HOSPITALITY.
WORKING-CLASS women are by nature extremely hospitable, but the narrowness of their houses and the supreme claims of husband and children often prevent them from gratifying the inclination until late in life. Poverty is no hindrance to hospitality and charity, as I have learnt from many widows in large towns living in single rooms on out-relief or a tiny pension, nor are they checked by false pride. As long as they are satisfied with the cleanli- ness of their immediate surroundings, they will receive any guest, gentle or simple, with the same quiet dignity.
On one occasion a widow of seventy-six invited me to tea with her ; but I was given ten days' notice, and it was what my London patients called "quite a classy ent'tainment." A white cloth was spread on a low table in front of the fire, and I sat in a basket-chair with cushions. " I had the cakes toasted in the kitchen," said my hostess. "This fine spring day I thought a large fire would be too much for you." I knew that she rented a single room at ls. 9d., and that we were sitting in it ; but I murmured polite assent. The dish had only been "genteelly " full, and presently she said : "I must ring for some more hot cakes." She rapped on the wall,—no child could have made-believe in more whole-hearted fashion. The door opened about ten inches, and an arm and hand passed in a steaming dish. I knew the arm ; it belonged to an unpolished but kindly disposed neighbour, and I was in an awkward position. Ought I to speak to the arm or not P My hostess cut the knot: " You must excuse Mrs. Black. She's not dressed."
Later in the afternoon she told me that although an only and much-loved child, she had been trained in a severe school of manners. When, some seventy years previously, her mother first began to take her out to tea, her manners often broke down under the strain of excitement, fatigue, or the bad example of other children, and then "Mother would seem to pass it over at the time, but when she got me home, how she did whip me " On the still more solemn occasions when the visits were returned, to "'scope whipping" was practically impossible.
A modern mother of the same class reminded me of the mad woman in " The Green Graves of Balgowrie." She told me that when she was expecting a friend to tea she dressed and sat in the middle of the room and played the part of the visitor, and her children had to come in one by one, shut the door gently, and welcome the guest with a few polite remarks considered suitable to the occasion, and this bad to be done over and over again until she was satisfied with their deport- ment. Hardest of all, if asked to "play a tune " or recite a poem, the children were to do it at once, and "as if only anxious to give pleasure."
In country districts, owing to the fact that the poverty is greater, and that there is rarely any tradition of "better days," both charity and hospitality are less frequently exercised in the homes of the labouring classes. I have only once received hospitality in the cottage of an agricultural labourer. I had lost my way in a thinly populated district in Shropshire, and asked an elderly woman if there were any place where I could get something to eat. She said there was no shop in the village, and very kindly asked me to come to her house and share her dinner. The meal was neatly served, and I fear that it was her ordinary fare, but it consisted of nothing but stewed tea without milk, stale bread, and rancid butter. The oven-door was half open, and a large pie-dish was visible, but it only contained her husband's socks.
The following account of the charity and hospitality of a woman living on an income of four shillings a week, all told, is best given in her own words :- " I gets up at half-past seven, and as soon as I'm dressed I lights me fire. I finds it better to keep warm, even if it means getting less to eat. Then I gets me cup o' tea, and as soon as l've had 'un, I takes one into me neighbour in the next room. Poor dear, her have a cancer. I says to myself : ' Cathy, you ain't fit to live if you can't do a kindness to them as is worse off'n yourself.'
A nice clean young woman comes every morning and sees to my friend something proper. Often she'll knock at my door and say: ' Be willing to help wi' the bed P' Her speaks civil and shows respect ; so I says, ' Oh yea, Miss,' and then while I helps her we talks about what's going on among our fellow-creatures. I often spends a 'apenny on a News, and I says : Miss, whad you think of this serious weather, and that big ship being lost, and all they poor fellows &a/waded P Ah, it do take 'ee into Doubting Court.' And then Miss talk about health. ' Go out every day, Mrs. Mills,' she say, ' and sit in the park close by. It'll do 'cc a power o' good, the fresh air will.' Miss is one of them nurses the Queen sent over the country. Her knows what her's talking about. Every day she says I hope yer've taken the air, Mrs. Mills.' I don't like to disappoint the young woman, so each fine day I goes to the park. I puts my dinner ready afore I start. It ain't much you can get out of three-and-six. I minds me of the time when if yer had a bit of refer'noe and took he to Passen or Squire, you was ripe for a shilling; but all they people be most played out now. They says: Working people get the eddication now ; let 'em look to theirselves.' Not but what I knows two or three angel ladies like when I was young, and they helps me a bit. Their hearts is beautiful, but they've none too much o' this world's goods, and they can't do impossible-ties.
But I were telling about me dinner. I ain't got no teeth to speak on to chow, so I likes things tilled. I gets two- pennyworth pieces from the butcher ; when he knows yer, he treats yer well. Then I buy a penn'orth of vegetables ; most often it'll be potatoes, carrot, and onion. I mix up a few flour balls, and that makes me a real tidy dinner. Some days I has kettle-broth. I biles an onion, cuts 'un np fine, and beats 'un up with a bit of dripping, salt, and pepper, puts it in a basin with all me dry crusties, and pours on boiling water, and I has a good meal. I never tastes butter, but I has beautiful dripping. I buys a quarter for twopence from the butcher when my ladies has none for me. I buys lovely tay in penny packets, and a ha'p'orth of fresh milk. Sometimes I has a penn'orth o' jam or treacle.
In the aft'noon I drops off for a bit, and when I've had me tay I goes to see me sick neighbour, and I reads a chapter to her. She's all right, you know, only she isn't one to say nothing. One day I says to she : ' The Almighty likes to be enquired of '; but she turns it off and says: You'll come again soon, won't you, Mrs. Mills P' I read her a chapter about that beautiful woman Ruth, and I says : You must be like Ruth and never murmur.' Tain't no good to murmur, and if her do, the parish doctor '11 clap her into the House.
I goes to bed at half-past seven; saves fire and candle. I have to give a ha'penny for my candle. They'd insult in this town if you ast for a farthing candle or a farthing of salt. I telled Miss how quick the candle did burn, and she said: ' You try and buy three or four to a time, and let 'em dry like soap. I got a friend who buys hers in for a twelvemonth, and they do last.'
Sundays I allus has a visitor. I got a pore brother up to the House. He have been there since he was thirteen, and now he is sixty. His head's big enough, but 'tain't the size of yer head that does it, but the quality of what's inside it. My pore brother wanted to learn to read. The master he be a nice gentleman, and he said they'd try to learn he ; but he can't read one word, though he can write a bit, and now he go about saying: ' They're a ignorant lot in this town. None of 'em can't learn me to read.'
All the gentlemen in the House what have friends come out from ten to four. My pore brother, he sensible enough to find his way to my place. I'll tell per a trick I plays 'un sometimes. I hides away the bit o' fish I got for's dinner. He do look so sad round the room. ' No dinner, Cathy ' You go out for a walk, lad,' I says, and come back at twelve.' Then I fries 'un the bit o' fish, and mixes up some flour and water and fries he a pancake, and when he comes in his eyes do shine and he eats it all up. He hasn't the wit to see I got no dinner, on'y some bread and tay. But I shall have me reward.
I've been up to the House to see my pore brother when he's sick. He is in a clean, comfortable spot, with high nurses and low nurses to look after he—all got to be paid, I apex—and nice blothes to his bed and plenty food and beautiful flowers. But I don't want to go up there yet
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