THE LITTLE MILL-GIRL’S ALMA MATER.
The education of a child is an all-around process, and he or she owes
only a part of it to school or college training. The child to whom
neither college nor school is open must find his whole education
in his surroundings, and in the life he is forced to lead. As the
cotton-factory was the means of the early schooling of so large a
number of men and women, who, without the opportunity thus afforded,
could not have been mentally so well developed, I love to call it their
_Alma Mater_. For, without this incentive to labor, this chance to earn
extra money and to use it in their own way, their influence on the
times, and also, to a certain extent, on modern civilization, would
certainly have been lost.
I had been to school quite constantly until I was nearly eleven years
of age, and then, after going into the mill, I went to some of the
evening schools that had been established, and which were always well
filled with those who desired to improve their scant education, or to
supplement what they had learned in the village school or academy. Here
might often be seen a little girl puzzling over her sums in Colburn’s
Arithmetic, and at her side another “girl” of fifty poring over her
lesson in Pierpont’s National Reader.
Some of these schools were devoted to special studies. I went to
a geography school, where the lessons were repeated in unison in
a monotonous sing-song tone, like this: “Lake Winni_peg_! Lake
Winni_peg_! Lake Titi_caca_! Lake Titi_caca_! _Mem_phre_ma_gog!
_Mem_phre_ma_gog!” and also to a school where those who fancied they
had thoughts were taught by Newman’s Rhetoric to express them in
writing. In this school, the relative position of the subject and the
predicate was not always well taught by the master; but never to mix
a metaphor or to confuse a simile was a lesson he firmly fixed in the
minds of his pupils.
As a result of this particular training, I may say here, that, while
I do not often mix metaphors, I am to this day almost as ignorant of
what is called “grammar” as Dean Swift, who, when he went up to answer
for his degree, said he “could not tell a subject from a predicate;” or
even James Whitcomb Riley, who said he “would not know a nominative if
he should meet it on the street.”
The best practical lesson in the proper use of at least one grammatical
sentence was given to me by my elder brother (not two years older than
I) one day, when I said, “I done it.” “You done it!” said he, taking me
by the shoulder and looking me severely in the face; “Don’t you ever
let me hear you say _I done it_ again, unless you can use _have_ or
_had_ before it.” I also went to singing-school, and became a member
of the church choir, and in this way learned many beautiful hymns that
made a lasting impression on the serious part of my nature.
The discipline our work brought us was of great value. We were obliged
to be in the mill at just such a minute, in every hour, in order to
doff our full bobbins and replace them with empty ones. We went to our
meals and returned at the same hour every day. We worked and played at
regular intervals, and thus our hands became deft, our fingers nimble,
our feet swift, and we were taught daily habits of regularity and of
industry; it was, in fact, a sort of manual training or industrial
school.
Some of us were fond of reading, and we read all the books we could
borrow. One of my mother’s boarders, a farmer’s daughter from “the
State of Maine,” had come to Lowell to work, for the express purpose of
getting books, usually novels, to read, that she could not find in her
native place. She read from two to four volumes a week; and we children
used to get them from the circulating library, and return them, for
her. In exchange for this, she allowed us to read her books, while she
was at work in the mill; and what a scurrying there used to be home
from school, to get the first chance at the new book!
It was as good as a fortune to us, and all for six and a quarter cents
a week! In this way I read the novels of Richardson, Madame D’Arblay,
Fielding, Smollett, Cooper, Scott, Captain Marryatt, and many another
old book not included in Mr. Ruskin’s list of “one hundred good books.”
Passing through the alembic of a child’s pure mind, I am not now
conscious that the reading of the doubtful ones did me any lasting
harm. But I should add that I do not advise such indiscriminate reading
among young people, and there is no need of it, since now there are so
many good books, easy of access, which have not the faults of those I
was obliged to read. Then, there was no choice. To-day, the best of
reading, for children and young people, can be found everywhere.
“Lalla Rookh” was the first poem I ever read, and it awoke in me,
not only a love of poetry, but also a desire to try my own hand at
verse-making.
And so the process of education went on, and I, with many another
“little doffer,” had more than one chance to nibble at the root
of knowledge. I had been to school for three months in each year,
until I was about thirteen years old, when my mother, who was now a
little better able to do without my earnings, sent me to the Lowell
High School regularly for two years, adding her constant injunction,
“Improve your mind, try and be somebody.” There I was taught a little
of everything, including French and Latin; and I may say here that my
“little learning,” in French at least, proved “a dangerous thing,”
as I had reason to know some years later, when I tried to speak my
book-French in Paris, for it might as well have been Choctaw, when used
as a means of oral communication with the natives of that fascinating
city.
The Lowell high school, in about 1840, was kept in a wooden building
over a butcher’s shop, but soon afterwards the new high school, still
in use, was provided, and it was co-educational. How well I remember
some of the boys and girls, and I recall them with pleasure if not
with affection. I could name them now, and have noted with pride their
success in life. A few are so high above the rest that one would be
surprised to know that they received the principal part of their school
education in that little high school room over the butcher’s shop.
I left the high school when fifteen years of age, my school education
completed; though after that I took private lessons in German, drawing,
and dancing! About this time my elder brother and I made up our minds
that our mother had worked hard long enough, and we prevailed on her
to give up keeping boarders. This she did, and while she remained in
Lowell we supported the home by our earnings. I was obliged to have
my breakfast before daylight in the winter. My mother prepared it
over night, and while I was cooking and eating it I read such books
as Stevens’s “Travels” in Yucatan and in Mexico, Tasso’s “Jerusalem
Delivered,” and “Lights and Shadows of Scottish Life.” My elder brother
was the clerk in the counting-room of the Tremont Corporation, and
the agent, Mr. Charles L. Tilden,--whom I thank, wherever he may
be,--allowed him to carry home at night, or over Sunday, any book
that might be left on his (the agent’s) desk; by this means I read
many a beloved volume of poetry, late into the night and on Sunday.
Longfellow, in particular, I learned almost by heart, and so retentive
is the young memory that I can repeat, even now, whole poems.
I read and studied also at my work; and as this was done by the job,
or beam, if I chose to have a book in my lap, and glance at it at
intervals, or even write a bit, nothing was lost to the “corporation.”
Lucy Larcom, in her “New England Girlhood,” speaks of the windows in
the mill on whose sides were pasted newspaper clippings, which she
calls “window gems.” It was very common for the spinners and weavers
to do this, as they were not allowed to read books openly in the
mill; but they brought their favorite “pieces” of poetry, hymns, and
extracts, and pasted them up over their looms or frames, so that they
could glance at them, and commit them to memory. We little girls were
fond of reading these clippings, and no doubt they were an incentive to
our thoughts as well as to those of the older girls, who went to “The
Improvement Circle,” and wrote compositions.
A year or two after this I attempted poetry, and my verses began to
appear in the newspapers, in one or two Annuals, and later in _The
Lowell Offering_.
In 1846 I wrote some verses which were published in the _Lowell
Journal_, and these caused me to make the acquaintance of the
sub-editor of that paper, who afterwards became my life companion.
I speak of this here because, in my early married life, I found the
exact help that I needed for continued education,--the leisure to read
good books, sent to my husband for review, in the quiet of my secluded
home. For I had neither the gowns to wear nor the disposition to go
into society, and as my companion was not willing to go without me, in
the long evenings, when the children were in bed and I was busy making
“auld claes look amaist as good as new,” he read aloud to me countless
books on abstruse political and general subjects, which I never should
have thought of reading for myself.
These are the “books that have helped me.” In fact, of all the books
I have read, I remember but very few that have not helped me. Thus I
had the companionship of a mind more mature, wiser, and less prone to
unrealities than my own; and if it seems to the reader that my story is
that of one of the more fortunate ones among the working-girls of my
time, it is because of this needed help, which I received almost at the
beginning of my womanhood. And for this, as well as for those early
days of poverty and toil, I am devoutly and reverently thankful.
The religious experience of a young person oftentimes forms a large
part of the early education or development; and mine is peculiar, since
I am one of the very few persons, in this country at least, who have
been excommunicated from a Protestant church. And I cannot speak of
this event without showing the strong sectarian tendencies of the time.
As late as 1843-1845 Puritan orthodoxy still held sway over nearly the
whole of New England; and the gloomy doctrines of Jonathan Edwards,
now called his “philosophy,” held a mighty grasp on the minds of the
people, all other denominations being frowned upon. The Episcopal
church was considered “little better than the Catholic,” and the
Universalists and the Unitarians were treated with even less tolerance
by the “Evangelicals” than any sect outside these denominations is
treated to-day. The charge against the Unitarians was that they did
not believe _all_ of the Bible, and that they preached “mere morality
rather than religion.”
My mother, who had sat under the preaching of the Rev. Paul Dean, in
Boston, had early drifted away from her hereditary church and its
beliefs; but she had always sent her children to the Congregational
church and Sunday-school, not wishing, perhaps, to run the same risk
for their souls that she was willing to take for her own, thus keeping
us on the “safe side,” as it was called, with regard to our eternal
salvation. Consequently, we were well taught in the belief of a literal
devil, in a lake of brimstone and fire, and in the “wrath of a just
God.”
The terrors of an imaginative child’s mind, into which these monstrous
doctrines were poured, can hardly be described, and their lasting
effect need not be dwelt upon. It was natural that young people who
had minds of their own should be attracted to the new doctrine of a
Father’s love, as well as to the ministers who preached it; and thus
in a short time the mill girls and boys made a large part of the
congregation of those “unbelieving” sects which had come to disturb the
“ancient solitary reign” of primitive New England orthodoxy.
I used often to wish that I could go to the Episcopal Sunday-school,
because their little girls were not afraid of the devil, were allowed
to dance, and had so much nicer books in their Sunday-school library.
“Little Henry and his Bearer,” and “The Lady of the Manor,” in which
was the story of “The Beautiful Estelle,” were lent to me; and the
last-named was a delight and an inspiration. But the little “orthodox”
girls were not allowed to read even religious novels; and one of my
work-mates, whose name would surprise the reader, and who afterwards
outgrew such prejudices, took me to task for buying a paper copy of
Scott’s “Redgauntlet,” saying, “Why, Hattie, do you not know that it is
a _novel_?”
We had frequent discussions among ourselves on the different texts of
the Bible, and debated such questions as, “Is it a sin to read novels?”
“Is it right to read secular books on Sunday?” or, “Is it wicked to
play cards or checkers?” By this it will be seen that we were made
more familiar with the form, than with the spirit or the teaching, of
Christianity.
In the spring of 1840 there was a great revival in Lowell, and some of
the little girls held prayer-meetings, after school, at each other’s
houses, and many of them “experienced religion.” I went sometimes to
these meetings, and one night, when I was walking home by starlight,
for the days were still short, one of the older girls said to me, “Are
you happy?” “Do you love Jesus?” “Do you want to be saved?”--“Why,
yes,” I answered. “Then you have experienced religion,” said the girl;
“you are converted.” I was startled at the idea, but did not know
how to deny it, and I went home in an exalted state of feeling; and,
as I looked into the depths of the heavens above me, there came to my
youthful mind the first glimmer of thought on spiritual themes.
It was an awakening, but not a conversion, for I had been converted
_from_ nothing _to_ nothing. I was at once claimed as a “young
convert,” went to the church prayer-meeting, told my “experience”
as directed, and was put on probation for admission to the church.
Meanwhile, I had been advised not to ask my mother’s consent to this
step, because she was a Universalist, and might object. But I did
not follow this advice; and when I told her of my desire, she simply
answered, “If you think it will make you any happier, do so, but I do
not believe you will be satisfied.” I have always been very thankful to
my mother for giving me this freedom in my young life,--
“Not to be followed hourly, watched and noosed,”--
this chance in such an important matter to learn to think and to act
for myself. In fact, she always carried out this principle, and never
to my recollection coerced her children on any important point, but
taught them to “see for themselves.”
When the day came for me to be admitted into the church, I, with many
other little girls, was sprinkled; and, when I stood up to repeat the
creed, I can truly say that I knew no more what were the doctrines to
which I was expected to subscribe, than I did about the Copernican
System or the Differential Calculus. And I might have said, with the
disciples at Ephesus, I “have not so much as heard whether there be
any Holy Ghost.” For, although I had been regularly to church and to
Sunday-school, I had never seen the Articles of Belief, nor had I been
instructed concerning the doctrines, or the sacredness of the vow I
was about to take upon me. Nor, from the frequent backsliding among
the young converts, do I think my case was a singular one, although,
so far as I know, I was the only one who _backslid_ enough to be
excommunicated.
And later, when I was requested to subscribe to the Articles of Belief,
I found I could not accept them, particularly a certain part, which
related to the day of judgment and what would follow thereafter. I have
reviewed this document, and am able to quote the exact words which were
a stumbling-block to me. “We believe ... that at the day of judgment
the state of all will be unalterably fixed, and that the punishment of
the wicked and the happiness of the righteous will be endless.”
When the service was over, I went home, feeling as if I had done
something wrong. I thought of my mother, whom my church people called
an “unbeliever;” of my dear little brother who had been drowned, and
whose soul might be LOST, and I was most unhappy. In fact, so serious
was I for many days, that no doubt my church friends thought me a most
promising young convert.
Indeed I was converted, but not in the way they supposed; for I had
begun to think on religious subjects, and the more I thought the less I
believed in the doctrines of the church to which I belonged. Doubts of
the goodness of God filled my mind, and unbelief in the Father’s love
and compassion darkened my young life. What a conversion! The beginning
of long years of doubt and of struggle in search of spiritual truths.
After a time I went no more to my church meetings, and began to
attend those of the Universalists; but, though strongly urged, as a
“come-outer,” to join that body, I did not do so, being fearful of
subscribing to a belief whose mysteries I could neither understand nor
explain.
Hearing that I was attending the meetings of another denomination, my
church appointed three persons, at least one of whom was a deacon,
to labor with me. They came to our house one evening, and, while my
mother and I sat at our sewing, they plied me with questions relating
to my duty as a church member, and arguments concerning the articles
of belief; these I did not know how to answer, but my mother, who had
had some experience in “religious” disputes, gave text for text, and I
remember that, although I trembled at her boldness, I thought she had
the best of it.
Meanwhile, I sat silent, with downcast eyes, and when they threatened
me with excommunication if I did not go to the church meetings, and
“fulfil my covenant,” I mustered up courage to say, with shaking
voice, “I do not believe; I cannot go to your church, even if you do
excommunicate me.”
When my Universalist friends heard of this threat of excommunication,
they urged the preparation of a letter to the church, giving my reasons
for non-attendance; and this was published in a Lowell newspaper,
July 30, 1842. In this letter, which my elder brother helped me to
prepare,--in fact, I believe wrote the most of it,--several arguments
against the Articles of Belief are given; and the letter closes with
a request to “my brothers and sisters,” to erase my name from “your
church books rather than to follow your usual course, common in cases
similar to my own, to excommunicate the heretic.”
This request was not heeded, and shortly after a committee of three was
“then appointed to take farther steps;” and this committee reported
that they had “visited and admonished” me without success; and in
November, 1842, the following vote was passed, and is recorded in the
church book:--
“_Nov. 21, 1842._
_Whereas_, it appears that Miss Harriet Hanson has violated her
covenant with this church,--first, by repeated and regular absence
from the ordinances of the gospel, second, by embracing sentiments
deemed by this church heretical; and _whereas_, measures have been
taken to reclaim her, but ineffectual; therefore,
_Voted_, that we withdraw our fellowship from the said Miss Hanson
until she shall give satisfactory evidence of repentance.”
And thus, at seventeen years of age, I was excommunicated from the
church of my ancestors, and for no fault, no sin, no crime, but simply
because I could not subscribe conscientiously to doctrines which I did
not comprehend. I relate this phase of my youthful experience here in
detail, because it serves to show the methods which were then in use
to cast out or dispose of those members who could not subscribe to the
doctrines of the dominant church of New England.
For some time after this, I was quite in disgrace with some of my
work-mates, and was called a “heretic” and a “child of perdition”
by my church friends. But, as I did not agree, even in this, with
their opinions, but went my “ain gait,” it followed that, although I
remained for a time something of a heretic, I was not an unbeliever in
sacred things nor did I prove to be a “child of perdition.” But this
experience made me very unhappy, and gave me a distaste for religious
reading and thinking, and for many years the Bible was a sealed book
to me, until I came to see in the Book, not the letter of dogma,
but rather the spirit of truth and of revelation. This experience
also repressed the humorous side of my nature, which is every one’s
birthright, and made me for a time a sort of youthful cynic; and I
allowed myself to feel a certain contempt for those of my work-mates
who, though they could not give clear reason for their belief, still
remained faithful to their “covenant.”
There were two or three little incidents connected with this episode
in my life that may be of interest. A little later, when I thought of
applying for the position of teaching in a public school, I was advised
by a well-meaning friend not to attempt it, “for,” the friend added,
“you will not succeed, for how can a Universalist _pray_ in her school?”
Several years after my excommunication, when I had come to observe
that religion and “mere morality” do not always go together, I had
a final interview with one of the deacons who had labored with me.
He was an overseer in the room where I worked, and I had noticed his
familiar manner with some of the girls, who did not like it any better
than I did; and one day, when his behavior was unusually offensive, I
determined to speak to him about it.
I called him to my drawing-in frame, where I was sitting at work, and
said to him something like this: “I have hard work to believe that
_you_ are one of those deacons who came to labor with a young girl
about belonging to your church. I don’t think you set the example of
good works you then preached to me.” He gave me a look, but did not
answer; and shortly after, as I might have expected, I received an
“honorable discharge” from his room.
But let me acknowledge one far-reaching benefit that resulted from my
being admitted to the Orthodox church, a benefit which came to me in
the summer of 1895. Because of my baptism, administered so long ago, I
was enabled to officiate as god-mother to my grandchild and namesake,
in Pueblo, Colorado,--one among the first of the little girls born on
a political equality with the little boys of that enlightened State,
born, as one may say, with the ballot in her hand! And to any reader
who has an interest in the final result of my religious experience, I
may add, that, as late as 1898, I became a communicant of the Episcopal
Church.
When the time came for me to become engaged to the man of my choice,
having always believed in the old-fashioned idea that there should
be no secrets between persons about to marry, I told him, among my
other shortcomings, as the most serious of all, the story of my
excommunication. To my great surprise, he laughed heartily, derided the
whole affair, and wondered at the serious view I had always taken of
it; and later he enjoyed saying to some of his gentlemen friends, as
if it were a good joke, “Did you know my wife had been excommunicated
from the church?”
And I too, long since have learned, that no creed--
“Can fix our doom,
Nor stay the eternal Love from His intent,
While Hope remaining bears her verdant bloom.”