AN APPEAL FOR AN OLD FRIEND.
By ANNE BEALE.
ive years ago the first appeal for the Princess Louise Home was inserted in The Girl’s Own Paper. It appeared in the weekly number dated February 25, 1882. The response to it was hearty and immediate, and from all parts of the habitable globe arrived contributions in money and goods towards a bazaar for the benefit of this “National Society for the Protection of Young Girls.” The bazaar was held in May, but the account of it was given in the number for July 22, 1882.
Every subscriber likes to know what becomes of his or her donations; therefore we purpose to look into results by paying another visit to our old friends at Woodhouse, Wanstead, before terrifying our readers by announcing another fancy fair.
“Old friends” is almost a misnomer, for new faces greet us everywhere as we enter the precincts of the grounds and ancient abode. Mrs. Talbot, the esteemed matron, has resigned, and Mrs. Macdonald reigns in her stead. Miss Tidd, the originator and untiring secretary of the bazaar, is happily married. So is the schoolmistress, who, it will be remembered, was also a pupil trained at the Home. The monatresses of to-day are the scholars of five years ago, and our own particular girls have diminished in number. Thanks to the bazaar and collateral causes, we have been privileged to gain admission for nearly a dozen, of whom the greater number are in service and doing well, and when we make urgent demands for our girls, four only respond to them; but they have not forgotten us. We find two in the kitchen and two in the laundry, and hear that a couple of these are going to service after Christmas. They all look rosy and happy, in spite of the fumes that surround them; for the young cooks are bending over two gigantic saucepans, whence issues a very savoury odour, and the juvenile laundresses are enveloped in the less appetising exhalations from damp linen; for this is folding, drying, and mangling day, and one of our particular girls is turning the mangle. This large and commodious laundry has been erected, opened, and utilised since our last visit to Woodhouse. There are different compartments for sorting, washing, drying, ironing, mangling, packing, and delivering, which all communicate with one another. We live and learn; for we had scarcely realised before all the processes of laundry work. And this is all done by manual toil; for there is no steam. Seven of the elder girls are at present in training under a special experienced matron and laundry-maid, and as customers increase, more will be drafted off to this particular work, and open the other parts of the establishment to an increased number of inmates. As laundries almost invariably pay, it is confidently hoped that the income of the Home will be greatly increased by this agency, and both friends and strangers are “cordially invited,” as the phrase now is, to try it. The tariff of charges is the ordinary one laid down in London and the neighbourhood, and arrangements have been made with those ubiquitous carriers, Carter and Paterson, to fetch and return boxes and hampers of linen from and to any part of this vast metropolis free of charge; and customers may count on being supplied with the said boxes and hampers gratis and securely padlocked. What could they want more? “Good washing and ironing,” is the reply; and we trust these will follow the demand. Over a thousand articles have to be washed weekly for the inmates of the Home alone; so under all circumstances the hand is kept in.
Our laundresses boast of a separate establishment, which they have called Primrose Cottage, probably after the Primrose League, of which they have heard. This is a long room with a long green-baize-covered table, communicating with the laundry. A short time ago it was a sort of outhouse; now it is a sitting and dining-room, adorned with texts. If funds only came in, many other tumble-down and ill-paved portions of this country seat might be vastly amended. But neither Rome nor Woodhouse was built or repaired in a day. Soon, however, we hope to see a splendid drying-ground replace the present one, for the asphalted roof of the laundries offers every facility for it. If we may be permitted to make a personal remark, we would venture to say that a rosier, healthier set of laundry-girls could nowhere be seen, and the roses extend from face to arms. As we descend from Primrose Cottage to the laundry, we are arrested by a remark made by the secretary, as he points upwards to an iron girder—
“This was a great encouragement to me. This iron came from Providence, and bears that name. I took it as a good sign, and worked on in faith,” he says.
Assuredly there is the word “Providence” stamped on the iron, and we will not pause to inquire whence its origin, but hasten onwards to see what the Divine Providence is doing for His rescued children, and what He requires us to do.
Most of them are in the playground, and their ringing voices and laughter sound mirthful, and convey no impression of the depraved homes from which they have been taken. About a dozen of them, however, are gathered round a fire in what is called their playroom, which might be better paved and appointed, if only those—we dare not mention funds again in this place, seeing we are about to make an appeal vigorous enough to melt hearts harder than these very rough stones on which the children play. A bundle of picture text cards attracts the whole school into the playroom, and we are soon surrounded by about fifty girls of ages varying from eleven to fifteen and over, all thankful for very small mercies. We are thus enabled to declare them very well-mannered; for instead of pressing forward to seize on the coveted card, they stand back, each urging a companion to the front. Slight touches indicate character and training, and this reticence speaks for itself. In spite of many difficulties inseparable from the education of girls mostly born and bred in a doubtful atmosphere, it is possible to cultivate a certain delicacy and refinement amongst them.
“I am sorry to be obliged to leave you; but I am going to take this girl to her place,” interrupts the matron, as a respectable-looking, neatly-dressed maiden appears amongst her schoolfellows to bid them good-bye.
She has passed her term of years in the Home, and is about to make her start in life. A good outfit and a respectable place have been provided for her somewhere in Kent, and the kind matron will not lose sight of her until she places her in the care of her new mistress. Indeed, the girls are never lost sight of, as their touching letters and frequent returns home prove, as well as the communications made to the matron on each change of place.
“If you keep your situation and have a good character for one clear year, the committee will give you a guinea as a reward, together with a new dress,” says the secretary, encouragingly.
How little we realise the feelings of the young servant as she leaves the best home she has known for a stranger one, and hurries off to the train about to whirl her away into a new world! When we inquire her previous history, we are told that she was “surrounded by immoral influences, and rescued just in time.”
Let us hope that her mistress will be able to write of her as many mistresses have written this year of girls sent to service before her—in terms of high commendation. Here are one or two extracts:—“Mary has been in my service for three years, and I have much pleasure in testifying to her continued good behaviour. She works hard, is very trustworthy, and I should be very sorry to part with her.” “Ellen is a very good girl, and during the two years she has been with me has given me great satisfaction. I hope she may remain with me many years,” etc.
When we consider what may have been the fate of these young people had not friends of the Home intervened, we are thankful for what our readers have done to help them. We are attracted by one who sits rather apart, and is bigger than the others. She was rescued from a life of such awful terrorism that even now, when reproved, she hides under the beds, creeping from one to another like a wild animal. She has, it is said, lost half her wits from fear; but it is hoped that kindness may recall them from their “wool-gathering.” She seems less perplexed than she was.
We should like to linger, and learn the story of all the girls; but we are summoned from the outworks to the keep, where lessons and housework alternate, just as they did when last we were here. As to the dormitories, they are literally ablaze with colour, for a generous, anonymous donor has sent seventy scarlet woollen coverlets, and each bed boasts of one. But there are at present only sixty-one inmates, and, accordingly, nine of the said coverlets are set aside. We are anxious to fill the home, which will hold one hundred. Therefore that last resource, a bazaar, is still in contemplation. Adverse circumstances prevented its taking place in 1886, the jubilee year of the Institution; so we hope that 1887, the jubilee year of our well-beloved Queen, may see it consummated. Will the readers of The Girl’s Own Paper continue their kind efforts, and send us work or money, as seems to them best? Some eight hundred pounds resulted from the last bazaar, which was mainly attributable to the start they gave it; and already numerous contributions have been received, the work of their willing fingers. Five years ago the office of the Princess Louise Home was crowded with packages containing their gifts. May it be so again, and may the writer once more be privileged to record them, and may another round dozen or more of girls be safely housed, taught, and placed in service, as the result of their labours.
Several distinguished and influential ladies have already promised their aid in various ways, and we are stirring ourselves up to hope for “a great success.” H. R. H. the Princess Louise will open the bazaar, life and health being granted to her. We will pray that they may be extended and lengthened, and that she may see the Home that bears her name full to overflowing.
We are thankful that our readers have such good memories, and that they have not forgotten this, their first love, while contracting an attachment for another, equally worthy. Happily the philanthropic heart is large, and its hand ever open.
We have been so long the historian of the Home that we find nothing new to say about it, therefore we will wind up by a visit to the secretary’s private abode, in order to see one of the girls, now in his service, who was a Woodhouse bird when last we looked into the nest. A drive across Wanstead Flats, through a portion of the Forest, and past the picturesque village, brings us to his hospitable domicile. Hence he walks almost daily to oversee the Home, so that he, at least, is not idle, since he must also supervise monetary matters in London diurnally. We congratulate him on having such a quiet halting-ground midway.
It would be out of place to describe it, or the excellent luncheon of which we partook, but it is quite allowable to say that the neatly dressed, rosy-faced parlour-maid waits uncommonly well, and that she is a good specimen of Woodhouse training. We are gratified by her recognising us, and if all the readers of The Girl’s Own Paper could have seen her bright smile of welcome and respectable appearance, they would have rejoiced with us. But she is only one of the many who have been aided. During the fifty years of the existence of the Institution, nearly three thousand have been rescued from danger of one kind and another, fifteen hundred of whom have been received since it has been known as “The Princess Louise Home.” Forty-three of these were admitted only last year. Close upon eleven hundred have become domestic servants, and who can calculate the inestimable good done to them and society by rescuing them from indescribable evils?
As we stood upon the platform of the Snaresbrook Station awaiting the train, we moralised on this. Sunset with its heavenly glow overspread Epping Forest and Wanstead-park, beyond which lies the Home. We reflect on the Divine love which has inspired in the human heart the desire to devote all we see around us to the overworked citizens of the largest city in the world; and to open to some of her tempted children the gates of the rescue house in the distance. We recognize in the evening glow that God’s love never fails. We will strive to obey His command, which says “Let brotherly love continue.”
We perceive both degrees of love in the subjoined list, and feel assured that Christ’s little ones will be still held in tender remembrance.
In addition to the seventy coverlets already mentioned, we are requested to state that 224 valuable articles have been received at the Home from a lady who desires her name not to be announced. These vary from scarlet blankets to children’s hose.
Lady Greenall and Mrs. Edward Lloyd have also sent magnificent gifts of clothing, made and unmade; and “The Hampton Court Association of Ladies for the Care of Friendless Girls” has likewise contributed a valuable parcel of clothing, through the Dowager Lady Clifford.
In money, three guineas from Lady Martin and ten shillings from C. W. B. D. have been received.
Contributions sent to the Secretary, Mr. Gillham, at 32, Sackville-street, W., will be immediately acknowledged by him, and subsequently in this Magazine.
“SHE COULDN’T BOIL A POTATO;”
OR,
THE IGNORANT HOUSEKEEPER, AND HOW SHE ACQUIRED KNOWLEDGE.
By DORA HOPE.
lthough Mrs. Wilson was very much better, her improvement still greatly depended upon having perfect quiet and freedom from all excitement, and her nurses found that if she was in any way disturbed or agitated in the evening, she either lay awake the greater part of the night, or, when worn out for want of sleep, was compelled to take the soothing medicine, which always had a depressing effect upon her next day.
One evening, Ella had just left her aunt, who was drowsily watching nurse’s final preparations for the night, when the whole house suddenly rang with piercing screams and cries for help from the kitchen.
Greatly annoyed and frightened, Ella ran downstairs to stop the noise, and, on reaching the kitchen, was horrified to find Annie, the housemaid, rushing about the room with her dress in flames, and shrieking wildly for someone to save her. The cook, meanwhile, was crouching in a corner with her apron over her head, so that, as she said afterwards, she “might not see Annie burnt to death before her eyes.”
Ella quickly shut the kitchen-door, thereby stopping the draught of air, which was blowing the flames in all directions, and then, with more presence of mind, although not much better success, than the cook, she seized a jug of water, and flung it over the flames, and ran for more.
Unfortunately, it was burning oil that had caught fire, and was setting alight to the matting that covered the floor, and the water only spread the mischief further.
Happily, nurse now appeared in the doorway, and instantly perceiving what was the matter, tore up a heavy hearthrug, and wrapping it round Annie, soon succeeded in extinguishing the flames; while Ella, perceiving the good effect of her plan, promptly imitated her example, and pulling up doormats, and anything woollen she could reach, threw them on the burning oil on the floor, and she and nurse soon stamped out the flames.
Directly the fire was quite out, nurse urged Ella to return to her aunt, while she herself examined the extent of Annie’s burns. Happily, the poor girl was wearing a dress of thick woollen material, which had taken a long time to ignite, so that, although her muslin apron had made a great blaze, she herself was hardly injured at all. It was, in reality, Mrs. Wilson who suffered the most, the excitement causing her a sleepless night, followed next day by a violent headache and feverish attack.
After breakfast the following day, Ella made up her mind to hold a solemn inquiry into the causes of the accident, the result of which filled her with amazement that the whole house had not been burnt down long ago.
There was no gas in the house, and, as a great deal of oil was required, a large tin vessel containing several gallons was kept (or was supposed to be) in an outhouse; while, in order to avoid the danger of taking a light near this supply of oil, Mrs. Wilson had given instructions that the lamps should always be cleaned and re-filled during the morning.
But the outhouse was cold, and the lamps were often forgotten until they were wanted in the evening; so the large can of oil had been surreptitiously brought into one of the pantries, where it could be more easily got at.
On this occasion, as on many others, Annie had forgotten to fill the hall lamp, and when it reminded her of the fact by smoking, making a choking smell, and finally going out, she took it down and filled it, using the naked flame of a benzoline lamp to light the dark little pantry.
Even this foolhardy act did not, as it might have done, set the whole store of oil in flames, and she actually trimmed and re-lighted the lamp in safety, and was carrying it through the kitchen, when a sudden draught blew the flame of the benzoline lamp against her hand, on which some oil was spilled. This flamed up, and the frightened girl dropped both lamps. The larger one exploded in the fall, setting fire to the oil and to her own apron, and, but for nurse’s quickness and presence of mind, she would probably have been burned to death.
All this information, very unwillingly given, added to cook’s remark that there was not a lamp that would burn properly in the house, so frightened Ella that she felt inclined to give up the use of lamps altogether, and burn nothing but candles. On second thoughts, however, and after consulting Mrs. Mobberly, to whom she always referred in all her difficulties, she sent instead for the man who had supplied the lamps, and had them all reviewed.
He declared that all the mischief arose from the dirty state of the lamps, which, much to the indignation of the maids, he requested Ella to look at, to prove the truth of his words.
“If you have good lamps, and keep them perfectly clean, and burn good oil, you are quite safe,” he said; “but if you neglect any of those three, they are the most dangerous things you can have about a house.”
Ella honestly acknowledged that she knew nothing at all about lamps, and had never cleaned one in her life, but she was determined to understand the matter thoroughly now, and begged the man to explain exactly what cleansing was necessary to keep them in good order.
He advised that the lamp glasses and globes should be washed every week with warm water, soap, and soda, but they must be most carefully dried before using. The different parts of the burner should be brushed out, or rubbed clean with a cloth every day; and at least once in two months the whole brass fittings taken off and well washed.
In a well-made lamp all parts of the burner should take to pieces in order to be cleaned. The wick-tube and perforated plate through which the air has to pass to feed the flame should be most particularly seen to. Charred wick and paper, match heads and dust are often allowed to fill up the holes of the grid, causing a poor flame, a bad smell, and, not unfrequently, an explosion.
“Don’t be afraid of plenty of warm water and soap and soda,” the man repeated; “only you’d better look out pretty sharp, miss, and see that they get the whole thing perfectly dry before it is lighted again, or you’ll be having another explosion, and perhaps you won’t come off as well next time.”
Ella thanked the man for his goodnatured advice, and determined henceforward to examine the lamps for herself every day, to make sure her directions were really carried out. Both she and the nurse made as light as possible of the affair to Mrs. Wilson, who, on seeing for herself that Annie was not much the worse, was quite contented that it had been a very trifling matter which had unnecessarily frightened them; and feeling herself worn out and irritable with sleeplessness, and the consequent feverishness, she indulged in some rather biting sarcasms on the “hysterical young ladies of the present day, who make a fuss about nothing at all,” and begged Ella to remember that she liked the house kept quiet last thing at night.
These very undeserved reproaches were rather hard for poor Ella to bear, but she managed to keep silence, and as soon as she was released consoled herself by writing a doleful letter to her mother, with a full account of the whole affair, adding the oft-repeated remark that “she would never be able to manage a house—it was not in her.”
As she expected, her letter brought a speedy reply.
“You must not be discouraged, my child,” wrote her mother, “when you have to accept blame for the faults of others; that is the very essence of self-denial, to give up everything, even the credit you feel you have deserved, for the sake of others; and if it cost you no effort to do, it would be no denial of self. At any rate you have been successful, for the very fact that you are blamed proves that you have saved Aunt Mary the worry and annoyance of knowing her servants to be careless and incompetent, and thereby you have done much to help on her recovery.
“Now about the lamps. My own experience has taught me one or two other lessons, which I will pass on to you.
“The wick must fit the lamp, and be the right kind for that particular burner. If you are not sure about the kind to get, they will always advise you if you go to a good shop to buy the wick.
“Then, again, the oil is not (or should not be) all burnt out before the lamp is refilled, but fresh oil is added to what is already in. After this process has been continued some time, however, the oil becomes turbid, and gives a disagreeable smell when the lamp is lighted. To avoid this, the oil should occasionally be emptied out of the lamp, and the whole thing washed before being refilled with fresh oil.
“You cannot insist too strongly on proper care being used in filling the lamps; one brilliant housemaid we had when you were children was caught filling a lamp holding it over the kitchen fire, that the oil might run over on to the fire, and not make a mess on the floor. After that I filled them myself till I got a maid whom I could thoroughly trust.
“And do not try to be economical in buying the oil; I cannot advise you which kind to use, as I do not remember what the lamps are like, but go to a good shop, and get the best they recommend. I have generally used a very good kind, called ‘water-white.’ The poor oils throw off a most explosive gas at a low heat, and do not give so much light as better oils. If you are careful on all these points, you need not be in the least nervous about the lamps; we have always used them till the last year or two, and have never had an explosion or accident of any sort.”
With all this information to guide her, coupled with her own observation of the construction of the lamps, Ella felt herself mistress of the situation, and determined that for once she would insist upon having her own way.
She had the oil removed to the little outhouse again, the door of which she locked, and kept the key herself, only giving it to Annie at the time she had appointed for filling the lamps.
The result of this decided measure was that Annie became sullen and disobliging, while the cook, taking her part, made rude remarks in a tone purposely loud enough for Ella to hear, about the discomfort of having two mistresses in the house; and nurse caught her, a short time afterwards, complaining to Mrs. Wilson of Ella’s overbearing ways and unreasonable orders, and of the “nasty, stuck-up ways” of the nurse. She was very quickly and unceremoniously turned out of the room; but the mischief was already done, for Mrs. Wilson, with the natural irritableness of an invalid, insisted on having the servants admitted to the room whenever they wished to see her, and partly, too, in consequence of her weakness, which made her unwilling to have any kind of upset in the house, and partly that she believed the servants to be honest and trustworthy, while she knew Ella was ignorant and inexperienced, Mrs. Wilson made matters worse by always taking their part, and blaming Ella for actions which had existed only in the imaginations of the maids.
One complaint especially annoyed Ella. At home they had always been accustomed to arrange the work and the meals on Sundays so that not only the family, but the servants also, might attend a Bible class in the afternoon, in addition to the regular morning or evening service; and as she was very anxious that the servants at Hapsleigh should have the same liberty, Ella had done as much as she could of the necessary work for the sick room herself on that day, and had so managed that one or other of the maids had been able to go out every Sunday afternoon since her arrival.
It was, therefore, with considerable surprise and vexation that Mrs. Wilson one morning showed her a note she had just received from the teacher of the Bible class Annie was supposed to attend, asking if she could be spared to come once in the month, so that the lady should not lose sight of her altogether.
This was rather too much for Ella’s patience, and after with some difficulty convincing Mrs. Wilson that the girl had not even once been hindered from attending the class, she went straight off to call on the teacher. It seemed that Annie had lamented to that lady that with sickness in the house and an unreasonable young mistress, she would be unable to attend the class until Mrs. Wilson was well again; whereas in reality she had been going every Sunday to visit some friends whom she knew would be disapproved of both by her mistress and her teacher.
However, happily for all parties, matters were coming to a crisis.
Ella went, as usual, one morning to speak to the old gardener, whom she found digging in a secluded corner of the garden, with the ducks following closely at his heels, and poking with their flat bills into the freshly-turned earth, searching for worms or any other choice morsels that good fortune might bring in their way.
The old man evidently had something on his mind, and, after the usual greetings and inquiries after Mrs. Wilson, he stuck his spade into the earth and leaned his arms on the top of it, as if prepared for a long conversation; at which the old drake cocked his head on one side, and stared at him out of one eye with an air of virtuous indignation at having his own labours interrupted in this way.
The conversation did not seem easy to begin, however, and it was only after a good deal of hesitation that he said at last—
“I’ve lived along of the missus now these forty year.”
“Yes, I know you have, Mallard. Why, I remember you all my life,” replied Ella, wondering what was coming.
“Well, Miss Ella, I ain’t told no tales, and I ain’t goin’ to tell no tales; but what I say I say; and that is as ’ow there’s things goes on in this ’ouse as ’adn’t ought to; and I ain’t lived along o’ the family, man and boy, these forty years without knowin’ as when the doors is locked at night they ought to be locked, and not so many goin’ in and out as what there is.”
And having finished this enigmatical speech, accompanied by many mysterious nods and winks, the old man pulled up his spade, and, touching his hat to Ella, disappeared amongst the bushes, leaving Ella and the ducks gazing after him in mutual astonishment.
(To be continued.)