Allusion to these garments reminds me of a case where grave misunderstanding arose. It was in the year 1876, I suppose: for it was in that year that the system of payment of grant was altered. If a school chose to present itself for examination in certain subjects, whereof needlework was one, there was a grant of 2s. per head—that is, double the former grant—attainable in case of success. But, though the special and extended examination was optional, the teaching of plain sewing and the display of garments were still compulsory. Soon after the change in the Code I was at—let us call it “Layton”—school, the manager of which was a valued friend of mine, and an apostle of education; for many merits esteemed throughout the county.
At the end of the ordinary inspection I asked for the garments. The mistress, with apparent surprise, told me there were none. But, in accordance with the Code, I insisted on seeing some as a condition of the grant: I had to certify something in the formal report. After some delay she produced a shirt, and said that was all that was available. I examined and cross-examined that shirt before lady managers and teachers, and, as I afterwards remembered, covered myself with disgrace by complaining that it had no “gusset” somewhere: it was pointed out to me in the plainest language, that apparently I was not aware that a shirt might have either a “gusset,” or a “yoke,” and this had a yoke. So we patched up a peace and went to lunch, oppressor and oppressed. But in the report I complained of the scanty supply of garments, and some correspondence followed. It was not till some days had gone by that an explanation reached me circuitously. There were garments in abundance, but they were not meet for the male eye, and they were hidden away:
“’Tis better to have sewn and hidden away
Than never to have sewn at all.”
There are instances in the Classical Dictionary of males who were over-curious: I forget the details, but I remember that their end was disastrous. Fortunately on this occasion I was innocent in intention and unsuccessful in action. But I sent the Rector the following lines, and we made friends again:
Chorus of Spinsters.
Have you heard the sad news?
How they’ve dared to abuse
The sewing our girls do at Layton?
The man must be worse than Satan!
What next?
No wonder the Powells are vexed.
There’s the poor dear Rector,
Who fed the Inspector
On his best ’Thirty-four,
Says he’ll give him no more:
And Miss Lucy, his daughter,
Says she’d put him on bread and water:
And Miss Taylor, the mistress,
Overwhelmed with distress:
And pretty Miss Ball,
She’s worse than them all,
And says “Drat him,”
She’d like to get at him,
And she’s strongly inclined
To give him a bit of her mind.
It’s so like a man:
Let him find, if he can,
Any children so good at their needles
They come poking and prying,
Set the teachers all crying,
And bully the poor things like beadles.
He’s worse than a Turk;
Just look at our work:
We have aprons and shirts,
And bodies and skirts,
And dusters for infants to hem;
And sewing-on strings,
And a whole heap of THINGS—
But of course we couldn’t show them.
There were two dozen towels
We made for the Powells,
And ten pairs of stays
To be sent to the Mays;
We darn and we mend,
And make things without end
For the Johnsons that live at the Lodge:
There’s fine work to be seen
That would do for the Queen,
And coarse things more suited for Hodge.
One thing I must own,
We can’t herringbone,
But they say it’s no longer the mode;
We’ve no flannel to show,
And such garments, you know,
As petticoats aren’t in his Code.
But we can make chemises;
We can knit muffeteeses,
Or the top of a stocking—
(they weep)
Oh, it’s shocking, quite shocking:
And he comes to our school,
And looks perfectly cool,
While we’re fretting and fussing,
And secretly cussing,
And he says, “Now, Miss T.,
I should just like to see
WHERE’S YOUR SEWING?”
There’s no knowing
The spite of those terrible men:
So like him to ask it:
And Miss T. brings the basket,
And takes off the cover, and then—
Much hurt,
Shows one shirt.
And he says, “Is that all?
And no gusset at all?
There should be one here:”
(Oh, the CREATURE, my dear.)
Then he takes it up shamefully,
Handles it blamefully;
Pulls it about,
Outside in, inside out;
Sticks his thumbs through the cracks,
Puts Miss T. in a wax;
Holds it up to the light
(As if he knew what’s right),
And treats it so badly;
Then shakes his head sadly—
(they weep again)
And the Things, dear, you know,
That we really can’t show,
He pretends not to see,
And says, “Really, de-ah me!”
And flops out of school in a huff.
As if one shirt wasn’t enough!
Oh, what will become of the Grant?
He surely won’t dare—no, he can’t—
To fine us: it wouldn’t be fair:
But if he should try, I declare,
We have made up our minds, and we mean,
To take all those THINGS to the QUEEN,
And ask her opinion,
And whether her MINION
Is to trample on women like this:
And if she’ll be pleased to dismiss
Her bold-faced Inspector,
Who bearded our Rector,
And says we can’t sew,
When we only can’t shew!
It was said that the simple inspection of garments was not always so simple as the inspector. A lady manager of a country school told me how in primitive times the dame who taught sewing in her parish had annually beguiled my remote predecessor. Every year at the end of the examination he called for the garments, and every year she handed him a shirt: every year he examined it with care, and every year he praised it in the report on the school. “And, Mr. Kynnersley,” she added, “it was always the same shirt, and, to begin with, it was not made in the school at all, but by a woman in the village.”
There are some who “through faith have obtained a good report,” but in this case the faith was on the reporter’s side. Conceive the greatness of the fraud, and the depth of H.M.I.’s ignorance! for either the shirt must have grown yellow with age, or it must have been washed annually: and washed garments were forbidden exhibits.[42]
As years went on, one grew more skilful in criticism. By painful experience one learnt to avoid certain pitfalls; for the old-fashioned dames who taught sewing were very outspoken in their comments. “Yew gentlemen don’t knaw nawthin about it: thet ain’t the right way far tew try it,” said one of these beldames to me, when I tested the strength of a darned stocking by putting my fingers through the darned places. She turned on my assistant, who was gazing with an air of profound wisdom at some masterpiece, “Thet’s the wrong side far tew luke at,” and she turned it round, in spite of his prompt assertion that he always liked to see both sides.
At another school, where Mrs. Squire was deeply interested in the sewing, I had basely retreated into the class-room, while my excellent assistant of that period was commenting freely on the work. To my dismay the dear old lady came to me in a state midway between choking mirth and gnawing indignation. “Really, it is too ridiculous,” she said at last, “to see you gentlemen pretending to judge of needlework: there is Mr. Pluckham, doesn’t know the difference between feather-stitch and herring-bone.” I had never heard of feather-stitch, but I took the earliest opportunity of making its acquaintance.