THE GOSPEL OF WORK.
God says, “Sweat
For foreheads;” men say, “Crowns:” and so we are crowned;
Ay, gashed by some tormenting circle of steel,
Which snaps with a secret spring.
_Elizabeth B. Browning._
If to the city sped—what waits him there?
To see profusion that he must not share;
To see ten thousand baneful arts combined,
To pamper luxury and thin mankind.
_Goldsmith_ (“_Deserted Village_”).
What is the perfect life for a Christian man or woman? It was settled
once for all by our Lord. “Sell all that thou hast and give to the
poor”—and live in a cave, on the top of a column, in a monastic cell,
or beg for daily bread from door to door? Would that fulfil the
command? The nineteenth century has no place for St. Simeon’s Pillar;
the cells of the monks are turned to other uses than that of
contemplation, which is not quite in the way of the age of steam and
the telegraph; and begging and alms-giving are denounced by students of
social economy. What is the precise application, then, of our Saviour’s
teaching to the present day? Though deaths from starvation and terrible
tales of privation are not uncommon in our great cities, and
the condition of the unskilled working classes is particularly
unsatisfactory, there is no question that our poor even at their worst
are better off by far than those of our Lord’s time. Admitting the work
that remains to be done in helping to raise the lower sections of
society, it is in a moral rather than a material direction that our
efforts must be exerted; and though our Lord’s command to sell all and
feed the poor is not perhaps to be interpreted literally, because the
literal is not now the highest interpretation of the injunction, yet
never was there a time when it was more the duty of Christian people to
make great, ay, the greatest sacrifices for their fellow-men than the
present. The law provides against the starvation of any human being
dwelling in our midst; but it is souls rather than bodies which
languish for food, and are fain to be filled with carrion. The
separation which many years has been going on between class and class;
the locating the workers in quarters given over to dirt, squalor, and
dullness; the exodus of the cultivated minds to more congenial sections
of our greater towns, where the signs of labour and the noise of work
cannot disturb or annoy them; the drawing off the classes from the
masses, depriving the poor man of the society, the encouragement, the
teaching, the example, the brightness, the wealth, and the culture of
the more leisured—it is this which is slowly but surely working, not
alone the degradation of the deserted people, but a terrible punishment
for the deserters. There is not a work of art, not a lofty aspiration,
not a burst of song, not a beautiful face, nor a well-stored intellect,
but is part of the heritage of the poor. We have as much right to cut
off the poor man’s oxygen or his nitrogen as to deprive him of any of
the elements needful for the nourishment of his soul.
Walk through the unlovely streets where the worker dwells in London.
Note the changes that have taken place in them during the past fifty
years. Once there were mansions in them, where their employers dwelt.
Now these deserted places are let off in tenements, since their former
occupants have long ago left them for brighter and wealthier parts of
the town. Grim, dirty, and neglected parish churches stand in the midst
of graveyards filled with the tumble-down monuments of rich residents
whose descendants never visit them, scorning to go east of Temple Bar,
even to pay their respects to the tombs of their ancestors. Within
these temples of prayer the monuments round the walls tell sadly of
better days and a prosperity that contrasts oddly with the decadence of
the present. Hard work here for the clergy, with much begging from
distant and richer parishes to maintain the services and ministrations
of the Church, even in their crippled form. True, money is sent from
the West, but where are the workers? The men and women who could help
the clergy in a hundred ways to mitigate the evil surroundings? And
Lady Millefleurs will have to know, sooner or later, that she has not
charity, though she sell all her goods to feed the poor, and give her
body to be burned, while she will not give herself a living sacrifice
to humanity. How is she to do this? How is she to fulfil the command to
sell all she has and give to the poor? Simple enough. Give up Belgrave
Square and settle in Bethnal Green! Forsake Tyburnia and dwell in
Whitechapel! Then, and not till then, will she follow her Master’s
commands. Very unpleasant, doubtless; but consider what she would
learn. At a great cost she has acquired much human knowledge of a kind,
not enough to keep her, perhaps, from falling into the error of the
often-quoted lady, who wondered why the poor who could not get bread
did not live on those nice twopenny cakes to be had in Bond Street.
What good would be done by this retrogression from progress? Just think
of a few ways of helping the poor. Look at the East End and suburban
vestries, boards of guardians, and public bodies generally. Why are
they so corrupt, so hard to move, so gluttonous and backward? That is
not far to seek. Consider the mental calibre, the social status, the
education and tastes of the men who compose them too generally. The
gentry are far away, where they only see the poor as rare and
interesting objects on which to bestow Bibles, blankets, soup, and
occasional recitations and songs. They spend their days in places where
the clergy are compelled to preserve with care a few exotic paupers as
specimens, that it may be demonstrated now and then that “the poor ye
have always with you.” Granny, in her clean cap, white apron, and neat
gown, sitting in a well-scrubbed room, reading the Bible with the help
of a pair of horn spectacles, by the side of a not depressingly low
fire, is all the idea of poverty with which many a high-born lady has
any acquaintance. How about “slumming” which Mr. Punch declared
recently was so fashionable? There never was very much of it; there is
less now, and that doesn’t count. It never did the least good, nor was
it likely it should. The great wrong done to the poor by the complete
alienation of the rich cannot be condoned by spasmodic visits to their
wretched homes by ladies and gentlemen, who go to see them as they go
to the Zoo; by their occasional presence at the opening of a bazaar for
a poor church; nor by the exhibition of their well-appointed equipages
to the admiring gaze of the denizens of Tourniquet’s Rents. This wrong
cannot be remedied by gifts of money, nor by loans of pictures and
_objets d’art_.
It happened that just as Sister Agnes left St. Bernard’s, a number of
ladies of wealth and position had formed themselves into a community,
without any distinctly religious badge or dogmas, for the purpose of
residing together in an East London district. They took a large,
old-fashioned house in the Commercial Road, called in a skilful
architect and a builder, had it put in thorough repair and properly
adapted to the purposes of colonization by the well-to-do. They were
women of ample leisure, intelligence, and business capacity, and were
impressed by the idea that if one would help the poor and ignorant, it
could only be done effectually by teaching them how to help themselves.
They did not propose to inculcate the religious opinions of any
particular section of the Christian Church; they wore no distinctive
dress, had no politics in particular, and were only actuated by a
desire to see for themselves what was the real life and what were the
real needs of the working people with whom they went to reside. They
knew that in a great measure the deplorable unloveliness of East London
was due to the fact that it was deserted by people of wealth and
capacity for helping their neighbours, and that the best way of doing
good in the locality was work and residence there. “The problem was how
to make the working people realize their spiritual and social
solidarity with the rest of the capital and the kingdom; how to revive
their sense of citizenship, with its privileges which they have lost,
and its responsibilities which they have forgotten. Among these
privileges should be education, rational amusement, and social
intercourse, best supplied by local clubs, with their various guilds,
classes, and societies. Among the duties, on the other hand, which
require to be revived, thrift and prudence stand pre-eminent; and
thrift and prudence can only be taught by those who will associate with
the people and thus induce them to face the elementary laws of economy.
This is especially the case with regard to that population question to
which all the other problems are subordinate. The levity with which
lads and girls enter upon matrimony without any adequate provision (a
levity which would be criminal if it were not so unconscious), can only
be met by convincing them that prudence in this matter is a duty which
is as fully recognized in other grades of society as it is ignored by
themselves. The sympathy and example of educated people living in their
midst does more good in all these ways than the foundation of any
number of new charitable institutions. Destitute London requires their
personal help as well as their subscriptions.”
Such was the plan which had worked so admirably at Oxford House,
Bethnal Green, established by a number of Oxford men for just this
work; and these good women rightly argued: If such an institution
worked by men has been found so useful, how much more effectual would
be something on similar, but less ambitious lines, if worked by women!
Reform the women, you reform the men and the next generation. Make the
home life what it should be, and you have made virtue and decency, not
only possible, but easy and pleasant.
It was brave of these good Oxford men to go and live in the gloomiest
part of surely the gloomiest and poorest parish of East London; but
though they might stimulate the brains of the people amongst whom they
laboured, and do good in a thousand ways, it was impossible for them to
hope to achieve the influence of women in the home. The men could
capture the outworks; women were required to secure the citadel. So
they spent their money liberally, and went to work at the courts and
alleys that run off right and left of this great thoroughfare from the
Docks to the City. One of their great ideas was an hospital for Women
and Children—not a place for teaching doctors their business, or
giving them scope for their fads,—not “happy hunting grounds” for
“cases,” but wards for the restoration to health with all possible
speed of sick folk of the neighbourhood who could not effectually be
tended at home. It was an axiom with the Lady Head of the Home, which
was called Nightingale House, that no sick person should be removed to
the hospitals who could be effectually and comfortably treated at home.
She argued that we do great harm by making hospitals the universal
resource of the lower classes, even of those who have sufficiently
comfortable homes. She maintained with great force that much of the
tenderness of family life is fostered, nay, created, by the mutual care
of parent and child, husband and wife, brother and sister, in seasons
of illness and in the hour of death; and held that if we deduct from
_our_ feelings all which we owe to sources of this kind, the residue
would represent all that we can expect from the working classes under
the present system. Thus if the home were not over-crowded and the
disease not infectious, she held that it should be nursed and doctored
in the family. As much kindly aid and sympathy, as much attention and
skill as possible these ladies lent, but there was no removal from home
unless absolutely necessary. Sister Agnes was just the woman to be
matron of this hospital for women and children; and as the plan was
completely to her mind, she was soon installed in her new office.
Sister Agnes had made many friends amongst her patients at St
Bernard’s, and many of them and their relatives came to see her at her
new home, and sought her advice in their troubles and difficulties. Her
great experience and ability enabled her to penetrate to the bottom of
many a little mystery. She often wondered how she could so long have
been cognisant of the things that took place and had not sooner
rebelled. Often a husband or wife who was a patient at the old place
would write home, and the letters would be brought to her for her
opinion. A poor carman at the docks one day brought her a letter which
his wife had sent him the previous day. The poor man did not know what
to make of it. His wife had gone to the hospital merely on account of
loss of appetite and strength, and the doctors, after “overhauling her
like a barge as was in dry dock,” as he expressed it, had come to the
conclusion that she had a tumour “somewhere internal,” and if she did
not have it taken out she would soon die.
“In course, Mum,” said he, “the doctors ought to know best; but my
belief all along is they be nothing but practisin’ on her.”
Then he gave the Sister the letter his wife had sent him; which was
expressed in Mrs. Stubbins’ forcible vernacular. The dialect of a
denizen of the London slums abounds in idioms, which were intelligible
enough to Sister Agnes from long acquaintance, but she could not help
smiling as she read the poor woman’s epistle.
“ST BERNARD’S HOSPITAL, _16th July_.
“DEAR JACK,—
“I write these few lines for to let you now how I am gettin along
in this plaice. I have bean hear six weaks to-morrer, which is
little Jemmie’s birfday. I ain’t undergond the hoperation as I cum
for yet, bekos the doctor says my sistem ain’t reddy fur to stand
it yet. My patients is allmost gon, Jack, with waitin in suspends
so long. Sumtimes I begin to think as the doctors ain’t acting
straight with me. They makes a dredful hurtin examinashun everry
morning with more’n a dozzun yung stoodents a-lookin on, which
ain’t proper in my opinyun, and they talks a lot of Latin and says
it is a verry pretty case. One feller sed it was you-neek or
somethin of that sort, and Doctor Stanforth would be back in a
fortnit and must see it. As for phizzik I swer I ain’t had a drop
of anythink but pepermint water sins in this plaice I’ve bin; but
I’ve bin pulld about shameful, as ain’t fit for no respectful
marrid woman, for what objek I can’t for the life on me see. Now,
Jack, do mind and keep Lizzie at her scholin, and don’t let Billy
and Polly run wild in the streets. I don’t like meself at all in
this plaice, and ef the tumour aint sune tuk out I shall bunk it,
so I tell yer strayt. I wish you’d ask Dr. Phelps what thear littel
gaim is hear. I beleaf I am only kep as a speciment, bekos my cais
is curous; anyhow, I ain’t a-bein dun no good to, and they’ll find
I’m sloped afore long. 2 on em in saim ward as me bunked it last
week.
“Your lovin wife,
“MATILDA STUBBINS.”
“Now, Mum,” said the man, “what I wanted to ask you was this. Mrs.
Foster, our relieving officer’s wife, I have heerd tell had a tumour in
her inside, asking your pardon for speaking like that afore a lady; but
you don’t mind me, I hopes, and she went to a ladies’ ’orspital in the
West End, and they was a-going to take her pretty nigh all to bits, as
the sayin’ is, tellin’ her she’d be a dead woman in no time if it
warn’t done; and while the poor thing was a-prayin’ and a-screwin’ of
her courage up for to have it done, a lady told her how she had bin
cured of the same thing by drinkin’ of gallons and gallons of still
water, think they called it.”
“Distilled water,” said the Sister.
“Maybe your right, lady; anyways, she drunk pretty nigh a hogshead of
it, besides wearing a tin bottle full of it hot round her innards,
savin’ your presence, and she got well in three months and the tumour
went right away. I have heerd Mr. Foster say so hisself. Now I wants to
ask you if so be as you thinks as my poor Tilly could be cured with
these ’ere waters like that?”
“Well, I can’t tell you that, Stubbins, but if you like I will get a
clever doctor I know to see her, and tell us all about the case; but my
advice to you, from what I know of St. Bernard’s, is to get her away at
once. If the operation must be done, we will find some other hospital,
after we have tried what we can do with less severe means.”
Visions of similar cases crowded in upon the good Sister’s
recollection—of eviscerated creatures in whom no tumour was discovered
to remove; of cases where, on the post-mortem table, sponges, and even
instruments, had been discovered carelessly sown up in the patients
after operation, and had caused their deaths. Had not Dr. Stanforth
ever after said, with a look full of meaning, when about to perform
this operation, “Count your sponges, sister!”
Mrs. Stubbins discharged herself from St. Bernard’s without waiting for
further treatment, and actually recovered her health perfectly,
unassisted even by “still waters.” She always declares that her doctors
were like “Helen’s Babies,” who wanted to see the “wheels go round,”
and was glad they had not gratified their curiosity on her “works.”
Poor woman! she forgave them the wrong they had intended to do her, for
in common with her class she believed it was somehow meant for her
good, only “they are so fond of hacking folks about at them places.”
Good-natured creatures, they sacrifice their poor skins, organs, and
limbs, usually with generosity, when a great institution requires it,
though the general practitioner cannot touch them with a lancet without
protest. It is the _éclat_ does the business.
One day an old pavior smashed his hand. The surgeons at St. Bernard’s
wanted to remove three fingers. Not before he had been to see Sister
Agnes, he thought. Sister Agnes went in for conservative surgery, and
told him to refuse his consent. How often had she known a simple method
of dressing save the digits in such a case. In three months the man had
the complete use of his hand as before the accident, but that didn’t
console the house surgeon, whose fingers had itched “to make a neat
little job of it.” The pavior was so grateful to the Sister for her
advice that he begged her acceptance of his favourite linnet in a nice
cage.