won at the municipal elections; it is there the cry ‘The People, not
Politics’ must be raised, and it is the councils of the town which
can work the social reform. If it be urged that when Town Councils do
for social reform all which can be done, the condition will still be
unsatisfactory, I agree. Wealth cannot supply the needs of life, and
many who have all that wealth can give are still without the life which
is possible to men. The town in which houses shall be good, health
general, and recreation possible, may be but a whited sepulchre. No
social reform will be adequate which does not touch social relations,
bind classes by friendship, and pass, through the medium of friendship,
the spirit which inspires righteousness and devotion.
If, therefore, the first practical work of reformers be to rouse Town
Councils, their second is to associate volunteers who will work with
the official bodies. We may here regret the absence of a truly National
Church. If in every parish Church Boards existed representative of
every religious opinion and expressive of every form of philanthropy,
they would be the centres round which such volunteers would gather and
prove themselves to be an agency ready to their hand. While we hope for
such boards there is no need to wait to act.
As a rule, it may be laid down that the voluntary work is most
effective when it is in connection with official work. The connection
gives a backbone, a dignity to work, which has lost something in the
hands of Sunday-school teachers and district visitors. In every town
volunteers in connection with official work are wanted. It is doubtful,
indeed, if the tenements occupied by the least instructed classes
could be kept in order, or the people made to live up to their better
surroundings, if the rent collecting were not put in the hands of
volunteers with the time to make friends and the will to have patience
with the tenants. At any rate, wherever official work is done there
will be something for volunteers to supply.
Guardians want those who will consider the poor; men who will visit the
workhouse to rouse those too idle or too depressed to work, and to find
help for those who by sickness or ill-chance have lost their footing in
the rush for living. They want those who, knowing what wages can do and
cannot do, will serve on relief committees, will see the poor in their
distress, and, giving or not giving, will try to make them understand
that care does not cease. They want also women who will be friends to
the sick and, more than that, befriend the girls who drift wretched to
the workhouse, or go out lonely from the pauper schools. School Boards
want those who, visiting the schools, will seek out the children who
are fit for country holidays, visit the homes, and do something to
follow up the education between the years of thirteen and twenty-one.
Wherever there is an institution, a reading-room, a club, or a
playground there is work for volunteers. It may not be that the
volunteers will seem to do much; they will be certain to do something.
They will be certain to make links between the classes, and lead both
rich and poor to give up habits which keep them apart. They will be
certain to add strength to the public opinion, which by the bye will
relieve those whose higher life is destroyed by excess or by want. They
will be certain to do something, and if they carry into their work a
spirit of devotion, a faith in the high calling of the human race, and
a love for its weakest members, there is no limit which can be placed
on what they will do. They will put into the sound body the sound mind;
into the well-ordered town citizens who ‘feel deep, think clear, and
bear fruit well.’
SAMUEL A. BARNETT.
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V.
_‘AT HOME’ TO THE POOR._[1]
[1] Reprinted, by permission, from the _Cornhill Magazine_ of May 1881.
Few people realise the extreme dulness of the lives of the poor. Cut
off from the many interests which education or the possession of money
gives, they have little left but the ‘trivial round, the common task,’
which indeed furnishes them with ‘room to deny themselves,’ but is
hardly, in their case at least, ‘the road to bring them daily nearer
God.’
‘People must be amuthed,’ is the caricatured statement of a true
human need, and the terrible and often deplored attraction of the
public-house has its root not so much in the love of strong drink as
in the want of interest and desire for amusement felt by the lower
classes of the poor. This is especially true with regard to the women
and to those men who cannot read. Unable to comprehend the ever-living
interest of watching public affairs, prevented by ignorance from
following, even in outline, the actions of the nations, they are thrown
back on the affairs of their neighbours, and centre all their interest
in the sayings and doings of quarrelsome Mr. Jones or much-abused Mrs.
Smith.
It is difficult for those of us to whom the world seems almost too full
of interests to realise the deadening dulness of some of these lives.
Let us imagine, for an instant, all knowledge of history, geography,
art, science, and language blotted out; all interests in politics,
social movements, and discoveries obliterated; no society pleasures
to anticipate; no trials of skill nor tests of proficiency in work or
play to look forward to; no money at command to enable us to plan some
pleasure for a friend or dependent; no books always at hand, the old
friends waiting silently till their acquaintance is renewed, the new
ones standing ready to be learnt and loved; no opportunities of getting
change of scene and idea; no memories laden with pleasures of travel;
no objects of real beauty to look at. What would our lives become? And
yet this is a true picture of the lives of thousands of the poorer
classes, whose time is passed in hard, monotonous work, or occupied
in the petty cares of many children, and in satisfying the sordid
wants of the body. In some cases precarious labour adds the element of
uncertainty to the other troubles, an element which, by the fact of its
bringing some interest, is enjoyed by the men, but which adds tenfold
to the many cares of the housewife.
It is not easy to see how the poor themselves can get out of this
atmosphere of dulness. They can hardly give parties, even if the cost
of entertaining were not a sufficient barrier; the extreme smallness
of the rooms entirely prevents social intercourse, not to mention the
hindrance caused by the necessity for putting the children to bed in
the course of the evening, and by all the many discomforts consequent
on the one room being bedroom, parlour, kitchen, and scullery. But
even supposing there are two rooms, or few children, the difficulties
of entertaining are not yet over. With minds so barren, conversation
can hardly be the source of much amusement, and music and dancing are
almost impossible with no instrument to help and no space where even
the little feet can patter.
But it is possible for the ignorant as well as the cultured to enjoy
Nature. And it is often a subject of wonder why the poor living in such
close streets or alleys, surrounded with such unlovely objects, do not
take more trouble to get out into the country or enjoy the parks. ‘Only
sixpence, you say,’ said a hard-working pale body to me one day when I
was urging her to go on one of her enforced idle afternoons to get air
and see some refreshing beauty at Hampstead. ‘Well, yer see, I could
hardly go without the three children, and that’s 1_s._ 3_d._; besides
they’d be a deal hungrier when they came home than perhaps I could
manage for.’
What could be said to the last argument? Just fancy having to consider,
otherwise than pleasurably, the increased appetite of one of our young
ones fresh from a day by the sea or in the country?
But, apart from the money question, the desire to go into the country
after a time wears off, even among those who have before lived in pure
air and among country sights and scenes; people get used to their dull,
sordid surroundings; the memory of fairer sights grows dim, and the
imagination is not strong enough to conjure them up again.
‘Shure, I ain’t been in the country this fifteen year,’ an old woman
once startled me by saying at a country party; ‘and if it hadn’t been
for your note ’ere it would ha’ been another fifteen year afore I’d ha’
seen it.’
And she was not so poor, this old lady; 7_s._ a week, perhaps, and
2_s._ 6_d._ to pay for rent. It was not her poverty which prevented her
seeing the fifteen fair springs which had passed since she came from
the Green Isle. No! it was just the want of power to make the effort--a
loss to her far more serious than the loss of the sight of the country.
As the late James Hinton used to say, ‘The worst thing is to be in hell
and not know it is hell’; perhaps the best thing one can do for another
is to give him the glimpse of heaven, which, letting in the light,
shows the blackness of hell.
‘Don’t you think green is God’s favourite colour?’ asked an old lady,
the thought being suggested as we stood together in a forest of soft
green. ‘Well, I can’t say,’ was the answer; ‘look at the sky; how blue
that is.’ ‘Yes, but that isn’t always blue, and the earth is ’most
always green.’
Does it not seem a pity that this old poet soul, so fit to teach God’s
lessons, should live all through the summer days in one room, shared
by four other people, seeing only the mud colours of London, which
certainly are not God’s favourite colours. It was this same old lady
who said on receiving her first invitation, ‘All the years I’ve lived
in London I was never asked to go into the country before you asked me.’
But the want of pleasure and change is no newly discovered need of
the poor. School-treats and excursions and bean-feasts have been
organised and carried out almost since Sunday-schools have existed
and congregations had a corporate life. Every summer sees the columns
of the newspapers used to ask for money to give 900, 1,000, 2,000
children ‘one day in the country,’ and when the money is obtained and
the day arrives, the children are packed into vans or a special train
and turned into the woods or fields to enjoy themselves (and tease the
frogs) until tea, buns, and hymns bring the ‘’appy day’ to an end. Good
days these, full of pleasure and health-giving exercise, but perhaps
mixed with too large an element of excitement to teach the children to
enjoy the country for its own sake, to enable them to learn in Dame
Nature’s lap ‘that we can feed this mind of ours in a wise passiveness.’
Neither have the clergy overlooked this need as existing among their
grown people, and most of those working in poor neighbourhoods organise
an annual ‘Treat,’ each person paying, say, 1_s._, to be met by the
6_d._ from the Pastor’s Fund. These treats sometimes assume the
enormous proportions of 2,000 or 3,000 persons. All carry their mid-day
meal to be eaten when and how they like. The assembling for tea and a
few speeches by the rector and those in authority are the only means
taken to bring the people together and to introduce the sense of host
and guest. And with the memory of the 1_s._ paid, this sense is very
difficult either to arouse or maintain. But, good as in many ways these
treats are, they do not do all they might. They do not introduce fresh
experiences, an acquaintance with other lives, the interest of new
knowledge.
We receive but what we give,
And in our life alone does nature live,
as Coleridge puts it; and such sadly empty minds want the
interpretation of the friendly eye to make them see what they went out
‘for to see.’
Struck with these ideas, we determined to try another method of
entertaining our neighbours; and believing that they had the same need
of social intercourse as that felt by the rich, and taking for granted
that the kind of country entertainment most prevalent among the rich
was that most enjoyed, we based our parties on the same foundation,
remembering always that the minds of the poor being emptier, more
active entertainment was needed, and that the party to which we invited
them was perhaps the one day’s outing in the whole year, the one
glimpse that they had (apart from divorce suits) into the lives and
habits of the richer classes.
On talking over our plan with friends who, living in the suburbs of
London, had the necessary garden, it was not long before we received
kindly invitations to take thirty, forty, fifty, of our neighbours to
spend the afternoon in the country. The day and hour fixed, it was left
with us to decide which guests should be invited, and to pass on the
invitation. Sometimes our hosts particularly wish to entertain children
as well as grown people; and if so, we include the children in the
invitation; but on the whole, experience has taught that those parties
are most thoroughly enjoyed from which the children are omitted. This
will not be misunderstood when it is remembered that these mothers
and fathers have their children, perhaps seven, all small together,
constantly with them for 365 days in the year, both day and night;
that the children become noisy and excited in the country, and that
each child’s noise, though it may be music in the ear of its mother,
can hardly be anything but what it is, _disagreeable sounds_, in the
ears of its mother’s neighbour. Another objection to the presence of
the children is the extreme difficulty of entertaining them and the
grown people together. To the social gatherings of other classes it is
not the rule to invite children with their parents, and the taste or
feeling which forbids such a rule is common to the poor.
It is not difficult, knowing many people who would be glad of a day’s
outing, to pass on such invitations; but it is pleasanter, if it can be
so arranged, that the guests should beforehand be acquainted with each
other. For that reason it is better to invite together the members of
a mothers’ meeting and their husbands, the _habitués_ of a club, the
inhabitants of one block of buildings, the denizens of a particular
court, the singing-class, the members of any society who worship, work,
or learn together--in short, those who unite for any purpose.
There are other advantages in this plan besides the obvious one of the
guests being already acquainted. Those who have hitherto seen each
other’s character from the work point of view only now get another
standpoint, and the day’s pleasure, together with the hearty laugh and
the many-voiced songs, does more than many a pastoral address can do to
teach forgiveness and break down barriers raised by quarrels--quarrels
which more often owe their origin to close neighbourhoods than to bad
tempers. ‘Now she ain’t such a bad ’un as one would think, considering
the way she behaved to my Billy--is she now?’ is a true remark
illustrating what I would say.
The guests chosen, the invitations go out in the usual form: ‘Mrs.
So-and-So,’ mentioning our hostess’s name, ‘hopes to have the pleasure
of seeing Mr. and Mrs. So-and-So on Monday, 14th, to spend the
afternoon in the country,’ and then follow the time of the train and
the name of the station where the rendezvous is to be held. Added to
these the friends connected in any way with the expected guests, the
district visitor, the superintendent of the mothers’ meeting, the lady
rent-collector are also invited; as well as those who have gifts of
entertaining or those to whom we wish to introduce our neighbours. A
train is generally chosen between one and two o’clock, so as to enable
the man to get a half-day’s work and the woman to see to necessary
household duties and give the children their dinner before she starts.
On reaching the country station the party rambles through the lanes,
picking grasses and flowers, taking, if possible, a détour before
arriving at the host’s house. ‘Why, the _trees_ smell,’ exclaimed one
town-bred woman in almost awe-struck astonishment, standing under a
lilac-tree. ‘Don’t it make one feel gentle-like!’ was another remark
made more to himself than to anyone else, which came from a rough
one-legged board-man, as he stood overlooking a quiet, far-stretching
scene near Wimbledon.
Unless one has lived in close streets and amid noise and grinding
hurry, it is difficult to understand the pleasures of these walks. The
sweetness of the air, the quiet which can be felt, the very fact of
strolling in the road without looking out to avoid being run over, are
a relief, and the absence of the ever-present anxiety of the care of
the children is a great addition to the irresponsible enjoyment of the
day.
The destination reached, it is a great help if the host and hostess
will come out to meet and welcome the party, as is customary towards
guests of other classes. By this simple courtesy the tone is at once
given, and the people feel themselves not brought out to a ‘treat’
but invited and welcomed as guests. I have seen men, among whom we
were told when we first went to Whitechapel it was not ‘safe’ to go
alone, entirely changed by the bearing of their hosts to them, and the
determination with which they set out, to have a ‘lark,’ at whatever
inconvenience to others, gradually melt away under the influence of
being treated as gentlemen. ‘Why, she said she was glad to see me,’
said a low, coarse fellow, taking as a personal compliment to himself
the conventional form of expression.
The duty of introducing and welcoming over, we are glad if we find
tables on a shady lawn or under a tent ready spread and waiting for us.
In the excitement of getting off, the midday meal taken hurriedly has
probably been a slight one, and the walk and unwonted fresh air have
given good appetites. Sometimes our hostess has made arrangements that
all the party should take their food together, and this is the better
plan if it can be managed. ‘Why, the gentry is sitting down with us.
Now I do call _that_ comfortable like,’ was overheard on one occasion
when this arrangement had been followed. If the one class waits on
the other it but emphasises the painful class distinctions so sadly
prominent in the ordinary affairs of life, and the feeling aroused in
the minds of the people as they see the richer members of the party
taken by the hostess to the house to have ‘something to eat’ is not
always amiable, the ‘something’ being interpreted as better, anyhow
other than that provided for them, or why should it not have been taken
together?
The repast given by our many kindly hosts during these eight summers
of parties has been various. Some add eggs and bacon to the tea and
cakes; others give a large joint, which is even more enjoyed, a cut
off a good 14 lb. sirloin of beef being a rare luxury in the ordinary
dietary of the working classes, while others again offer tea, differing
only in quantity from the ordinary afternoon meal which is commonly
taken between lunch and dinner. Some of our hosts give every variety of
cake, such as Scotch housewives delight in making, though I remember
one lady who, while most kind and anxious to give pleasure, told me,
as if it were an additional advantage, that she had ‘had all the cakes
made very plain, and that they were all baked the day before yesterday.’
The meal over, the real pleasure of the day begins, and this must
entirely depend on the capabilities of the hostess for entertaining
and on the possibilities of the garden. If it is large, there is
nothing townpeople like better than to saunter about, to wander in
the shrubberies, to see the hothouses, conservatories, ferneries,
especially if some one will be the guide and point out what is
interesting, this spot where the best view is to be obtained, that
curious flower, and tell the story hanging on this queerly shaped
tree. ‘Aye, aye, ma’am, it’s all very beautiful, but to my mind you’re
the beautifullest flower of the lot,’ was the spontaneous compliment
elicited from a weather-beaten costermonger to the stately old lady
who had taken pains to show him her garden, and though the remark was
greeted with shouts of laughter from the surrounding group, the ‘Well,
he ain’t far wrong, I’m sure,’ showed that the words had only spoken
out the thoughts of many.
Sometimes the men go off to play cricket or bowls, to see the puppies
or horses, or some other beasts particularly interesting to the
masculine mind; or perhaps the interminable game of rounders occupies
all the time. Sometimes swings, see-saws, or a row on the pond are
great amusements. ‘Oh dear, I think I’ve only just learnt to enjoy
myself,’ gasped one buxom woman of fifty, breathless with swinging
her neighbour, whose face told that her life’s holidays could without
difficulty be counted; while, to a few, the fact of sitting still and
looking out and feeling the quiet is pleasure enough. ‘I seem to see
further than ever I saw before,’ murmured a pale young mother, sitting
on the Upper Terrace at Hampstead, and as she said it she looked as if
the sight of the country just then, when her eyes were reopened by her
new motherhood, might, in another sense, make her see farther than she
had ever seen before.
If the garden is small and its resources soon ended, games must be
resorted to, and such games as ‘tersa,’ where running and motion
are enjoyed; the ‘ring and the string,’ when eyes and ears must be
on the alert; or ‘blow the candle blindfold’; all cause hearty fun,
especially when the unconscious blindfold, having walked crookedly,
energetically blows, as he thinks, at the candle, which is still
burning steadily a yard or two from him. On some of these occasions
the hostess has had her carriage out, and by taking four or five of
the guests at a time all have been able to have a short drive, and
see from a higher elevation something more of the country, ‘Well, I
don’t know that I was ever in a carriage before,’ said one woman, who
could hardly be said to have been _in_ one then, as she dismounted
from the box. ‘Except at funerals,’ corrected her neighbour. Might not
some of the extraordinary liking, which is so common among the poor,
for attending funerals be partly for the sake of the rare event of a
drive? Occasionally it is possible to get up a dance, with the help of
a fiddle or piano, and many a pale, worn face has lost, for the time
at least, its stamp of weariness as it grew interested in the ups and
downs of ‘Sir Roger de Coverley.’ ‘Bless me, if I ever thought to do
any dancing, except the dancing of babbies,’ was an unexpected comment
from my partner on one occasion; and many times have I since been
referred to to confirm the fact that ‘You did see me dancing, didn’t
you, ma’am?’