by T. S. Arthur
Lizzy Glenn
T. S. Arthur
The Project Gutenberg EBook of Lizzy Glenn, by T. S. Arthur
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Title: Lizzy Glenn or, The Trials of a Seamstress
Author: T. S. Arthur
Posting Date: August 30, 2009 [EBook #4625] Release Date: November, 2003 First Posted: February 20, 2002 Last Updated: October 1, 2004
Language: English
Character set encoding: ASCII
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LIZZY GLENN ***
Produced by Charles Aldarondo. HTML version by Al Haines.
LIZZY GLENN:
OR, THE TRIALS OF A SEAMSTRESS.
BY
T.S. ARTHUR
AUTHOR OF “LOVE IN A COTTAGE,” “LOVE IN HIGH LIFE,” ETC.
“Work—work—work Till the brain begins to swim; Work—work—work Till the eyes are heavy and dim! Seam, and gusset, and band, Band, and gusset, and seam, Till over the buttons I fall asleep, And sew them on in a dream!”
Hood’s Song of the Shirt.
Philadelphia:
1859
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I. Lizzy Glenn—Mrs. Gaston and her sick Child, CHAPTER II. How a Needlewoman Lives, CHAPTER III. Death of Mrs. Gaston’s Child—A Mother’s anguish, CHAPTER IV. Lizzy Glenn arouses the interest of a Stranger, CHAPTER V. Some of the Troubles of a Needlewoman—A Friend in Need, CHAPTER VI. Perkins’ Narrative, CHAPTER VII. Henry Gaston leaves Home with Sharp, CHAPTER VIII. Henry Gaston’s Treatment by Sharp, CHAPTER IX. Lizzy Glenn finds in Mrs. Gaston an old Friend, CHAPTER X. Lizzy Glenn’s Narrative to Mrs. Gaston, CHAPTER XI. Perkins anxiously seeks Lizzy Glenn, CHAPTER XII. Perkins finds in Lizzy Glenn his long lost Eugenia,
THE FATHER’S DREAM, I’LL SEE ABOUT IT, HUMAN LIFE, THE SUM OF TRIFLES; OR, “A PENNY SAVED IS A PENNY GAINED,”
LIZZY GLENN;
OR, THE TRIALS OF A SEAMSTRESS.
CHAPTER I.
LIZZY GLENN—MRS. GASTON AND HER SICK CHILD.
NEEDLE-WORK, at best, yields but a small return. Yet how many thousands have no other resource in life, no other barrier thrown up between them and starvation! The manly stay upon which a woman has leaned suddenly fails, and she finds self-support an imperative necessity; yet she has no skill, no strength, no developed resources. In all probability she is a mother. In this case she must not only stand alone, but sustain her helpless children. Since her earliest recollection, others have ministered to her wants and pleasures. From a father’s hand, childhood and youth received their countless natural blessings; and brother or husband, in later years, has stood between her and the rough winds of a stormy world. All at once, like a bird reared, from a fledgling, in its cage, and then turned loose in dreary winter time, she finds herself in the world, unskilled in its ways, yet required to earn her bread or perish.
What can she do? In what art or profession has she been educated? The world demands service, and proffers its money for labor. But what has she learned? What work can she perform? She can sew. And is that all? Every woman we meet can ply the needle. Ah! as a seamstress, how poor the promise for her future. The labor-market is crowded with serving women; and, as a consequence, the price of needle-work—more particularly that called plain needle-work—is depressed to mere starvation rates. In the more skilled branches, better returns are met; but even here few can endure prolonged application—few can bend ten, twelve, or fifteen hours daily over their tasks, without fearful inroads upon health.
In the present time, a strong interest has been awakened on this subject. The cry of the poor seamstress has been heard; and the questions “How shall we help her?” “How shall we widen the circle of remunerative employments for women?” passes anxiously from lip to lip. To answer this question is not our present purpose. Others are earnestly seeking to work out the problem, and we must leave the solution with them. What we now design is to quicken their generous impulses. How more effectively can this be done than by a life-picture of the poor needlewoman’s trials and sufferings? And this we shall now proceed to give.
It was a cold, dark, drizzly day in the fall of 18—, that a young female entered a well-arranged clothing store in Boston, and passed with hesitating steps up to where a man was standing behind one of the counters.
“Have you any work, sir?” she asked, in a low, timid voice.
The individual to whom this was addressed, a short, rough-looking man, with a pair of large, black whiskers, eyed her for a moment with a bold stare, and then indicated, by half turning his head and nodding sideways toward the owner of the shop, who stood at a desk some distance back, that her application was to be made there. Turning quickly from the rude and too familiar gaze of the attendant, the young woman went on to the desk and stood, half frightened and trembling, beside the man from whom she had come to ask the privilege of toiling for little more than a crust of bread and a cup of cold water.
“Have you any work, sir?” was repeated in a still lower and more timid voice than that in which her request had at first been made.
“Yes, we have,” was the gruff reply.
“Can I get some?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure that you’ll ever bring it back again.”
The applicant endeavored to make some reply to this, but the words choked her; she could not utter them.
“I’ve been tricked in my time out of more than a little by new-comers. But I don’t know; you seem to have a simple, honest look. Are you particularly in want of work?”
“Oh yes, sir!” replied the applicant, in an earnest, half-imploring voice. “I desire work very much.”
“What kind do you want?”
“Almost any thing you have to give out, sir?”
“Well, we have pants, coarse and fine roundabouts, shirts, drawers, and almost any article of men’s wear you can mention.”
“What do you give for shirts, sir?”
“Various prices; from six cents up to twenty-five, according to the quality of the article.”
“Only twenty-five cents for fine shirts!” returned the young woman, in a surprised, disappointed, desponding tone.
“Only twenty-five cents? Only? Yes, only twenty-five cents! Pray how much did you expect to get, Miss?” retorted the clothier, in a half-sneering, half-offended voice.
“I don’t know. But twenty-five cents is very little for a hard day’s work.”
“Is it, indeed? I know enough who are thankful even for that. Enough who are at it early and late, and do not even earn as much. Your ideas will have to come down a little, Miss, if you expect to work for this branch of business.”
“What do you give for vests and pantaloons?” asked the young woman, without seeming to notice the man’s rudeness.
“For common trowsers with pockets, twelve cents; and for finer ones, fifteen and twenty cents. Vests about the same rates.”
“Have you any shirts ready?”
“Yes, a plenty. Will you have em coarse or fine?”
“Fine, if you please.”
“How many will you take?”
“Let me have three to begin with.”
“Here, Michael,” cried the man to the attendant who had been first addressed by the stranger, “give this girl three fine shirts to make.” Then turning to her, he said: “They are cotton shirts, with linen collars, bosoms, and wristbands. There must be two rows of stitches down the bosoms, and one row upon the wristband. Collars plain. And remember, they must be made very nice.”
“Yes, sir,” was the reply, made in a sad voice, as the young c
reature turned from her employer and went up to the shop-attendant to receive the three shirts.
“You’ve never worked for the clothing stores, I should think?” remarked this individual, looking her in the face with a steady gaze.
“Never,” replied the applicant, in a low tone, half shrinking away, with an instinctive aversion for the man.
“Well, it’s pretty good when one can’t do any better. An industrious sewer can get along pretty well upon a pinch.”
No reply was made to this. The shirts were now ready; but, before they were handed to her, the man bent over the counter, and, putting his face close to hers, said—
“What might your name be, Miss?”
A quick flush suffused the neck and face of the girl, as she stepped back a pace or two, and answered—
“That is of no consequence, sir.”
“Yes, Miss, but it is of consequence. We never give out work to people who don’t tell their names. We would be a set of unconscionable fools to do that, I should think.”
The young woman stood, thoughtful for a little while, and then said, while her cheek still burned—
“Lizzy Glenn.”
“Very well. And now, Miss Lizzy, be kind enough to inform me where you live.”
“That is altogether unnecessary. I will bring the work home as soon as I have finished it.”
“But suppose you should happen to forget our street and number? What then?”
“Oh no, I shall not do that. I know the place very well,” was the innocent reply.
“No, but that won’t do, Lizzy. We must have the name and place of residence of every man, woman, and child who work for us. It is our rule, and we never depart from it.”
There was another brief period of irresolution, and then the place of abode was given. This was first entered, with her name, in a book, and then the three shirts were handed over. The seamstress turned away on receiving them, and walked quickly from the shop.
The appearance of this young applicant for work would have appealed instantly to the sympathies of any one but a regular slop-shop man, who looked only to his own profits, and cared not a fig whose heart-drops cemented the stones of his building. She was tall and slender, with light brown hair, clear soft complexion, and eyes of a mild hazel. But her cheeks were sunken, though slightly flushed, and her eyes lay far back in their sockets. Her forehead was high and very white. The tones of her voice, which was low, were soft and musical, and her words were spoken, few though they were, with a taste and appropriateness that showed her to be one who had moved in a circle of refinement and intelligence. As to her garments, they were old, and far too thin for the season. A light, faded shawl, of costly material, was drawn closely around her shoulders, but had not the power to keep from her attenuated frame the chill air, or to turn off the fine penetrating rain that came with the wind, searchingly from-the bleak north-east. Her dress, of summer calico, much worn, clung closely to her body. Above all was a close bonnet, and a thick vail, which she drew around her face as she stepped into the street and glided hurriedly away.
“She’s a touch above the vulgar, Michael,” broke in Berlaps, the owner of the shop, coming forward as he spoke.
“Yes, indeed! That craft has been taut rigged in her time.”
“Who can she be, Michael? None of your common ones, of course?”
“Oh no, of course not; she’s ‘seen better days,’ as the slang phrase is.”
“No doubt of that. What name did she give.”
“Lizzy Glenn. But that may or may not be correct. People likely her are sometimes apt to forget even their own names.”
“Where does she live?”
“In the lower part of the town somewhere. I have it in the book here.”
“You think she’ll bring them shirts back?”
“Oh, yes. Folks that have come down in the world as she has, rarely play grab-game after that fashion.”
“She seemed all struck aback at the price.”
“I suppose so. Ha! ha!”
“But she’s the right kind,” resumed Berlaps. “I only wish we had a dozen like her.”
“I wish we had. Her work will never rip.”
Further conversation was prevented by the entrance of a customer. Before he had been fully served, a middle-aged woman came in with a large bundle, and went back to Berlaps’s desk, where he stood engaged over his account-books.
“Good-day, Mrs. Gaston,” said he, looking up, while not a feature relaxed on his cold, rigid countenance.
“I’ve brought you in six pairs of pants,” said the woman, untying the bundle she had laid upon the counter.
“You had seven pair, ma’am.”
“I know that, Mr. Berlaps. But only six are finished; and, as I want some money, I have brought them in.”
“It is more than a week since we gave them out. You ought to have had the whole seven pair done. We want them all now. They should have been in day before yesterday.”
“They would have been finished, Mr. Berlaps,” said the woman, in a deprecating tone; “but one of my children has been sick; and I have had to be up with her so often every night, and have had to attend to her so much through the day, that I have not been able to do more than half work.”
“Confound the children!” muttered the tailor to himself, as he began inspecting the woman’s work. “They’re always getting sick, or something else.”
After carefully examining three or four pairs of the coarse trowsers which had been brought in, he pushed the whole from him with a quick impatient gesture and an angry scowl, saying, as he did so—
“Botched to death! I can’t give you work unless it’s done better, Mrs. Gaston. You grow worse and worse!”
“I know, sir,” replied the woman, in a troubled voice, “that they are not made quite so well as they might be. But consider how much I have had against me. A sick child—and worn out by attendance on her night and day.”
“It’s always a sick child, or some other excuse, with the whole of you. But that don’t answer me. I want my work done well, and mean to have it so. If you don’t choose to turn out good work, I can find a plenty who will.”
“You sha’n’t complain of me hereafter, Mr. Berlaps,” replied the woman submissively.
“So you have said before; but we shall see.”
Berlaps then turned moodily to his desk, and resumed the employment he had broken off when the seamstress came in, whilst she stood with her hands folded across each other, awaiting his pleasure in regard to the payment of the meagre sum she had earned by a full week of hard labor, prolonged often to a late hour in the night. She had stood thus, meekly, for nearly five minutes, when Berlaps raised his head, and looking at her sternly over the top of his desk, said—
“What are you waiting for, Mrs. Gaston?”
“I should like to have the money for the pants I have brought in. I am out of every”—
“I never pay until the whole job is done. Bring in the other pair, and you can have your money.”
“Yes; but Mr. Berlaps”—
“You needn’t talk any thing about it, madam. You have my say,” was the tailor’s angry response.
Slowly turning away, the woman moved, with hesitating steps, to the door, paused there a moment, and then went out. She lingered along, evidently undecided how to act, for several minutes, and then moved on at a quicker pace, as if doubt and uncertainty had given way to some encouraging thought. Threading her way along the narrow winding streets in the lower part of the city, she soon emerged into the open space used as a hay market, and, crossing over this, took her way in the direction of one of the bridges. Before reaching this, she turned down toward the right, and entered a small grocery. A woman was the only attendant upon this.
“Won’t you trust me for a little more, Mrs. Grubb?” she asked, in a supplicating voice, while she looked anxiously into her face.
“No, ma’am! not one cent till that dollar’s paid up!” was the sharp retort. “And, t
o tell you the truth, I think you’ve got a heap of impudence to come in here, bold-faced, and ask for more trust, after having promised me over and over again for a month to pay that dollar. No! pay the dollar first!”
“I did intend to pay you a part of it this very day,” replied Mrs. Gaston. “But”—
“Oh yes. It’s ‘but’ this, and ‘but’ that. But ‘buts’ ain’t my dollar. I’m an honest woman, and want to make an honest living; and must have my money.”
“But I only want a little, Mrs. Grubb. A few potatoes and, some salt fish; and just a gill of milk and a cup of flour. The children have had nothing to eat since yesterday. I took home six pairs of trowsers to-day, which came to ninety cents, at fifteen cents a pair. But I had seven pairs, and Mr. Berlaps wont pay me until I bring the whole number. It will take me till twelve o’clock to-night to finish them, and so I can’t get any money before to-morrow. Just let me have two pounds of salt fish, which will be only seven cents, and, three cents’ worth of potatoes; and a little milk and flour to make something for Ella. It won’t be much, Mrs. Grubb, and it will keep the little ones from being hungry all day and till late to-morrow.”
Her voice failed her as she uttered the last sentence. But she restrained herself after the first sob that heaved her overladen bosom, and stood calmly awaiting the answer to her urgent petition.
Mrs. Grubb was a woman, and a mother into the bargain. She had, too, the remains of a woman’s heart, where lingered a few maternal sympathies. These were quick to prompt her to duty. Turning away without a reply, she weighed out two pounds of fish, measured a peck of potatoes, poured out some milk in a cup, and filled a small paper with flour. These she handed to Mrs. Gaston without uttering a word.
“To-morrow you shall be paid for these, and something on the old account,” said the recipient, as she took them and hurried from the shop.
“Why not give up at once, instead of trying to keep soul and body together by working for the slop-shops?” muttered Mrs. Grubb, as her customer withdrew. “She’d a great sight better go with her children to the poor-house than keep them half-starving under people’s noses at this rate, and compelling us who have a little feeling left, to keep them from dying outright with hunger. It’s too bad! There’s that Berlaps, who grinds the poor seamstresses who work for him to death and makes them one-half of their time beggars at our stores for something for their children to eat. He is building two houses in Roxbury at this very moment: and out of what? Out of the money of which he has robbed these poor women. Fifteen cents for a pair of trowsers with pockets in them! Ten cents for shirts and drawers! and every thing at that rate. Is it any wonder that they are starving, and he growing rich? Curse him, and all like him! I could see them hung!”
