She looked at me strangely for a moment, and then, straightening up her old bent body, she lifted up her hands before me and said, almost fiercely, ‘Sir, do you see these hands? For thirty years they have worked for and kept my poor sister. I have had no charity from parson or parish; not one penny have I received from anyone, and, please God, I never will. I can work for my sister. Take the money back to the sender. I dare say it was meant kindly, but there is none of it for us.’
Argument and persuasion were of no avail; the indomitable little woman was proof against both: not a penny would she receive. The money might be sent back, or I might use it for the poor who needed it, but not for them—not for them. So she gathered the money up and gave it back to me. Had I not taken it, she would have thrown it into the street. Foolish old woman! but brave, heroic old woman! We left her with full hearts, and the chink of the money was not quite so joyous. Years ago timely help and kind sympathy might have cheered and comforted her, but now it is too late, for she will die rather than receive it. Years have gone by, but the pair are still living together. A few Sundays ago I met them out for a walk, both looking older and more feeble, their ancient clothing still more rusty; both living the same hard lives, hand in hand, down to the grave they go. It will be a mercy if they can cross the bourne together, for brave, steadfast, and heroic in their lives, even death should not divide them. The story of Charles Lamb and his sister lives; his love and devotion to his poor sister will never be forgotten, for his love almost passed the love of women. Up and down the neighbourhood where these sisters live Charles and Mary Lamb had many times wandered hand in hand. Can the example of the witty writer and loving heart have influenced the poor washerwomen? No, for she never heard of him. Only the promptings of her own true heart were needed, only the feeble strength of a little woman was required, only unceasing toil, only perpetual pain, only reticent poverty, sustained for many a year, and a life was lived, endurance exhibited, and a devotion shown that will compare with any lives of which I have ever heard or read, and will not lose in the comparison. But she was only a poor washerwoman!
So in their little homes, in their crowded tenements, high up in the ‘blocks,’ or low down in their underground bedrooms, the poor live, so they die. I could tell of their sins, and of their vices, but that would be no pleasure to me; so I tell of their virtues and sorrows, of their patience and love, of their sufferings and wrongs.
CHAPTER XIII
THE PROBLEM OF HOME WORKERS
Out of the abundance of the heart the mouth must speak, so in this chapter I deal with an old, old subject. Generations come and go; in a hundred directions improvement follows on the heels of improvement. For most men the hours of toil have been considerably lessened. Factory and workshop inspection has done wonders. Employers’ liability for the health and safety of their servants has been forcibly brought home. But, strange to say, the condition of the London home workers is practically the same as it was in Hood’s time. True the silent ‘stitch, stitch, stitch’ of the needle plied by ‘fingers weary and worn’ has given place to the never-ceasing rattle of the sewing-machine; but little else is altered, for the incessant toil and misery of the workers remain as before—nay, worse—for a hundred other trades have sprung up to the seamstresses’ company, the conditions of which are equally bad, and in some cases worse, than the conditions under which the seamstresses live and die. Commissions have sat, inquiries have been made, Blue-Books have been filled with evidence, people have wept, philanthropists have poured out their wealth, but all in vain, for the evil is still with us, our sorrow and our shame.
It has often been urged against moving stories of fiction that, while they stir the emotions, they provide no outlet for practical sympathy, and that stirring the well-springs of pity out of mere caprice is but to demoralize. I am afraid my last chapter is somewhat open to this charge. I know it has touched the hearts of a good many people, for I have received some hundreds of letters with regard to it; I also know, and have good reasons for knowing, that most of the writers were not content that their emotions should be stirred and no practical result ensue.
‘You have saddened us.’ ‘What can we do?’ ‘What are you going to do?’ So wrote one lady, and she voiced the thoughts of many. Neither was it the female heart alone that was stirred, for I soon became aware that in writing on the sufferings of London’s oppressed women I had touched the heart of humanity.
‘We are full of trouble here, and we have our own sorrows, but I send you a draft for £25 to make some of those women happier.’ So wrote a member of the Legislative Assembly of Natal. ‘I have been farming out here for twenty-five years but I have never forgotten Hood’s “Song of the Shirt.” I send you £10 to help those poor women.’ Thus wrote a farmer in Cape Colony. From Australia and from Ireland, Scotland, and Wales letters came, and the purport of them all was, ‘Can’t you do something to make the poor women happier?’
For more years than I care to remember I had hoped and longed for a Home of Rest for these women, to which I could send the poorest of them. Africa and Australia gave me out of the goodness of their hearts the nucleus of the fund that enabled me to do it.
But the women of London were not behindhand, for a number of them formed themselves into a ‘Farthing League’ (they could not give large sums) for the support of the Home.