Transcribed from the 1860 James Nisbet edition by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org

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RAGGED HOMES,
AND
HOW TO MEND THEM.

BY
MRS BAYLY.

“The corner-stone of the commonwealth is the hearth-stone.”

Fifth Thousand.

LONDON:
JAMES NISBET AND CO., 21 BERNERS STREET.
M.DCCC.LX.

DEDICATED,
BY PERMISSION,
TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
THE EARL OF SHAFTESBURY.

My Lord,

I do not inscribe this narrative of facts to you in the expectation of adding to that acquaintance with the working-classes which you have gained from personal intercourse with them.

It is for my own satisfaction that I have dedicated this little Volume to you. An opportunity, which might not otherwise have occurred, now offers for thanking you in the name of the poor whom you have cheered by your sympathy, and of the rich whom you have stimulated by your example.

Compliments between fellow-workers are not seemly, however humble the bestower, however illustrious the receiver.

That you have allowed your name to appear in these pages cannot but be gratifying to the writer. The reader will rejoice no less, and from higher than personal motives. He will see in this kindness another proof of your hearty interest in that class which, if rightly considered, is, from its very poverty, a blessing to the land, by putting our indolence and selfishness to shame.

I have the honour to be,

My Lord,
Your Lordship’s obliged Servant,
MARY BAYLY.

PREFACE.

Amidst the excitements of political contests at home, with wars and rumours of wars abroad, the voice of “Social Science” is occasionally heard, and listened to, with a growing conviction of its importance. The Politician, the Moralist, and the Christian are impelled by various reasons to its consideration, and will listen with equal interest to its details.

Experience is always valued by practical men, and the records of what has been done are anxiously sought, to assist our judgment in future and more extended exertions.

The condition of the young, and the education of children, naturally engaged the earliest attention of Social Reformers. Experience has shewn the importance of genial influences at home, and that it is necessary to improve the homes of the poor, in order to save the children from destruction. It has also been found that much can be thus effected. Poor women, who have been subjected to the severe discipline of a struggling existence, are often willing and anxious listeners to useful instruction, and are perhaps more susceptible of good influence than younger persons who have not felt the necessity for improvement. There is, therefore, room to hope that the influence which can be brought to bear upon the mothers of the working-classes will be a most important element in that general elevation which it is our desire to attain.

It was principally owing to this impression, and also the great desire which I felt to do something, however feeble, to bring more happiness and comfort into the houses of my poor neighbours, that induced me, five or six years ago, to commence a Mothers’ Society. The usual ways of helping the poor seemed to me to effect little real good. The nice soup sent for the sick man was spoiled by being smoked in the warming up, or by the taste infused into it from the dirty saucepan: the sago intended for the infant was burnt, or only half cooked; and medicine and food alike failed to be efficacious in the absence of cleanliness, and in the stifling air which the poor patient was doomed to breathe. The mothers of the little, thin, fretful babies would complain to me that they could not think why the child did so badly, for they managed to get a rasher of bacon for it whenever they could, and always fed it two or three times in the night. I saw that the wise man was indeed right in saying “that knowledge is the principal thing;” and that if I could help them in any way to “get knowledge,” it would be a gift far surpassing in value anything else I could offer them. The applications constantly made to me for information on the best modes of establishing and conducting these Societies, induce me to suppose that they have taken some hold on the public mind, and that these institutions supply a want that is every day increasingly felt.

The only value that can be attached to any remarks which I have to make is, that they are the result of some years’ experience; and that the plans which I have adopted, though capable of great improvement, have been to some extent successful. But the principal motive in my own mind for sending these simple narratives forth into the world is, the hope that more attention than ever may by their means be directed to that great and difficult subject, the improvement of the homes of the poor. As a few notes of a bird, the lisping of a child, the sound of the wind dying away, have sometimes been sufficient to awaken the spirit of harmony in some master-mind, and so led to the composition of the music which has thrilled and delighted all who have heard it; so, it is hoped, the suggestions here made may be of use to many minds, and that anything already effected may be as the drop to the showers, or as the first buds of spring to the luxuriance of summer.

8 Lansdowne Crescent,
May 10, 1859.

CONTENTS.

INTRODUCTORY.

“Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore
Of nicely calculated less and more.”

Wordsworth.

A FEW weeks ago I was visiting the Library in the British Museum. Two gentlemen, who stood near me, appeared very earnest in the pursuit of something which they wanted. Presently, by an exclamation of delight, I understood that their search had been successful; they had found what they had sought. And what had they found? A very old book, so badly printed as to be read with difficulty, and containing information of what must have taken place at least two thousand years ago—information very interesting and important to the old Romans, no doubt; and which would have been still more so, if they could have foreseen what delight it would have imparted, centuries later, to two inhabitants of a remote island in the north, who could not possibly be affected by it. But so it is: some minds prefer to dwell on the past; others live in the present; and some seem of opinion that “man never is, but always to be, blest.” This diversity is no doubt necessary; all do some good: the antiquarian adds to the interest of our libraries, if not of our lives; and we owe much to those who teach us to look forward, if they will only at the same time help us to look upward: but to such as wish to do something, who desire to have an influence on the great living history which every day is writing afresh, the passing events of the time have the greatest charm, because they not only present food for reflection, but opportunity for exertion.

We not unfrequently hear people speak of life in such a way as would lead us to suppose that there had been some mistake as to the date of their birth. Had they come a little earlier or a little later, it would have been different; but the present seems to afford them no object of interest. They complain of intolerable dulness, the weariness of life; and in watching the cheerless, the objectless existence of such people, we wonder that it is recorded of only a single individual, that one morning he shot himself, for the reason assigned on a slip of paper which he had left on the dressing-table—“I am tired of living only to breakfast, dine, and sup.”

I have often thought, when listening to such complaints, of the prayer of Elisha for his unbelieving servant, “Lord, I pray thee, open his eyes, that he may see;” and if the Lord would do for them as He did for this servant, and open their eyes—not to see “mountains full of horses and chariots of fire” waiting to deliver them—but alleys, and lanes, and villages, full of the needy and the sick, waiting for loving hearts and kind hands to come and help them to rise from their degradation, wretchedness, and filth,—the strain would be changed; and, in the contemplation of such a vast amount of labour, followed by such rich reward, we should rather expect to hear, if it must still be the language of complaint:—

“O wretched yet inevitable spite
Of our short span! and we must yield our breath,
And wrap us in the lazy coil of death;
So much remaining of unproved delight!”

There are many indications in the present day that the fields are “white unto harvest.” Several things, that were looked upon some years ago as experiments, have been so eminently successful, that no unprejudiced mind can doubt that they are the means which God has blessed, and by which He intends to accomplish a great work of reformation in this country. It was a glorious sight at St Martin’s Hall, on the 2d of March, when 567 young persons came forward to claim the prize for having remained a twelvemonth in a situation; and, were it not for the strictness of the rules, excluding all apprentices, requiring a written character from a master or mistress, it was stated that as many as 1500 would have been present. All these had been rescued from well-nigh certain destruction by the Ragged School, and had there received the education which qualified them to take these situations. There must have been joy in the presence of the angels of God that night, as they witnessed these rescued ones sitting together, and listening eagerly to words by which their souls might live; and which, if the prayers of many there were answered, would prepare them to receive an incorruptible prize, that can never fade away.

Whilst these facts convey resistless evidence to the mind, that these poor outcasts can be lifted out of their wretchedness and be saved, the conviction deepens, that God will hold us responsible to do this work; and, in all the labour ever required of our hands, it has never been so necessary that whosoever would engage in it must be taught of the Lord. We have to pray not only that the Lord of the harvest would send more labourers into the harvest, but also that He would endow them with just the spirit and power necessary for this particular work. In noticing the physical wants and requirements of this country, nothing strikes us more forcibly than the certainty with which the demand creates the supply. No matter how intricate and complicated the required machinery may be, heads are always to be found clever enough to invent, and hands skilful enough to work it. In fact, the degree of perfection attained in this way is enough to make us “proud of the age we live in.” If machinery and steam-power had been the agency required to purify such places as St Giles’s and Bethnal Green, the work would have been done long ago. These wretched localities have not remained so long “like blots in this fair world,” without being thought of and cared for. Many politicians and scientific men have asked earnestly, “What can be done?” and have turned away hopelessly, feeling that the mighty intellect which could subdue air, earth, and sea, had now met with something beyond its power; and still the question remained unanswered, “What can be done?”

One of the most interesting discoveries of the past few years has been, that the humblest instead of the grandest agency is required to accomplish this work which the wisest heads have found so difficult. A little sketch of the early history of one of God’s most successful agents will shew that “His thoughts are not as our thoughts;” for it would not have entered into the heart of man to have suggested such a preparation for usefulness. “A drunken father, who broke her mother’s heart, had brought a young girl of fifteen, gradually down, down from the privileges of a respectable station, to dwell in a low lodging-house in St Giles’s. The father died shortly afterwards, and left her, and a sister five years of age, orphans in the midst of pollution, which they, as by miracle, escaped; often sitting on the stairs or door-step all night, to avoid what was to be seen within. An old man, the fellow-lodger of the children, and kind-hearted, though an Atheist, had taught the elder to write a little, but bade her never read the Bible, since it was full of lies; and that she had only to look around her in St Giles’s, and she might see that there was no God. She had learned to read and knit from looking continually at the shop-windows. She married at eighteen years of age her present husband, and for the first time in her young memory knew the meaning of that blessed word, ‘home;’ although the home was but a room, changed from time to time in the same neighbourhood. After many years of considerable suffering, from loss of children, ill-health, and other calamities, she took shelter one rainy night in an alley which led up to a little Mission Hall in Dudley Street. She entered, and heard it announced that books would be lent, on the next evening, from a newly-formed library for the poor at that place. Going early, she was the first claimant of the promise. She had intended to borrow Uncle Tom’s Cabin; but a strong impulse came over her, which she could not resist—it was as if she had heard it whispered, ‘Do not borrow Uncle Tom; borrow a Bible.’ So she asked for a Bible. ‘A Bible, my good woman?’ was the missionary’s reply. ‘We did not mean to lend Bibles from this library; but wait, I will fetch you one. It is a token for good that the Book of God, the best of books, should be the first one asked for and lent from this place.’ He brought her the Bible, and asked if he should call, and read a chapter with her. She said respectfully, ‘No, sir, thank you; we are very quiet folk, my husband might not like it. I will take the book, and read it for myself.’ The Lord’s time was come. His message then first entered her house, and went straight to her heart. The Divine Spirit applied the Word with power; and the arrow of conviction was ere long driven home by suffering and affliction.

“A severe illness laid her prostrate, and to this hour she feels—in a way that we who help her in her work cannot feel—what is meant by sickness and poverty coming together.” [8]

This was God’s education to prepare for Himself an agent to carry out His purposes of mercy. By uniting the introduction of God’s Word with care for the temporal wants of the poor people around her, Marian has been able to accomplish wonders in two short years; and the account of them will be seen with great pleasure by those who allow themselves the monthly treat of reading “The Book and its Mission.” But something more than facts, valuable as they are, have been deduced from Marian’s mission. The lock that refused to be picked, has yielded to the fitting key. We have sat in our beautiful churches long enough, and wished we could see the poor gathered around us; but they have not come. We have written numberless words of advice to them from our comfortable houses; and though all these efforts have, doubtless, accomplished good, especially amongst a particular class—for no word of truth falls to the ground—yet all will acknowledge that they have in a great measure failed to affect the masses of our poor people; and, had it not been for our City Missionary and Ragged School, it is dreadful to think what would have become of the ever-increasing population of this crowded city. Our missionaries have done much; the moral atmosphere is always improved by their presence; and thousands of poor wanderers from God have, through their teaching, found their way back to peace and holiness. The Ragged Schools have rescued thousands of poor outcasts from destruction. But neither of these agencies operates directly upon the homes of the poor, though “the entrance” of that word which “giveth light,” seldom fails to shed its influence on the exterior.

My acquaintance with the poor began very early. My father’s house stood alone, surrounded by beautiful lawns, wood, and water. Our nearest neighbours were the poor people in a village about five minutes’ walk from our home; most of them were simple labouring people, and as children we were trusted to go amongst them without much superintendence from our elders. Our dear mother often employed us on errands of mercy to them; and as soon as we could read well enough, we were sometimes sent to cheer the solitary hours of some poor invalid by reading to him. Our relations to each other were so kindly and pleasant, that we always met with a hearty welcome; and for years, I believe, I knew something about the interior of every cottage in the place. I remember even then feeling astonished at the wretched management I saw, especially with regard to children; and as we did not live in any fear of one another, I sometimes took upon myself to remark to the “gudewife” that so-and-so was never done at home. All this was taken in good part: the reply was generally a laugh, and “Law, my dear, poor people’s children isn’t like gentlefolk’s;” or if my observations extended to cooking or house-cleaning, it was, “Law, bless you, you doesn’t know anything about that; gentlefolks never does.” Notwithstanding all these rebukes, I still thought over these things; and have thought over them, to a greater or less extent, ever since; and the result is, the deliberate conviction that so long as the wives and mothers of the poor continue such as we generally find them, we cannot look for any very great improvement in their social position.

I have known many women, under thirty years of age, with six or eight children, so totally unqualified for almost everything which they had to do, that I have wondered how they managed to exist at all. I am now, of course, speaking of those below the class from which we usually obtain our domestic servants; and amongst this class, more unfit than any other for life’s solemn duties, the earliest marriages are contracted, apparently without any idea that at least as much preparation is needed as is deemed necessary for breaking stones on the road.

If a lady feels herself unequal to the management of her family, she can call in the aid of nurses, governesses, and schools; and thus her defects may in some measure be made up by assistance from without. But who or what is to step in between the poor mother and her children? If she cannot train them during the first few years of infancy, they remain untrained; and not only are the wise man’s words proved true, that “a child left to itself bringeth its mother to shame,” but it is found that the multiplication of these families thus left to themselves, bringeth a nation to shame. When we look honestly at things as they are, we have no right to be much surprised at such a result: it is unreasonable to expect to reap what has never been sown. Seven years of careful training is not thought too much for those who are to be employed in the making of our shoes, our coats, or in the building of our houses. The education of the men of this country is generally, from a very early age, adapted to their future employment. Hence, as might be expected, there is no lack of clever artisans, who have indeed a higher character for cleverness than for goodness. But the girl, who is to grow up to exercise an influence upon persons more than upon things, is left to scramble on as best she can, generally content to do as badly as those who have preceded her; and yet, in the words of one who has thought and written much upon the subject—“It is to the poor man’s wife that we must chiefly look, when we indulge the hope of reducing that frightful amount of crime which, with all our inventions, discoveries, and improvements, sometimes awakens a fear that we may not really be in so prosperous a condition, socially and nationally, as our rapid progress in what is called civilisation would lead a superficial observer to suppose.”

I have never yet been able to see how schools, or any system of national education, could meet this difficulty. That we should be much worse than we are without them, there cannot be a doubt. Our beautiful Infant Schools especially, that shelter these little ones so many hours a day from the sight and the sound of evil, call for a special thanksgiving to God. To no class of people in this country are we more indebted than to those high-minded Christian teachers who, with infinite patience and self-denial, manage to infuse into their teaching such freshness, purity, and wondrous adaptation, that many a little rebel is through them brought back to allegiance. The preparation for life that boys likewise require can, to some considerable extent, be supplied from without; but to girls, whose education is valuable in proportion as it prepares them for domestic duties, nothing can ever compensate for the absence of home-training. The question then arises, considering that nineteen girls out of twenty do not receive a proper home-training, what is the best substitute for it? Until some remedy for so great an evil can be found, this misery and misfortune must continue. I do not pretend to answer this question satisfactorily; I rather wish to obtain for it the attention of wiser and clearer heads, believing that nothing can, at the present time, exceed it in importance. The few suggestions I have to make are very simple, and cannot be considered comprehensive enough to meet such a widely extended evil. If we were to see seven people struggling in the water, and could only save one from drowning, we could not plead as an excuse for neglecting to help that one, our inability to rescue the six. In like manner, we must use the little light that is given to us, trusting that, as we advance, more light will be granted.

That which we propose to substitute should resemble, as nearly as possible, the home-training which we find to be so sadly deficient. These poor girls require friends who will supply to them the place of mothers. Much has been said and written about ladies devoting their leisure time to the poor, and there is no doubt that much more good might be done by them in this way than is done; but the work we refer to demands something far beyond the occasional call, the book lent, and the garment cut out.

There are so many points of difference between the child reared in the mansions of the wealthy, and the uncared-for, friendless infant picked out of the streets and alleys, that it is not strange if they should have few thoughts in common. It is true there is in some hearts, as in that of Elizabeth Fry, a sympathy strong enough to extend itself to everything with which it comes in contact. The moral power of such natures is very great: they are one of God’s best gifts to this fallen world, yet not the most common. In devising schemes of improvement, we cannot therefore rely upon the powerful assistance which they give; nor must we take it for granted that our plans will be worked out by their aid. Probably, the best suggestion that has been offered hitherto, is made by the writer of “The Book and its Mission,” who proposes that some of the best of the poor women, superintended by ladies, should be employed as missionaries; and that each missionary should be the mistress of a house, into which a number of homeless girls might be received on payment of a small weekly sum. Here, under motherly training, they might be fitted for their future duties.

The Marian above alluded to, soon after the commencement of her work in St Giles’s, says:—“I long to lift poor young girls, from twelve to eighteen years of age, out of the horrors of those overcrowded rooms; and how glad I should be to take a house and make a dormitory for them by themselves! I know forty who would come to me at once, and pay threepence a night each: they could well afford it, and it would take the money from those dancing-rooms and casinos to which they flock to their ruin. What new thoughts I might put into their minds in the evening! How I might read the Bible with them! and some of them might help me in my other work. There is no provision of the sort for the class I mean; and they are those who most want it. Such a change would be to them the beginning of a new life; and there are perhaps five thousand of those girls always growing up in St Giles’s.”

But how inadequate, some will say, are these means to meet so extensive an evil! To provide for forty out of five thousand is of little avail. So it, indeed, appears if we look merely on the surface of this great subject. But it must never be forgotten that, every individual is a centre of influence. It is a proverb that “one sickly sheep infects the flock,” but happily this law of infection is not always on the side of evil; and, I believe, the force of example is stronger in the class to which I am now referring, than amongst the reading and thinking people in a higher grade of society. “I thought he was right, at first,” a lady once said to me, “but when I sat down by the fire quietly in the evening with my Bible, and listened to the voice within, as well as to the teaching of the Word, I then saw it all in a different light; and I resolved more firmly than I had ever done before that God should be my guide, and not man.”

But we are not speaking of the few who sit quietly by their fireside in the evening to weigh the actions of the day in the balance of truth; we refer to the multitude whose rule of conduct is summed up in the words—“Follow my leader.” True, they do not always follow the same leader; and the defection of a comrade will cause them to halt. Yet, after a time, they are found walking behind another guide. They are contented even if he choose the old path. But whether old or new, they cannot advance without guidance. To such accustomed only to “move altogether if they move at all,” we would commend the great truth that God can work by and for the few as well as for the many; that He is often content with small beginnings where we should have expected mighty achievements. This lesson we learn from our Saviour’s teaching.

He often spoke to large audiences; but He never refrained because His listeners were few. What minister charged with such a message as, “Whosoever drinketh the water that I shall give him shall never thirst; but the water that I shall give him shall be in him a well of water springing up into everlasting life,” would have told it for the first time to a poor sinful woman whom he met by the way-side? Would he not rather have reasoned that his church must be unusually full before such a wonderful message could be delivered? Surely many “masters of Israel” should have been present to hear the answer to the question that has vexed and troubled the Church in all ages, as to where and how the Father was to be worshipped. But no; the same wondering woman, standing with her water-pitcher in her hand, was taught that neither exclusively “in this mountain nor yet at Jerusalem” was the Father to be worshipped, but that “the true worshippers worship the Father in spirit and in truth.” Jesus knew she would go on her way and stop every one she met, to repeat what she had heard, and to say, “Come, see a man who told me all things that ever I did.” This, too, is our hope, when the thought depresses us, that these small means can never affect such masses of evil. Each rescued soul becomes a light set upon a hill that cannot be hid, and many will make use of this light to guide themselves out of darkness.

Let those who are actively and successfully engaged in their own peculiar duties, spare a little time to assist their less gifted or less fortunate neighbours. Let those who are weary of doing nothing, assist those who are weak and weary with doing too much. Let those who are strong, aid those whose burden of life is too heavy for them to bear. And let us all seek to fulfil the great Christian command—which should be the bane of selfishness, and must be the foundation of social elevation—“Look not every man on his own things, but every man also on the things of others.”

CHAPTER I.
A Village—Not Picturesque.

“Can any good thing come out of Nazareth?”

The wish of the child for a picture of the story which has interested him, expresses a feeling that is found in those of maturer years. “Where did this happen?” is the question sure to follow a narrative that has awakened sympathy. We realise the truth of a description more forcibly when we have given to it “a local habitation and a name.” In the present instance there is more than the usual reason for detail. Characteristic peculiarities belong both to the place and the people whom I am about to describe. Origin, occupation, and habits will, to a great extent, account for much that would otherwise require explanation. Without a due regard to these particulars, much labour is lost in working among the poor. We know that the seed which flourishes in one soil, and brings forth fruit to perfection, will scarcely live in another; and as every successful gardener considers both ground and plant, so every labourer in the human soil is careful to adapt means to ends, or his toil is fruitless.

Inasmuch as there has always been a demand for pigs’ flesh, at least among Christians, it is impossible to determine for how long pig-feeding establishments have been thought necessary for the neighbourhood of London. In all probability they had their origin at a very early date, and can claim to be ranked among the “time-honoured institutions” of this great city.

But we are not able to go back much further than sixty years, when we find that this necessary evil had for some time been located near the ground now covered by the Marble Arch, Connaught and other Squares. Here the nuisance was supposed to be out of town, and the porcine tribe luxuriated in this dry and elevated region. If there had been found at that time a registrar-general to note down the deaths and diseases of pigs, the records would excite the envy of swine in the present generation, and induce the sad belief that the former times were better than these. But these respectable animals of the past century had apparently another cause for congratulation. Their society seemed eagerly sought by the great London world; and seeing how perseveringly they were followed, they could proudly boast that they were leading the metropolis “by the nose.” Such a soothing idea was, however, dispelled, when conviction was unwillingly forced upon them, that there was a general desire to get rid of them as near neighbours, and that their room was more highly esteemed than their company.

The ground which these pigs occupied had become too valuable for them to remain there in peace. I have not been able to discover whether they were expelled by purchase, ejectment, or annoyance; but it is certain that, about the period I have named, they were compelled to go in search of a new home.

About that time a man named Lake, a chimney-sweeper and scavenger, who lived in Tottenham Court Road, became, from the nature of his occupation, so obnoxious to his neighbours, that he, too, was compelled to take himself off to a fresh locality. My informant told me he was determined to go at once far enough out of London. He thought three miles in a westerly direction would make him safe, and finding a spot that suited him, he secured a lease of the land, and removed himself and his appendages to a place, now sometimes called Notting Dale, but more generally the “Potteries.” Here, for a short time, he enjoyed almost a solitary life. The population of the place, for the first year or two, consisted of only three persons. Whatever he may have suffered from loneliness, was, no doubt, abundantly made up to him by a sense of freedom, and an absence from all restraint, for his neighbours were distant and few. At length finding he could not use all the land he had leased, he naturally looked about for some one to share it with him. Alas! he was not company for every one. Eventually he heard of a man named Stephens, a bowstring maker, who, from the unsavoury nature of his trade, was enduring a similar persecution to that from which he himself had escaped. Lake invited this man to become his neighbour; and Stephens eventually purchased from him the lease of a plot of land for one hundred pounds, and removed his bowstring establishment to this new possession. Perhaps he did not find it answer to carry on his business so far from town: this does not appear in the narrative; but it is certain that, for some reason, he soon relinquished it, and commenced pig-keeping instead,—probably for the same reason as the bone-picker assigned for his attachment to his trade, that he shouldn’t think it all right, unless he could “feel a smell.”

In his inquiries after pigs, &c., he became acquainted with the distress of the “West-end establishment,” and offered its members a share of the refuge which he and his friend Lake had found. The offer was gladly accepted, and many of the masters either bought or rented small plots of land from the original proprietors, and removed their establishments of pigs and children to this favoured spot, where Lake assured them everybody should do as they liked, and “he’d see that nobody meddled with them.”

Under this magnificent charter and spirited government the little colony progressed rapidly, and numbers of houses, or rather huts, sprang up on all sides. Such things as drainage and fresh water were considered superfluous; and the accumulation of the filth of years rendered it certain, by the simple law of self-preservation, that nothing would be meddled with.

In addition to the above-mentioned trades, about thirty years ago a considerable plot of land was bought for brick-making, the soil being almost entirely composed of stiff clay, peculiarly adapted for that purpose. This introduced another fresh element into the newly formed colony. The labourers employed at this work are not usually of a very high class, and the oldest inhabitants of the Potteries speak of their introduction as an evil. An old woman, who has lived forty years in the place, and her husband’s parents were amongst the first inhabitants, remarked, “Now pig-keepers is respectable; but them brick people, they bean’t, some of them, no wiser than the clay they works on.” I asked this old woman what kind of life they had lived there by themselves so many years. She said, “Oh, ma’am, you’d think ’twas an awful life! The only difference in Sundays and work-days was, that on Sundays we had cock-fighting and bull-baiting, and lots of dogs were kept on purpose to amuse the people by fighting and rat-killing. People all round were afraid of these dogs, and nobody ever cared to come nigh the place. We didn’t ourselves venture out after it was dark; if we hadn’t got in all we wanted before night, why we jist went without it: for besides the dogs, d’ye see, ma’am, there was the roads; leastwise, we called ’em roads, but they wornt for all that,—it was jist a lot of ups and downs, and when you had put one foot down, you didn’t know how to pull the other one up. Once, I mind, I happened to be out late in the evening, and had to go through Cut-throat Lane jist as it was gitting dark, (they calls that Pottery Lane now, you know, ma’am); I heard some people coming along, fighting and swearing, and I was so frightened I got down into the bottom of one of the ruts, and there I stopped till they had gone; so I got a service out of them that time, d’ye see, ma’am.

“We had no near neighbours for a long time; there was a farm-house where the Mitre Tavern now stands, and I can mind, when I have been passing by, seeing the men stacking the hay and the corn, and hearing them singing over their work. Then there was another farm-house, down where the Royal Crescent is now; and sometimes I have been there for a drop of milk, for we hadn’t no shops for a long time.”

I knew that my communicative old woman had been a good Christian character for many years; so I asked her how she, as an individual, had managed to pass her Sundays in this dark place, before there were either schools or places of worship of any kind there.

“Why, ma’am,” she replied, “I never would work of a Sunday—nobody couldn’t make me. I used to tidy up my house after breakfast, and put the saucepan by the fire, and then I went over to the old church at Kensington. The people now and then threw stones at me, and used to threaten to set the dogs at me; but they never did,—the Lord didn’t let ’em; and they knew me, too, that I’d be torn in pieces before I’d give up what I knew to be right.”

I was astonished at the immense numbers of pigs which these people seemed to keep, and I asked the old woman how they managed to find food for them all; she said—

“We most of us keep a horse, or a donkey and cart, and we go round early in the morning to the gentlefolk’s houses, and collect the refuges from the kitchens. When we comes home, we sorts it out; the best of it we eats ourselves or sells it to a neighbour, the fat is all boiled down, and the rest we gives to the pigs.”

“Do you go to the same houses every day?” I asked.

“Why, you see, ma’am, that depends upon how much refuge they have. When they have lots of company, then they gets a deal of refuge. I have been to the Duke of —, whenever he has been in town, for the last thirty years. Last week one of his daughters was married, and the house was full all the week; then there was plenty for me. But, do you know, ma’am, for all I’ve been in the habit of going backwards and forwards to that house so many years, them servants, that they have now, never had the manners to give me a bit of bridecake. I couldn’t help speaking about it. I says to them, ‘Well, this is something to think! I have been in attendance on the Duke this thirty years, and can’t get a bit of bridecake when his daughter is married.’ Of course that wasn’t the Duke’s fault, you see, ma’am; it was all a-hoeing to them servants. When the families goes out of town, the servants is put upon board wages, and they skrimps and saves everything; we aint wanted to call then, ’cause there’s not a scrap left for us. Oh no, it aint no use then.”

Although, as years rolled on, London continued to come further out of town, till those pig-feeders found themselves again surrounded by streets, squares, and terraces, inhabited by the “quality,” little attention was directed to the place, till the visitation of cholera in 1849. Then the eyes of the newly arrived were opened, and many were horrified at discerning what a plague-spot they had in their midst.

In one of the first numbers of Dickens’s “Household Words” the following passages appeared, which at once brought the place into notice; and, both in and out of Parliament, plans for its improvement were discussed:—

“In a neighbourhood studded thickly with elegant villas and mansions, viz., Bayswater and Notting Hill, in the parish of Kensington, is a plague-spot, scarcely equalled for its insalubrity by any other in London; it is called the Potteries. It comprises some seven or eight acres, with about two hundred and sixty houses (if the term can be applied to such hovels), and a population of nine hundred or one thousand. The occupation of the inhabitants is principally pig-fattening. Many hundreds of pigs, ducks, and fowls, are kept in an incredible state of filth. Dogs abound, for the purpose of guarding the swine. The atmosphere is still further polluted by the process of fat-boiling. In these hovels, discontent, dirt, filth, and misery are unsurpassed by anything known even in Ireland. Water is supplied to only a small number of the houses. There are foul ditches, open sewers, and defective drains, smelling most offensively, and generating large quantities of poisonous gases; stagnant water is found at every turn; not a drop of clean water can be obtained; all is charged to saturation with putrescent matter. Wells have been sunk on some of the premises, but they have become in many instances useless, from organic matter soaking into them. In some of the wells the water is perfectly black and fetid. The paint on the window-frames has become black from the action of sulphuretted hydrogen gas. Nearly all the inhabitants look unhealthy; the women especially complain of sickness and want of appetite, their eyes are sunken, and their skin shrivelled.

“The poisonous influence of this pestilential locality extends far and wide. Some twelve or thirteen hundred feet off, there is a row of clean houses called Crafton Terrace: the situation, though rather low, is open and airy. On Saturday and Sunday, the 8th and 9th September 1849, the inhabitants complained of an intolerable stench, the wind then blowing directly upon the terrace from the Potteries. Up to this time, there had been no case of cholera among the inhabitants; but the next day the disease broke out virulently; and, on the following day, the 11th September, a child died of cholera at No. 1. By the 22d of the same month, no less than seven persons in the terrace lost their lives by this fatal malady.”

It will be supposed that, after this, the law of self-preservation induced the surrounding inhabitants to be very urgent with parochial and all other officials who had any authority in the place. In a short time a good road was made, and supplies of fresh water were introduced. The drainage was found very difficult, from the low level of the ground; and it certainly could not have been thoroughly completed; for in the Report on the Sanitary Condition of the Parish of Kensington, for the year 1856, by Francis Goderich, M.R.C.S., L.A.C., Medical Officer of Health, the following passages appear:—

“One of the most deplorable spots, not only in Kensington, but in the whole metropolis, is the Potteries at Notting Dale,—a locality which is from its position difficult to drain. It occupies eight or nine acres of ground, and contains about 1000 inhabitants, the majority of whom obtain a living by rearing and fattening pigs upon the house-refuse obtained from club-houses and hotels, and upon offal, entrails, liver, and blood from slaughter-houses. This offensive food, often in a high state of decomposition when brought to the place, is boiled down in coppers and the fat separated for sale.

“The number of pigs varies from 1000 to 2000 (as many as 3000 have been kept), in filthy and badly-paved styes close to the houses. The drainage, in nearly all cases very defective, permits the liquid manure to run over the yards, saturating the ground to a great depth, contaminating all the wells with putrid matter, and polluting the atmosphere for a considerable distance around. There were, till lately, several immense accumulations of stagnant water, into which this pig matter found its way. One immense piece, called the ‘Ocean,’ formerly occupied nearly an acre of ground; it was covered with filthy slime, and bubbling with poisonous gases, caused by the drainage of pigstyes, &c., flowing into it. Till lately, the want of water was most severely felt by the inhabitants, and even now many of the yards in which the pigs are kept are entirely destitute of it. Many of the houses are in a most dilapidated state. Old railway-carriages and worn-out travelling-vans may be seen taken off their wheels and converted into dwellings.

“The people in general look sallow and aged; the children pale and flabby, their eyes glistening as if stimulated by ammonia. Small-pox is ten times more fatal than in any of the surrounding districts.

“The general death-rate varies from forty to sixty per 1000 per annum; of these deaths the very large proportion of 87.5 per cent. are under five years of age; and nearly all the deaths, I again observe, occur from zymotic diseases. The most appalling fact, however, connected with this subject, and one most likely to make a deep sensation in the public mind, is, that for a period of three years the average age at death is under twelve years.”

After this, great efforts were made to get rid of “the swinish multitude” altogether; but the shrewd chimney-sweep, Lake, seems to have foreseen this evil day, and “for the purpose of pig-keeping” had been inserted in the very leases which the people were able to produce; so that nothing but a special Act of Parliament could remedy the existing evil. The number of animals was, however, somewhat reduced; and, by additional drainage and further supplies of fresh water, a decided improvement has been effected. The inhabitants have become much healthier, and for the last year or two the number of deaths has scarcely exceeded the common average.

So much for the physical aspect of the district. But another question arises, fraught with still greater interest. What has been done for the people themselves? Surely the moral as well as the physical drainer had work to do here. However scanty may have been the supply of fresh water, the “water of life” was still more scarce. The road to heaven, though it had not to be made for them, had to be pointed out. In the almost entire absence of the observance of the Sabbath and of the means of grace, it is not surprising that a generation should have grown up without God in the world, and to all outward appearance as “far off by wicked works” as any of the heathen nations.

When, however, the place began to be frequented by the district visitor, it was found that a few, even there, had from the first feared and honoured God, had kept His Sabbaths in spite of all opposition; and though their cry had been, “Woe is me that I dwell in Meshec,” yet they had held fast their integrity, and, in a few cases, had managed even to establish in their families the daily reading of the Bible and united prayer. I have had the pleasure of conversing with some of these good people; and it might as truly be said of their moral standing, as it was of Saul’s natural height, that “from their shoulders and upwards” they were higher than any of the people.

The first girls’ school in the Potteries was established through the benevolent exertions of Lady Mary Fox. Some time after its foundation, a gentleman, who took a deep interest in the improvement of the district, presented a plot of ground on which a spacious national school-room was soon erected. It was, and is still (1859), surrounded by pigstyes. St James’s Church was built in 1845, within a few minutes’ walk of these school-rooms.

The first curate who was appointed entered at once upon his work in this deplorably destitute district, and in spite of great difficulties, and frequent failures of health, from exposure to damp and the horrible pollutions and stench of the highways and byways, he has steadily worked on for twelve years. He has happily lived to see a great improvement since he commenced his labours, and he has won the respect and affection of the whole community. The old woman, from whose conversation I have before quoted, said, in speaking of him, “’Twas the best day that ever rose in the Potteries, when he came amongst us; and, let who will come after him, he’ll never be forgotten.”

Another happy event was the appointment of a City Missionary, in the year 1850. It was pre-eminently the missionary that those people required. Their early habits, and also a spirit of lawlessness which seems one of their natural characteristics, made it difficult to persuade them to attend any place of worship. They had, indeed, to be “sought out.”

It has been remarked of the people in the United States of America, that they are all, to some extent, tinctured with the spirit of their early founders. The indomitable spirit, the resolution to conquer difficulties at any cost, is traced back by some to “the Pilgrim Fathers.” Those who reason thus would perhaps think they could account in the same way for that extraordinary spirit of independence which is so manifest in the dispositions of the people of whom we are now writing. The descendants of Lake and Stephens would, if placed in the same difficulties, undoubtedly exhibit the same ingenuity and resolution to extricate themselves. Another cause of this independence may be, that they have remained very much their own masters. Each man and woman seems to have had so many pigs and children to rule over, and no one dared to interfere. This absence of service, each one having to think for himself, and not to conform to the dictates of another, would also cause unusual self-reliance.

Fortunately for this people, the missionary soon made himself thoroughly acquainted with the soil he had come to cultivate, and was enabled so to accommodate and adapt himself to its requirements, that very little time was lost in getting to work. Had the case been otherwise, years might have passed in fruitless labour; but God gave to His servant a wise and understanding heart, and by appearing to yield everything, he gained everything. Among the many triumphs of missionary work, the Potteries must rank almost the highest. A contrast more striking could scarcely be imagined than that between the indifference, rudeness, and sometimes even execration, with which his first visits were received, and the spontaneous respect which is now paid to him by every man, woman, and child.

But other agencies for good have also been at work. The church and congregation assembling at Horbury Chapel directed their kind sympathies, and stretched out helping hands to cleanse this “Slough of Despond.” A room was first hired, in which to conduct a Sunday school; but this was soon overfilled, and it was proposed to build a chapel and school-rooms. By the exertion of kind and influential friends, the proposal was carried out, and the building was opened in 1852. An excellent master and mistress for the schools were secured: it is not too much to say that their influence for good is felt through the length and breadth of the district.

I was present at a meeting held at Kensington Chapel some time since, when a report of these schools was read. In describing the first gathering of the children, it was remarked that the scholars who regularly attended soon became orderly and attentive; the annoyance which was at first experienced arose not from them, but from the ragged, neglected children without, who for a long time persisted in throwing stones, breaking windows, persecuting the scholars as they came and returned, and in other varieties of characteristic mischief. From these facts it was evident that while the “aristocracy” of the Potteries had education provided for their children, there still existed an outlying juvenile population of young Ishmaelites, to reach whom some other means must be devised. After a short time, a room was hired, and a Ragged Evening School for girls was established; a Mothers’ Class soon followed, then a Sunday Evening Ragged School for boys, a Working Men’s Association, and other like institutions. All these, from want of a suitable place for assembling, were maintained with considerable difficulty, and also with great expense. This want continued to be so increasingly felt, that in June 1855, a lady in the neighbourhood kindly convened a meeting of influential ladies and gentlemen at her house, to consider the possibility of erecting such a building. At this meeting, the following resolutions were unanimously carried:—

“1st, That should such school-rooms be raised, they should be placed in trust of a committee of evangelical Christians, to consist of members of the Church of England and Dissenters in equal numbers.

“2d, That they should be for the benefit of four chief objects:—the Boys’ Ragged School, the Girls’ Ragged School, the Infant School, and the Mothers’ Meetings.

“3d, It is also considered important that the use of the building should be granted for lectures and for general educational purposes. The means of carrying out these resolutions are left for decision till a future meeting.”

Upwards of one hundred pounds were subscribed on this occasion; but, though great exertions were made to obtain the requisite funds, it was not until March 1858, that the committee considered they had a sufficient amount in hand to warrant the prosecution of their design. In the list of contributors to the Building Fund will be found names of members of the Established Church, the Society of Friends, Independents, Wesleyans, and Baptists. It is the determination of the committee to carry out the first resolution in its strictest integrity, trusting that all the members will be enabled to act in harmonious concert in the one grand object of promoting the moral and religious training of the poor people of the Potteries. The Infant and Ragged School-rooms, erected under the able direction of Mr Sim, the Honorary Architect, are remarkable alike for simplicity of design, excellence of ventilation, and space. They were opened by Lord Shaftesbury in June.

CHAPTER II.
Illustrations of Character.

“The same rains rain from heaven on all the forest trees;
Yet those bring forth sweet fruits, and pois’nous berries these.”

Trench.

In my first visit to the Potteries, I was accompanied by the City Missionary, who introduced me to some fourteen or sixteen families residing there.

I was, as usual, at once impressed with the great deficiency of home comforts; and the miserable countenances of many of the children told of neglect and bad management more forcibly than words could have done.

I told them I had just come to reside near them, and I hoped we should be good neighbours. Like them, I was so occupied with my home duties, that I feared I should not be able to visit them frequently; but it had occurred to me, that if they could spare an hour one evening in the week, I would try to do so also, and we would spend it together in conversing over our various duties and difficulties, more especially those relating to our children, and by this means I hoped we might mutually benefit each other, as well as get more intimately acquainted.

This invitation was by no means warmly responded to at first, but it was the first step taken towards the formation of the Kensington Potteries Mothers’ Society.

One morning, a very decent elderly woman, whom I had seen at the Mothers’ Meetings, asked me to call upon her husband, who had not been able to leave his house for some weeks, and was too ill to read. In the afternoon I went to the Potteries. Fortunately, I met a boy of my acquaintance in the street, and he conducted me to the dwelling, which, with the direction given me that “it was in no street in particular,” would have proved difficult to find. I had to pass through a kind of shed to reach the room in which this old couple lived; it was filled with feeding-troughs, tubs, old hoops, and wheel-barrows. I managed to steer safely through all this, and ascended two or three steps into the one chamber which served at once for bed-room, kitchen, and living-room. The man was sitting in a comfortable arm-chair by a neat little fire, and the room was very clean. His hair was perfectly white, and scantily covered one of the finest-formed heads I have ever seen. The features of his face were of a very uncommon order, and everything marked him as one of nature’s “men of power.” He scarcely noticed me when I entered; but his wife said, “This is the lady, John, as has the meeting.” He said, “Oh,” and gave me a kind of nod. The woman seemed annoyed at his want of cordiality, and said again, “John, I have told you about the lady often, and I went myself this morning to ask her to come and see you.”

“I know,” was the laconic answer.

I saw the first advances must come from me, so I took a seat by him, and said, “I am sorry to hear you have been suffering from illness so long.”

“I am seventy-five years old; I have hardly had any illness all my life; I have done a deal of work, and God has been very good to me, and I am not going to grumble at Him now for shutting me up a few months.”

“Your wife tells me you cannot read much, on account of your eyes; I suppose you find the time a little tedious after the active life you have led?”

“I shouldn’t find the time tedious at all, if we were only left to ourselves.” I looked to the wife for an explanation, and she said, “He means, ma’am, that the neighbours hereabout annoy him so by their ways of going on.” This touched a theme upon which he could be eloquent. He began to tell me a great deal about the wickedness of his neighbours; their desecration of the Sabbath seemed to vex him exceedingly. He complained that he could get no peace on the Sunday for the cries of those who went about selling things; while the swarms of children that came out to spend their halfpence that day shewed how wicked their parents must be. As I generally avoid talking of the faults of other persons when visiting the poor, I said, wishing to change the subject, “Well, we have so much to do with ourselves that we must not judge our neighbours harshly.” The old man looked indignantly at me, and exclaimed, “Do you think if God was to call me away this instant, and I had to go to be judged before His throne, and He was to tell me of all the wicked ways I have seen going on before my eyes, and He was to say to me, ‘Why did you see all that sin, and not reprove it?’ do you think He’d take for excuse my saying, ‘that I oughtn’t to judge my neighbours harshly?’ No; depend upon it, He’d hold me guilty for it. He’d say, ‘You know’d better, and you ought to have cared for their souls, and told ’em of it.’ I have always been in the habit of reproving sin when I have seen it, and I always shall.”

The character of Nehemiah came so forcibly into my mind while he was speaking, that when he had ended I could not help remarking, “If you had lived in the days of Nehemiah, I suppose you would not have disapproved of what he did? You know, he not only reproved the people, but he smote certain of them, and plucked out their hair.”

“Ah!” said the old man, “he was in the right of it. Whenever I reads that, I always says, ‘Sarved ’em right.’ We want Nehemiahs bad enough now-a-days,—people, I mean, as has got the courage to call things by their right names.”

“But,” I replied, “we have a later example than Nehemiah to go by, and a more perfect one. Jesus did not reprove sin in this way.”—“He made a whip of small cords and drove them all out of the temple, I know,” said the old man.—“So He did once,” I said; “but a whip of small cords in the hands of Jesus is a very different thing from what it would be in our hands.”—“I don’t understand you,” was the rejoinder.—I explained, “Jesus would only use it where and when it ought to be used, because He would know the extent of the evil in every heart He had to do with; but we, who can judge only after the outward appearance, might make mistakes, and inflict a wound where we ought rather to have bound one up.”

He was silent a minute, and then, as if unable to keep in any longer what had evidently been in his thoughts throughout, he said, “Ma’am, I’ve often heard from my old ’ooman and the rest of ’em what you says to ’em at the meetings, and it has been upon my mind, when I did see you, to tell you I think, if you know’d more about some of ’em you get there, you would be rather more sharp upon ’em than you are.”

“You mean, I suppose, that when I know of anything particularly wrong in any of them, I ought to reprove them?”

“Why, yes. You see, they look up to you a good deal; and, it seems to me, you might do a power of good this way.”

“I think you do not take quite the right view of my position. I do not profess to come amongst them as a reprover of sin, and just to preach to them about their duties; I really have no right to take such an office on myself. I want to help them, knowing that many of their mistakes arise from ignorance. Most of them come in after a hard day’s work, and much suffering in body and mind from fatigue and anxiety; and while I know much of that fatigue and anxiety might have been prevented, if they had set about things in a right way instead of a wrong one, I feel the best use I can make of the little time we have together is, to try to shew them ‘a better way.’ We always begin with reading God’s holy Word, and that is the best reprover of sin; for Paul says, you know, ‘I had not known sin, except by the law.’ It was the law that made sin appear to him ‘exceeding sinful;’ and that is the effect I hope and pray it may have upon us.”

“Well,” said the old man, “some of ’em is a deal better for going, I must confess; but it ’pears to me you say things to them as if they were all alike, whereas some of them is a deal wickeder than others.”

I saw it would be quite impossible to separate in the mind of this veteran the offices of teacher of righteousness, and reprover of sin, or to make him comprehend how many enemies I should make, and what confusion there would be, if I adopted the course which he recommended. So I just remarked, “Well, you know I always ask God to give me a wise and understanding heart before I go amongst them, and I hope I shall be guided to do what is right. If I could see into the heart as God can, I might be able to adapt myself to individual cases; but as it is, I think it would be a worse mistake to distress and vex, by unjust comments, those already sufficiently weary and heavy laden. Encouragement in a right course will often do much more than finding fault with what is wrong. I believe, that whatever good has been done, has arisen from the reading together of God’s Word; whether comfort, counsel, or reproof has been wanted, they have come in this way, and the promise has been fulfilled, ‘My word shall not return unto me void.’”

“Ah!” said he, “that blessed book! I have lived in this place through a dark time, and I am sure I can say that it has been ‘a light to my feet, and a lamp to my path.’” Just then a sad fit of coughing came on, which seemed almost to deprive him of the power of breathing. When it was over, I said, “Do you often cough like that?” “I often do in the night,” he replied. “I can never quite lie down; for if the cough were to come on suddenly, I might be choked before I could be got up. The doctor says I shall go off in one of these fits some night.”

I asked the wife if any one was with them at night: she said, “Oh, no, John isn’t never afraid.” “The last thing that I and my old ’ooman does at night,” added John, “is to kneel down and commend ourselves to God’s keeping. I said to her last night, after we had been praying, ‘Jane, if I am sent for to-night, I am ready;’ and what it will be to leave this poor place, and go right off at once to the mansion my Saviour has provided for me!”

“Can you feel as trustful as your husband?” I asked Jane.

“Why, ma’am, I do try to, and I am as happy to think about heaven as he is; but you see, ma’am, the thing I feel is, that we must die first before we can go there, and death may be an awfuller thing than we think for.”

“Jane,” cried her husband, in a reproving tone of voice, “how often I have told you, that if death is to be a great trouble, then God is going to send us great help for it. He took care of me and helped me when I was a strong man, and now that I am as feeble as a child, He will be strength to me; and, Jane, I wish you would mind, that it isn’t any more hard to God to help us out of great troubles than out of little uns. You wouldn’t believe, ma’am,” he continued, “how happy I am at night, sometimes, when I am lying awake. He makes me to feel that love and trust in Him, that as sure as David I can say, ‘I fear no evil.’”

Blessed old man! The little room, with its close atmosphere, and many discomforts, seemed to me like the gate of heaven; and had he lived in Old Testament days, his name might have ranked with them of whom it is said, “These all died in faith, not having received the promises, but having seen them afar off, and were persuaded of them, and embraced them, and confessed that they were strangers and pilgrims on the earth.”

A few months after I had established the Mothers’ Society, one of the women brought a message from her husband, expressing his great wish to see me. I promised to call in the course of the week, and the next afternoon I found my way to a little low dwelling, which was pointed out to me as the residence I was seeking. It consisted of only two rooms—one in front, where the family seemed to live during the day, while that behind served as a bed-room. Three or four children were playing on the floor; the mother was busy at her washing-tub; and near the fire sat the husband, who, I saw, from his leather apron and the boot he held in his hand, was a shoemaker. The reception here was very different from the one previously described. When the wife announced me, the man rose from his seat; and, as his height exceeded six feet, his head scarcely cleared the ceiling. His fine figure, the form of his head, and the expression of his countenance, conveyed the idea that, had the man been born in a different position, he might have risen to be Lord Chancellor. After the usual greeting, he said (still standing)—

“Madam, I have wanted to see you for some time past, to thank you for what you have begun to do for us. You have thought of what we want done for us more than anything, and I hope, madam, you will go on with it; and God will bless you for this work, and so shall many of us; for we often think we might do better, if somebody would take the trouble to put us in the way of it.”

I told him that I was quite rewarded for any trouble which I was taking, by the pleasant friends I made. When I was living in the country, I had always been accustomed to a large number of poor friends; and since coming to London, I had missed them very much. I told him of a book society that my brother and I had established in the village near our house. Twelve men, like himself, (I believe, four out of the twelve were shoemakers,) each brought a book, and on the first day of the month each man passed on his book to the member next on the list; and thus all had the benefit of reading twelve books at the cost of one. We had quarterly meetings with these men, to converse about the books; I repeated to him some of the observations they used to make, and I saw my listener was much amused.

“Ah!” said he, “I lived in the country, too, before I came here; but there was nothing of that sort going on there. I wish there had; it would have kept me out of a deal of mischief. I have blessed God that ever I came to this place; for though it is poor and dirty enough, I have met the best friends here that I ever knew.”

He then gave me a long and interesting account of his previous life; how he had early imbibed infidel principles from some of his companions, and had gone on for years rather wishing them to be true than actually believing them to be so.

“I couldn’t bear,” he said, “to think there was a God, or another life to come after this; it made me so miserable. I was obliged to try and get rid of the thoughts as fast as they came; and then there was the people as called themselves religious; I really couldn’t see that they were better than those as didn’t say anything about it. They liked eating, and drinking, and pleasuring, just as much in their way as any one else; and though we often heard that they talked about us in a way that shewed they despised us, and thought themselves a deal better, that only made us feel worse. But since we have been here, some of the ladies as bring round the tracts has stopped and talked to us sometimes in quite a different sort of way, you know, ma’am. One of them left me a tract to read some time ago. I couldn’t get this tract out of my mind after I had read it. There, whilst I was at work, it was lying on the bench, and I kept looking into it again and again. One day, while I was puzzling about it, the missionary came in. I soon saw he wasn’t like them religious people I knew before, and I told him all that was in my mind: and ’twas the best day of my life when I met with him; for he has helped me to see things very different; and I bless God that ever he came here, and so does many others beside me.”

“Well,” I said, “you can say you are a happier man now than ever you were before, cannot you?”

“Yes, ma’am, thank God, I can trust Him for this life, and through my blessed Saviour I have hope of a better life to come.”

I saw, by the thoughtful and earnest expression of his face, that the man had still something on his mind; so I did not reply, but waited a minute.

“Do you know, ma’am,” he continued, “though God has been so good to me, and has made me to see how He can and will save me, sinner though I am, it do trouble me, and I can’t help it, to see so much confusion, like, in this world. Some people as isn’t worse than others, nor yet so bad, seems to be always a-suffering; and little children too, it do grieve me to see them suffer: and then you see, ma’am, what a place this very ‘Potteries’ is, to be in God’s world.”

“But,” I replied, “God did not make the Potteries what they are. Some sixty years ago, before any one lived here, the air was fresh and sweet; flowers and trees were growing here; and it was altogether as pleasant a place as any other portion of God’s dominions.”

“Well,” he said, “that’s true:” but the shade had not passed away from his countenance.

“Do you know,” I continued, “it is one of the greatest troubles of my life that I so often feel just what you describe. It was only a short time ago, I was walking in London; and as I turned into one of the back streets, I saw a little boy sitting on a doorstep, with a baby in his arms about five or six months old; as I passed by, the baby began to cry, and the miserable expression of its little face, and the hopeless look of its nurse, feeling so powerless to do anything to comfort it,—both little faces looking already old from hunger, cold, and neglect,—so troubled me that I could scarcely look at or enjoy anything while I was out. In the evening, after my own healthy, happy children were gone to bed, I was sitting in my comfortable room by the cheerful fire, surrounded by everything to make life comfortable and desirable; but instead of feeling thankful for so many mercies, I sat and cried at the recollection of those unhappy little children.”

“And did ye sure, ma’am?” said the man. “Law! now, how we do feel alike after all, when we come to know! But I suppose, ma’am, that sort of thing does not last long with you?”

“I remember, that evening at family prayer,” I continued, “the chapter which was read had this verse in it: ‘Even so it is not the will of your Father which is in heaven, that one of these little ones should perish.’ I thought it was not my will, either; but there was this great difference,—whatever God willed He had the power to do; that He had sent His Son to die for the world, and these little creatures were part of His world, and He would do with them just what is right.”

“Do you think, ma’am,” said the man, “that God is altogether angry with us for this sort of feeling? He must know that it is very difficult for us to see so much misery, and not be troubled about it.”

“I do not think that is quite so clear,” I said, “as that He is pleased with us for trusting Him entirely. I think He has great sympathy with us in the difficulty we have to contend with in this respect. He says, ‘And blessed is he whosoever shall not be offended in me.’ Though He did not blame Thomas for his unbelief, He said, ‘Blessed are they who have not seen me, and yet have believed.’ Even a grain of faith is commended, and spoken of as having much reward connected with it: and the apostle tells us, ‘Cast not away, therefore, your confidence, which hath great recompense of reward.’”

“Well, ma’am,” he replied, “I do pray for faith. I do think it is a glorious thing to be able to trust everything with God. I says to myself often, ‘There, wait a bit, and you’ll know.’”

I answered, “I once heard my dear mother talking to a person who troubled himself very much about the management of God’s world. She said, ‘I have often compared our present condition to that of servants who might be called into a great house to assist in performing some important work; but instead of the same servants being employed throughout, each was expected to work only one hour, and then to give place to others. Of course, from this circumstance, no one of them would be able to understand the object and design of the work; these would only be known to the master. All that he required of them was, to do his bidding a little while, and then to receive a great reward. How foolish it would be of those servants to go fretfully through their short period of service, and dishonour their master by evil reports of what they could not understand, and lose their reward at last!’”

“O ma’am,” said the man, “that is beautiful: it was never so plain to me before.”

Just then the children, who had been sent out by their mother to play, that they might not interrupt our conversation, returned; and, after making a little acquaintance with them, I took my leave. As I returned home, I hoped that this pleasant interview might be the beginning of a long friendship; but I never saw my friend again. Only about a week from that time, he was taken ill, and died a few days afterwards. I did not hear of his sickness in time to see him; but I heard that he died in peace, trusting wholly in the Saviour. How soon was the mystery, with him, exchanged for perfect knowledge! How soon was he admitted where every tear shed, either for himself or others, was for ever wiped away; while we, who tried even out of our own dimness and sorrow to enlighten and comfort him, are still left to wonder and weep!

Foster, after the death of his wife, when writing to a friend, says, referring to the years that may elapse before he may be permitted to join her, “Does that to her appear a long time in prospect, or has she begun to account of duration according to the great laws of eternity? Earnest imaginings and questionings like these arise without end, and still, still there is no answer, no revelation. The mind comes again and again up closer to the thick black veil; but there is no perforation, no glimpse. She that loved me, and, I trust, loves me still, will not, must not, cannot answer me. I can only imagine her to say, ‘Come and see. Serve our God, so that you shall come and share at no distant time.’” And again, in another letter, he says, “How striking to think that she, so long and so recently with me here, so beloved, but now so totally withdrawn and absent, that she experimentally knows all that I am in vain inquiring.”

The cottage of the communicative little old woman, to whom I am indebted for so much of my information, was amongst the earliest erected in the Potteries. It must have been a picturesque object when the smoke first curled from the low chimney across the verdant plain, where neither villa, terrace, nor steeple were to be seen. The Hippodrome was then on the spot where the graceful church of Saint John’s now stands. Travellers, who were in the habit of coming this way, tell us that was then the waymark, just as the church now seems to be the town-mark.

Not far from the Hippodrome stood “Tucker’s Cottage,” which an artist thought sufficiently picturesque to transfer to his sketch-book. The reader may confirm this opinion on reference to my frontispiece. This interesting dwelling consisted of one floor, divided into two apartments, one for the family, the other for domestic purposes and such animals as were thought indispensable to the general welfare. Before and behind was an ample plot of ground, enclosed by a thick mound of earth that resembled the outworks of a fortification. The ground front was the domain of poultry, pigs, and the donkey; in the rear stagnated a lake, into which flowed the foul streams of the province. The pond was overhung with willow stumps, that assumed the title of trees. Like a sea far more famous, it had “no outlet but the ambient air.” As years passed, and the events previously described took place, this primeval cottage was fast advancing to decay. The roof and walls had been often repaired with old pieces of board, condemned teatrays, plaster, and similar rubbish; the windows had become opaque, and the chimney transparent. Various means had been adopted to prevent the downfall of the whole house. After a “stiffer breeze” than common, the little old man might have been seen doctoring Jenny’s (the donkey’s) apartment, and his own also. But all his trouble and pains were unavailing. The little dwelling, which he and his “guidwife” had helped to rear with their own hands, laughed at by the world, but endeared to them by the associations of a lifetime, was sentenced by the Commissioners to be taken down; and thus, just five years before the expiration of their lease, the venerable pair were compelled, at a cost to themselves of thirty shillings (which they could very ill afford), to pull down what remained of the old fabric. “Some natural tears they shed, but wiped them soon.” Yes, literally, they “wiped them soon;” for the poor old couple belonged to the company of the faithful, who believe that “here they have no continuing city, but seek one to come.” It was “the Lord’s will,” they said. “He ordered all for the best.” “The Master would soon call them to a house not made with hands;” and so, without repining, they rented an adjoining cottage. Here the principal inconvenience was, that “grannie,” in her old age, had scarcely room to stretch her weary limbs: so narrow was the new domicile, that the chain of the faithful dog had to be shortened, against his wishes; and the poor ducks and hens, accustomed to a more ample domain, could scarcely find a roosting-place.

There is yet another member of this little family who must not be forgotten. A deaf and blind sister has long received shelter in this humble home, where no charitable aid has entered, or parochial relief intrudes. Though feeling is the only avenue of access to this afflicted one, she shares their family devotions. The Bible is brought to her, and she passes her hands over it, and then places them in the attitude of prayer, in which she always keeps them a certain time. After they removed to their present habitation, this poor creature was much perplexed at the loss of the old familiar turns and corners by which she had been accustomed to feel her way about. The only way in which they could comfort her, was to bring to her the Word that “endureth for ever,” pass her hands over it, and lift them up to heaven.

It is not unusual to find persons of determined character holding peculiar sentiments, and very dogmatical in the expression of them. With significant nods and wise shakes of the head, you may frequently hear this worthy couple saying, that “man can do nothing towards converting himself—no, nothing. You may as well tell me to mount up to the sky, as that man can think one good thought of himself, or do one right action.”

The old woman entertains a very high respect for the excellent curate we have before mentioned. Once, on detecting herself speaking more highly of him and his work than was consistent with her principles of the “creature being nothing,” she qualified her praise by saying, “He was able to do all this, because the Lord’s time was come; he wouldn’t have done nothing without that, d’ye see, ma’am.”

I spoke to her once about some plans of my own, by which I hoped to effect some improvement. “Well, ma’am,” she said, “if the Lord’s time is come for it, you’ll do it; and if it isn’t, you won’t. He’ll stop you up, or let you go on, just as He sees fit. I don’t trouble so much as some people do about trying to alter things, and make ’em better; for I know the Lord have planned it all out, and He’ll do it just as He likes.”

Although they have the greatest respect for the whole of God’s Word, yet some portions of it are much more frequently quoted and dwelt upon than others. “No man can come to me, except the Father which hath sent me draw him,” seems to have made a greater impression than, “Him that cometh to me, I will in no wise cast out.”

Divine grace sanctifies the natural disposition, but it does not entirely alter it; and we can often trace an intimate connexion between character and creed. The opposition which these good people had experienced had tended to strengthen a severity natural to them. How different were these impressions of truth from those of the kind-hearted man previously described, who “would have all men to be saved,” and could scarcely bring his mind to acquiesce in any wish short of that. There are few Christians to be met with who are not more deeply impressed with one form or phase of truth than another. Nor is this to be regretted, if we can only meet on the common ground of “love to Him who has died for us.” In the words of one of the most popular preachers of the present day, “Supposing the Spirit of truth to descend upon the earth, would He anywhere find a temple erected to Himself, of which He could take possession and say, ‘This is mine?’ No; but He would go from one building to another, and see here a stone that He could claim as His own, and there another, and we should hear Him saying, ‘The materials for my temple are now scattered, though most of them are to be found even here; but the day is coming when I will collect them together, and My temple shall stand upon the earth.’”

In the sketches of character thus presented, there is no intention of conveying the idea that the inhabitants of the Potteries generally answer to this description. The object has been to shew that, in the midst of every disadvantage, and surrounded by all incentives to evil, God has had His own people, and has given them grace to persevere to the end.

To such as have accustomed themselves to look down upon this place as a plague-spot—a pest that we should be well rid of, this narrative will shew that there is good material to be picked out of the rubbish, and that even the rubbish itself may be capable of conversion into good material. In talking to policemen, I have more than once heard them say, “We hardly ever take up any of the Pottery people for theft; they are known amongst us to be honest and industrious. Our work lies among the Irish. We have very little to do with the Pottery people; and if it were not for the DRINK, we should have nothing to do with them.”

CHAPTER III.
Slow Advancing.

“You talk about sending black coats among the Indians; now we have no such poor children among us; we have no such drunkards or people who abuse the Great Spirit. Indians dare not do so. They pray to the Great Spirit, and He is kind to them. Now, we think it would be better for you teachers all to stay at home, and go to work right here in your own streets, where all your good work is wanted. This is my advice. I would rather not say any more.”—Extract from Speech of the Chief of the Ojibbeway Indians.

Ah this drink, this terrible drink, which still goes on slaying its thousands and tens of thousands! No wonder that indignation has been so roused against it, that many have banished it from their tables, and even from their houses! Our poor Potteries have endured a full share of the misery and destruction that ever follow it.

During the summer the brickmaker, with the assistance of the elder members of his family, sometimes earns between £2 and £3 per week. One man informed me that he and his family had earned £2, 18s. nearly every week through the season; and yet that man’s wife and three children were shivering at my door, one bitterly cold morning in December, and begging for food and clothing. The effects of the hard work and hard drinking had been to bring on a terrible illness, and not a sixpence was left of all the money which they had earned “when the sun was shining.” After enduring privation and suffering too terrible to contemplate, the man and one of the children died, and the poor widow with the remaining children went to the workhouse.

Were it not for this inveterate habit of drinking, few places would be more independent of help from without than the Potteries; but long habits of intemperance have so impoverished the people, that few can now afford to buy the pigs for themselves; they therefore fatten them “upon commission,” and in this way can gain only a miserable livelihood. Considerable sums of money, however, may be still earned by those who are careful and prudent, both by pig-feeding and brick-making. The latter work is not constant, but can be procured at only one particular time of the year. Hence in the course of the same year may be seen, in the same family, the extreme of prodigality and destitution. The effect of an increased income, generally, is that more money goes to the public-house, and the future is still unprovided for. I have often told these labourers that their memories seemed much shorter than the bees’, birds’, and ants’. These little creatures never forget that winter will return, and make the most ample provision for it. But any stranger would think that the present was the first winter which these human beings had ever known; that it had come upon them unexpectedly, and found them unprepared for it.

The only means by which many of them get food for the winter is by pawning the little furniture that they have, or by “going on tick,”—in other words, by getting trusted at the shops. Those, however, who manage to pay for their things as they buy them, do it in such a manner as to be little better off than under the “tick” system. The child is sometimes sent to the shop three times a-day, to obtain the supplies for each meal as it is wanted. Of course, the shopkeeper cannot give so much time, paper, and string without being paid for them. After a careful calculation, I feel convinced that, whether the poor man’s wants are supplied through the “tick system,” or the “hand-to-mouth” system, in either case he gets the value of only fourteen shillings for his pound. This proves the justice of the saying, that poverty perpetuates itself.

The winter of 1856–57 was one of unusual distress. Less casual work than usual turned up in the neighbourhood; and had it not been that several of the women found employment as charwomen and laundresses, many would have had no resource but the workhouse.

When the mother has to go out to work that she may obtain the necessary food for herself and children, the effects to the family are often most disastrous. On her return, wearied out in earning her hard-won half-crown, she finds that the baby has been crying for hours (as well it might, poor thing!); that another child has been scalded by hot water from the kettle; that another, perhaps, has wandered away, and has not come home, and that she herself must go and seek for it; while the “little girl” left in charge of the whole is severely scolded, if not beaten, for her many shortcomings. In the midst of all these annoyances, the father returns for the hundredth time, without having found work, exhausted and footsore in his fruitless search; and, sorer still in spirit, as he feels that he is not wanted in the world, that the labour-market has no demand for him, he enters the wretched hovel which he is obliged to call “home.” He hears the crying of the children, the scolding of the mother; and sees everywhere the destruction which children left to themselves will cause. The wife throws her half-crown at him as he enters, crying, “There! much good may that do yer. Here’s a shilling’s worth of things broke,—Johnny’s coat is burnt, and Sally’s pinafore; the children have eat up the tea out of the paper; and yer’ll have to pay for a sight o’ doctoring afore this scalded leg is well.” A man already angry would, with less aggravation than this, return railing for railing; and so the angry words are given back again with interest. Blows occasionally follow, according to the temper of the moment, sometimes inflicted on the provoking wife, sometimes on the poor victim whose negligence is supposed to have caused all these misfortunes. The cravings of hunger oblige some one at last to pick up the half-crown, and “the girl” is despatched with many threats to the nearest places where bread and cheese and porter can be procured, and charged at the same time to get “two penn’orth of gin,” to give to the baby to make it sleep. This expensive food consumes the greater part of the half-crown. Three pennyworth of bread, two pennyworth of vegetables, two pennyworth of barley or rice, and four pennyworth of meat well cooked would have supplied all the family with a good nourishing supper, leaving something for the mid-day meal of the morrow; but there has been no one at home to cook, and in their excited and miserable state it is not food they care for, so much as something that will dim the perception of their extreme wretchedness—anything that will make them sleep and forget. So they drink the porter, and the baby has the gin, and, in spite of the moan of the scalded child, they sleep; but in such an atmosphere, surrounded with such dirt within and stench without, that should they all awake with burning fever the next morning, no one can wonder. They tell me that, on the mornings after such nights, they suffer from intense depression, so much so, that whatever remains of the half-crown is spent on drink, in order to drag themselves up to a repetition of their daily toil.

Now, the earnings of the family just described (for I have drawn a picture from real life) averaged for five months in the summer £2, 10s. per week. They could, of course, have lived very well upon twenty-five shillings. If we reckon ten shillings for paying off old scores, buying new clothes, furniture, and sundries, there would still be fifteen shillings left, which might have been put into the Savings’ Bank to meet the demands of the ensuing winter. But instead of doing this, the man in his distress confessed to me, that the cost of what he and his wife drank each week of their prosperity would amount to at least a pound. The usual quantity of beer that a brickmaker takes during the hours of work is seven pints. This expenditure is looked upon simply as necessary: and when money is plentiful, there must be the drinking for luxury as well as necessity.

The only excuse which can be made for this recklessness is that the toil of the brickmaker is excessive. In the summer, he is expected to work from four or five o’clock in the morning till eight o’clock in the evening. This pressure of work necessitates the drying of sand on Sunday for the next week’s work. The Sabbath is no day of rest to him. He is expected even on that day, and during his short night, to be watchful over the bricks, and cover them up on the approach of rain. Should he oversleep himself, (which is at least possible after such a day’s work,) or be away at a place of worship on a Sunday, and the bricks in the meantime be injured by wet, he would lose some part of his wages, of which a portion is always kept back by the master.

I had a conversation, recently, with a man who has for the last seven or eight years acted as a kind of leader in a brick-field. During all this time he has been a “teetotaller;” and though his work has been as hard as that of any man in the field, and sometimes even harder, he is in perfectly good health, and what is still more unusual, retains the full possession of his intellectual faculties. I say, unusual; for in most cases when this hard work is accompanied with hard drinking, the brickmaker does actually very nearly realise the old woman’s complimentary description of, “He has no more sense than the clay he works on.” His life thus literally resembles that of the brute: every bone, muscle, and sinew is exerted to its utmost extent. The only change from work is eating, drinking, and sleeping; and when this has gone on for several years, all intellectual power seems extinct.

The man to whom I have just referred has for some years past rented a house near the Potteries, for which he pays seven shillings per week. The eldest girl, now fourteen years old, has been in a place for the last four years, and is so fond of it, (the father tells me,) that when she comes home for a holiday, nothing can induce her to stay a minute beyond the time appointed for her return.

“I got a holiday,” said he, “last autumn, and I took my wife and children to the Crystal Palace. We had a beautiful day there, and see’d enough in that little time to give us something to talk about ever since. The only trouble we had was, my girl was in a kind of a fidget, for fear she shouldn’t get back to her place in time.”

I asked this man a great many questions about his mode of life. He said:—

“Our trade would do very well, if it wasn’t for the number of hours we have to work, and if we could get our Sundays to ourselves. There is just now a strike among the men; they want to get sixpence a thousand more upon the bricks than they at present receive: and as I know how to reckon very well, I know that the masters could give us that, and still get a handsome profit for themselves. If we could get that, then we should only work from six to six; and we shouldn’t, in that case, have to dry our sand on Sundays; we could then get all that we wanted ready on Saturday evening. I don’t hold with these strikes, ma’am; they are not the right sort of thing. It isn’t much use, either, for men to stand out against their masters; for until they have learnt to save money, they can’t hold out no time hardly without hurting themselves dreadful. The day the men turned out, a gentleman was riding by, and he stopped and asked me what it was all about; and so I told him. He says to me, ‘Do you take any part in it?’ And I says, ‘No, sir, I don’t feel comfortable about it at all; but, sir, for all that I don’t like this way of doing it, I don’t think the men are asking for more than they should; they only want the masters to be as considerate of them as they are of their horses.’ ‘What do you mean?’ the gentleman says. ‘Why, sir, I mean this, that the horse employed in our brick-field is brought in at six o’clock in the morning, he has a proper time for rest in the day, and he is always taken off again at six in the evening; but the men must work fifteen and sixteen hours to get a living out of it; and this hurts their bodies and souls too, sir; for it isn’t many men can think much as works like that. I am a stronger man than most, sir, and I save myself a deal by not drinking; but it hurts me, I find, and as soon as I can get a little money in hand, I shall try and get out of it, and take to selling coals, or something of that kind.’ You know, ma’am,” the man continued, “I think over all these things a deal, and I do wish masters would listen to what we have got to say; for though we ain’t so wise, like, as they are, we think we could make some things plainer to them. When this was first talked of among the men, I did wish master would let me talk to him about it. I think, if he would have heard how we ’splained all, things wouldn’t have been as they are now. It seems to me, that God have planned out this world for us all to depend upon one another, and we ought never to stand to one another as we do now. You know, ma’am, when we working-men look at all these fine houses and gardens about, and see all the fine furniture that goes into them, we know that it is all done by our labour, and that the great people couldn’t do without us, any more than we could do without them. And it do seem to me, the world would be a deal happier, and better, too, than it is, if we felt that sort of thing to one another; felt, I mean, that we were all wanted, like, to make the world go on right.”

I told him, I thought many masters of the present day felt just what he said, and honoured and valued their servants, and wished very much that they should have proper time for improving themselves, and making their own homes comfortable; “but,” I said, “you know as well as I do, that when men get this time, they do not always make a right use of it.”

“Ah, that’s how it is, you see, ma’am; and I am always a-telling ’em how they do stand in their own way, and hurt theirselves. Though we can’t have everything we want to get, there is a good many of ’em needn’t be half so bad off as they are; but you see, ma’am, there is a great deal of bad management at home, sometimes, and that always keeps a man down. I have looked after this thing so long, that I can pretty well tell whether a man has got a good home or not, afore I ask him. He always holds up his head, and doesn’t seem afraid of anybody; and if things do go cross with him, he does not get reckless, like, about it, and he takes the world kinder, like, than other people. I am so thankful to have this nice place to myself here, and to be able to send my children to school, and see ’em growing up the right way, that I never envies nobody. If master were to offer me his carriage, and to change places with him, I wouldn’t; for I know I’m happy now, and I mightn’t be then.”

I asked him what he supposed to be the cause why so many working-men had such wretched homes.

“Why, ma’am,” he answered, “there is so many things, I hardly know what to say. The drink seems the chief thing; but there is many a man that wouldn’t drink, if he could bear himself without it. There are so many women who don’t seem to know how to manage no more than nothing; and when they take to drinking and going to the pawn-shop, then there is nothing but misery for them all. There’s many a woman in our place who has only one decent gown, and that’s most always in the pawn-shop; she just gets it out of a Saturday night, when the money comes in, and by Monday sometimes the money is a’most gone, and she puts it in again. Some of our poor fellows have got but one shirt; and I have known a man give it to his wife on Monday morning to wash, and she has taken it off to the pawn-shop, and got some drink with the money she got. Sometimes when the wife does try to go on right, the man don’t; he takes to all the bad ways, and leads her a dog’s life: it is only when they both pull one way that it all goes right.”

After the distress of the winter, to which I have before referred, I thought it a good time to endeavour to make some impression upon them as to the urgent necessity of making provision for the future, so that there might not be a constant repetition of such terrible calamities. I therefore addressed the following letter to them, and sent a copy to each man in the Potteries:—

“TO THE WORKING-MEN
OF THE
KENSINGTON POTTERIES.

“My dear Friends,—

“I have seen with much concern and sorrow, during the past winter, how greatly most of you have suffered. Work has been unusually scarce and difficult to obtain, and you have found it almost impossible to maintain your families in any degree of comfort. Perhaps you have been tempted sometimes to look with envy on your richer neighbours, and have thought that they cared nothing for all your sorrow and suffering; but, indeed, many of them have cared a great deal about it, and have talked over it, and have tried to think of some means to prevent this sad state of things from happening so often.

“Some of you think, I dare say, that rich people should help you, by giving you more of their money; and so they should, perhaps, in times of sickness and calamity: but I have watched these things now for many years, and I have not observed that those do best who have most given to them; but the prosperous people are generally those who resolutely set about to help themselves.

“Now, we have been thinking over various ways by which you could do this better than you have hitherto done; and one thing that has occurred to us is, that as many of you earn more money in the summer than you actually need to spend, it would be a good plan to put by some of it for your use during the winter. We all find it very difficult to take care of our money ourselves, and most of us have recourse to some bank or other to take care of it for us. It is much to be regretted that there is no Savings’ Bank in this neighbourhood nearer than Kensington, and it would take up too much of your time to carry your money there often. The excellent Penny Savings’ Bank established at the Notting Dale School-room is most valuable, but it at present confines itself to rather small sums of money; and some of you—young men especially, who have not yet begun the expense of housekeeping—could, with good management, save a considerable sum of money every week. If young men only knew what future misery, degradation, and sorrow they would save themselves by being determined not to involve themselves in the expense of a family until they had at least fifty pounds in the Savings’ Bank, I am sure they would try hard for it

“It would give me much pleasure to do something to help you over this difficulty; and if you do not object to trust me with your money, I propose being at the Infant School-room, Princes’ Place, every Saturday evening, from eight till nine o’clock, to receive from you any sum you may have to spare from your weekly earnings. You would have a little book in which to keep your own account, which you could at any time compare with mine. One of your kind friends in this neighbourhood, Mr —, has kindly consented to take care of the money. By giving a week’s notice, you can have out what you put in, at any time you like.

“I think I can tell you of one way that would enable you to save a good deal of money. There are thousands of workmen in this country who are doing some of the hardest work that is ever done, such as working at iron-foundries, &c., and who do it all without the aid of intoxicating drink. With the money thus saved they are able to get better food, better clothing, and more comfortable homes; and, consequently, are better, stronger, and happier. I wish very much that you would give this a trial. At the end of the week, you can reckon how much you usually spend upon drink, and can bring that sum to me. I am sure you would feel the benefit of it in the winter. I have the pleasure of meeting some of your wives every week, and then we talk a great deal about the best means of making your homes comfortable; but the wife cannot do it all alone: it is her place to learn to lay out the money to the best possible advantage,—it is yours to obtain it; and it is when both husband and wife act wisely and well, that the family is usually prosperous and happy.

“But above all these things I have mentioned, I want you to be in earnest in seeking to obtain God’s blessing upon all you do. ‘Seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things shall be added unto you.’ Perhaps you think you should like to have the good things promised without the trouble of seeking God; but those who have tried, those who have really sought God, and found Him, tell us that this is the best part of it, and that they would rather give up every earthly possession than live again without God in the world.

“You know, when Jesus came from heaven, He did not settle Himself in a grand house, and have a number of people to wait upon Him; but He, as the reputed son of a carpenter, worked as you do for the supply of His own wants, and spent a great deal of time, besides, in helping those who wanted help. However poor or neglected you may be, you cannot be more so than Jesus was. I do not know of anything so likely to cheer you in your daily toil, as to remember that God cares for you; that He is watching you, and inviting you to come to Him, weary and heavy laden as you are, and He will give you rest. I wish you would come to this kind Friend every day, and ask Him to make you wise to know how to manage your worldly affairs aright; and ask Him to make you holy, that your worst enemy, sin, may not triumph over you. Ask Him to make you fit for that ‘beautiful world He has gone to prepare;’ so that when you have accomplished, as an hireling, your day, and finished the work He has given you to do, you may find an entrance into that kingdom, which is not meat and drink, ‘but righteousness, and peace, and joy in the Holy Ghost.’

“I hope to meet many of you at the Infant Schoolroom, Princes’ Place, on Saturday, the 1st of May. I intend to be there about a quarter before eight o’clock; and if I can help you in this or in any other way, it will give me much pleasure.

“I am,

“Your sincere friend.”

It did not surprise me at all, that for some weeks this letter seemed to be taken no notice of. I went regularly to the place appointed, but no one came. Among other reasons, no doubt the calamities of the past winter had involved in debt nearly all of those to whom I had written, and the money for the first few months after they obtained work went to pay off old scores. But the principal obstacle was, that where people have been so little accustomed to think and reason, any new proposition would, in the first place, take some time to be comprehended; and then, as the safety of their money was involved in the plan, it would require to be received with great caution. When a month had passed, a few began to bring me small sums. I had no large depositors during the summer, and the whole of my receipts did not amount to more than £25. This, however, was a beginning; and as the men received their money back again in the winter, several of them remarked that it was “all as if it was given them; the bits of money would all have been gone, if they had not been saved up in this way.”

I found that a few of them had previously made some attempts at saving money, and were much disappointed at the result. One woman told me she had once with great difficulty managed to save up seven pounds; one day, when she was absent, her little room was broken into, and all the money stolen. They said they were too far off either from Kensington or Paddington Savings’ Bank to deposit their money there; and “as to keeping it in their own places, that was impossible,—it never kept there.”

A ragged boy, about thirteen years of age, came to the school-room one evening, bringing a penny which he asked me to keep for him; and said, if I would come for it, he would bring a penny there every evening. I told him I had not time to do that; but if he would take care of it through the week, I should be glad to receive sevenpence from him every Monday evening. He said he couldn’t do that; for if he had it in his pocket, he should play pitch and toss with it. I told him, if he would bring it in the dinner-hour, the Infant School teacher would be so kind as to take care of it for him till the night came for paying it in. This he agreed to do. I asked him how it was he had just the penny every day to save. He said he was earning ninepence a-day then; and that he told his mother he earned only eightpence, and so saved a penny for himself. I said, “You shouldn’t do it in that way. I dare say, if you told your mother you wanted to save a penny a-day, she would not object to it.”

“Tell my mother, indeed!” said the boy. “Oh yes! and take her a stick at the same time to beat me with; and then it would be the sooner over.”

He then asked me what I meant to do with all the money he brought me, or rather meant to bring me.

“I shall put it in my desk, and take care of it till you want it.”

“But supposing now I should die, what would you do with it then?”

“Well, I have not thought of that. I hope you will live, and make a good use of the money.”

“But suppose I don’t?”

“Well, when you have saved two or three shillings, you can make your will, if you like, and leave it to somebody.”

“But I can’t write, and I’ve heard as how wills is ‘allus writed.’”

“Then you had better come to the Ragged School, as soon as it is opened, and learn.”

“Well, I think I will. I have heard it takes a sight o’ money to bury anybody. If I should die afore I can write, you can spend the money for that.”

“Very well; but I hope you will live and learn to read and write, and grow up to be a clever and good man.”

“And do yer now?” said he, walking off with one of those inimitable whistles peculiar to ragged boys.

CHAPTER IV.
Sowing Seed.

“Some say man has no hurts, some seek them to reveal,
And to exasperate some, and some to hide and heal.”

Trench.

A LITTLE before Christmas I received an intimation through the women whom I used to meet, that their husbands would be glad to talk with me, if I would give them an opportunity for that purpose. I fixed an evening, and sixteen men came. They told me they had been thinking a great deal about the bad management of their affairs generally, and especially about their habit of buying everything at a great disadvantage; that they wished very much they could see their way to do better. One man had a copy of the rules of a Loan Society which had worked very well in other places, and might be a great help to them. They would require assistance from some of the gentlemen of the neighbourhood to help them to start it. This they asked me to obtain for them, and also the use of the school-room, where they might make their payments; since, if they had to go to a public-house for this purpose, they might as well abandon all thought of saving. Two or three of the men told me they wanted, in some quiet way, to learn to read and write better; for though, when they were asked, they said they could do both, yet they could do neither well enough for the occupation to be pleasant to them. I knew what they meant by the “quiet way:” men have a great dislike to learning as children, or with children. I told them, as to the writing, the best thing they could do would be to save a few sixpences, and buy some of Darnell’s copy-books. Any man might teach himself to write well from them, with no other assistance than just being told how to hold his pen. Good reading, too, they might acquire by constant practice and listening to others who could read better than they.

This last observation opened the way for me to introduce another subject. I told them that, before we separated, I wished to read a chapter in the Bible. Though we differed in many other respects, we were all alike in this, that each needed God’s teaching; and if we expected any of our plans for improving our condition in life to be successful, we must ask God’s guidance in making the plans, and His blessing in carrying them out. One of the men immediately got up and brought me a Bible, adding, “Now we shall be all right.” This man was a great professor of religion, but I knew, alas! not always a consistent one; and I saw the scornful curl of the lip directed against him from some of his comrades. Out of these sixteen men a great variety of creeds might have been collected. One or two of my listeners were stanch Baptists; about the same number were Wesleyans; one, I believe, was in the habit of attending the Church: but those who had hitherto taken the leading part in the conversation were men who have always a great deal to say against “parsons;” who use the word “humbug” more frequently than any other in reference to anything of a religious nature. Most of the rest belonged to a very numerous class; more numerous among working-men than is generally supposed. They might be styled Gallios; for they professedly, at least, “cared for none of these things.”

I felt the difficulty of suiting such an audience, and as I turned over the pages of the book, had to encourage myself by the thought, “Never mind; it is God’s Word, and not yours.” I began by saying that amongst the many different characters who came to Jesus, when He was upon earth, there was one in particular, mentioned in the 3d chapter of St John, whose history would interest us. He differed from others in this respect, that he was not a poor man. He was a Ruler among the Jews,—a master of Israel; but that did not much signify, since we need in our smaller affairs the same wisdom that he was seeking to enable him to be a better Ruler.

Now, though this man wished to be wiser and better, he thought it would never do for the people, who looked up to him as their Ruler and Guide, to see him going to Jesus to be taught just like any common man; so at last he thought of the plan of seeing Jesus by night. In this way, he hoped he should get what he wanted, without making his visit known to other people. Many teachers would have said, “Well, as you are ashamed to be seen coming to me, you had better not come at all.” But Jesus did not think of the affront put upon Himself; He only saw before Him a man whose heart was not right with God, who was not safe for heaven. I dare say, too, that as Jesus knew all that was passing in the mind of this Ruler, He knew that he had not come to Him for heavenly knowledge only. He rather perhaps wished to learn from Jesus some arts of government, by which he could obtain a greater influence over the people. He would have liked to have known how long the Jews were to be in subjection to the Romans, and many other things of that kind. But Jesus had made this man’s soul, and knew its worth; knew it as a fact that it must live for ever, and that, if He helped him now to gain or to govern the whole world, it would be of some little use to him for a few prosperous years, and then would come the blackness of darkness for ever. Therefore, without taking any notice of Nicodemus’s compliments, whatever they may have meant, He lost not a moment in announcing to His wondering disciple the great and solemn truth, “Ye must be born again.”

After explaining this to them as well as I could, together with a few of the following verses, we came to the words,—“And as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of man be lifted up.” I turned to the chapter in Numbers, giving the account of this. From the intense interest with which these men listened to this simply as a narrative, I was led to suppose that to some of them it might be new. I told them I once saw a picture of this extraordinary story. In one corner of the picture was the pole with the serpent lifted upon it. Strong men, women, and little children were there; some in great agony, as if just bitten; others perfectly prostrate, with the hue of death upon their faces. Mothers were standing with little children in their arms, trying to raise the head that seemed to have drooped in death, and to rouse it just for one look. But that which struck me most was the figure of a man standing before an apparently dying woman. He had something in his hand, to which he endeavoured to draw her attention; and his figure was placed exactly between her and the brazen serpent, so that without stretching her head either to the one side or the other, she could not see the object from which alone she was to derive life. The artist had made it appear that, with the little dying strength which remained, she was trying to move herself out of the way of this hindrance; and as I continued to look at the picture, so strongly was I impressed, that I felt myself saying, “This man must be got out of the way, or she will die.”

“In thinking over this afterwards,” I continued, “it occurred to me that there were many now acting the part of this cruel man. All teachers of error resemble him. Those lecturers, whom some of you men hear occasionally, and who tell you to believe in nothing you cannot see,—that as to your being bitten with the old serpent, sin, it is all a fiction, although, even whilst you are listening, you can hardly be still for the agony which the bites have inflicted; the Roman Catholic priest, too, who comes and tells us we need not look for ourselves, that his looking for us, or the intercession of the Virgin Mary, will do equally well—that at any rate we need not trouble ourselves,—are like this man in the picture. Then you yourselves sometimes stand in one another’s way; and when you see any eye directed aright, instead of removing all impediments, you rather, by your jesting, ridicule, and banter, cause the eye to be turned away. And what is it turned to? It just goes back to the old dreary state of ‘seeking rest, and finding none.’ Nothing ever strikes me so much in false teaching as its cruelty. These self-constituted leaders will see you suffer without relief, knowing, too, that bad as it is, this is only the beginning of suffering, they will still interpose themselves and their false doctrines between you and the look that would bring such healing and joy as you have never known before. It is something like this:—Suppose there was but one large fountain of water in the street from which the inhabitants could obtain their supplies, and that this fountain was in the keeping of one person, whose duty it was to open it to all who applied, and to allow them to help themselves as freely as they pleased; suppose, then, that instead of aiding you to fill your pitcher, he exercised a great deal of ingenuity in persuading you that if you carried it to the top of Notting Hill, or over to Kensington, perhaps you would get water which would answer your purpose much better—that the wells there had been more recently dug—that the water there would suit your particular constitution better; that he said anything, rather than allow you to supply your wants in the most simple and direct way—in the way intended and provided by one who really did know exactly what was adapted for you.

“I should be sorry to undertake to persuade any of you to go this round-about way to supply your wants. Your own good sense would be stronger than any arguments I could possibly use. You would say, ‘It has answered the purpose for years past, and those who have gone before us have done very well upon it; why should I change?’

“Whenever your worldly interests are concerned, I do not consider you men are easily to be taken in; it is only about the salvation of your souls—your eternal interests—that which will be living on still when the heavens and the earth have passed away,—it is only on these points that you allow yourselves to be—to be—I must use one of your own words—to be ‘humbugged.’

“Then, again, if it were some difficult thing which God asked us to do, we might make many excuses—we might plead the want of learning, the want of capacity, the want of strength; but we have only to ‘Look, and live.’”

“Ma’am,” said one of the men, “will you pray for us?”

We all kneeled together, and prayed that whatever prevented our looking to the “Crucified One” might be removed; and that, instead of going to earthly fountains to quench our thirst, we might drink of the water of everlasting life, and thirst no more.

Just as we were separating, one of the men said—“Ma’am, if you will come here to meet us every Wednesday evening, we’ll all come, and bring about a hundred more with us.” I replied that I was much obliged to them, but I really had not the time to spare. If my help was the only help they could get, I would make any sacrifice and come; but if they would only take the trouble to walk about half a mile, to Mr Lewis’s school-room, at Westbourne Grove, he would be very glad to see them in their working clothes, and would explain everything to them much better than I could.

Several of them promised to go; and as most of them were still lingering about over the fire, I said to them,—“I wish you men, would try and get out of the way of talking about ‘parsons’ as you do. I don’t mean to say that all ‘parsons’ are what they ought to be by a great deal; but the way you often speak of them is as unjust as it would be for me to speak with contempt of all working-men, because some amongst them are drunkards and thieves.”

“Ah, that’s true,” said one of them. “Fair play’s a jewel, anyhow.”

“It is not only the unfairness to them,” I said, “but you put yourselves very often out of the way of receiving benefit from those who do most sincerely and earnestly wish to help you. As long as we dislike people, it is hardly possible that they can do us any good. If you are not in a hurry to go, I will tell you about a man I met with lately, who was doing himself a great deal of mischief in this way.”

They said they were in no hurry,—they shouldn’t do anything more that night; they were glad to stay.

(I did not give them the story so fully as I have written it here. I had no notes with me; and simply told them from memory the part that would apply to our previous conversation.)

“For some weeks before we went into the house in which we now live, several workmen were employed there; and I generally went once in the course of the day, to see how they were getting on. One of them, a painter, was a remarkably clever man; he seemed to have read an endless number of books, papers, and everything else. It was the time of the Indian mutiny; and if I had been unable to look at the papers, he could always tell me anything that was going on. He often made remarks upon the government of the country, and sometimes these were very sensible. As he was a single man, and did not seem to care much where he spent his time, I proposed to him that (as he had to come all the way from Blackfriars) he should take possession of a little bed-room in the house, and make himself comfortable there. He seemed very glad to do this. A day or two after he had settled himself, I had occasion to go to his room; and I found, amongst other things, a great quantity of books and newspapers strewed about. Some of the books were political, some on India; and there were a few novels, by no means the best. After I had finished speaking to him about his work that day, I said to him, ‘When I was up in your room just now, I was looking at your books. Some of them are very good. I am going to ask you to be so kind as to lend me one for a few days, it is “Napier’s India.”’ He seemed much pleased, and ran off directly to fetch it. When he returned, I said, ‘There was one thought that came into my mind while I was looking at your books. If I had not known whose they really were, I should have supposed that they belonged to some one who had no interest in anything beyond the present life; some one who meant to get as cleverly as possible through that;—but that was all.’

“‘I suppose you mean, ma’am, there were no religious books there? As to those, I gave all them up long ago: I couldn’t stand such twaddle.’

“‘Have you had a great experience of religious books?’

“‘Why, no. I went to a Sunday-school once, but it wasn’t much of it; and some ladies used to call and leave us some tracts, and beg us to read them. I didn’t like to promise to do so, and not do it; but it was such “bosh!” Do you know, ma’am, after you had been here for a day or two, we were talking about you; and I said, “I do think she is one of the right sort; she doesn’t bring us any tracts, or any twaddle.”’

“‘I am afraid I am going to lose my good character.’

“‘Oh no, ma’am; I shall be happy to listen to anything you have to say!’

“‘Well, I want to hear what you have to say. It interests me very much to know how you are planning it out. Do you intend to make the best of this life; and then—what then? Are you so pleased with it, as to feel satisfied that all shall end here?’

“‘Why, as to being pleased with it, I don’t think anybody who has lived five-and-twenty years in the world can be much pleased with it. I am sure it ain’t much to me. I’ve nobody, hardly, belonging to me, to care anything about me; and if it wasn’t for the liking I have for books, and that sort of thing, I should have nothing but my work to do, and to eat, and drink, and sleep: and I don’t call that worth living for; do you, ma’am?’

“‘No, indeed, I do not. I feel very sorry for you. I should so like to help you to be happier, if I only knew how; but, perhaps, if I told you what I think about it, you might call it “bosh” or “twaddle,” or something of that sort.’

“‘No, ma’am, I shouldn’t. You see, ma’am, it isn’t because I haven’t thought about these things, for I thought myself almost crazy once; and the people who, I expected, might have helped me were worse to me than anybody. My father was a mighty religious man in his way, and dreadful strict: we couldn’t hardly speak or look of a Sunday, but we got a thrashing for it. My brother and I have said often and often, that, as soon as we took to the world for ourselves, we’d have done with all that sort of thing; we had had enough of it. The masters I have worked for have made a great fuss, some of ’em, about their own religion; but they haven’t minded cheating us a bit when they could do it in a quiet way. And as to caring about our souls, they have never troubled themselves about that. And don’t you think, ma’am, that if they really thought we were going to burn in hell-fire for ever, if we went on a bad way, that they’d make some fuss about it, and try to stop us? I know, if I believed it, I wouldn’t do much besides try to prevent people going there; but you may depend upon it, ma’am, they don’t believe it; they keep it in store, like, as something to frighten poor ignorant people with.’

“‘But I want to know what you think; I am not just now concerning myself about these people.’

“‘Well, I have pretty well made up my mind, after all I have seen, just to take the world as it comes, and live on in the best way I can, and not trouble my head any more about it. I suppose, God has got it all planned out about us, and He’ll do what He likes with us.’

“‘That is quite true. God has planned it all out; but then He has made no secret of His plans. He has written a book to tell us how we stand towards Him, and how He stands towards us.’

“‘Ah! you mean the Bible. We used to be punished with having to learn chapters out of it, and we hated it; and I have never took up with it since. People talk about its being good news, and all that sort of thing; but I don’t believe there is any good news in it for me.’

“‘Supposing, when you first came here, I had written a letter to you, inviting you to come to my house whenever you liked to do so; telling you that I would have a nice room prepared for you, and, in every respect, would make you as comfortable as possible; and supposing that, instead of reading my invitation, and availing yourself of my kind offers, you had treated my letter with contempt, and refused even to open it, pleading as an excuse that a letter once proved disagreeable to you. If, after you left, I should hear that you spread an evil report about me, and accused me of unkindness, do you not think I could justly charge you with injustice?’

“‘Yes; and I see what you mean. I can’t say I’ve tried to find out much about the Book, either good or bad.’

“‘There is another thing. I think that you have rather confused ideas about the character of God. You confound your earthly with your heavenly Father; and thus you think unjustly of Him, and His works also. Now, as I cannot stay longer to-day, I am going to ask you to reward me for not troubling you with tracts, and what you call “twaddle,” by just reading one little chapter that I will leave turned down for you here.’

“I left him the 15th chapter of Luke to read; and he faithfully read it, and the next day we talked about it. He was too intellectual a man not to appreciate its exceeding beauty; but he did not feel himself to be a prodigal needing the love and forgiveness of the kind Father; so that it was to him little else than a ‘pleasant song.’

“After many observations had passed, I asked if he were in the habit of attending any place of worship. He answered, ‘Oh, no! I have been to the cathedral sometimes, but I didn’t like it.’

“This was Saturday. At the end of our conversation, I told him I thought he had better make one more trial of attending a place of worship; and, as he lived in Blackfriars, I recommended him to go to Surrey Chapel, to hear the Rev. Newman Hall. He promised he would. On Monday, I did not get to the house till it was late. Some of the men had gone away; but this painter was still lingering over his work. ‘Oh, ma’am,’ he said, ‘I am glad you have come. I wanted to see you, to tell you I went yesterday to hear the gentleman you spoke about.’

“‘I am glad to hear it. I hope you will often go.’

“‘I believe I shall, for he is something about a parson. I said to myself, “You ain’t a humbug, anyhow.” I went in the morning, and I went again in the evening.’

“I had no time to talk to him then, nor for some days after. I think the Friday of that week was set apart as a fast-day. On the Thursday I found him painting away very busily. As soon as he saw me, he said, ‘We have just been talking about you, ma’am, and we know you are in a hurry to get this house done; and so, instead of knocking off work, because it is the fast-day to-morrow, we are going to stick to our painting, and have a jolly good day at it.’

“‘I am very much obliged to you; indeed, I think you are all very kind in trying to accommodate me; and I quite appreciate all you do; but I could not think of allowing you to do what you propose. You know the state the country is in; what terrible accounts we are constantly receiving from India; and what severe general distress there is. Although we may not be suffering from these calamities, it would be selfish and heartless in the extreme not to join with those who are, in praying for God’s mercy to deliver us out of these troubles.’

“‘Well, ma’am, that’s all very right, I dare say; and I don’t object to the thing itself; but what I object to is the way it is done in. I was reading the proclamation outside the Mansion House, the other day; and it says that the Queen commands us all on that day to pray to Almighty God. Now, I don’t think any one has a right to command us to do anything of the sort; and, if I pray at all, I shall do it some other day.’

“‘I gave you credit for being a wiser man. What would become of law and order in this country, if some one had not the power to decide such things? There would be no end of contest and confusion. I don’t suppose that either you or I should make very good Sovereigns; but if there were no one else, it would be much better for the country to give one of us the power of saying what should or should not be done, rather than to leave every question open to be contested. And as to your taking offence at the expression, “her Majesty commands,” that is merely a form of words, meaning that her Majesty confirms the wish of the nation. The term itself is just as much of a form as the “Most Gracious Majesty” which is used to the really gracious and ungracious alike.’

“Another man then joined in, and said that he thought, ‘what the nation wanted more than fast-days was better government. The government was always getting the country into trouble, and then setting it to pray itself out of it again.’

“‘If that is the case, that would be a very good reason in itself for having a fast-day,’ I said, ‘that we might pray for better government.’

“Most of the men joined in this talk about governments. It was evidently a topic upon which they were much in the habit of conversing; and I could not but be struck with the shrewdness of their observations.

“At last I said, ‘Now, after all you have told me about oppressive governments, bad laws, taxation, and all that, you have not brought forward one thing that would for a moment stand in the way of your following any occupation you like, and becoming great in it, choosing any kind of home your industry and resources would enable you to command, reading what books you like, adopting what form of religious worship you like, sending your children to any school you like, and taking up with any friends you like; so that I cannot offer you much sympathy for the oppressions of which you are complaining. But there is something going on in this country that is oppressing you. I think, if you could prove there was anything in the present government which caused destruction of life and property to 10,000 persons every year, it would excite such indignation in the country that the government would hardly stand another week.’

“‘I should think not,’ one of them said.

“‘And yet there is something going on amongst us that is destroying at least 60,000 precious souls and bodies every year; and I have often wondered that you men, who have such ability to detect and expose the faults of a government, which, after all, is not hurting you much, and which you cannot alter, should expend uselessly the power that might be successfully directed against the monster evil to which I am referring.’

“‘You mean the drink, I suppose, ma’am?’

“‘Yes. Now, here is an evil worth fighting against. If you directed all your efforts against this tyrannical government, and were determined to get rid of it, you would be doing much more good for yourselves, and the country too, than any House of Commons will ever do, even supposing all the members of it were elected by ballot.’

“Then followed a kind of teetotal discussion. Amongst other arguments brought against teetotalism, the painter objected that ‘people who lived altogether upon food ate such a lot that they got heavy and stupid in their minds.’ I asked him if he knew that the preacher he had heard last Sunday was a water-drinker?

“‘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.”