How many and how marvellous are the changes that ten years have wrought. New sympathies have been awakened; a new spirit has been hovering above us and around us, with “healing on its wings.” Ten years ago—women and children slaved in our coal mines, degraded far below the level of “brutes that perish;” women, harnessed to their loads, crawling like reptiles along damps and slimes, underneath the earth: children, whose weak and “winking” eyes had never seen the light, with minds as dark as the strata wherein they toiled! Ten years ago—the loom, too, hid its victims far away out of Humanity’s sight, in the sole keeping of those who, in their thirst for “gold, more gold,” made their alchemy of infant sinews, and sweats from the brow of age. Ten years ago—the shopman—in the hot summer time, centred in the crowded thoroughfare, where dust and air so closely mingle that they are inhaled together from sunrise to midnight—laboured for eighteen hours; an item of God’s creation for whom there was no care; never, during the six days of his master’s week, seeing the faces of his children, save in sleep, and too worn, too weary, when the sabbath came, to find it a day of rest. How long was the prayer unanswered,—
“Give me one hour of rest from toil,
From daily toil for daily bread;
Untwisting Labour’s heavy coil
From round the heart and head!”
Ten years ago—no voice was raised for mercy to the lone sempstress; sure “slave of the lamp;” working from “weary chime to chime;” bearing her cross in solitude—toiling, while starving, for the few soiled pence, the very touch of which would be contamination to the kidded hands of tawdry footmen; these poor women sunk into their graves, they and their famished children, unmissed of any, for there were none to ask where they were gone. Ten years ago—and the governess, in age, in poverty, in sickness, had no refuge—no shelter, even from a storm that might have been a passing one. Her life of labour—labour of head, eyes, hands, and tongue; toil without rest—uncheered, unappreciated, unrecompensed, which left
“No leisure to be gay or glad,”
followed by a deserted sick bed; a death, unmarked by any kindly eye, and a coffin grudged for its cost. Such was her too common lot! Ten years ago, the poor dressmaker fagged out her life; fainting during her brief minutes of “rest;” standing when sleepy, while one, of more robust strength than her companions, stalked about the thronged and ill-ventilated work-room, till past midnight, touching those whose fingers relax, and whispering the warning sound—“Wake up—wake up!”
Need we prolong this list—this contrast, appalling yet glorious, of the present time with ten years ago? One more must be added to it presently.
Ten years have, indeed, wrought many and marvellous changes, A cry has been raised throughout the Empire, NOT BY THE POOR BUT FOR THE POOR; not by the oppressed, but for them! It was a righteous cry, and holy are the sympathies it has awakened; sympathies which convey our superfluous riches to that storehouse where neither moth nor rust can corrupt; convincing us that, while a closed heart is never happy, a hand open as day to melting charity, secures a mightier reward than the wealth of Crœsus can purchase!
There is, then, one newly-awakened sympathy to be yet added to the LIST, of which, in preceding remarks, I have given only an abridgement. Ten years ago—nay, THREE years ago—the poor woman or man, who had been stricken with CONSUMPTION was left to perish. For her or for him there was literally “no hope.” Every other ailment was cared for—might be “taken in time.” But this terrible disease was, like the leprosy of old, or the plague in modern times—a signal for the sufferer to be deserted, abandoned in despair. Blessed be the God of mercy, such is not the case now; a “new sympathy,” has been awakened, and, by the aid of a merciful Providence, it has spread widely! An establishment, hitherto conducted on a small scale, but hereafter to be in a degree commensurate with the WANT, exists in this Metropolis, where the patient will not apply for help in vain. It is sufficiently notorious that nearly all the great projects which have given pre-eminence to this country, and have made it—as it has been, is, and, by God’s help, ever will be—the envy and admiration of surrounding states, have been the births of private enterprise. It is so in science, in literature, in the arts, and, above all, in charity. Some one man, more thoughtful, more energetic, and more indefatigable than the great mass of his fellow men, stirs the hearts of others, sets himself and them to the great work of improvement, or mercy—and the thing is done. If we recur to the several leading public charities, we shall find that all, or nearly all, of them, have thus originated; the names of their founders have been handed down to posterity, and individuals, comparatively insignificant and obscure, are classed as benefactors to mankind, entitled to, and receiving, the gratitude of a whole people.
Thus the name of a poor player, whose monument is at Dulwich, has been made famous for ages; that of a humble sea-captain is identified with the preservation of the lives of tens of thousands of foundlings; while that of a simple miniature painter is for ever linked with the history of practical “Benevolence.” The list might include nearly the whole of the charities of London, which, from similar small sources, have become mighty waters—spreading, healing, fertilizing, and blessing!
The absence of a hospital for the relief and cure of consumptive patients, was a national reproach; when, happily, exertions which followed the efforts of a single individual removed it. He was without rank or fortune to give weight and strength to the cause he had undertaken; he was a member of a profession which necessarily occupied much time and thought—entailed daily labour from morn till night—and is, indeed, supposed, however falsely, to check and chill the sympathies of the natural heart, engendering indifference to human suffering. Most happily, his mind and heart were both rightly directed: in him the conviction of what ought to be was followed by a resolution that it should be; his generous and merciful feelings were not limited to good intentions: he added energy to zeal, and industry to stern resolve; and, in a word, the mighty object has been accomplished. [26a] The Institution, which originated at a small meeting, in a comparatively humble house in “Hans-place, Chelsea,” is now the patronized of the Queen, and the aided of the people; and its power to do good has been marvellously augmented. Even with the very limited means hitherto at the command of its Directors, prodigious service has been rendered; in numerous instances, vast relief has been afforded; in some cases restorations to health have been effected, and, in others, the passage to the grave has been made easy, tranquil, and happy. [26b]