University of Virginia Library

THE SEMPSTRESS.

However fine and elevated, in a sentimental
point of view, may have been the poetry of this
gifted writer, we think we have never seen any
thing from this source that ought to give a bet
ter opinion of her than the little ballad from
which the above verses are taken.

They show that the accomplished authoress
possessed, not merely a knowledge of the
dreamy ideal wants of human beings, but the
more pressing and homely ones, which the
fastidious and poetical are often the last to appreciate.
The sufferings of poverty are not
confined to those of the common, squalid, every-day

inured to hardships, and ready, with
open hand, to receive charity, let it come to
them as it will. There is another class on
whom it presses with still heavier power: the
generous, the decent, the self-respecting, who
have struggled with their lot in silence, “bearing
all things, hoping all things,” and willing
to endure all things, rather than breathe a word
of complaint, or to acknowledge, even to themselves,
that their own efforts will not be sufficient
for their own necessities.

Pause with me a while at the door of yonder
small room, whose small window overlooks a
little court below. It is inhabited by a widow
and her daughter, dependant entirely on the
labours of the needle, and those other slight
and precarious resources, which are all that remain
to woman when left to struggle her way
“through this bleak world alone.” It contains
all their small earthly store, and there is scarce
an article of its little stock of furniture that has
not been thought of, and toiled for, and its price
calculated over and over again, before everything
could come right for its purchase. Every
article is arranged with the utmost neatness
and care; nor is the most costly furniture of
a fashionable parlour more sedulously guarded
from a scratch or a rub, than is that brightly-varnished
bureau, and that neat cherry tea-table

and bedstead. The floor, too, boasted once
a carpet; but old Time has been busy with it,
picking a hole here, and making a thin place
there; and though the old fellow has been followed
up by the most indefatigable zeal in
darning, the marks of his mischievous fingers
are too plain to be mistaken. It is true, a kindly
neighbour has given a bit of faded baize, which
has been neatly clipped and bound, and spread
down over an entirely unmanageable hole in
front of the fireplace; and other places have
been repaired with pieces of different colours;
and yet, after all, it is evident that the poor carpet
is not long for this world.

But the best face is put upon everything.
The little cupboard in the corner, that contains
a few china cups, and one or two antiquated
silver spoons, relics of better days, is arranged
with jealous neatness, and the white muslin
window-curtain, albeit the muslin be old, has
been carefully whitened, and starched, and
smoothly ironed, and put up with exact precision;
and on the bureau, covered by a snowy
cloth, are arranged a few books and other memorials
of former times, and a faded miniature,
which, though it have little about it to interest
a stranger, is more precious to the poor widow
than everything besides.

Mrs. Ames is seated in her rocking-chair,

supported by a pillow, and busy cutting out
work, while her daughter, a slender, sickly-looking
girl, is sitting by the window, intent on
some fine stitching.

Mrs. Ames, in former days, was the wife of a
respectable merchant, and the mother of an affectionate
family. But evil fortune had followed
her with a steadiness that seemed like the
stern decree of some adverse fate rather than
the ordinary dealings of a merciful Providence.
First came a heavy run of losses in business;
then long and expensive sickness in the family,
and the death of children. Then there was the
selling of the large house and elegant furniture,
to retire to a humbler style of living; and, finally,
the sale of all the property, with the view of
quitting the shores of a native land, and commencing
life again in a new one. But scarcely
had the exiled family found themselves in the
port of a foreign land, when the father was suddenly
smitten down by the hand of Death, and
his lonely grave made in a land of strangers.
The widow, broken-hearted and discouraged,
had still a wearisome journey before her ere
she could reach any whom she could consider
as her friends. With her two daughters, entirely
unattended, and with her finances impoverished
by detention and sickness, she performed
the tedious journey.

Arrived at the place of her destination, she
found herself not only without immediate resources,
but considerably in debt to one who
had advanced money for her travelling expenses.
With silent endurance she met the necessities
of her situation. Her daughters, delicately
reared, and hitherto carefully educated, were
placed out to service, and Mrs. Ames sought
for employment as a nurse. The younger child
fell sick, and the hard earnings of the mother
were all exhausted in the care of her; and
though she recovered in part; she was declared
by her physician to be the victim of a disease
which would never leave her till it terminated
her life.

As soon, however, as her daughter was so
far restored as not to need her immediate care,
Mrs. Ames resumed her laborious employment.
Scarcely had she been able, in this way, to discharge
the debts for her journey and to furnish
the small room we have described, when the
hand of disease was laid heavily on herself.
Too resolute and persevering to give way to
the first attacks of pain and weakness, she still
continued her fatiguing employment till her
system was entirely prostrated. Thus all possibility
of pursuing her business was cut off,
and nothing remained but what could be accomplished
by her own and her daughter's dexterity

at the needle. It is at this time we ask you to
look in upon the mother and daughter.

Mrs. Ames is sitting up, the first time for a
week, and even to-day she is scarcely fit to do
so; but she remembers that the month is coming
round, and her rent will soon be due; and
even in her feebleness she will stretch every
nerve to meet her engagements with punctilious
exactness.

Wearied at length with cutting out, and
measuring, and drawing threads, she leans back
in her chair, and her eye rests on the pale face
of her daughter, who has been sitting for two
hours intent on her stitching.

“Ellen, my child, your head aches; don't
work so steadily.”

“Oh no, it don't ache much,” said she, too
conscious of looking very much tired. Poor
girl, had she remained in the situation in which
she was born, she would now have been skipping
about, and enjoying life as other young
girls of fifteen do; but now there is no choice
of employments for her—no youthful companions—no
visiting—no pleasant walks in the fresh
air. Evening and morning, it is all the same;
headache or sideache, it is all one. She must
hold on the same unvarying task; a wearisome
thing for a girl of fifteen!

But see, the door opens, and Mrs. Ames's face
brightens as her other daughter enters. Mary
has become a domestic in a neighbouring family,
where her faithfulness and kindness of
heart have caused her to be regarded more as
a daughter and a sister than as a servant.
“Here, mother, is your rent-money,” she exclaimed,
“so do put up your work and rest
a while. I can get enough to pay it next time
before the month comes around again.”

“Dear child! I do wish you would ever
think to get anything for yourself,” said Mrs.
Ames; “I cannot consent to use up all your
earnings, as I have done lately, and all Ellen's
too: you must have a new dress this spring,
and that bonnet of yours is not decent any longer.”

“Oh no, mother; I have fixed over my blue
calico, and you would be surprised to see how
well it looks; and my best frock, when it is
washed and darned, will answer some time
longer. And then Mrs. Grant has given me a
riband, and when my bonnet is whitened and
trimmed it will look very well. And so,” she
added, “I brought you some wine this afternoon;
you know the doctor says you need
wine.”

“Dear child! I want to see you take some
comfort of your money yourself.”

“Well, I do take comfort of it, mother. It
is more comfort to be able to help you than to
wear all the finest dresses in the world.”

Two months from this dialogue found our little
family still more straitened and perplexed.
Mrs. Ames had been confined all the time with
sickness, and the greater part of Ellen's time
and strength was occupied with attending to
her.

Very little sewing could the poor girl now
do, in the broken intervals that remained to
her; and the wages of Mary were not only used
as fast as she earned, but she anticipated two
months in advance.

Mrs. Ames had been better for a day or two,
and had been sitting up, exerting all her strength
to finish a set of shirts which had been sent in
to make. “The money for them will just pay
our rent,” sighed she; “and if we can do a little
more this week—”

“Dear mother, you are so tired,” said Ellen,
“do lie down, and not worry any more till I
come back.”

Ellen went out and passed on till she came
to the door of an elegant house, whose damask
and muslin window-curtains indicated a
fashionable residence.

Mrs. Elmore was sitting in her splendidly-furnished

parlour, and around her lay various
fancy articles, which two young girls were
busily unrolling. “What a lovely pink scarf!”
said one, throwing it over her shoulders and
skipping before a mirror; while the other exclaimed,
“Do look at these pocket-handkerchiefs,
mother! what elegant lace!”

“Well, girls,” said Mrs. Elmore, “these handkerchiefs
are a shameful piece of extravagance.
I wonder you will insist on having such things.”

“La! mamma, everybody has such now;
Laura Seymour has half a dozen that cost more
than these, and her father is no richer than
ours.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Elmore, “rich or not rich,
it seems to make very little odds; we do not
seem to have half as much money to spare as
we did when we lived in the little house in
Spring-street. What with new furnishing the
house, and getting everything you boys and
girls say you must have, we are poorer, if anything,
than we were then.”

“Ma'am, here is Mrs. Ames's girl come with
some sewing,” said the servant.

“Show her in,” said Mrs. Elmore.

Ellen entered timidly, and handed her bundle
of work to Mrs. Elmore, who forthwith proceeded
to a minute scrutiny of the articles; for
she prided herself on being very particular as

to her sewing. But, though the work had been
executed by feeble hands and aching eyes, even
Mrs. Elmore could detect no fault in it.

“Well, it is very prettily done,” said she;
“what does your mother charge?”

Ellen handed a neatly-folded bill which she
had drawn for her mother. “I must say, I think
your mother's prices are very high,” said Mrs.
Elmore, examining her nearly empty purse;
“everything is getting so dear that one hardly
knows how to live.” Ellen looked at the fancy
articles, and glanced around the room with
an air of innocent astonishment. “Ah!” said
Mrs. Elmore, “I dare say it seems to you as if
persons in our situation had no need of economy;
but, for my part, I feel the need of it more
and more every day.” As she spoke she handed
Ellen the three dollars, which, though it was
not a quarter the price of one of the handkerchiefs,
was all that she and her sick mother
could claim in the world.

“There,” said she; “tell your mother I like
her work very much, but I do not think I can
afford to employ her, if I can find any one to
work cheaper.”

Now Mrs. Elmore was not a hard-hearted
woman, and if Ellen had come as a beggar to
solicit help for her sick mother, Mrs. Elmore

would have fitted out a basket of provisions,
and sent a bottle of wine, and a bundle of old
clothes, and all the et cetera of such occasions;
but the sight of a bill always aroused all the
instinctive sharpness of her business-like education.
She never had the dawning of an idea
that it was her duty to pay anybody any more
than she could possibly help; nay, she had an
indistinct notion that it was her duty as an economist
to make everybody take as little as possible.
When she and her daughters lived in
Spring-street, to which she had alluded, they
used to spend the greater part of their time at
home, and the family sewing was commonly
done among themselves. But since they had
moved into a large house, and set up a carriage,
and addressed themselves to being genteel, the
girls found that they had altogether too much
to do to attend to their own sewing, much less
to perform any for their father and brothers.
And their mother found her hands abundantly
full in overlooking her large house, in taking
care of expensive furniture, and in superintending
her increased train of servants. The sewing,
therefore, was put out; and Mrs. Elmore felt
it a duty to get it done the cheapest way she
could. Nevertheless, Mrs. Elmore was too notable
a lady, and her sons and daughters were
altogether too fastidious as to the make and
quality of their clothing, to admit the idea of
its being done in any but the most complete
and perfect manner.

Mrs. Elmore never accused herself of want
of charity for the poor; but she had never considered
that the best class of the poor are those
who never ask charity. She did not consider
that, by paying liberally those who were honestly
and independently struggling for themselves,
she was really doing a greater charity than by
giving indiscriminately to a dozen applicants.

“Don't you think, mother, she says we
charge too high for this work!” said Ellen,
when she returned. “I am sure she did not
know how much work we put in those shirts.
She says she cannot give us any more work;
she must look out for somebody that will do it
cheaper. I do not see how it is that people
who live in such houses, and have so many
beautiful things, can feel that they cannot afford
to pay for what costs us so much.”

“Well, child, they are more apt to feel so
than people who live plainer.”

“Well, I am sure,” said Ellen, “we cannot
afford to spend so much time, as we have over
these shirts, for less money.”

“Never mind, my dear,” said the mother,
soothingly; “here is a bundle of work that another
lady has sent in, and if we get it done

we shall have enough for our rent, and something
over to buy bread with.”

It is needless to carry our readers over all
the process of cutting and fitting, and gathering
and stitching, necessary in making up six
fine shirts. Suffice it to say that on Saturday
evening all but one were finished, and Ellen
proceeded to carry them home, promising to
bring the remaining one on Tuesday morning.
The lady examined the work and gave Ellen the
money; but on Tuesday, when the child came
with the remaining work, she found her in
great ill-humour. Upon re-examining the shirts,
she had discovered that in some important respects
they differed from directions she meant
to have given, and supposed she had given,
and, accordingly, she vented her displeasure on
Ellen.

“Why didn't you make these shirts as I told
you?” said she, sharply.

“We did,” said Ellen, mildly; “mother measured
by the pattern every part, and cut them
herself.”

“Your mother must be a fool, then, to make
such a piece of work. I wish you would just
take them back, and alter them over;” and the
lady proceeded with the directions, of which
neither Ellen nor her mother, till then, had had
any intimation. Unused to such language, the

frightened Ellen took up her work and slowly
walked homeward.

“Oh dear, how my head does ache!” thought
she to herself; “and poor mother, she said this
morning she was afraid another of her sick
turns was coming on, and we have all this work
to pull out and do over.”

“See here, mother!” said she, with a disconsolate
air, as she entered the room; “Mrs. Rudd
says, take out all the bosoms, and rip off all the
collars, and fix them quite another way. She
says they are not like the pattern she sent; but
she must have forgotten, for here it is. Look,
mother! it is exactly as we made them.”

“Well, my child, carry back the pattern, and
show her that it is so.”

“Indeed, mother, she spoke so cross to me,
and looked at me so, that I do not feel as if I
could go back.”

“I will go for you, then,” said the kind Maria
Stephens, who had been sitting with Mrs.
Ames while Ellen was out. “I will take the
patterns and shirts, and tell her the exact truth
about it: I am not afraid of her.” Maria Stephens
was a tailoress, who rented a room on the
same floor with Mrs. Ames—a cheerful, resolute,
go-forward little body, and ready always to
give a helping hand to a neighbour in trouble.

So she took the pattern and shirts, and set out
on her mission.

But poor Mrs. Ames, though she professed
to take a right view of the matter, and was very
earnest in showing Ellen why she ought not to
distress herself about it, still felt a shivering
sense of the hardness and unkindness of the
world coming over her. The bitter tears would
spring to her eyes, in spite of every effort to
suppress them, as she sat mournfully gazing on
the little faded miniature before mentioned.
“When he was alive, I never knew what poverty
or trouble was,” was the thought that often
passed through her mind; and how many a poor
forlorn one has thought the same!

Poor Mrs. Ames was confined to her bed for
most of that week. The doctor gave absolute
directions that she should do nothing, and keep
entirely quiet. A direction very sensible indeed
in the chamber of ease and competence,
but hard to be observed in poverty and want.

What pains the kind and dutiful Ellen took
that week to make her mother feel easy. How
often she replied to her anxious questions “that
she was quite well, or that her head did not
ache much;” and by various other evasive expedients
the child tried to persuade herself
that she was speaking the truth. And during
the times her mother slept, in the day or evening,

she accomplished one or two pieces of plain
work, with the price of which she expected to
surprise her mother.

It was towards evening when Ellen took her
finished work to the elegant dwelling of Mrs.
Page. “I shall get a dollar for this,” said she;
“enough to pay for mother's wine and medicine.”

“This work is done very neatly,” said Mrs.
Page, “and here is some more I should like to
have finished in the same way.”

Ellen looked up wistfully, hoping Mrs. Page
was going to pay her for the last work. But
Mrs. Page was only searching a drawer for a
pattern, which she put into Ellen's hands, and
after explaining how she wanted her work
done, dismissed her without saying a word
about the expected dollar.

Poor Ellen tried two or three times, as she
was going out, to turn around and ask for it, and
before she could decide what to say she found
herself in the street.

Mrs. Page was an amiable, kind-hearted woman,
but one who was so used to large sums
of money, that she did not realize how great
an affair a single dollar might seem to other
persons. For this reason, when Ellen had worked
incessantly at the new work put into her
hands, that she might get the money for all together,

she again disappointed her in the payment.

“I'll send the money round to-morrow,” said
she, when Ellen at last found courage to ask
for it. But to-morrow came, and Ellen was for
gotten; and it was not till after one or two applications
more that the small sum was paid.

But these sketches are already long enough,
and let us hasten to close them. Mrs. Ames
found liberal friends, who could appreciate and
honour her integrity of principle and loveliness
of character, and by their assistance she was
raised to see more prosperous days; and she,
and the delicate Ellen, and warm-hearted Mary,
were enabled to have a home and fireside of
their own, and to enjoy something like the return
of their former prosperity.

We have given these sketches, drawn from
real life, because we think there is, in general,
too little consideration on the part of those who
give employment to those in situations like the
widow here described. The giving of employment
is a very important branch of charity, inasmuch
as it assists that class of the poor who
are the most deserving. It should be looked
on in this light, and the arrangements of a family
be so made that a suitable compensation can
be given, and prompt and cheerful payment be

made, without the dread of transgressing the
rules of economy.

It is better to teach our daughters to do without
expensive ornaments or fashionable elegances;
better even to deny ourselves the pleasure
of large donations or direct subscriptions
to public charities, rather than to curtail the
small stipend of her whose “candle goeth not
out by night,” and who labours with her needle
for herself and the helpless dear ones dependant
on her exertions.