Professor GARNERS, in the _New Review_
Tells us that "Apes can talk." _That's_ nothing new;
Reading much "Simian" literary rot,
One only wishes that our "Apes" could _not_!
* * * * *
THE NEW TALE OF A TUB; OR, THE NOT-AT-HOME SECRETARY AND THE
LAUNDRESSES.
[Illustration: "CAN'T SEE YOU NOW, I'M WASHING--MYSELF."
"The Women are crying out for the protection of the Factory Acts,
which has hitherto been denied them, and which the Home Secretary
declines to pledge the Government to support."--_Daily Telegraph,
Friday, June 12th._]
_London Laundry-woman, to her Tub-mate, loquitur_:--
They tell us the Tub is humanity's friend, and that Cleanliness is of
closest kin
To all things good. By the newest gospel 'tis held that Dirt is the
friend of Sin.
Well, I'm not so sure that the world's far wrong in that Worship of
Washing that's all the rage;
But we, its priestesses, sure might claim a cleanly life and a decent
wage!
Listen, BET, from your comfortless seat on the turned-up pail,--if
you've got the time;
Isn't it queer that Society's cleansers must pass their lives amidst
muck and grime?
Spotless flannels no doubt are nice--and snowy linen is "swell" and sweet,
But steaming reek is around our heads, and trickling foulness about our
feet.
If the dainty ladies whose linen we lave, we laundress drudges, could
look in _here_,
Wouldn't their feet shrink back with sickness, and wouldn't their faces
go pale with fear?
White, well-ironed, all sheen and sweetness, that linen looks when it
leaves our hands;
But they little think of the sodden squalor that marks the den where
the laundress stands.
Scrub, scrub, scrub, at the reeking tub, for eighteen hours at a
stretch, perchance,
Till our bowed backs ache, and our knuckles smart, and the lights through
the steam like spectres dance;
Ankle-deep in the watery sludge, where the tile is loose or the drainage
blocked!
Oh, I haven't a doubt that the dainty dames--if they only knew!--would be
sorely shocked.
Typhoid! Terribly menacing word, the whisper of which would destroy our
trade;
But dirt, and damp, and defective drainage will raise that ghost on a
world afraid;
And at thirty years our strength is sapped by insidious siege of the
stifling fume,
Or what if we linger a little longer? Scant rays of comfort such life
illume.
Grievances, BET? Well, I make no doubt that the world of idlers is
sorely sick
Of the moans and groans of the likes of us. When the whip, the needle,
the spade, the pick,
Are all on strike for a higher wage, 'tis a worry, of course, to the
well-to-do,
And a sleek Home-Sec, must "decline to pledge" support official to me
and you.
Of course, of course! Who are we, my dear, to bother the big-wigs and
stir their bile?
Why, it's all along of our "discontent," and the Agitator's insidious
guile.
But Labour, BET, is agog just now to revise the old one-sided pacts,
And even a Laundress may have an eye to the benefit of the Factory Acts.
Those bad, bad 'Busmen, BET my girl, claim shorter hours, and a longer
pay;
Just think of such for the Slaves of the Tub! Why should we women not
have our say
In the Park o' Sunday, like DAN the Docker, or TOM the Tailor, or WILL
the "Whip"?
The Tub and the Ironing-board appear to have got a chance--which they
mustn't let slip:
An Object Lesson in Laundress Labour, may move the callous and shame
the quiz.
We dream of "Washing as well it might be"; we'll show them "Washing as
now it is."
_We_ know it, BET, in the sodden wet and the choking fume; with the
aching back,
The long, long hours, and the typhoid taint, the inverted pail and the
hurried snack.
There may--who knows?--be hope for us yet, for you and me, BET! Just
think o' that!
Oh, I know it is hard to believe it, my girl. The Sweater's strong, and
appeal falls flat
On official ears; and fine-lady fears, and household hurry against us go;
But "evil is wrought by want of thought." says some poet, I think;--so
we'll let them _know_!
Ah! snowy sheets and sweet lavender scent of the dear old days in my
village home!
The breadths of linen a-bleach on the grass! How little I thought that
to this I'd come
Grand ladies of old to their laundry looked, and the tubs were white,
and the presses fair;
Now we cleansers clean in the midst of dirt, in a dank, dark den, with
a noisome air.
Sometimes I dream till the clouds of steam take the shadowy form of a
spectral thing,
A tyrant terror that threatens our lives, whilst we rub and scrub, whilst
we rinse and wring.
Well, cheer up, BET, girl, stiffen your lip, and straighten your back.
You have finished your grub,
So to work once more; if our champions score, we _may_ find a new end to
this Tale of a Tub!
* * * * *
[Illustration: A CURE FOR INFLUENZA.
_Major O'Gourmand_. "SURE, ME DOCTHOR SAID A GLASS OR TWO OF DRY
CHAMPAGNE'LL DO ME GOOD! BEGORRAH, THE BOTTLE'S DRY ENOUGH BY THIS TIME!"]
* * * * *