Our Missionaries.
“The poor are the poor’s best friend.”
“Little words of kindness,
Little deeds of love,
Make this world an Eden,
Like to heaven above.”
THOSE who have watched the “Mothers’ Society” from the commencement, will
see that every year has been marked by steady progress; and not merely in
numbers: the moral and spiritual tone has deepened, become more real,
more earnest, more active. Nothing was so distressing to me, when I
first commenced this work, as to observe the unkind feelings which these
women manifested towards each other. It was no unusual thing for me to
receive a call from one of them, for the purpose of telling me, that if I
allowed Mrs So-and-So to come to the meeting, then she should _not_ come.
“They hadn’t spoke for months, and never meant to speak any more; and
there was no pleasure in coming and seeing such a ‘ippocrit’ as she was,
‘sitten up there.’” Then, again, I was warned not to take up with such a
one; for she was as false as she was high, and “nobody never believed a
word she said.” Once, a mother came to complain against her own
daughter, telling me she was quite undeserving of the assistance I was
rendering her, and that the only thing that brought her amongst us was to
get all she could. I often spoke to them very earnestly about these
accusations of each other, and assured them that this sin would be to our
meetings what Achan’s crime was to the camp of Israel; that we could
neither expect the blessing of a God of love ourselves, nor hope that our
united prayers for our children would be heard and answered, whilst we
were hating instead of helping one another.
But this is not so much a thing to be lectured against, as to be lived
down. The constant reading together of the Word of God, especially of
His life who so loved us, sinners though we are, as to die for us, soon
had its effect upon us. We have always, from the first, made a point of
referring in our prayers to any particular family affliction which had
occurred to any of our number, and also of sending kind messages to the
absent; and as I persisted in doing this to saints and sinners alike, and
never took any further notice of the evil reports brought to me, than to
pray more earnestly than ever, that we might _all_ be delivered from the
particular sins complained of, the evil spirit seemed gradually to die
out, and I hailed with joy many evidences of a very _different_ spirit.
The elder women began to remember that they could sometimes help the
younger ones, by nursing their babies, so that the work for the many
little ones at home might proceed the faster. The younger members, in
their turn, would stop to thread the needle, which the failing sight of
some companion made a difficult operation. The warmest seat by the fire
was given up to the poor invalid, who came with a bad cough, or to the
newly made mother, with her “wee baby.” The only two footstools in the
room were given up to those who most needed them, instead of keeping
them, with the remark, “I got it fust, and I shall keep it,” which at one
time might have been heard.
One evening last winter I read to them, from “The Book and its Mission,”
some account of Marian, and what she was doing for her poor neighbours in
St Giles’s. I saw they were extremely interested in the narrative; and I
said to them—“Now, many of you, I know, feel to those about you as kindly
as Marian; and if any of you think that you have time, and strength, and
spirit, for this work, I believe that, without giving up your whole days
to it (as, with you, that would be impossible), you might, by a little
planning and arrangement, accomplish a great deal of good.” After the
meeting was over, three of the women came to me, and offered their
services in any way I thought best. As it was then too late to go into
the subject, I invited them to tea on the following Wednesday. The three
came, bringing with them a fourth, the mother of several little children,
who apologised much for coming, especially as she had to bring her baby
with her. She knew she couldn’t do much, but she couldn’t bear to be
left out. She thought she might take her baby, and sit with a sick
neighbour sometimes; or take care of some little children, with her own,
now and then, if that would do any good. Two of the women were upwards
of fifty years of age, and had then no children living with them; the
other was one of those who attended our first meeting, and then told me,
that she thought, if we went on with the society, she might look in now
and then upon us: not that she wanted to learn anything; for, “I ’spect,”
said she, “I know everything better than anybody can tell me.” In fact,
that _her_ visits would be to give us her patronage. However, as we
became better acquainted, we were soon good friends. She lost her
husband a few months afterwards, and was left to struggle alone, with a
family of boys, to whom she has done her duty, and they are truly rising
up to call her blessed. With a very limited allowance from the parish,
she managed, by washing and mangling, to earn enough to support them, and
send them all to school; but the work was too hard for her. After the
first year or two, I began to observe that she walked uneasily, and that
the expression of her countenance indicated constant suffering. I soon
found that she was suffering from an internal complaint, which, I feared,
at first, admitted of no remedy. But, notwithstanding all she endured,
she worked on, always saying she could bear anything but the workhouse,
and separation from her children; and managed, in spite of such
difficulties as would have sunk many a strong man’s heart, to keep her
little home to herself, and retain over her great boys an almost
unbounded influence. She became so very ill last summer, that I took her
one day to “The London Home,” a kind of hospital for chronic diseases
just established in our neighbourhood. The doctors spoke of her case,
not only hopefully, but as one that could certainly be cured; but it must
be by an operation; and it would be necessary for her to become an inmate
of the hospital for four or five weeks. Under the skilful and humane
care of Mr Baker Brown, the cause of her suffering was entirely removed;
and the gratitude of this poor woman for so great a mercy seemed
unbounded. During the evening on which she and her companions came to my
house, she said—“After I was sure I was going to be well again, I used to
lie in my bed in that hospital there for hours, with my heart lifted up
with gratitude to God; and I asked Him so many times to shew me what I
should do for Him for all His great love and kindness to me. I really
did feel that love and thankfulness to Him, that I thought the first
strength I had I _must_ give to Him; but I couldn’t exactly see how.
Last Monday was the first time, since then, I have been able to come to
the meeting; and as you were reading about Marian, I says to myself,
‘There, that’s your sort of work; that’s what you’re to do;’ and I began
to think how God had tried me, and how I had suffered in almost every
way, and that He had helped me through everything, and never left me; and
I knew then that this was _His_ way of teaching me, and preparing me to
help others. And now, ma’am,” she went on to say, “you see, people is
very kind to me; and my children’s beginning to help me; and I shan’t
have quite so much hard work as I have had; and though I can’t do a great
deal yet, I think I could give up _two_ afternoons in the week for doing
what I can for those who want help. And I have thought of what you often
have told us, too, ma’am, that if we will but make a beginning in what is
right—even if we don’t see exactly how—that the way will open to us as we
go along, and God will send the light as we want it. We don’t, none of
us, feel very wise about it at present; but we are all ready to do, as
far as we can, anything you think best.”
We spent a very pleasant evening together, and talked over various plans.
The women were of varied capacities, and I saw that they were not all
fitted for the same work; but they were all actuated by the same
spirit—love to their Saviour, and willingness to work for Him.
At our next meeting, in the following week, just as I sat down to read, a
little girl entered the room, and, coming up to me, said—
“Please, ma’am, mother sent me here to ask you to pray for her.”
“What is the matter with your mother?” I replied.
“She is very bad, ma’am, and hasn’t got nobody to do nothing for her.”
When the little girl was gone, I inquired if anybody knew this person
(Mrs S—), as she had only attended our meetings for a few times. Only
one woman present knew anything about her, and she not much.
“I only know,” she said, “that she is a poor troubled thing, as has known
better days, and likes to keep herself to herself, like; for her husband
spends everything in drink, and never leaves her anything to make herself
decent with.”
I said to them, “I feel sure this poor woman wants just the kind of help
and sympathy that some of you know how to give. I leave her in your
hands, and you can let me know if you want any help from me.”
The next afternoon, one of these newly appointed missionaries called on
me. She said she had just come from Mrs S—, and described her visit as
follows:—
“I really could hardly help crying, ma’am, when I first went in, and saw
what a state the poor thing was in. Her baby was born on Saturday
afternoon; and because she was too poor to pay the midwife the whole of
the sum due to her, the woman did not return to her the next morning, as
they usually do, to wash and dress the baby; but there she had been left,
without a creature going near to do anything for her. She was too ill to
do anything for the baby herself; and there they and the other children
had been crying for hours. I tried to speak cheerfully to her, and told
her I would soon set it all to rights; so I made up her bed clean and
comfortable, first, while the water was heating, and then I got a great
washing-pan and washed the poor miserable little baby in it, and put on
it some clean things, which I found in the bag of baby-linen that had
been lent her. The little thing had been crying for hours; but it soon
felt comfortable, and went off to sleep before I had finished dressing
it. I put it into bed with its mother, and then I got the Bible and read
a few verses to her; and then I knelt down and prayed with her as well as
I could. I asked God to help her out of her trouble, and keep her from
thinking hard thoughts of Him, and make her to see He meant it for her
good. Then I talked to her a good bit; and she told me how she had been
well off once, but that her husband’s drinking had ruined them all. She
cried very much, poor thing, and said she had been praying all the
morning that God would send some one to help her. I tried to comfort her
as well as I could, and told her that we would all pray for her, and that
God could change her husband’s heart. Then I kissed her, and so I came
away: and now, ma’am, I am come to you, if you please, for some food for
them; for they all want that badly enough.”
The next morning another of these self-constituted missionaries went.
She was not so gifted in many ways as the one who first called. She had
fewer words at command, and her hands were stiff, having suffered from
rheumatism, in consequence of which she found it impossible to dress the
baby; so she went for the mother mentioned above, who wished to do
something to help; and took care of her children while she was gone.
After this she returned, carried away everything that wanted washing, and
brought it all back clean in the evening. This she continued to do for
three weeks: in fact, these three kind women took the entire charge of
the poor sufferer, and watched over her till she was able to work again.
I shall not easily forget the evening when Mrs S— came amongst us again,
bringing the new baby, as they usually do, to introduce to the meeting.
The regular business had not commenced, and I was going about from one to
the other, taking the money for the work. After congratulating her upon
her recovery, and welcoming the new baby, she passed on to a seat by the
fire, that some of them were trying to make extraordinarily comfortable
for her. I saw a little group gathering round her, talking about the
baby (we are rather in the habit of making a good deal of the last baby);
and presently, as in the course of my work I passed near this group, I
heard her say, “You have been just like kind sisters to me. It was the
best day of my life when I came here, and I shall never forget how kind
you have been to me.”
“O Mrs S—,” said a kind, cheerful woman, who had the good sense to see
that the expression of strong feeling was too much for the poor, weak
mother just then, “never you mind about that; it did us good to do it:
and you must make haste and get well and strong, and then we shall come
upon you to help us some day.”
The sequel to this story is too pleasant to be omitted.
During the Christmas week, or as soon as possible afterwards, we invite
the poor women of this society, with their husbands, to partake of a
social cup of tea together. The nicely lighted and prettily decorated
rooms presented last year a most cheerful appearance. About a hundred
and fifty of these poor people assembled, with fifty or sixty of their
richer neighbours.
That evening I saw, for the first time, the husband of Mrs S—. They were
sitting together, and she was nursing her baby; but they both looked
uneasy. The drunkard and his family are so accustomed to “hide
themselves away from view,” that the bright light and numerous company
made them feel how shabby they were. A few kind, encouraging words were
at first necessary to reassure them, and make them feel that they were
welcome. Presently, I had the pleasure of observing that they had become
thoroughly interested in what was passing, and the clouds had passed away
from their countenances.
I do not think that any exhortation was given that night to drunkards
especially,—in fact, I believe that the subject was never once mentioned
in any way. The platform was occupied by gentlemen of no common
standing. Amongst the speakers, were some of the leading philanthropists
of the day; and it is not matter of surprise that the words of these
earnest men should have conveyed to their audience something of the
intense love and sympathy which pervaded their own hearts. It was an
evening that many will long remember with pleasure; but to our poor
friend (Mrs S—) it was the beginning of a new life. After the meeting
was over, her husband said to her—
“Wife, I am done for; I can never go back to those drinking ways again.
I can stand up against a good deal; but those people there would have
moved a post, let alone a man.”
This man was a fishmonger, and once had a business in this trade which he
sold for £300. The greater part of this money was squandered in drink.
Since then, the only means by which he could support himself and his
family had been by hawking fish about the streets. For many hours of a
Sunday morning, his loud voice might have been heard resounding through
the streets and squares of the neighbourhood; even the church doors were
not thick enough to shut out the noise; and the annoyance was often the
subject of complaint.
I went to see them, one morning about the beginning of March, but not in
the damp cellar where our acquaintance was first made. They had taken a
neat little shop, and, though it was not well stocked, they were getting
on.
The eldest girl, who was appointed to look after the shop, certainly
looked as if she felt herself “a person of consequence.” I could
scarcely recognise in her the poor “crushed-out” thing whom I had seen
working for the family in their former dark abode. The other
children—who used to remind me of the plants which we shut up in our
cellars in the winter, keeping them without nourishment or light, that
they may not exhaust their powers in growing—were now gambolling about
the shop, while the sun was shining on them so brightly that they had to
shade their eyes with their hands as they looked up. The mother, though
she had lost that look of abject distress, still seemed anxious.
“It is hard work, ma’am,” she said, “to get right when things have been
going wrong so long; but I hope, by God’s blessing, we shall get out of
trouble after a bit; for my husband keeps steady, thank God. The
children go to school now, and the elder ones have joined the Band of
Hope. I don’t think anything in the world would make these two boys
drink. They go errands sometimes for people, and have drink offered to
them, but they will never touch it. I do pray every day that they may
never know what it is to suffer and sin as we have done.”
* * * * *
And so the poor mother, with the full consciousness before her of the
cause of her own blighted life, looks at her children, and with uplifted
hands and streaming eyes prays—as none but the wife of a drunkard ever
prays—“Deliver them, oh, deliver them from evil!” And the children, with
the recollection ever before them of their joyless childhood and
sorrowful home, band themselves together, trying thus by union to
strengthen their moral courage to resist evil, and they pray—“Oh, lead us
not into temptation.” Let us kneel with them and pray too, that God, in
mercy to these poor captives, sighing for deliverance, will awaken the
consciences of those who still dare to offer the intoxicating cup as a
remuneration for labour. If they will not pause and listen to the groans
of humanity, the wail of despair, that is ascending night and day from
every corner of this land through this accursed thing, let them, for
their own sakes, ponder the meaning of the terrible words too lightly
passed over, even by those who tell us that He who uttered them is their
Lord and Master. “Woe to that man by whom the offence cometh!” “It were
better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and he cast
into the sea, than that he should offend one of these little ones.”
* * * * *
But to return to our missionaries. One of them spends the greater part
of Monday morning in collecting money for the savings’ bank. She has
occasionally brought me as much as £2 in the evening, all obtained in
small sums, even as low as a penny, and rarely higher than 2s. 6d. This
poor woman suffers very much from a swollen foot and leg. I have said to
her—
“I am afraid you must find it very painful to walk and stand about so
long.”
“Well, ma’am, ’tis rather,” she will say; “but it does me good: and I
think how happy I shall be when I take it back to them in the winter, and
they tell me it is all as if I had given it to them, for they haven’t
a-missed it.”
On Monday afternoon, they bring me their report of what they have been
doing during the week. I learn from them the general state of things,
and what is actually transpiring, much better than I could from any
investigation of my own making. The poor have no hope, in their dealings
with one another, of getting at a “blind side,” as they sometimes do with
a lady; and the positive facts which I obtain are of great use to me in
many ways, and have often saved me from making mistakes.
In order to keep up a vigorous and lively interest at the “Mothers’
Meetings,” the subjects that are brought forward must usually have some
reference to what is passing among them. I have frequently, at home,
thought of a topic to form the basis of our conversation in the evening;
and on my way there, or even after I have entered the room, I have heard
of events which I knew must so absorb their attention, that there could
be little chance of their following out my train of thought; and that if
I wished to do them good, I must follow theirs instead.
I once heard our city missionary make a remark, which has been very
useful to me. He said—
“We must remember, in our intercourse with the poor, that they have a
constant pressure upon their minds, as to how they are to provide for
their ever-returning wants; and we must not expect more abstract
attention from them than we feel we should be inclined to give ourselves,
supposing that we were so situated as not to know certainly how the
dinner for to-morrow was to be provided.”
I have thought that our interviews may be compared to meeting men on a
battle-field. How absurd it would be to call them aside, and endeavour
to fix their attention on some of the abstruse metaphysical questions of
the day! “Oh,” they would say, “pray do not trifle with us; we are ready
to sink under the heat and burden of this protracted contest! Talk to us
of the battle, and how we are to sustain this conflict; and tell us, oh!
tell us, is there any hope of peace at last?”
None, I believe, feel more emphatically that life is a battle than the
poor mother, with her many children and few helps. The demands made on
her strength, patience, and resources are beyond what those in easier
circumstances can conceive. I have felt ashamed sometimes, after
speaking of the virtues of patience and forbearance, to think how utterly
I might fail in all these, were I tried as they are tried.
I once persuaded a poor man to attend a place of worship. He went to a
dissenting chapel. The next time I saw him, I asked him how he liked it.
“Well, ma’am,” he said, “I dare say it was all very good, if anybody
could have understood it. I thought I should have got on a bit with the
prayer; but there were such a lot of hard words in it, I couldn’t make
nothing of it. Parsons don’t understand nothing about us, or, instead of
praying for all them outlandish things, they’d pray a bit for us, now and
then, and for our poor wives at home, that can’t never get out to pray
for themselves, and got work to do that would frighten them to look at.”
This remark will shew the estimation in which the very poor generally
hold the services in our churches and chapels. It would be unwise to
argue from it, that some great alteration must be necessary; that the
language and thoughts of every preacher should be so simplified as to be
brought to the level of the uneducated. There would be a want of justice
in this. The higher classes have a right to be considered, as well as
the poorer; their tastes and requirements must be thought of and provided
for; and as they are satisfied, edified, and instructed by things as they
are, for themselves, let things remain as they are. What we want is
something in _addition_ to that which we already have, and, we think,
something very different.
The college education received by our ministers of religion would not be
the best possible preparation for our Ragged School Teachers and City
Missionaries. The clearness imparted to the intellect by mathematical
studies, the extensive knowledge of words derived from the acquirement of
many languages,—in fact, the general discipline through which the mind of
the student passes, gives him a mental power which sets him at an
immeasurable distance from the man who does all his counting upon his
fingers, and whose only knowledge of language is derived from what he has
picked up in the streets.
Our City Missionaries are doing what they can to supply this want. The
hired room where they sit, surrounded by the unwashed and uncombed,
picturing out to them a passage of Scripture, applying its lessons to
their daily life, and then praying to Him who can bless their daily toil,
and give them daily strength,—these are the services appreciated by the
“sons of toil,” and we thank God for having raised up these simple,
earnest teachers.
It is the deep conviction which I hold that the poor can be best helped,
as well as taught, by those who thoroughly understand them, that has
induced me to hail with delight the introduction upon the field of labour
of the Female Missionary. A sensible, true-hearted Christian woman, very
little removed above the poor herself, will accomplish much more amongst
them than any lady, however well inclined she may be. So many minutiæ
must be considered in endeavouring to improve the home habits of these
people, such a constant watchfulness is necessary to prevent a
degeneration into merely amateur work, that it requires all the method,
skill, and determination of the professional hand.
There are modes of argument which the poor know how to use with the poor,
which would never occur to people differently situated. A few weeks ago,
I requested one of our missionaries to call upon a family, where there
were a number of children growing up in great ignorance, and to see if
she could not persuade the mother to send some of them to school. Next
time I saw her, I asked her what success she had had.
“At first, ma’am,” she said, “I couldn’t get on at all; the mother did
not seem to care about the children’s knowing anything, and she said she
was sure she could not afford the school-money. I told her I found it
was always a saving in the end; for their shoes didn’t get worn out so
fast, nor their clothes torn, and I hadn’t a-near so much washing to do
for ’em, as if they did run in the streets. I told her, it often cost me
more in the holidays for mending their shoes than as though I had paid
the school-money. She took up with this directly, and said, if that was
it, she’d send the most rackety of ’em; and if it answered, she’d send
the rest after a bit.”
Now, it is just possible that it might have occurred to a lady to use
this same kind of argument; but would have lost its force with the
mother, because she would have known it was not the result of actual
experience.
We hope, if spared to another winter, and if we are fortunate enough to
obtain the requisite funds, that we shall be able to establish a paid
missionary in the Potteries. Great as the improvement has been, much
still remains to be effected. This poor place, that was left so many
years _literally_ wallowing in the mire, is still much behind-hand in
cleanliness and home comfort. The keen eye, the ready hand, and the
loving heart of some good Christian woman, who can devote the whole of
her time to the work, is just what we want. We must trust in Him, who
has already done so much for us, that He will open the way as we go on,
and raise up for us, in our time of need, both the person and the pay.