the air of a high-minded woman, who will resign her own property
rather than expose herself to the injurious doubts of a morbidly
suspicious man. When I add that the little scene just described takes
place between us nearly every day, the reader will admit that,
although Mrs. Glutch cannot prevent me from enjoying on her dirty
premises the contraband luxury of a clean dinner, she can at least go
great lengths towards accomplishing the secondary annoyance of
preventing me from digesting it.
I have hinted at a third personage in the shape of a servant, in my
report of the foregoing dialogue; and I have previously alluded to
myself (in paving the way for the introduction of my landlady), as
extending my studies of human character, in my London lodging, to
those forlorn members of the population called maids-of-all-work. The
maids--I use the plural number advisedly--present themselves to me to
be studied, as apprentices to the hard business of service, under the
matronly superintendence of Mrs. Glutch. The succession of them is
brisk enough to keep all the attention I can withdraw from my landlady
constantly employed in investigating their peculiarities. By the time
I have been three weeks in Smeary Street, I have had three
maids-of-all-work, to study--a new servant for each week! In reviewing
the three individually before the reader, I must be allowed to
distinguish them by numbers instead of names. Mrs. Glutch screams at
them all indiscriminately by the name of Mary, just as she would
scream at a succession of cats by the name of Puss. Now, although I am
always writing about Mrs. Glutch, I have still spirit enough left to
vindicate my own individuality, by abstaining from following her
example. In obedience, therefore, to these last relics of independent
sentiment, permit me the freedom of numbering my maids-of-all-work, as
I introduce them to public notice in these pages.
Number One is amazed by the spectacle of my illness, and always stares
at me. If I fell ill one evening, went to a dispensary, asked for a
bottle of physic, and got well on it the next morning; or, if I
presented myself before her at the last gasp, and died forthwith in
Smeary Street, she would, in either case, be able to understand me.
But an illness on which medicine produces no immediate effect, and
which does not keep the patient always groaning in bed, is beyond her
comprehension. Personally, she is very short and sturdy, and is always
covered from head to foot with powdered black, which seems to lie
especially thick on her in the morning. How does she accumulate it?
Does she wash herself with the ordinary liquid used for ablutions; or
does she take a plunge-bath every morning under the kitchen-grate? I
am afraid to ask this question of her; but I contrive to make her talk
to me about other things. She looks very much surprised, poor
creature, when I first let her see that I have other words to utter in
addressing her, besides the word of command; and seems to think me the
most eccentric of mankind, when she finds that I have a decent anxiety
to spare her all useless trouble in waiting on me. Young as she is,
she has drudged so long over the wickedest ways of this world, without
one leisure moment to look up from the everlasting dirt on the road at
the green landscape around, and the pure sky above, that she has
become hardened to the saddest, surely, of human lots before she is
yet a woman grown. Life means dirty work, small wages, hard words, no
holidays, no social station, no future, according to her experience of
it. No human being ever was created for this. No state of society
which composedly accepts this, in the cases of thousands, as one of
the necessary conditions of its selfish comforts, can pass itself off
as civilised, except under the most audacious of all false pretences.
These thoughts rise in me often, when I ring the bell, and the
maid-of-all-work answers it wearily. I cannot communicate them to her:
I can only encourage her to talk to me now and then on something like
equal terms. Just as I am succeeding in the attainment of this object,
Number One scatters all my plans and purposes to the winds, by telling
me that she is going away.
I ask Why? and am told that she cannot bear being a-railed at and
a-hunted about by Mrs. Glutch any longer. The oppressively polite
woman who cannot address me without begging my pardon, can find no
hard words in the vocabulary hard enough for the maid-of-all-work. "I
am frightened of my life," says Number One, apologizing to me for
leaving the place. "I am so little and she's so big. She heaves things
at my head, she does. Work as hard as you may, you can't work hard
enough for her. I must go, if you please, sir. Whatever do you think
she done this morning? She up, and druv the creases at me." With these
words (which I find mean in genteel English, that Mrs. Glutch has
enforced her last orders to the servant by throwing a bunch of
water-cresses at her head), Number One curtseys and says "Good-bye!"
and goes out resignedly once again into the hard world. I follow her a
little while, in imagination, with no very cheering effect on my
spirits--for what do I see awaiting her at each stage of her career?
Alas, for Number One, it is always a figure in the likeness of Mrs.
Glutch.
Number Two fairly baffles me. I see her grin perpetually at me, and
imagine, at first, that I am regarded by her in the light of a new
kind of impostor, who shams illness as a way of amusing himself. But I
soon discover that she grins at everything--at the fire that she
lights, at the cloth she lays for dinner, at the medicine-bottles she
brings upstairs, at the furibund visage of Mrs. Glutch, ready to
drive whole baskets full of creases at her head every morning. Looking
at her with the eye of an artist, I am obliged to admit that Number
Two is, as the painters say, out of drawing. The longest things about
her are her arms; the thickest thing about her is her waist. It is
impossible to believe that she has any legs, and it is not easy to find
out the substitute which, in the absence of a neck, is used to keep
her big head from rolling off her round shoulders. I try to make her
talk, but only succeed in encouraging her to grin at me. Have ceaseless
foul words, and ceaseless dirty work clouded over all the little light
that has ever been let in on her mind? I suspect that it is so, but I
have no time to acquire any positive information on the subject. At
the end of Number Two's first week of service, Mrs. Glutch discovers,
to her horror and indignation, that the new maid-of-all-work possesses
nothing in the shape of wearing-apparel, except the worn-out garments
actually on her back; and, to make matters worse, a lady-lodger in the
parlour misses one of a pair of lace-cuffs, and feels sure that the
servant has taken it. There is not a particle of evidence to support
this view of the case; but Number Two being destitute, is consequently
condemned without a trial, and dismissed without a character. She too
wanders off forlorn into a world that has no haven of rest or voice
of welcome for her--wanders off, without so much as a dirty bundle in
her hand--wanders off, voiceless, with the unchanging grin on the
smut-covered face. How shocked we should all be, if we opened a book
about a savage country, and saw a portrait of Number Two in the
frontispiece as a specimen of the female population!
Number Three comes to us all the way from Wales; arrives late one
evening, and is found at seven the next morning, crying as if she
would break her heart, on the door-step. It is the first time she has
been away from home. She has not got used yet to being a forlorn
castaway among strangers. She misses the cows of a morning, the
blessed fields with the blush of sunrise on them, the familiar faces,
the familiar sounds, the familiar cleanliness of her country home.
There is not the faintest echo of mother's voice, or of father's
sturdy footfall here. Sweetheart John Jones is hundreds of miles away;
and little brother Joe toddles up door-steps far from these to clamour
for the breakfast which he shall get this morning from other than his
sister's hands. Is there nothing to cry for in this? Absolutely
nothing, as Mrs. Glutch thinks. What does this Welsh barbarian mean by
clinging to my area-railings when she ought to be lighting the fire;
by sobbing in full view of the public of Smeary Street when the
lodgers' bells are ringing angrily for breakfast? Will nothing get
the girl in-doors? Yes, a few kind words from the woman who passes by
her with my breakfast will. She knows that the Welsh girl is hungry as
well as home-sick, questions her, finds out that she has had no supper
after her long journey, and that she has been used to breakfast with
the sunrise at the farm in Wales. A few merciful words lure her away
from the railings, and a little food inaugurates the process of
breaking her in to London service. She has but a few days allowed her,
however, to practise the virtue of dogged resignation in her first
place. Before she has given me many opportunities of studying her
character, before she has done knitting her brows with the desperate
mental effort of trying to comprehend the mystery of my illness,
before the smut has fairly settled on her rosy cheeks, before the
London dirt has dimmed the pattern on her neat print gown, she, too,
is cast adrift into the world. She has not suited Mrs. Glutch (being,
as I imagine, too offensively clean to form an appropriate part of the
kitchen furniture)--a friendly maid-of-all-work, in service near us,
has heard of a place for her--and she is forthwith sent away to be
dirtied and deadened down to her proper social level in another
Lodging-house.
With her, my studies of character among maids-of-all-work come to an
end. I hear vague rumours of the arrival of Number Four. But before
she appears, I have got the doctor's leave to move into the country,
and have terminated my experience of London lodgings, by making my
escape with all convenient speed from the perpetual presence and
persecutions of Mrs. Glutch. I have witnessed some sad sights during
my stay in Smeary Street, which have taught me to feel for my poor and
forlorn fellow-creatures as I do not think I ever felt for them
before, and which have inclined me to doubt for the first time whether
worse calamities might not have overtaken me than the hardship of
falling ill.
SKETCHES OF CHARACTER.--II.
A SHOCKINGLY RUDE ARTICLE.
[Communicated by A Charming Woman.]
Before I begin to write, I know that this will be an unpopular
composition in certain select quarters. I mean to proceed with it,
however, in spite of that conviction, because when I have got
something on my mind, I must positively speak. Is it necessary, after
that, to confess that I am a woman? If it is, I make the
confession--to my sorrow. I would much rather be a man.
I hope nobody will be misled by my beginning in this way, into
thinking that I am an advocate of the rights of women. Ridiculous
creatures! they have too many rights already; and if they don't hold
their chattering tongues, one of these days the poor dear deluded men
will find them out.
The poor dear men! Mentioning them reminds me of what I have got to
say. I have been staying at the seaside, and reading an immense
quantity of novels and periodicals, and all that sort of thing,
lately; and my idea is, that the men-writers (the only writers worth
reading) are in the habit of using each other very unfairly in books
and articles, and so on. Look where I may, I find, for instance, that
the large proportion of the bad characters in their otherwise very
charming stories, are always men. As if women were not a great deal
worse! Then, again, most of the amusing fools in their books are,
strangely and unaccountably, of their own sex, in spite of its being
perfectly apparent that the vast majority of that sort of character is
to be found in ours. On the other hand, while they make out their own
half of humanity (as I have distinctly proved) a great deal too bad,
they go to the contrary extreme the other way, and make out our half a
great deal too good. What in the world do they mean by representing us
as so much better, and so much prettier, than we really are? Upon my
word, when I see what angels the dear nice good men make of their
heroines, and when I think of myself, and of the whole circle of my
female friends besides, I feel quite disgusted,--I do, indeed.
I should very much like to go into the whole of this subject at once,
and speak my sentiments on it at the fullest length. But I will spare
the reader, and try to be satisfied with going into a part of the
subject instead; for, considering that I am a woman, and making
immense allowances for me on that account, I am really not altogether
unreasonable. Give me a page or two, and I will show in one
particular, and, what is more, from real life, how absurdly partial
the men-writers are to our sex, and how scandalously unjust they are
to their own.
Bores.--What I propose is, that we take for our present example
characters of Bores alone. If we were only to read men's novels,
articles, and so forth, I don't hesitate to say we should assume that
all the Bores in the human creation were of the male sex. It is
generally, if not always, a man, in men's books, who tells the
long-winded story, and turns up at the wrong time, and makes himself
altogether odious and intolerable to everybody he comes in contact
with, without being in the least aware of it himself. How very unjust,
and, I must be allowed to add, how extremely untrue! Women are quite
as bad, or worse. Do, good gentlemen, look about you impartially, for
once in a way, and own the truth. Good gracious! is not society full
of Lady-Bores? Why not give them a turn when you write next?
Two instances: I will quote only two instances out of hundreds I could
produce from my own acquaintance. Only two: because, as I said before,
I am reasonable about not taking up room. I can put things into a very
small space when I write, as well as when I travel. I should like the
literary gentleman who kindly prints this (I would not allow a woman
to print it for any sum of money that could be offered me) to see how
very little luggage I travel with. At any rate, he shall see how
little room I can cheerfully put up with in these pages.
My first Lady-Bore--see how quickly I get to the matter in hand,
without wasting so much as a single line in prefatory phrases!--my
first Lady-Bore is Miss Sticker. I don't in the least mind mentioning
her name; because I know, if she got the chance, she would do just the
same by me. It is of no use disguising the fact, so I may as well
confess at once that Miss Sticker is a fright. Far be it from me to
give pain where the thing can by any means be avoided; but if I were
to say that Miss Sticker would ever see forty again, I should be
guilty of an unwarrantable deception on the public. I have the
strongest imaginable objection to mentioning the word petticoats; but
if that is the only possible description of Miss Sticker's figure
which conveys a true notion of its nature and composition, what am I
to do? Perhaps I had better give up describing the poor thing's
personal appearance. I shall get into deeper and deeper difficulties,
if I attempt to go on. The very last time I was in her company, we
were strolling about Regent Street, with my sister's husband for
escort. As we passed a hairdresser's shop, the dear simple man looked
in, and asked me what those long tails of hair were for, that he saw
hanging up in the windows. Miss Sticker, poor soul, was on his arm,
and heard him put the question. I thought I should have dropped.
This is, I believe, what you call a digression. I shall let it stop
in, however, because it will probably explain to the judicious reader
why I carefully avoid the subject--the meagre subject, an ill-natured
person might say--of Miss Sticker's hair. Suppose I pass on to what is
more importantly connected with the object of these pages--suppose I
describe Miss Sticker's character next.
Some extremely sensible man has observed somewhere, that a Bore is a
person with one idea. Exactly so. Miss Sticker is a person with one
idea. Unhappily for society, her notion is, that she is bound by the
laws of politeness to join in every conversation which happens to be
proceeding within the range of her ears. She has no ideas, no
information, no flow of language, no tact, no power of saying the
right word at the right time, even by chance. And yet she _will_
converse, as she calls it. "A gentlewoman, my dear, becomes a mere
cipher in society unless she can converse." That is her way of putting
it; and I deeply regret to add, she is one of the few people who
preach what they practise. Her course of proceeding is, first, to
check the conversation by making a remark which has no kind of
relation to the topic under discussion. She next stops it altogether
by being suddenly at a loss for some particular word which nobody can
suggest. At last the word is given up; another subject is started in
despair; and the company become warmly interested in it. Just at that
moment, Miss Sticker finds the lost word; screams it out triumphantly
in the middle of the talk; and so scatters the second subject to the
winds, exactly as she has already scattered the first.
The last time I called at my aunt's--I merely mention this by way of
example--I found Miss Sticker there, and three delightful men. One was
a clergyman of the dear old purple-faced Port-wine school. The other
two would have looked military, if one of them had not been an
engineer, and the other an editor of a newspaper. We should have had
some delightful conversation if the Lady-Bore had not been present. In
some way, I really forget how, we got to talking about giving credit
and paying debts; and the dear old clergyman, with his twinkling eyes
and his jolly voice, treated us to a professional anecdote on the
subject.
"Talking about that," he began, "I married a man the other day for the
third time. Man in my parish. Capital cricketer when he was young
enough to run. 'What's your fee?' says he. 'Licensed marriage?' says
I; 'guinea of course.'--'I've got to bring you your tithes in three
weeks, sir,' says he; 'give me tick till then.' 'All right,' says I,
and married him. In three weeks he comes and pays his tithes like a
man. 'Now, sir,' says he, 'about this marriage-fee, sir? I do hope
you'll kindly let me off at half-price, for I have married a bitter
bad 'un this time. I've got a half-a-guinea about me, sir, if you'll
only please to take it. She isn't worth a farthing more--on the word
of a man, she isn't, sir!' I looked hard in his face, and saw two
scratches on it, and took the half-guinea, more out of pity than
anything else. Lesson to me, however. Never marry a man on credit
again, as long as I live. Cash on all future occasions--cash down, or
no marriage!"
While he was speaking, I had my eye on Miss Sticker. Thanks to the
luncheon which was on the table, she was physically incapable of
"conversing" while our reverend friend was telling his humorous little
anecdote. Just as he had done, and just as the editor of the newspaper
was taking up the subject, she finished her chicken, and turned round
from the table.
"Cash down, my dear sir, as you say," continued the editor. "You
exactly describe our great principle of action in the Press. Some of
the most extraordinary and amusing things happen with subscribers to
newspapers----"
"Ah, the Press!" burst in Miss Sticker, beginning to converse. "What a
wonderful engine! and how grateful we ought to feel when we get the
paper so regularly every morning at breakfast. The only question
is--at least, many people think so--I mean with regard to the Press,
the only question is whether it ought to be----"
Here Miss Sticker lost the next word, and all the company had to look
for it.
"With regard to the Press, the only question is, whether it ought to
be----O, dear, dear, dear me!" cried Miss Sticker, lifting both her
hands in despair, "what is the word?"
"Cheaper?" suggested our reverend friend. "Hang it, ma'am! it can
hardly be that, when it is down to a penny already."
"O no; not cheaper," said Miss Sticker.
"More independent?" inquired the editor. "If you mean that, I defy
anybody to find more fearless exposures of corruption----"
"No, no!" cried Miss Sticker, in an agony of polite confusion. "I
didn't mean that. More independent wasn't the word."
"Better printed?" suggested the engineer.
"On better paper?" added my aunt.
"It can't be done--if you refer to the cheap press--it can't be done
for the money," interposed the editor, irritably.
"O, but that's not it!" continued Miss Sticker, wringing her bony
fingers, with horrid black mittens on them. "I didn't mean to say
better printed, or better paper. It was one word I meant, not
two.--With regard to the Press," pursued Miss Sticker, repeating her
own ridiculous words carefully, as an aid to memory, "the only
question is, whether it ought to be----Bless my heart, how
extraordinary! Well, well, never mind: I'm quite shocked, and ashamed
of myself. Pray go on talking, and don't notice me."
It was all very well to say, Go on talking; but the editor's amusing
story about subscribers to newspapers, had been, by this time, fatally
interrupted. As usual, Miss Sticker had stopped us in full flow. The
engineer considerately broke the silence by starting another subject.
"Here are some wedding-cards on your table," he said, to my aunt,
"which I am very glad to see there. The bridegroom is an old friend of
mine. His wife is really a beauty. You know how he first became
acquainted with her? No? It was quite an adventure, I assure you. One
evening he was on the Brighton Railway; last down train. A lovely girl
in the carriage; our friend Dilberry immensely struck with her. Got
her to talk after a long time, with great difficulty. Within half an
hour of Brighton, the lovely girl smiles, and says to our friend,
'Shall we be very long now, sir, before we get to Gravesend?' Case of
confusion at that dreadful London Bridge Terminus. Dilberry explained
that she would be at Brighton in half an hour, upon which the lovely
girl instantly and properly burst into tears. 'O, what shall I do! O,
what will my friends think!' Second flood of tears.--'Suppose you
telegraph?' says Dilberry soothingly.--'O, but I don't know how!' says
the lovely girl. Out comes Dilberry's pocket-book. Sly dog! he saw his
way now to finding out who her friends were. 'Pray let me write the
necessary message for you,' says Dilberry. 'Who shall I direct to at
Gravesend?'--'My father and mother are staying there with some
friends,' says the lovely girl. 'I came up with a day-ticket, and I
saw a crowd of people when I came back to the station, all going one
way, and I was hurried and frightened, and nobody told me, and it was
late in the evening, and the bell was ringing, and, O Heavens! what
will become of me!' Third burst of tears.--'We will telegraph to your
father,' says Dilberry. 'Pray don't distress yourself. Only tell me
who your father is.'--'Thank you a thousand times,' says the lovely
girl, 'my father is----'"
"ANONYMOUS!" shouts Miss Sticker, producing her lost word with a
perfect burst of triumph. "How glad I am I remembered it at last!
Bless me," exclaims the Lady-Bore, quite unconscious that she has
brought the engineer's story to an abrupt conclusion, by giving his
distressed damsel an anonymous father; "Bless me! what are you all
laughing at? I only meant to say that the question with regard to the
Press was, whether it ought to be anonymous. What in the world is
there to laugh at in that? I really don't see the joke."
And this woman escapes scot-free, while comparatively innocent men are
held up to ridicule, in novel after novel, by dozens at a time! When
will the deluded male writers see my sex in its true colours, and
describe it accordingly? When will Miss Sticker take her proper place
in the literature of England?
* * * * *