I cry out to myself in the courts every day, “What a frightful confusion of chances we have here as to how or whether there is to be food or not!” A man accepts underpaid work; a little is scraped up by one child, a little begged by another; a gigantic machinery of complicated charities relieves a man of half his responsibilities, not once and for all clearly and definitely, but—probably or possibly—he gets help here or there. There is no certainty, no quiet, no order in his way of subsisting. And he has an innate sense that his most natural wants ought to be supplied if he works; so he takes our gifts thanklessly; and then we blame him or despise him for his alternate servility and ingratitude; and we dare not use his large desires to urge him to effort; and, if he will make none, let him suffer; but please God one day we shall arrange to be ready with work for every man, and give him nothing if he will not work; we cannot do the latter without the former, I believe.
Then, at last, will come the day when we shall be able to give at least to our friends among them as we give to one another, and not confuse still more hopelessly the complication of chances about the means of support,—nor have any doubt the giver is more than the gift, and be sure that he who gladly receives to-day will to-morrow give more gladly.
It is not often that I turn away from the very engrossing detail of work here, to think much about general questions; and I am afraid I have expressed myself very badly, and that you will hardly make out what I mean. It is with me here almost as with the poor themselves, a kind of fight for mere existence;—references, notices, rents, repairs, the dry necessary matters of business, take up almost all time and thought; only as, after all, we are human beings, and not machines, the people round, and all we see and hear, leave a kind of mark on us, an impression of awe, or pity and wonder, or sometimes love; and when we do pause, the manifold impressions start into life, and teach us so much, and all the business has to be arranged in reference to these various people; and how hard it is to do justly and love mercy, and walk humbly.
March 8th, 1867.
To Florence.
They’ve just announced that there is space for half a sheet in this letter, but that it must be written now or never; and indeed I am not fit to write to a Christian. Here I am, head and ears deep in notices about dustmen, requests for lawyers to send accounts, etc., etc.; and yet I am so glad to say a few words to you, even if they’re not of the brightest; and that they can’t be, for I’ve just come in from a round of visits to the nine houses; and somehow it’s been a day of small worries about all sorts of repairs, and things of that kind. I was thinking when I came in that really it would be a small cost in real value to pay any sum, however tremendous, to get rid of this annoying small perpetual care, if the work could be done as well; but then it couldn’t: it is only when the detail is really managed on as great principles as the whole plan, that a work becomes really good. And so, I suppose, being really the school of training the tenants most effectually, I must still keep it, and hope that it will not finally make one either mean, or small or bitter.... I think the playground is going very well now. Did I tell you we have opened it during school hours as a drying ground? Oh, Florence, the court is so improved! I think you would be so pleased. We have broken out windows on all the staircases, and cleaned all the rooms, and put in a large clean cistern; and oh! it is so fresh and neat compared with what it was. Do you hear about our Girls’ Home? I hope it will soon be started. God bless you, dear child!
IMPROVEMENT IN THE COURTS
Derwent Bank, Broughton, Carlisle.
June 14th, 1867.
To Miss Baumgartner.