Simian Talk.
Professor GARNERS, in the New Review
Tells us that "Apes can talk." That's nothing new;
Reading much "Simian" literary rot,
One only wishes that our "Apes" could not!
THE NEW TALE OF A TUB; OR, THE NOT-AT-HOME SECRETARY AND THE LAUNDRESSES.
"The Women are crying out for the protection of the Factory Acts, which has hitherto been denied them, and which the Home Secretary declines to pledge the Government to support."—Daily Telegraph, Friday, June 12th.
London Laundry-woman, to her Tub-mate, loquitur:—
They tell us the Tub is humanity's friend, and that Cleanliness is of closest kin
To all things good. By the newest gospel 'tis held that Dirt is the friend of Sin.
Well, I'm not so sure that the world's far wrong in that Worship of Washing that's all the rage;
But we, its priestesses, sure might claim a cleanly life and a decent wage!
Listen, BET, from your comfortless seat on the turned-up pail,—if you've got the time;
Isn't it queer that Society's cleansers must pass their lives amidst muck and grime?
Spotless flannels no doubt are nice—and snowy linen is "swell" and sweet,
But steaming reek is around our heads, and trickling foulness about our feet.
If the dainty ladies whose linen we lave, we laundress drudges, could look in here,
Wouldn't their feet shrink back with sickness, and wouldn't their faces go pale with fear?
White, well-ironed, all sheen and sweetness, that linen looks when it leaves our hands;
But they little think of the sodden squalor that marks the den where the laundress stands.
Scrub, scrub, scrub, at the reeking tub, for eighteen hours at a stretch, perchance,
Till our bowed backs ache, and our knuckles smart, and the lights through the steam like spectres dance;
Ankle-deep in the watery sludge, where the tile is loose or the drainage blocked!
Oh, I haven't a doubt that the dainty dames—if they only knew!—would be sorely shocked.
Typhoid! Terribly menacing word, the whisper of which would destroy our trade;
But dirt, and damp, and defective drainage will raise that ghost on a world afraid;
And at thirty years our strength is sapped by insidious siege of the stifling fume,
Or what if we linger a little longer? Scant rays of comfort such life illume.
Grievances, BET? Well, I make no doubt that the world of idlers is sorely sick
Of the moans and groans of the likes of us. When the whip, the needle, the spade, the pick,
Are all on strike for a higher wage, 'tis a worry, of course, to the well-to-do,
And a sleek Home-Sec, must "decline to pledge" support official to me and you.
Of course, of course! Who are we, my dear, to bother the big-wigs and stir their bile?
Why, it's all along of our "discontent," and the Agitator's insidious guile.
But Labour, BET, is agog just now to revise the old one-sided pacts,
And even a Laundress may have an eye to the benefit of the Factory Acts.
Those bad, bad 'Busmen, BET my girl, claim shorter hours, and a longer pay;
Just think of such for the Slaves of the Tub! Why should we women not have our say
In the Park o' Sunday, like DAN the Docker, or TOM the Tailor, or WILL the "Whip"?
The Tub and the Ironing-board appear to have got a chance—which they mustn't let slip:
An Object Lesson in Laundress Labour, may move the callous and shame the quiz.
We dream of "Washing as well it might be"; we'll show them "Washing as now it is."
We know it, BET, in the sodden wet and the choking fume; with the aching back,
The long, long hours, and the typhoid taint, the inverted pail and the hurried snack.
There may—who knows?—be hope for us yet, for you and me, BET! Just think o' that!
Oh, I know it is hard to believe it, my girl. The Sweater's strong, and appeal falls flat
On official ears; and fine-lady fears, and household hurry against us go;
But "evil is wrought by want of thought." says some poet, I think;—so we'll let them know!
Ah! snowy sheets and sweet lavender scent of the dear old days in my village home!
The breadths of linen a-bleach on the grass! How little I thought that to this I'd come
Grand ladies of old to their laundry looked, and the tubs were white, and the presses fair;
Now we cleansers clean in the midst of dirt, in a dank, dark den, with a noisome air.
Sometimes I dream till the clouds of steam take the shadowy form of a spectral thing,
A tyrant terror that threatens our lives, whilst we rub and scrub, whilst we rinse and wring.
Well, cheer up, BET, girl, stiffen your lip, and straighten your back. You have finished your grub,
So to work once more; if our champions score, we may find a new end to this Tale of a Tub!
