 | Dorothy |  |
Still, after all, with the life of a rustic maid, of a servant,
Thought has but little to do; action alone is her sphere.
Action! And what can she do? Must I tell you our Dorothy's labours,
Set her accomplishments down, merely to flatter your pride;
Merely to let you perceive that she cannot do anything you do;
Can neither play nor sing; cannot speak German, nor French;
Cannot converse—not she—on matters away from her calling;
Can't for the life of her tell what your æsthetics may mean;
Cannot at all understand, when you speak about pictures and concerts;
Has not the faintest idea either of science or art;
Nay, is so dreadfully dull, that you all might talk in her presence
Hours together, and she would not remember a word!
Ay, and worse still—for this is a fatal sign, in a woman—
Has no views about dress; cares not a bit for the mode?
But, if you ask her to tell of the things that belong to the country—
How cade-lambs are rear'd; when such a calf should be wean'd;
How to make butter and cheese, or do this or that in the kitchen;
She, in her modest way, simply and aptly replies:
Or, if you ask of the ways of birds and four-footed creatures,
Robin the keeper himself knows them not better than she.
True (as among the poor and such as live by labour
Often a skilful hand goes with a faltering tongue;
Or as the knights of old left the tale of their deeds to a minstrel,
Thinking it scorn to relate what they were proud to achieve)
True—there was much she could do, but could not explain how she did it;
Spending her skill on the deed, not on the art to describe:
But she could show it in act—could show how to harness a cart-horse,
How to cut turnips for sheep; how to feed cattle in stall;
How you should choose your manure for a cold clay land, or a light one;
How you should fatten a pig; how you should kill him and cure.
Thought has but little to do; action alone is her sphere.
Action! And what can she do? Must I tell you our Dorothy's labours,
Set her accomplishments down, merely to flatter your pride;
Merely to let you perceive that she cannot do anything you do;
Can neither play nor sing; cannot speak German, nor French;
Cannot converse—not she—on matters away from her calling;
Can't for the life of her tell what your æsthetics may mean;
Cannot at all understand, when you speak about pictures and concerts;
Has not the faintest idea either of science or art;
Nay, is so dreadfully dull, that you all might talk in her presence
Hours together, and she would not remember a word!
Ay, and worse still—for this is a fatal sign, in a woman—
Has no views about dress; cares not a bit for the mode?
But, if you ask her to tell of the things that belong to the country—
How cade-lambs are rear'd; when such a calf should be wean'd;
How to make butter and cheese, or do this or that in the kitchen;
She, in her modest way, simply and aptly replies:
Or, if you ask of the ways of birds and four-footed creatures,
Robin the keeper himself knows them not better than she.
True (as among the poor and such as live by labour
Often a skilful hand goes with a faltering tongue;
Or as the knights of old left the tale of their deeds to a minstrel,
Thinking it scorn to relate what they were proud to achieve)
5
Spending her skill on the deed, not on the art to describe:
But she could show it in act—could show how to harness a cart-horse,
How to cut turnips for sheep; how to feed cattle in stall;
How you should choose your manure for a cold clay land, or a light one;
How you should fatten a pig; how you should kill him and cure.
‘Base barren knowledge,’ say you? But what if it earns her a living?
What if it should be her all—all she can ever display?
And I deny it is base: these things must be done, and the doer
Surely ennobles the work, if she be true to herself;
Yea, she ennobles her mates: the presence and help of a woman,
If she be woman indeed, checks yet enlivens a man.
Woman indeed—ah yes; for factory-girls and pit-girls
Well may be under control, working in gangs as they do;
But in our Dorothy's life, herself was her only controller;
Master and maid was she, working with men or alone.
Oh—I have yet to complete the list of her many employments:
First, she can read, as I said; read in the Bible, I mean—
Oft on a Sunday night, when the household meet in the evening,
Reading aloud by the hearth, taking her turn with the rest:
And, as I said, she can write; she can fashion her name in a round hand
Fit for a ploughman to see under his own in the book:
Then, she can sew, right well: for stitching and hemming and darning,
Whether to make or to mend, none are more clever than she;
Hard as her fingers are, fine needlework only excepted,
None in the parish can show stitching more subtle than hers:
Samplers, too; long ago, she wrought a most beautiful sampler,
Gay with a cris-cross row, splendid with Adam and Eve;
Framed in her attic, it is, a joy for them that come after:
Such as her mother made—such as they never make now.
Then, she can scrub, and scour, and swill with the bucket and besom,
Flinging her pailfuls afar mightily over the yard;
Sweeping the water away with rapid and vigorous movement,
Till on the clean wet flags never a footmark appears:
And all over the house you may hear her on Saturdays, always,
Down on her hands and knees, lustily scrubbing away;
Scrubbing the warm red bricks of the kitchen floor or the dairy;
Scrubbing the oaken boards—parlour and staircase and all.
Item—as Touchstone says—she can blacklead grates and fenders;
Cleverly lay you a fire, tidily sweep up the hearth;
Dig and carry the coals; chop wood, and polish the irons;
Blacken her master's boots, and, on a Sunday, her own.
What if her hands for awhile were as black as the boots she was cleaning?
They were the better for that—weapons of better defence:
So that, if Robin should come and slyly offer to kiss her,
'Ere she has wash'd at the sink, 'ere she can rise from the floor,
Up go her dangerous hands, and she cries ‘Mr. Robert, behave now!
Else I shall give you a face black as a tinker's, like mine!’
What if it should be her all—all she can ever display?
And I deny it is base: these things must be done, and the doer
Surely ennobles the work, if she be true to herself;
Yea, she ennobles her mates: the presence and help of a woman,
If she be woman indeed, checks yet enlivens a man.
Woman indeed—ah yes; for factory-girls and pit-girls
Well may be under control, working in gangs as they do;
But in our Dorothy's life, herself was her only controller;
Master and maid was she, working with men or alone.
Oh—I have yet to complete the list of her many employments:
First, she can read, as I said; read in the Bible, I mean—
Oft on a Sunday night, when the household meet in the evening,
Reading aloud by the hearth, taking her turn with the rest:
And, as I said, she can write; she can fashion her name in a round hand
Fit for a ploughman to see under his own in the book:
Then, she can sew, right well: for stitching and hemming and darning,
Whether to make or to mend, none are more clever than she;
Hard as her fingers are, fine needlework only excepted,
None in the parish can show stitching more subtle than hers:
Samplers, too; long ago, she wrought a most beautiful sampler,
Gay with a cris-cross row, splendid with Adam and Eve;
Framed in her attic, it is, a joy for them that come after:
Such as her mother made—such as they never make now.
6
Flinging her pailfuls afar mightily over the yard;
Sweeping the water away with rapid and vigorous movement,
Till on the clean wet flags never a footmark appears:
And all over the house you may hear her on Saturdays, always,
Down on her hands and knees, lustily scrubbing away;
Scrubbing the warm red bricks of the kitchen floor or the dairy;
Scrubbing the oaken boards—parlour and staircase and all.
Item—as Touchstone says—she can blacklead grates and fenders;
Cleverly lay you a fire, tidily sweep up the hearth;
Dig and carry the coals; chop wood, and polish the irons;
Blacken her master's boots, and, on a Sunday, her own.
What if her hands for awhile were as black as the boots she was cleaning?
They were the better for that—weapons of better defence:
So that, if Robin should come and slyly offer to kiss her,
'Ere she has wash'd at the sink, 'ere she can rise from the floor,
Up go her dangerous hands, and she cries ‘Mr. Robert, behave now!
Else I shall give you a face black as a tinker's, like mine!’
| Dorothy | |