The St. George’s Company is now distinctly in existence; formed of
about twenty accepted Companions, to whose number I am daily adding,
and to whom the entire property of the Company legally belongs, and who
have the right at any moment to depose the Master, and dispose of the
property in any manner they may think fit. Unless I believed myself
capable of choosing persons for Companions who might be safely
entrusted with this power I should not have endeavoured to form the
society at all. Every one of these Companions has a right to know the
names and addresses of the rest, which the Master of the Company must
furnish him with; and of course the roll of the names, which will be
kept in Corpus Christi College, is their legal certificate. I do not
choose to begin this book at the end of the year, but at the beginning
of the next term it will be done; and as our lawyer’s paper, revised,
is now—15th December—in my hands, and approved, the 1st of January will
see us securely constituted. I give below the initials of the
Companions accepted before the 10th of this month, thinking that my
doing so will be pleasing to some of them, and right, for all.
Initials of Companions accepted before 10th December, 1875. I only give
two letters, which are I think as much indication as is at present
desirable:—
1. D. L. 14. A. H.
2. F. C. 15. W. S.
3. L. B. 16. W. S.
4. B. B. 17. J. B.
5. F. T. 18. B. G.
6. R. T. 19. H. L.
7. G. S. 20. J. F.
8. B. A. 21. J. M.
9. A. H. 22. R. S.
10. T. D. 23. H. C.
11. M. K. 24. J. T.
12. S. B. 25. J. S.
13. G. A.
This ‘Fors’ is already so much beyond its usual limits, and it
introduces subject-matter so grave, that I do not feel inclined to go
into further business details this month; the rather because in the
February ‘Fors,’ with the accounts of the Company, I must begin what
the Master of the Company will be always compelled to furnish—statement
of his own personal current expenditure. And this will require some
explanation too long for to-day. I defer also the Wakefield
correspondence, for I have just got fresh information about the
destruction of Wakefield chapel, and have an election petition to
examine:
I. Our notes for the year 1876 may, I think, best begin with the two
pieces of news which follow; and which, by order of Atropos, also
followed each other in the column of the ‘Morning Advertiser,’ from
which I print them.
For, though I am by this time known to object to Advertisement in
general, I beg the public to observe that my objection is only to
bought or bribed Advertisement (especially if it be Advertisement of
one’s self). But that I hold myself, and this book of mine, for nothing
better than Morning, Noon, and Evening Advertisers, of what things
appear verily noteworthy in the midst of us. Whereof I commend the
circumstances of the death, beneath related, very particularly to the
attention of the Bishops of London and York.
Shocking Death from Starvation.—Last night Mr. Bedford, the Westminster
coroner, held an inquest at the Board-room, Dean Street, Soho, on the
body of Thomas Gladstone, aged 58, of 43, King Street, Seven Dials, a
shoemaker, who was found dead on Thursday last.
William Gladstone, a lad of 15, identified the body as that of his
father, with whom he and three other children lived. Deceased had been
ailing for some time past, and was quite unable to do any work. The
recent cold weather had such an effect upon him that he was compelled
to remain in his room on Wednesday last, and at three the next morning
witness found him sitting up in bed complaining of cold, and that he
was dying. Witness went to sleep, and on awaking at eight that morning
he found deceased with his head in the fireplace. Thinking he was only
asleep, witness went to work, and on returning two hours later he was
still in the same position, and it was then found that he was dead.
Coroner.—Why did you not send for a doctor?
Witness.—I didn’t know he wanted one until he was dead, and we found
out amongst us that he was dead.
Jane Gladstone, the widow, said she had been living apart from her
husband for some months, and first heard of his death at 2.30 on
Thursday afternoon, and upon going to his room found him dead lying
upon a mattress on the floor. He was always ailing, and suffered from
consumption, for which he had received advice at St. George’s Hospital.
They had had seven children, and for some time prior to the separation
they had been in the greatest distress; and on the birth of her last
child, on December 7, 1874, they applied at the St. James’s workhouse
for relief, and received two loaves and 2 lb. of meat per week for a
month, and at the end of that time one of the relieving officers
stopped the relief, saying that they were both able to work. They told
the relieving officer that they had no work, and had seven children to
keep, but he still refused to relieve them.
By the Coroner.—They did not ask again for relief, as deceased said “he
had made up his mind that, after the way he had been turned away like a
dog, he would sooner starve,” and she herself would also rather do so.
Deceased was quite unable to earn sufficient to maintain the family,
and their support fell mainly upon her, but it was such a hard life
that she got situations for two of the boys, got a girl into a school,
and leaving the other three boys with deceased, took the baby and
separated from him. He was in great want at that time.
The Coroner.—Then why did you not go to the workhouse and represent his
case to them?
Witness.—What was the good when we had been refused twice?
Mr. Green, the coroner’s officer, said that he believed the witness had
been in receipt of two loaves a week from the St. James’s workhouse,
but had not called lately for the loaves.
The Coroner said he hardly thought that so poor a woman would refuse or
neglect to apply for so valuable a contribution to the needs of a
family as two loaves of bread; and some of the jury said that Mr. Green
must be mistaken, and that such a statement should be made upon oath if
at all. The officer, however, was not sworn.
John Collins, of 43, King Street, said that about eleven o’clock on
Thursday morning he met a gentleman on the stairs, who said that he had
been up to the room of deceased to take him some work to do, but that
the room door was locked, and a child had called out, “Father is dead,
and you can’t come in.” Witness at once went for the police, who came,
and broke open the door. Upon going into the room witness found a piece
of paper (produced) in which was written, “Harry, get a pint of milk
for the three of you; father is dead. Tell your schoolmaster you can’t
come to school any more. Cut your own bread, but don’t use the butter.”
He believed that the eldest boy had returned home at ten o’clock in the
morning, and finding two of the boys at school had left the note for
them.
Police-constable Crabb, 18 C R., deposed to breaking open the door and
finding deceased dead on the floor, with a little child crouching by
him shivering with cold.
Dr. Howard Clarke, of 19, Lisle Street, Leicester Square, and Gerrard
Street, Soho, said that he was called to see the deceased, and found
him lying upon the floor of his room dead and cold, with nothing on him
but stockings and a shirt, the room being nearly destitute of
furniture. The place was in a most filthy condition, and deceased
himself was so shockingly dirty and neglected, and so overrun with
vermin, that he (witness) was compelled to wash his hands five times
during the post-mortem examination. By the side of the corpse sat a
little child about four years old, who cried piteously, “Oh, don’t take
me away; poor father’s dead!” There was nothing in the shape of food
but a morsel of butter, some arrowroot, and a piece of bread, and the
room was cold and cheerless in the extreme. Upon making a post-mortem
he found the brain congested, and the whole of the organs of the body
more or less diseased. The unfortunate man must have suffered
fearfully. The body was extremely emaciated, and there was not a
particle of food or drop of liquid in the stomach or intestines. Death
had resulted probably from a complication of ailments, but there was no
doubt whatever that such death had been much accelerated by want of the
common necessaries of life.
The Coroner.—Starvation, in short?
Witness.—Precisely so. I never in all my experience saw a greater case
of destitution.
The Coroner.—Then I must ask the jury to adjourn the case. Here is a
very serious charge against workhouse officials, and a man dying
clearly from starvation, and it is due alike to the family of the
deceased, the parish officials, and the public at large, that the case
should be sifted to the very bottom, and the real cause of this death
elucidated.
Adjourned accordingly.
Shocking Discovery.—A painful sensation was, says the ‘Sheffield
Telegraph,’ caused in the neighbourhood of Castleford, near Pontefract,
on Friday evening, by the report made to a police-constable stationed
at Allerton Bywater that a woman and child had been found dead in bed
in Lock Lane, Castleford, under most mysterious circumstances, and that
two small children were also found nearly starved to death beside the
two dead bodies. The report, however, turned out to be correct. The
circumstances surrounding the mystery have now been cleared up. An
inquest, held on Saturday at Allerton Bywater, before Dr. Grabham, of
Pontefract, reveals the following:—It appears on Sunday, the 28th ult.,
John Wilson, miner, husband of Emma Wilson, aged thirty-six years (one
of the deceased), and father of Fred, aged eighteen months (the other
deceased), left home to proceed to his employment at Street House
Colliery, and would remain away all the week. Mrs. Wilson was seen
going into her house on Monday evening, but was not seen again alive.
There were besides the woman three children of very tender years in the
house. The neighbours missed the woman and children from Monday night,
but finding the blinds were drawn down, concluded that the family had
gone to the husband. On Friday evening a neighbour, named Ann Foggett,
rapped at the door, and hearing the faint bark of a dog, which was
found to be fastened up in a cupboard, continued to knock at the door,
and ultimately heard the voice of a child. The door was subsequently
burst open, and on proceeding upstairs the sight was horrifying. On the
bed lay the mother and infant child dead, beside whom were two other
small children in their night dresses. They, too, were nigh death’s
door, having been without proper food and clothing evidently since
their mother’s death, which must have occurred on the Monday night.
Beside the corpse of the mother lay a knife and portions of a loaf of
bread, which had been no doubt taken to her by the children to be
supplied with some, but being unable to get an answer from her, they
had nibbled the middle of the loaf clean away. A post-mortem
examination showed that the mother had died from heart disease, and the
child on the following day from starvation. The jury returned a verdict
to that effect.—Morning Advertiser, December 7th, 1875.
II. The following is sent me by a correspondent. Italics mine
throughout. The passage about threshing is highly curious; compare my
account of the threshers at Thun. Poor Gilbert had been doubtless set
to thresh, like Milton’s fiend, by himself, and had no creambowl
afterwards.
24th October, 1800.
Gilbert Burns to James Currie, M.D.
The evils peculiar to the lower ranks of life derive their power to
wound us from the suggestions of false pride, and the contagion of
luxury, rather than from the refinement of our taste. There is little
labour which custom will not make easy to a man in health, if he is not
ashamed of his employment, or does not begin to compare his situation
with those who go about at their ease. But the man of enlarged mind
feels the respect due to him as a man; he has learnt that no employment
is dishonourable in itself; that, while he performs aright the duties
of the station in which God has placed him, he is as great as a king in
the eyes of Him whom he is principally desirous to please. For the man
of taste, who is constantly obliged to labour, must of necessity be
religious. If you teach him only to reason, you may make him an
atheist, a demagogue, or any vile thing; but if you teach him to feel,
his feelings can only find their proper and natural relief in devotion
and religious resignation. I can say from my own experience that there
is no sort of farm labour inconsistent with the most refined and
pleasurable state of the mind, that I am acquainted with, threshing
alone excepted. That, indeed, I have always considered insupportable
drudgery, and think the man who invented the threshing-machine ought to
have a statue among the benefactors of his country.
Perhaps the thing of most importance in the education of the common
people is to prevent the intrusion of artificial wants. I bless the
memory of my father for almost everything in the dispositions of my
mind and the habits of my life, which I can approve of, and for none
more than the pains he took to impress my mind with the sentiment that
nothing was more unworthy the character of a man than that his
happiness should in the least depend on what he should eat and drink.
To this hour I never indulge in the use of any delicacy but I feel a
degree of reproach and alarm for the degradation of the human
character. If I spent my halfpence in sweetmeats, every mouthful I
swallowed was accompanied with shame and remorse. ... Whenever vulgar
minds begin to shake off the dogmas of the religion in which they have
been educated, the progress is quick and immediate to downright
infidelity, and nothing but refinement of mind can enable them to
distinguish between the pure essence of religion and the gross systems
which men have been perpetually connecting it with. Higher salaries for
village schoolmasters, high English reading-classes, village
libraries,—if once such high education were to become general, the low
delights of the public-house, and other scenes of riot, would be
neglected; while industry, order, and cleanliness, and every virtue
which taste and independence of mind could recommend, would prevail and
flourish. Thus possessed of a virtuous and enlightened populace, with
delight I should consider my country at the head of all the nations of
the earth, ancient or modern.—From the ‘Life of Robert Burns.’
III. The following letter is, as I above said, from a valued, and, at
present, my most valued,—Companion;—a poor person, suffering much and
constant pain, confined to her room, and seeing from her window only a
piece of brick wall and a little space of sky. The bit about the spider
is the most delightful thing to me that has ever yet come of my
teaching:—
I have told the only two children I have seen this summer, about the
bees, and both were deeply interested, almost awe-stricken by the
wonderful work. How could they do it without scissors? One, an
intelligent boy of six years, is the well-cared-for child of well-to-do
parents. He came into my room when I was sorting some of the cut
leaves, and I gave him a very cleanly-cut specimen, saying, “What do
you think cut this, Willie?” “It was somebody very clever, wasn’t it?”
he asked. “Very clever indeed,” I said. “Then it was Miss Mildred!”—his
governess. “No, not Miss Mildred,” I replied. He stood silent by the
side of the bed for a minute, looking intently at the leaf in his hand,
and evidently puzzling out some idea of his own; and I waited for it—a
child’s own thoughts are lovely;—then my little visitor turned eagerly
to me: “I know,—I know who did it: it was God.”
My second pupil is a girl of twelve years. She was a veritable “little
ragamuffin” when—ten months back—we took her, motherless, and most
miserably destitute, into our home, in the hope of training her for
service; and my sister is persistently labouring—with pleasing success,
and disheartening failure—to mould her into an honest woman, while I
try to supplement her efforts by giving the child—Harriett—lessons
according to ‘Fors.’ But I regret to say it is only partially done, for
I am but a learner myself, and sorely hindered by illness: still the
purpose is always in my mind, and I do what I can.
Taking advantage of every trifle that will help to give Harriett a love
for innocent out-of-door life, we told her—as soon as we could show her
some of the cut leaves—of the work of the cutter bees, much to her
delight. “And then she forgot all about them,” many persons would
assert confidently, if they heard this story.
Not so, for some weeks after she told me with great pride that she had
two of “the bees’ leaves,” thinking they were probably only eaten by
caterpillars. I asked to see them; and then, how she obtained them. She
had found them in a glass of withered flowers sent out of the parlour,
and carefully dried them—(she had seen me press leaves); and she added,
“all the girls” in her class in the Sunday-school “did want them.” I
wondered why the leaves were taken there, until I discovered that she
keeps them in her Testament.
So far the possibility; may I now give a proof of the utility of such
teaching? When Harriett first came to us, she had an appetite for the
horrible that quite frightened me, but it is gradually, I hope, dying
out, thanks to the substitution of child-like pleasures. Imagine a
child of eleven years coolly asking—as Harriett did a few days after
she came—“If you please, has anybody been hanged, or anything, this
week?” and she added, before I could reply, and looking quite wistfully
at a newspaper lying near, “I should love to hear about it, please.” I
could have cried, for I believe there are many lovable young ladies in
this town who are fretting out weary lives, to whom work would be
salvation, and who can tell the number of such children all about them,
who have not a soul to care how they live, or if they die.
Harriett used to catch and kill flies for pleasure, and would have so
treated any living insect she saw; but she now holds bees in great
respect, and also, I hope, some other insect workers, for one day she
was much pleased to find one of the small spotted spiders, which had
during the night spun its web across the fire-grate. She asked me many
questions about it, (I permit her to do so on principle, at certain
times, as a part of her education); she said it was “a shame” to break
“such beautiful work,” and left it as long as she could; and then,
(entirely of her own accord) she carefully slipped her dusting brush
under web and spider, and so put the “pretty little dear” outside the
window, with the gentle remark, “There, now you can make another.” Was
not this hopeful? This child had lived all her life in one of the low,
crowded courts in the centre of the town, and her ignorance of all
green life was inconceivable. For instance, to give her a country walk
I sent her last March with a parcel to a village near the town, and
when she came back—having walked a mile through field-paths—she said
she did not think there were “such a many trees and birds in the
world.” And on that memorable day she first saw the lambs in the
field—within two miles of the house where she was born. Yet she has the
purest love for flowers, and goes into very real ecstasies over the
commonest weeds and grasses, and is nursing with great pride and
affection some roots of daisy, buttercup, and clover which she has
brought from the fields, and planted in the little yard at the back of
our house; and every new leaf they put forth is wonderful and lovely to
her, though of course her ideas of “gardening” are as yet most
elementary, and will be for some time, apparently. But it is really
helpful to me to see her happiness over it, and also when my friends
send me a handful of cut flowers—we have no garden; and the eagerness
with which she learns even their names, for it makes me feel more
hopeful about the future of our working classes than some of your
correspondents.
The despairing letter from Yorkshire in last ‘Fors’—on their incapacity
to enjoy wholesome amusements—has prompted me, as I am writing to you,
to tell you this as an antidote to the pain that letter must have given
you. For if we can do nothing for this generation, cannot we make sure
that the next shall be wiser? Have not young ladies a mighty power in
their own hands here, if they but use it for good, and especially those
who are Sabbath-school teachers? Suppose each one who has a garden felt
it to be her duty to make all her scholars as familiar with all the
life in it as she is herself, and every one who can take a country walk
her duty to take her girls with her—two or three at a time—until they
know and love every plant within reach; would not teacher and pupils
learn with this much more that would also be invaluable? [10] And if
our Sunday-school children were not left to killing flies and stoning
cats and dogs during the week, would there be so many brutal murders
and violent assaults? The little English heathen I have named has
attended a Sunday-school for about six years, and the Sunday-school
teachers of this town are—most of them—noble men and women, who
devoutly labour year after year “all for love, and nothing for reward.”
But even good people too often look on the degradation of the lower
classes as a matter of course, and despise them for ignorance they
cannot help. Here the sneer of “those low shoemakers” is for ever on
the lip, yet few ask how they became so much lower than ourselves;
still I have very pleasing proof of what may be done even for adults by
a little wise guidance, but I must not enter into that subject. Pray
forgive me for writing so much: I have been too deeply interested, and
now feel quite ashamed of the length of this.
Again thanking you most earnestly for all you have taught me to see and
to do,