key-note—whatever else I may say to-day is but a carrying out into details of the one question, How may you go to these poor creatures as woman to woman?

Your next duties are to your husband’s or father’s servants and workmen.  It is said that a clergyman’s wife ought to consider the parish as her flock as well as her husband’s.  It may be so: I believe the dogma to be much overstated just now.  But of a landlord’s, or employer’s wife (I am inclined to say, too, of an officer’s wife), such a doctrine is absolutely true, and cannot be overstated.  A large proportion, therefore, of your parish work will be to influence the men of your family to do their duty by their dependants.  You wish to cure the evils under which they labour.  The greater proportion of these are in the hands of your men relatives.  It is a mockery, for instance, in you to visit the fever-stricken cottage, while your husband leaves it in a state which breeds that fever.  Your business is to go to him and say, “Here is a wrong; right it!”  This, as many a beautiful Middle Age legend tells us, has been woman’s function in all uncivilised times; not merely to melt man’s heart to pity, but to awaken it to duty.  But the man must see that the woman is in earnest: that if he will not repair the wrong by justice, she will, if possible (as in those old legends), by self-sacrifice.  Be sure this method will conquer.  Do but say: “If you will not new-roof that cottage, if you will not make that drain, I will.  I will not buy a new dress till it is done; I will sell the horse you gave me, pawn the bracelet you gave me, but the thing shall be done.”  Let him see, I say, that you are in earnest, and he will feel that your message is a divine one, which he must obey for very shame and weariness, if for nothing else.  This is in my eyes the second part of a woman’s parish work.  I entreat you to bear it in mind when you hear, as I trust you will, lectures in this place upon that Sanitary Reform, without which all efforts for the bettering of the masses are in my eyes not only useless, but hypocritical.

I will suppose, then, that you are fulfilling home duties in self-restraint, and love, and in the fear of God.  I will suppose that you are using all your woman’s influence on the mind of your family, in behalf of tenants and workmen; and I tell you frankly, that unless this be first done, you are paying a tithe of mint and anise, and neglecting common righteousness and mercy.  But you wish to do more: you wish for personal contact with the poor round you, for the pure enjoyment of doing good to them with your own hands.  How are you to set about it?  First, there are clubs—clothing-clubs, shoe-clubs, maternal-clubs; all very good in their way.  But do not fancy that they are the greater part of your parish work.  Rather watch and fear lest they become substitutes for your real parish work; lest the bustle and amusement of playing at shopkeeper, or penny-collector, once a week, should blind you to your real power—your real treasure, by spending which you become all the richer.  What you have to do is to ennoble and purify the womanhood of these poor women; to make them better daughters, sisters, wives, mothers: and all the clubs in the world will not do that; they are but palliatives of a great evil, which they do not touch; cloaks for almsgiving, clumsy means of eking out insufficient wages; at best, kindly contrivances for tricking into temporary thriftiness a degraded and reckless peasantry.  Miserable, miserable state of things! out of which the longer I live I see less hope of escape, saving by an emigration, which shall drain us of all the healthy, strong, and brave among the lower classes, and leave us, as a just punishment for our sins, only the cripple, the drunkard, and the beggar.

Yet these clubs must be carried on.  They make life a little more possible; they lighten hearts, if but for a moment; they inculcate habits of order and self-restraint, which may be useful when the poor man finds himself in Canada or Australia.  And it is a cruel utilitarianism to refuse to palliate the symptoms because you cannot cure the disease itself.  You will give opiates to the suffering, who must die nevertheless.  Let him slip into his grave at least as painlessly as you can.  And so you must use these charitable societies, remembering all along what a fearful and humbling sign the necessity for them is of the diseased state of this England, as the sportula and universal almsgiving was of the decadence of Rome.

However, the work has to be done; and such as it is, it is especially fitted for young unmarried ladies.  It requires no deep knowledge of human nature.  It makes them aware of the amount of suffering and struggling which lies around them, without bringing them in that most undesirable contact with the coarser forms of evil which house-visitation must do; and the mere business habits of accuracy and patience to which it compels them, are a valuable practical schooling for them themselves in after-life.  It is tiresome and unsentimental drudgery, no doubt; but perhaps all the better training on that account.  And, after all, the magic of sweetness, grace, and courtesy may shed a hallowing and humanising light over the meanest work, and the smile of God may spread from lip to lip, and the light of God from eye to eye, even between the giver and receiver of a penny, till the poor woman goes home, saying in her heart, “I have not only found the life of my hand—I have found a sister for time and for eternity.”

But there is another field of parish usefulness which I cannot recommend too earnestly, and that is, the school.  There you may work as hard as you will, and how you will—provided you do it in a loving, hearty, cheerful, human way, playful and yet earnest; two qualities which, when they exist in their highest power, are sure to go together.  I say, how you will.  I am no pedant about schools; I care less what is taught than how it is taught.  The merest rudiments of Christianity, the merest rudiments of popular instruction, are enough, provided they be given by lips which speak as if they believed what they said, and with a look which shows real love for the pupil.  Manner is everything—matter a secondary consideration; for in matter, brain only speaks to brain; in manner, soul speaks to soul.  If you want Christ’s lost-lambs really to believe that He died for them, you will do it better by one little act of interest and affection, than by making them learn by heart whole commentaries—even as Miss Nightingale has preached Christ crucified to those poor soldiers by acts of plain outward drudgery, more livingly, and really, and convincingly than she could have done by ten thousand sermons, and made many a noble lad, I doubt not, say in his heart, for the first time in his wild life, “I can believe now that Christ died for me, for here is one whom He has taught to die for me in like wise.”  And this blessed effect of school-work, remember, is not confined to the children.  It goes home with them to the parents.  The child becomes an object of interest and respect in their eyes, when they see it an object of interest and respect in yours.  If they see that you look on it as an awful and glorious being, the child of God, the co-heir of Christ, they learn gradually to look on it in the same light.  They become afraid and ashamed (and it is a noble fear and shame) to do and say before it what they used to do and say; afraid to ill-use it.  It becomes to them a mysterious visitor (sad that it should be so, but true as sad) from a higher and purer sphere, who must be treated with something of courtesy and respect, who must even be asked to teach them something of its new knowledge; and the school, and the ladies’ interest in the school, become to the degraded parents a living sign that those children’s angels do indeed behold the face of their Father which is in heaven.

Now, there is one thing in