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.”