CHAPTER VIII.

Light upon a Dark Subject.

“All may of Thee partake; Nothing can be so mean, Which, with His tincture (for Thy sake), Will not grow bright and clean. A servant with this clause Makes drudgery divine;— Who sweeps a room, as for Thy laws, Makes that and th’ action fine.”

GEORGE HERBERT.

“NOW, all this kindness, sympathy, and so forth, that you talk about, are very well in their way; but you surely find you cannot do everything you wish amongst the poor by these means? What do you say to them about their dirty ways, their bad management, neglect of their children, and all that sort of thing?” The answer to this question, put to me a short time ago, would occupy more space than could be spared in the limits of a small book. I will not, therefore, attempt more than a single illustration in reply.

One subject that comes under my notice, very frequently, is the inquiry for places of service for the daughters, sisters, and friends of the higher class of women in our society. Many secrets of service have been confided to me; and I ought, therefore, to be wise; but the subject is difficult. It is painful to be constantly hearing from mistresses that there are scarcely any good servants to be met with; and from servants, “there is no good places going, scarce.” Something must be wrong. That two classes so necessary to each other, and intended by the wise Disposer of all events to bless and benefit each other, should entertain such feelings of animosity and ill-will, is deeply to be deplored. If there is any remedy for so great an evil, if any solution of so difficult a problem is possible—here, almost more than on any other subject, is there room for the whole energy of the philanthropist—here is one of the most direct roads that can offer, to the elevation of those who greatly need raising, and to the amelioration of our whole social system.

I think it must now be three or four years since several circumstances brought this matter more prominently before us. I said that we would give up one evening to the special discussion of it. I appointed the next week, and invited the mothers to bring with them their own daughters, and any young people they liked. The number that came, shewed that the subject was popular with them.

It was not difficult to find an appropriate Scripture lesson for the evening. The Old Testament abounds with interesting reference to servants. It is remarkable that the first-recorded appearance of an angel in this world was to a servant—Hagar. Abraham’s servant, Eliezer, was to him as his right hand. The character which we particularly dwelt upon was Rebecca’s nurse, Deborah,—beginning at the first mention of her. “And they sent away Rebecca, their sister, and her nurse.” We traced her probable life, as can easily be done from the history that is given us of the families in which she lived; the long quiet years with Isaac and Rebecca alone, when she doubtless had her trials, arising, perhaps, from the want of perfect truthfulness in her mistress, or from the quiet, contemplative disposition of her master, who did not always appreciate her efforts to please. Then came two little boys to be nursed, who, while they gratified her pride, gave her as much trouble as little boys of the present day. How often the nurse and mother conversed together about them, as they grew up to be young men!—Deborah sometimes, with a heavy heart, not liking to tell the mother all that went on behind her back. Her earlier discovery of the vast difference in the dispositions of the brothers, had already awakened in her mind a fear that trouble was in the distance. And when the trouble came—when the little household, once so peaceful, was distracted by the contention of the brothers—when the uncongenial daughters-in-law, who were a grief of mind to Isaac and Rebecca, were introduced into the family—when her mistress discovered too late, that whatever is purchased at the expense of truth, brings only sorrow—and when at last she had to witness the distress of her mistress in parting with her favourite son,—through all this, how often must the kind assistance and sympathy of this faithful servant have been sought! how many tears shed by the poor mother in secret were wiped away by the hand of this unfailing friend!

After the last kind offices were performed for Rebecca, we find Deborah in Jacob’s family, living her old life over again in the care of his children, and winning love and respect even from Rebecca’s lawless descendants. Is it any wonder, if, after all this, a chosen spot, “under an oak,” was selected as the place of her burial, and that the numerous family who attended her to the grave should have wept so much, that the name of the place ever after was called “Allon-bachuth,” the “oak of weeping?”

Now, how many times, through all these eventful years, difficult and trying circumstances must have occurred: long illness, perhaps; quarrelsome children to contend with; great changes in the household management; and so forth? A modern servant would have said, many times over, “Well, I can’t stand this; I must be off, and try for something easier.” “If people will get into such messes, they must get out of them.” “It is no business of mine: all I have to do is to take care of myself;” and off she would have gone. After repeating this many times, is it any wonder that, instead of finding a home in the house of a master’s favourite son, and attended to her grave by a weeping family, she finds herself an outcast in the world, and understands the true and bitter meaning of what, in the heyday of her health and strength, she used boastingly to sing—

“I care for nobody, no, not I, And nobody cares for me?”

“But now, ma’am,” said one of the women, “I don’t think it’s fair to speak of places as if they could be always stopped in. I have had my daughter ill at home for months. She was expected to be on her legs from seven o’clock in the morning till twelve at night, and only two hours out every other Sunday: she had to sleep in a room beside the kitchen, so that she never changed the air hardly; and she got so ill, that I am sometimes afeard she’ll never get well again.”

“And, ma’am,” said another, “some missuses is so mean, they wouldn’t like anybody like you to know; so that you might go to a house many times, and never find it out: but they stints the poor servants in their food and their rest, and seems to be always a-thinking how much they can get out of ’em, and how little they can give ’em. I’m sure I know people about here that ain’t fit to take care of a dog.”

Several others spoke to the same effect.

At last I said, “I should, indeed, be sorry for you to suppose that I think it is entirely the fault of servants that we are doing so badly in this way at the present time. So far from it, I think mistresses are quite as much to blame as servants. But it would not be a wise thing for us to spend the little time we have together here in talking about what we cannot help.

“Mistresses tell me, that it is the bad servants that put them out; and you tell me it is the bad mistresses that put you out. The sooner both parties begin to make some alteration the better. But as I am the only mistress here to-night, it is only waste of time talking about mistresses. And I want to ask you, first, if you do not think _you_ have something in _your_ power? Is there nothing _you_ can do to make things better than they are now?”

No one answered; so I continued, “I will tell you about a servant I once knew very well. Her name was not Jane, but I will call her by that name now. From fourteen to sixteen, she was employed, under an upper-nurse, in taking care of some little children; but, as she wished to be a cook, her mother found a place for her as kitchen-maid, where she was under a servant celebrated for her good cooking and bad temper. The only time Jane had for going out was Sunday afternoon, when she always went home to see her mother. For the first four weeks she brought home nothing but complaints of her place: it was so hard; the tyrannical cook was intolerable to live with; the kitchen was so hot, &c. With many tears and lamentations she besought her mother to take her away from the place. The mother, after making careful inquiry, found that the cook was really a difficult and trying woman to live with; but that she was a good teacher; and that the toil of which Jane complained would, in the end, be the means of her getting a more thorough insight into her work. She ascertained, too, that though Jane was fully occupied all day, she was never kept up at night; therefore, she was not likely to suffer in health: and as to the hot kitchen, that was the more trying to Jane, from her having previously been accustomed to be out of doors half the day with the children; but as cooking is usually accomplished in a hot kitchen, the sooner she learned to bear that the better.

“The Sunday after all these inquiries had been made, Jane came home, and, as usual, began her complaints; the mother stopped her, by saying—

“‘I have been inquiring this week all about your place, and I find there are in it some things very uncomfortable and trying; but it is just the place where you can learn to be a good cook, and, whatever you may think of it, Jane, I mean you to stop there two years.’

“‘O mother!’ said Jane, ‘how can you be so cruel!’ and she burst into tears.

“‘Jane,’ said her mother, ‘when the boys went out to work, you know how Jim used to complain about how he was teased in the carpenter’s shop, and how bad Harry’s hands used to get with the bricks; they used to come home awful tired in the evening; but I said to them, as you know, “Well, boys, it is no good to give in; we can’t have nothing in this world without trying for it. All this suffering and hard work will make men of you, and make you worth something. I don’t want my boys to be gingerbread people, that can’t do nothing, and can’t bear nothing; you must just face about, and meet your troubles, and it’ll be the making of ye by and by.” And so, Jane, now I say the very same to you. I had to pay something for the boys’ learning their trades, and to keep ’em, too; but you are both paid and kept while you are learning yours; and so you must make up your mind to leave off grumbling, put your own shoulder to the wheel, and I say to you, as I did to them, it will be the making of ye by and by.’

“Jane knew her mother always meant what she said, and after she had made up her mind it was no use arguing with her; and she went back to her place, feeling that, whatever she might have to endure, all she could do was to make the best of it.

“At the end of the two years she left; but she was a good cook,—not hurt by her hard work, although I know well—for I have heard her speak of it many times—her work was very hard for the body, and trying to the mind. She was immediately afterwards engaged by a family, who lived near her old mistress; and had twelve pounds a-year. After being there six years, through some changes in the household, she left; but she enjoyed the reputation of being the best cook in the neighbourhood, and was immediately offered a situation in a large establishment, at wages of sixteen pounds a-year. Here she remained ten years, and then married, having saved upwards of two hundred pounds: for, besides good wages, she had occasionally received presents from various members of the families in which she had lived, who valued her exceedingly, and speak of her to this day with respect and affection. She was married from her mistress’s house, where a wedding breakfast was provided. When she went off with her husband, the whole family assembled to bid her farewell, and express their good wishes; and one of the great boys did not forget to throw an old shoe after them, for luck. The last time I saw her, she was in a most comfortably furnished cottage, nursing her baby; and, amongst other things, she said to me—

“‘The best thing that ever happened to me in my life was my mother saying to me, ‘Whatever you may think of it, Jane, I mean you to stay there two years.’”

One of my party was a gipsy-girl, about thirteen years of age. She seemed to listen to this story with great interest; and after I had ended, she exclaimed, without addressing herself to any one in particular—

“I will learn to do something _well_; I am determined I will.”

“That is capital,” I said: “it is just that resolution which is wanted; everything else is sure to follow.

“The best servant I ever had was entirely self-taught: she was the eldest of ten children, and spent her life, till she was fifteen, in ‘holding the baby;’ then she went to a house in our neighbourhood, as under-nurse, and to help the other servants when required. She was so obliging, that she became a favourite with every one. The nurse taught her to read and sew; the young ladies taught her to write; the cook found her so handy that, after she had been in the nursery three years, she begged her mistress to allow her to have her in the kitchen. She came to me two years after that, able and willing to put her hand to any kind of work required; she remained with me six years, and then married a respectable carpenter. She is now in America; and in the last letter which I received from her, she told me that her husband was earning four pounds a-week by his trade, and she could earn one pound a-week by her dairy.”

“But, ma’am,” said one of the women, “don’t you see, it wasn’t _all_ good management that made these people you tell us about so prosperous; it was partly good luck,—they got good places.”

“Yes, I see that; but it was their good name that got them the good places, and their good behaviour that enabled them to keep them.”

“Ah! I see,” said another; “’course they wouldn’t have stopped there, if they hadn’t been worth something.”

“It is this ‘_being worth something_’ that has a great deal to do with it, I assure you. Supposing I were to send for a carpenter, and give him some wood, and tell him to make me a box; and that in the evening, when I looked at his work, I found that he had made such mistakes in cutting it out and putting it together, that it was all spoilt; that there was no possibility of making a box out of it; and all that he had done for me was to make the material good for nothing. I should say to him, ‘I cannot pay you for your work. You have deceived me in professing to be able to do what it seems you cannot do; you have injured me by destroying my property; and I cannot recommend you to any one else.’ Now, who would call me unjust for this? But what would be thought of a master if, when he had sent away one spoilt dish after another from his table, he were to send for the cook, and say to her—‘I engaged to give you a home in my house, and to pay you certain wages, on condition that you cooked my food nicely, and took care of the property committed to your charge. I have fulfilled my part of the engagement; you have not fulfilled yours. If you really cannot cook properly, then you did me an injustice in taking my money, and accepting the shelter of my house. Perhaps it only arises from carelessness;—I will give you another trial, but I must be just to myself at the same time I shall not pay you any wages for this day’s work,—you have not earned any; and your being paid for the future will depend upon whether you do what you engaged to do, or not.’ Now, who could say this was unjust? and yet, I dare say, the self-styled cook would go back to the kitchen and say, ‘She had never heard of such a thing in her life.’

“I do not remember ever employing a carpenter who could not do what I required of him; not so well always, perhaps, as it might have been done, but still he did it. But how many cooks, housemaids, and nurses have I seen entirely fail in their engagements. It arose, not from inferior capacity, but from the great mistake which the girls had made, in supposing that they could perform the very important duties assigned to them in life, without preparation. A boy who intends to be a carpenter, begins, as early as he can, to observe how the work is done; he spends years in patiently learning one branch of his trade after another, before he asks for wages; consequently, he generally gives satisfaction to his employers, and often remains with one master for many years.”

“But, ma’am,” said one, “how _are_ we to prepare our girls for service? Our houses and our ways is so different from gentlefolk’s. I really don’t know what we can do.”

“I do not wonder at your saying this; I have often felt for you in this difficulty. I think your houses are not, perhaps, quite so much like gentlefolk’s as they might be. A person with good taste would prefer a clean cottage, any day, to a dirty palace. A bright, clean grate is just as much an ornament to your room as to a lady’s drawing-room; and when you set your eldest girls to clean, if you were more particular about _how_ they did it, many a good lesson might be given. But your principal hope is, I think, in this kind of apprenticeship of which I have spoken. Neither wages nor comfort, so long as the health is not endangered, should be the chief consideration in choosing a girl’s first place. She should go from you with the impression on her mind that the future of her life depends very much upon herself; that what makes people valued, is their being valuable; that wealth is not to be obtained by wishing for it, but by a long, determined course of patient continuance in well-doing, and a resolution not to be daunted by difficulties.

“A girl prepared for her work in this way, would feel a self-reliance that would tend very much to keep her from letting herself down to anything low. She would also be in a condition to make, what is called, ‘her own terms’ with her mistress. By this, I do not mean to ask for high wages,—there is no fault to be found with the amount of wages given at the present day; but to ask for those privileges, without which a servant cannot long continue to keep herself respectable. I will tell you what I think a girl, who could faithfully perform her part of the contract, would be justified in asking.

“1st. That she might have as much of the Sunday to herself as the general arrangements of the household would permit. The commandment which tells us all to ‘remember the Sabbath-day to keep it holy,’ has especially said that servants are to rest on that day. No one is likely long to go on right who has no time to read the Bible—that great chart intended to guide us through life,—without time to attend the public means of grace, and without leisure to prepare for that world where the serving and the served must stand side by side, to give up their account to the great Master and Judge of all.

“2d. She has a right to ask for the punctual payment of her wages on the quarter-day.

“3d. She has a right to ask that some little portion of the day may be considered her own time. The precise time must depend upon the habits of the family. Generally, after eight o’clock in the evening would be convenient; but when the dinner-hour is late, and much company is kept, some other hour must be fixed. Sometimes—with nurses, for instance—it has been found better to let them take all the needlework time, on one or two days of the month, for their own work. _Some time there must be_, or a servant cannot do credit to her place, by keeping herself neat and respectable. But the time should never be _stolen_: a mistress pays for time, and it is her right. There must be a distinct understanding between the mistress and servant; and I do not hesitate to say, from my own experience, that such an arrangement would be found mutually advantageous.”

After the meeting was over, several little groups might be seen in various parts of the room, engaged in earnest conversation. I heard one of them say it was “a sight clearer to her than ever it had been before.”

About two years after this conversation, a woman called at my house, one morning, bringing her two daughters with her, apparently about seventeen or eighteen years of age. I remembered she had formerly attended our meeting, but she had since removed from the immediate neighbourhood. After the first inquiries had passed, she said—

“I don’t know whether you remember, ma’am, about two years ago you talked to us at the Mothers’ Meeting, one evening, all about servants and missuses, and such like. I was there, and these two girls. We had been puzzling ourselves a deal, for some time before, to know what was best to do; and we understood what you said, and liked it; and it seemed to make us see things better than we had ever done before. I had heard of some places for them; but we were afraid they would be overworked, and all that. As we were going home, the girls said they would try for it: they didn’t want to be ‘gingerbread people,’ either. So they took heart, and went to work, and they have been hard at it ever since. They ar’n’t very stout, you see, ma’am; for they’ve had plenty of work, and none too much to live upon. But she’s a cook (pointing to the eldest), and I’ll be bound no master’ll ever send for her to say she’s spoiled his dinner; and she’s been in the nursery (pointing to the youngest), and learned to do needlework well, as I can shew you (producing a piece of work). There, ma’am, ar’n’t that something like it should be? She won’t have to bargain for what she can’t do, that’s certain.”

There stood these two girls, looking rather pale and worn, but by no means unhappy. They were very plainly, though neatly, dressed; for no finery could have been afforded out of the small wages which they had received. There was dignity about them, arising from a feeling of conscious worth, and a sense that they were not simply asking for employment as a favour: they were prepared honourably and truthfully to give back in labour, the value of what they received in board and wages. The contract would be advantageous to both parties, proving that our wise and kind Father has allowed and designed all these distinctions for good; that, by mutual dependence, we may be led to cherish those feelings of respect and regard for each other which are the strongest cement of society.

“For the body (of society) is not one member, but many.

“And the eye cannot say unto the hand, I have no need of thee; nor again the head to the feet, I have no need of thee.”

“That there should be no schism in the body; but that the members should have the same care one for another.”

“And whether one member suffer, all the members suffer with it.”

I need hardly say that places were easily found for such girls. The gipsy-girl, too, has kept to her determination of doing something well, and has been in one place for the last fifteen months.