I HAVE been asked to speak a few words to you on a lady’s work in a
country parish. I shall confine myself rather to principles than to
details; and the first principle which I would impress on you is, that we
must all be just before we are generous. I must, indeed, speak plainly
on this point. A woman’s first duties are to her own family, her own
servants. Be not deceived: if anyone cannot rule her own household, she
cannot rule the Church of God. If anyone cannot sympathise with the
servants with whom she is in contact all day long, she will not really
sympathise with the poor whom she sees once a week. I know the
temptation not to believe this is very great. It seems so much easier to
women to do something for the poor, than for their own ladies’ maids, and
house-maids, and cooks. And why? Because they can treat the poor as
_things_: but they _must_ treat their servants as persons. A lady can go
into a poor cottage, lay down the law to the inhabitants, reprove them
for sins to which she has never been tempted; tell them how to set things
right, which, if she had the doing of them, I fear she would do even more
confusedly and slovenly than they. She can give them a tract, as she
might a pill; and then a shilling, as something sweet after the medicine;
and she can go out again and see no more of them till her benevolent mood
recurs: but with the servants it is not so. She knows their characters;
and, what is more, they know hers; they know her private history, her
little weaknesses. Perhaps she is a little in their power, and she is
shy with them. She is afraid of beginning a good work with them,
because, if she does, she will be forced to carry it out; and it cannot
be cold, dry, perfunctory, official: it must be hearty, living, loving,
personal. She must make them her friends; and perhaps she is afraid of
doing that, for fear they should take liberties, as it is called—which
they very probably will do, unless she keeps up a very high standard of
self-restraint and earnestness in her own life—and that involves a great
deal of trouble, and so she is tempted, when she wishes to do good, to
fall back on the poor people in the cottages outside, who, as she
fancies, know nothing about her, and will never find out whether or not
she acts up to the rules which she lays down for them. Be not deceived,
I say, in this case also. Fancy not that they know nothing about you.
There is nothing secret which shall not be made manifest; and what you do
in the closet is surely proclaimed (and often with exaggeration enough
and to spare) on the house-top. These poor folks at your gate know well
enough, through servants and tradesmen, what you are, how you treat your
servants, how you pay your bills, what sort of temper you have; and they
form a shrewd, hard estimate of your character, in the light of which
they view all that you do and say to them; and believe me, that if you
wish to do any real good to them, you must begin by doing good to those
who lie still nearer to you than them. And believe me, too, that if you
shrink from a hearty patriarchal sympathy with your own servants, because
it would require too much personal human intercourse with them, you are
like a man who, finding that he had not powder enough to fire off a
pocket-pistol, should try to better matters by using the same quantity of
ammunition in an eighty-four pound gun. For it is this human friendship,
trust, affection, which is the very thing you have to employ towards the
poor, and to call up in them. Clubs, societies, alms, lending libraries
are but dead machinery, needful, perhaps, but, like the iron tube without
the powder, unable to send the bullet forth one single inch; dead and
useless lumber, without humanity; without the smile of the lip, the light
of the eye, the tenderness of the voice, which makes the poor woman feel
that a soul is speaking to her soul, a heart yearning after her heart;
that she is not merely a _thing_ to be improved, but a sister to be made
conscious of the divine bond of her sisterhood, and taught what she means
when she repeats in her Creed, “I believe in the communion of saints.”
This is my text, and my key-note—whatever else I may say to-day is but a
carrying out into details of the one question, How may you go to these
poor creatures as woman to woman?
Your next duties are to your husband’s or father’s servants and workmen.
It is said that a clergyman’s wife ought to consider the parish as _her_
flock as well as her husband’s. It may be so: I believe the dogma to be
much overstated just now. But of a landlord’s, or employer’s wife (I am
inclined to say, too, of an officer’s wife), such a doctrine is
absolutely true, and cannot be overstated. A large proportion,
therefore, of your parish work will be to influence the men of your
family to do their duty by their dependants. You wish to cure the evils
under which they labour. The greater proportion of these are in the
hands of your men relatives. It is a mockery, for instance, in you to
visit the fever-stricken cottage, while your husband leaves it in a state
which breeds that fever. Your business is to go to him and say, “_Here
is a wrong_; _right it_!” This, as many a beautiful Middle Age legend
tells us, has been woman’s function in all uncivilised times; not merely
to melt man’s heart to pity, but to awaken it to duty. But the man must
see that the woman is in earnest: that if he will not repair the wrong by
justice, she will, if possible (as in those old legends), by
self-sacrifice. Be sure this method will conquer. Do but say: “If you
will not new-roof that cottage, if you will not make that drain, I will.
I will not buy a new dress till it is done; I will sell the horse you
gave me, pawn the bracelet you gave me, but the thing shall be done.”
Let him see, I say, that you are in earnest, and he will feel that your
message is a divine one, which he must obey for very shame and weariness,
if for nothing else. This is in my eyes the second part of a woman’s
parish work. I entreat you to bear it in mind when you hear, as I trust
you will, lectures in this place upon that _Sanitary Reform_, without
which all efforts for the bettering of the masses are in my eyes not only
useless, but hypocritical.
I will suppose, then, that you are fulfilling home duties in
self-restraint, and love, and in the fear of God. I will suppose that
you are using all your woman’s influence on the mind of your family, in
behalf of tenants and workmen; and I tell you frankly, that unless this
be first done, you are paying a tithe of mint and anise, and neglecting
common righteousness and mercy. But you wish to do more: you wish for
personal contact with the poor round you, for the pure enjoyment of doing
good to them with your own hands. How are you to set about it? First,
there are clubs—clothing-clubs, shoe-clubs, maternal-clubs; all very good
in their way. But do not fancy that they are the greater part of your
parish work. Rather watch and fear lest they become substitutes for your
real parish work; lest the bustle and amusement of playing at shopkeeper,
or penny-collector, once a week, should blind you to your real power—your
real treasure, by spending which you become all the richer. What you
have to do is to ennoble and purify the _womanhood_ of these poor women;
to make them better daughters, sisters, wives, mothers: and all the clubs
in the world will not do that; they are but palliatives of a great evil,
which they do not touch; cloaks for almsgiving, clumsy means of eking out
insufficient wages; at best, kindly contrivances for tricking into
temporary thriftiness a degraded and reckless peasantry. Miserable,
miserable state of things! out of which the longer I live I see less hope
of escape, saving by an emigration, which shall drain us of all the
healthy, strong, and brave among the lower classes, and leave us, as a
just punishment for our sins, only the cripple, the drunkard, and the
beggar.
Yet these clubs _must_ be carried on. They make life a little more
possible; they lighten hearts, if but for a moment; they inculcate habits
of order and self-restraint, which may be useful when the poor man finds
himself in Canada or Australia. And it is a cruel utilitarianism to
refuse to palliate the symptoms because you cannot cure the disease
itself. You will give opiates to the suffering, who must die
nevertheless. Let him slip into his grave at least as painlessly as you
can. And so you must use these charitable societies, remembering all
along what a fearful and humbling sign the necessity for them is of the
diseased state of this England, as the sportula and universal almsgiving
was of the decadence of Rome.
However, the work has to be done; and such as it is, it is especially
fitted for young unmarried ladies. It requires no deep knowledge of
human nature. It makes them aware of the amount of suffering and
struggling which lies around them, without bringing them in that most
undesirable contact with the coarser forms of evil which house-visitation
must do; and the mere business habits of accuracy and patience to which
it compels them, are a valuable practical schooling for them themselves
in after-life. It is tiresome and unsentimental drudgery, no doubt; but
perhaps all the better training on that account. And, after all, the
magic of sweetness, grace, and courtesy may shed a hallowing and
humanising light over the meanest work, and the smile of God may spread
from lip to lip, and the light of God from eye to eye, even between the
giver and receiver of a penny, till the poor woman goes home, saying in
her heart, “I have not only found the life of my hand—I have found a
sister for time and for eternity.”
But there is another field of parish usefulness which I cannot recommend
too earnestly, and that is, the school. There you may work as hard as
you will, and how you will—provided you do it in a loving, hearty,
cheerful, _human_ way, playful and yet earnest; two qualities which, when
they exist in their highest power, are sure to go together. I say, how
you will. I am no pedant about schools; I care less what is taught than
how it is taught. The merest rudiments of Christianity, the merest
rudiments of popular instruction, are enough, provided they be given by
lips which speak as if they believed what they said, and with a look
which shows real love for the pupil. Manner is everything—matter a
secondary consideration; for in matter, brain only speaks to brain; in
manner, soul speaks to soul. If you want Christ’s lost-lambs really to
believe that He died for them, you will do it better by one little act of
interest and affection, than by making them learn by heart whole
commentaries—even as Miss Nightingale has preached Christ crucified to
those poor soldiers by acts of plain outward drudgery, more livingly, and
really, and convincingly than she could have done by ten thousand
sermons, and made many a noble lad, I doubt not, say in his heart, for
the first time in his wild life, “I can believe now that Christ died for
me, for here is one whom He has taught to die for me in like wise.” And
this blessed effect of school-work, remember, is not confined to the
children. It goes home with them to the parents. The child becomes an
object of interest and respect in their eyes, when they see it an object
of interest and respect in yours. If they see that you look on it as an
awful and glorious being, the child of God, the co-heir of Christ, they
learn gradually to look on it in the same light. They become afraid and
ashamed (and it is a noble fear and shame) to do and say before it what
they used to do and say; afraid to ill-use it. It becomes to them a
mysterious visitor (sad that it should be so, but true as sad) from a
higher and purer sphere, who must be treated with something of courtesy
and respect, who must even be asked to teach them something of its new
knowledge; and the school, and the ladies’ interest in the school, become
to the degraded parents a living sign that those children’s angels do
indeed behold the face of their Father which is in heaven.
Now, there is one thing in school-work which I wish to press on you; and
that is, that you should not confine your work to the girls; but bestow
it as freely on those who need it more, and who (paradoxical as it may
seem) will respond to it more deeply and freely—_the boys_. I am not
going to enter into the reasons _why_. I only entreat you to believe me,
that by helping to educate the boys, or even (when old enough), by taking
a class (as I have seen done with admirable effect) of grown-up lads, you
may influence for ever not only the happiness of your pupils, but of the
girls whom they will hereafter marry. It will be a boon to your own sex
as well as to ours to teach them courtesy, self-restraint, reverence for
physical weakness, admiration of tenderness and gentleness; and it is one
which only a lady can bestow. Only by being accustomed in youth to
converse with ladies, will the boy learn to treat hereafter his
sweetheart or his wife like a gentleman. There is a latent chivalry,
doubt it not, in the heart of every untutored clod; if it dies out in him
(as it too often does), it were better for him, I often think, if he had
never been born: but the only talisman which will keep it alive, much
more develop it into its fulness, is friendly and revering intercourse
with women of higher rank than himself, between whom and him there is a
great and yet a blessed gulf fixed.
I have left to the last the most important subject of all; and that is,
what is called “visiting the poor.” It is an endless subject; if you go
into details, you might write volumes on it. All I can do this afternoon
is to keep to my own key-note, and say, Visit whom, when, and where you
will; but let your visits be those of woman to woman. Consider to whom
you go—to poor souls whose life, compared with yours, is one long malaise
of body, and soul, and spirit—and do as you would be done by; instead of
reproving and fault-finding, encourage. In God’s name, encourage. They
scramble through life’s rocks, bogs, and thornbrakes, clumsily enough,
and have many a fall, poor things! But why, in the name of a God of love
and justice, is the lady, rolling along the smooth turnpike-road in her
comfortable carriage, to be calling out all day long to the poor soul who
drags on beside her over hedge and ditch, moss and moor, bare-footed and
weary-hearted, with half-a-dozen children at her back: “You ought not to
have fallen here; and it was very cowardly to lie down there; and it was
your duty, as a mother, to have helped that child through the puddle;
while, as for sleeping under that bush, it is most imprudent and
inadmissible?” Why not encourage her, praise her, cheer her on her weary
way by loving words, and keep your reproofs for yourself—even your
advice; for _she_ does get on her way, after all, where _you_ could not
travel a step forward; and she knows what she is about perhaps better
than you do, and what she has to endure, and what God thinks of her
life-journey. The heart knoweth its own bitterness, and a stranger
intermeddleth not with its joy. But do not be a stranger to her. Be a
sister to her. I do not ask you to take her up in your carriage. You
cannot; perhaps it is good for her that you cannot. It is good sometimes
for Lazarus that he is not fit to sit at Dives’s feast—good for him that
he should receive his evil things in this life, and be comforted in the
life to come. All I ask is, do to the poor soul as you would have her do
to you in her place. Do not interrupt and vex her (for she is busy
enough already) with remedies which she does not understand, for troubles
which you do not understand. But speak comfortably to her, and say: “I
cannot feel _with_ you, but I do feel _for_ you: I should enjoy helping
you, but I do not know how—tell me. Tell me where the yoke galls; tell
me why that forehead is grown old before its time: I may be able to ease
the burden, to put fresh light into the eyes; and if not, still tell me,
simply because I am a woman, and know the relief of pouring out my own
soul into loving ears, even though in the depths of despair.” Yes,
paradoxical as it may seem, I am convinced that the only way to help
these poor women humanly and really, is to begin by confessing to them
that you do not know how to help them; to humble yourself to them, and to
ask their counsel for the good of themselves and of their neighbours,
instead of coming proudly to them, with nostrums ready compounded, as if
a doctor should be so confident in his own knowledge of books and
medicine as to give physic before asking the patient’s symptoms.
Therefore, I entreat you to bear in mind (for without this all visiting
of the poor will be utterly void and useless), that you must regulate
your conduct to them, and in their houses, even to the most minute
particulars, by the very same rules which apply to persons of your own
class. Never let any woman say of you (thought fatal to all confidence,
all influence!): “Yes, it is all very kind: but she does not behave to me
as she would to one of her own quality.” Piety, earnestness,
affectionateness, eloquence—all may be nullified and stultified by simply
keeping a poor woman standing in her own cottage while you sit, or
entering her house, even at her own request, while she is at meals. She
may decline to sit; she may beg you to come in, all the more reason for
refusing utterly to obey her, because it shows that that very inward gulf
between you and her still exists in her mind, which it is the object of
your visit to bridge over. If you know her to be in trouble, touch on
that trouble as you would with a lady. Woman’s heart is alike in all
ranks, and the deepest sorrow is the one of which she speaks the last and
least. We should not like anyone—no, not an angel from heaven, to come
into our houses without knocking at the door, and say: “I hear you are
very ill off—I will lend you a hundred pounds. I think you are very
careless of money, I will take your accounts into my own hands;” and
still less again: “Your son is a very bad, profligate, disgraceful
fellow, who is not fit to be mentioned; I intend to take him out of your
hands and reform him myself.” Neither do the poor like such
unceremonious mercy, such untender tenderness, benevolence at horse-play,
mistaking kicks for caresses. They do not like it, they will not respond
to it, save in parishes which have been demoralised by officious and
indiscriminate benevolence, and where the last remaining virtues of the
poor, savage self-help and independence, have been exchanged (as I have
too often seen them exchanged) for organised begging and hypocrisy.
I would that you would all read, ladies, and consider well the traits of
an opposite character which have just come to light (to me, I am ashamed
to say, for the first time) in the Biography of Sidney Smith. The love
and admiration which that truly brave and loving man won from everyone,
rich or poor, with whom he came in contact, seems to me to have arisen
from the one fact, that without perhaps having any such conscious
intention, he treated rich and poor, his own servants and the noblemen
his guests, alike, and _alike_ courteously, considerately, cheerfully,
affectionately—so leaving a blessing and reaping a blessing wheresoever
he went.
Approach, then, these poor women as sisters, and you will be able
gradually to reverse the hard saying of which I made use just now: “Do
not apply remedies which they do not understand, to diseases which you do
not understand.” Learn lovingly and patiently (aye, and reverently, for
there is that in every human being which deserves reverence, and must be
reverenced if we wish to understand it)—learn, I say, to understand their
troubles, and by that time they will have learnt to understand your
remedies, and they will appreciate them. For you _have_ remedies. I do
not undervalue your position. No man on earth is less inclined to
undervalue the real power of wealth, rank, accomplishments, manners—even
physical beauty. All are talents from God, and I give God thanks when I
see them possessed by any human being; for I know that they, too, can be
used in His service, and brought to bear on the true emancipation of
woman—her emancipation, not from man (as some foolish persons fancy), but
from the devil, “the slanderer and divider” who divides her from man, and
makes her live a life-long tragedy, which goes on in more cottages than
in palaces—a vie à part, a vie incomprise—a life made up half of
ill-usage, half of unnecessary, self-willed, self-conceited martyrdom,
instead of being (as God intended) half of the human universe, a helpmeet
for man, and the one bright spot which makes this world endurable.
Towards making her that, and so realising the primeval mission by every
cottage hearth, each of you can do something; for each of you have some
talent, power, knowledge, attraction between soul and soul, which the
cottager’s wife has not, and by which you may draw her to you with (as
the prophet says) human bonds and the cords of love: but she must be
drawn by them alone, or your work is nothing, and though you give the
treasures of Ind, they are valueless equally to her and to Christ; for
they are not given in His name, which is that boundless tenderness,
consideration, patience, self-sacrifice, by which even the cup of cold
water is a precious offering—as God grant your labour may be!