"My dear sir," said Sir Richard Brandon, over a glass of sherry one
evening after dinner, to George Brisbane, Esquire of Lively Hall, "the
management of the poor is a difficult, a very difficult subject to deal
with."
"It is, unquestionably," assented Brisbane, "so difficult, that I am
afraid some of our legislators are unwilling to face it; but it ought to
be faced, for there is much to be done in the way of improving the
poor-laws, which at present tend to foster pauperism in the young, and
bear heavily on the aged. Meanwhile, philanthropists find it necessary
to take up the case of the poor as a private enterprise."
"Pardon me, Brisbane, there I think you are in error. Everything
requisite to afford relief to the poor is provided by the state. If the
poor will not take advantage of the provision, or the machinery is not
well oiled and worked by the officials, the remedy lies in greater
wisdom on the part of the poor, and supervision of officials--not in
further legislation. But what do you mean by our poor-laws bearing
heavily on the aged?"
"I mean that the old people should be better cared for, simply because
of their age. Great age is a sufficient argument of itself, I think,
for throwing a veil of oblivion over the past, and extending charity
with a liberal, pitying hand, because of present distress, and
irremediable infirmities. Whatever may be the truth with regard to
paupers and workhouses in general, there ought to be a distinct refuge
for the aged, which should be attractive--not repulsive, as at present--
and age, without reference to character or antecedents, should
constitute the title to enter it. `God pity the aged poor,' is often my
prayer, `and enable us to feel more for them in the dreary, pitiful
termination of their career.'"
"But, my dear sir," returned Sir Richard, "you would have old paupers
crowding into such workhouses, or refuges as you call them, by the
thousand."
"Well, better that they should do so than that they should die miserably
by thousands in filthy and empty rooms--sometimes without fire, or food,
or physic, or a single word of kindness to ease their sad descent into
the grave."
"But, then, Brisbane, as I said, it is their own fault--they have the
workhouse to go to."
"But, then, as _I_ said, Sir Richard, the workhouse is rendered so
repulsive to them that they keep out of it as long as they can, and too
often keep out so long that it is too late, and their end is as I have
described. However, until things are better arranged, we must do what
we can for them in a private way. Indeed Scripture teaches distinctly
the necessity for private charity, by such words as--`the poor ye have
always with you,' and, `blessed are they who consider the poor.' Don't
you agree with me, Mr Welland?"
Stephen Welland--who, since the day of his accident, had become intimate
with Mr Brisbane and Sir Richard--replied that although deeply
interested in the discussion going on, his knowledge of the subject was
too slight to justify his holding any decided opinion.
"Take another glass of sherry," said Sir Richard, pushing the decanter
towards the young man; "it will stir your brain and enable you to see
your way more clearly through this knotty point."
"No more, thank you, Sir Richard."
"Come, come--fill your glass," said the knight; "you and I must set an
example of moderate drinking to Brisbane, as a counter-blast to his
Blue-Ribbonism."
Welland smiled and re-filled his glass.
"Nay, I never thrust my opinions on that point on people," said
Brisbane, with a laugh, "but if you _will_ draw the sword and challenge
me, I won't refuse the combat!"
"No, no, Brisbane. Please spare us! I re-sheath the sword, and need
not that you should go all over it again. I quite understand that you
are no bigot, that you think the Bible clearly permits and encourages
total abstinence in certain circumstances, though it does not teach it;
that, although a total abstainer yourself, you do not refuse to give
drink to your friends if they desire it--and all that sort of thing; but
pray let it pass, and I won't offend again."
"Ah, Sir Richard, you are an unfair foe. You draw your sword to give me
a wound through our young friend, and then sheath it before I can return
on you. However, you have stated my position so well that I forgive you
and shake hands. But, to return to the matter of private charity, are
you aware how little suffices to support the poor--how very far the mere
crumbs that fall from a rich man's table will go to sustain them I Now,
just take the glass of wine which Welland has swallowed--against his
expressed wish, observe, and merely to oblige you, Sir Richard. Its
value is, say, sixpence. Excuse me, I do not of course refer to its
real value, but to its recognised restaurant-value! Well, I happened
the other day to be at a meeting of old women at the `Beehive' in
Spitalfields; there were some eighty or a hundred of them. With dim
eyes and trembling fingers they were sewing garments for the boys who
are to be sent out to Canada. Such feeble workers could not find
employment elsewhere, but by liberal hearts a plan has been devised
whereby many an aged one, past work, can earn a few pence. Twopence an
hour is the pay. They are in the habit of meeting once a week for three
hours, and thus earn sixpence. Many of these women, I may remark, are
true Christians. I wondered how far such a sum would go, and how the
poor old things spent it. One woman sixty-three years of age
enlightened me. She was a feeble old creature, suffering from chronic
rheumatism and a dislocated hip. When I questioned her she said--`I
have difficulties indeed, but I tell my Father all. Sometimes, when I'm
very hungry and have nothing to eat, I tell Him, and I know He hears me,
for He takes the feeling away, and it only leaves me a little faint.'
"`But how do you spend the sixpence that you earn here?' I asked.
"`Well, sir,' she said, `sometimes, when very hard-up, I spend part of
it this way:--I buy a hap'orth o' tea, a hap'orth o' sugar, a hap'orth
o' drippin', a hap'orth o' wood and a penn'orth o' bread. Sometimes
when better off than usual I get a heap of coals at a time, perhaps
quarter of a hundredweight, because I save a farthing by getting the
whole quarter, an' that lasts me a long time, and wi' the farthing I
mayhap treat myself to a drop o' milk. Sometimes, too, I buy my
penn'orth o' wood from the coopers and chop it myself, for I can make it
go further that way.'
"So, you see, Welland," continued Brisbane, "your glass of sherry would
have gone a long way in the domestic calculations of a poor old woman,
who very likely once had sons who were as fond of her and as proud of
her, as you now are of your own mother."
"It is very sad that any class of human beings should be reduced to so
low an ebb," returned the young man seriously.
"Yes, and it is very difficult," said Sir Richard, "to reduce one's
mental action so as to fully understand the exact bearing of such minute
monetary arrangements, especially for one who is accustomed to regard
the subject of finance from a different standpoint."
"But the saddest thing of all to me, and the most difficult to
understand," resumed Brisbane, "is the state of mind and feeling of
those professing Christians, who, with ample means, give exceedingly
little towards the alleviation of such distress, take little or no
interest in the condition of the poor, and allow as much waste in their
establishments as would, if turned to account, become streamlets of
absolute wealth to many of the destitute."
This latter remark was a thrust which told pretty severely on the host--
all the more so, perhaps, that he knew Brisbane did not intend it as a
thrust at all, for he was utterly ignorant of the fact that his friend
seldom gave anything away in charity, and even found it difficult to pay
his way and make the two ends meet with his poor little five thousand a
year--for, you see, if a man has to keep up a fairly large
establishment, with a town and country house, and have his yacht, and a
good stable, and indulge in betting, and give frequent dinners, and take
shootings in Scotland, and amuse himself with jewellery, etcetera, why,
he must pay for it, you know!
"The greatest trouble of these poor women, I found," continued Brisbane,
"is their rent, which varies from 2 shillings to 3 shillings a week for
their little rooms, and it is a constant struggle with them to keep out
of `the House,' so greatly dreaded by the respectable poor. One of them
told me she had lately saved up a shilling with which she bought a pair
of `specs,' and was greatly comforted thereby, for they helped her
fading eyesight. I thought at the time what a deal of good might be
done and comfort given if people whose sight is changing would send
their disused spectacles to the home of Industry in Commercial Street,
Spitalfields, for the poor. By the way, your sight must have changed
more than once, Sir Richard! Have you not a pair or two of disused
spectacles to spare?"
"Well, yes, I have a pair or two, but they have gold rims, which would
be rather incongruous on the noses of poor people, don't you think?"
"Oh! by no means. We could manage to convert the rims into blue steel,
and leave something over for sugar and tea."
"Well, I'll send them," said Sir Richard with a laugh. "By the way, you
mentioned a plan whereby those poor women were enabled to do useful
work, although too old for much. What plan might that be?"
"It is a very simple plan," answered Brisbane, "and consists chiefly in
the work being apportioned according to ability. Worn garments and odds
and ends of stuff are sent to the Beehive from all parts of the country
by sympathising friends. These are heaped together in one corner of the
room where the poor old things work. Down before this mass of stuff are
set certain of the company who have large constructive powers. These
skilfully contrive, cut out, alter, and piece together all kinds of
clothing, including the house slippers and Glengarry caps worn by the
little rescued boys. Even handkerchiefs and babies' long frocks are
conjured out of a petticoat or muslin lining! The work, thus selected
and arranged, is put into the hands of those who, though not skilful in
originating, have the plodding patience to carry out the designs of the
more ingenious, and so garments are produced to cover the shivering
limbs of any destitute child that may enter the Refuge as well as to
complete the outfits of the little emigrants."
"Well, Brisbane, I freely confess," said Sir Richard, "that you have
roused a degree of interest in poor old women which I never felt before,
and it does seem to me that we might do a good deal more for them with
our mere superfluities and cast-off clothing. Do the old women receive
any food on these working nights besides the pence they earn?"
"No, I am sorry to say they do not--at least not usually. You see it
takes a hundred or more sixpences every Monday merely to keep that
sewing-class going, and more than once there has been a talk of closing
it for want of funds, but the poor creatures have pleaded so pitifully
that they might still be allowed to attend, even though they should work
at _half-price_, that it has been hitherto continued. You see it is a
matter of no small moment for those women merely to spend three hours in
a room with a good fire, besides which they delight in the hymns and
prayers and the loving counsel and comfort they receive. It enables
them to go out into the cold, even though hungry, with more heart and
trust in God as they limp slowly back again to their fireless grates and
bare cupboards.
"The day on which I visited the place I could not bear the thought of
this, so I gave a sovereign to let them have a good meal. This
sufficed. Large kettles are always kept in readiness for such
occasions. These were put on immediately by the matron. The elder
girls in training on the floor above set to work to cut thick slices of
bread and butter, the tea urns were soon brought down, and in twenty
minutes I had the satisfaction of seeing the whole hundred eating
heartily and enjoying a hot meal. My own soul was fed, too--for the
words came to me, `I was an hungered and ye gave me meat,' and one old
woman, sitting near me, said, `I have a long walk home, and have been
casting over in my mind all the afternoon whether I could spare a penny
for a cup of tea on the way. How good the Lord is to send this!'"
With large, round, glittering eyes and parted lips, and heightened
colour and varying expression, sat little Di Brandon at her father's
elbow, almost motionless, her little hands clasped tight, and uttering
never a word, but gazing intently at the speakers and drinking it all
in, while sorrow, surprise, sympathy, indignation, and intense pity
stirred her little heart to its very centre.
In the nursery she retailed it all over, with an eager face and rapid
commentary, to the sympathetic Mrs Screwbury, and finally, in bed,
presided over millions of old women who made up mountains of old
garments, devoured fields of buttered bread, and drank oceans of
steaming tea!