Produced by Charles Aldarondo. HTML version by Al Haines.
LIZZY GLENN:
OR, THE TRIALS OF A SEAMSTRESS.
BY
T.S. ARTHUR
AUTHOR OF "LOVE IN A COTTAGE," "LOVE IN HIGH LIFE," ETC.
"Work--work--work
Till the brain begins to swim;
Work--work--work
Till the eyes are heavy and dim!
Seam, and gusset, and band,
Band, and gusset, and seam,
Till over the buttons I fall asleep,
And sew them on in a dream!"
Hood's Song of the Shirt.
Philadelphia:
1859
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I. Lizzy Glenn--Mrs. Gaston and her sick Child,
CHAPTER II. How a Needlewoman Lives,
CHAPTER III. Death of Mrs. Gaston's Child--A Mother's anguish,
CHAPTER IV. Lizzy Glenn arouses the interest of a Stranger,
CHAPTER V. Some of the Troubles of a Needlewoman--A Friend in Need,
CHAPTER VI. Perkins' Narrative,
CHAPTER VII. Henry Gaston leaves Home with Sharp,
CHAPTER VIII. Henry Gaston's Treatment by Sharp,
CHAPTER IX. Lizzy Glenn finds in Mrs. Gaston an old Friend,
CHAPTER X. Lizzy Glenn's Narrative to Mrs. Gaston,
CHAPTER XI. Perkins anxiously seeks Lizzy Glenn,
CHAPTER XII. Perkins finds in Lizzy Glenn his long lost Eugenia,
THE FATHER'S DREAM,
I'LL SEE ABOUT IT,
HUMAN LIFE,
THE SUM OF TRIFLES; OR, "A PENNY SAVED IS A PENNY GAINED,"
LIZZY GLENN;
OR, THE TRIALS OF A SEAMSTRESS.
CHAPTER I.
LIZZY GLENN--MRS. GASTON AND HER SICK CHILD.
NEEDLE-WORK, at best, yields but a small return. Yet how many
thousands have no other resource in life, no other barrier thrown up
between them and starvation! The manly stay upon which a woman has
leaned suddenly fails, and she finds self-support an imperative
necessity; yet she has no skill, no strength, no developed
resources. In all probability she is a mother. In this case she must
not only stand alone, but sustain her helpless children. Since her
earliest recollection, others have ministered to her wants and
pleasures. From a father's hand, childhood and youth received their
countless natural blessings; and brother or husband, in later years,
has stood between her and the rough winds of a stormy world. All at
once, like a bird reared, from a fledgling, in its cage, and then
turned loose in dreary winter time, she finds herself in the
world, unskilled in its ways, yet required to earn her bread or
perish.
What can she do? In what art or profession has she been educated?
The world demands service, and proffers its money for labor. But
what has she learned? What work can she perform? She can sew. And is
that all? Every woman we meet can ply the needle. Ah! as a
seamstress, how poor the promise for her future. The labor-market is
crowded with serving women; and, as a consequence, the price of
needle-work--more particularly that called plain needle-work--is
depressed to mere starvation rates. In the more skilled branches,
better returns are met; but even here few can endure prolonged
application--few can bend ten, twelve, or fifteen hours daily over
their tasks, without fearful inroads upon health.
In the present time, a strong interest has been awakened on this
subject. The cry of the poor seamstress has been heard; and the
questions "How shall we help her?" "How shall we widen the circle of
remunerative employments for women?" passes anxiously from lip to
lip. To answer this question is not our present purpose. Others are
earnestly seeking to work out the problem, and we must leave the
solution with them. What we now design is to quicken their generous
impulses. How more effectively can this be done than by a
life-picture of the poor needlewoman's trials and sufferings? And
this we shall now proceed to give.
It was a cold, dark, drizzly day in the fall of 18--, that a young
female entered a well-arranged clothing store in Boston, and passed
with hesitating steps up to where a man was standing behind one of
the counters.
"Have you any work, sir?" she asked, in a low, timid voice.
The individual to whom this was addressed, a short, rough-looking
man, with a pair of large, black whiskers, eyed her for a moment
with a bold stare, and then indicated, by half turning his head and
nodding sideways toward the owner of the shop, who stood at a desk
some distance back, that her application was to be made there.
Turning quickly from the rude and too familiar gaze of the
attendant, the young woman went on to the desk and stood, half
frightened and trembling, beside the man from whom she had come to
ask the privilege of toiling for little more than a crust of bread
and a cup of cold water.
"Have you any work, sir?" was repeated in a still lower and more
timid voice than that in which her request had at first been made.
"Yes, we have," was the gruff reply.
"Can I get some?"
"I don't know. I'm not sure that you'll ever bring it back again."
The applicant endeavored to make some reply to this, but the words
choked her; she could not utter them.
"I've been tricked in my time out of more than a little by
new-comers. But I don't know; you seem to have a simple, honest
look. Are you particularly in want of work?"
"Oh yes, sir!" replied the applicant, in an earnest, half-imploring
voice. "I desire work very much."
"What kind do you want?"
"Almost any thing you have to give out, sir?"
"Well, we have pants, coarse and fine roundabouts, shirts, drawers,
and almost any article of men's wear you can mention."
"What do you give for shirts, sir?"
"Various prices; from six cents up to twenty-five, according to the
quality of the article."
"_Only_ twenty-five cents for fine shirts!" returned the young
woman, in a surprised, disappointed, desponding tone.
"_Only_ twenty-five cents? _Only_? Yes, _only_ twenty-five cents!
Pray how much did you expect to get, Miss?" retorted the clothier,
in a half-sneering, half-offended voice.
"I don't know. But twenty-five cents is very little for a hard day's
work."
"Is it, indeed? I know enough who are thankful even for that. Enough
who are at it early and late, and do not even earn as much. Your
ideas will have to come down a little, Miss, if you expect to work
for this branch of business."
"What do you give for vests and pantaloons?" asked the young woman,
without seeming to notice the man's rudeness.
"For common trowsers with pockets, twelve cents; and for finer ones,
fifteen and twenty cents. Vests about the same rates."
"Have you any shirts ready?"
"Yes, a plenty. Will you have em coarse or fine?"
"Fine, if you please."
"How many will you take?"
"Let me have three to begin with."
"Here, Michael," cried the man to the attendant who had been first
addressed by the stranger, "give this girl three fine shirts to
make." Then turning to her, he said: "They are cotton shirts, with
linen collars, bosoms, and wristbands. There must be two rows of
stitches down the bosoms, and one row upon the wristband. Collars
plain. And remember, they must be made very nice."
"Yes, sir," was the reply, made in a sad voice, as the young
creature turned from her employer and went up to the shop-attendant
to receive the three shirts.
"You've never worked for the clothing stores, I should think?"
remarked this individual, looking her in the face with a steady
gaze.
"Never," replied the applicant, in a low tone, half shrinking away,
with an instinctive aversion for the man.
"Well, it's pretty good when one can't do any better. An industrious
sewer can get along pretty well upon a pinch."
No reply was made to this. The shirts were now ready; but, before
they were handed to her, the man bent over the counter, and, putting
his face close to hers, said--
"What might your name be, Miss?"
A quick flush suffused the neck and face of the girl, as she stepped
back a pace or two, and answered--
"That is of no consequence, sir."
"Yes, Miss, but it is of consequence. We never give out work to
people who don't tell their names. We would be a set of
unconscionable fools to do that, I should think."
The young woman stood, thoughtful for a little while, and then said,
while her cheek still burned--
"Lizzy Glenn."
"Very well. And now, Miss Lizzy, be kind enough to inform me where
you live."
"That is altogether unnecessary. I will bring the work home as soon
as I have finished it."
"But suppose you should happen to forget our street and number? What
then?"
"Oh no, I shall not do that. I know the place very well," was the
innocent reply.
"No, but that won't do, Lizzy. We must have the name and place of
residence of every man, woman, and child who work for us. It is our
rule, and we never depart from it."
There was another brief period of irresolution, and then the place
of abode was given. This was first entered, with her name, in a
book, and then the three shirts were handed over. The seamstress
turned away on receiving them, and walked quickly from the shop.
The appearance of this young applicant for work would have appealed
instantly to the sympathies of any one but a regular slop-shop man,
who looked only to his own profits, and cared not a fig whose
heart-drops cemented the stones of his building. She was tall and
slender, with light brown hair, clear soft complexion, and eyes of a
mild hazel. But her cheeks were sunken, though slightly flushed, and
her eyes lay far back in their sockets. Her forehead was high and
very white. The tones of her voice, which was low, were soft and
musical, and her words were spoken, few though they were, with a
taste and appropriateness that showed her to be one who had moved in
a circle of refinement and intelligence. As to her garments, they
were old, and far too thin for the season. A light, faded shawl, of
costly material, was drawn closely around her shoulders, but had not
the power to keep from her attenuated frame the chill air, or to
turn off the fine penetrating rain that came with the wind,
searchingly from-the bleak north-east. Her dress, of summer calico,
much worn, clung closely to her body. Above all was a close bonnet,
and a thick vail, which she drew around her face as she stepped into
the street and glided hurriedly away.
"She's a touch above the vulgar, Michael," broke in Berlaps, the
owner of the shop, coming forward as he spoke.
"Yes, indeed! That craft has been taut rigged in her time."
"Who can she be, Michael? None of your common ones, of course?"
"Oh no, of course not; she's 'seen better days,' as the slang phrase
is."
"No doubt of that. What name did she give."
"Lizzy Glenn. But that may or may not be correct. People likely her
are sometimes apt to forget even their own names."
"Where does she live?"
"In the lower part of the town somewhere. I have it in the book
here."
"You think she'll bring them shirts back?"
"Oh, yes. Folks that have come down in the world as she has, rarely
play grab-game after that fashion."
"She seemed all struck aback at the price."
"I suppose so. Ha! ha!"
"But she's the right kind," resumed Berlaps. "I only wish we had a
dozen like her."
"I wish we had. Her work will never rip."
Further conversation was prevented by the entrance of a customer.
Before he had been fully served, a middle-aged woman came in with a
large bundle, and went back to Berlaps's desk, where he stood
engaged over his account-books.
"Good-day, Mrs. Gaston," said he, looking up, while not a feature
relaxed on his cold, rigid countenance.
"I've brought you in six pairs of pants," said the woman, untying
the bundle she had laid upon the counter.
"You had seven pair, ma'am."
"I know that, Mr. Berlaps. But only six are finished; and, as I want
some money, I have brought them in."
"It is more than a week since we gave them out. You ought to have
had the whole seven pair done. We want them all now. They should
have been in day before yesterday."
"They would have been finished, Mr. Berlaps," said the woman, in a
deprecating tone; "but one of my children has been sick; and I have
had to be up with her so often every night, and have had to attend
to her so much through the day, that I have not been able to do more
than half work."
"Confound the children!" muttered the tailor to himself, as he began
inspecting the woman's work. "They're always getting sick, or
something else."
After carefully examining three or four pairs of the coarse trowsers
which had been brought in, he pushed the whole from him with a quick
impatient gesture and an angry scowl, saying, as he did so--
"Botched to death! I can't give you work unless it's done better,
Mrs. Gaston. You grow worse and worse!"
"I know, sir," replied the woman, in a troubled voice, "that they
are not made quite so well as they might be. But consider how much I
have had against me. A sick child--and worn out by attendance on her
night and day."
"It's always a sick child, or some other excuse, with the whole of
you. But that don't answer me. I want my work done well, and mean to
have it so. If you don't choose to turn out good work, I can find a
plenty who will."
"You sha'n't complain of me hereafter, Mr. Berlaps," replied the
woman submissively.
"So you have said before; but we shall see."
Berlaps then turned moodily to his desk, and resumed the employment
he had broken off when the seamstress came in, whilst she stood with
her hands folded across each other, awaiting his pleasure in regard
to the payment of the meagre sum she had earned by a full week of
hard labor, prolonged often to a late hour in the night. She had
stood thus, meekly, for nearly five minutes, when Berlaps raised his
head, and looking at her sternly over the top of his desk, said--
"What are you waiting for, Mrs. Gaston?"
"I should like to have the money for the pants I have brought in. I
am out of every"--
"I never pay until the whole job is done. Bring in the other pair,
and you can have your money."
"Yes; but Mr. Berlaps"--
"You needn't talk any thing about it, madam. You have my say," was
the tailor's angry response.
Slowly turning away, the woman moved, with hesitating steps, to the
door, paused there a moment, and then went out. She lingered along,
evidently undecided how to act, for several minutes, and then moved
on at a quicker pace, as if doubt and uncertainty had given way to
some encouraging thought. Threading her way along the narrow winding
streets in the lower part of the city, she soon emerged into the
open space used as a hay market, and, crossing over this, took her
way in the direction of one of the bridges. Before reaching this,
she turned down toward the right, and entered a small grocery. A
woman was the only attendant upon this.
"Won't you trust me for a little more, Mrs. Grubb?" she asked, in a
supplicating voice, while she looked anxiously into her face.
"No, ma'am! not one cent till that dollar's paid up!" was the sharp
retort. "And, to tell you the truth, I think you've got a heap of
impudence to come in here, bold-faced, and ask for more trust, after
having promised me over and over again for a month to pay that
dollar. No! pay the dollar first!"
"I did intend to pay you a part of it this very day," replied Mrs.
Gaston. "But"--
"Oh yes. It's 'but' this, and 'but' that. But 'buts' ain't my
dollar. I'm an honest woman, and want to make an honest living; and
must have my money."
"But I only want a little, Mrs. Grubb. A few potatoes and, some salt
fish; and just a gill of milk and a cup of flour. The children have
had nothing to eat since yesterday. I took home six pairs of
trowsers to-day, which came to ninety cents, at fifteen cents a
pair. But I had seven pairs, and Mr. Berlaps wont pay me until I
bring the whole number. It will take me till twelve o'clock to-night
to finish them, and so I can't get any money before to-morrow. Just
let me have two pounds of salt fish, which will be only seven cents,
and, three cents' worth of potatoes; and a little milk and flour to
make something for Ella. It won't be much, Mrs. Grubb, and it will
keep the little ones from being hungry all day and till late
to-morrow."
Her voice failed her as she uttered the last sentence. But she
restrained herself after the first sob that heaved her overladen
bosom, and stood calmly awaiting the answer to her urgent petition.
Mrs. Grubb was a woman, and a mother into the bargain. She had, too,
the remains of a woman's heart, where lingered a few maternal
sympathies. These were quick to prompt her to duty. Turning away
without a reply, she weighed out two pounds of fish, measured a peck
of potatoes, poured out some milk in a cup, and filled a small paper
with flour. These she handed to Mrs. Gaston without uttering a word.
"To-morrow you shall be paid for these, and something on the old
account," said the recipient, as she took them and hurried from the
shop.
"Why not give up at once, instead of trying to keep soul and body
together by working for the slop-shops?" muttered Mrs. Grubb, as her
customer withdrew. "She'd a great sight better go with her children
to the poor-house than keep them half-starving under people's noses
at this rate, and compelling us who have a little feeling left, to
keep them from dying outright with hunger. It's too bad! There's
that Berlaps, who grinds the poor seamstresses who work for him to
death and makes them one-half of their time beggars at our stores
for something for their children to eat. He is building two houses
in Roxbury at this very moment: and out of what? Out of the money of
which he has robbed these poor women. Fifteen cents for a pair of
trowsers with pockets in them! Ten cents for shirts and drawers! and
every thing at that rate. Is it any wonder that they are starving,
and he growing rich? Curse him, and all like him! I could see them
hung!"
And the woman set her teeth, and clenched her hand, in momentary but
impotent rage.
In the meantime, Mrs. Gaston hurried home with the food she had
obtained. She occupied the upper room of a narrow frame house near
the river, for which she paid a rent of three dollars a month. It
was small and comfortless, but the best her slender means could
provide. Two children were playing on the floor when she entered:
the one about four, and the other a boy who looked as if he might be
nearly ten years of age. On the bed lay Ella, the sick child to whom
the mother had alluded, both to the tailor and the shopkeeper. She
turned wishfully upon her mother her young bright eyes as she
entered, but did not move or utter a word. The children, who had
been amusing themselves upon the floor, sprang to their feet, and,
catching hold of the basket she had brought in with her, ascertained
in a moment its contents.
"Fish and taters! Fish and taters!" cried the youngest, a little
girl, clapping her hands, and dancing about the floor.
"Won't we have some dinner now?" said Henry, the oldest boy, looking
up into his mother's face with eager delight, as he laid his hands
upon her arm.
"Yes, my children, you shall have a good dinner, and that right
quickly," returned the mother in a voice half choked with emotion,
as she threw off her bonnet, and proceeded to cook the coarse
provisions she had obtained at the sacrifice of so much feeling. It
did not take long to boil the fish and potatoes, which were eaten
with a keen relish by two of the children, Emma and Harry. The gruel
prepared for Ella, from the flour obtained at Mrs. Grubb's, did not
much tempt the sickly appetite of the child. She sipped a few
spoonfuls, and then turned from the bowl which her mother held for
her at the bedside.
"Eat more of it, dear," said Mrs. Gaston. "It will make you feel
better."
"I'm not very hungry now, mother," answered Ella.
"Don't it taste good to you?"
"Not very good."
The child sighed as she turned her wan face toward the wall, and the
unhappy mother sighed responsive.
"I wish you would try to take a little more. It's so long since you
have eaten any thing; and you'll grow worse if you don't take
nourishment. Just two or three spoonfuls. Come, dear."
Ella, thus urged, raised herself in bed, and made an effort to eat
more of the gruel. At the third spoonful, her stomach heaved as the
tasteless fluid touched her lips.
"Indeed, mother, I can't swallow another mouthful," she said, again
sinking back on her pillow.
Slowly did Mrs. Gaston turn from the bed. She had not yet eaten of
the food, which her two well children were devouring with the
eagerness of hungry animals. Only a small portion did she now take
for herself, and that was eaten hurriedly, as if the time occupied
in attending to her own wants were so much wasted.
The meal over, Mrs. Gaston took the unfinished pair of trowsers,
and, though feeling weary and disheartened, bent earnestly to the
task before her. At this she toiled, unremittingly, until the
falling twilight admonished her to stop. The children's supper was
then prepared. She would have applied to Mrs. Grubb for a loaf of
bread, but was so certain of meeting a refusal, that she refrained
from doing so. For supper, therefore, they had only the salt fish
and potatoes.
It was one o'clock that night before exhausted nature refused
another draft upon its energies. The garment was not quite finished.
But the nerveless hand and the weary head of the poor seamstress
obeyed the requirements of her will no longer. The needle had to be
laid aside, for the finger had no more strength to grasp, nor skill
to direct its motions.