“Be useful where thou livest, that they may
Both want and wish thy pleasing presence still.
Kindness, good parts, great patience are the way
To compass this. Find out men’s wants and will,
And meet them there. All worldly joys go less
To the one joy of doing kindnesses.”

George Herbert.

Some time ago, I received a letter, in which the following remark occurs:—“Amongst the number of women whom you have had to do with in this society, you surely cannot always have escaped meeting with, what we call, queer characters, even if not desperate ones. There is a class of unmanageable women in the world, of whom I am more afraid than of anything else; and the very thought of them has deterred me from commencing a society open to any one, and, consequently, open to such as I have referred to.”

The difficulty mentioned here will generally be experienced, to a greater or less extent, at the commencement of these societies; and in the establishment of them it should by all means be anticipated and considered. But, after a time, when the greater part of the members have conformed to law and order, the general disposition will be manifested so strongly in the right direction, that the rebellious individuals will either make up their mind to conform, or to leave. There is a quiet way of meeting sauciness, which very soon disarms it. It is some trouble to be saucy; and when nothing is gained by it, not even amusement, the attempt is generally relinquished as not worth the effort.

I think it was the second winter after we were established, that a fine, tall woman presented herself, and said she wished to be admitted. I told her of our usual arrangements, and asked her if she would like to have some material for work. She said, “No; not that night: she should look about her, and see how she liked it.” She took a seat just before me, sat with her arms crossed, and hardly kept her promise of looking about her, as she stared at me all the time. In about half an hour, she got up, and said she should go, as it was duller than she had expected.

The next week, to my great surprise, she came again. She said that she wanted some material for work; and asked if we had anything good enough for her. She was supplied with what was required, and she took it away to her seat; but brought it back again in a few minutes, saying, “It wasn’t such stuff as that she wanted.” I took the flannel from her, put it back into the box, shut the box, and went on reading, leaving her standing at the table; while every one else was quietly working and listening. She looked at me steadily for some minutes, in the hope of my “having a row with her;” but as I took no kind of notice, and continued to read without even raising my voice, she presently walked across the room, upsetting a few things in her way, opened the door, and, bouncing out, banged it after her, so as to shake the whole room.During the next week I made a few inquiries about her, and was told she was “the best hand in the Potteries at a row.”

“Law, ma’am! have you got Mrs A— among you? Why, she’ll soon upset you all. Why, when she goes with the men into the public-house, they’re all afeared of her. There’s never no peace where she is.”

This account quite confirmed the opinion which I had formed, that she was a woman of great energy and uncommon ability; while, if that energy and ability could only be turned to some proper use, she might be just as valuable as she was now mischievous. But the difficulty was how to get at such a person, with whom one had so little in common. I confess, I rather hoped that I should see no more of her. But the next week she was there again, and again asked for work. I gave her what she had refused the week before, which she took without saying a word, and went away to her seat.

Whilst taking the money for the work, and settling the accounts, I did not require the women to be quiet,—that is their time for saying to one another what they wish; so that I did not take any notice of the very loud tone in which my new and formidable member conversed, nor of her subject, which was principally a running commentary upon my proceedings. At length I took the Bible, and sitting down, all the mothers put aside their work, and remain quite silent. This woman, however, kept cutting out, and talking on, pretending that she did not observe the change. After waiting a minute or two, I said to her—“We do not continue the work while the chapter is being read. We think it a respect due to the Word of God to sit quietly and listen.”

“Then, I suppose, I must waste my time too?”

“I am sorry you think it waste of time; but you certainly must do as the rest. No one is obliged to come here, but whoever chooses to come must conform to our rules.”

She threw down her scissors, and sat out the reading with a very ill grace. Had there been any one to side with her, I believe we could hardly have escaped “a scene,” but she seemed rather an object of dislike to the rest; they were annoyed at the interruption which she had caused, and she met with no encouragement. She subsided considerably after another week or two; and her sole mode of annoyance consisted in saying, partly to herself, and partly to her next neighbour, while I was speaking, in a tone that I might or might not hear, as I pleased—

“That’s nothing new.” “Everybody knows that, I sh’d think.” “I wonder where she pick’d that up!” &c.

I tried at first the effect of not hearing, but as that experiment did not succeed, I thought I must adopt some other means. One evening, I heard her muttering, in reference to something which I had just said—

“I knew all that long ago, and a pretty deal more, too.”

I stopped, and looking directly at her, said—

“Mrs A—, I have just heard you say, ‘I knew all that long ago, and a pretty deal more, too.’ Now, if that is the case, I should like you to tell us what you do know. The object of this meeting is to get all the information which we possibly can, upon subjects of this kind, and I shall be delighted to learn anything from you; and so, I am sure, will every one else here. One of our rules is, that one person shall speak at a time, but it does not at all follow that I should always be the speaker. I will leave what I was going to say, as any other time will do, and we will listen to you.”

There was a murmur of dissatisfaction at this; but I quelled it directly, stating, that “I wished there should be no interruption; we would all be perfectly quiet, and would listen to what Mrs A— had to say.”

After a minute or two another woman attempted to speak, but I stopped her.

“Anything you like, presently; but this is Mrs A—’s time.”

Poor Mrs A—! it was her time, indeed. There we sat, the clock went “tick, tick,” the needles went “click, click,” although most of the workers stopped in astonishment. Even the babies did not relieve us by a squall. The silence was terrible, Mrs A— would have known how to have acted in a storm; there she would have been in her element,—none could outstorm a storm better than she; but this calm was dreadful. She had sense enough to know she had brought this difficulty upon herself; that I was simply standing on one side, to let her folly fall directly upon herself. She did not say anything, but it was evident she inwardly writhed under the infliction, even more than I had expected; and I have thought since, that the punishment partook of the refinement of cruelty. After this silence had lasted three or four minutes, I observed, that I supposed she did not remember what she had intended to say; and I went on again where I left off, as if nothing had happened.

When the meeting was over, and the women were going out, I saw Mrs A— standing irresolutely near the door. She evidently did not like to leave without “giving it to me well,” and yet she had sense enough to know there was no one to blame but herself. I called to her, and asked her if she would arrange the work-bags for me; she came back, and before she had finished, the other women were all gone, and we were alone. I then said to her—

“Mrs A—, it has been no pleasure to me to make you feel so uncomfortable this evening; I have been waiting for some weeks past, in the hope that your own good sense would shew you the necessity of accommodating yourself to our plans and rules. I can scarcely make as much excuse for your behaviour as I should for a child. A child is often compelled to go where he does not like; but every one who comes here, comes of her own free will, and need never pay a second visit, if it is not agreeable.”

“I wish I had never come a-nigh the place.”

“You have been uncomfortable this evening, I know; but you forget how many evenings before this you have made me uncomfortable. If only a very few were to act as you have done, our meetings would be brought into such disorder that it would be folly to attempt to meet at all. One principal thing for which many of these women value the meetings is, that they are quiet. It would be no kindness to them to bring them out of the bustle and confusion of home into another scene of bustle and confusion. Now, will you answer me this one question? Do you think I should be a fit person to preside over this meeting, if I could not, and did not check such annoyance and interruption as you have caused?”

“Why, no; I do think I am a sort of a fool;” and the long pent-up feelings of mortification began to vent themselves in tears.

“I did not think that,” I replied. “I have often looked at you, and admired the ability and energy which you have shewn. Why, I think you could cut out work fester than any three of the rest of us put together; and you have a good idea of order and arrangement, too. I have already learned some things of you, and you could help me a great deal, if you would.”

“I don’t think I shall come here any more.”

“I would advise you to stay away for a month. By that time all that has passed will be forgotten. If you will call on me at my house, this day week, in the afternoon, I shall be happy to see you; and when we have had a long chat together, we shall be better acquainted.”

She came. I found it as I had expected. Next to the unrenewed nature, the evil had its rise in great physical strength, and mental energy never fully expended. Her husband was what they call “a quiet man,” perhaps more easily managed than she liked; and her two children went to school, and did not give her much trouble. But it was not so much the want of occupation, (for her pig-feeding establishment must have made great demands upon her time,) as a kind of mental restlessness, which nothing in her mechanical life could absorb. The mischief done by a river in overflowing its banks will never be remedied by damming the water back on itself; it will only return again and again. Fresh channels must be dug for it, and then the same element that previously spread destruction, will produce verdure and fertility.

I was able to suggest several subjects to this poor woman, which both interested and occupied her. She was one of the most expeditious cutters-out of work that I have ever seen. She reminded me of the lady who said “her scissors knew the way.” During the first winter, and before the society became so large, I was in the habit of cutting out most of the work for the mothers, but now I engaged Mrs A— to come to the room half an hour before the time, to help me. I used to take patterns of some things that were not made up in the room—things that I thought would be useful to them. These I confided to her, with a quantity of paper, by which she could reproduce them to any one who might wish for them. Many a well-fitting garment to be seen in the Potteries has been procured in this way. Since our plans have been altered, and each member cuts out her own work, many an unskilful, trembling hand has been relieved by these “scissors that know the way.” Several of our little orderly methods, also, for which I have been complimented by visitors, were originally suggested by the former disturber of our peace. She is now a great reader. One of the last books which I lent her was “Sandford and Merton.” She told me, when she returned it, that she often kept her own boys, and half-a-dozen others, quiet for an hour or two together, by reading aloud to them.

The deep attention with which she always listens to the reading of the Word of God, and the great improvement that has taken place in her habits of life, induce me to hope that, if she has not found, she is, at least, earnestly seeking Him who can “save to the uttermost.”

There is another character, however, which is met with—to me, far more difficult and trying than that to which my friend has referred. Saucy women are seldom deceptive. The surface is often worse than that which remains hidden. But the bland, smooth-faced ones, who agree to everything you say, compliment you upon everything you do, smile sweetly alike at either censure or praise, and talk against you as soon as your back is turned—what can be done with such people? Fortunately for me (for I am still as much at a loss as ever to answer this question), this is not a common type of character in the Potteries. Although I have, of course, had constant money transactions with the women, I cannot now recall more than seven or eight cases in which the least attempt has been made to overreach and deceive; and only in one instance have I lost money by lending it.

But the climax of evil in a woman is the habit of drinking. There are many more drunkards amongst men than amongst women, certainly; but whilst I have known many men reform, I have known but very few women amend, after having thus once fallen into this horrid vice. Whether it be that a woman who has given way to intemperance feels so utterly degraded and out of place, as to be hopeless of ever righting herself again, and that she consequently proceeds desperately from bad to worse, I cannot tell; but certainly the effects of this vice upon herself, her husband, and her family, are terrible in the extreme. No tongue can express what the child of the drunken mother suffers. I cannot think of such misery without tears. Two wretched little children, almost destitute of clothes, came to my door one bitterly cold day. The very sight of them made my children cry; and, contrary to my judgment (for, alas! experience has made me wise), I allowed them to dress them in warm woollen jackets. Not many yards from the door, the mother was waiting for them: she took them at once to the pawn-shop, stripped the little shivering ones of the only warm garments which they had known for many a day, disposed of them for a trifle, and got drunk with the money. The next day, the sufferings of one of these children were happily closed by death. I say, happily; for death is the only release—a release to be desired beyond everything for the drunken mother’s child. Here we must weep for the living, and not for the dead.

The duties of life assigned to our working men and women require a well-developed physical constitution, as well as that mental power which gives firmness to endure. The early sufferings, privations, and exposure which attend the infancy and childhood of the drunkard’s offspring, almost preclude the possibility of the first; and the poor mind has, if anything, a still worse chance. Then, with this enfeebled body and mind, the child grows up to take his place in society, unable to contend with physical labour, tortured with the constant cravings for stimulants which he has inherited, and is an easy prey to the numberless temptations which beset his path. Again, I ask, is it any wonder that those who are daily watching these things with unspeakable sorrow, should refuse to touch, taste, or handle that which is the cause of such infinite misery?

Only a few women addicted to this fearful vice have joined our society, and they have never continued long in it. When the Word of God is constantly read and explained, when it is made the foundation of all that is taught,—for our relative and domestic duties have not there been passed over,—deliberate living in sin becomes incompatible with the pureness of the moral atmosphere diffused around. Many a deep sigh have I heard, as the prayer for the poor drunkard has gone up.

One evening, I was reading the fifteenth chapter of St Luke. When we came to the words—“I will arise, and go to my father,” I said that some seemed to think that only a certain kind of prodigal would be received back in this way. I had often heard poor drunkards remark, that there was no mercy for them—they were given up—they must be lost; whereas if we went back a little in the history, and remembered that it was said of this particular prodigal, “he wasted his substance in riotous living,” it would seem that the drunkard was especially meant. I observed a poor, untidy, dirty woman sitting near me; she was weeping bitterly: her distress was so great, that I never felt so much difficulty in steadying my voice and going on. After the meeting was over, she staid behind to speak to me. She said—“Oh, ma’am, I have felt lost for years, as if nothing could save me; and the thought that I might hope quite overcame me; it was so new to me, I thought I should have sunk!” This woman attended regularly for a few weeks, and then she was obliged to remove to a distance. I have not heard of her since. The neighbours told me she was “a deal steadier afore she left;” and I have hope in that word which “shall not return unto me void; but it shall accomplish that which I please, and it shall prosper in the thing whereto I sent it.”

In order to impress a portion of Scripture upon the minds of our members, I request them, after the prayer is over, to repeat a verse. This is not, of course, compulsory; but most of them comply, or attempt to comply. As some of them cannot read at all, and others very imperfectly, there are not many who repeat the passage correctly. I generally make a few remarks upon the verse which I select, with the hope that they will better remember it, and take it as their motto for the week. I remember, one evening, I repeated—“Fear not, little flock; it is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom.” I told them I once heard of a man who had a great deal of money—more than he really knew what to do with. He had a brother, who was very poor, and who used sometimes to ask his rich brother for help. One day, he begged for the loan of £20. The rich brother said he would advance the sum, on the condition that the poor brother would write and promise never to trouble him any more. I contrasted this with God’s way of bestowing His gifts upon us. He not only gives, but it is His good pleasure to give (as we say, sometimes, we are happy to do so and so), and bestow, not a perishing sum of money only, but a kingdom. A poor chimney-sweeper’s wife, sitting near me, was evidently listening with even more than her usual earnestness. She could not read, neither could her husband, and they had no children old enough to go to school; therefore, repeating a verse was to her a considerable undertaking. She was, however, one of those energetic people who cannot bear to be left behind. A fragment of a verse, if nothing more, we were sure to get from her; and the mutilations did not trouble her, as she was not conscious of them. I saw, upon this occasion, she was bent upon getting possession of this verse; and I therefore took care to repeat it distinctly two or three times. Next week, when it came to her turn, she repeated, in a triumphant voice, as if she thought her verse now as good as any one’s—“Fear not, little flock; yer Father will be very ’appy to give yer the kingdom.”

The narratives of Scripture, when explained and illustrated, interest them more than any story-book that I have ever found. The pressure of their domestic duties prevents many of them from attending a place of worship; and the imperfect way in which they read, obliges them to give more attention to the words than to the sense, and keeps their stock of book-knowledge very small. The history of Daniel in the lion’s den has the same charm for them as for children. I remember once, when reading the verse—“Then said Daniel unto the king, O king, live for ever.” I said, these words strikingly shewed how perfectly calm and self-possessed the prophet was. We might have supposed, from the terrible position in which he was, that he would have said at once, “Oh, take me away from this dreadful place!” but instead of that, he did not even forget to preface his answer to the king with the usual courtly phrase, “O king, live for ever.” After the meeting was over, I observed two women standing together, and talking about this. One of them was an Irishwoman, and a professed Roman Catholic. She was saying to the other—“And jist to think now, that he should have minded his manners, and all, at sich a time as that.” Little expressions of this kind are not only amusing, but valuable as a criterion by which to judge how far the women understand what is said, and are interested in it. A friend of mine, who attended the meeting once, was so much diverted by some of these original sayings and doings, that she said afterwards—“I am afraid you must find the society of polite people, who never say or do anything but what is strictly correct, rather dull after this.”