Year: 1872

An hVeryday story.


Last week a woman died Of whom we
wish to say word here. Il does not
matter how or where she died. She
was so obscure, belonged to so common
and poor n class, that nQenotiee of her
death found place in even the cheap
est paper, and no one who knew her
will read these words. Only one of
those thousands of ordinary lives that,
day by day, and unnoticed, no more
missed by the world than so many
burned-out candles. This woman had
neither beauty, nor wit, nor large eul-
ture; she brought no gift with her when
she was born to make her greatly well
come to the world never could sing a
song or write q poem; was not even
fitted to reign in drawing-rOom. She
was only sweet-vOiced, gentle lady,
full of womanly affection and eager ten
derness, who had kept her pure childish
beliefs unchanged to middle age. She
was little, sickly, shabbily clothed; she
lived in . tawdTy house, with glaring
paper on the walls, and torn, dirty mat
ting on the floor; the air she breathed
was that of want and vulgarity. Year
in and year out she worked at a ma
chine, sewing dresses for servants and





sonably, for she was but poor seam
stress, if the truth must be told. Her
husband, a crOss-grained, gOssiping fell
low, tried this trade and that, became q
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 in
efficient enough.


If others remembered how tenderly
nurtured she had been as a girl, and
that the fortune she brought him he
had flung away, he never did. Nor did
she. They were wretchedly poor, and
it was but just and proper 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 lay
down as aXiOms that there can be no
tragedy without crime, and that no
woman, with love, husband and chill
dren, ought to ask for more. This wOm-
an never did ask for more. The loud
Dragging politician remained her hero
TO the last. If her life slowly dried and
withered away, as a tree might, tapped





it was herself that was to blame. This
poor lady was cursed with rs finely
wrought an organization as any favor
ite of fortune; both lady and mind re-
quired companions of her own caste,
and that nutriment which Nature and
Art give but to few, but which that few
must have or die. Besides, not even
the strongest woman can furnish bread
and butter for n hOuseful of children,
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 fool, and the crowd ofNchildren
grew shabbier and cOarser ana more
vulgar day by day. One day an old ac-
complishment of her girlhood recurred
to her-iOwer painting, mOlding in
clay, designing-it- does not matter
what; work, however, in which her real
nature would have found food and eX-
preston, and the pay for which would
have been comparative afluence. She
sent q specimen of her work for trial,
which was approved; but-men were
employed who had been trained to bus
iness. Only the machine was left, and
the work for her children's bodies and
souls that she could not do. 1t grew and
grew before her sight until the day
came when she dropped rs under an in
tOlerable burden. As she lay on the bed
day after day slowly dying, husband
and children -yere loud in sorrow and
ast0nishment. GLOW had she come by
such manifold diseases? Machine work
and want of air? 1t was incredible"
She struggled with her work yet, sewed
as she lay on her neck, drew her chill
dren close to her with hungry, unsat-
isiied 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. ''She thinks if she could see and
smell a 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 there be in n rose ?n 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 he looked up at the
patch of sky above the brick walls.
l 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 unequal marriage. Since the
world began, King Cophetuas have
married beggar girls untitled, and
clothed them royalty in their own flames;
and Titamas have rejOiced to worship
an ass. But if she had been taught
practically the one occupation for which
her taste and ability fitted her? If all
women were so thoroughly taught such
occupations that employment would be
omen TO them as men? The answer
/ matters nothing to her now. \ day OF
two ago the wornout body was laid back
i'm the earth, to which il had been drawn
Inv such strong and subtle kinship. To
what rest or reeompense the soul of the
gentle lady passed, only He knows who
took IL hence. Her work remains un-
finished. But it is because there are SO
many thousands of Over-worked women
around us on every side, staring timidly
at their unconquerable work, and lives
wasted at noon-day, that we have told
her story, and reverently held back mel


n,emory. for this brief moment, ost ol
the eternal silence.-M y. Tribune.


Row. Wowl-There is a story told ol
the officers of a British ship dining with
n mandarin at Canton. One of the


- s-tl n caeoud bplpinO of q