God says, “Sweat For foreheads;” men say, “Crowns:” and so we are crowned; Ay, gashed by some tormenting circle of steel, Which snaps with a secret spring. Elizabeth B. Browning. If to the city sped—what waits him there? To see profusion that he must not share; To see ten thousand baneful arts combined, To pamper luxury and thin mankind. Goldsmith (“Deserted Village”). What is the perfect life for a Christian man or woman? It was settled once for all by our Lord. “Sell all that thou hast and give to the poor”—and live in a cave, on the top of a column, in a monastic cell, or beg for daily bread from door to door? Would that fulfil the command? The nineteenth century has no place for St. Simeon’s Pillar; the cells of the monks are turned to other uses than that of contemplation, which is not quite in the way of the age of steam and the telegraph; and begging and alms-giving are denounced by students of social economy. What is the precise application, then, of our Saviour’s teaching to the present day? Though deaths from starvation and terrible tales of privation are not uncommon in our great cities, and the condition of the unskilled working classes is particularly unsatisfactory, there is no question that our poor even at their worst are better off by far than those of our Lord’s time. Admitting the work that remains Walk through the unlovely streets where the worker dwells in London. Note the changes that have taken place in them during the past fifty years. Once there were mansions in them, where their employers dwelt. Now these deserted places are let off in tenements, since their former occupants have long ago left them for brighter and wealthier parts of the town. Grim, dirty, and neglected parish churches stand in the midst of graveyards filled with the tumble-down monuments of rich It happened that just as Sister Agnes left St. Bernard’s, a number of ladies of wealth and position had formed themselves into a community, without any distinctly religious badge or dogmas, for the purpose of residing together in an East London district. They took a large, old-fashioned house in the Commercial Road, called in a skilful architect and a builder, had it put in thorough repair and properly adapted to the purposes of colonization by the well-to-do. They were women of ample leisure, intelligence, and business capacity, and were impressed by the idea that if one would help the poor and ignorant, it could only be done effectually by teaching them how to help themselves. They did not propose to inculcate the religious opinions of any particular section of the Christian Church; they wore no distinctive dress, had no politics in particular, and were only actuated by a desire to see for themselves what was the real life and what were the real needs of the working people with whom Such was the plan which had worked so admirably at Oxford House, Bethnal Green, established by a number of Oxford men for just this work; and these good women rightly argued: If such an institution worked by men has been found so useful, how much more effectual would be something on similar, but less ambitious lines, if worked by women! Reform the women, you reform the men and the next generation. Make the home It was brave of these good Oxford men to go and live in the gloomiest part of surely the gloomiest and poorest parish of East London; but though they might stimulate the brains of the people amongst whom they laboured, and do good in a thousand ways, it was impossible for them to hope to achieve the influence of women in the home. The men could capture the outworks; women were required to secure the citadel. So they spent their money liberally, and went to work at the courts and alleys that run off right and left of this great thoroughfare from the Docks to the City. One of their great ideas was an hospital for Women and Children—not a place for teaching doctors their business, or giving them scope for their fads,—not “happy hunting grounds” for “cases,” but wards for the restoration to health with all possible speed of sick folk of the neighbourhood who could not effectually be tended at home. It was an axiom with the Lady Head of the Home, which was called Nightingale House, that no sick person should be removed to the hospitals who could be effectually and comfortably treated at home. She argued that we do great harm by making hospitals the universal resource of the lower classes, even of those who have sufficiently comfortable homes. She maintained with great force that much of the tenderness of family life is fostered, nay, created, by the mutual care of parent and child, husband and wife, brother and sister, in seasons of illness and in the hour of death; and held that if we deduct from our feelings all which we owe to sources of this kind, the residue would represent all that we can expect from the working classes under the present system. Thus if the home were not over-crowded and the disease not infectious, she held that it should be nursed and doctored in the family. As much kindly aid and sympathy, as much attention and skill as possible these ladies lent, but there was no removal from home unless absolutely necessary. Sister Agnes was just the woman Sister Agnes had made many friends amongst her patients at St Bernard’s, and many of them and their relatives came to see her at her new home, and sought her advice in their troubles and difficulties. Her great experience and ability enabled her to penetrate to the bottom of many a little mystery. She often wondered how she could so long have been cognisant of the things that took place and had not sooner rebelled. Often a husband or wife who was a patient at the old place would write home, and the letters would be brought to her for her opinion. A poor carman at the docks one day brought her a letter which his wife had sent him the previous day. The poor man did not know what to make of it. His wife had gone to the hospital merely on account of loss of appetite and strength, and the doctors, after “overhauling her like a barge as was in dry dock,” as he expressed it, had come to the conclusion that she had a tumour “somewhere internal,” and if she did not have it taken out she would soon die. “In course, Mum,” said he, “the doctors ought to know best; but my belief all along is they be nothing but practisin’ on her.” Then he gave the Sister the letter his wife had sent him; which was expressed in Mrs. Stubbins’ forcible vernacular. The dialect of a denizen of the London slums abounds in idioms, which were intelligible enough to Sister Agnes from long acquaintance, but she could not help smiling as she read the poor woman’s epistle. “St Bernard’s Hospital, 16th July. “Dear Jack,— “I write these few lines for to let you now how I am gettin along in this plaice. I have bean hear six weaks to-morrer, which is little Jemmie’s birfday. I ain’t undergond the hoperation “Your lovin wife, “Matilda Stubbins.” “Now, Mum,” said the man, “what I wanted to ask you was this. Mrs. Foster, our relieving officer’s wife, I have heerd tell had a tumour in her inside, asking your pardon for speaking like that afore a lady; but you don’t mind me, I hopes, and she went to a ladies’ ’orspital in the West End, and they was a-going to take her pretty nigh all to bits, as the sayin’ is, tellin’ her she’d be a dead woman in no time if it warn’t done; and while the poor thing was a-prayin’ and a-screwin’ of her courage up for to have it done, a lady told her how she had bin cured of the same thing by drinkin’ of gallons and gallons of still water, think they called it.” “Maybe your right, lady; anyways, she drunk pretty nigh a hogshead of it, besides wearing a tin bottle full of it hot round her innards, savin’ your presence, and she got well in three months and the tumour went right away. I have heerd Mr. Foster say so hisself. Now I wants to ask you if so be as you thinks as my poor Tilly could be cured with these ’ere waters like that?” “Well, I can’t tell you that, Stubbins, but if you like I will get a clever doctor I know to see her, and tell us all about the case; but my advice to you, from what I know of St. Bernard’s, is to get her away at once. If the operation must be done, we will find some other hospital, after we have tried what we can do with less severe means.” Visions of similar cases crowded in upon the good Sister’s recollection—of eviscerated creatures in whom no tumour was discovered to remove; of cases where, on the post-mortem table, sponges, and even instruments, had been discovered carelessly sown up in the patients after operation, and had caused their deaths. Had not Dr. Stanforth ever after said, with a look full of meaning, when about to perform this operation, “Count your sponges, sister!” Mrs. Stubbins discharged herself from St. Bernard’s without waiting for further treatment, and actually recovered her health perfectly, unassisted even by “still waters.” She always declares that her doctors were like “Helen’s Babies,” who wanted to see the “wheels go round,” and was glad they had not gratified their curiosity on her “works.” Poor woman! she forgave them the wrong they had intended to do her, for in common with her class she believed it was somehow meant for her good, only “they are so fond of hacking folks about at them places.” Good-natured creatures, they sacrifice their poor skins, organs, and limbs, usually with generosity, when a great institution requires it, though the general practitioner cannot touch them with a lancet without protest. It is the Éclat does the business. |