I against whose placid heart my sleepy gold-heads lie,
Round my path they cry to me, little souls unborn,—
God of Life—Creator! It was I! It was I.”
Now if by “I” is meant the average woman who wears the “robe,” the “ribbon,” the “feather,” and possibly—though rarely—the “wreath across my hair,” “I” must protest distinctly against assuming a guilt which is none of mine. I have not shut my little sister in a factory, any more than I have ranged the meadow-lands, “free from sun to sun.” What I probably am doing is trying to persuade my sister to cook my dinner, and sweep my house, and help me to take care of my “gold-heads,” who are not always so sleepy as I could desire. If my sister declines to do this at a wage equal to her factory earnings, and with board and lodging included, she is well within her rights, and I have no business, as is sometimes my habit, weakly to complain of her decision. If I made my household arrangements acceptable to her, she would come. As this is difficult or distasteful to me, she goes to a factory instead. The right of every man and woman to do the work he or she chooses to do, and can do, at what wages, and under what conditions he or she can command, is the fruit of centuries of struggle. It is now so well established that only the trade unions venture to deny it.
In that vivid and sad study of New York factory life, published some years ago by the Century Company, under the title of “The Long Day,” a girl who is out of work, and who has lost her few possessions in a lodging-house fire, seeks counsel of a wealthy stranger who has befriended her.
“The lady looked at me a moment out of fine, clear eyes.
“‘You would not go into service, I suppose?’ she asked slowly.
“I had never thought of such an alternative before, but I met it without a moment’s hesitation. ‘No, I would not care to go into service,’ I replied; and, as I did so, the lady’s face showed mingled disappointment and disgust.
“‘That is too bad,’ she answered, ‘for, in that case, I’m afraid I can do nothing for you.’ And she went out of the room, leaving me, I must confess, not sorry for having thus bluntly decided against wearing the definite badge of servitude.”
Here at least is a refreshingly plain statement of facts. The girl in question bore the servitude imposed upon her by the foremen of half a dozen factories; she slept for many months in quarters which no domestic servant would consent to occupy; she ate food which no servant would be asked to eat; she associated with young women whom no servant would accept as equals and companions. But, as she had voluntarily relinquished comfort, protection, and the grace of human relations between employer and employed, she accepted her chosen conditions, and tried successfully to better them along her chosen lines. The reader is made to understand that it was as unreasonable for the benevolent lady—who had visions of a trim and white-capped parlor-maid dancing before her eyes—to show “disappointment and disgust” because her overtures were rejected, as it would have been to charge the same lady with robbing the girl of her “day of maidenhood,” and her “little souls unborn,” by shutting her up in a factory. If we will blow our minds clear of generous illusions, we shall understand that an emotional verdict has no validity when offered as a criterion of facts.