HENRY GASTON LEAVES HOME WITH SHARP.
AS little Henry, after parting with his mother, hurried on by the
side of Mr. Sharp, who took his way directly across the bridge
leading over to Charlestown, where he had left the chaise in which
he had ridden from Lexington, a handsome carriage, containing a
mother and three happy children, about the age of himself, Emma, and
the sister who had just died, drove rapidly by. The children were
full of spirits, and, in their thoughtless glee, called out gayly,
but with words of ridicule, to the poor, meanly-clan child, who was
hurrying on at almost a run beside the man who had become his
master. Their words, however, were heeded not by the full-hearted
boy. His thoughts were going back to his home, and to his much-loved
mother.
This incident is mentioned here, as a striking illustration of the
practical working of that system of grinding the poor, especially
poor females, by which many men make fortunes, or at least acquire
far more than a simple competence for life. That carriage belonged
to Berlaps, and those happy children were his. But how could he buy
a carriage and horses, and build fine houses, and yet not be able to
pay more than the meagre pittance for his work that the reader has
seen doled out to his half-starving workwomen? How could his
children be fed and clothed sumptuously every day, and the widow,
who worked for him from early dawn until the silent watches of
midnight, not be able to get wholesome bread and warm garments for
her little ones, _unless he took more than his just share_ of the
profits upon his goods? If he could only afford to pay seven cents
for coarse shirts, and so on, in proportion, up through the entire
list of articles made, how came it that the profits on these very
articles enabled him to live in elegance, build houses, and keep his
own carriage and horses?
Such questions apply not alone to, the single instance of Berlaps,
here introduced. They are pertinent in their application to all who
add to their profits for the purpose of a grand aggregate, at the
expense of reducing the pay, even a few cents, upon the hard-toiling
workwoman, whose slender income, at best, is barely sufficient to
procure the absolute necessaries of life. This cutting down of
women's wages, until they are reduced to an incompetent pittance, is
a system of oppression too extensive, alas! in this, as well as many
other countries. It is one of the quiet and safe means by which the
strong oppress the weak--by which the selfish build themselves up,
cruelly indifferent to the sufferings of those who are robbed of a
just compensation for their labor. The record of a conversation
overheard between two of the class alluded to will illustrate this
matter. They were tailors--or, rather, what are sometimes called
slop-shop, or clothing men. Let it not be supposed that tailors
alone are the oppressors of workwomen. In most of the employments at
which females engage, especially such as admit of a competition in
labor, advantage is taken of the eager demand for work, and prices
reduced to the lowest possible standard. In the eager scramble for
monopolizing more than a just share of custom, or to increase the
amount of sales by the temptation of extremely moderate rates, the
prices of goods are put down to the lowest scale they will bear. If,
in doing this, the dealer was content with a profit reduced in some
proportion to the increase of his sales, no one would have a right
to complain. He would be free to sell his goods at cost, or even
below cost, if that suited his fancy. Instead of this, however, the
profits on his articles are often the same that they were when
prices were ten or fifteen per cent. higher, and he reaps the
advantage of a greatly increased sale, consequent upon the more
moderate rates at which he can sell. The evil lies in his cutting
down his operatives' wages; in taking off of them, while they make
no party to his voluntary reduction of prices, the precise amount
that he throws in to his customer as a temptation to buy more
freely. But to the promised dialogue--
"Money don't come in hand-over-fist, as it ought to come," remarked
Grasp, of the flourishing firm of Grasp & Co., Merchant Tailors, of
Boston, to the junior partner of the establishment. "The nimble
sixpence is better than the slow shilling, you know. We must make
our shears eat up cloth a little faster, or we sha'n't clear ten
thousand dollars this year by one-third of the sum."
"Although that would be a pretty decent business these times."
"I don't call any business a decent one that can be bettered,"
replied Grasp, contemptuously.
"But can ours be bettered?"
"Certainly!"
"How?"
"By selling more goods."
"How are we to do that?"
"By putting down the prices, and then making a confounded noise
about it. Do you understand?"
"I do. But our prices are very low now."
"True. But we may reduce them still further, and, by so doing,
increase our sales to an extent that will make our business net us
beyond the present income quite handsomely. But, to do this, we must
cut down the prices now paid for making up our clothes. In this way,
we shall be able to greatly increase our sales, with but a slight
reduction upon our present rates of profit."
"But will our workmen stand it? Our needlewomen, particularly, work
very low now."
"They'll have to stand it!" replied Grasp; "most of them are glad to
get work at any price. Women, with half a dozen hungry mouths around
them, don't stand long to higgle about a few cents in a garment,
when there are so many willing to step in and take their places.
Besides, what are three or four cents to them on a vest, or pair of
pants, or jacket? The difference in a week is small and will not be
missed--or, at the worst, will only require them to economize with a
little steadier hand; while upon the thousands of garments we
dispose of here, and send away to other markets, it will make a most
important aggregate on the right side of profit and loss."
"There is no doubt of that," replied the partner, the idea of the
aggregate of three or four cents on each garment occupying his mind,
and obscuring completely, for a time, every other idea. "Well, I'm
with you," he said, after a little while, "in any scheme for
increasing profits. Getting along at the rate of only some two or
three thousand a year is rather slow work. Why, there's Tights,
Screw, & Co., see how they're cutting into the trade, and carrying
every thing before them. Tights told me that they cleared twenty
thousand dollars last year."
"No doubt of it. And I'll make our house do the same before three
years roll over, or I'm no prophet."
"If we are going to play this cutting-down game, we had better begin
at once."
"Oh, certainly. The sooner the better. But first, we must arrange a
reduced scale of prices, and then bring our whole tribe of workwomen
and others down to it at once. It will not do to hold any parley
with them. If we do, our ears will be dinned to death with
trumped-up tales of poverty and distress, and all that sort of
thing, with which we have no kind of concern in the world. These are
matters personal to these individuals themselves, and have nothing
to do with our business. No matter what prices we paid, we would
have nothing but grumbling and complaint, if we allowed an open door
on that subject."
"Yes, there is no doubt of that. But, to tell the truth, it is a
mystery to me how some of these women get along. Very few make over
two dollars a week, and some never go beyond a dollar. Many of them
are mothers, and most of them have some one or more dependent upon
them. Food, rent, clothes, and fuel, all have to come out of these
small earnings By what hocus-pocus it is done, I must confess,
puzzles me to determine."
"Oh, as to that," returned Grasp, "it is, no doubt, managed well
enough. Provisions, and every thing that poor people stand in need
of, are very cheap. The actual necessaries of life cost but little,
you know. How far above the condition of the starving Irish, or the
poor operatives in the manufacturing portions of England, is that of
the people who work for us! Think of that for a moment."
"True-very true," replied the partner. "Well," ha continued, "I
think we had better put the screws on to our workwomen and
journeymen at once. I am tired of plodding on at this rate."
"So am I. To-night, then, after we close the store, we will arrange
our new bill of prices, and next week bring all hands down to it."
And they were just as good as their word. And it happened just as
they said--the poor workwomen had to submit.
But we must return from our digression.
The child who, under the practical operation of a system of which
the above dialogue gives some faint idea, had to go out from his
home at the tender age of ten years, because his mother, with all
her hard toil, early and late, at the prices she obtained for her
labor, could not earn enough to provide a sufficiency of food and
clothes for her children--that child passed on, unheeding, and,
indeed, unhearing the jibes of the happier children of his mother's
oppressor; and endeavored, sad and sorrowful as he felt, to nerve
himself with something of a manly feeling. At Charlestown, Mr. Sharp
got into his chaise, and, with the lad he had taken to raise, drove
home.
"Well, here is the youngster, Mrs. Sharp," he said, on alighting
from his vehicle. "He is rather smaller and punier than I like, but
I have no doubt that he will prove willing and obedient."
"What is his name?" asked Mrs. S., who had a sharp chin, sharp nose,
and sharp features throughout; and, with all, rather a sharp voice.
She had no children of her own--those tender pledges being denied
her, perhaps on account of the peculiar sharpness of her temper.
"His name is Henry," replied her husband.
"Henry what?"
"Henry Gaston, I believe. Isn't that it, my boy?"
Henry replied in the affirmative. Mr. Sharp then said--
"You can go in with Mrs. Sharp, Henry. She will tell you what she
wants you to do."
"Yes, come along." And Mrs. Sharp turned away as she spoke, and
retired into the more interior portion of the house, followed by the
boy.
"Mrs. Sharp will tell you what she wants you to do?" Yes, that'
tells the story. From this hour the child is to become the
drudge--the hewer of wood and drawer of water--for an unfeeling
woman, whose cupidity and that of her husband have prompted them to
get a little boy as a matter of saving--one who could do the errands
for the shop and the drudgery for the house. There was no thought
for, and regard toward the child to be exercised. He was to be to
them only an economical little machine, very useful, though somewhat
troublesome at times.
"I don't see that your mother has killed you with clothes," said
Mrs. Sharp to him, after taking his bundle and examining it, and
then surveying him from head to foot. "But I suppose she thinks they
will do well enough; and I suppose they will. There, do you see that
wooden pail there? Well, I want you to take it and go to the pump
across the street, down in the next square, and bring it full of
water."
Henry took the pail, as directed, and went and got the water. This
was the beginning of his service, and was all well enough, as far as
it went. But from that time he had few moments of relaxation, except
what the night gave him, or the quiet Sabbath. All through the first
day he was kept busy either in the house or shop, and, before night,
had received two or three reprimands from Mrs. Sharp, administered
in no very affectionate tones.
When night came, at last--it had seemed a very long day to him--and
he was sent to bed alone, in the dark, he put off his clothes and
laid himself down, unable, as he did so, to restrain the tears and
sobs. Poor child! How sadly and yearningly did his heart go back to
the narrow apartment, every nook and corner of which were dear to
him, because his mother's presence made all sunshine there! And bow
earnestly did he long to be with her again! But he soon sank away to
sleep, from which he did not awaken until the half angry voice of
Mrs. Sharp chided him loudly for "lazying it away" in bed until
after sunrise. Quickly getting up and dressing himself, he went down
and commenced upon a new day of toil. First he had to bring in wood,
then to grind the coffee, afterward to bring water from the pump,
and then to scour the knives for breakfast. When these were done, he
was sent into the shop to see if Mr. Sharp didn't want him, where he
found plenty to occupy his attention. The shop was to be sprinkled
and swept out, the counter to be dusted, and various other little
matters to be attended to, which occupied him until breakfast time.
After he had finished this meal, Mrs. Sharp managed to find him
plenty to do for some hours, and then her husband laid out work for
him, at which he devoted himself all the rest of the day, except
when he was wanted in the kitchen for some purpose or other. And so
it continued, day after day, from morning until night. Not an hour's
relaxation was allowed the child; and if, from weariness or
disheartened feeling, he sometimes lingered over a piece of work, a
severe scolding or some punishment from Mrs. Sharp was sure to
follow.
Thus things went on, every day adding to the cold of a rapidly
advancing northern winter. But Mrs. Sharp still thought, according
to her first conclusions in regard to Henry's clothes, that "they
would do." They were not very warm, it is true--that she could not
help admitting. "But then he is used to wearing thinner clothes than
other children," she reasoned, "or else his mother would have put
warmer ones on him. And, any how, I see no use in letting him come
right down as a dead expense upon our hands. He hasn't earned his
salt yet, much less a winter suit of clothes."
But the poor little fellow was no more used to bearing exposure to
the chilling winds of winter than she had been when a child. He
therefore shrunk shiveringly in the penetrating air whenever forced
to go beyond the door. This did not fail to meet the eye of Mrs.
Sharp--indeed, her eye was rarely off of him when he was within the
circle of its vision--and it always irritated her. And why? It
reproved her for not providing warmer clothes for the child; and
hurt her penurious spirit with the too palpable conviction that
before many weeks had passed they would be compelled to lay out some
money for "the brat," as she had begun frequently to designate him
to her husband, especially when she felt called upon to complain of
him for idleness, carelessness, dulness, stupidity, wastefulness,
uncleanliness, hoggishness, or some other one of the score of faults
she found in a child of ten years old, whom she put down to work as
steadily as a grown person.
A single month made a great change in his external appearance; such
a change as would have made him unfamiliar even to his mother's eye.
While under her care, his clothes, though poor, had always been
whole and clean--his skin well washed, and his hair combed smoothly.
Now, the color of his thin jacket and trowsers could scarcely have
been told for the dust and grease which had become imbedded in their
texture. His skin was begrimed until it was many shades darker, and
his hair stood stiffly about his head, in matted portions, looking
as if a comb had not touched it for weeks. One would hardly have
imagined that so great a change could have passed upon a boy in a
few weeks as had passed over him. When he left his mother's humble
abode, there was something about him that instantly attracted the
eye of almost any one who looked at him attentively, and won for him
favorable impressions. His skin was pure and white, and his mild
blue eyes, with their expression of innocent confidence, looked
every one in the face openly. Now there was something repulsive to
almost every one about the dirty boy, who went moping about with
soiled face and hands, a cowed look, and shrinking gait. Scarcely
any one seemed to feel a particle of sympathy for him, either in or
out of the house where he dwelt.
Time passed on, and New Year's day rapidly approached, the anxiously
longed-for time, to which Henry had never ceased to look forward
since he left his mother's presence. Every passing day seemed to
render his condition more and more uncomfortable. The air grew
colder and colder, and the snow lay all around to the depth of many
inches. A suit of cloth clothes had been "cooked up" for him out of
an old coat and trowsers that had long since been worn threadbare by
Mr. Sharp. Thin though they were, they yet afforded a most
comfortable substitute for those their welcome appearance had caused
him to throw aside. But the pair of shoes he had worn when he left
Boston were still considered good enough, if thought of at all,
notwithstanding they gaped largely at the toes, and had been worn so
thin in the soles that scarcely the thickness of a knife-blade lay
between his feet and the snow-covered ground. In regard to sleeping,
he was not much better off. His bed was of straw, upon the floor, in
a large unplastered garret, and but scantily supplied with covering.
Here he would creep away alone in the dark every night, on being
driven away to bed from crouching beside the warm kitchen fire after
his daily toil was done, and get under the thin covering with all
his clothes on. There he would lie, all drawn up into a heap to keep
warm, and think of his mother, and long for New Year's day to come,
until sleep would lock up his senses in unconsciousness.
At last it was New Year's eve, but the poor child had heard no word
about going home. He could sleep but little through that night for
thinking about the promised return to his mother on the next day,
and for the dread he felt lest Mr. Sharp had forgotten, or would
disregard his promise. The bright morning of another new year at
length arose, clear and piercingly cold, and Henry crept early from
his bed, and went down stairs to make the fires as usual. When Mr.
Sharp at length made his appearance, he looked wishfully and
inquiringly into his face, but no notice whatever was taken of him,
except to give him some order, in the usual short, rough tone in
which he always addressed him.
"Ain't I going home to see my mother to-day, sir?" was on his
tongue, but he feared to utter it.
After breakfast he watched every movement of Mr. Sharp, expecting
each moment to see him go out and get the chaise ready to take him
to Boston. But no such idea was in the mind of the thoughtless,
unfeeling master. Nine, ten, and eleven o'clock came and went, and
the poor child's anxious heart began to fail him. Several times he
was on the point of recalling to the mind of Mr. Sharp, his promise
to his mother that he should be sent home at New Year's, but as
often his timid heart caused him to shrink back. At last dinner-time
came, and yet nothing was said, nor were there any indications that
the boy was to go home. The meal passed, and then Henry was directed
to go on some errand about a mile away.
"But ain't I going home to-day, Mr. Sharp?" said he, with a sudden,
despairing resolution, looking up with tearful eyes, as he spoke.
"What's that?" eagerly asked Mrs. Sharp, coming forward. "What's
that, ha?"
The frightened boy slunk back, and stood with his eyes upon the
floor.
"Go where, did he say, Mr. Sharp?"
"Go to see his mammy, to be sure!" replied the hatter, in a
half-sneering tone of surprise.
"His mammy, indeed! And pray what put that into his head, I should
like to know?"
"Mr. Sharp told mother he would send me home to see her on New
Year's day," the child ventured to says in explanation.
"Clear out! Off with you, Mr. Assurance!" exclaimed Sharp, in an
angry voice, at this, half raising his hand to strike the lad. "How
dare you!"
Henry started back trembling, at once conscious that all hope of
seeing her he had so pined to meet for many long and weary days of
suffering and privation, was at an end. Slowly he left the house,
shrinking in the cold blast, and went on his errand through the hard
frozen snow.
"Did any one ever hear such impudence!" ejaculated Mrs. Sharp, in
breathless surprise. "Sent home on New Year's day to his mammy! A
pretty how-do-you-do, upon my word! the dirty little ill-conditioned
brat!"
"I believe, now I come to think of it," said Sharp, "that I did say
something of the kind to his mother, just to pacify her, though I
had no thought of doing it; and, indeed, I don't suppose she cares
any great deal about seeing him. She didn't look as if she could
keep soul and body together long."
"If she wanted to see him so dreadful bad, why didn't she keep him
at home with her tied all the while to her apron string?" said the
unfeeling woman.
"She would have had to work a little harder to have done that. No
doubt she was glad enough to get rid of the burden of supporting
him."
"Well, all that I can say is, that any mother who is not willing to
work to take care of her children, don't deserve to see them."
"So say I," returned the husband.
"And as to Henry's going home, I wouldn't hear to any such thing.
He'd not be a bit too good to trump up any kind of stories about not
being treated well, so as to prevails upon her not to let him come
back. I know just how boys like him talk when they get a chance to
run home. Even when they do come back, they're never worth a cent
afterward."
"Oh, no! As to his going home, that is out of the question this
winter," replied Sharp. "If his mother cares about seeing him,
she'll find her way out here."
With a sadder heart than ever did poor Henry grope his way up into
the cold garret that night, with but one thought and one image in
his mind, the thought of home and the image of his mother. He
dreamed of her all night. He was at home. Her tender voice was in
his ear, and his head rested on her bosom. She clothed him in warmer
garments, and set him beside her at the table, upon which was
tempting food. But morning came at last, and he was awakened from
visions of delight to a more painful consciousness of his miserable
condition by the sharp, chiding voice of his cruel mistress. Slowly,
with stiffened limbs and a reluctant heart did he arise, and enter
upon the repulsive and hard duties of another day.
As he had not been permitted to go home, his next consolatory
thought was that his mother would come out at once to see him. This
hope he clung to day after day, but he clung to it in vain. It
mattered not that, every-time the shop-door opened when he was in
it, he turned with a quickened pulse to see if it were not his
mother, or that he would pause and listen, when back in the house,
to hear if the strange voice that came suddenly from the shop, were
not the voice of her he so longed to see. She came not; nor was any
word from her brought to him.
And thus passed the whole of the severe month of January, the long
and cold winter adding greatly to his other causes of suffering.