The Portland daily press., 1872-02-05
THE PR ESS.
An Everyday Story.

An Everyday Story.
Last week woman died of whom we WISH
to say a word here 1t does not matter now
or where she died. She was so OBSCURE, pc
longed to SO common and poor class, that
40 notice of her death found a place in even
the cheapest paper, and no one who knew
her will read these words. Only one of those
thousands of ordinary lives that, day by day
end unnoticed, no more missed by the world
than so many burnt-out candles. This wo-
man had neither beauty, nor wit, nor large
culture; she brought no gifts with her when
she was born to make her greatly welcome
to the world; never could sing song nor
write poem; was not even fitted to reign in
a drawing room. She was only sweet
and eager tendernesses, who had kept her
childish beliefs unchanged to middle age.
She was little, sickly, shabbily clothed; she
lived in tawdry house with glazing paper on
the walls, and torn, dirty mating on the
floor; the air she breathed was that of want
and vulgarity; year in and year out she
worked at a machine, sewing dresses Tor SER
wants and shop-giris who bullied her, not I'M
unreasonably, for she was but a poor semp-
stress, if the truth must be told. Her hus-
band, a coarse-grained, gossiping fellow, tried
this trade and that, became a ward politician
did what he could for his family, but felt that
his wife must do her share. He had been
used to raw-boned, stout Connecticut farm
women, beside whom she doubtless appeared
inefficient enough.
If others remembered how tenderly nur-
tured she had been as girl, and that the for
tuna OH hrn,, H. IL, l. l.. 4.
never did. Nor did she. They were wretch
eddy poor, and it was but Just and proper that
she should work. So she worked, stopping
now and then to give birth to another child
to be nursed at the tired breast, and watched
and prayed over with the blind, idolatrous
devotion she gave to the others. Certain
logical moralists set down as axioms that
there can be no tragedy without crime, and
tnat no woman, with love, husband and
children, ought to ask tor more. This woman
never did ask for more. The loud Dragging
politician remained her hero to the last. If
her lite slowly dried and withered away, as a
tree might, tapped of all its juices at the root,
she thought it was herself that was to blame
This poor lady was cursed with as finely
wrought an organization as any favorite of
fortune; both body and mind required COM
panions of her own caste, and that nutri-
ment which nature and art give but to few
but which that few must have or die. Be-
sides, not even the strongest woman can fur
nish bread and butter for a houseful of chill
dren, make their clothes, keep their souls pure
and their manners refined, and add to the
number every year. She was not strong in
any sense; so she stitched, and nursed and
trained them, with the dirty walls about her.
and the torn mating under foot, and the
crowd of children grew shabbier and coarser
and more vulgar day by day. One day
an old accomplishment of her girlhood
required to her; fower-painting, molding
in clay, designing-it does not matter what
work, however, in which her real nature
would have found food and expression, and
the pay for which would have been compare
1--WE af1uence. She sent a specimen of her
work for trial, which was approved; but men
were employed who had been trained to bust
ness. Only the machine was left, and the
work Tor her chlldren's bodies and souls that
she could not do. 1t grew and grew before
her sight until the day came when she drop
pea as under an intolerable burden. As she
lay on the bed day after day slowly diving.
husband and children were loud in sorrow
and astonishment. GLOW had she come by
such manifold diseases? Machine work and
want OF ar? 1t was INCREDIBLE She strug-
gled with her work yet, sewed as she Law on
her back, drew her children close to her with
hungry, unsatisfed love in her eyes that
they could not understand But as the hour
came for her to quit the world that had been
SO niggardly of its comfort or bounty to her
she was beset with restless fancies which to
her husband seemed scarcely sane@ 'sShe
thinks If she could see and smell thorny
rose that used to grow wild about the farms
down there in Maryland where she was born.
she would be well again. Now what good
could Chere be in rose ?" He could not see
why she would make them put the children
out OF the room, and turn out the gas that
she could not see the machine and so lie
looking up at the patch of sky above the brick
walls When she was dead, he cried, 81 did
what could; am not to blame" And it
was true; no man can go beyond his nature.
What was to blame? Not poverty not the
working for bread and butter; not the un-
equal marriage Sira1>-- vver4ti-4,x,,.,...,
King Cophetuas have married beggar girls I'M
titled, and clothed them royalty in their own
flames; and Titanias have rejoiced to worship
an ass. But if she had been taught practical
ly the one occupation for which her taste and
ability fitted her? If all women were SO thor
oughly taught such occupations that employ
ment would be open to them as menu The
answer matters nothing to her now. A day
or two ago the WORKOUT body was laid back in
the earth to which it had been drawn by such
strong and subtle kinship. To what rest or
recompense the soul of the gentle lady passed.
only He knows who took it hence Her worl,
remains unfinished. But it is because there
are so many thousands of over-worked women
around us on every side, staring blankly at
their uncomfortable work, and lives wasted
at MONDAY, that we have told her story, and
reverently held back her memory, for this
6rlef moment, out OF the eternal silence.--N
Y Tribune