London is like a large company, where it is necessary for the master
or mistress of the house to introduce a great many people to each
other. Everybody in that overgrown metropolis has things within a few
doors of his residence, which, if they were suddenly described to him,
he would hear of with deep interest or extreme astonishment. There is
a plain back street near the Haymarket, bearing the title of Great
Windmill Street, in which there is a large, dingy-looking house
standing somewhat detached, and not appearing to be in the hands of
ordinary tenants. Very near this, is a distinguished haunt of gaiety,
very well whitened, and looking very smart, but which would be no
index to the character or purposes of the dingy mansion. A group of
dirty children will be found disporting at marbles or pitch-and-toss
on the paved recess in front; but neither would that scene be found in
any kind of harmony with the house itself. It is evidently a house
with a mystery.
Very few people would be found in the course of a day to pass out of
or into that house. A blind would seldom be raised. A fashionable
carriage would not once in a twelvemonth be seen rolling up to the
gloomy portals. Supposing, however, that any one were to be so curious
as to watch the house for an afternoon, he would probably see two
women in extraordinary dresses come up to the door, apparently laden
with some heavy packages, shrouded under their wide black cloaks. He
would see the door opened with some caution, and the two women would
then walk in, and be seen no more for that day. He might speculate for
hours about the business in which these women had been engaged, but in
vain. He might make inquiries in the neighbourhood, but probably with
as little result; for, in London, it must be an extraordinary family
indeed which provokes any inquiry among neighbours, and most
undoubtedly the inmates of the mansion would never think of
proclaiming what they were, or how they lived.
Having perhaps by this time excited some curiosity, we must endeavour
to satisfy it. We happened by mere chance, when spending an evening
with a friend in a distant part of the town, to hear of this house and
its tenants; and the doings and character of its inmates struck our
mind as something so extraordinary, and in some respects so beautiful,
that we resolved, if possible, to pay it a visit. We did so a few days
thereafter, under the conduct of a young friend, who kindly undertook
to smooth away all difficulties in the way of our reception. We can,
therefore, give some account of the dingy house, with a tolerable
assurance that, strange as the matter may appear, it is no more than
true.
This dingy house is possessed by ten women, chiefly natives of France,
who form a branch of a religious society of recent origin in that
country, entitled, Les Petites Soeurs des Pauvres (_Little Sisterhood
for the Poor_). They have been in this house only for a few months,
but are already fully engaged in the business to which they have
devoted themselves--which is the care and nurture of infirm and
destitute old women. The extraordinary thing is that the Sisters,
though most of them are in their education and previous habits
_ladies_, literally go about begging for the means of maintaining
these poor people. Everything is done, indeed, by begging; for on
entering the sisterhood they renounce all earthly possessions. They
have begged the means of furnishing their house, and paying their
rent, which is not an inconsiderable sum; they daily beg for the food,
clothes, and cordials required for themselves and the objects of their
charity. What is even more singular, these ladies in all respects
_serve_ the old women, wash for them, cook for them, act as their
nurses. They treat themselves less kindly, for out of the broken
victuals on which exclusively the house is supported, the old women
always get the first selection, and the ladies only the remaining
scraps. It is altogether the most striking example of self-denial and
self-devotion which has ever happened to fall under our attention in
this country.
We were received in a faded old dining-room, by a Sister whose age
surprised us, for she did not appear to be above five-and-twenty. Her
dress consisted of coarse black serge, and a linen cap, such as is
worn by poor old women in the country. She was evidently a
well-educated and refined English lady, who, under a different
impulse, might have very probably been indulging at this moment in the
gaieties of Almacks. With great courtesy, but without for a moment
departing from the serious manner in which she had first addressed us,
she conducted us through the house, and explained its various
arrangements. We were first shewn into a large hall in the rear, where
we found about thirty little beds, only a few of which were occupied,
the greater number of the inmates being able to sit up and move about
the house. Nothing could exceed the homeliness of the furniture,
though everything was remarkably clean. In another dormitory up
stairs, we found ten or twelve bedrid women, one of them within a few
months of completing the hundredth year of her age, but able to
converse. Another was a comparatively young woman, who had three
months ago had a limb amputated. A Sister, in her plain dark dress,
stood in this room, ready to attend any of the poor women. We were
next conducted to a large room, where a number of the inmates were at
dinner. They rose modestly at our entrance, and we had some difficulty
in inducing them to resume their seats. We were curious to see the
viands, knowing that they were composed solely of the crumbs from the
rich man's table, and having some idea, that as most of the Sisters
were French, there might be some skill shewn in putting these morsels
into new and palatable forms. We did not, however, find that the
dishes were superior to what might have been expected in a workhouse.
The principal article was a pudding, composed of pounded scraps and
crusts of bread, and bearing much the appearance of the oatmeal
porridge of Scotland. Ladies attend the old women at table, acting
entirely as servants do in a gentleman's dining-room, though only in
the limited extent to which such services are required at a meal so
simple. It is only after this meal is concluded, that the ladies sit
down to their own equally frugal fare. We were curious to know if they
indulge in tea, considering this as a sort of crucial test of their
self-denying principles. We were informed that the article is not
bought for them, on account of its being so expensive. Used tea-leaves
are obtained from the tables of certain families of rank, and are
found to be of service for the comfort of the more infirm women. After
the inmates are served, if any tea be left, it is taken by the ladies.
We next descended to the kitchen, and there found a young woman at
work as a cook, not a Sister, but one who may be so ere long, if she
passes her novitiate successfully. The magazine of crusts and lumps of
bread, of broken meat and cold soups, coffee and tea, which we saw
here, was a curious sight. We were also shewn the pails and baskets in
which the Sisters collect these viands. Two go forth every morning,
and make a round of several hours amongst houses where they are
permitted to apply. Meat goes into one compartment, bread into
another. A pail of two divisions keeps a variety of things distinct
from each other. Demurely pass the dark pair along the crowded
thoroughfares of the metropolis, objects of momentary curiosity to
many that pass them, but never pausing for a moment on their
charitable mission. The only approach to a smile on our conductress's
face, was when she related to us how, on their return one afternoon, a
poor woman who had lost a child, traced them to the door, and made a
disturbance there, under a belief that the cloak of one of them,
instead of covering a collection of broken meat, concealed her infant.
We were curious to trace the feelings which actuated these ladies in
devoting themselves to duties so apt to be repulsive to their class.
Viewing the whole matter with a regard to its humane results, we did
not doubt that benevolence was the impulse most concerned, directly or
indirectly, though we of course knew that a religious sanction was
essential to the scheme. In a conversation, however, with our
conductress, we could not bring her to admit that mere humanity had
anything to do with it. The basis on which they proceed is simply that
text in which Christ expresses his appreciation of those who give a
cup of cold water in his name. It is professedly nothing more than an
example of those charitable societies which arise in connection with
the Catholic faith, and in obedience to its principles, and which
require that entire renunciation of the world which to a Protestant
mind appears so objectionable. We have little doubt, nevertheless,
that a certain amount of benevolence is a necessary, though it may not
be a directly acknowledged pre-requisite for the profession; for it is
admitted that some novices find that they have not the _vocation_, and
abandon the attempt; while others, by the grace of God, are enabled to
go on. We cannot regard this idea of 'vocation' as something entirely
apart from the inherent feelings.
So far as we could understand, the Sisters regard more expressly the
value of the act of obedience to the injunction of Christ, than the
feeling from which, we would say, the injunction sprang--an error, as
we most humbly think, though one of a kind which we do not feel called
upon to discuss in the presence of results so much in accordance with
our own best feelings. We would only say, that there is something
disappointing in finding how much the whole procedure is beheld by
these self-devoting women, as reflecting on their own destinies. It
appears that their patients often grumble both at the food and the
attendance which they receive. The Sisters say, they like to meet an
ungrateful old woman, as it tries their humility and forbearance: it
makes the greater merit towards an end in which they themselves are
concerned. Now, we would put all this aside, and think only of the
divinely recommended sentiment of the text, as calculated in some
degree to make our life on earth an approach to that of its author. It
is really hypercritical, however, even to intimate these dissenting
remarks, especially when our main end is, after all, merely to bring
the public into knowledge of an extraordinary phenomenon in human
conduct, going on in an age which seems generally of so opposite a
character.
The Society of Les Petites Soeurs is, it appears, a new one, having
originated only a few years ago in the exertions of an old female
servant, who, having saved a little money, thought it could not be
better employed than in succouring the aged and infirm of her own sex.
Her idea was taken up by others of her own order, as well as by women
of superior grade. The society was formed, and establishments were
quickly set up in various parts of France. It was only in 1851 that a
detachment of the sisterhood came to England, and settled themselves
in Great Windmill Street, where, whatever be their motives, it must be
admitted they contribute in no slight degree to the alleviation of
that vast mass of misery which seems an inseparable element of large
cities. They had, at the time of our visit, forty-seven old persons
under their care.
At a subsequent period of the same day, we visited an establishment
somewhat similar at Hammersmith--at least similar in the repulsive
character of the duties, though externally much more elegant. It is
housed in a range of good buildings secluded in a garden, and is
devoted to the reception of unfortunate young women who, under
penitent feelings, wish to be restored to respectable society. The
Sisterhood of the Good Shepherd, as they are called, entertain in this
house nearly 100 such women, who, while undergoing the process of
religious and moral regeneration, employ themselves in washing, so as
to contribute to their own support. We saw the whole engaged in their
humble employment, excepting a few who were under training in a
school. At all times, in their bedrooms, at their meals, in their
work-rooms, in their play-ground, they are under the immediate eye of
some of the Sisters; but the general treatment includes as much
kindness as is consistent with the object held in view. One trait of
this kindness struck us as involving a remarkable delicacy: there is
never, from first to last, one word of reference made to their former
life. They are accepted as so many children coming to school for the
first time. Even their names are sunk out of sight, and new ones
applied. The Sisters speak of them as 'the children.' We learned that
Protestant women are welcomed, but are expected not to stand out in
inconvenient dissent from the ordinary rules of the house. We walked
into the garden under the care of the mother-superior, and saw their
little burial-ground, marked with low wooden crosses inscribed to
Laura, to Perpetua, to Mary of the Seven Dolours, and other such
names, indicating so many unfortunates who had here found a rest from
their troubles. We likewise visited the chapel, the body of which is
arranged for the use of the sisterhood; while a wing running off at
the side of the altar, and concealed from view, is provided with
seats for the penitents. The whole establishment is characterised by
remarkably good taste. There is here a more cheerful tone than in the
Great Windmill Street institution. The Sisters spoke, as usual, of
being entirely happy--that unaccountable phenomenon to a Protestant
mind.
We do not need to inform the reader, that conventual establishments
are not now so thin-sown in England as they were a few years ago, or
that they occasionally draw into their circle individuals who started
in life with very different prospects before them. The whole subject
is one worthy of some inquiry, as a feature of our social state, by no
means devoid of political importance; and it is for this very reason
that we draw attention to the subject. Instead of contemptuously
ignoring such things, let them, we say, be made known and investigated
in a calm and philosophical spirit. It is for want of a steady
comprehension of facts of the kind here adverted to, that an illusion
is kept up respecting our existing social condition. It is heedlessly
said, and every one repeats the error, that the age is a hard,
mechanical one, which shines only in splendid materialities; but is it
compatible with this notion, that there is ten times more earnest
religious feeling of one kind and another than there was thirty years
ago; that antiquities, mediæval literature and architecture, are
studied with a zeal hitherto unknown; and that such mystical writers
as Carlyle, Tennyson, and Browning, carry off the palm from all the
calm-blooded old-school men of letters? We rather think it is the most
romantic, supra-material age that has yet been seen. The resurrection
of conventual life, in some instances Catholic, in others Protestant,
appears to us as one of the facts of this unexpected reaction, which
doubtless will run its course, and then give place to something else,
though not, we trust, till out of its commixture of good and evil some
novelty hopeful for humanity has sprung.