January 5th, 1872.
To Mrs. Nassau Senior.
Thank you most heartily; your offer of help did me more good than anything; somehow such a spirit puts new heart into one. I had a very nice letter from Stansfeld, telling me result of interview; he appears to have been highly satisfied. God bless and help you in the work. I am a little sorry in one way that it does not take you more away from home. I hoped that you might have had a few hours to rebound from the weight, and might have been stronger for home work for the daily absence. But, in some ways, it will make the work easier; and I suppose the sense of progress and of public work do one good any way, and carry one thro’ a great many small and some most heavy trials with a sustaining sense that there are larger and deeper interests than are contained in our own circle, which is so small, tho’ so dear. So the work may help you thus after all, as I’m sure you will help it.
MRS. SENIOR’S FRIENDSHIP
You don’t fancy for a moment that I would be so mean as to take your money. No, Janey dear, I could not. Spend it nobly and well as you are sure to do, but don’t think of giving it to me. We will try yet, in trust that there are richer people enough forthcoming to do the thing. I shall tell Mr. Hughes this, if he writes. But you can hardly tell how much your offer cheered me. One gets a little impatient and bitter, quite wrongly I am sure, waiting for the slow rich people to make up their leisurely minds, when one’s keenly cherished plans hang upon their decision. We, who have gathered our impressions down among the people in long past years, on whom the swift sight of the possibility of good to be done bursts like a clear ray into darkness, who hold our few possessions in money somewhat lightly, ready to risk them, and counting them a small gift to offer for any chance of good, we who are to hold the reins of power, and know just how far we may hope to win, must use a little imaginative patience with those whose training has been so different.
It makes one feel a little lonely sometimes, but in the beginning of things one must be that.
April 28th, 1872.
To Mary Harris.
We had our playground festival yesterday, with all its wonderful memories, and the blessed sense of progress.... Out of the utter loneliness of those first days of work, on that little beloved spot, what a wealth of love and help has gathered, even for me personally. And oh, Mary! what a progress in the people, and the dear old place! The cottages looked so neat and clean, the whole place so fresh and substantially good. I looked at my lamp that stood as a guard throwing light, before which dark deeds quail, night after night where darkness had reigned before,—a type of much of the character of the way we have to work. Neither punishment, nor rewards, nor rule is what we hope most from, but supervision, a glance, a look, a bringing things to light. I looked at my cottage with its heightened rooms,—a definite bit of tangible good, strange type too of our work—taking off the weight from above that presses down, in order that the human being may have room to breathe, to expand, to rise. Then how the children have improved! What a number of games they know! And as to my singing class it was quite delightful. They sang with all their hearts, and seemed never weary, song after song. I had a troup of them round and about marching and singing “Trelawney.” So many of them knew the same songs and games. It was capital! Such days are worth living for.
Tortworth Court,