I spoke of new landlords making new
and oppressive office rules and raising the rents above the power to pay
of the tenants he found there when coming into possession. She said they
might suffer justly if they had no written guarantee. She actually
considered that a gentleman was not bound by his word of promise, nor
did he inherit any _verbal_ agreement entered into by the man from
whom he inherited his property. I spoke of the hardship of a long life
of toil and penury ending in the workhouse. She said when they knew they
must go into the workhouse eventually why did they not go in at once
without giving so much trouble. I asked her if she, who seemed to know
what it was to be a mother, would not if it were her own case put off
going into the workhouse, which meant parting with her children, to the
very last. The idea of mentioning her name in the one breath with these
people precluded the possibility of answering. She threw down her
knitting and left the room.
Was it not sad to think that this Christian lady had yet to learn the
embracing first two words of the Lord's prayer, Our Father. Looking at
the strength of this caste prejudice, as strong here as in India, I
often feel sad, but Our Father reigns.
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