tempted, when reviewing my journal, to linger over the narrative of the “Fast-day evening.” I recall how we sat and talked till the daylight had faded into twilight, and then we watched the fire as its flickering blaze occasionally rested on the placid face of some infant sleeping on its mother’s lap. I recall, as if it were but yesterday, the earnest and fixed attention, with which this company of mothers listened to the glad tidings of a Saviour for their little ones. Had He been presented to us as our Saviour only, we must have loved Him; but how much more when we realised that, at such infinite cost, He had stretched forth His hand to save those dearer to us than life, from everlasting destruction!
Some of the women that were there still speak of this evening with pleasure; and there was joy in the presence of the angels of God, that night, over more than one sinner that repented.
I have occasionally taken much pains to make the doctrines of religion somewhat clear to them. It might not in every case be so necessary; but in this neighbourhood, where the enemy is more than usually busy in “sowing tares,” it is of great importance that they should be enabled to give a reason for the hope that is in them.
The vicinity of Notting Hill has, unfortunately, been selected by the Roman Catholics as the scene of their most active operations. Whilst I write, I hear from my open window the sound of “busy workmen” employed on the rising walls of a nunnery of great size and importance. They have just purchased a piece of land in Pottery Lane, once the celebrated Cut-throat Lane, on which they intend building school-rooms. Only a few days ago, I was told that a poor woman had called, seeking relief. On finding she was a stranger to me, and being already overdone with similar cases, I sent a message by the servant, that I was truly sorry for her, but it was not then in my power to attend to her case. Her reply to the servant was, “Ah! the Roman Catholics is coming amongst us, and they’ll never stand by and see us poor people suffer, like you Protestants do.”