began to tell. Gradually the people began to trust us; and gradually
the houses were improved. The sense of quiet power and sympathy soon
made itself felt, and less and less was there any sign of rudeness
or violence towards ourselves. Even before the first winter was over
many a one would hurry to light us up the stairs, and instead of my
having the rent-book and money thrust to me through the half-open door,
and being kept from possible entrance by a firmly planted foot, my
reception would be, "Oh, can't you come in, Miss, and sit down for a
bit?" Little by little the houses were renovated, the grates reset, the
holes in the floors repaired, the cracking, dirty plaster replaced by a
clean smooth surface, the heaps of rubbish removed, and we progressed
towards order.
Amongst the many benefits which the possession of the houses enables us
to confer on the people, perhaps one of the most important is our power
of saving them from neighbors who would render their lives miserable.
It is a most merciful thing to protect the poor from the pain of living
in the next room to drunken, disorderly people. "I am dying," said an
old woman to me the other day: "I wish you would put me where I can't
hear S---- beating his wife. Her screams are awful. And B----, too, he
do come in so drunk. Let me go over the way to No. 30." Our success
depends on duly arranging the inmates: not too many children in any one
house, so as to overcrowd it; not too few, so as to overcrowd another;
not two bad people side by side, or they drink together; not a terribly
bad person beside a very respectable one.
Occasionally we come upon people whose lives are so good and sincere,
it is only by such services and the sense of our friendship, that
we can help them at all; in all important things they do not need
our teaching, while we may learn much from them. In one of the
underground kitchens, I found an old woman who had been living there
for twelve years. In spite of every obstacle, and in the midst of such
surroundings as I have described, she was spotlessly clean and had done
the very best for the wretched place: the broken bars of the grate she
had bound in their places with little bits of wire; the great rents
in the wall, one of which went right through to the open air, she had
stuffed with rags, the jagged ends of which she had actually taken the
trouble to trim neatly with scissors; she had papered the walls, and
as they were so damp that the paste was perpetually losing its hold,
she patiently fastened up the long strips of paper fresh every week.
With all this work for it she had naturally become so fond of her
little home that it nearly broke her heart to think of leaving it. So
we determined not to tear her away from it. After a time, however, the
force of our former arguments told upon her, and suddenly, one day, she
volunteered to move. She has kept her new room, as one would expect, in
a state of neatness and order that is quite perfect. She has since been
growing less and less able to work, but she has always paid her rent,
she has never asked for help, nor would she even accept the small boon
of my lending her some money until she could give the due notice which
would enable her to draw out her own savings from the bank where she
had placed them. She has lived thirty-five years in London, a single
woman depending entirely on herself, without parish allowance or other
aid, and has had strength to keep up her standard of cleanliness and
independence, and a spirit of patient trustfulness that is unfailing.
Her life on earth is nearly over; she is now confined to her bed, for
the most part quite alone, without even a bell to summon aid: yet there
she lies in her snow-white bed as quietly as a little child settling
itself to sleep, talking sometimes with a little pride of her long
life's work, sometimes with tenderness of her old days in Ireland long
ago, and saying gently that she does not wish to be better; she wants
to go "home." Even in the extremity of her loneliness only a small mind
could pity her. It is a life to watch with reverence and admiration.
We can rarely speak of the depths of the hearts we learn to know or the
lives we see in the course of our work. The people are our friends.
But sometimes, when such as this old woman seem to have passed beyond
us all and to have entered into a quiet we cannot break, we may just
glance at a life which, in its simplicity and faithfulness, might make
the best of us ashamed.
Since we began our work in the court there has been a marked
improvement in many of the people. I may just say, as examples, that
the passionate Irish tenant who locked me into her room did not leave
us, but has settled down happily, and has shown me more than one act
of confidence and kindly feeling; that the old woman whose "bits o'
things" would look nothing if brought upstairs, after having been long
in a light room, has now asked for a larger one, having freed herself
from a debt which cramped her resources, and has begun to save; and
that the two dark-eyed children were ultimately won over to trust in
us. Their mother--a most degraded woman--when she at last appeared,
proved to be living a very disreputable life, and the only hope for
the children was to get them away from her influence. My first triumph
was in getting the girl to exert herself enough to become one of our
scrubbers, and finally, a year ago, we were able to persuade her to
go to a little industrial school in the country, where she has since
been joined by a sister of hers, who turned up subsequently to my first
visits. Unfortunately the mother absconded, taking the boy with her,
while we were still hoping to get him sent away to a training-school
also; but, even in the short time that he remained with us, I had got
some hold over him. By dint of making an agreement with him that I
would myself fetch him at eight one morning, and help him to prepare
his toilet so as to be fit for the nearest ragged school, I got him to
begin learning; and when once the ice was broken, he went frequently of
his own accord.
Opportunities for helping people at some important crisis of their
lives not unfrequently present themselves. For instance, soon after
we came into possession of Blank Court, I once or twice received rent
from a young girl, whom I generally found sitting sadly in a nearly
bare room, holding in her arms a little baby. She looked so young that
I thought at first the baby must be her sister, but it turned out to
be her own child. Her husband seemed a mere boy, and was, in fact,
only nineteen. One day, when the rent was not forthcoming, I learnt
their story. It appeared that an aunt had promised the lad a sovereign
to set him up as a costermonger, if he married the girl; but he had
not bargained for prepayment, and the promise was not fulfilled. This
marriage-portion, which was to have procured them a stock of herrings,
had never been forthcoming. This seemed an occasion upon which a
small loan might be of the utmost use. I accordingly lent them the
much-needed sovereign (which they have since punctually repaid), and
thus saved the young couple from being driven to the workhouse, and
gave them a small start in life.
To show further the various opportunities afforded us by our footing
with the people, I will describe one of our weekly collections of
savings.
On Saturday evenings, about eight o'clock, the tenants know that we
are to be found in the "club room" (one of the former shops of the
court, and now used by us for a men's club, and for boys' and girls'
evening classes, as well as for this purpose of collecting savings),
and that they may come to us there if they like, either for business or
a friendly chat.
Picture a low, rather long room, one of my assistants and myself
sitting in state, with pen and ink and bags for money, at a deal table
under a flaring gas jet; the door, which leads straight into the court,
standing wide open. A bright red blind, drawn down over the broad
window, prevents the passers-by from gazing in there, but, round the
open door, there are gathered a set of wild, dirty faces looking in
upon us. Such a semicircle they make, as the strong gas-light falls
upon them! They are mostly children with disheveled hair, and ragged,
uncared-for clothes; but, above them, now and then one sees the haggard
face of a woman hurrying to make her Saturday evening purchases, or the
vacant stare of some half-drunken man. The grown-up people who stop to
look in are usually strangers, for those who know us generally come
in to us. "Well! they've give it this time, anyhow," one woman will
exclaim, sitting down on a bench near us, so engrossed in the question
of whether she obtains a parish allowance that she thinks "they" can
mean no one but the Board of Guardians, and "it" nothing but the
much-desired allowance. "Yes, I thought I'd come in and tell you," she
will go on; "I went up Tuesday--" And then will follow the whole story.
"Well, and how do you find yourself, Miss?" a big Irish laborer in a
flannel jacket will say, entering afterwards; "I just come in to say I
shall be knocked off Monday; finished our job across the park: and if
so be there's any little thing in whitewashing to do, why, I'll be glad
to do it."
"Presently," we reply, nodding to a thin, slight woman at the door. She
has not spoken, but we know the meaning of that beseeching look. She
wants us to go up and get her husband's rent from him before he goes
out to spend more of it in drink.
The eager, watchful eyes of one of our little scrubbers next attract
attention; there she stands, with her savings' card in her hand,
waiting till we enter the sixpence she has earned from us during the
week. "How much have I got?" she says, eying the written sixpences with
delight, "because mother says, please, I'm to draw out next Saturday;
she's going to buy me a pair of boots."
"Take two shillings on the card and four shillings rent," a proudly
happy woman will say, as she lays down a piece of bright gold, a rare
sight this in the court, but her husband has been in regular work for
some little time.
"Please, Miss," says another woman, "will you see and do something for
Jane? She's that masterful since her father died, I can't do nothing
with her, and she'll do no good in this court. Do see and get her a
place somewheres away."
A man will enter now: "I'll leave you my rent to-night, Miss, instead
o' Monday, please; it'll be safer with you than with me."
A pale woman comes next, in great sorrow. Her husband, she tells us,
has been arrested without cause. We believe this to be true; the man
has always paid his way honestly, worked industriously, and lived
decently. So my assistant goes round to the police-station at once
to bail him, while I remain to collect the savings. "Did he seem
grateful?" I say to her on her return. "He took it very quietly," is
her answer; "he seemed to feel it quite natural that we should help
him."
Such are some of the scenes on our Savings' evenings; such some of the
services we are called upon to render; such the kind of footing we are
on with our tenants. An evening such as this assuredly shows that our
footing has somewhat changed since those spent in Blank Court during
the first winter.
My readers will not imagine that I mean to imply that there are not
still depths of evil remaining in Blank Court. It would be impossible
for such a place as I described it as being originally, to be raised
in two years to a satisfactory condition. But, what I do contend is,
that we have worked some very real reforms, and seen some very real
results. I feel that it is in a very great degree a question of time,
and that, now that we have got hold of the hearts of the people, the
court is sure to improve steadily. It will pay as good a percentage to
its owners and will benefit its tenants as much as any of the other
properties under my management have done. This court contains two out
of eight properties on which the same plans have been tried, and all of
them are increasingly prosperous. The first two were purchased by Mr.
Ruskin.
It appears to me then to be proved by practical experience, that when
we can induce the rich to undertake the duties of landlord in poor
neighborhoods, and insure a sufficient amount of the wise, personal
supervision of educated and sympathetic people acting as their
representatives, we achieve results which are not attainable in any
other way. It is true that there are Dwellings' Improvement Societies,
and the good these societies do is incalculable; I should be the last
to underrate it. But it is almost impossible that any society could do
much for such places as Blank Court, because it is there not so much
a question of dealing with houses alone, as of dealing with houses in
connection with their influence on the character and habits of the
people who inhabit them. If any society had come there and put those
houses into a state of perfect repair at once, it would have been of
little use, because its work would have been undone again by the bad
habits and carelessness of the people. If improvements were made on a
large scale, and the people remained untouched, all would soon return
to its former condition. You cannot deal with the people and their
houses separately. The principle on which the whole work rests, is that
the inhabitants and their surroundings must be improved together. It
has never yet failed to succeed.
Finally, I would call upon those who may possess cottage property in
large towns, to consider the power they thus hold in their hands,
and the large influence for good they may exercise by the wise use
of that power. When they have to delegate it to others, let them
take care to whom they commit it; and let them beware lest, through
the widely prevailing system of sub-letting, this power ultimately
abide with those who have neither the will nor the knowledge which
would enable them to use it beneficially;--with such as the London
landladies described at the beginning of this paper. The management
of details will seldom remain with the large owners, but they may
choose trustworthy representatives, and retain at least as much control
over their tenants, and as much interest in them, as is done by good
landlords in the country.
And I would ask those who do _not_ hold such property to consider
whether they might not, by possessing themselves of some, confer
lasting benefits on their poorer neighbors?
In these pages I have dwelt mainly on the way our management affects
the people, as I have given elsewhere[5] my experiences as to financial
matters and details of practical management. But I may here urge one
thing on those about to undertake to deal with such property, the
extreme importance of enforcing the punctual payment of rents. This
principle is a vital one. Firstly, because it strikes one blow at the
credit system, that curse of the poor; secondly, because it prevents
large losses from bad debts, and prevents the tenant from believing
that he will be suffered to remain, whatever his conduct may be,
resting that belief on his knowledge of the large sum that would be
lost were he turned out; and, thirdly, because the mere fact that
the man is kept up to his duty is a help to him, and increases his
self-respect and hope of doing better.
I would also say to those who, in the carrying out of such an
undertaking, are brought into immediate contact with the tenants, that
its success will depend most of all on their giving sympathy to the
tenants, and awakening confidence in them; but it will depend also in
a great degree on their power of bestowing concentrated attention on
small details.
For the work is one of detail. Looking back over the years as they
pass, one sees a progress that is _not_ small; but day after day the
work is one of such small things, that if one did not look beyond and
through them they would be trying. Locks to be mended, notices to
be served, the missing shilling of the week's rent to be called for
three or four times, petty quarrels to be settled, small rebukes to be
spoken, the same remonstrances to be made again and again.
But it is on these things and their faithful execution that the life of
the whole matter depends, and by which steady progress is insured. It
is the small things of the world that color the lives of those around
us, and it is on persistent efforts to reform these that progress
depends; and we may rest assured that they who see with greater eyes
than ours have a due estimate of the service, and that if we did
but perceive the mighty principles underlying these tiny things we
should rather feel awed that we are entrusted with them at all, than
scornful and impatient that they are no larger. What are we that we
should ask for more than that God should let us work for Him among the
tangible things which He created to be fair, and the human spirits
which He redeemed to be pure? From time to time He lifts a vail and
shows us, even while we struggle with imperfections here below, that
towards which we are working--shows us how, by governing and ordering
the tangible things one by one, we may make of this earth a fair
dwelling-place. And far better still, how by cherishing human beings
He will let us help Him in His work of building up temples meet for Him
to dwell in--faint images of that best temple of all, which He promised
that He would raise up on the third day, though men might destroy it.
OCTAVIA HILL.
FOOTNOTES:
[4] _Macmillan's Magazine_ for July, 1869.
[5] Cottage Property in London.--_Fortnightly Review_, Nov. 1, 1866.
Organized Work amongst the Poor.--_Macmillan's Magazine_, July, 1869.
THE WORK OF VOLUNTEERS IN THE ORGANIZATION OF CHARITY.
It is clear to those who are watching the work closely, and must even
be apparent to those less conversant with the subject, that a great
and growing conviction is abroad that our charitable efforts need
concentrating, systematizing, and uniting. There are many signs that
this conviction is bearing practical fruit. All the thirty Poor-Law
districts into which London is divided are now provided with committees
for organizing charitable relief. The formation of these committees
has led gentlemen specially interested in the subject to come forward
in various parts of London as candidates for the office of guardians;
several such candidates have been elected in St. George's, Kensington,
Marylebone, and other parishes. Nor is the movement confined to London.
Charity Organization Societies, or others of a kindred nature, have
been established in most of the large towns of England and Scotland.
Conversation, newspapers, conferences, all bear witness how very
generally it is now that something ought to be done to improve our
system of charitable relief, some co-operation secured between Poor-Law
and charity, and some efficient means adopted to render alms less
pauperizing than they have hitherto been. It is becoming clear to the
public that there is a right and a wrong, a wise and an unwise charity.
Those who have the interests of the poor at heart are learning, more
and more, to consult experienced people before taking any direct steps
towards trying to help those who apply to them for aid; those who
wish to give money beginning to entrust it to enlightened committees,
instead of endeavoring to distribute it themselves.
It becomes almost needless now to charge on the evils of
"overlapping,"--that is, of various charitable agencies covering
the same ground whilst ignorant of each other's proceedings; or to
dwell on the cruelty of the utter want of system which has hitherto
prevailed,--to point to poor families assisted by three or four
agencies at times when they needed help least, and others neglected by
all at times when they needed it most. It would not be difficult to
give examples of these evils, and to show that they are inseparable
from the condition of large towns wherever nothing is done to secure
unity of action amongst those who are trying to assist the poor.
Much has been done. The evils of overlapping, on the one hand, and
of neglect on the other, are being swept away wherever organization
committees, with their machinery for thorough investigation, and relief
societies, with their power to assist, are in existence. By means of
this system of inquiry into the merits of cases a great degree of
uniformity in dealing with them is secured; no relief is given without
due consideration, no poor person who chooses to apply can fail to have
a hearing for his case, and similar needs will meet with a similar
response. All this is no small gain. But now a new danger seems to me
to be arising; a danger lest, rushing from one extreme to another, we
should leave to committees, with their systems of rules, the whole work
of charity, and deprive this great organizing movement of all aid from
what I may call the personal element. The value of this element seems
to me to be inestimable. Charity owes all its graciousness to the sense
of its coming from a real friend. We want to bring the rich and poor,
the educated and uneducated, more and more into direct communication.
We want to enlist the thought, knowledge, sympathy, foresight, and
gentleness of the educated in the service of the poor, and must beware
of raising up barriers of committees between those who should meet
face to face. There is beyond all doubt in almost every town a great
amount of volunteer work to be had, which, were it organized and
concentrated, would achieve infinitely more than its best efforts can
now accomplish. There is always, however, a difficulty in calculating
to any great extent on volunteer work, inasmuch as it is apt to be
disconnected, desultory, and untrained.
It is true that where an energetic body of visitors is gathered
together under able and vigilant guidance--where their districts
are small, their visits frequent, their written records simple and
complete, and gaps in their ranks quickly filled up, so that their
work is not intermittent--they form a powerful agency for good. Such
societies are usually the first to see the importance of putting
themselves into communication with other charitable bodies; and when
they do this, little improvement in the machinery is requisite. But it
is also sadly true that the work of a number of earnest and devoted
volunteers is thrown away because their districts are too large, their
duties indefinite, and their work unconnected with that of others
laboring according to any definite plan.
Several things, then, appear to me to be evident--(1), that if the poor
are to be raised to a permanently better condition, they must be dealt
with as individuals and by individuals; (2), that for this hundreds of
workers are necessary; and (3), that this multitude of helpers is to be
found amongst volunteers--whose aid, as we arrange things at present,
is to a great extent lost. The problem to be solved, therefore, is how
to collect our volunteers into a harmonious whole--the action of each
being free, yet systematized; and how thus to administer relief through
the united agency of corporate bodies and private individuals; how,
in fact, to secure all the personal intercourse and friendliness, all
the real sympathy, all the graciousness of individual effort, without
losing the advantage of having relief voted by a central committee,
and according to definite principles. The way in which this problem
has been dealt with in one small district of London will be seen in
the following pages. Every district will, no doubt, have to deal with
the question in a somewhat different way, which must be determined by
its special circumstances; but the subjoined sketch of a plan now in
operation is given because it is always easier to see how a scheme will
work when it comes before us as an actual fact, with a definite place
and history, than when its bare principles only are laid down.