Giving and Receiving.
“The world’s a room of sickness, where each heart
Knows its own anguish and unrest!
The truest wisdom there, and noblest art,
Is his who skills of comfort best;
Whom by the softest step and gentlest tone
Enfeebled spirits own,
And love to raise the languid eye,
When, like an angel’s wing, they feel him fleeting by.”
KEBLE.
ONE principal motive which has induced me to write this little book is
the hope that, by facts and illustrations, I might remove the idea of
_difficulty_ which many people attach to the management of such
institutions as I have described. Many excellent and kind-hearted ladies
have said to me, “I should be so afraid to attempt it.” “It must require
a person very clever, I am sure; I should never be able to interest
them.” These objections arise out of the mistaken notion that the
necessary qualifications belong more to the head than to the heart; that
some _great_ thing is required of us, rather than a _good_ thing.
I received a letter, a few days ago, from a gentleman at Plymouth, in
which he tells me of the progress of a Mothers’ Society in that town,
conducted partly by his wife. Speaking of one of their tea-meetings, at
which he had been present, he says, “Whilst there, I was much struck by
the fact that, notwithstanding the great difference in our circumstances,
our _wants_ are much the same. We all have anxieties to be allayed,
weaknesses to be supported, sins to be forgiven, hopes to be assured, and
aspirations to be encouraged. The maladies of all classes are the same,
and require the leaves of the tree given for the healing of the nations.
In this view we are one with the poorest and the lowest, and we speak
_to_ them as one of them.”
It is the realisation of this great thought of being one with them, which
is the true qualification. No amount of ability will avail without this.
When the head is simply to be stored with knowledge, the greater the
ability which the teacher possesses the better. But the evils that we
hope to remove by meeting the poor in this way, have more of a moral than
a mental origin; and consequently they must be met as moral evils,
proceeding from the frailty to which we are all liable. The great object
of the teacher must be to awaken in the mind of the poor mother a deep
sense of her _responsibility_; and this must be spoken of (and how
truly!) as _our_ responsibility. The very slighting way in which poor
girls generally hear themselves mentioned, the little account in which
they are held, the absence, in fact, of almost everything that can make
them feel of importance in society, induce a habit of thought very
unfavourable to a conscientious discharge of their duties. The feeling I
speak of is something perfectly distinct from either vanity or pride. It
is the conviction that interests of great importance are committed to us,
out of which arise duties for whose performance we shall be held
responsible, not only to society, but to Him who has consigned these
sacred trusts to our care, saying, “Occupy till I come.”
I was lately visiting one of our poor women, whose progress I have now
had the pleasure of watching for some years. She was lamenting the death
of one of her favourite plants, and said—
“I do like to see them pretty green things agin the white curtains; ’tis
something cheerful, like, for the children to watch; they looks after the
buds and flowers as if they could see ’em grow.”
I replied—“The little slips you planted a few weeks ago will soon be up;
and in the meantime, your nice white curtains will make the room look
very neat.”
“Yes; these white curtains I bought last ar’n’t quite so nice as I should
like ’em to be.”
I smiled. I could not help looking back a few years, and remembering the
wretched hovel in which I had first become acquainted with her and her
children, when even a pair of clean hands or a clean face would have been
as great a rarity as snow in harvest.
“Why, Mrs R—,” I added, “you have become particular, indeed. I see
something new every time I come. I don’t know where you are going to
stop.”
“Never, I hope, ma’am. We saves up, and gets one little thing after
another; and such rejoicing goes on here at every fresh thing that comes.
The children have saved their halfpence for a long time past, and last
week they bought two new hymn-books; and the first thing we hear in the
morning, when we wakes, is their singing; and their voices is so pretty.”
The children rushed to shew their treasures, carefully unwrapped them
from the paper, and produced two threepenny “Curwen’s Hymn-books.” No
landed proprietor could have felt richer, or looked happier.
“I often think, ma’am,” said the mother, “of how we was when you first
came to us; and I often think, too, how I _could dare to_ keep such a
place for my poor husband and children as I did then. I hope the Lord
have forgive me.”
Here was the secret of all this social improvement. “How can I _dare_ to
keep so much misery about me, that I could and ought to prevent? How can
I _dare_ to leave these children, whom God has entrusted to me to train
for Him, without trying in any way to prepare them either for time or for
eternity? How shall I dare to stand before God’s judgment throne, to
give an account of the deeds done in the body?” It is this awakening of
conscience that alone enables a poor mother to see her true position, and
gives her the courage and resolution to do her best for her husband and
children, in the face of difficulties of which the rich have scarcely any
idea. Where conscience has slumbered long, or, as in most cases, has
never been aroused, the progress will often be slow; but let this right
principle be once established, and the work is done.
In introducing subjects of a domestic nature, the word “_us_” should be
more frequently used than “_you_.” It is well sometimes to speak
particularly of our own difficulties and mistakes; it helps our listeners
to regard us as fellow-sufferers—as friends, who can understand and
sympathise with them. When a poor mother tells us how much misery the
bad behaviour of her children is causing her, we must not say (though it
might be true), “Ah! that is just the natural consequence of all your bad
management; if you had only done what I advised, it would not have
happened.” It must be—(and what mother cannot truthfully say so?)—“Ah! I
can feel for you; for my children trouble _me_ a good deal sometimes, and
occasion me much anxiety. I don’t know what I should do, if I could not
bring them to God in prayer, and hope in His mercy for them.”
On one occasion, while about to leave home for a few weeks, I received a
message from a poor woman that several of her children had been attacked
by fever. I could not, of course, go to her then; but I wrote to her the
next day from the sea-side. I happened to mention, in my letter, that I
was under some anxiety for the health of one of _my_ children. In her
reply, after thanking me for my remembrance of her, she said, “And I
thank you very much for telling me about your own child being ill. I
pray for her, too, when I pray for my own children; and I seem to feel
more sure that God will hear me.”
During the first year, as I have already mentioned, I had to conduct this
society alone; being without the kind assistance which I now enjoy. I
was, of course, very anxious that nothing should ever prevent my being
there at the appointed time. I had at one time, for some days, been
suffering from toothache; and when the day for the meeting came, I was in
such an unnerved state, that the slightest noise distressed me very much.
But when the evening came, I felt that I must go. I remember standing at
the foot of the stairs, trembling in every nerve; and wondering how it
was possible to mount to the top, and go into the room to face all the
women. I had, indeed, to look up to “Him who giveth power to the faint;”
and He did not forsake me.
After the preliminary business was over, and as I sat down to read, I
said, “Now, though you are generally so quiet and orderly, I must ask you
to-night to be, if possible, still more so. I have been suffering very
much from pain in my face; and it has made me so nervous, that I cannot
bear any noise. When my children came to me to-day, after dinner, though
they tried to be quiet, yet even their moving about made me so much
worse, that I had to send them away to the nursery. After they were
gone, and the room was still, I thought that some of you, no doubt,
suffered sometimes just in the same way, and that you had no nursery to
send your children to; and I felt very sorry for you.”
The Mrs A— mentioned in a former chapter was there: she had become a most
zealous champion of mine. I cannot help laughing now at the recollection
of her tall, commanding figure, as she sat that evening bolt upright in
her chair, looking round with an air of defiance, as much as to say, “Let
me see any one dare to make a noise.” If a chair creaked, or scissors
dropped, her head was round in an instant. A little, unfortunate boy,
about four years of age, who came with his mother because he could not be
left at home, was singled out as her special victim. He could not move,
however quietly, without her threatening face and finger being directed
towards him. She seemed to exercise some mysterious spell over him, as
he scarcely withdrew his eyes from her; and at last, when a halfpenny
rolled off his lap under the table, he instantly followed it, and
remained out of sight, as if unable to face her again after _that_. The
energy of her character communicated itself to her needle. Presently
this noisy needle stopped. I did not notice it at first, thinking that,
perhaps, she was watching some fresh victim; but, as she continued idle,
I looked up from my book, and said, “Are you waiting for anything, Mrs
A—, that I can give you?”
“Why, ma’am, you see I forgot to bring the sleeves out of the box, when I
fetched my work, and I can’t go on any longer without ’em; but I have got
such thick shoes on, I thought I should make such a racket in fetching
’em, that I should upset you altogether, and I had rather not finish my
work than do that.”
I knew what a self-denial it must be to her not to drive on to the end of
her work, when she had intended to do so; and I appreciated her kind
consideration accordingly.
It has been quaintly said, that “there are more points in which a Queen
resembles her washer woman than in which she does not.” Without dwelling
upon these extremes, nothing is more certain than that whenever a lady
goes amongst the poor, hoping to benefit them by her influence, she must
be impressed much more by the points of resemblance that exist between
them, than by the points of difference. Mothers’ Societies have a
peculiar advantage in this respect. The sufferings and joys attendant on
the mother’s life are common to all, and enable us to realise, more than
any other circumstance or relation in life, that we are all children of
one great family. The best lessons we can find for our poor sisters will
be always those which we learn from our own hearts—from our own actual
every-day experience. Sometimes I have repeated a portion of Scripture
with them, which I had previously read with my own children; telling them
what remarks I made upon it, and what the children said about it. This,
besides interesting and amusing them more than a common explanation, has
a better effect than saying, “You should teach your children so and so.”
I should be afraid of the accusation of “telling as new what everybody
knows,” if I had not so often seen good and excellent people, from whom I
could learn much on most other points, almost entirely fail in anything
which they attempted amongst the poor, just because they did not
recognise the fact that the law of “doing as we would be done by” applies
as much to our intercourse with the poor as with our equals. I remember
a case in point. One of our poor mothers had for some months brought
with her a very fine baby. He was a beautiful child, and so
sweet-tempered, that she had no difficulty in keeping him quiet. She was
very proud of him, of course, and used to seat him on the table, and
resort to a variety of little manœuvres to induce us to notice and praise
him. But when he began to cut his teeth, a sad change occurred. He
became thin and pale, and so did the poor mother, through her
night-watching, and hard work; and we could hardly recognise in them the
bright child and happy mother we used to see. At last, the little fair
head became covered with sores—very sorrowful to witness; and, instead of
now shewing off her child, the poor stricken mother concealed him as much
as possible with her shawl, and sat apart from the rest of the company.
One evening, a visitor came in and staid about an hour with us. She
evidently had not been much accustomed to such society, and did not feel
at home in it. Whilst I was taking the money for the work, she tried to
talk to some of the women, but I saw that she found great difficulty in
it. Presently, a feeble cry attracted her attention to the poor baby;
with a look of great disgust, she said to the mother—
“Why, what have you been doing with that child’s head?”
“What did you say, ma’am?” answered the mother, hoping, I suppose, that
she had mistaken the question. It was repeated. The mother looked very
angry, and replied, “I hav’n’t been doing of nothing with it. I suppose
rich people’s babies get bad heads, sometimes, as well as poor people’s?”
Many in the room sympathised with her, as I plainly saw, when looking up
from my account-book. It seemed as if an evil spirit had suddenly
alighted amongst us, and taken possession of us all; for every
countenance looked more or less angry. Such is the wonderful power of a
few words. When shall we ever duly estimate the omnipotence of words? I
had finished my accounts, so I rose from my seat, and went across the
room to fetch something that I did _not_ want; and, as I passed the
offending head, I stroked the little pale face, and said—
“Poor baby! how sad it is that it must begin to suffer so soon, and give
its poor mother so many anxious nights and weary days.”
The baby smiled upon me its accustomed smile; and, by the time I was back
to my seat, I saw the mother’s head bent over the child; the quiet tears
were dropping upon its face, and the evil spirit was gone.
Now, this lady was by no means of an unkind disposition; she would have
given us money if we had asked for it, and would have exerted herself far
more than many, to render us any real service. She might truly have
said—
“And yet it was never in my soul
To play so ill a part;
But evil is wrought by want of thought,
As well as want of heart.”
The most beautiful and touching lessons on this subject are to be found
in the life of our Saviour! Of course a _word_ or a _message_ from Him
could have conveyed the miraculous healing power; but in most cases He
chose to touch the sightless eye, to put His finger into the deaf ear,
and to take her that was dead by the hand. Even the poor leper, whom no
one would scarcely pass on the road—who had “sat apart” for years, a
stranger to all human sympathy—what must that touch have been to Him!
Jesus knew that a double healing was required here, not only for the body
covered with sores, but for the spirit, wounded by long neglect and
estrangement. Each must be healed, before the feelings of a man and a
brother could return. A word or a message could have effected the first,
but the touch accomplished both.
And yet how incomparably greater was the distinction that existed between
Jesus and this poor man, compared with that which exists between the
highest lady of the land and the poor cinder-picker at Paddington! We
hear often about the condescension of the high towards the low; yet, how
it all fades away in the light of the life of Him “who, though He was
rich, yet for our sakes became poor!” We are commended sometimes for the
few spare hours which we give to the poor; but what are these to His
gifts, who always “went about doing good;” who sought not “to be
ministered unto, but to minister;” and who closed all by “giving His
_life_ a ransom for many?”
Haydon remarked, about his pictures, “I was never satisfied with anything
I did, until I had forgotten what I wished to do.” With the example of
Christ before us, at which to aim, it will surely be long before any of
His followers will be able to say of _their_ work that they are
_satisfied_.