urged as by a mighty grasp, were drawn to the verge. There was a shrill piercing cry, and then silence, and next a dull sound from far below.
Then Maurice, who had been hitherto held back from risking his life uselessly by the joint strength of Fritz and myself, relaxed his efforts, and gave a loud, harsh laugh that jarred on my ear. I looked forth. The cliff-side was empty of living forms. Maurice stood near, chuckling feebly, and then his wild mad laugh rang out again. Poor fellow! from that hour his reason was gone, and for ever.
OUR LEGACY FROM MARY ANN WALKLEY.
It seems rather surprising that the fate of Mary Ann Walkley should have excited the sensation in London that the newspapers and a hundred rumours tell us country people it has. There is nothing new in the story of the death of a dressmaker from long hours of work, bad air, and the breach of other conditions of health. We have known, for many years, that London dressmaking brings on consumption in some, nervous disorders and insanity in others, apoplexy in many, and blindness in many more. In Once a Week some of the incidents of such establishments were exhibited years ago,—the porter and strong green tea, the full and frequent meals which are made a substitute for sleep, and so on. I wi11 not therefore take up that part of the subject. My readers can hardly be unaware of this order of facts. There was a report on the condition of Dressmakers twenty years ago,—the evidence in which so astonished and perplexed the Queen and her husband: there was a Select Committee of the Lords, which took evidence on the condition of Needlewomen in 1855: and the evidence made such an impression that there were public meetings on behalf of the class, associations to protect them, appeals to fine ladies, and a certain stir among them. After all this, the life of the Dressmaker can hardly need any further description: yet, in this London season of 1863, we have had the old sensation over again, from the publicity of the death of a victim. The same course may he followed again, if we do not, one and all, help to prevent it. As before, we may hope that society is so shocked that it will mend its ways: and that fine ladies in particular must have endured this summer what will make them reasonable and humane: and if we repose on this notion, there may be another conspicuous tragedy in 1883 (following upon hundreds of obscure fatalities) which will once more startle the fashionable world as if some new horror had arisen in the world.
As a possible help towards getting something done, I have gathered together some suggestions of other people’s, and some observations of my own about the causes and the course of the fate of such victims as Mary Ann Walkley. Among them there may be something which will set somebody to work on one or another practical point.
It does not appear that there is any change for the better in the trading system on which the great West End millinery establishments rest. The plan of long credits has often been reprobated as abominable: but there are not many people who have any clear notion of the working of it. They have never imagined that it involved the life, health and eyesight of hundreds of milliner girls. I am glad to see that “A Collector” for a West End firm has publicly pointed attention to this evil, and courageously told who are to blame for it.
It is well known in the commercial world that the periodical or occasional failure of certain classes of West End houses involve no disgrace, and leaves no such consequences as are inevitable in simple-minded country places. These great houses suspend payment as the only means of getting in the money due to them from fine people. My lords and my ladies, and their emulators in the gay world, leave London, year after year, without paying their bills: they take no notice of accounts sent in; and further pressure would only make them withdraw their custom. When their tradespeople have exhausted their own credit, they must, of course, come to a stop: but experience has suggested to them that it is a pity to wait for this; and they fail, in order to put upon their creditors the task of collecting the payments due from their fine customers. The “Collector” declares that a man of his function goes round among customers whose bills, unpaid for three or more years, amount to ten thousand pounds, and comes back without having obtained tenpence from them all together. Milliners and dressmakers thus kept out of their money cannot be expected to conduct their business as if they obtained it regularly. They are compelled to charge very high, to make up for the increased risk of bad debts, and for the loss of the use of their own money: they must save where they can; and, in the present state of social affairs, the thing which it is easiest to cheapen is female labour. Hence the long hours of the workwomen, the crowding, the severity of the rules, and the abominable practice of affording no food on Sundays but breakfast.
With what countenance can ladies remonstrate with their milliner on her exactions from her workwomen when they owe her money—the money which would leave her some option about the terms she imposes? The “Collector” says—what is no secret in London society—that some of these fashionable debtors are the very same philanthropic persons who take the lead in benevolent enterprises, hold stalls in charity bazaars, and make themselves busy in anything but “the duty which lies nearest.”
Here, then, is a practical point. By the end of the season which has been overclouded by the inquest on Mary Ann Walkley, every shilling due from fine ladies to their tradespeople ought to be paid. The husbands and fathers of these ladies must look to it. If they have married wives, or brought up daughters, who have not head or heart enough to he careful to pay for what they buy, they—the guardians of the silly creatures—must save them from doing mischief. Let no fine lady be free to enjoy park or pleasure ground, foreign tour or home seaside, till she has satisfied her husband or father that she will leave no debts