“I don’t think I shall come here any more.”
“I would advise you to stay away for a month. By that time all that has passed will be forgotten. If you will call on me at my house, this day week, in the afternoon, I shall be happy to see you; and when we have had a long chat together, we shall be better acquainted.”
She came. I found it as I had expected. Next to the unrenewed nature, the evil had its rise in great physical strength, and mental energy never fully expended. Her husband was what they call “a quiet man,” perhaps more easily managed than she liked; and her two children went to school, and did not give her much trouble. But it was not so much the want of occupation, (for her pig-feeding establishment must have made great demands upon her time,) as a kind of mental restlessness, which nothing in her mechanical life could absorb. The mischief done by a river in overflowing its banks will never be remedied by damming the water back on itself; it will only return again and again. Fresh channels must be dug for it, and then the same element that previously spread destruction, will produce verdure and fertility.
I was able to suggest several subjects to this poor woman, which both interested and occupied her. She was one of the most expeditious cutters-out of work that I have ever seen. She reminded me of the lady who said “her scissors knew the way.” During the first winter, and before the society became so large, I was in the habit of cutting out most of the work for the mothers, but now I engaged Mrs A— to come to the room half an hour before the time, to help me. I used to take patterns of some things that were not made up in the room—things that I thought would be useful to them. These I confided to her, with a quantity of paper, by which she could reproduce them to any one who might wish for them. Many a well-fitting garment to be seen in the Potteries has been procured in this way. Since our plans have been altered, and each member cuts out her own work, many an unskilful, trembling hand has been relieved by these “scissors that know the way.” Several of our little orderly methods, also, for which I have been complimented by visitors, were originally suggested by the former disturber of our peace. She is now a great reader. One of the last books which I lent her was “Sandford and Merton.” She told me, when she returned it, that she often kept her own boys, and half-a-dozen others, quiet for an hour or two together, by reading aloud to them.
The deep attention with which she always listens to the reading of the Word of God, and the great improvement that has taken place in her habits of life, induce me to hope that, if she has not found, she is, at least, earnestly seeking Him who can “save to the uttermost.”
There is another character, however, which is met with—to me, far more difficult and trying than that to which my friend has referred. Saucy women are seldom deceptive. The surface is often worse than that which remains hidden. But the bland, smooth-faced ones, who agree to everything you say, compliment you upon everything you do, smile sweetly alike at either censure or praise, and talk against you as soon as your back is turned—what can be done with such people? Fortunately for me (for I am still as much at a loss as ever to answer this question), this is not a common type of character in the Potteries. Although I have, of course, had constant money transactions with the women, I cannot now recall more than seven or eight cases in which the least attempt has been made to overreach and deceive; and only in one instance have I lost money by lending it.
But the climax of evil in a woman is the habit of drinking. There are many more drunkards amongst men than amongst women, certainly; but whilst I have known many men reform, I have known but very few women amend, after having thus once fallen into this horrid vice. Whether it be that a woman who has given way to intemperance feels so utterly degraded and out of place, as to be hopeless of ever righting herself again, and that she consequently proceeds desperately from bad to worse, I cannot tell; but certainly the effects of this vice upon herself, her husband, and her family, are terrible in the extreme. No tongue can express what the child of the drunken mother suffers. I cannot think of such misery without tears. Two wretched little children, almost destitute of clothes, came to my door one bitterly cold day. The very sight of them made my children cry; and, contrary to my judgment (for, alas! experience has made me wise), I allowed them to dress them in warm woollen jackets. Not many yards from the door, the mother was waiting for them: she took them at once to the pawn-shop, stripped the little shivering ones of the only warm garments which they had known for many a day, disposed of them for a trifle, and got drunk with the money. The next day, the sufferings of one of these children were happily closed by death. I say, happily; for death is the only release—a release to be desired beyond everything for the drunken mother’s child. Here we must weep for the living, and not for the dead.
The duties of life assigned to our working men and women require a well-developed physical constitution, as well as that mental power which gives firmness to endure. The early sufferings, privations, and exposure which attend the infancy and childhood of the drunkard’s offspring, almost preclude the possibility of the first; and the poor mind has, if anything, a still worse chance. Then, with this enfeebled body and mind, the child grows up to take his place in society, unable to contend with physical labour, tortured with the constant cravings for stimulants which he has inherited, and is an easy prey to the numberless temptations which beset his path. Again, I ask, is it any wonder that those who are daily watching these things with unspeakable sorrow, should refuse to touch, taste, or handle that which is the cause of such infinite misery?
Only a few women addicted to this fearful vice have joined our society, and they have never continued long in it. When the Word of God is constantly read and explained, when it is made the foundation of all that is taught,—for our relative and domestic duties have not there been passed over,—deliberate living in sin becomes incompatible with the pureness of the moral atmosphere diffused around. Many a deep sigh have I heard, as the prayer for the poor drunkard has gone up.
One evening, I was reading the fifteenth chapter of St Luke. When we came to the words—“I will arise, and go to my father,” I said that some seemed to think that only a certain kind of prodigal would be received back in this way. I had often heard poor drunkards remark, that there was no mercy for them—they were given up—they must be lost; whereas if we went back a little in the history, and remembered that it was said of this particular prodigal, “he wasted his substance in riotous living,” it would seem that the drunkard was especially meant. I observed a poor, untidy, dirty woman sitting near me; she was weeping bitterly: her distress was so great, that I never felt so much difficulty in steadying my voice and going on. After the meeting was over, she staid behind to speak to me. She said—“Oh, ma’am, I have felt lost for years, as if nothing could save me; and the thought that I might hope quite overcame me; it was so new to me, I thought I should have sunk!” This woman attended regularly for a few weeks, and then she was obliged to remove to a distance. I have not heard of her since. The neighbours told me she was “a deal steadier afore she left;” and I have hope in that word which “shall not return unto me void; but it shall accomplish that which I please, and it shall prosper in the thing whereto I sent it.”