Choice Stories from Dickens' Household Words

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Choice Stories from Dickens' Household Words

                            PEARL-FISHING.

                            CHOICE STORIES,

                                 FROM

                       Dickens’ Household Words.

                             FIRST SERIES.

                                AUBURN:
                        ALDEN, BEARDSLEY & CO.
                              ROCHESTER:
                        WANZER, BEARDSLEY & CO.
                                 1854.

      Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1854, by
                        ALDEN, BEARDSLEY & CO.,
      In the Clerk’s Office of the Northern District of New York.

                            Stereotyped by
                           THOMAS B. SMITH,
                         216 William St., N.Y.




                        The Publishers’ Notice.


The following Stories are selected from that admirable publication,
“DICKENS’ HOUSEHOLD WORDS.”

That work has had a smaller circulation in this country than its merits
entitle it to, in consequence of its being issued in such form as to
make it troublesome to preserve the numbers, and have them bound. Many
of its papers, too, are of local and somewhat temporary interest, which
scarcely touches the popular mind of American readers. It is believed,
therefore, that judicious selections from its pages, embracing some of
its best stories, in which the hand of the master is readily discerned,
will be welcomed with delight in many a home in which the name of
DICKENS has become as “familiar as household words.”




I.

Loaded Dice.


Several years ago, I made a tour through some of the Southern Counties
of England with a friend. We travelled in an open carriage, stopping for
a few hours a day, or a week, as it might be, wherever there was
anything to be seen; and we generally got through one stage before
breakfast, because it gave our horses rest, and ourselves the chance of
enjoying the brown bread, new milk, and fresh eggs of those country
road-side inns, which are fast becoming subjects for archæological
investigation.

One evening my friend said, “To-morrow we will breakfast at T----. I
want to inquire about a family named Lovell, who used to live there. I
met the husband and wife, and two lovely children, one summer at
Exmouth. We became very intimate, and I thought them particularly
interesting people, but I have never seen them since.”

The next morning’s sun shone as brightly as heart could desire, and
after a delightful drive, we reached the outskirts of the town about
nine o’clock.

“Oh, what a pretty inn!” said I, as we approached a small white house,
with a sign swinging in front of it, and a flower-garden on one side.

“Stop, John,” cried my friend, “we shall get a much cleaner breakfast
here than in the town, I dare say; and if there is anything to be seen
there, we can walk to it;” so we alighted, and were shown into a neat
little parlor, with white curtains, where an unexceptionable rural
breakfast was soon placed before us.

“Pray do you happen to know anything of a family called Lovell?”
inquired my friend, whose name, by the way, was Markham. “Mr. Lovell was
a clergyman.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” answered the girl who attended us, apparently the
landlord’s daughter, “Mr. Lovell is the vicar of our parish.”

“Indeed! and does he live near here?”

“Yes, Ma’am, he lives at the vicarage. It’s just down that lane
opposite, about a quarter of a mile from here; or you can go across the
fields, if you please, to where you see that tower; it’s close by
there.”

“And which is the pleasantest road?” inquired Mrs. Markham.

“Well, Ma’am, I think by the fields is the pleasantest, if you don’t
mind a stile or two; and, besides, you get the best view of the Abbey by
going that way.”

“Is that tower we see part of the Abbey?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” answered the girl, “and the vicarage is just the other
side of it.”

Armed with these instructions, as soon as we had finished our breakfast
we started across the fields, and after a pleasant walk of twenty
minutes we found ourselves in an old churchyard, amongst a cluster of
the most picturesque ruins we had ever seen. With the exception of the
gray tower, we had espied from the inn, and which had doubtless been the
belfry, the remains were not considerable. There was the outer wall of
the chancel, and the broken step that had led to the high altar, and
there were sections of aisles, and part of a cloister, all gracefully
festooned with mosses and ivy; whilst mingled with the grass-grown
graves of the prosaic dead, there were the massive tombs of the Dame
Margerys and the Sir Hildebrands of more romantic periods. All was ruin
and decay, but such poetic ruin! such picturesque decay! And just beyond
the tall gray tower, there was the loveliest, smiling, little garden,
and the prettiest cottage, that imagination could picture. The day was
so bright, the grass so green, the flowers so gay, the air so balmy with
their sweet perfumes, the birds sang so cheerily in the apple and cherry
trees, that all nature seemed rejoicing.

“Well,” said my friend, as she seated herself on the fragment of a
pillar, and looked around her, “now that I see this place, I understand
what sort of people the Lovells were.”

“What sort of people were they?” said I.

“Why, as I said before, interesting people. In the first place, they
were both extremely handsome.”

“But the locality had nothing to do with their good looks, I presume,”
said I.

“I am not sure of that,” she answered; “when there is the least
foundation of taste or intellect to set out with, the beauty of external
nature, and the picturesque accidents that harmonize with it, do, I am
persuaded, by their gentle and elevating influence on the mind, make the
handsome handsomer, and the ugly less ugly. But it was not alone the
good looks of the Lovells that struck me, but their air of refinement
and high breeding, and I should say high birth--though I know nothing
about their extraction--combined with their undisguised poverty and as
evident contentment. Now, I can understand such people finding here an
appropriate home, and being satisfied with their small share of this
world’s goods; because here the dreams of romance writers about Love in
a Cottage might be somewhat realized; poverty might be graceful and
poetical here; and then, you know, they have no rent to pay.”

“Very true,” said I; “but suppose they had sixteen daughters, like a
half-pay officer I once met on board a steam-packet?”

“That would spoil it certainly,” said Mrs. Markham; “but let us hope
they have not. When I knew them they had only two children, a boy and a
girl called Charles and Emily; two of the prettiest creatures I ever
beheld!”

As my friend thought it yet rather early for a visit, we had remained
chattering in this way for more than an hour, sometimes seated on a
tomb-stone, or a fallen column; sometimes peering amongst the carved
fragments that were scattered about the ground, and sometimes looking
over the hedge into the little garden, the wicket of which was
immediately behind the tower. The weather being warm, most of the
windows of the vicarage were open and the blinds were all down; we had
not yet seen a soul stirring, and were wondering whether we might
venture to present ourselves at the door, when a strain of distant music
struck upon our ears. “Hark!” I said, “how exquisite! It was the only
thing wanting to complete the charm.”

“It’s a military band, I think,” said Mrs. Markham, “you know we passed
some barracks before we reached the Inn.”

Nearer and nearer drew the sound, solemn and slow; the band was
evidently approaching by the green lane that skirted the fields we had
come by. “Hush,” said I, laying my hand on my friend’s arm, with a
strange sinking of the heart; “they are playing the Dead March in Saul!
Don’t you hear the muffled drums? It’s a funeral, but where’s the
grave?”

“There,” said she, pointing to a spot close under the hedge where some
earth had been thrown up; but the aperture was covered with a plank,
probably to prevent accidents.

There are few ceremonies in life at once so touching, so impressive, so
sad, and yet so beautiful, as a soldier’s funeral! Ordinary funerals
with their unwieldy hearses and feathers, and the absurd looking mutes,
and the “inky cloaks” and weepers of hired mourners, always seem to me
like a mockery of the dead; the appointments border so closely on the
grotesque; they are so little in keeping with the true, the only view of
death that can render life endurable! There is such a tone of
exaggerated, forced, heavy, over-acted gravity about the whole thing,
that one had need to have a deep personal interest involved in the
scene, to be able to shut one’s eyes to the burlesque side of it. But a
military funeral, how different! There you see death in life and life in
death! There is nothing over-strained, nothing overdone. At once simple
and silent, decent and decorous, consoling, yet sad. The chief mourners,
at best, are generally true mourners, for they have lost a brother with
whom “they sat but yesterday at meat;” and whilst they are comparing
memories, recalling how merry they had many a day been together, and
the solemn tones of that sublime music float upon the air, we can
imagine the freed and satisfied soul wafted on those harmonious
breathings to its Heavenly home; and our hearts are melted, our
imaginations exalted, our faith invigorated, and we come away the better
for what we have seen.

I believe some such reflections as these were passing through our minds,
for we both remained silent and listening, till the swinging-to of the
little wicket, which communicated with the garden, aroused us; but
nobody appeared, and the tower being at the moment betwixt us and it, we
could not see who had entered. Almost at the same moment, a man came
from a gate on the opposite side, and advancing to where the earth was
thrown up, lifted the plank, and discovered the newly-made grave. He was
soon followed by some boys, and several respectable-looking persons came
into the enclosure, whilst nearer and nearer drew the sound of the
muffled drums, and now we descried the firing party and their officer,
who led the procession with their arms reversed, each man wearing above
the elbow a piece of black crape and a small bow of white satin ribbon;
the band still playing that solemn strain. Then came the coffin, borne
by six soldiers. Six officers bore up the pall, all quite young men; and
on the coffin lay the shako, sword, side-belt, and white gloves of the
deceased. A long train of mourners marched two and two, in open file,
the privates first, the officers last. Sorrow was imprinted on every
face; there was no unseemly chattering, no wandering eyes; if a word was
exchanged, it was in a whisper, and the sad shake of the head showed of
whom they were discoursing. All this we observed as they marched through
the lane that skirted one side of the churchyard. As they neared the
gate the band ceased to play.

“See there,” said Mrs. Markham, directing my attention to the cottage,
“there comes Mr. Lovell. Oh, how he is changed!” and whilst she spoke,
the clergyman entering by the wicket, advanced to meet the procession at
the gate, where he commenced reading the funeral service as he moved
backwards towards the grave, round which the firing party, leaning on
their firelocks, now formed. Then came those awful words, “Ashes to
ashes, dust to dust,” the hollow sound of the earth upon the coffin, and
three volleys fired over the grave, finished the solemn ceremony.

When the procession entered the churchyard, we had retired behind the
broken wall of the chancel, whence, without being observed, we had
watched the whole scene with intense interest. Just as the words, “Ashes
to ashes! dust to dust!” were pronounced, I happened to raise my eyes
towards the gray tower, and then, peering through one of the narrow
slits, I saw the face of a man--such a face! Never to my latest day can
I forget the expression of those features! If ever there was despair and
anguish written on a human countenance, it was there! And yet so young!
so beautiful! A cold chill ran through my veins as I pressed Mrs.
Markham’s arm. “Look up at the tower!” I whispered.

“My God! What can it be?” she answered, turning quite pale! “And Mr.
Lovell, did you observe how his voice shook? at first, I thought it was
illness; but he seems bowed down with grief. Every face looks
awe-struck! There must be some tragedy here--something more than the
death of an individual!” and fearing, under this impression, that our
visit might prove untimely, we resolved to return to the inn, and
endeavor to discover if anything unusual had really occurred. Before we
moved, I looked up at the narrow slit--the face was no longer there; but
as we passed round to the other side of the tower, we saw a tall,
slender figure, attired in a loose coat, pass slowly through the wicket,
cross the garden, and enter the house. We only caught a glimpse of the
profile; the head hung down upon the breast; the eyes were bent upon the
ground; but we knew it was the same face we had seen above.

We went back to the inn, where our inquiries elicited some information,
which made us wish to know more; but it was not till we went into the
town that we obtained the following details of this mournful drama, of
which we had thus accidentally witnessed one impressive scene.

Mr. Lovell, as Mrs. Markham had conjectured, was a man of good family,
but no fortune; he might have had a large one, could he have made up his
mind to marry Lady Elizabeth Wentworth, the bride selected for him by a
wealthy uncle who proposed to make him his heir; but preferring poverty
with Emily Dering, he was disinherited. He never repented his choice,
although he remained vicar of a small parish, and a poor man all his
life. The two children whom Mrs. Markham had seen, were the only ones
they had, and through the excellent management of Mrs. Lovell, and the
moderation of her husband’s desires, they had enjoyed an unusual degree
of happiness in this sort of graceful poverty, till the young Charles
and Emily were grown up, and it was time to think what was to be done
with them. The son had been prepared for Oxford by the father, and the
daughter, under the tuition of her mother, was remarkably well educated
and accomplished; but it became necessary to consider the future:
Charles must be sent to college, since the only chance of finding a
provision for him was in the Church, although the expense of maintaining
him there could be ill afforded; so, in order in some degree to balance
the outlay, it was, after much deliberation, agreed that Emily should
accept a situation as governess in London. The proposal was made by
herself, and the rather consented to, that, in case of the death of her
parents, she would almost inevitably have had to seek some such means of
subsistence. These partings were the first sorrows that had reached the
Lovells.

At first, all went well; Charles was not wanting in ability nor in a
moderate degree of application; and Emily wrote cheerfully of her new
life. She was kindly received, well treated, and associated with the
family on the footing of a friend. Neither did further experience seem
to diminish her satisfaction. She saw a great many gay people--some of
whom she named; and, amongst the rest, there not unfrequently appeared
the name of Herbert. Mr. Herbert was in the army, and being a distant
connexion of the family with whom she resided, was a frequent visitor at
their house. “She was sure papa and mamma would like him.” Once the
mother smiled, and said she hoped Emily was not falling in love; but no
more was thought of it. In the meantime Charles had found out that there
was time for many things at Oxford, besides study. He was naturally fond
of society, and had a remarkable capacity for excelling in all kinds of
games. He was agreeable, lively, exceedingly handsome, and sang
charmingly, having been trained in part-singing by his mother. No young
man at Oxford was more _fêté_; but alas! he was very poor, and poverty
poisoned all his enjoyments. For some time he resisted temptation; but
after a terrible struggle--for he adored his family--he gave way, and
ran in debt, and although the imprudence only augmented his misery, he
had not resolution to retrace his steps, but advanced further and
further on this broad road to ruin, so that he had come home for the
vacation shortly before our visit to T----, threatened with all manner
of annoyances if he did not carry back a sufficient sum to satisfy his
most clamorous creditors. He had assured them he would do so, but where
was he to get the money? Certainly not from his parents; he well knew
they had it not; nor had he a friend in the world from whom he could
hope assistance in such an emergency. In his despair he often thought of
running away--going to Australia, America, New Zealand, anywhere; but he
had not even the means to do this. He suffered indescribable tortures,
and saw no hope of relief.

It was just at this period that Herbert’s regiment happened to be
quartered at T----. Charles had occasionally seen his name in his
sister’s letters, and heard that there was a Herbert now in the
barracks, but he was ignorant whether or not it was the same person; and
when he accidentally fell into the society of some of the junior
officers, and was invited by Herbert himself to dine at the mess, pride
prevented his ascertaining the fact. He did not wish to betray that his
sister was a governess. Herbert, however, knew full well that their
visitor was the brother of Emily Lovell, but partly for reasons of his
own, and partly because he penetrated the weakness of the other, he
abstained from mentioning her name.

Now, this town of T---- was, and probably is, about the dullest quarter
in all England! The officers hated it, there was no flirting, no
dancing, no hunting, no anything. Not a man of them knew what to do with
himself. The old ones wandered about and played at whist, the young ones
took to hazard and three-card-loo, playing at first for moderate stakes,
but soon getting on to high ones. Two or three civilians of the
neighborhood joined the party, Charles Lovell among the rest. Had they
begun with playing high, he would have been excluded for want of funds;
but whilst they played low, he won, so that when they increased the
stakes, trusting to a continuance of his good fortune, he was eager to
go on with them. Neither did his luck altogether desert him; on the
whole, he rather won than lost; but he foresaw that one bad night would
break him, and he should be obliged to retire, forfeiting his amusement
and mortifying his pride. It was just at this crisis, that, one night,
an accident, which caused him to win a considerable sum, set him upon
the notion of turning chance into certainty. Whilst shuffling the cards,
he dropped the ace of spades into his lap, caught it up, replaced it in
the pack, and dealt it to himself. No one else had seen the card, no
observation was made, and a terrible thought came into his head!

Whether loo or hazard was played, Charles Lovell had, night after night,
a most extraordinary run of luck. He won large sums, and saw before him
the early prospect of paying his debts and clearing all his
difficulties.

Amongst the young men who played at the table, some had plenty of money
and cared little for their losses; but others were not so well off, and
one of these was Edward Herbert. He, too, was the son of poor parents
who had straitened themselves to put him in the army, and it was with
infinite difficulty and privation that his widowed mother had amassed
the needful sum to purchase for him a company, which was now becoming
vacant. The retiring officer’s papers were already sent in, and
Herbert’s money was lodged at Cox and Greenwood’s; but before the answer
from the Horse-Guards arrived, he had lost every sixpence. Nearly the
whole sum had become the property of Charles Lovell.

Herbert was a fine young man, honorable, generous, impetuous, and
endowed with an acute sense of shame. He determined instantly to pay the
debts, but he knew that his own prospects were ruined for life; he wrote
to the agents to send him the money and withdraw his name from the list
of purchasers. But how was he to support his mother’s grief? How meet
the eye of the girl he loved? She, who he knew adored him, and whose
hand it was agreed between them he should ask of her parents as soon as
he was gazetted a captain! The anguish of mind he suffered then threw
him into a fever, and he lay for several days betwixt life and death,
and happily unconscious of his misery.

Meantime, another scene was being enacted elsewhere. The officers, who
night after night found themselves losers, had not for some time
entertained the least idea of foul play, but at length, one of them
observing something suspicious, began to watch, and satisfied himself,
by a peculiar method adopted by Lovell in “throwing his mains,” that he
was the culprit. His suspicions were whispered from one to another, till
they nearly all entertained them, with the exception of Herbert, who,
being looked upon as Lovell’s most especial friend, was not told. So
unwilling were these young men to blast, forever, the character of the
visitor whom they had so much liked, and to strike a fatal blow at the
happiness and respectability of his family, that they were hesitating
how to proceed, whether to openly accuse him or privately reprove and
expel him, when Herbert’s heavy loss decided the question.

Herbert himself, overwhelmed with despair, had quitted the room, the
rest were still seated around the table, when having given each other a
signal, one of them, called Frank Houston, arose and said: “Gentlemen,
it gives me great pain to have to call your attention to a very
strange--a very distressing circumstance. For some time past there has
been an extraordinary run of luck in one direction--we have all observed
it--all remarked on it. Mr. Herbert has at this moment retired a heavy
loser. There is, indeed, as far as I know, but one winner amongst
us--but one, and he a winner to a very considerable amount; the rest all
losers. God forbid that I should rashly accuse any man! Lightly blast
any man’s character! But I am bound to say, that I fear the money we
have lost has not been fairly won. There has been foul play! I forbear
to name the party--the facts sufficiently indicate him.”

Who would not have pitied Lovell, when, livid with horror and conscious
guilt, he vainly tried to say something? “Indeed--I assure you--I
never”--but words would not come; he faltered and rushed out of the room
in a transport of agony. They did pity him; and when he was gone, agreed
amongst themselves to hush up the affair; but unfortunately, the
civilians of the party, who had not been let into the secret, took up
his defence. They not only believed the accusation unfounded, but felt
it as an affront offered to their townsman; they blustered about it a
good deal, and there was nothing left for it but to appoint a committee
of investigation. Alas! the evidence was overwhelming! It turned out
that the dice and cards had been supplied by Lovell. The former, still
on the table, were found on examination to be loaded. In fact, he had
had a pair as a curiosity long in his possession, and had obtained
others from a disreputable character at Oxford. No doubt remained of his
guilt.

All this while Herbert had been too ill to be addressed on the subject;
but symptoms of recovery were now beginning to appear; and as nobody
was aware that he had any particular interest in the Lovell family, the
affair was communicated to him. At first he refused to believe in his
friend’s guilt, and became violently irritated. His informants assured
him they would be too happy to find they were mistaken, but that since
the inquiry no hope of such an issue remained, and he sank into a gloomy
silence.

On the following morning, when his servant came to his room door, he
found it locked. When, at the desire of the surgeon, it was broken open,
Herbert was found a corpse, and a discharged pistol lying beside him. An
inquest sat upon the body, and the verdict brought in was _Temporary
Insanity_. There never was one more just.

Preparations were now made for the funeral--that funeral which we had
witnessed; but before the day appointed for it arrived, another chapter
of this sad story was unfolded.

When Charles left the barracks on that fatal night, instead of going
home, he passed the dark hours in wandering wildly about the country;
but when morning dawned, fearing the eye of man, he returned to the
vicarage, and slunk unobserved to his chamber. When he did not appear at
breakfast, his mother sought him in his room, where she found him in
bed. He said he was very ill--and so indeed he was--and begged to be
left alone; but as he was no better on the following day, she insisted
on sending for medical advice. The doctor found him with all those
physical symptoms that are apt to supervene from great anxiety of mind;
and saying he could get no sleep, Charles requested to have some
laudanum; but the physician was on his guard, for although the parties
concerned wished to keep the thing private, some rumors had got abroad
that awakened his caution.

The parents, meanwhile, had not the slightest anticipation of the
thunderbolt that was about to fall upon them. They lived a very retired
life, were acquainted with none of the officers--and they were even
ignorant of the amount of their son’s intimacy with the regiment. Thus,
when news of Herbert’s lamentable death reached them, the mother said
to her son: “Charles, did you know a young man in the barracks called
Herbert; a lieutenant, I believe? By-the-bye, I hope it’s not Emily’s
Mr. Herbert.”

“Did I know him,” said Charles, turning suddenly towards her, for, under
pretence that the light annoyed him, he always lay with his face to the
wall. “Why do you ask, mother?”

“Because he’s dead! He had a fever, and--”

“Herbert dead!” cried Charles, suddenly sitting up in the bed.

“Yes, he had a fever, and it is supposed he was delirious, for he blew
out his brains; there is a report that he had been playing high, and
lost a great deal of money. What’s the matter, dear? Oh, Charles, I
shouldn’t have told you! I was not aware that you knew him!”

“Fetch my father here, and, mother, you come back with him!” said
Charles, speaking with a strange sternness of tone, and wildly motioning
her out of the room.

When the parents came, he bade them sit down beside him; and then, with
a degree of remorse and anguish that no words could portray, he told
them all; whilst they, with blanched cheeks and fainting hearts,
listened to the dire confession.

“And here I am,” he exclaimed, as he ended, “a cowardly scoundrel that
has not dared to die! Oh, Herbert! happy, happy, Herbert! Would I were
with you!”

At that moment the door opened, and a beautiful, bright, smiling, joyous
face peeped in. It was Emily Lovell, the beloved daughter, the adored
sister, arrived from London in compliance with a letter received a few
days previously from Herbert, wherein he had told her that by the time
she received it, he would be a captain. She had come to introduce him to
her parents as her affianced husband. She feared no refusal; well she
knew how rejoiced they would be to see her the wife of so kind and
honorable a man. But they were ignorant of all this, and in the fulness
of their agony, the cup of woe ran over, and she drank of the draught!
They told her all before she had been five minutes in the room. How else
could they account for their tears, their confusion, their bewilderment,
their despair!

Before Herbert’s funeral took place, Emily Lovell was lying betwixt life
and death in a brain fever. Under the influence of a feeling easily to
be comprehended, thirsting for a self-imposed torture, that by its very
poignancy should relieve the dead weight of wretchedness that lay upon
his breast, Charles crept from his bed, and slipping on a loose coat
that hung in his room, he stole across the garden to the tower, whence,
through the arrow-slit, he witnessed the burial of his sister’s lover,
whom he had hastened to the grave.

Here terminates our sad story. We left T---- on the following morning,
and it was two or three years before any further intelligence of the
Lovell family reached us. All we then heard was, that Charles had gone,
a self-condemned exile, to Australia; and that Emily had insisted on
accompanying him thither.




II.

The Serf of Pobereze.


The materials for the following tale were furnished to the writer while
travelling last year near the spot on which the events it narrates took
place. It is intended to convey a notion of some of the phases of
Polish, or rather Russian serfdom (for, as truly explained by one of the
characters in a succeeding page, it is Russian), and of the catastrophes
it has occasioned, not only in Catherine’s time, but occasionally at the
present. The Polish nobles--themselves in slavery--earnestly desire the
emancipation of their serfs, which Russian domination forbids.

The small town of Pobereze stands at the foot of a stony mountain,
watered by numerous springs in the district of Podolia, in Poland. It
consists of a mass of miserable cabins, with a Catholic chapel and two
Greek churches in the midst, the latter distinguished by their gilded
towers. On one side of the market-place stands the only inn, and on the
opposite side are several shops, from whose doors and windows look out
several dirtily-dressed Jews. At a little distance, on a hill covered
with vines and fruit-trees, stands the Palace, which does not, perhaps,
exactly merit such an appellation, but who would dare to call otherwise
the dwelling of the lord of the domain?

On the morning when our tale opens, there had issued from this palace
the common enough command to the superintendent of the estate, to
furnish the master with a couple of strong boys, for service in the
stables, and a young girl, to be employed in the wardrobe. Accordingly,
a number of the best-looking young peasants of Olgogrod assembled in the
broad avenue leading to the palace. Some were accompanied by their
sorrowful and weeping parents, in all of whose hearts, however, rose the
faint and whispered hope, “Perhaps it will not be _my_ child they will
choose!”

Being brought into the court-yard of the palace, the Count Roszynski,
with the several members of his family, had come out to pass in review
his growing subjects. He was a small and insignificant-looking man,
about fifty years of age, with deep-set eyes and overhanging brows. His
wife, who was nearly of the same age, was immensely stout, with a vulgar
face and a loud disagreeable voice. She made herself ridiculous in
endeavoring to imitate the manners and bearing of the aristocracy, into
whose sphere she and her husband were determined to force themselves, in
spite of the humbleness of their origin. The father of the “Right
Honorable” Count Roszynski was a valet, who, having been a great
favorite with his master, amassed sufficient money to enable his son,
who inherited it, to purchase the extensive estate of Olgogrod, and with
it the sole proprietorship of 1,600 human beings. Over them he had
complete control; and, when maddened by oppression, if they dared
resent, woe unto them! They could be thrust into a noisome dungeon, and
chained by one hand from the light of day for years, until their very
existence was forgotten by all except the jailer who brought daily their
pitcher of water and morsel of dry bread.

Some of the old peasants say that Sava, father of the young peasant
girl, who stands by the side of an old woman, at the head of her
companions in the court-yard, is immured in one of these subterranean
jails. Sava was always about the Count, who, it was said, had brought
him from some distant land, with his little motherless child. Sava
placed her under the care of an old man and woman, who had the charge of
the bees in a forest near the palace, where he came occasionally to
visit her. But once, six long months passed, and he did not come! In
vain Anielka wept, in vain she cried, “Where is my father?”--No father
appeared. At last it was said that Sava had been sent to a long distance
with a large sum of money, and had been killed by robbers. In the ninth
year of one’s life the most poignant grief is quickly effaced, and after
six months Anielka ceased to grieve. The old people were very kind to
her, and loved her as if she were their own child. That Anielka might be
chosen to serve in the palace never entered their head, for who would be
so barbarous as to take the child away from an old woman of seventy and
her aged husband?

To-day was the first time in her life that she had been so far from
home. She looked curiously on all she saw,--particularly on a young lady
about her own age, beautifully dressed, and a youth of eighteen, who had
apparently just returned from a ride on horseback, as he held a whip in
his hand, whilst walking up and down and examining the boys who were
placed in a row before him. He chose two amongst them, and the boys were
led away to the stables.

“And I choose this young girl,” said Constantia Roszynski, indicating
Anielka; “she is the prettiest of them all. I do not like ugly faces
about me.”

When Constantia returned to the drawing-room, she gave orders for
Anielka to be taken to her apartments, and placed under the tutelage of
Mademoiselle Dufour, a French maid, recently arrived from the first
milliner’s shop in Odessa. Poor girl! when they separated her from her
adopted mother, and began leading her towards the palace, she rushed,
with a shriek of agony, from them, and grasped her old protectress
tightly in her arms! They were torn violently asunder, and the Count
Roszynski quietly asked, “Is it her daughter, or her grand-daughter?”

“Neither, my lord,--only an adopted child.”

“But who will lead the old woman home, as she is blind?”

“I will, my lord,” replied one of his servants, bowing to the ground; “I
will let her walk by the side of my horse, and when she is in her cabin
she will have her old husband,--they must take care of each other.”

So saying, he moved away with the rest of the peasants and domestics.
But the poor old woman had to be dragged along by two men; for in the
midst of her shrieks and tears she had fallen to the ground, almost
without life.

And Anielka? They did not allow her to weep long. She had now to sit all
day in the corner of a room to sew. She was expected to do everything
well from the first; and if she did not, she was kept without food or
cruelly punished. Morning and evening she had to help Mdlle. Dufour to
dress and undress her mistress. But Constantia, although she looked with
hauteur on everybody beneath her, and expected to be slavishly obeyed,
was tolerably kind to her poor orphan. Her true torment began, when, on
leaving her young lady’s room, she had to assist Mdlle. Dufour.
Notwithstanding that she tried sincerely to do her best, she was never
able to satisfy her, or draw from her aught but harsh reproaches.

Thus two months passed.

One day Mdlle. Dufour went very early to confession, and Anielka was
seized with an eager longing to gaze once more in peace and freedom on
the beautiful blue sky and green trees, as she used to do when the first
rays of the rising sun streamed in at the window of the little forest
cabin. She ran into the garden. Enchanted by the sight of so many
beautiful flowers, she went farther and farther along the smooth and
winding walks, till she entered the forest. She who had been so long
away from her beloved trees, roamed where they were thickest. Here she
gazes boldly around. She sees no one! She is alone! A little further on
she meets with a rivulet which flows through the forest. Here she
remembers that she has not yet prayed. She kneels down, and with hands
clasped and eyes upturned she begins to sing, in a sweet voice, the Hymn
to the Virgin.

As she went on, she sang louder and with increased fervor. Her breast
heaved with emotion, her eyes shone with unusual brilliancy; but when
the hymn was finished she lowered her head, tears began to fall over her
cheeks, until at last she sobbed aloud. She might have remained long in
this condition, had not some one come behind her, saying, “Do not cry,
my poor girl; it is better to sing than to weep.” The intruder raised
her head, wiped her eyes with her handkerchief, and kissed her on the
forehead.

It was the Count’s son, Leon!

“You must not cry,” he continued; “be calm, and when the filipony
(pedlars) come, buy yourself a pretty handkerchief.” He then gave her a
rouble and walked away. Anielka, after concealing the coin in her
corset, ran quickly back to the palace.

Fortunately, Mdlle. Dufour had not yet returned, and Anielka seated
herself in her accustomed corner. She often took out the rouble to gaze
fondly upon it, and set to work to make a little purse, which, having
fastened to a ribbon, she hung round her neck. She did not dream of
spending it, for it would have deeply grieved her to part with the gift
of the only person in the whole house who had looked kindly on her.

From that time Anielka remained always in her young mistress’s room;
she was better dressed, and Mdlle. Dufour ceased to persecute her. To
what did she owe this sudden change? Perhaps to a remonstrance from
Leon. Constantine ordered Anielka to sit beside her while taking her
lessons from her music-masters, and on her going to the drawing-room,
she was left in her apartments alone. Being thus more kindly treated,
Anielka lost by degrees her timidity; and when her young mistress,
whilst occupied over some embroidery, would tell her to sing, she did so
boldly and with a steady voice. A greater favor awaited her. Constantia,
when unoccupied, began teaching Anielka to read in Polish; and Mdlle.
Dufour thought it politic to follow the example of her mistress, and
began to teach her French.

Meanwhile, a new kind of torment commenced. Having easily learnt the two
languages, Anielka acquired an irresistible passion for reading. Books
had for her the charm of the forbidden fruit, for she could only read by
stealth at night, or when her mistress went visiting in the
neighborhood. The kindness hitherto shown her, for a time, began to
relax. Leon had set off on a tour, accompanied by his old tutor, and a
bosom friend as young, as gay, and as thoughtless as himself.

So passed the two years of Leon’s absence. When he returned, Anielka was
seventeen, and had become tall and handsome. No one who had not seen her
during the time, would have recognized her. Of this number was Leon. In
the midst of perpetual gaiety and change it was not possible he could
have remembered a poor peasant girl; but in Anielka’s memory he had
remained as a superior being, as her benefactor, as the only one who had
spoken kindly to her, when poor, neglected, forlorn! When in some French
romance she met with a young man of twenty, of a noble character and
handsome appearance, she bestowed on him the name of Leon. The
recollection of the kiss he had given her, ever brought a burning blush
to her cheek, and made her sigh deeply.

One day Leon came to his sister’s room. Anielka was there, seated in a
corner at work. Leon himself had considerably changed; from a boy he
had grown into a man. “I suppose Constantia,” he said, “you have been
told what a good boy I am, and with what docility I shall submit myself
to the matrimonial yoke, which the Count and Countess have provided for
me?” and he began whistling, and danced some steps of the Mazurka.

“Perhaps you will be refused,” said Constantia, coldly.

“Refused! Oh, no. The old Prince has already given his consent, and as
for his daughter she is desperately in love with me. Look at these
moustachios, could anything be more irresistible?” and he glanced in the
glass and twirled them round his fingers; then continuing in a graver
tone, he said, “To tell the sober truth, I cannot say that I
reciprocate. My intended is not at all to my taste. She is nearly
thirty, and so thin that whenever I look at her, I am reminded of my old
tutor’s anatomical sketches. But thanks to her Parisian dress-maker, she
makes up a tolerably good figure, and looks well in a Cachemere. Of all
things, you know, I wished for a wife of an imposing appearance, and I
don’t care about love. I find it’s not fashionable, and only exists in
the exalted imagination of poets.”

“Surely people are in love with one another sometimes,” said the sister.

“Sometimes,” repeated Anielka, inaudibly. The dialogue had painfully
affected her, and she knew not why. Her heart beat quickly, and her face
was flushed, and made her look more lovely than ever.

“Perhaps. Of course we profess to adore every pretty woman,” Leon added
abruptly. “But, my dear sister, what a charming ladies’ maid you have!”
He approached the corner where Anielka sat, and bent on her a coarse
familiar smile. Anielka, although a serf, was displeased, and returned
it with a glance full of dignity. But when her eyes rested on the
youth’s handsome face, a feeling, which had been gradually and silently
growing in her young and inexperienced heart, predominated over her
pride and displeasure. She wished ardently to recall herself to Leon’s
memory, and half unconsciously raised her hand to the little purse which
always hung round her neck. She took from it the rouble he had given
her.

“See!” shouted Leon, “what a droll girl; how proud she is of her riches!
Why, girl, you are a woman of fortune, mistress of a whole rouble!”

“I hope she came by it honestly,” said the old Countess, who at this
moment entered.

At this insinuation, shame and indignation kept Anielka, for a time,
silent. She replaced the money quickly in its purse, with the bitter
thought that the few happy moments which had been so indelibly stamped
upon her memory, had been utterly forgotten by Leon. To clear herself,
she at last stammered out, seeing they all looked at her inquiringly,
“Do you not remember, M. Leon, that you gave me this coin two years ago
in the garden?”

“How odd?” exclaimed Leon, laughing, “do you expect me to remember all
the pretty girls to whom I have given money? But I suppose you are
right, or you would not have treasured up this unfortunate rouble as if
it were a holy relic. You should not be a miser, child; money is made to
be spent.”

“Pray, put an end to these jokes,” said Constantia impatiently; “I like
this girl, and I will not have her teased. She understands my ways
better than any one, and often puts me in good humor with her beautiful
voice.”

“Sing something for me, pretty damsel,” said Leon, “and I will give you
another rouble, a new and shining one.”

“Sing instantly,” said Constantia imperiously.

At this command Anielka could no longer stifle her grief; she covered
her face with her hands, and wept violently.

“Why do you cry?” asked her mistress impatiently; “I cannot bear it; I
desire you to do as you are bid.”

It might have been from the constant habit of slavish obedience, or a
strong feeling of pride, but Anielka instantly ceased weeping. There was
a moment’s pause, during which the old Countess went grumbling out of
the room. Anielka chose the Hymn to the Virgin she had warbled in the
garden, and as she sung, she prayed fervently;--she prayed for peace,
for deliverance from the acute emotions which had been aroused within
her. Her earnestness gave an intensity of expression to the melody,
which affected her listeners. They were silent for some moments after
its conclusion. Leon walked up and down with his arms folded on his
breast. Was it agitated with pity for the accomplished young slave? or
by any other tender emotion? What followed will show.

“My dear Constantia,” he said, suddenly stopping before his sister and
kissing her hand, “will you do me a favor?”

Constantia looked inquiringly in her brother’s face without speaking.

“Give me this girl.”

“Impossible!”

“I am quite in earnest,” continued Leon, “I wish to offer her to my
future wife. In the Prince her father’s private chapel they are much in
want of a solo soprano.”

“I shall not give her to you,” said Constantia.

“Not as a free gift, but in exchange. I will give you instead a charming
young negro--so black. The women in St. Petersburg and in Paris raved
about him: but I was inexorable; I half-refused him to my princess.”

“No, no,” replied Constantia; “I shall be lonely without this girl, I am
so used to her.”

“Nonsense! you can get peasant girls by the dozen; but a black page,
with teeth whiter than ivory, and purer than pearls; a perfect original
in his way; you surely cannot withstand. You will kill half the province
with envy. A negro servant is the most fashionable thing going, and
yours will be the first imported into the province.”

This argument was irresistible. “Well,” replied Constantia, “when do you
think of taking her?”

“Immediately; to-day at five o’clock,” said Leon; and he went merrily
out of the room. This then was the result of his cogitation--of
Anielka’s Hymn to the Virgin. Constantia ordered Anielka to prepare
herself for the journey, with as little emotion as if she had exchanged
away a lap-dog, or parted with a parrot.

She obeyed in silence. Her heart was full. She went into the garden that
she might relieve herself by weeping unseen. With one hand supporting
her burning head, and the other pressed tightly against her heart, to
stifle her sobs, she wandered on mechanically till she found herself by
the side of the river. She felt quickly for her purse, intending to
throw the rouble into the water, but as quickly thrust it back again,
for she could not bear to part with the treasure. She felt as if without
it she would be still more an orphan. Weeping bitterly, she leaned
against the tree which had once before witnessed her tears.

By degrees the stormy passion within her gave place to calm reflection.
This day she was to go away; she was to dwell beneath another roof, to
serve another mistress. Humiliation! always humiliation! But at least it
would be some change in her life. As she thought of this, she returned
hastily to the palace that she might not, on the last day of her
servitude, incur the anger of her young mistress.

Scarcely was Anielka attired in her prettiest dress, when Constantia
came to her with a little box, from which she took several gay-colored
ribbons, and decked her in them herself, that the serf might do her
credit in the new family. And when Anielka, bending down to her feet
thanked her, Constantia, with marvellous condescension, kissed her on
her forehead. Even Leon cast an admiring glance upon her. His servant
soon after came to conduct her to the carriage, and showing her where to
seat herself, they rolled off quickly towards Radapol.

For the first time in her life Anielka rode in a carriage. Her head
turned quite giddy, she could not look at the trees and fields as they
flew past her; but by degrees she became more accustomed to it, and the
fresh air enlivening her spirits, she performed the rest of the journey
in a tolerably happy state of mind. At last they arrived in the spacious
court-yard before the Palace of Radapol, the dwelling of a once rich and
powerful Polish family, now partly in ruin. It was evident, even to
Anielka, that the marriage was one for money on the one side, and for
rank on the other.

Among other renovations at the castle, occasioned by the approaching
marriage, the owner of it, Prince Pelazia, had obtained singers for the
chapel, and had engaged Signor Justiniani, an Italian, as chapel-master.
Immediately on Leon’s arrival, Anielka was presented to him. He made her
sing a scale, and pronounced her voice to be excellent.

Anielka found that, in Radapol, she was treated with a little more
consideration than at Olgogrod, although she had often to submit to the
caprices of her new mistress, and she found less time to read. But to
console herself, she gave all her attention to singing, which she
practiced several hours a day. Her naturally great capacity, under the
guidance of the Italian, began to develop itself steadily. Besides
sacred, he taught her operatic music. On one occasion Anielka sung an
aria in so impassioned and masterly a style, that the enraptured
Justiniani clapped his hands for joy, skipped about the room, and not
finding words enough to praise her, exclaimed several times, “Prima
Donna! Prima Donna!”

But the lessons were interrupted. The Princess’s wedding-day was fixed
upon, after which event she and Leon were to go to Florence, and Anielka
was to accompany them. Alas! feelings which gave her poignant misery
still clung to her. She despised herself for her weakness; but she loved
Leon. The sentiment was too deeply implanted in her bosom to be
eradicated; too strong to be resisted. It was the first love of a young
and guileless heart, and had grown in silence and despair.

Anielka was most anxious to know something of her adopted parents.
Once, after the old prince had heard her singing, he asked her with
great kindness about her home. She replied, that she was an orphan, and
had been taken by force from those who had so kindly supplied the place
of parents. Her apparent attachment to the old bee-keeper and his wife
so pleased the prince, that he said, “You are a good child, Anielka, and
to-morrow I will send you to visit them. You shall take them some
presents.”

Anielka, overpowered with gratitude, threw herself at the feet of the
prince. She dreamed all night of the happiness that was in store for
her, and the joy of the poor, forsaken, old people; and when the next
morning she set off, she could scarcely restrain her impatience. At last
they approached the cabin; she saw the forest, with its tall trees, and
the meadows covered with flowers. She leaped from the carriage, that she
might be nearer these trees and flowers, every one of which she seemed
to recognize. The weather was beautiful. She breathed with avidity the
pure air which, in imagination, brought to her the kisses and caresses
of her poor father! Her foster-father was, doubtless, occupied with his
bees; but his wife?

Anielka opened the door of the cabin; all was silent and deserted. The
arm-chair on which the poor old woman used to sit, was overturned in a
corner. Anielka was chilled by a fearful presentiment. She went with a
slow step towards the bee-hives; there she saw a little boy tending the
bees, whilst the old man was stretched on the ground beside him. The
rays of the sun, falling on his pale and sickly face, showed that he was
very ill. Anielka stooped down over him, and said, “It is I, it is
Anielka, your own Anielka, who always loves you.”

The old man raised his head, gazed upon her with a ghastly smile, and
took off his cap.

“And my good old mother, where is she?” Anielka asked.

“She is dead!” answered the old man, and falling back he began laughing
idiotically. Anielka wept. She gazed earnestly on the worn frame, the
pale and wrinkled cheeks, in which scarcely a sign of life could be
perceived; it seemed to her that he had suddenly fallen asleep, and not
wishing to disturb him, she went to the carriage for the presents. When
she returned, she took his hand. It was cold. The poor old bee-keeper
had breathed his last!

Anielka was carried almost senseless back to the carriage, which quickly
returned with her to the castle. There she revived a little; but the
recollection that she was now quite alone in the world, almost drove her
to despair.

Her master’s wedding and the journey to Florence were a dream to her.
Though the strange sights of a strange city slowly restored her
perceptions, they did not her cheerfulness. She felt as if she could no
longer endure the misery of her life; she prayed to die.

“Why are you so unhappy?” said the Count Leon kindly to her, one day.

To have explained the cause of her wretchedness would have been death
indeed.

“I am going to give you a treat,” continued Leon. “A celebrated singer
is to appear to-night in the theatre. I will send you to hear her, and
afterwards you shall sing to me what you remember of her performances.”

Anielka went. It was a new era in her existence. Herself, by this time,
an artist, she could forget her griefs, and enter with her whole soul
into the beauties of the art she now heard practised in perfection for
the first time. To music a chord responded in her breast which vibrated
powerfully. During the performances she was at one moment pale and
trembling, tears rushing into her eyes, at another, she was ready to
throw herself at the feet of the cantatrice, in an ecstasy of
admiration. “Prima donna,”--by that name the public called on her to
receive their applause, and it was the same, thought Anielka, that
Justiniani had bestowed upon her. Could _she_ also be a prima donna?
What a glorious destiny! To be able to communicate one’s own emotions to
masses of entranced listeners; to awaken in them, by the power of the
voice, grief, love, terror.

Strange thoughts continued to haunt her on her return home. She was
unable to sleep. She formed desperate plans. At last she resolved to
throw off the yoke of servitude, and the still more painful slavery of
feelings which her pride disdained. Having learnt the address of the
prima donna, she went early one morning to her house.

On entering she said, in French, almost incoherently, so great was her
agitation--“Madam, I am a poor serf belonging to a Polish family who
have lately arrived in Florence. I have escaped from them; protect,
shelter me. They say I can sing.”

The Signora Teresina, a warm-hearted, passionate Italian, was interested
by her artless earnestness. She said, “Poor child! you must have
suffered much,”--she took Anielka’s hand in hers. “You say you can sing;
let me hear you.” Anielka seated herself on an ottoman. She clasped her
hands over knees, and tears fell into her lap. With plaintive pathos,
and perfect truth of intonation, she prayed in song. The Hymn to the
Virgin seemed to Teresina to be offered up by inspiration.

The Signora was astonished. “Where,” she asked, in wonder, “were you
taught?”

Anielka narrated her history, and when she had finished, the prima donna
spoke so kindly to her that she felt as if she had known her for years.
Anielka was Teresina’s guest that day and the next. After the opera, on
the third day, the prima donna made her sit beside her, and said:--

“I think you are a very good girl, and you shall stay with me always.”

The girl was almost beside herself with joy.

“We will never part. Do you consent, Anielka?”

“Do not call me Anielka. Give me instead some Italian name.”

“Well, then, be Giovanna. The dearest friend I ever had--but whom I have
lost--was named Giovanna,” said the prima donna.

“Then, I will be another Giovanna to you.”

Teresina then said, “I hesitated to receive you at first, for your sake
as well as mine; but you are safe now. I learn that your master and
mistress, after searching vainly for you, have returned to Poland.”

From this time Anielka commenced an entirely new life. She took lessons
in singing every day from the Signora, and got an engagement to appear
in inferior characters at the theatre. She had now her own income, and
her own servant--she, who had till then been obliged to serve herself.
She acquired the Italian language rapidly, and soon passed for a native
of the country.

So passed three years. New and varied impressions failed, however, to
blot out the old ones. Anielka arrived at great perfection in her
singing, and even began to surpass the prima donna, who was losing her
voice from weakness of the chest. This sad discovery changed the
cheerful temper of Teresina. She ceased to sing in public; for she
could not endure to excite pity where she had formerly commanded
admiration.

She determined to retire. “You,” she said to Anielka, “shall now assert
your claim to the first rank in the vocal art. You will maintain it. You
surpass me. Often, on hearing you sing, I have scarcely been able to
stifle a feeling of jealousy.”

Anielka placed her hand on Teresina’s shoulder, and kissed her.

“Yes,” continued Teresina, regardless of everything but the bright
future she was shaping for her friend. “We will go to Vienna--there you
will be understood and appreciated. You shall sing at the Italian Opera,
and I will be by your side--unknown, no longer sought, worshipped--but
will glory in your triumphs. They will be a repetition of my own; for
have I not taught you? Will they not be the result of my work?”

Though Anielka’s ambition was fired, her heart was softened, and she
wept violently.

Five months had scarcely elapsed when a _furore_ was created in Vienna
by the first appearance, at the Italian Opera, of the Signora Giovanna.
Her enormous salary at once afforded her the means of even extravagant
expenditure. Her haughty treatment of male admirers only attracted new
ones; but in the midst of her triumphs, she thought often of the time
when the poor orphan of Pobereze was cared for by nobody. This
remembrance made her receive the flatteries of the crowd with an
ironical smile; their fine speeches fell coldly on her ear, their
eloquent looks made no impression on her heart: _that_, no change could
alter, no temptation win.

In the flood of unexpected success a new misfortune overwhelmed her.
Since their arrival at Vienna, Teresina’s health rapidly declined, and
in the sixth month of Anielka’s operatic reign she expired, leaving all
her wealth, which was considerable, to her friend.

Once more Anielka was alone in the world. Despite all the honors and
blandishments of her position, the old feeling of desolateness came
upon her. The new shock destroyed her health. She was unable to appear
on the stage. To sing was a painful effort; she grew indifferent to what
passed around her. Her greatest consolation was in succoring the poor
and friendless, and her generosity was most conspicuous to all young
orphan girls without fortune. She had never ceased to love her native
land, and seldom appeared in society, unless it was to meet her
countrymen. If ever she sang, it was in Polish.

A year had elapsed since the death of the Signora Teresina when the
Count Selka, a rich noble of Volkynia, at that time in Vienna, solicited
her presence at a party. It was impossible to refuse the Count and his
lady, from whom she had received great kindness. She went. When in their
saloons, filled with all the fashion and aristocracy in Vienna, the name
of Giovanna was announced, a general murmur was heard. She entered, pale
and languid, and proceeded between the two rows made for her by the
admiring assembly, to the seat of honor, beside the mistress of the
house.

Shortly after, the Count Selka led her to the piano. She sat down before
it, and thinking what she should sing, glanced round upon the assembly.
She could not help feeling that the admiration which beamed from the
faces around her was the work of her own merit, for had she neglected
the great gift of nature, her voice, she could not have excited it. With
a blushing cheek, and eyes sparkling with honest pride, she struck the
piano with a firm hand, and from her seemingly weak and delicate chest
poured forth a touching Polish melody, with a voice pure, sonorous, and
plaintive. Tears were in many eyes, and the beating of every heart was
quickened.

The song was finished, but the wondering silence was unbroken. Giovanna
leaned exhausted on the arm of the chair, and cast down her eyes. On
again raising them, she perceived a gentleman who gazed fixedly at her,
as if he still listened to echoes which had not yet died within him. The
master of the house, to dissipate his thoughtlessness, led him towards
Giovanna. “Let me present to you, Signora,” he said, “a countryman, the
Count Leon Roszynski.”

The lady trembled; she silently bowed, fixed her eyes on the ground, and
dared not raise them. Pleading indisposition, which was fully justified
by her pallid features, she soon after withdrew.

When, on the following day, Giovanna’s servant announced the Counts
Selka and Roszynski, a peculiar smile played on her lips; and when they
entered, she received the latter with the cold and formal politeness of
a stranger. Controlling the feelings of her heart, she schooled her
features to an expression of indifference. It was manifest from Leon’s
manner, that without the remotest recognition, an indefinable
presentiment regarding her possessed him. The Counts had called to know
if Giovanna had recovered from her indisposition. Leon begged to be
permitted to call again.

Where was his wife? why did he never mention her? Giovanna continually
asked herself these questions when they had departed.

A few nights after, the Count Leon arrived, sad and thoughtful. He
prevailed on Giovanna to sing one of her Polish melodies, which she told
him she had been taught, when a child, by her nurse. Roszynski, unable
to restrain the expression of an intense admiration he had long felt,
frantically seized her hand, and exclaimed, “I love you!”

She withdrew it from his grasp, remained silent for a few minutes, and
then said slowly, distinctly, and ironically, “But I do not love _you_,
Count Roszynski.”

Leon rose from his seat. He pressed his hands to his brow, and was
silent. Giovanna remained calm and tranquil. “It is a penalty from
Heaven,” continued Leon, as if speaking to himself, “for not having
fulfilled my duty as a husband towards one whom I chose voluntarily, but
without reflection. I wronged her, and am punished.”

Giovanna turned her eyes upon him. Leon continued, “Young, and with a
heart untouched, I married a princess about ten years older than
myself, of eccentric habits and bad temper. She treated me as an
inferior. She dissipated the fortune hoarded up with so much care by my
parents, and yet was ashamed, on account of my origin, to be called by
my name. Happily for me, she was fond of visiting and amusements.
Otherwise, to escape from her, I might have become a gambler, or worse;
but to avoid meeting her, I remained at home--for there she seldom was.
At first from ennui, but afterwards from real delight in the occupation,
I gave myself up to study. Reading formed my mind and heart. I became a
changed being. Some months ago my father died, my sister went to
Lithuania, whilst my mother, in her old age, and with her ideas, was
quite incapable of understanding my sorrow. So when my wife went to the
baths for the benefit of her ruined health, I came here in the hope of
meeting with some of my former friends--I saw you--”

Giovanna blushed like one detected; but speedily recovering herself,
asked, with calm pleasantry, “Surely you do not number _me_ among your
former friends?”

“I know not. I have been bewildered. It is strange; but from the moment
I saw you at Count Selka’s, a powerful instinct of love overcame me; not
a new feeling; but as if some latent, long-hid, undeveloped sentiment
had suddenly burst forth into an uncontrollable passion. I love, I adore
you. I----”

The Prima Donna interrupted him--not with speech, but with a look which
awed, which chilled him. Pride, scorn, irony sat in her smile. Satire
darted from her eyes. After a pause she repeated slowly and pointedly,
“Love _me_, Count Roszynski?”

“Such is my destiny,” he replied. “Nor, despite your scorn, will I
struggle against it. I feel it is my fate ever to love you; I fear it is
my fate never to be loved by you. It is dreadful.”

Giovanna witnessed the Count’s emotion with sadness. “To have,” she said
mournfully, “one’s first, pure, ardent, passionate affection
unrequited, scorned, made a jest of, is indeed a bitterness, almost
equal to that of death.”

She made a strong effort to conceal her emotion. Indeed she controlled
it so well as to speak the rest with a sort of gaiety.

“You have at least been candid, Count Roszynski; I will imitate you by
telling a little history that occurred in your country. There was a poor
girl born and bred a serf to her wealthy lord and master. When scarcely
fifteen years old, she was torn from a state of happy rustic
freedom--the freedom of humility and content--to be one of the courtly
slaves of the Palace. Those who did not laugh at her, scolded her. One
kind word was vouchsafed to her, and that came from the lord’s son. She
nursed it and treasured it; till, from long concealing and restraining
her feelings, she at last found that gratitude had changed into a
sincere affection. But what does a man of the world care for the love of
a serf? It does not even flatter his vanity. The young nobleman did not
understand the source of her tears and her grief, and he made a present
of her, as he would have done of some animal, to his betrothed.”

Leon, agitated and somewhat enlightened, would have interrupted her; but
Giovanna said, “Allow me to finish my tale. Providence did not abandon
this poor orphan, but permitted her to rise to distinction by the talent
with which she was endowed by nature. The wretched serf of Pobereze
became a celebrated Italian cantatrice. _Then_ her former lord meeting
her in society, and seeing her admired and courted by all the world,
without knowing who she really was, was afflicted, as if by the dictates
of Heaven, with a love for this same girl,--with a guilty love”--

And Giovanna rose, as she said this, to remove herself further from her
admirer.

“No, no!” he replied earnestly; “with a pure and holy passion.”

“Impossible!” returned Giovanna. “Are you not married?”

Roszynski vehemently tore a letter from his vest, and handed it to
Giovanna. It was sealed with black, for it announced the death of his
wife at the baths. It had only arrived that morning.

“You have lost no time,” said the cantatrice, endeavoring to conceal her
feelings under an iron mask of reproach.

There was a pause. Each dared not speak. The Count knew--but without
actually and practically believing what seemed incredible--that Anielka
and Giovanna were the same person--_his slave_. That terrible
relationship checked him. Anielka, too, had played her part to the end
of endurance. The long-cherished tenderness--the faithful love of her
life, could not longer be wholly mastered. Hitherto they had spoken in
Italian. She now said in Polish,

“You have a right, my Lord Roszynski, to that poor Anielka who escaped
from the service of your wife in Florence; you can force her back to
your palace, to its meanest work, but”--

“Have mercy on me!” cried Leon.

“But,” continued the serf of Pobereze, firmly, “you cannot force me to
love you.”

“Do not mock--do not torture me more; you are sufficiently revenged. I
will not offend you by importunity. You must indeed hate me! But
remember that we Poles wished to give freedom to our serfs; and for that
very reason our country was invaded and dismembered by despotic powers.
We must therefore continue to suffer slavery as it exists in Russia;
but, soul and body, we are averse to it; and when our country once more
becomes free, be assured no shadow of slavery will remain in the land.
Curse then our enemies, and pity us that we stand in such a desperate
position between Russian bayonets and Siberia, and the hatred of our
serfs.”

So saying, and without waiting for a reply, Leon rushed from the room.
The door was closed. Giovanna listened to the sounds of his rapid
footsteps till they died in the street. She would have followed, but
dared not. She ran to the window. Roszynski’s carriage was rolling
rapidly away, and she exclaimed vainly, “I love you, Leon; I loved you
always!”

Her tortures were unendurable. To relieve them she hastened to her desk,
and wrote these words:--

“Dearest Leon, forgive me; let the past be forever forgotten. Return to
your Anielka. She always has been, ever will be yours.”

She despatched the missive. Was it too late? or would it bring him back?
In the latter hope she retired to her chamber, to execute a little
project.

Leon was in despair. He saw he had been premature in so soon declaring
his passion after the news of his wife’s death, and vowed he would not
see Anielka again for several months. To calm his agitation, he had
ridden some miles into the country. When he returned to his hotel after
some hours, he found her note. With the wild delight it had darted into
his soul, he flew back to her.

On regaining her saloon a new and terrible vicissitude seemed to sport
with his passion:--she was nowhere to be seen. Had the Italian
cantatrice fled? Again he was in despair; stupefied with
disappointment. As he stood uncertain how to act in the midst of the
floor, he heard, as from a distance, an Ave Maria poured forth in tones
he half-recognized. The sounds brought back to him a host of
recollections; a weeping serf, the garden of his own palace. In a state
of new rapture he followed the voice. He traced it to an inner chamber,
and he there beheld the lovely singer kneeling in the costume of a
Polish serf. She rose, greeted Leon with a touching smile, and stepped
forward with serious bashfulness. Leon extended his arms; she sank into
them; and in that fond embrace all past wrongs and sorrows were
forgotten! Anielka drew from her bosom a little purse, and took from it
a piece of silver. It was the rouble. _Now_, Leon did not smile at it.
He comprehended the sacredness of this little gift; and some tears of
repentance fell upon Anielka’s hand.

A few months after, Leon wrote to the steward of Olgogrod to prepare
everything splendidly for the reception of his second wife. He
concluded his letter with these words:--“I understand that in the
dungeon beneath my palace there are some unfortunate men, who were
imprisoned during my father’s lifetime. Let them be instantly liberated.
This is my first act of gratitude to God, who has so infinitely blessed
me!”

Anielka longed ardently to behold her native land. They left Vienna
immediately after the wedding, although it was in the middle of January.

It was already quite dark when the carriage, with its four horses,
stopped in front of the portico of the palace of Olgogrod. Whilst the
footman was opening the door on one side, a beggar soliciting alms
appeared at the other, where Anielka was seated. Happy to perform a good
action, as she crossed the threshold of her new home, she gave him some
money; but the man, instead of thanking her, returned her bounty with a
savage laugh, at the same time scowling at her in the fiercest manner
from beneath his thick and shaggy brows. The strangeness of this
circumstance sensibly affected Anielka, and clouded her happiness. Leon
soothed and re-assured her. In the arms of her beloved husband, she
forgot all but the happiness of being the idol of his affections.

Fatigue and excitement made the night most welcome. All was dark and
silent around the palace, and some hours of the night had passed, when
suddenly flames burst forth from several parts of the building at once.
The palace was enveloped in fire; it raged furiously. The flames mounted
higher and higher; the windows cracked with a fearful sound, and the
smoke penetrated into the most remote apartments.

A single figure of a man was seen stealing over the snow, which lay like
a winding-sheet on the solitary waste; his cautious steps were heard on
the frozen snow as it crisped beneath his tread. It was the beggar who
had accosted Anielka. On a rising ground, he turned to gaze on the
terrible scene. “No more unfortunate wretches will now be doomed to pass
their lives in your dungeons,” he exclaimed. “What was _my_ crime?
Reminding my master of the lowness of his birth. For this they tore me
from my only child--my darling little Anielka; they had no pity even for
her orphan state; let them perish all!”

Suddenly a young and beautiful creature rushes wildly to one of the
principal windows: she makes a violent effort to escape. For a moment
her lovely form, clothed in white, shines in terrible relief against the
background of blazing curtains and walls of fire, and as instantly sinks
back into the blazing element. Behind her is another figure, vainly
endeavoring to aid her,--he perishes also; neither are ever seen again!

This appalling tragedy horrified even the perpetrator of the crime. He
rushed from the place; and as he heard the crash of the falling walls,
he closed his ears with his hands, and darted on faster and faster.

The next day some peasants discovered the body of a man frozen to death,
lying on a heap of snow,--it was that of the wretched incendiary.
Providence, mindful of his long, of his cruel imprisonment and
sufferings, spared him the anguish of knowing that the mistress of the
palace he had destroyed, and who perished in the flames, was his own
beloved daughter--the Serf of Pobereze!




III.

My Wonderful Adventures in Skitzland.


I am fond of Gardening. I like to dig. If among the operations of the
garden any need for such a work can be at any time discovered or
invented, I like to dig a hole.

On the 3d of March, 1849, I began a hole behind the kitchen wall,
whereinto it was originally intended to transplant a plum tree. The
exercise was so much to my taste, that a strange humor impelled me to
dig on. A fascination held me to the task. I neglected my business. I
disappeared from the earth’s surface. A boy who worked a basket by means
of a rope and pulley, aided me; so aided, I confined my whole attention
to spade labor. The centripetal force seemed to have made me its
especial victim. I dug on until Autumn. In the beginning of November I
observed that, upon percussion, the sound given by the floor of my pit
was resonant. I did not intermit my labor, urged as I was by a
mysterious instinct downwards. On applying my ear, I occasionally heard
a subdued sort of rattle, which caused me to form a theory that the
centre of the earth might be composed of mucus. In November, the ground
broke beneath me into a hollow, and I fell a considerable distance. I
alighted on the box-seat of a four-horse coach, which happened to be
running at that time immediately underneath. The coachman took no notice
whatever of my sudden arrival by his side. He was so completely muffled
up, that I could observe only the skilful way in which he manipulated
reins and whip. The horses were yellow. I had seen no more than this,
when the guard’s horn blew, and presently we pulled up at an inn. A
waiter came out, and appeared to collect four bags from the passengers
inside the coach. He then came round to me.

“Dine here, Sir?”

“Yes, certainly,” said I. I like to dine--not the sole point of
resemblance between myself and the great Johnson.

“Trouble you for your stomach, Sir.”

While the waiter was looking up with a polite stare into my puzzled
face, my neighbor, the coachman, put one hand within his outer coat, as
if to feel for money in his waistcoat pocket. Directly afterwards his
fingers came again to light, and pulled forth an enormous sack.
Notwithstanding that it was abnormally enlarged, I knew by observation
of its form and texture that this was a stomach, with the œsophagus
attached. This, then, the waiter caught as it was thrown down to him,
and hung it carelessly over his arm, together with the four smaller bags
(which I now knew to be also stomachs) collected from the passengers
within the coach. I started up, and as I happened to look round,
observed a skeleton face upon the shoulders of a gentleman who sat
immediately behind my back. My own features were noticed at the same
time by the guard, who now came forward touching his hat.

“Beg your pardon, Sir, but you’ve been and done it.”

“Done what?”

“Why, Sir, you should have booked your place, and not come up in this
clandestine way. However, you’ve been and done it!”

“My good man, what have I done?”

“Why, Sir, the Baron Terroro’s eyes had the box seat, and I strongly
suspect you’ve been and sat upon them.”

I looked involuntarily to see whether I had been sitting upon anything
except the simple cushion. Truly enough, there was an eye, which I had
crushed and flattened.

“Only one,” I said.

“Worse for you, and better for him. The other eye had time to escape,
and it will know you again, that’s certain. Well, it’s no business of
mine. Of course you’ve no appetite now for dinner? Better pay your fare,
Sir. To the Green Hippopotamus and Spectacles, where we put up, it’s
ten-and-six.”

“Is there room inside?” I inquired. It was advisable to shrink from
observation.

“Yes, Sir. The inside passengers are mostly skeleton. There’s room for
three, Sir. Inside, one-pound-one.”

I paid the money, and became an inside passenger.

       *       *       *       *       *

Professor Essig’s Lectures on Anatomy had so fortified me, that I did
not shrink from entering the Skitzton coach. It contained living limbs,
loose or attached to skeletons in other respects bare, except that they
were clothed with broadcloth garments, cut after the English fashion.
One passenger only had a complete face of flesh, he had also one living
hand; the other hand I guessed was bony, because it was concealed in a
glove obviously padded. By observing the fit of his clothes, I came to a
conclusion that this gentleman was stuffed throughout; that all his
limbs, except the head and hand, were artificial. Two pair of Legs, in
woollen stockings, and a pair of Ears, were in a corner of the coach,
and in another corner there were nineteen or twenty Scalps.

I thought it well to look astonished at nothing, and, having pointed in
a careless manner to the scalps, asked what might be their destination?
The person with the Face and Hand replied to me; and although evidently
himself a gentleman, he addressed me with a tone of unconcealed respect.

“They are going to Skitzton, Sir, to the hairdresser’s.”

“Yes, to be sure,” I said. “They are to make Natural Skin Wigs. I might
have known.”

“I beg your pardon, Sir. There is a ball to-morrow night at Culmsey. But
the gentry do not like to employ village barbers, and therefore many of
the better class of people send their hair to Skitzton, and receive it
back by the return coach properly cut and curled.”

“Oh,” said I. “Ah! Oh, indeed!”

“Dinners, gentlemen!” said a voice at the window, and the waiter handed
in four stomachs, now tolerably well filled. Each passenger received
his property, and pulling open his chest with as much composure as if he
were unbuttoning his waistcoat, restored his stomach, with a dinner in
it, to the right position. Then the reckonings were paid, and the coach
started.

I thought of my garden, and much wished that somebody could throw
Professor Essig down the hole that I had dug. A few things were to be
met with in Skitzland which would rather puzzle him. They puzzled me;
but I took refuge in silence, and so fortified, protected my ignorance
from an exposure.

“You are going to court, Sir, I presume?” said my Face and Hand friend,
after a short pause. His was the only mouth in the coach, excepting
mine, so that he was the only passenger able to enter into conversation.

“My dear Sir,” I replied, “let me be frank with you. I have arrived here
unexpectedly out of another world. Of the manners and customs, nay, of
the very nature of the people who inhabit this country, I know nothing.
For any information you can give me, I shall be very grateful.”

My friend smiled incredulity, and said,

“Whatever you are pleased to profess, I will believe. What you are
pleased to feign a wish for, I am proud to furnish. In Skitzland, the
inhabitants, until they come of age, retain that illustrious appearance
which you have been so fortunate as never to have lost. During the night
of his twenty-first birthday, each Skitzlander loses the limbs which up
to that period have received from him no care, no education. Of those
neglected parts the skeletons alone remain, but all those organs which
he has employed sufficiently continue unimpaired. I, for example,
devoted to the study of the law, forgot all occupation but to think, to
use my senses, and to write. I rarely used my legs, and therefore Nature
has deprived me of them.”

“But,” I observed, “it seems that in Skitzland you are able to take
yourselves to pieces.”

“No one has that power more largely than yourself. What organs we have
we can detach on any service. When dispersed, a simple force of Nature
directs all corresponding members whither to fly that they may
re-assemble.”

“If they can fly,” I asked, “why are they sent in coaches? There were a
pair of eyes on the box-seat.”

“Simply for safety against accidents. Eyes flying alone are likely to be
seized by birds, and incur many dangers. They are sent, therefore,
usually under protection, like any other valuable parcel.”

“Do many accidents occur?”

“Very few. For mutual protection, and also because a single member is
often all that has been left existing of a fellow Skitzlander, our laws,
as you, Sir, know much better than myself, estimate the destruction of
any part absent on duty from its skeleton as a crime equivalent to
murder----”

After this I held my tongue. Presently my friend again inquired whether
I was going up to Court?

“Why should I go to Court?”

“Oh, Sir, it pleases you to be facetious. You must be aware that any
Skitzlander who has been left by Nature in possession of every limb,
sits in the Assembly of the Perfect, or the Upper House, and receives
many State emoluments and dignities.”

“Are there many members of that Upper Assembly?”

“Sir, there were forty-two. But if you are now travelling to claim your
seat, the number will be raised to forty-three.”

“The Baron Terroro--” I hinted.

“My brother, Sir. His eyes are on the box-seat under my care.
Undoubtedly he is a Member of the Upper House.”

I was now anxious to get out of the coach as soon as possible. My wish
was fulfilled after the next pause. One Eye, followed by six Pairs of
Arms, with strong hard Hands belonging to them, flew in at the window. I
was collared; the door was opened, and all hands were at work to drag
me out and away. The twelve Hands whisked me through the air, while the
one Eye sailed before us, like an old bird, leader of the flight.

       *       *       *       *       *

What sort of sky have they in Skitzland? Our earth overarches them, and,
as the sun-light filters through, it causes a subdued illumination with
very pure rays. Skitzland is situated nearly in the centre of our globe,
it hangs there like a shrunken kernel in the middle of a nutshell. The
height from Skitzland to the over-arching canopy is great; so great,
that if I had not fallen personally from above the firmament, I should
have considered it to be a blue sky similar to ours. At night it is
quite dark; but during the day there is an appearance in the Heaven of
white spots; their glistening reminded me of stars. I noticed them as I
was being conveyed to prison by the strong arms of justice, for it was
by a detachment of members from the Skitzton Police that I was now
hurried along. The air was very warm, and corroborated the common
observation of an increase of heat as you get into the pith of our
planet. The theory of Central Fire, however, is, you perceive, quite
overturned by my experience.

We alighted near the outskirts of a large and busy town. Through its
streets I was dragged publicly, much stared at, and much staring. The
street life was one busy nightmare of disjointed limbs. Professor Essig,
could he have been dragged through Skitzton, would have delivered his
farewell lecture upon his return. “Gentlemen, Fuit Ilium--Fuit
Ischium--Fuit Sacrum--Anatomy has lost her seat among the sciences. My
occupation’s gone.” Professor Owen’s Book “On the Nature of Limbs,” must
contain, in the next edition, an Appendix “Upon Limbs in Skitzland.” I
was dragged through the streets, and all that I saw there, in the
present age of little faith, I dare not tell you. I was dragged through
the streets to prison and there duly chained, after having been
subjected to the scrutiny of about fifty couples of eyes drawn up in a
line within the prison door. I was chained in a dark cell, a cell so
dark that I could very faintly perceive the figure of some being who was
my companion. Whether this individual had ears wherewith to hear, and
mouth wherewith to answer me, I could not see, but at a venture I
addressed him. My thirst for information was unconquerable; I began,
therefore, immediately with a question:

“Friend, what are those stars which we see shining in the sky at
mid-day?”

An awful groan being an unsatisfactory reply, I asked again.

“Man, do not mock at misery. You will yourself be one of them.”

‘The Teachers shall shine like Stars in the Firmament.’ I have a
propensity for teaching, but was puzzled to discover how I could give so
practical an illustration of the text of Fichte.

“Believe me,” I said, “I am strangely ignorant. Explain yourself.”

He answered with a hollow voice:

“Murderers are shot up out of mortars into the sky, and stick there.
Those white, glistening specks, they are their skeletons.”

Justice is prompt in Skitzland. I was tried incredibly fast by a jury of
twelve men who had absolutely heads. The judges had nothing but brain,
mouth, and ear. Three powerful tongues defended me, but as they were not
suffered to talk nonsense, they had little to say. The whole case was
too clear to be talked into cloudiness. Baron Terroro, in person,
deposed, that he had sent his eyes to see a friend in Culmsey, and that
they were returning on the Skitzton coach, when I, illegally, came with
my whole bulk upon the box-seat, which he occupied. That one of his eyes
was, in that manner, totally destroyed, but that the other eye, having
escaped, identified me, and brought to his brain intelligence of the
calamity which had befallen. He deposed further, that having received
this information, he despatched his uncrushed eye with arms from the
police-office, and accompanied with several members of the detective
force, to capture the offender, and to procure the full proofs of my
crime. A sub-inspector of Skitzton Police then deposed that he sent
three of his faculties, with his mouth, eye, and ear, to meet the coach.
That the driver, consisting only of a stomach and hands, had been unable
to observe what passed. That the guard, on the contrary, had taxed me
with my deed, that he had seen me rise from my seat upon the murdered
eye, and that he had heard me make confession of my guilt. The guard was
brought next into court, and told his tale. Then I was called upon for
my defence. If a man wearing a cloth coat and trousers, and talking
excellent English, were to plead at the Old Bailey that he had broken
into some citizen’s premises accidentally by falling from the moon, his
tale would be received in London as mine was in Skitzton. I was severely
reprimanded for my levity, and ordered to be silent. The Judge summed up
and the Jury found me Guilty. The Judge who had put on the black cap
before the verdict was pronounced, held out no hope of mercy, and
straightway sentenced me to Death, according to the laws and usage of
the Realm.

       *       *       *       *       *

The period which intervenes between the sentence and execution of a
criminal in Skitzland, is not longer than three hours. In order to
increase the terror of death by contrast, the condemned man is suffered
to taste at the table of life from which he is banished, the most
luscious viands. All the attainable enjoyment that his wit can ask for,
he is allowed to have, during the three hours before he is shot, like
rubbish, off the fields of Skitzland.

Under guard, of course, I was now to be led whithersoever I desired.

Several churches were open. They never are all shut in Skitzton. I was
taken into one. A man with heart and life was preaching. People with
hearts were in some pews; people with brains, in others; people with
ears only, in some. In a neighboring church there was a popular
preacher, a skeleton with life. His congregation was a crowd of ears,
and nothing more.

There was a day-performance at the Opera. I went to that. Fine lungs and
mouths possessed the stage, and afterwards there was a great
bewilderment with legs. I was surprised to notice that many of the most
beautiful ladies were carried in and out, and lifted about like dolls.
My guides sneered at my pretence of ignorance, when I asked why this
was. But they were bound to please me in all practicable ways, so they
informed me, although somewhat pettishly. It seems that in Skitzland,
ladies who possess and have cultivated only their good looks, lose at
the age of twenty-one, all other endowments. So they become literally
dolls, but dolls of a superior kind; for they can not only open and shut
their eyes, but also sigh; wag slowly with their heads, and sometimes
take a pocket-handkerchief out of a bag, and drop it. But as their limbs
are powerless, they have to be lifted and dragged about after the
fashion that excited my astonishment.

I said then, “Let me see the Poor.” They took me to a Workhouse. The
men, there, were all yellow; and they wore a dress which looked as
though it were composed of asphalte; it had also a smell like that of
pitch. I asked for explanation of these things.

A Superintendent of Police remarked that I was losing opportunities of
real enjoyment for the idle purpose of persisting in my fable of having
dropped down from the sky. However, I compelled him to explain to me
what was the reason of these things. The information I obtained was
chiefly this:--that Nature, in Skitzland, never removes the stomach.
Every man has to feed himself; and the necessity for finding food,
joined to the necessity for buying clothes, is a mainspring whereby the
whole clockwork of civilized life is kept in motion. Now, if a man
positively cannot feed and clothe himself, he becomes a pauper. He then
goes to the Workhouse, where he has his stomach filled with a cement.
That stopping lasts a life-time, and he thereafter needs no food. His
body, however, becomes yellow by the superfluity of bile. The
yellow-boy, which is the Skitzland epithet for pauper, is at the same
time provided with a suit of clothes. The clothes are of a material so
tough that they can be worn unimpaired for more than eighty years. The
pauper is now freed from care, but were he in this state cast loose upon
society, since he has not that stimulus to labor which excites industry
in other men, he would become an element of danger in the state. Nature
no longer compelling him to work, the law compels him. The remainder of
his life is forfeit to the uses of his country. He labors at the
workhouse, costing nothing more than the expense of lodging, after the
first inconsiderable outlay for cement wherewith to plug his stomach,
and for the one suit of apparel.

When we came out of the workhouse, all the bells in the town were
tolling. The Superintendent told me that I had sadly frittered away
time, for I had now no more than half an hour to live. Upon that I
leaned my back against a post, and asked him to prepare me for my part
in the impending ceremony by giving me a little information on the
subject of executions.

I found that it was usual for a man to be executed with great ceremony
upon the spot whereon his crime had been committed. That in case of
rebellions or tumults in the provinces, when large numbers were not
unfrequently condemned to death, the sentence of the law was carried out
in the chief towns of the disturbed districts. That large numbers of
people were thus sometimes discharged from a single market-place, and
that the repeated strokes appeared to shake, or crack, or pierce in some
degree that portion of the sky towards which the artillery had been
directed. I here at once saw that I had discovered the true cause of
earthquakes and volcanoes; and this shows how great light may be thrown
upon theories concerning the hidden constitution of this earth, by going
more deeply into the matter of it than had been done by any one before I
dug my hole. Our volcanoes, it is now proved, are situated over the
market-places of various provincial towns in Skitzland. When a
revolution happens, the rebels are shot up,--discharged from mortars by
means of an explosive material evidently far more powerful than our
gunpowder, or gun-cotton; and they are pulverized by the friction in
grinding their way through the earth. How simple and easy truth appears,
when we have once arrived at it.

The sound of muffled drums approached us, and a long procession turned
the corner of a street. I was placed in the middle of it,--Baron Terroro
by my side. All then began to float so rapidly away, that I was nearly
left alone, when forty arms came back and collared me. It was considered
to be a proof of my refractory disposition, that I would make no use of
my innate power of flight. I was therefore dragged in this procession
swiftly through the air, drums playing, fifes lamenting.

We alighted on the spot where I had fallen, and the hole through which I
had come I saw above me. It was very small, but the light from above
shining more vividly through it made it look, with its rough edges, like
a crumpled moon. A quantity of some explosive liquid was poured into a
large mortar, which had been erected (under the eye of Baron Terroro)
exactly where my misfortune happened. I was then thrust in, the Baron
ramming me down, and pounding with a long stock or pestle upon my head
in a noticeably vicious manner. The Baron then cried “Fire!” and as I
shot out, in the midst of a blaze, I saw him looking upward.

       *       *       *       *       *

By great good fortune, they had planted their artillery so well, that I
was fired up through my hole again, and alighted in my own garden, just
a little singed. My first thought was to run to an adjoining bed of
vegetable marrows. Thirty vegetable marrows and two pumpkins I rained
down to astonish the Skitzlanders, and I fervently hope that one of them
may have knocked out the remaining eye of my vindictive enemy, the
Baron. I then went into the pantry, and obtained a basket full of eggs,
and having rained these down upon the Skitzlanders, I left them.

It was after breakfast when I went down to Skitzland, and I came back
while the dinner bell was ringing.




IV.

Lizzie Leigh.


When Death is present in a household on a Christmas Day, the very
contrast between the time as it now is, and the day as it has often
been, gives a poignancy to sorrow,--a more utter blankness to the
desolation. James Leigh died just as the far-away bells of Rochdale
Church were ringing for morning service on Christmas Day, 1836. A few
minutes before his death he opened his already glazing eyes, and made a
faint motion of his lips, that he had yet something to say. She stooped
close down, and caught the broken whisper, “I forgive her, Anne! May God
forgive me.”

“Oh my love, my dear! only get well, and I will never cease showing my
thanks for those words. May God in heaven bless thee for saying them.
Thou’rt not so restless, my lad! may be--Oh God!”

For even while she spoke, he died.

They had been two-and-twenty years man and wife; for nineteen of those
years their life had been as calm and happy, as the most perfect
uprightness on the one side, and the most complete confidence and loving
submission on the other, could make it. Milton’s famous line might have
been framed and hung up as the rule of their married life, for he was
truly the interpreter, who stood between God and her; she would have
considered herself wicked if she had ever dared even to think him
austere, though as certainly as he was an upright man, so surely was he
hard, stern, and inflexible. But for three years the moan and the murmur
had never been out of her heart; she had rebelled against her husband as
against a tyrant, with a hidden sullen rebellion, which tore up the old
land-marks of wifely duty and affection, and poisoned the fountains
whence gentlest love and reverence had been forever springing.

But those last blessed words replaced him on his throne in her heart,
and called out penitent anguish for all the bitter estrangement of later
years. It was this which made her refuse all the entreaties of her sons,
that she would see the kind-hearted neighbors, who called on their way
from church, to sympathize and condole. No! she would stay with the dead
husband that had spoken tenderly at last, if for three years he had kept
silence; who knew but what, if she had only been more gentle and less
angrily reserved he might have relented earlier--and in time.

She sat rocking herself to and fro by the side of the bed, while the
footsteps below went in and out; she had been in sorrow too long to have
any violent burst of deep grief now; the furrows were well worn in her
cheeks, and the tears flowed quietly, if incessantly, all the day long.
But when the winter’s night drew on, and the neighbors had gone away to
their homes, she stole to the window, and gazed out, long and wistfully,
over the dark gray moors. She did not hear her son’s voice, as he spoke
to her from the door, nor his footstep as he drew nearer. She started
when he touched her.

“Mother! come down to us. There’s no one but Will and me. Dearest
mother, we do so want you.” The poor lad’s voice trembled, and he began
to cry. It appeared to require an effort on Mrs. Leigh’s part to tear
herself away from the window, but with a sigh she complied with his
request.

The two boys (for though Will was nearly twenty-one, she still thought
of him as a lad) had done everything in their power to make the
house-place comfortable for her. She herself, in the old days before her
sorrow, had never made a brighter fire or a cleaner hearth, ready for
her husband’s return home, than now awaited her. The tea-things were all
put out, and the kettle was boiling; and the boys had calmed their grief
down into a kind of sober cheerfulness. They paid her every attention
they could think of, but received little notice on her part; she did not
resist--she rather submitted to all their arrangements; but they did
not seem to touch her heart.

When the tea was ended,--it was merely the form of tea that had been
gone through,--Will moved the things away to the dresser. His mother
leant back languidly in her chair.

“Mother, shall Tom read you a chapter? He’s a better scholar than I.”

“Aye, lad!” said she, almost eagerly. “That’s it. Read me the Prodigal
Son. Aye, aye, lad. Thank thee.”

Tom found the chapter, and read it in the high-pitched voice which is
customary in village-schools. His mother bent forward, her lips parted,
her eyes dilated; her whole body instinct with eager attention. Will sat
with his head depressed, and hung down. He knew why that chapter had
been chosen; and to him it recalled the family’s disgrace. When the
reading was ended, he still hung down his head in gloomy silence. But
her face was brighter than it had been before for the day. Her eyes
looked dreamy, as if she saw a vision; and by-and-bye she pulled the
Bible towards her, and putting her finger underneath each word, began to
read them aloud in a low voice to herself; she read again the words of
bitter sorrow and deep humiliation; but most of all she paused and
brightened over the father’s tender reception of the repentant prodigal.

So passed the Christmas evening in the Upclose Farm.

The snow had fallen heavily over the dark waving moorland, before the
day of the funeral. The black, storm-laden dome of heaven lay very still
and close upon the white earth, as they carried the body forth out of
the house which had known his presence so long as its ruling power. Two
and two the mourners followed, making a black procession, in their
winding march over the unbeaten snow, to Milne-Row Church--now lost in
some hollow of the bleak moors, now slowly climbing the heavy ascents.
There was no long tarrying after the funeral, for many of the neighbors
who accompanied the body to the grave had far to go, and the great
white flakes which came slowly down, were the boding fore-runners of a
heavy storm. One old friend alone accompanied the widow and her sons to
their home.

The Upclose Farm had belonged for generations to the Leighs; and yet its
possession hardly raised them above the rank of laborers. There was the
house and outbuildings, all of an old-fashioned kind, and about seven
acres of barren, unproductive land, which they had never possessed
capital enough to improve; indeed they could hardly rely upon it for
subsistence; and it had been customary to bring up the sons to some
trade--such as a wheelwright’s, or blacksmith’s.

James Leigh had left a will, in the possession of the old man who
accompanied them home. He read it aloud. James had bequeathed the farm
to his faithful wife, Anne Leigh, for her life-time, and afterwards to
his son William. The hundred and odd-pounds in the savings-bank was to
accumulate for Thomas.

After the reading was ended, Anne Leigh sat silent for a time; and then
she asked to speak to Samuel Orme alone. The sons went into the
back-kitchen, and thence strolled out into the fields regardless of the
driving snow. The brothers were dearly fond of each other, although they
were very different in character. Will, the elder, was like his father,
stern, reserved, scrupulously upright. Tom (who was ten years younger)
was gentle and delicate as a girl, both in appearance and character. He
had always clung to his mother, and dreaded his father. They did not
speak as they walked, for they were only in the habit of talking about
facts, and hardly knew the more sophisticated language applied to the
description of feelings.

Meanwhile their mother had taken hold of Samuel Orme’s arm with her
trembling hand.

“Samuel, I must let the farm--I must.”

“Let the farm! What’s come o’er the woman?”

“Oh, Samuel!” said she, her eyes swimming in tears, “I’m just fain to go
and live in Manchester. I mun let the farm.”

Samuel looked, and pondered, but did not speak for some time. At last he
said--

“If thou hast made up thy mind, there’s no speaking again it; and thou
must e’en go. Thou’lt be sadly pottered wi’ Manchester ways, but that’s
not my look out. Why, thou’lt have to buy potatoes, a thing thou hast
never done afore in all thy born life. Well! it’s not my look out. It’s
rather for me than again me. Our Jenny is going to be married to Tom
Higginbotham, and he was speaking of wanting a bit of land to begin
upon. His father will be dying sometime, I reckon, and then he’ll step
into the Croft Farm. But meanwhile”--

“Then, thou’lt let the farm,” said she, still as eagerly as ever.

“Aye, aye, he’ll take it fast enough, I’ve a notion. But I’ll not drive
a bargain with thee just now; it would not be right; we’ll wait a bit.”

“No; I cannot wait, settle it out at once.”

“Well, well; I’ll speak to Will about it. I see him out yonder. I’ll
step to him, and talk it over.”

Accordingly he went and joined the two lads, and without more ado, began
the subject to them.

“Will, thy mother is fain to go live in Manchester, and covets to let
the farm. Now, I’m willing to take it for Tom Higginbotham; but I like
to drive a keen bargain, and there would be no fun chaffering with thy
mother just now. Let thee and me buckle to, my lad! and try and cheat
each other; it will warm us this cold day.”

“Let the farm!” said both the lads at once, with infinite surprise. “Go
live in Manchester!”

When Samuel Orme found that the plan had never before been named to
either Will or Tom, he would have nothing to do with it, he said, until
they had spoken to their mother; likely she was “dazed” by her husband’s
death; he would wait a day or two, and not name it to any one; not to
Tom Higginbotham himself, or may be he would set his heart upon it. The
lads had better go in and talk it over with their mother. He bade them
good day, and left them.

Will looked very gloomy, but he did not speak till they got near the
house. Then he said,--

“Tom, go to th’ shippon, and supper the cows. I want to speak to mother
alone.”

When he entered the house-place, she was sitting before the fire,
looking into its embers. She did not hear him come in; for some time she
had lost her quick perception of outward things.

“Mother! what’s this about going to Manchester?” asked he.

“Oh, lad!” said she, turning round and speaking in a beseeching tone, “I
must go and seek our Lizzie. I cannot rest here for thinking on her.
Many’s the time I’ve left thy father sleeping in bed, and stole to th’
window, and looked and looked my heart out towards Manchester, till I
thought I must just set out and tramp over moor and moss straight away
till I got there, and then lift up every downcast face till I came to
our Lizzie. And often, when the south wind was blowing soft among the
hollows, I’ve fancied (it could but be fancy, thou knowest) I heard her
crying upon me; and I’ve thought the voice came closer and closer, till
at last it was sobbing out ‘Mother’ close to the door; and I’ve stolen
down, and undone the latch before now, and looked out into the still
black night, thinking to see her,--and turned sick and sorrowful when I
heard no living sound but the sough of the wind dying away. Oh! speak
not to me of stopping here, when she may be perishing for hunger, like
the poor lad in the parable.” And now she lifted up her voice and wept
aloud.

Will was deeply grieved. He had been old enough to be told the family
shame when, more than two years before, his father had had his letter to
his daughter returned by her mistress in Manchester, telling him that
Lizzie had left her service some time--and why. He had sympathized with
his father’s stern anger; though he had thought him something hard, it
is true, when he had forbidden his weeping, heart-broken wife to go and
try to find her poor sinning child, and declared that henceforth they
would have no daughter that she should be as one dead, and her name
never more be named at market or at meal time, in blessing or in prayer.
He had held his peace, with compressed lips and contracted brow, when
the neighbors had noticed to him how poor Lizzie’s death had aged both
his father and his mother; and how they thought the bereaved couple
would never hold up their heads again. He himself had felt as if that
one event had made him old before his time; and had envied Tom the tears
he had shed over poor, pretty, innocent, dead Lizzie. He thought about
her sometimes, till he ground his teeth, and could have struck her down
in her shame. His mother had never named her to him until now.

“Mother!” said he at last. “She may be dead. Most likely she is.”

“No, Will; she is not dead,” said Mrs. Leigh. “God will not let her die
till I’ve seen her once again. Thou dost not know how I’ve prayed and
prayed just once again to see her sweet face, and tell her I’ve forgiven
her, though she’s broken my heart--she has, Will.” She could not go on
for a minute or two for the choking sobs. “Thou dost not know that, or
thou wouldst not say she could be dead,--for God is very merciful, Will;
He is,--He is much more pitiful than man,--I could never ha’ spoken to
thy father as I did to Him,--and yet thy father forgave her at last. The
last words he said were that he forgave her. Thou’lt not be harder than
thy father, Will? Do not try and hinder me going to seek her, for it’s
no use.”

Will sat very still for a long time before he spoke. At last he said,
“I’ll not hinder you. I think she’s dead, but that’s no matter.”

“She is not dead,” said her mother, with low earnestness. Will took no
notice of the interruption.

“We will all go to Manchester for a twelve-month, and let the farm to
Tom Higginbotham. I’ll get blacksmith’s work; and Tom can have good
schooling for awhile, which he’s always craving for. At the end of the
year you’ll come back, mother, and give over fretting for Lizzie, and
think with me that she is dead,--and, to my mind, that would be more
comfort than to think of her living;” he dropped his voice as he spoke
these last words. She shook her head, but made no answer. He asked
again,--

“Will you, mother, agree to this?”

“I’ll agree to it a-this-ns,” said she. “If I hear and see nought of her
for a twelve-month, me being in Manchester looking out, I’ll just ha’
broken my heart fairly before the year’s ended, and then I shall know
neither love nor sorrow for her any more, when I’m at rest in the
grave--I’ll agree to that, Will.”

“Well, I suppose it must be so. I shall not tell Tom, mother, why we’re
flitting to Manchester. Best spare him.”

“As thou wilt,” said she, sadly, “so that we go, that’s all.”

Before the wild daffodils were in flower in the sheltered copses round
Upclose Farm, the Leighs were settled in their Manchester home; if they
could ever grow to consider that place as a home where there was no
garden, or outbuilding, no fresh breezy outlet, no far-stretching view,
over moor and hollow,--no dumb animals to be tended, and, what more than
all they missed, no old haunting memories, even though those
remembrances told of sorrow, and the dead and gone.

Mrs. Leigh heeded the loss of all these things less than her sons. She
had more spirit in her countenance than she had had for months, because
now she had hope; of a sad enough kind, to be sure, but still it was
hope. She performed all her household duties, strange and complicated as
they were, and bewildered as she was with all the town-necessities of
her new manner of life; but when her house was “sided,” and the boys
come home from their work, in the evening, she would put on her things
and steal out, unnoticed, as she thought, but not without many a heavy
sigh from Will, after she had closed the house-door and departed. It was
often past midnight before she came back, pale and weary, with almost a
guilty look upon her face; but that face so full of disappointment and
hope deferred, that Will had never the heart to say what he thought of
the folly and hopelessness of the search. Night after night it was
renewed, till days grew to weeks and weeks to months. All this time Will
did his duty towards her as well as he could, without having sympathy
with her. He staid at home in the evenings for Tom’s sake, and often
wished he had Tom’s pleasure in reading, for the time hung heavy on his
hands, as he sat up for his mother.

I need not tell you how the mother spent the weary hours. And yet I will
tell you something. She used to wander out, at first as if without a
purpose, till she rallied her thoughts, and brought all her energies to
bear on the one point; then she went with earnest patience along the
least known ways to some new part of the town, looking wistfully with
dumb entreaty into people’s faces; sometimes catching a glimpse of a
figure which had a kind of momentary likeness to her child’s, and
following that figure with never-wearying perseverance, till some light
from shop or lamp showed the cold strange face which was not her
daughter’s. Once or twice a kind-hearted passer-by, struck by her look
of yearning woe, turned back and offered help, or asked her what she
wanted. When so spoken to, she answered only, “You don’t know a poor
girl they call Lizzie Leigh, do you?” and when they denied all
knowledge, she shook her head, and went on again. I think they believed
her to be crazy. But she never spoke first to any one. She sometimes
took a few minutes’ rest on the door-steps, and sometimes (very seldom)
covered her face and cried; but she could not afford to lose time and
chances in this way; while her eyes were blinded with tears, the lost
one might pass by unseen.

One evening, in the rich time of shortening autumn-days, Will saw an old
man, who, without being absolutely drunk, could not guide himself
rightly along the foot-path, and was mocked for his unsteadiness of gait
by the idle boys of the neighborhood. For his father’s sake Will
regarded old age with tenderness, even when most degraded and removed
from the stern virtues which dignified that father; so he took the old
man home, and seemed to believe his often-repeated assertions that he
drank nothing but water. The stranger tried to stiffen himself up into
steadiness as he drew nearer home, as if there were some one there, for
whose respect he cared even in his half-intoxicated state, or whose
feelings he feared to grieve. His home was exquisitely clean and neat
even in outside appearance; threshold, window, and windowsill, were
outward signs of some spirit of purity within. Will was regarded for his
attention by a bright glance of thanks, succeeded by a blush of shame,
from a young woman of twenty or thereabouts. She did not speak, or
second her father’s hospitable invitations to him to be seated. She
seemed unwilling that a stranger should witness her father’s attempts at
stately sobriety, and Will could not bear to stay and see her distress.
But when the old man, with many a flabby shake of the hand, kept asking
him to come again some other evening and see them, Will sought her
down-cast eyes, and, though he could not read their veiled meaning, he
answered timidly, “If it’s agreeable to everybody, I’ll come--and thank
ye.” But there was no answer from the girl, to whom this speech was in
reality addressed; and Will left the house liking her all the better for
never speaking.

He thought about her a great deal for the next day or two; he scolded
himself for being so foolish as to think of her, and then fell to with
fresh vigor, and thought of her more than ever. He tried to depreciate
her; and told himself she was not pretty, and then made indignant answer
that he liked her looks much better than any beauty of them all. He
wished he was not so country looking, so red-faced, so broad-shouldered;
while she was like a lady, with her smooth colorless complexion, her
bright dark hair and her spotless dress. Pretty, or not pretty, she drew
his footsteps towards her; he could not resist the impulse that made
him wish to see her once more, and find out some fault which should
unloose his heart from her unconscious keeping. But there she was, pure
and maidenly as before. He sat and looked, answering her father at
cross-purposes, while she drew more and more into the shadow of the
chimney-corner out of sight. Then the spirit that possessed him (it was
not he himself, sure, that did so impudent a thing!) made him get up and
carry the candle to a different place, under the pretence of giving her
more light at her sewing, but, in reality, to be able to see her better;
she could not stand this much longer, but jumped up, and said she must
put her little niece to bed; and surely, there never was, before or
since, so troublesome a child of two years old; for, though Will staid
an hour and a half longer, she never came down again. He won the
father’s heart, though, by his capacity as a listener, for some people
are not at all particular, and, so that they may talk on undisturbed,
are not so unreasonable as to expect attention to what they say.

Will did gather this much, however, from the old man’s talk. He had once
been quite in a genteel line of business, but had failed for more money
than any greengrocer he had heard of; at least, any who did not mix up
fish and game with greengrocery proper. This grand failure seemed to
have been the event of his life, and one on which he dwelt with a
strange kind of pride. It appeared as if at present he rested from his
past exertions (in the bankrupt line), and depended on his daughter, who
kept a small school for very young children. But all these particulars
Will only remembered and understood, when he had left the house; at the
time he heard them, he was thinking of Susan. After he had made good his
footing at Mr. Palmer’s, he was not long, you may be sure, without
finding some reason for returning again and again. He listened to her
father, he talked to the little niece, but he looked at Susan, both
while he listened and while he talked. Her father kept on insisting upon
his former gentility, the details of which would have appeared very
questionable to Will’s mind, if the sweet, delicate, modest Susan had
not thrown an inexplicable air of refinement over all she came near. She
never spoke much; she was generally diligently at work; but when she
moved it was so noiselessly, and when she did speak, it was in so low
and soft a voice, that silence, speech, motion and stillness, alike
seemed to remove her high above Will’s reach into some saintly and
inaccessible air of glory--high above his reach; even as she knew him!
And, if she were made acquainted with the dark secret behind, of his
sister’s shame, which was kept ever present to his mind by his mother’s
nightly search among the outcast and forsaken, would not Susan shrink
away from him with loathing as if he were tainted by the involuntary
relationship? This was his dread; and thereupon followed a resolution
that he would withdraw from her sweet company before it was too late. So
he resisted internal temptation, and staid at home, and suffered and
sighed. He became angry with his mother for her untiring patience in
seeking for one who, he could not help hoping, was dead rather than
alive. He spoke sharply to her, and received only such sad deprecatory
answers as made him reproach himself, and still more lose sight of peace
of mind. This struggle could not last long without affecting his health;
and Tom, his sole companion through the long evenings, noticed his
increasing languor, his restless irritability, with perplexed anxiety,
and at last resolved to call his mother’s attention to his brother’s
haggard, care-worn looks. She listened with a startled recollection of
Will’s claims upon her love. She noticed his decreasing appetite, and
half-checked sighs.

“Will, lad! what’s come o’er thee?” said she to him, as he sat
listlessly gazing into the fire.

“There’s nought the matter with me,” said he, as if annoyed at her
remark.

“Nay, lad, but there is.” He did not speak again to contradict her;
indeed she did not know if he had heard her, so unmoved did he look.

“Would’st like to go back to Upclose Farm?” asked she, sorrowfully.

“It’s just blackberrying time,” said Tom.

Will shook his head. She looked at him awhile, as if trying to read that
expression of despondency and trace it back to its source.

“Will and Tom could go,” said she; “I must stay here till I’ve found
her, thou know’st,” continued she, dropping her voice.

He turned quickly round, and with the authority he had at all times
exercised over Tom, bade him begone to bed.

When Tom had left the room he prepared to speak.

       *       *       *       *       *

“Mother,” then said Will, “why will you keep on thinking she’s alive? If
she were but dead, we need never name her name again. We’ve never heard
nought on her since father wrote her that letter; we never knew whether
she got it or not. She’d left her place before then. Many a one dies
is----”

“Oh my lad! dunnot speak so to me, or my heart will break outright,”
said his mother, with a sort of cry. Then she calmed herself, for she
yearned to persuade him to her own belief. “Thou never asked, and
thou’rt too like thy father for me to tell without asking--but it were
all to be near Lizzie’s old place that I settled down on this side o’
Manchester; and the very day after we came, I went to her old misses,
and asked to speak a word wi’ her. I had a strong mind to cast it up to
her, that she should ha’ sent my poor lass away without telling on it to
us first; but she were in black, and looked so sad I could na’ find in
my heart to threep it up. But I did ask her a bit about our Lizzie. The
master would have turned her away at a day’s warning, (he’s gone to
t’other place; I hope he’ll meet wi’ more mercy there than he showed our
Lizzie,--I do,--) and when the missus asked her should she write to us,
she says Lizzie shook her head; and when she speered at her again, the
poor lass went down on her knees, and begged her not, for she said it
would break my heart, (as it has done, Will--God knows it has),” said
the poor mother, choking with her struggle to keep down her hard
overmastering grief, “and her father would curse her--Oh God, teach me
to be patient.” She could not speak for a few minutes,--“and the lass
threatened, and said she’d go drown herself in the canal, if the missus
wrote home,--and so--

“Well! I’d got a trace of my child,--the missus thought she’d gone to
th’ workhouse to be nursed; and there I went,--and there, sure enough,
she had been,--and they’d turned her out as soon as she were strong, and
told her she were young enough to work,--but whatten kind o’ work would
be open to her, lad, and her baby to keep?”

Will listened to his mother’s tale with deep sympathy, not unmixed with
the old bitter shame. But the opening of her heart had unlocked his, and
after awhile he spoke.

“Mother! I think I’d e’en better go home. Tom can stay wi’ thee. I know
I should stay too, but I cannot stay in peace so near--her--without
craving to see her--Susan Palmer I mean.”

“Has the old Mr. Palmer thou telled me on a daughter?” asked Mrs. Leigh.

“Aye, he has. And I love her above a bit. And it’s because I love her I
want to leave Manchester. That’s all.”

Mrs. Leigh tried to understand this speech for some time, but found it
difficult of interpretation.

“Why should’st thou not tell her thou lov’st her? Thou’rt a likely lad,
and sure o’ work. Thou’lt have Upclose at my death; and as for that I
could let thee have it now, and keep mysel’ by doing a bit of charring.
It seems to me a very backwards sort o’ way of winning her to think of
leaving Manchester.”

“Oh mother, she’s so gentle and so good,--she’s downright holy. She’s
never known a touch of sin; and can I ask her to marry me knowing what
we do about Lizzie, and fearing worse! I doubt if one like her could
ever care for me; but if she knew about my sister, it would put a gulf
between us, and she’d shudder at the thought of crossing it. You don’t
know how good she is, mother!”

“Will, Will! if she’s as good as thou say’st, she’ll have pity on such
as my Lizzie. If she has no pity for such, she’s a cruel Pharisee, and
thou’rt best without her.”

But he only shook his head, and sighed; and for the time the
conversation dropped.

But a new idea sprang up in Mrs. Leigh’s head. She thought that she
would go and see Susan Palmer, and speak up for Will, and tell her the
truth about Lizzie; and according to her pity for the poor sinner, would
she be worthy or unworthy of him. She resolved to go the very next
afternoon, but without telling any one of her plan. Accordingly she
looked out the Sunday clothes she had never before had the heart to
unpack since she came to Manchester, but which she now desired to appear
in, in order to do credit to Will. She put on her old-fashioned black
mode bonnet, trimmed with real lace; her scarlet cloth cloak, which she
had had ever since she was married, and always spotlessly clean, she set
forth on her unauthorized embassy. She knew the Palmers lived in Crown
Street, though where she had heard it she could not tell; and modestly
asking her way, she arrived in the street about a quarter to four
o’clock. She stopped to inquire the exact number, and the woman whom she
addressed told her that Susan Palmer’s school would not be loose till
four, and asked her to step in and wait until then at her house.

“For,” said she, smiling, “them that wants Susan Palmer wants a kind
friend of ours; so we, in a manner, call cousins. Sit down, missus, sit
down. I’ll wipe the chair, so that it shanna dirty your cloak. My mother
used to wear them bright cloaks, and they’re right gradely things agin a
green field.”

“Han ye known Susan Palmer long?” asked Mrs. Leigh, pleased with the
admiration of her cloak.

“Ever since they comed to live in our street. Our Sally goes to her
school.”

“Whatten sort of a lass is she, for I ha’ never seen her?”

“Well,--as for looks, I cannot say. It’s so long since I first knowed
her, that I’ve clean forgotten what I thought of her then. My master
says he never saw such a smile for gladdening the heart. But maybe it’s
not looks you’re asking about. The best thing I can say of her looks is,
that she’s just one a stranger would stop in the street to ask help from
if you needed it. All the little childer creeps as close as they can to
her; she’ll have as many as three or four hanging to her apron all at
once.”

“Is she cocket at all?”

“Cocket, bless you! you never saw a creature less set up in all your
life. Her father’s cocket enough. No! she ’s not cocket any way. You’ve
not heard much of Susan Palmer, I reckon, if you think she’s cocket.
She’s just one to come quietly in, and do the very thing most wanted;
little things, maybe, that any one could do, but that few would think
on, for another. She’ll bring her thimble wi’ her, and mend up after
the childer o’ nights,--and she writes all Betty Barker’s letters to her
grandchild out at service,--and she’s in nobody’s way, and that’s a
great matter, I take it. Here’s the childer running past! School is
loosed. You’ll find her now, missus, ready to hear and to help. But we
none on us frab her by going near her in school-time.”

Poor Mrs. Leigh’s heart began to beat, and she could almost have turned
round and gone home again. Her country breeding had made her shy of
strangers, and this Susan Palmer appeared to her like a real born lady
by all accounts. So she knocked with a timid feeling at the indicated
door, and when it was opened, dropped a simple curtsey without speaking.
Susan had her little niece in her arms, curled up with fond endearment
against her breast, but she put her gently down to the ground, and
instantly placed a chair in the best corner of the room for Mrs. Leigh,
when she told her who she was. “It’s not Will as has asked me to come,”
said the mother, apologetically, “I’d a wish just to speak to you
myself!”

Susan colored up to her temples, and stooped to pick up the little
toddling girl. In a minute or two Mrs. Leigh began again.

“Will thinks you would na respect us if you knew all; but I think you
could na help feeling for us in the sorrow God has put upon us; so I
just put on my bonnet, and came off unknownst to the lads. Every one
says you’re very good, and that the Lord has keeped you from falling
from his ways; but maybe you’ve never yet been tried and tempted as some
is. I’m perhaps speaking too plain, but my heart’s welly broken, and I
can’t be choice in my words as them who are happy can. Well now! I’ll
tell you the truth. Will dreads you to hear it, but I’ll just tell it
you. You mun know,”--but here the poor woman’s words failed her, and she
could do nothing but sit rocking herself backwards and forwards, with
sad eyes, straight-gazing into Susan’s face, as if they tried to tell
the tale of agony which the quivering lips refused to utter. Those
wretched stony eyes forced the tears down Susan’s cheeks, and, as if
this sympathy gave the mother strength, she went on in a low voice, “I
had a daughter once, my heart’s darling. Her father thought I made too
much on her, and that she’d grow marred staying at home; so he said she
mun go among strangers, and learn to rough it. She were young, and liked
the thought of seeing a bit of the world; and her father heard on a
place in Manchester. Well! I’ll not weary you. That poor girl were led
astray; and first thing we heard on it, was when a letter of her
father’s was sent back by her missus, saying she’d left her place, or,
to speak right, the master had turned her into the street soon as he had
heard of her condition--and she not seventeen!”

She now cried aloud; and Susan wept too. The little child looked up into
their faces, and, catching their sorrow, began to whimper and wail.
Susan took it softly up, and hiding her face in its little neck, tried
to restrain her tears, and think of comfort for the mother. At last she
said:

“Where is she now?”

“Lass! I dunnot know,” said Mrs. Leigh, checking her sobs to communicate
this addition to her distress. “Mrs. Lomax telled me she went”--

“Mrs. Lomax--what Mrs. Lomax?”

“Her as lives in Brabazon-street. She telled me my poor wench went to
the workhouse fra there. I’ll not speak again the dead; but if her
father would but ha’ letten me,--but he were one who had no notion--no,
I’ll not say that; best say nought. He forgave her on his death-bed. I
dare say I did na go th’ right way to work.”

“Will you hold the child for me one instant?” said Susan.

“Ay, if it will come to me. Childer used to be fond on me till I got the
sad look on my face that scares them, I think.”

But the little girl clung to Susan; so she carried it upstairs with her.
Mrs. Leigh sat by herself--how long she did not know.

Susan came down with a bundle of far-worn baby-clothes.

“You must listen to me a bit, and not think too much about what I’m
going to tell you. Nanny is not my niece, nor any kin to me that I know
of. I used to go out working by the day. One night, as I came home, I
thought some woman was following me; I turned to look. The woman, before
I could see her face (for she turned it to one side), offered me
something. I held out my arms by instinct: she dropped a bundle into
them with a bursting sob that went straight to my heart. It was a baby.
I looked round again; but the woman was gone. She had run away as quick
as lightning. There was a little packet of clothes--very few--and as if
they were made out of its mother’s gowns, for they were large patterns
to buy for a baby. I was always fond of babies; and I had not my wits
about me, father says; for it was very cold, and when I’d seen as well
as I could (for it was past ten) that there was no one in the street, I
brought it in and warmed it. Father was very angry when he came, and
said he’d take it to the workhouse the next morning, and flyted me
sadly about it. But when morning came I could not bear to part with it;
it had slept in my arms all night; and I’ve heard what workhouse
bringing up is. So I told father I’d give up going out working, and stay
at home and keep school, if I might only keep the baby; and after
awhile, he said if I earned enough for him to have his comforts, he’d
let me; but he’s never taken to her. Now, don’t tremble so,--I’ve but a
little more to tell,--and maybe I’m wrong in telling it; but I used to
work next door to Mrs. Lomax’s, in Brabazon-street, and the servants
were all thick together; and I heard about Bessy (they called her) being
sent away. I don’t know that ever I saw her; but the time would be about
fitting to this child’s age, and I’ve sometimes fancied it was her’s.
And now, will you look at the little clothes that came with her--bless
her!”

But Mrs. Leigh had fainted. The strange joy and shame, and gushing love
for the little child had overpowered her; it was some time before Susan
could bring her round. There she was all trembling, sick impatience to
look at the little frocks. Among them was a slip of paper which Susan
had forgotten to name, that had been pinned to the bundle. On it was
scrawled in a round stiff hand.

“Call her Anne. She does not cry much, and takes a deal of notice. God
bless you and forgive me.”

The writing was no clue at all; the name “Anne,” common though it was,
seemed something to build upon. But Mrs. Leigh recognized one of the
frocks instantly, as being made out of part of a gown that she and her
daughter had bought together in Rochdale.

She stood up, and stretched out her hands in the attitude of blessing
over Susan’s bent head.

“God bless you, and show you His mercy in your need, as you have shown
it to this little child.”

She took the little creature in her arms, and smoothed away her sad
looks to a smile, and kissed it fondly, saying over and over again,
“Nanny, Nanny, my little Nanny.” At last the child was soothed, and
looked in her face and smiled back again.

“It has her eyes,” said she to Susan.

“I never saw her to the best of my knowledge. I think it must be her’s
by the frock. But where can she be?”

“God knows,” said Mrs. Leigh; “I dare not think she’s dead. I’m sure she
isn’t.”

“No! she’s not dead. Every now and then a little packet is thrust under
our door, with maybe two half-crowns in it; once it was a
half-sovereign. Altogether I’ve got seven-and-thirty shillings wrapped
up for Nanny. I never touch it, but I’ve often thought the poor mother
feels near to God when she brings this money. Father wanted to set the
policeman to watch, but I said No, for I was afraid if she was watched
she might not come, and it seemed such a holy thing to be checking her
in, I could not find in my heart to do it.”

“Oh, if we could but find her! I’d take her in my arms, and we’d just
lie down and die together.”

“Nay, don’t speak so!” said Susan gently, “for all that’s come and gone,
she may turn right at last. Mary Magdalen did, you know.”

“Eh! but I were nearer right about thee than Will. He thought you would
never look on him again if you knew about Lizzie. But thou’rt not a
Pharisee.”

“I’m sorry he thought I could be so hard,” said Susan in a low voice,
and coloring up. Then Mrs. Leigh was alarmed, and in her motherly
anxiety, she began to fear lest she had injured Will in Susan’s
estimation.

“You see Will thinks so much of you--gold would not be good enough for
you to walk on, in his eye. He said you’d never look at him as he was,
let alone his being brother to my poor wench. He loves you so, it makes
him think meanly on everything belonging to himself, as not fit to come
near ye,--but he’s a good lad, and a good son--thou’lt be a happy woman
if thou’lt have him--so don’t let my words go against him; don’t!”

But Susan hung her head and made no answer. She had not known until now,
that Will thought so earnestly and seriously about her; and even now she
felt afraid that Mrs. Leigh’s words promised her too much happiness, and
that they could not be true. At any rate the instinct of modesty made
her shrink from saying anything which might seem like a confession of
her own feelings to a third person. Accordingly she turned the
conversation on the child.

“I’m sure he could not help loving Nanny,” said she. “There never was
such a good little darling; don’t you think she’d win his heart if he
knew she was his niece, and perhaps bring him to think kindly on his
sister?”

“I dunnot know,” said Mrs. Leigh, shaking her head. “He has a turn in
his eye like his father, that makes me----. He’s right down good though.
But you see I’ve never been a good one at managing folk; one severe look
turns me sick, and then I say just the wrong thing, I’m so fluttered.
Now I should like nothing better than to take Nancy home with me, but
Tom knows nothing but that his sister is dead, and I’ve not the knack of
speaking rightly to Will. I dare not do it, and that’s the truth. But
you mun not think badly of Will. He’s so good hissel’, that he can’t
understand how any one can do wrong; and, above all, I’m sure he loves
you dearly.”

“I don’t think I could part with Nancy,” said Susan, anxious to stop
this revelation of Will’s attachment to herself. “He’ll come round to
her soon; he can’t fail; and I’ll keep a sharp lookout after the poor
mother, and try and catch her the next time she comes with her little
parcels of money.”

“Aye, lass! we mun get hold of her; my Lizzie. I love thee dearly for
thy kindness to her child; but, if thou can’st catch her for me, I’ll
pray for thee when I’m too near my death to speak words; and while I
live, I’ll serve thee next to her,--she mun come first, thou know’st.
God bless thee, lass. My heart is lighter by a deal than it was when I
comed in. Them lads will be looking for me home, and I mun go, and leave
this little sweet one,” kissing it. “If I can take courage, I’ll tell
Will all that has come and gone between us two. He may come and see
thee, mayn’t he?”

“Father will be very glad to see him, I’m sure,” replied Susan. The way
in which this was spoken satisfied Mrs. Leigh’s anxious heart that she
had done Will no harm by what she had said; and with many a kiss to the
little one, and one more fervent tearful blessing on Susan, she went
homewards.

       *       *       *       *       *

That night Mrs. Leigh stopped at home; that only night for many months.
Even Tom, the scholar, looked up from his books in amazement; but then
he remembered that Will had not been well, and that his mother’s
attention having been called to the circumstance, it was only natural
she should stay to watch him. And no watching could be more tender, or
more complete. Her loving eyes seemed never averted from his face; his
grave, sad, care-worn face. When Tom went to bed the mother left her
seat, and going up to Will where he sat looking at the fire, but not
seeing it, she kissed his forehead, and said,

“Will! lad, I’ve been to see Susan Palmer!”

She felt the start under the hand which was placed on his shoulder, but
he was silent for a minute or two. Then he said,

“What took you there, mother?”

“Why, my lad, it was likely I should wish to see one you cared for; I
did not put myself forward. I put on my Sunday clothes, and tried to
behave as yo’d ha liked me. At least I remember trying at first; but
after, I forgot all.”

She rather wished that he would question her as to what made her forget
all. But he only said,

“How was she looking, mother?”

“Will, thou seest I never set eyes on her before; but she’s a good
gentle looking creature; and I love her dearly, as I’ve reason to.”

Will looked up with momentary surprise; for his mother was too shy to be
usually taken with strangers. But after all it was natural in this case,
for who could look at Susan without loving her? So still he did not ask
any questions, and his poor mother had to take courage, and try again to
introduce the subject near to her heart. But how?

“Will!” said she (jerking it out, in sudden despair of her own powers to
lead to what she wanted to say), “I telled her all.”

“Mother! you’ve ruined me,” said he, standing up, and standing opposite
to her with a stern white look of affright on his face.

“No! my own dear lad; dunnot look so scared, I have not ruined you!” she
exclaimed, placing her two hands on his shoulders, and looking fondly
into his face. “She’s not one to harden her heart against a mother’s
sorrow. My own lad she’s too good for that. She’s not one to judge and
scorn the sinner. She’s too deep read in her New Testament for that.
Take courage, Will; and thou may’st, for I watched her well, though it
is not for one woman to let out another’s secret. Sit thee down, lad,
for thou look’st very white.”

He sat down. His mother drew a stool towards him, and sat at his feet.

“Did you tell her about Lizzie, then?” asked he, hoarse and low.

“I did, I telled her all; and she fell a crying over my deep sorrow, and
the poor wench’s sin. And then a light comed into her face, trembling
and quivering with some new glad thought; and what dost thou think it
was, Will, lad? Nay, I’ll not misdoubt but that thy heart will give
thanks as mine did, afore God and His angels, for her great goodness.
That little Nanny is not her niece, she’s our Lizzie’s own child, my
little grandchild.” She could no longer restrain her tears, and they
fell hot and fast, but still she looked into his face.

“Did she know it was Lizzie’s child? I do not comprehend,” said he,
flushing red.

“She knows now: she did not at first, but took the little helpless
creature in, out of her own pitiful loving heart, guessing only that it
was the child of shame, and she’s worked for it, and kept it, and tended
it ever sin’ it were a mere baby, and loves it fondly. Will! won’t you
love it?” asked she, beseechingly.

He was silent for an instant; then he said, “Mother, I’ll try. Give me
time, for all these things startle me. To think of Susan having to do
with such a child!”

“Aye, Will! and to think (as may be yet) of Susan having to do with the
child’s mother! For she is tender and pitiful, and speaks hopefully of
my lost one, and will try and find her for me, when she comes, as she
does sometimes, to thrust money under the door, for her baby. Think of
that, Will. Here’s Susan, good and pure as the angels in heaven, yet,
like them, full of hope and mercy, and one who, like them, will rejoice
over her as repents. Will, my lad, I’m not afeared of you now, and I
must speak, and you must listen. I am your mother, and I dare to command
you, because I know I am in the right and that God is on my side. If He
should lead the poor wandering lassie to Susan’s door, and she comes
back crying and sorrowful, led by that good angel to us once more, thou
shalt never say a casting-up word to her about her sin, but be tender
and helpful towards one “who was lost and is found,” so may God’s
blessing rest on thee, and so mayst thou lead Susan home as thy wife.”

She stood, no longer as the meek, imploring, gentle mother, but firm and
dignified, as if the interpreter of God’s will. Her manner was so
unusual and solemn, that it overcame all Will’s pride and stubbornness.
He rose softly while she was speaking, and bent his head as if in
reverence at her words, and the solemn injunction which they conveyed.
When she had spoken, he said in so subdued a voice that she was almost
surprised at the sound, “Mother, I will.”

“I may be dead and gone,--but all the same,--thou wilt take home the
wandering sinner, and heal up her sorrows, and lead her to her Father’s
house. My lad! I can speak no more; I’m turned very faint.”

He placed her in a chair; he ran for water. She opened her eyes and
smiled.

“God bless you, Will. Oh, I am so happy. It seems as if she were found;
my heart is so filled with gladness.”

That night Mr. Palmer stayed out late and long. Susan was afraid that he
was at his old haunts and habits,--getting tipsy at some public-house;
and this thought oppressed her, even though she had so much to make her
happy, in the consciousness that Will loved her. She sat up long, and
then she went to bed, leaving all arranged as well as she could for her
father’s return. She looked at the little rosy sleeping girl who was her
bed-fellow, with redoubled tenderness, and with many a prayerful
thought. The little arms entwined her neck as she lay down, for Nanny
was a light sleeper, and was conscious that she, who was loved with all
the power of that sweet childish heart, was near her, and by her,
although she was too sleepy to utter any of her half-formed words.

And by-and-bye she heard her father come home, stumbling uncertain,
trying first the windows, and next the door-fastenings, with many a loud
incoherent murmur. The little Innocent twined around her seemed all the
sweeter and more lovely, when she thought sadly of her erring father.
And presently he called aloud for a light; she had left matches and all
arranged as usual on the dresser, but fearful of some accident from
fire, in his unusually intoxicated state, she now got up softly, and
putting on a cloak, went down to his assistance.

Alas! the little arms that were unclosed from her soft neck belonged to
a light, easily-awakened sleeper. Nanny missed her darling Susy, and
terrified at being left alone in the vast mysterious darkness, which had
no bounds, and seemed infinite, she slipped out of bed, and tottered in
her little night-gown towards the door. There was a light below and
there was Susy and safety! So she went onwards two steps towards the
steep abrupt stairs; and then dazzled with sleepiness, she stood, she
wavered, she fell! Down on her head on the stone floor she fell! Susan
flew to her, and spoke all soft, entreating, loving words; but her white
lids covered up the blue violets of eyes, and there was no murmur came
out of the pale lips. The warm tears that rained down did not awaken
her; she lay stiff, and weary with her short life, on Susan’s knee.
Susan went sick with terror. She carried her upstairs, and laid her
tenderly in bed; she dressed herself most hastily, with her trembling
fingers. Her father was asleep on the settle down stairs; and useless,
and worse than useless if awake. But Susan flew out of the door, and
down the quiet resounding street, towards the nearest doctor’s house.
Quickly she went; but as quickly a shadow followed, as if impelled by
some sudden terror. Susan rung wildly at the night-bell,--the shadow
crouched near. The doctor looked out from an upstairs window.

“A little child has fallen down stairs at No. 9 Crown-street, and is
very ill,--dying, I’m afraid. Please, for God’s sake, sir, come
directly. No. 9 Crown-street.”

“I’ll be there directly,” said he, and shut the window.

“For that God you have just spoken about,--for His sake,--tell me are
you Susan Palmer? Is it my child that lies a-dying?” said the shadow,
springing forwards, and clutching poor Susan’s arm.

“It is a little child of two years old,--I do not know whose it is; I
love it as my own. Come with me, whoever you are; come with me.”

The two sped along the silent streets,--as silent as the night were
they. They entered the house; Susan snatched up the light, and carried
it upstairs. The other followed.

She stood with wild glaring eyes by the bedside, never looking at Susan,
but hungrily gazing at the little white still child. She stooped down,
and put her hand tight on her own heart, as if to still its beating, and
bent her ear to the pale lips. Whatever the result was, she did not
speak; but threw off the bed-clothes wherewith Susan had tenderly
covered the little creature, and felt its left side.

Then she threw up her arms with a cry of wild despair.

“She is dead! she is dead!”

She looked so fierce, so mad, so haggard, that for an instant Susan was
terrified--the next, the holy God had put courage into her heart, and
her pure arms were round that guilty wretched creature, and her tears
were falling fast and warm upon her breast. But she was thrown off with
violence.

“You killed her--you slighted her--you let her fall down those stairs!
you killed her!”

Susan cleared off the thick mist before her, and gazing at the mother
with her clear, sweet, angel-eyes, said mournfully--

“I would have laid down my own life for her.”

“Oh, the murder is on my soul!” exclaimed the wild bereaved mother, with
the fierce impetuosity of one who has none to love her and to be
beloved, regard to whom might teach self-restraint.

“Hush!” said Susan, her finger on her lips. “Here is the doctor. God may
suffer her to live.”

The poor mother turned sharp round. The doctor mounted the stair. Ah!
that mother was right; the little child was really dead and gone.

And when he confirmed her judgment, the mother fell down in a fit.
Susan, with her deep grief, had to forget herself, and forgot her
darling (her charge for years), and question the doctor what she must do
with the poor wretch, who lay on the floor in such extreme of misery.

“She is the mother!” said she.

“Why did not she take better care of her child?” asked he, almost
angrily.

But Susan only said, “The little child slept with me; and it was I that
left her.”

“I will go back and make up a composing draught; and while I am away you
must get her to bed.”

Susan took out some of her own clothes, and softly undressed the stiff,
powerless, form. There was no other bed in the house but the one in
which her father slept. So she tenderly lifted the body of her darling;
and was going to take it down stairs, but the mother opened her eyes,
and seeing what she was about, she said,

“I am not worthy to touch her, I am so wicked; I have spoken to you as I
never should have spoken; but I think you are very good; may I have my
own child to lie in my arms for a little while?”

Her voice was so strange a contrast to what it had been before she had
gone into the fit that Susan hardly recognized it; it was now so
unspeakably soft, so irresistibly pleading, the features too had lost
their fierce expression, and were almost as placid as death. Susan could
not speak, but she carried the little child, and laid it in its mother’s
arms; then as she looked at them, something overpowered her, and she
knelt down, crying aloud,

“Oh, my God, my God, have mercy on her, and forgive, and comfort her.”

But the mother kept smiling, and stroking the little face, murmuring
soft tender words, as if it were alive; she was going mad, Susan
thought; but she prayed on, and on, and ever still she prayed with
streaming eyes.

The doctor came with the draught. The mother took it, with docile
unconsciousness of its nature as medicine. The doctor sat by her; and
soon she fell asleep. Then he rose softly, and beckoning Susan to the
door, he spoke to her there.

“You must take the corpse out of her arms. She will not awake. The
draught will make her sleep for many hours. I will call before noon
again. It is now daylight. Good-bye.”

Susan shut him out; and then gently extricating the dead child from its
mother’s arms, she could not resist making her own quiet moan over her
darling. She tried to learn off its little placid face, dumb and pale
before her.

    “Not all the scalding tears of care,
      Shall wash away that vision fair;
    Not all the thousand thoughts that rise,
      Not all the sights that dim her eyes,
        Shall e’er usurp the place
      Of that little angel face.”

And then she remembered what remained to be done. She saw that all was
right in the house; her father was still dead asleep on the settle, in
spite of all the noise of the night. She went out through the quiet
streets, deserted still although it was broad daylight, and to where the
Leighs lived. Mrs. Leigh, who kept her country hours, was opening her
window shutters. Susan took her by the arm, and without speaking went
into the house-place. There she knelt down before the astonished Mrs.
Leigh, and cried as she had never done before; but the miserable night
had overpowered her, and she who had gone through so much calmly, now
that the pressure seemed removed could not find the power to speak.

“My poor dear! What has made thy heart so sore as to come and cry
a-this-ons. Speak and tell me. Nay, cry on, poor wench, if thou canst
not speak yet. It will ease the heart, and then thou canst tell me.”

“Nanny is dead!” said Susan. “I left her to go to father, and she fell
down stairs, and never breathed again. Oh, that’s my sorrow! but I’ve
more to tell. Her mother is come--is in our house! Come and see if it’s
your Lizzie.” Mrs. Leigh could not speak, but, trembling, put on her
things, and went with Susan in dizzy haste back to Crown-street.

       *       *       *       *       *

As they entered the house in Crown-street, they perceived that the door
would not open freely on its hinges, and Susan instinctively looked
behind to see the cause of the obstruction. She immediately recognized
the appearance of a little parcel, wrapped in a scrap of newspaper, and
evidently containing money. She stooped and picked it up. “Look!” said
she, sorrowfully, “the mother was bringing this for her child last
night.”

But Mrs. Leigh did not answer. So near to the ascertaining if it were
her lost child or no, she could not be arrested, but pressed onwards
with trembling steps and a beating, fluttering heart. She entered the
bed-room, dark and still. She took no heed of the little corpse, over
which Susan paused, but she went straight to the bed, and withdrawing
the curtain, saw Lizzie,--but not the former Lizzie, bright, gay,
buoyant, and undimmed. This Lizzie was old before her time; her beauty
was gone; deep lines of care, and alas! of want (or thus the mother
imagined) were printed on the cheek, so round, and fair, and smooth,
when last she gladdened her mother’s eyes. Even in her sleep she bore
the look of woe and despair which was the prevalent expression of her
face by day; even in her sleep she had forgotten how to smile. But all
these marks of the sin and sorrow she had passed through only made her
mother love her the more. She stood looking at her with greedy eyes,
which seemed as though no gazing could satisfy their longing; and at
last she stooped down and kissed the pale, worn hand that lay outside
the bed-clothes. No touch disturbed the sleeper; the mother need not
have laid the hand so gently down upon the counterpane. There was no
sign of life, save only now and then a deep sob-like sigh. Mrs. Leigh
sat down beside the bed, and, still holding back the curtain, looked on
and on, as if she could never be satisfied.

Susan would fain have stayed by her darling one; but she had many calls
upon her time and thoughts, and her will had now, as ever, to be given
up to that of others. All seemed to devolve the burden of their cares on
her. Her father, ill-humored from his last night’s intemperance, did not
scruple to reproach her with being the cause of little Nanny’s death;
and when, after bearing his upbraiding meekly for some time, she could
no longer restrain herself, but began to cry, he wounded her even more
by his injudicious attempts at comfort: for he said it was as well the
child was dead; it was none of theirs, and why should they be troubled
with it? Susan wrung her hands at this, and came and stood before her
father, and implored him to forbear. Then she had to take all requisite
steps for the coroner’s inquest; she had to arrange for the dismissal of
her school; she had to summon a little neighbor, and send his willing
feet on a message to William Leigh, who, she felt, ought to be informed
of his mother’s whereabouts, and of the whole state of affairs. She
asked her messenger to tell him to come and speak to her,--that his
mother was at her house. She was thankful that her father sauntered out
to have a gossip at the nearest coach-stand, and to relate as many of
the night’s adventures as he knew; for as yet he was in ignorance of the
watcher and the watched, who silently passed away the hours up stairs.

At dinner-time Will came. He looked real glad, impatient, excited. Susan
stood calm and white before him, her soft, loving eyes gazing straight
into his.

“Will,” said she, in a low, quiet voice, “your sister is up stairs.”

“My sister!” said he, as if affrighted at the idea, and losing his glad
look in one of gloom. Susan saw it, and her heart sank a little, but she
went on, as calm to all appearance as ever.

“She was little Nanny’s mother, as perhaps you know. Poor little Nanny
was killed last night by a fall down stairs.” All the calmness was gone;
all the suppressed feeling was displayed in spite of every effort. She
sat down and hid her face from him, and cried bitterly. He forgot
everything but the wish, the longing to comfort her. He put his arm
round her waist, and bent over her. But all he could say, was, “Oh,
Susan, how can I comfort you! Don’t take on so,--pray don’t!” He never
changed the words, but the tone varied every time he spoke. At last she
seemed to regain her power over herself; and she wiped her eyes, and
once more looked upon him with her own quiet, earnest, unfearing gaze.

“Your sister was near the house. She came in on hearing my words to the
doctor. She is asleep now, and your mother is watching her. I wanted to
tell you all myself. Would you like to see your mother?”

“No!” said he. “I would rather see none but thee. Mother told me thou
knowest all.” His eyes were downcast in their shame.

But the holy and pure did not lower or vail her eyes.

She said, “Yes, I know all--all but her sufferings. Think what they must
have been!”

He made answer low and stern, “She deserved them all; every jot.”

“In the eye of God perhaps she does. He is the judge: we are not.”

“Oh!” she said with a sudden burst, “Will Leigh! I have thought so well
of you; don’t go and make me think you cruel and hard. Goodness is not
goodness unless there is mercy and tenderness with it. There is your
mother who has been nearly heart-broken, now full of rejoicing over her
child--think of your mother.”

“I do think of her,” said he. “I remember the promise I gave her last
night. Thou shouldst give me time. I would do right in time. I never
think it o’er in quiet. But I will do what is right and fitting, never
fear. Thou hast spoken out very plain to me; and misdoubted me, Susan; I
love thee so, that thy words cut me. If I did hang back a bit from
making sudden promises, it was because not even for love of thee, would
I say what I was not feeling; and at first I could not feel all at once
as thou wouldst have me. But I’m not cruel and hard; for if I had been,
I should na’ have grieved as I have done.”

He made as if he were going away; and indeed he did feel he would rather
think it over in quiet. But Susan, grieved at her incautious words,
which had all the appearance of harshness, went a step or two
nearer--paused--and then, all over blushes, said in a low soft whisper--

“Oh Will! I beg your pardon. I am very sorry--won’t you forgive me?”

She who had always drawn back, and been so reserved, said this in the
very softest manner; with eyes now uplifted beseechingly, now dropped
to the ground. Her sweet confusion told more than words could do; and
Will turned back, all joyous in his certainty of being beloved, and took
her in his arms and kissed her.

“My own Susan!” he said.

Meanwhile the mother watched her child in the room above.

It was late in the afternoon before she awoke; for the sleeping draught
had been very powerful. The instant she awoke, her eyes were fixed on
her mother’s face with a gaze as unflinching as if she were fascinated.
Mrs. Leigh did not turn away, nor move. For it seemed as if motion would
unlock the stony command over herself which, while so perfectly still,
she was enabled to preserve. But by-and-bye Lizzie cried out in a
piercing voice of agony--

“Mother, don’t look at me! I have been so wicked?” and instantly she hid
her face, and grovelled among the bedclothes, and lay like one dead--so
motionless was she.

Mrs. Leigh knelt down by the bed, and spoke in the most soothing tones.

“Lizzie, dear, don’t speak so. I’m thy mother, darling; don’t be afeard
of me. I never left off loving thee, Lizzie. I was always a-thinking of
thee. Thy father forgave thee afore he died.” (There was a little start
here, but no sound was heard). “Lizzie, lass, I’ll do aught for thee;
I’ll live for thee; only don’t be afeard of me. Whate’er thou art or
hast been, we’ll ne’er speak on’t. We’ll leave th’ oud times behind us,
and go back to the Upclose Farm. I but left it to find thee, my lass;
and God has led me to thee. Blessed be His name. And God is good too,
Lizzie. Thou hast not forgot thy Bible, I’ll be bound, for thou wert
always a scholar. I’m no reader, but I learnt off them texts to comfort
me a bit, and I’ve said them many a time a day to myself. Lizzie, lass,
don’t hide thy head so, it’s thy mother as is speaking to thee. Thy
little child clung to me only yesterday; and if it’s gone to be an
angel, it will speak to God for thee. Nay, don’t sob a that ’as; thou
shalt have it again in Heaven; I know thou’lt strive to get there for
thy little Nancy’s sake--and listen! I’ll tell thee God’s promises to
them that are penitent--only don’t be afeard.”

Mrs. Leigh folded her hands, and strove to speak very clearly, while she
repeated every tender and merciful text she could remember. She could
tell from the breathing that her daughter was listening; but she was so
dizzy and sick herself when she had ended, that she could not go on
speaking. It was all she could do to keep from crying aloud.

At last she heard her daughter’s voice.

“Where have they taken her to?” she asked.

“She is down stairs. So quiet, and peaceful, and happy she looks.”

“Could she speak? Oh, if God--if I might but have heard her little
voice! Mother, I used to dream of it. May I see her once again--Oh
mother, if I strive very hard, and God is very merciful, and I go to
heaven, I shall not know my own again--she will shun me as a stranger
and cling to Susan Palmer and to you. Oh woe! Oh woe!” She shook with
exceeding sorrow.

In her earnestness of speech she had uncovered her face, and tried to
read Mrs. Leigh’s thoughts through her looks. And when she saw those
aged eyes brimming full of tears, and marked the quivering lips, she
threw her arms round the faithful mother’s neck, and wept there as she
had done in many a childish sorrow; but with a deeper, a more wretched
grief.

Her mother hushed her on her breast; and lulled her as if she were a
baby; and she grew still and quiet.

They sat thus for a long, long time. At last Susan Palmer came up with
some tea and bread and butter for Mrs. Leigh. She watched the mother
feed her sick, unwilling child, with every fond inducement to eat which
she could devise; they neither of them took notice of Susan’s presence.
That night they lay in each other’s arms; but Susan slept on the ground
beside them.

They took the little corpse (the little unconscious sacrifice, whose
early calling-home had reclaimed her poor wandering mother,) to the
hills, which in her life-time she had never seen. They dared not lay her
by the stern grand-father in Milne-Row churchyard, but they bore her to
a lone moorland graveyard, where long ago the quakers used to bury their
dead. They laid her there on the sunny slope, where the earliest
spring-flowers blow.

Will and Susan live at the Upclose Farm. Mrs. Leigh and Lizzie dwell in
a cottage so secluded that, until you drop into the very hollow where it
is placed, you do not see it. Tom is a school-master in Rochdale, and he
and Will help to support their mother. I only know that, if the cottage
be hidden in a green hollow of the hills, every sound of sorrow in the
whole upland is heard there--every call of suffering or of sickness for
help is listened to, by a sad, gentle-looking woman, who rarely smiles
(and when she does, her smile is more sad than other people’s tears),
but who comes out of her seclusion whenever there’s a shadow in any
household. Many hearts bless Lizzie Leigh, but she--she prays always and
ever for forgiveness--such forgiveness as may enable her to see her
child once more. Mrs. Leigh is quiet and happy. Lizzie is to her eyes
something precious,--as the lost piece of silver--found once more. Susan
is the bright one who brings sunshine to all. Children grow around her
and call her blessed. One is called Nanny. Her, Lizzy often takes to the
sunny graveyard in the uplands, while the little creature gathers the
daisies, and makes chains, Lizzie sits by a little grave, and weeps
bitterly.




V.

The Old Churchyard Tree.

A PROSE POEM.


There is an old yew tree which stands by the wall in a dark quiet corner
of the church-yard.

And a child was at play beneath its wide-spreading branches, one fine
day in the early spring. He had his lap full of flowers, which the
fields and lanes had supplied him with, and he was humming a tune to
himself as he wove them into garlands.

And a little girl at play among the tombstones crept near to listen; but
the boy was so intent upon his garland, that he did not hear the gentle
footsteps, as they trod softly over the fresh green grass. When his work
was finished, and all the flowers that were in his lap were woven
together in one long wreath, he started up to measure its length upon
the ground, and then he saw the little girl, as she stood with her eyes
fixed upon him. He did not move or speak, but thought to himself that
she looked very beautiful as she stood there with her flaxen ringlets,
hanging down upon her neck. The little girl was so startled by his
sudden movement, that she let fall all the flowers she had collected in
her apron, and ran away as fast as she could. But the boy was older and
taller than she, and soon caught her, and coaxed her to come back and
play with him, and help him to make more garlands; and from that time
they saw each other nearly every day, and became great friends.

Twenty years passed away. Again he was seated beneath the old yew tree
in the church-yard.

It was summer now; bright, beautiful summer, with the birds singing, and
the flowers covering the ground, and scenting the air with their
perfume.

But he was not alone now, nor did the little girl steal near on tiptoe,
fearful of being heard. She was seated by his side, and his arm was
round her, and she looked up into his face, and smiled as she whispered:
“The first evening of our lives we were ever together was passed here:
we will spend the first evening of our wedded life in the same quiet,
happy place.” And he drew her closer to him as she spoke.

The summer is gone; and the autumn; and twenty more summers and autumns
have passed away since that evening, in the old church-yard.

A young man, on a bright moonlight night, comes reeling through the
little white gate, and stumbling over the graves. He shouts and he
sings, and is presently followed by others like unto himself or worse.
So, they all laugh at the dark solemn head of the yew tree, and throw
stones up at the place where the moon has silvered the boughs.

Those same boughs are again silvered by the moon, and they droop over
his mother’s grave. There is a little stone which bears this
inscription:--

    “HER HEART BRAKE IN SILENCE.”

But the silence of the churchyard is now broken by a voice--not of the
youth--nor a voice of laughter and ribaldry.

“My son!--dost thou see this grave? and dost thou read the record in
anguish, whereof may come repentance?”

“Of what should I repent?” answers the son; “and why should my young
ambition for fame relax in its strength because my mother was old and
weak?”

“Is this indeed our son?” says the father, bending in agony over the
grave of his beloved.

“I can well believe I am not;” exclaimeth the youth. “It is well that
you have brought me here to say so. Our natures are unlike; our courses
must be opposite. Your way lieth here--mine yonder!”

So the son left the father kneeling by the grave.

Again a few years are passed. It is winter, with a roaring wind and a
thick gray fog. The graves in the Church-yard are covered with snow, and
there are great icicles in the Church-porch. The wind now carries a
swathe of snow along the tops of the graves, as though the “sheeted
dead” were at some melancholy play; and hark! the icicles fall with a
crash and jingle, like a solemn mockery of the echo of the unseemly
mirth of one who is now coming to his final rest.

There are two graves near the old yew tree; and the grass has overgrown
them. A third is close by; and the dark earth at each side has just been
thrown up. The bearers come; with a heavy pace they move along; the
coffin heaveth up and down, as they step over the intervening graves.

Grief and old age had seized upon the father, and worn out his life; and
premature decay soon seized upon the son, and gnawed away his vain
ambition, and his useless strength, till he prayed to be borne, not the
way yonder that was most opposite to his father and his mother, but even
the same way they had gone--the way which leads to the Old Churchyard
Tree.




VI.

The Modern “Officer’s” Progress.


I.--JOINING THE REGIMENT.

“I have got some very sad news to tell you,” wrote Lady Pelican to her
friend, Mrs. Vermeil, a faded lady of fashion, who discontentedly
occupied a suite of apartments at Hampton Court; “our Irish estates are
in such a miserable condition--absolutely making us out to be in debt to
_them_, instead of adding to _our_ income, that poor George--you will be
shocked to hear it--is actually obliged to go into the Infantry!”

The communication of this distressing fact may stand instead of the
regular Gazette, announcing the appointment of the Hon. George Spoonbill
to an Ensigncy, by purchase, in the 100th regiment of foot. His military
aspirations had been “Cavalry,” and he had endeavored to qualify
himself for that branch of the service by getting up an invisible
moustache, when the Irish agent wrote to say that no money was to be had
in that quarter, and all thoughts of the Household Brigade were, of
necessity, abandoned. But, though the more expensive career was shut
out, Lord Pelican’s interest at the Horse Guards remained as influential
as before, and for the consideration of four hundred and fifty pounds
which--embarrassed as he was--he contrived to muster, he had no
difficulty in procuring a commission for his son George, in the
distinguished regiment already named. There were, it is true, a few
hundred prior claimants on the Duke’s list; “but,” as Lord Pelican
justly observed, “if the Spoonbill family were not fit for the army, he
should like to know who were!” An argument perfectly irresistible.
Gazetted, therefore, the young gentleman was, as soon as the Queen’s
sign-manual could be obtained, and the usual interval for preparation
over, the Hon. George Spoonbill set out to join. But before he does so,
we must say a word of what that “preparation” consisted in.

Some persons may imagine that he forthwith addressed himself to the
study of Polybius, dabbled a little in Cormontaigne, got up Napier’s
History of the Peninsular War, or read the Duke’s Despatches; others,
that he went down to Birdcage-Walk, and placed himself under the tuition
of Color-Sergeant Pike, of the Grenadier Guards, a warrior celebrated
for his skill in training military aspirants, or that he endeavored by
some other means to acquire a practical knowledge, however slight, of
the profession for which he had always been intended. The Hon. George
Spoonbill knew better. The preparation _he_ made, was a visit, at least
three times a day, to Messrs. Gorget and Plume, the military tailors in
Jermyn Street, whose souls he sorely vexed by the persistance with which
he adhered to the most accurate fit of his shell-jacket and coatee, the
set of his epaulettes, the cut of his trowsers, and the shape of his
chako. He passed his days in “trying on his things,” and his
evenings--when not engaged in the Casino, the Cider Cellar, or the
Adelphi--in dining with his military friends at St. James’s Palace, or
at Knightsbridge Barracks. In their society he greatly improved himself,
acquiring an accurate knowledge of lansquenet and ecarté, cultivating
his taste for tobacco, and familiarizing his mind with that reverence
for authority which is engendered by the anecdotes of great military
commanders that freely circulate at the mess-table. His education and
his uniform being finished at about the same time, George Spoonbill took
a not uncheerful farewell of the agonized Lady Pelican, whose maternal
bosom streamed with the sacrifice she made in thus consigning her
offspring to the vulgar hardships of a marching regiment.

An express train conveyed the honorable Ensign in safety to the country
town where the “Hundredth” were then quartered, and in conformity with
the instructions which he received from the Assistant Military Secretary
at the Horse Guards--the only instructions, by-the-bye, which were
given him by that functionary--he “reported” himself at the Orderly-room
on his arrival, was presented by the Adjutant to the senior Major,
by the senior Major to the Lieutenant-Colonel, and by the
Lieutenant-Colonel to the officers generally when they assembled for
mess.

The “Hundredth,” being “Light Infantry,” called itself “a crack
regiment:” the military adjective signifying, in this instance, not so
much a higher reputation for discipline and warlike achievements, as an
indefinite sort of superiority arising from the fact that no man was
allowed to enter the _corps_ who depended on his pay only for the figure
he cut in it. Lieutenant-Colonel Tulip, who commanded, was very strict
in this particular, and, having the good of the service greatly at
heart, set his face entirely against the admission of any young man who
did not enjoy a handsome paternal allowance, or was not the possessor of
a good income. He was himself the son of a celebrated army clothier, and
in the course of ten years, had purchased the rank he now held, so that
he had a right, as he thought, to see that his regiment was not
contaminated by contact with poor men. His military creed was, that no
man had any business in the army who could not afford to keep his horses
or tilbury, and drink wine every day; _that_ he called respectable,
anything short of it the reverse. If he ever relaxed from the severity
of this rule, it was only in favor of those who had high connections; “a
handle to a name” being as reverently worshipped by him as money itself;
indeed, in secret, he preferred a lord’s son, though poor, to a
commoner, however rich; the poverty of a sprig of nobility not being
taken exactly in a literal sense. Colonel Tulip had another theory also:
during the aforesaid ten years, he had acquired some knowledge of drill,
and possessing an hereditary taste for dress, considered himself, thus
endowed, a first-rate officer, though what he would have done with his
regiment in the field is quite another matter. In the meantime he was
gratified by thinking that he did his best to make it a crack corps,
according to his notion of the thing, and such minor points as the
moral training of the officers, and their proficiency in something more
than the forms of the parade ground, were not allowed to enter into his
consideration. The “Hundredth” were acknowledged to be “a devilish
well-dressed, gentlemanly set of fellows,” and were looked after with
great interest at country-balls, races, and regattas; and if this were
not what a regiment ought to be, Colonel Tulip was, he flattered
himself, very much out in his calculations.

The advent of the Hon. George Spoonbill was a very welcome one, as the
vacancy to which he succeeded had been caused by the promotion of a
young baronet into “Dragoons,” and the new comer being the second son of
Lord Pelican, with a possibility of being graced one day by wearing that
glittering title himself, the hiatus caused by Sir Henry Muff’s removal
was happily filled up without any derogation to the corps. Having also
ascertained, in the course of five minutes’ conversation, that Mr.
Spoonbill’s “man” and two horses were to follow in a few days with the
remainder of his baggage; and the young gentlemen having talked rather
largely of what the Governor allowed him (two hundred a-year is no great
sum, but he kept the actual amount in the back ground, speaking
“promiscuously” of “a few hundreds”), and of his intimacy with “the
fellows in the Life Guards;” Colonel Tulip at once set him down as a
decided acquisition to the “Hundredth,” and intimated that he was to be
made much of accordingly.

When we described the regiment as being composed of wealthy men, the
statement must be received with a certain reservation. It was Colonel
Tulip’s hope and intention to make it so in time, when he had
sufficiently “weeded” it, but _en attendant_ there were three or four
officers who did not quite belong to his favorite category. There were
the senior Major, and an old Captain, both of whom had seen a good deal
of service, the Surgeon, who was a necessary evil, and the
Quarter-master, who was never allowed to show with the rest of the
officers except at “inspection,” or some other unusual demonstration.
But the rank and “allowance” of the first, and something in the
character of the second, which caused him to be looked upon as a
military oracle, made Colonel Tulip tolerate their presence in the
corps, if he did not enjoy it. Neither had the Adjutant quite as much
money as the commanding officer could have desired, but as his position
kept him close to his duties, doing that for which Colonel Tulip took
credit, he also was suffered to pass muster; he was a brisk, precise,
middle-aged personage, who hoped in the course of time to get his
company, and whose military qualifications consisted chiefly in knowing
“Torrens,” the “Articles of War,” the “Military Regulations,” and the
“Army List,” by heart. The last-named work was, indeed, very generally
studied in the regiment, and may be said to have exhausted almost all
the literary resources of its readers, exceptions being made in favor of
the weekly military newspaper, the monthly military magazine, and an
occasional novel from the circulating library. The rest of the officers
must speak for themselves, as they incidentally make their appearance.
Of their character, generally, this may be said; none were wholly bad,
but all of them might easily have been a great deal better.

Brief ceremony attends a young officer’s introduction to his regiment,
and the honorable prefix to Ensign Spoonbill’s name was anything but a
bar to his speedy initiation. Lieutenant-Colonel Tulip took wine with
him the first thing, and his example was so quickly followed by all
present, that by the time the cloth was off the table, Lord Pelican’s
second son had swallowed quite as much of Duff Gordon’s sherry as was
good for him. Though drinking is no longer a prevalent military vice,
there are occasions when the wine circulates rather more freely than is
altogether safe for young heads, and this was one of them. Claret was
not the habitual “tipple,” even of the crack “Hundredth;” but as Colonel
Tulip had no objection to make a little display now and then, he had
ordered a dozen in honor of the new arrival, and all felt disposed to
do justice to it. The young Ensign had flattered himself that, amongst
other accomplishments, he possessed “a hard head;” but, hard as it was,
the free circulation of the bottle was not without its effect, and he
soon began to speak rather thick, carefully avoiding such words as began
with a difficult letter, which made his discourse somewhat periphrastic,
or roundabout. But though his observations reached his hearers
circuitously, their purpose was direct enough, and conveyed the
assurance that he was one of those admirable Crichtons who are “wide
awake” in every particular, and available for anything that may chance
to turn up.

The conversation which reached his ears from the jovial companions who
surrounded him, was of a similarly instructive and exhilarating kind,
and tended greatly to his improvement. Captain Hackett, who came from
“Dragoon Guards,” and had seen a great deal of hard service in Ireland,
elaborately set forth every particular of “I’ll give you my honor, the
most remarkable steeple-chase that ever took place in the three
kingdoms,” of which he was, of course, the hero. Lieutenant Wadding, who
prided himself on his small waist, broad shoulders, and bushy whiskers,
and was esteemed “a lady-killer,” talked of every woman he knew, and
damaged every reputation he talked about. Lieutenant Bray, who was
addicted to sporting and played on the French horn, came out strong on
the subject of hackles, May-flies, gray palmers, badgers, terriers,
dew-claws, snap-shots and Eley’s cartridges. Captain Cushion, a great
billiard-player, and famous--in every sense--for “the one-pocket game,”
was eloquent on the superiority of his own cues, which were tipped with
gutta percha instead of leather, and offered, as a treat, to indulge
“any man in garrison with the best of twenty, one ‘up,’ for a hundred
a-side.” Captain Huff, who had a crimson face, a stiff arm, and the
voice of a Stentor, and whose soul, like his visage, was steeped in port
and brandy, boasted of achievements in the drinking line, which,
fortunately, are now only traditional, though he did his best to make
them positive. From the upper end of the table, where sat the two
veterans and the doctor, came, mellowed by distance, grim recollections
of the Peninsula, with stories of Picton and Crawford, “the fighting
brigade” and “the light division,” interspersed with endless Indian
narratives, equally grim, of “how our fellows were carried off by the
cholera at Cawnpore,” and how many tigers were shot, “when we lay in
Cantonments at Dum-dum;” the running accompaniment to the whole being a
constant reference to so-and-so “of _ours_” without allusion to which
possessive pronoun, few military men are able to make much progress in
conversation.

Nor was Colonel Tulip silent, but his conversation was of a very lofty
and, as it were, ethereal order,--quite transparent, in fact, if any one
had been there to analyze it. It related chiefly to the magnates at the
Horse Guards,--to what “the Duke” said to him on certain occasions
specified,--to Prince Albert’s appearance at the last levee,--to a
favorite bay charger of his own, to the probability that Lord Dawdle
would get into the corps on the first exchange,--and to a partly-formed
intention of applying to the Commander-in-Chief to change the regimental
facings from buff to green.

The mess-table, after four hours’ enjoyment of it in this intellectual
manner, was finally abandoned for Captain Cushion’s “quarters,” that
gallant officer having taken “quite a fancy to the youngster,” not so
much, perhaps, on account of the youngster being a Lord’s youngster, as
because, in all probability, there was something squeezeable in him,
which was slightly indicated in his countenance. But whatever of the
kind there might indeed have been, did not come out that evening, the
amiable Captain preferring rather to initiate by example and the show of
good fellowship, than by directly urging the neophyte to play. The
rubber, therefore, was made up without him, and the new Ensign, with two
or three more of his rank, confined themselves to cigars and brandy and
water, a liberal indulgence in which completed what the wine had begun,
and before midnight chimed the Hon. George Spoonbill was--to use the
mildest expression,--as unequivocally tipsy as the fondest parent or
guardian could possibly have desired a young gentleman to be on the
first night of his entering “the Service.”

Not yet established in barracks, Mr. Spoonbill slept at an hotel, and
thither he was assisted by two of his boon companions, whom he insisted
on regaling on devilled biscuits and more brandy and water, out of sheer
gratitude for their kindness. Nor was this reward thrown away, for it
raised the spirits of these youths to so genial a pitch that, on their
way back--with a view, no doubt, to give encouragement to trade--they
twisted off, as they phrased it, “no end to knockers and bell-handles,”
broke half a dozen lamps, and narrowly escaping the police (with whom,
however, they would gloriously have fought rather than have surrendered)
succeeded at length in reaching their quarters,--a little excited it is
true, but by no means under the impression that they had done
anything--as the articles of war say--“unbecoming the character of an
officer and a gentleman.”

In the meantime, the jaded waiter at the hotel had conveyed their
fellow-Ensign to bed, to dream--if he were capable of dreaming--of the
brilliant future which his first day’s experience of actual military
life held out.


II.--A SUBALTERN’S DAY.

However interesting it might prove to the noble relatives of Ensign
Spoonbill to learn his progress, step by step, we must--for reasons of
our own--pass over the first few weeks of his new career, with only a
brief mention of the leading facts.

His brother-officers had instructed him in the art of tying on his sash,
wearing his forage cap on one side, the secret of distinguishing his
right hand from his left, and the mysteries of marching and
counter-marching. The art of holding up his head and throwing out his
chest, had been carefully imparted by the drill-serjeant of his company,
and he had, accordingly, been pronounced “fit for duty.”

What this was may best be shown, by giving an outline of “a subaltern’s
day,” as he and the majority of his military friends were in the habit
of passing it. It may serve to explain how it happens that British
officers are so far in advance of their continental brethren in arms in
the science of their profession, and by what process they have arrived
at that intellectual superiority, which renders it a matter of regret
that more serious interests than the mere discipline and well-being of
only a hundred and twenty thousand men have not been confided to their
charge.

The scene opens in a square room of tolerable size which, if simply
adorned with “barrack furniture,” (to wit, a deal table, two
windsor-chairs, a coal scuttle, and a set of fire-irons,) would give an
idea of a British subaltern’s “interior,” of rather more Spartan-like
simplicity than is altogether true. But to these were added certain
elegant “extras,” obtained not out of the surplus of five and
three-pence a day--after mess and band subscriptions, cost of uniform,
servant’s wages, &c., had been deducted--but on credit, which it was
easier to get than to avoid incurring expense. A noble youth, like
Ensign Spoonbill, had only to give the word of command to be obeyed by
Messrs. Rosewood and Mildew, with the alacrity shown by the slaves of
the lamp, and in an incredibly short space of time, the bare walls and
floor of his apartment were covered with the gayest articles their
establishment afforded. They included those indispensable adjuncts to a
young officer’s toilette, a full length cheval, and a particularly lofty
pier-glass. A green-baize screen converted the apartment into as many
separate rooms as its occupant desired, cutting it up, perhaps, a little
here and there, but adding, on the whole, a great deal to its comfort
and privacy. What was out of the line of Messrs. Rosewood and
Mildew--and that, as Othello says, was “not much”--the taste of Ensign
Spoonbill himself supplied. To his high artistic taste were due the
presence of a couple of dozen gilt-framed and highly-colored prints,
representing the reigning favorites of the ballet, the winners of the
Derby and Leger, and the costumes of the “dressiest,” and consequently
the most distinguished corps in the service; the nice arrangement of
cherry-stick tubes, amber mouth-pieces, meerschaum bowls, and
embroidered bags of Latakia tobacco; pleasing devices of the
well-crossed foils, riding whips, and single sticks evenly balanced by
fencing masks and boxing gloves; and, on the chimney-piece, the
brilliant array of nick-nacks, from the glittering shop of Messrs.
Moses, Lazarus and Son, who called themselves “jewellers and dealers in
curiosities,” and who dealt in a few trifles which were not alluded to
above their door-posts.

The maxim of “Early to bed” was not known in the Hundredth; but the
exigencies of the service required that Ensign Spoonbill should rise
with the _reveillée_. He complained of it in more forcible language
than Dr. Watts’ celebrated sluggard; but discipline is inexorable, and
he was not permitted to “slumber again.” This early rising is a real
military hardship. We once heard a lady of fashion counselling her
friend never to marry a Guardsman. “You have no idea, love, what you’ll
have to go through; every morning of his life--in the season--he has to
be out with the horrid regiment at half-past six o’clock!”

The Hon. Ensign Spoonbill then rose with the lark, though much against
his will, his connection with that fowl having by preference a midnight
tendency. Erect at last, but with a strong taste of cigars in his mouth,
and a slight touch of whiskey-headache, the Ensign arrayed himself in
his blue frock coat and Oxford gray trowsers; wound himself into his
sash; adjusted his sword and cap; and, with faltering step, made the
best of his way into the barrack-square, where the squads were forming,
which, with his eyes only half-open, he was called upon to inspect,
prior to their being re-inspected by both lieutenant and captain. He
then drew his sword, and “falling in” in the rear of his company,
occupied that disposition till the regiment was formed and set in
motion.

His duties on the parade-ground were--as a supernumerary--of a very
arduous nature, and consisted chiefly in getting in the way of his
captain as he continually “changed his flank,” in making the men “lock
up,” and in avoiding the personal observation of the adjutant as much as
possible; storing his mind, all the time, with a few of the epithets,
more vigorous than courtly, which the commanding officer habitually made
use of to quicken the movements of the battalion. He enjoyed this
recreation for about a couple of hours, sometimes utterly bewildered by
a “change of front,” which developed him in the most inopportune manner;
sometimes inextricably entangled in the formation of “a hollow square,”
when he became lost altogether; sometimes confounding himself with “the
points,” and being confounded by the senior-major for his awkwardness;
and sometimes following a “charge” at such a pace as to take away his
voice for every purpose of utility, supposing he had desired to exercise
it in the way of admonitory adjuration to the rear-rank. In this manner
he learnt the noble science of strategy, and by this means acquired so
much proficiency that, had he been suddenly called upon to manœuvre
the battalion, it is possible he might have gone on for five minutes
without “clubbing” it.

The regiment was then marched home; and Ensign Spoonbill re-entered the
garrison with all the honors of war, impressed with the conviction that
he had already seen an immense deal of service; enough, certainly, to
justify the ample breakfast which two or three other famished subs--his
particular friends--assisted him in discussing, the more substantial
part of which, involved a private account with the messman, who had a
good many more of the younger officers of the regiment on his books. At
these morning feasts--with the exception, perhaps, of a few remarks on
drill as “a cussed bore”--no allusion was made to the military exercises
of the morning, or to the prospective duties of the day. The
conversation turned, on the contrary, on lighter and more agreeable
topics;--the relative merits of bull and Scotch terriers; who made the
best boots; whether “that gaerl at the pastrycook’s” was “as fine a
woman” as “the barmaid of the Rose and Crown;” if Hudson’s cigars didn’t
beat Pontet’s all to nothing; who married the sixth daughter of Jones of
the Highlanders; interspersed with a few bets, a few oaths, and a few
statements not strikingly remarkable for their veracity, the last having
reference, principally, to the exploits for which Captain Smith made
himself famous, to the detriment of Miss Bailey.

Breakfast over, and cigars lighted, Ensign Spoonbill and his friends,
attired in shooting jackets of every pattern, and wearing felt hats of
every color and form, made their appearance in front of the officers’
wing of the barracks; some semi-recumbent on the door-steps, others
lounging with their hands in their coat pockets, others gracefully
balancing themselves on the iron railings,--all smoking and talking on
subjects of the most edifying kind. These pleasant occupations were,
however, interrupted by the approach of an “orderly,” who, from a
certain clasped book which he carried, read out the unwelcome
intelligence that, at twelve o’clock that day, a regimental
court-martial, under the presidency of Captain Huff, would assemble in
the officers’ mess-room “for the trial of all such prisoners as might be
brought before it,” and that two lieutenants and two ensigns--of whom
the honorable Mr. Spoonbill was one--were to constitute the members.
This was a most distressing and unexpected blow, for it had previously
been arranged that a badger should be drawn by Lieutenant Wadding’s bull
bitch Juno, at which interesting ceremony all the junior members of the
court were to have “assisted.” It was the more provoking, because the
proprietor of the animal to be baited,--a gentleman in a fustian suit,
brown legging, high-lows, a white hat with a black crape round it, and
a very red nose, indicative of a most decided love for “cordials and
compounds”--had just “stepped up” to say that “the badger _must_ be
dror’d that mornin’,” as he was under a particular engagement to repeat
the amusement in the evening for some gents at a distant town, and
“couldn’t no how, not for no money, forfeit his sacred word.” The
majority of the young gentlemen present understood perfectly what this
corollary meant, but, with Ensign Spoonbill amongst them, were by no
means in a hurry to “fork out” for so immoral a purpose as that of
inducing a fellow-man to break a solemn pledge. That gallant officer,
however, labored under so acute a feeling of disappointment, that
regardless of the insult offered to the worthy man’s conscience, he at
once volunteered to give him “a couple of sovs” if he would just “throw
those snobs over,” and defer his departure till the following day; and
it was settled that the badger should be “drawn” as soon as the patrons
of Joe Baggs could get away from the court-martial,--for which in no
very equable frame of mind they now got ready,--retiring to their
several barrack-rooms, divesting themselves of their sporting costume
and once more assuming military attire.

At the appointed hour, the court assembled. Captain Huff prepared for
his judicial labors by calling for a glass of his favorite “swizzle,”
which he dispatched at one draught, and then, having sworn in the
members, and being sworn himself, the business began by the appointment
of Lieutenant Hackett as secretary. There were two prisoners to be
tried: one had “sold his necessaries” in order to get drunk; the second
had made use of “mutinous language” when drunk; both of them high
military crimes, to be severely visited by those who had no temptation
to dispose of their wardrobes, and could not understand why a soldier’s
beer money was not sufficient for his daily potations; but who omitted
the consideration that they themselves, when in want of cash,
occasionally sent a pair of epaulettes to “my uncle,” and had a
champagne supper out of the proceeds, at which neither sobriety nor
decorous language were rigidly observed.

The case against him who had sold his necessaries,--to wit, “a new pair
of boots, a shirt, and a pair of stockings,” for which a Jew in the town
had given him two shillings--was sufficiently clear. The captain and the
pay-serjeant of the man’s company swore to the articles, and the Jew who
bought them (an acquaintance of Lieutenant Hackett, to whom he nodded
with pleasing familiarity), stimulated by the fear of a civil
prosecution, gave them up, and appeared as evidence against the
prisoner. He was found “guilty,” and sentenced to three months’ solitary
confinement, and “to be put under stoppages,” according to the
prescribed formulæ.

But the trial of the man accused of drunkenness and mutinous language
was not so readily disposed of; though the delay occasioned by his
calling witnesses to character served only to add to the irritation of
his virtuous and impartial judges. He was a fine-looking fellow, six
feet high, and had as soldier-like a bearing as any man in the Grenadier
company to which he belonged. The specific acts which constituted his
crime consisted in having refused to leave the canteen when somewhat
vexatiously ordered to do so by the orderly serjeant, who forthwith sent
for a file of the guard to compel him; thus urging him, when in an
excited state, to an act of insubordination, the gist of which was a
threat to knock the serjeant down, a show of resistance, and certain
maledictions on the head of that functionary. In this, as in the former
instance, there could be no doubt that the breach of discipline
complained of had been committed, though several circumstances were
pleaded in extenuation of the offence. The man’s previous character,
too, was very good; he was ordinarily a steady, well-conducted soldier,
never shirked his hour of duty, was not given to drink, and, therefore,
as the principal witness in his favor said, “the more aisily overcome
when he tuck a dhrop, but as harrumless as a lamb, unless put upon.”

These things averred and shown, the Court was cleared, and the members
proceeded to deliberate. It was a question only of the nature and extent
of the punishment to be awarded. The general instructions, no less than
the favorable condition of the case, suggested leniency. But Captain
Huff was a severe disciplinarian of the old school, an advocate for
red-handed practice--the drum head and the halberds--and his opinion, if
it might be called one, had only too much weight with the other members
of the Court, all of whom were prejudiced against the prisoner, whom
they internally--if not openly--condemned for interfering with their
day’s amusements. “Corporal punishment, of course,” said Captain Huff,
angrily; and his words were echoed by the Court, though the majority of
them little knew the fearful import of the sentence, or they might have
paused before they delivered over a fine resolute young man, whose chief
crime was an ebullition of temper, to the castigation of the lash, which
destroys the soldier’s self-respect; degrades him in the eyes of his
fellows; mutilates his body, and leaves an indelible scar upon his mind.
But the fiat went forth, and was recorded in “hundreds” against the
unfortunate fellow; and Captain Huff having managed to sign the
proceedings, carried them off to the commanding officer’s quarters, to
be “approved and confirmed;” a ratification which the Colonel was not
slow to give; for he was one of that class who are in the habit of
reconciling themselves to an act of cruelty, by always asserting in
their defence that “an example is necessary.” He forgot in doing so,
that this was not the way to preserve for the “Hundredth” the name of a
crack corps, and that the best example for those in authority is Mercy.

With minds buoyant and refreshed by the discharge of the judicial
functions, for which they were in every respect so admirably qualified,
Ensign Spoonbill and his companions, giving themselves leave of absence
from the afternoon parade, and having resumed their favorite “mufty,”
repaired to an obscure den in a stable-yard at the back of the Blue
Boar--a low public house in the filthiest quarter of the town--which Mr.
Joseph Baggs made his head-quarters, and there, for a couple of hours,
solaced themselves with the agreeable exhibition of the contest between
the badger and the dog Juno, which terminated by the latter being bitten
through both her fore-paws, and nearly losing one of her eyes; though,
as Lieutenant Wadding exultingly observed, “she was a deuced deal too
game to give over for such trifles as those.” The unhappy badger, that
only fought in self-defence, was accordingly “dror’d,” as Mr. Baggs
reluctantly admitted, adding, however, that she was “nuffin much the
wuss,” which was more than could be said of the officers of the
“Hundredth” who had enjoyed the spectacle.

This amusement ended, which had so far a military character that it
familiarized the spectator with violence and bloodshed, though in an
unworthy and contemptible degree, badgers and dogs, not men, being their
subject, the young gentlemen adjourned to the High Street, to loiter
away half an hour at the shop of Messrs. Moses, Lazarus and Son, whose
religious observances and daily occupations were made their jest, while
they ran in debt to the people from whom they afterwards expected
consideration and forbearance. But not wholly did they kill their time
there. The pretty pastry-cook, an innocent, retiring girl, but compelled
to serve in the shop, came in for her share of their half-admiring and
all insolent persecutions, and when their slang and sentiment were alike
exhausted, they dawdled back again to the barracks, to dress for the
fifth time for mess.

The events of the day, that is, the events on which their thoughts had
been centered, again furnished the theme of the general conversation.
Enough wine was drunk, as Captain Huff said, with the wit peculiar to
him, “to restore the equilibrium;” the most abstinent person being
Captain Cushion, who that evening gave convincing proof of the
advantages of abstinence, by engaging Ensign Spoonbill in a match at
billiards, the result of which was, that Lord Pelican’s son found
himself, at midnight, minus a full half of the allowance for which his
noble father had given him liberty to draw. But that he had fairly lost
the money there could be no doubt, for the officer on the main-guard,
who had preferred watching the game to going his rounds, declared to the
party, when they afterwards adjourned to take a glass of grog with him
before he turned in, that, “except Jonathan, he had never seen any man
make so good a bridge as his friend Spoonbill,” and this fact Captain
Cushion himself confirmed, adding, that he thought, perhaps, he could
afford next time to give points. With the reputation of making a good
bridge--a _Pons asinorum_ over which his money had travelled--Ensign
Spoonbill was fain to be content, and in this satisfactory manner he
closed one Subaltern’s day, there being many like it in reserve.


III.--THE CATASTROPHE.

What the Psalmist said in sorrow, those who witnessed the career of the
Honorable Ensign Spoonbill and his companions might have said, not in
sorrow only but in anger: “One day told another, and one night certified
another.”

When duty was to be performed--(for even under the command of such an
officer as Colonel Tulip the routine of duty existed)--it was slurred
over as hastily as possible, or got through as it best might be. When,
on the other hand, pleasure was the order of the day,--and this was
sought hourly,--no resource was left untried, no expedient unattempted;
and strange things, in the shape of pleasure, were often the result.

The nominal duties were multifarious, and, had they been properly
observed, would have left but a comparatively narrow margin for
recreation,--for there was much in the old forms which took up time,
without conveying any great amount of military instruction.

The orderly officer for the day--we speak of the subaltern--was supposed
to go through a great deal. His duty it was to assist at inspections,
superintend drills, examine the soldiers’ provisions, see their
breakfasts and dinners served, and attend to any complaints, visit the
regimental guards by day and night, be present at all parades and
musters, and, finally, deliver in a written report of the proceedings of
the four-and-twenty hours.

To go through this routine, required--as it received in some
regiments--a few days’ training; but in the Hundredth there was none at
all. Every officer in that distinguished corps was supposed to be “a
Heaven-born genius,” and acquired his military education as pigeons pick
up peas. The Hon. Ensign Spoonbill looked at his men after a fashion;
could swear at them if they were excessively dirty, and perhaps awe them
into silence by a portentous scowl, or an exaggerated loudness of voice;
but with regard to the real purpose of inspection, he knew as little,
and cared as much, as the valet who aired his noble father’s morning
newspaper. His eye wandered over the men’s kits as they were exposed to
his view; but to his mind they only conveyed the idea of a kaleidoscopic
rag-fair, not that of an assortment of necessaries for the comfort and
well-being of the soldier. He saw large masses of beef, exhibited in a
raw state by the quartermaster, as the daily allowance for the men; but
if any one had asked him if the meat was good, and of proper weight, how
could he have answered, whose head was turned away in disgust, with his
face buried in a scented cambric handkerchief, and his delicate nature
loathing the whole scene? In the same spirit he saw the men’s breakfasts
and dinners served; fortifying his opinion, at the first, that coffee
could only be made in France, and wondering, at the second, what sort of
_potage_ it could be that contrived to smell so disagreeably. These
things might be special affectations in the Hon. Ensign, and depended,
probably, on his own peculiar organization; but if the rest of the
officers of the Hundredth did not manifest as intense a dislike to this
part of their duties, they were members of much too “crack” a regiment
to give themselves any trouble about the matter. The drums beat, the
messes were served, there was a hasty gallop through the barrack-rooms,
scarcely looking right or left, and the orderly officer was only too
happy to make his escape without being stopped by any impertinent
complaint.

The “turning out” of the barrack guard was a thing to make an impression
on a bystander. A loud shout, a sharp clatter of arms, a scurry of
figures, a hasty formation, a brief inquiry if all was right, and a
terse rejoinder that all _was_ remarkably so, constituted the details of
a visit to the body of men on whom devolved the task of extreme
watchfulness, and the preservation of order. If the serjeant had replied
“All wrong,” it would have equally enlightened Ensign Spoonbill, who
went towards the guardhouse because his instructions told him to do so;
but why he went there, and for what purpose he turned out the guard,
never entered into his comprehension. Not even did a sense of
responsibility awaken in him when, with much difficulty, he penned the
report which gave, in a narrative form, the summary of the duties he had
performed in so exemplary a manner. Performed, do we say? Yes, once or
twice wholly, but for the most part with many gaps in the schedule.
Sometimes the dinners were forgotten, now and then the tattoo, generally
the afternoon parade, and not unfrequently the whole affair. For the
latter omission, there was occasionally a nominal “wigging”
administered, not by the commanding officer himself, but through the
adjutant; and as that functionary was only looked upon by the youngsters
in the light of a bore, without the slightest reverence for his office,
his words--like those of Cassius--passed like the idle wind which none
regarded. When Ensign Spoonbill “mounted guard” himself, his vigilance
on his new post equalled the assiduity we have seen him exhibit in
barracks. After the formality of trooping, marching down, and relieving,
was over, the Honorable Ensign generally amused himself by a lounge in
the vicinity of the guardhouse, until the field-officer’s “rounds” had
been made; and that visitation at an end for the day, a neighboring
billiard-room, with Captain Cushion for his antagonist or “a jolly pool”
occupied him until dinner-time. It was the custom in the garrison where
the Hundredth were quartered, as it was, indeed, in many others, for the
officers on guard to dine with their mess, a couple of hours or so being
granted for this indulgence. This relaxation was made up for, by their
keeping close for the rest of the evening; but as there were generally
two or three off duty sufficiently at leisure to find cigars and
brandy-and-water attractive, even when consumed in a guard-room, the
hardship of Ensign Spoonbill’s official imprisonment was not very great.
With these friends, and these creature-comforts to solace, the time wore
easily away till night fell, when the field-officer, if he was “a
good-fellow,” came early, and Ensign Spoonbill, having given his friends
their _congé_, was at liberty to “turn in” for the night, the onerous
duty of visiting sentries and inspecting the reliefs every two hours,
devolving upon the serjeant.

It may be inferred from these two examples of Ensign Spoonbill’s ideas
of discipline and the service, what was the course he generally adopted
_on_ duty, without our being under the necessity of going into further
details. What he did when _off_ duty helped him on still more
effectually.

Lord Pelican’s outfit having “mounted” the young gentleman, and the
credit he obtained on the strength of being Lord Pelican’s son, keeping
his stud in order, he was enabled to vie with the crackest of the crack
Hundredth; subject, however, to all the accidents which horseflesh is
heir to--especially when allied to a judgment of which green was the
prevailing color. A “swap” to a disadvantage; an indiscreet purchase; a
mistake as to the soundness of an animal; and such other errors of
opinion, entailed certain losses, which might, after all, have been
borne, without rendering the applications for money at home more
frequent than agreeable; but when under the influence of a natural
obstinacy, or the advice of some very “knowing ones,” Ensign Spoonbill
proceeded to back his opinion in private matches, handicaps, and
steeple-chases, the privy purse of Lady Pelican collapsed in a most
unmistakable manner. Nor was this description of amusement the only
rock-a-head in the course of the Honorable Ensign. The art or science of
betting embraces the widest field, and the odds, given or taken, are
equally fatal, whether the subject that elicits them be a match at
billiards or a horse-race. Nor are the stakes at blind-hookey or
unlimited loo less harmless, when you hav’n’t got luck and _have_ such
opponents as Captain Cushion.

In spite of the belief in his own powers, which Ensign Spoonbill
encouraged, he could not shut his eyes to the fact that he was every day
a loser; but wiser gamblers than he--if any there be--place reliance on
a “turn of luck,” and all he wanted to enable him to take advantage of
it, was a command of cash; for even one’s best friends prefer the coin
of the realm to the most unimpeachable I. O. U.

The want of money is a common dilemma,--not the less disagreeable,
however, because it _is_ common--but in certain situations this want is
more apparent than real. The Hon. Ensign Spoonbill was in the
predicament of impecuniosity; but there were--as a celebrated statesman
is in the habit of saying--three courses open to him. He might leave off
play, and do without the money; he might “throw himself” on Lord
Pelican’s paternal feelings; or he might _somehow_ contrive to raise a
supply on his own account. To leave off just at the moment when he was
sure to win back all he had lost, would have been ridiculous; besides,
every man of spirit in the regiment would have cut him. To throw himself
upon the generosity of his sire was a good poetical idea; but,
practically, it would have been of no value: for, in the first place,
Lord Pelican had no money to give--in the next, there was an elder
brother, whose wants were more imperative than his own; and lastly, he
had already tried the experiment, and failed in the most signal manner.
There remained, therefore, only the last expedient; and being advised,
moreover, to have recourse to it, he went into the project _tête
baissée_. The “advice” was tendered in this form.

“Well, Spooney, my boy, how are you, this morning?” kindly inquired
Captain Cushion, one day on his return from parade, from which the
Honorable Ensign had been absent on the plea of indisposition.

“Deuced queer,” was the reply; “that Roman punch always gives me the
splittingest headaches!”

“Ah! you’re not used to it. I’m as fresh as a four-year-old. Well, what
did you do last night, Spooney?”

“Do! why, I lost, of course; _you_ ought to know that.”

“I--my dear fellow! Give you my honor I got up a loser!”

“Not to me, though,” grumbled the Ensign.

“Can’t say as to that,” replied the Captain; “all I know is, that I’m
devilishly minus.”

“Who won, then?” inquired Spoonbill.

“Oh!” returned the Captain, after a slight pause, “I
suspect--Chowser--he has somebody’s luck and his own too!”

“I think he must have mine,” said the Ensign, with a faint smile, as the
alternations of the last night’s Blind Hookey came more vividly to his
remembrance. “What did I lose to you, Cushion?” he continued, in the
hope that his memory had deceived him.

The Captain’s pocket-book was out in an instant.

“Sixty-five, my dear fellow; that was all. By-the-bye, Spooney, I’m
regularly hard up; can you let me have the tin? I wouldn’t trouble you,
upon my soul, if I could possibly do without it, but I’ve got a heavy
bill coming due to-morrow, and I can’t renew.”

The Honorable Ensign sank back on his pillow, and groaned impotently.
Rallying, however, from this momentary weakness, he raised his head,
and, after apostrophising the spirit of darkness as his best friend,
exclaimed, “I’ll tell you what it is, Cushion, I’m thoroughly cleaned
out. I haven’t got a dump!”

“Then you must fly a kite,” observed the Captain, coolly. “No difficulty
about that.”

This was merely the repetition of counsel of the same friendly nature
previously urged. The shock was not greater, therefore, than the young
man’s nerves could bear.

“How is it to be done?” asked the neophyte.

“Oh, I think I can manage that for you. Yes,” pursued the Captain,
musing, “Lazarus would let you have as much as you want, I dare say. His
terms are rather high, to be sure; but then the cash is the thing. He’ll
take your acceptance at once. Who will you get to draw the bill?”

“Draw!” said the Ensign, in a state of some bewilderment. “I don’t
understand these things--couldn’t you do it?”

“Why,” replied the Captain, with an air of intense sincerity, “I’d do it
for you with pleasure--nothing would delight me more; but I promised my
grandmother when first I entered the service, that I never _would_ draw
a bill as long as I lived; and as a man of honor, you know, and a
soldier, I can’t break my word.”

“But I thought you said you had a bill of your own coming due
to-morrow,” observed the astute Spoonbill.

“So I did,” said the Captain, taken rather aback in the midst of his
protestations, “but then it isn’t--exactly--a thing of _this_ sort; it’s
a kind of a bond--as it were--old family matters--the estate down in
Lincolnshire--that I’m clearing off. Besides,” he added hurriedly,
“there are plenty of fellows who’ll do it for you. There’s young
Brittles--the Manchester man, who joined just after you. I never saw
anybody screw into baulk better than he does, except yourself--he’s the
one. Lazarus, I know, always prefers a young customer to an old one;
knowing chaps, these Jews, arn’t they?”

Captain Cushion’s last remark was, no doubt, a just one--but he might
have applied the term to himself with little dread of disparagement; and
the end of the conversation was, that it was agreed a bill should be
drawn as proposed, “say for three hundred pounds,” the Captain
undertaking to get the affair arranged, and relieving Spoonbill of all
trouble, save that of “merely” writing his name across a bit of stamped
paper. These points being settled, the Captain left him, and the
unprotected subaltern called for brandy and soda-water, by the aid of
which stimulus he was enabled to rise and perform his toilette.

Messrs. Lazarus and Sons were merchants who perfectly understood their
business, and, though they started difficulties, were only too happy to
get fresh birds into their net. They knew to a certainty that the sum
they were asked to advance would not be repaid at the end of the
prescribed three months: it would scarcely have been worth their while
to enter into the matter if it had; the profit on the hundred pounds’
worth of jewelry, which Ensign Spoonbill was required to take as part of
the amount, would not have remunerated them sufficiently. Guessing
pretty accurately which way the money would go, they foresaw renewed
applications, and a long perspective of accumulating acceptances. Lord
Pelican might be a needy nobleman; but he _was_ Lord Pelican, and the
Honorable George Spoonbill was his son; and if the latter did not
succeed to the title and family estates, which was by no means
improbable, there was Lady Pelican’s settlement for division amongst the
younger children. So they advanced the money; that is to say, they
produced a hundred and eighty pounds in cash, twenty they took for the
accommodation (half of which found its way into the pocket of--never
mind, we won’t say anything about Captain Cushion’s private affairs),
and the value of the remaining hundred was made up with a series of pins
and rings of the most stunning magnificence.

This was the Honorable Ensign Spoonbill’s first bill-transaction, but,
the ice once broken, the second and third soon followed. He found it the
pleasantest way in the world of raising money, and in a short time his
affairs took a turn so decidedly commercial, that he applied the system
to all his mercantile transactions. He paid his tailors after this
fashion, satisfied Messrs. Mildew and his upholsterers with negotiable
paper, and did “bits of stiff” with Galloper, the horse-dealer, to a
very considerable figure. He even became facetious, not to say inspired,
by this great discovery; for, amongst his papers, when they were
afterwards overhauled by the official assignee--or some such fiscal
dignitary,--a bacchanalian song in manuscript was found, supposed to
have been written about this period, the _refrain_ of which ran as
follows:--

    “When creditors clamor, and cash fails the till,
     There is nothing so easy as giving a bill.”

It needs no ghost to rise from the grave to prophesy the sequel to this
mode of “raising the wind.” It is recorded twenty times a month in the
daily papers--now in the Bankruptcy Court, now in that for the Relief of
Insolvent Debtors. Ensign Spoonbill’s career lasted about eighteen
months, at the end of which period--not having prospered by the means
of gaming to the extent he anticipated--he found himself under the
necessity of selling out and retiring to a continental residence,
leaving behind him debts, which were eventually paid, to the tune of
seven thousand, two hundred and fourteen pounds, seventeen shillings,
and tenpence three farthings, the vulgar fractions having their origin
in the hair-splitting occasioned by reduplication of interest. He chose
for his abode the pleasant town of Boulogne-sur-Mer, where he cultivated
his moustaches, acquired a smattering of French, and an insight into the
mystery of pigeon-shooting. For one or other of these qualifications--we
cannot exactly say which--he was subsequently appointed _attaché_ to a
foreign embassy, and at the present moment, we believe, is considered
one of those promising young men whose diplomatic skill will probably
declare itself one of these days, by some stroke of finesse, which shall
set all Europe by the ears.

With respect to Colonel Tulip’s “crack” regiment, it went, as the saying
is, “to the Devil.” The exposure caused by the affair of Ensign
Spoonbill--the smash of Ensign Brittles, which shortly followed--the
duel between Lieutenant Wadding and Captain Cushion, the result of which
was a ball (neither “spot” nor “plain,” but a bullet) through the head
of the last-named gentleman, and a few other trifles of a similar
description, at length attracted the “serious notice” of his Grace the
Commander-in-Chief. It was significantly hinted to Colonel Tulip that it
would be for the benefit of the service in general, and that of the
Hundredth in particular, if he exchanged to half-pay, as the regiment
required re-modelling. A smart Lieutenant-Colonel who had learnt
something, not only of drill, but of discipline, under the hero of
“Young Egypt,” in which country he had shared that general’s laurels,
was sent down from the Horse Guards. “Weeding” to a considerable extent
took place; the Majors and the Adjutant were replaced by more efficient
men, and, to sum up all, the Duke’s “Circular” came out, laying down a
principle of _practical military education, while on service_, which,
if acted up to,--and there seems every reason to hope it will now
be,--bids fair to make good officers of those who heretofore were merely
idlers. It will also diminish the opportunities for gambling, drinking,
and bill discounting, and substitute, for the written words on the
Queen’s Commission, the real character of a soldier and a gentleman.




VII.

Father and Son.


One evening in the month of March, 1798,--that dark time in Ireland’s
annals whose memory (overlooking all minor subsequent _emeutes_) is
still preserved among us, as “the year of the rebellion”--a lady and
gentleman were seated near a blazing fire in the old-fashioned
dining-room of a large lonely mansion. They had just dined; wine and
fruit were on the table, both untouched, while Mr. Hewson and his wife
sat silently gazing at the fire, watching its flickering light becoming
gradually more vivid as the short Spring twilight faded into darkness.

At length the husband poured out a glass of wine, drank it off, and then
broke silence, by saying--

“Well, well, Charlotte, these are awful times; there were ten men taken
up to-day for burning Cotter’s house at Knockane; and Tom Dycer says
that every magistrate in the country is a marked man.”

Mrs. Hewson cast a frightened glance towards the windows, which opened
nearly to the ground, and gave a view of the wide tree-besprinkled lawn,
through whose centre a long straight avenue led to the high-road. There
was also a footpath at either side of the house, branching off through
close thickets of trees, and reaching the road by a circuitous route.

“Listen, James!” she said, after a pause; “what noise is that?”

“Nothing but the sighing of the wind among the trees. Come, wife, you
must not give way to imaginary fears.”

“But really I heard something like footsteps on the gravel, round the
gable-end--I wish”--

A knock at the parlor door interrupted her.

“Come in.”

The door opened, and Tim Gahan, Mr. Hewson’s confidential steward and
right-hand man, entered, followed by a fair-haired delicate-looking boy
of six years’ old, dressed in deep mourning.

“Well, Gahan, what do you want?”

“I ask your Honor’s pardon for disturbing you and the mistress; but I
thought it right to come tell you the bad news I heard.”

“Something about the rebels, I suppose?”

“Yes, Sir; I got a whisper just now that there’s going to be a great
rising intirely, to-morrow; thousands are to gather before daybreak at
Kilcrean bog, where I’m told they have a power of pikes hiding; and then
they’re to march on and sack every house in the country. I’ll engage,
when I heard it, I didn’t let the grass grow under my feet, but came off
straight to your Honor, thinking maybe you’d like to walk over this fine
evening to Mr. Warren’s, and settle with him what’s best to be done.”

“Oh, James! I beseech you, don’t think of going.”

“Make your mind easy, Charlotte; I don’t intend it: not that I suppose
there would be much risk; but, all things considered, I think I’m just
as comfortable at home.”

The steward’s brow darkened, as he glanced nervously towards the end
window, which, jutting out in the gable, formed a deep angle in the
outer wall.

“Of course ’tis just as your honor plases, but I’ll warrant you there
would be no harm in going. Come, Billy,” he added, addressing the child,
who by this time was standing close to Mrs. Hewson, “make your bow, and
bid good night to master and mistress.”

The boy did not stir, and Mrs. Hewson, taking his little hand in hers,
said--

“You need not go home for half-an-hour, Gahan; stay and have a chat with
the servants in the kitchen, and leave little Billy with me--and with
the apples and nuts”--she added, smiling as she filled the child’s hands
with fruit.

“Thank you, Ma’am,” said the steward hastily. “I can’t stop--I’m in a
hurry home, where I wanted to leave this brat to-night; but he _would_
follow me. Come, Billy; come this minute, you young rogue.”

Still the child looked reluctant, and Mr. Hewson said peremptorily.

“Don’t go yet, Gahan; I want to speak to you by-and-bye; and you know
the mistress always likes to pet little Billy.”

Without replying, the steward left the room; and the next moment his
hasty footsteps resounded through the long flagged passage that led to
the offices.

“There’s something strange about Gahan, since his wife died,” remarked
Mrs. Hewson. “I suppose ’tis grief for her that makes him look so
darkly, and seem almost jealous when any one speaks to his child. Poor
little Billy! your mother was a sore loss to you.”

The child’s blue eyes filled with tears, and pressing closer to the
lady’s side, he said:--

“Old Peggy doesn’t wash and dress me as nicely as mammy used.”

“But your father is good to you?”

“Oh, yes, Ma’am, but he’s out all day busy, and I’ve no one to talk to
me as mammy used; for Peggy is quite deaf, and besides she’s always busy
with the pigs and chickens.”

“I wish I had you, Billy, to take care of, and to teach, for your poor
mother’s sake.”

“And so you may, Charlotte,” said her husband. “I’m sure Gahan, with all
his odd ways, is too sensible a fellow not to know how much it would be
for his child’s benefit to be brought up and educated by us, and the boy
would be an amusement to us in this lonely house. I’ll speak to him
about it before he goes home. Billy, my fine fellow, come here,” he
continued, “jump up on my knee, and tell me if you’d like to live here
always, and learn to read and write.”

“I would, Sir, if I could be with father too.”

“So you shall;--and what about old Peggy?”

The child paused--

“I’d like to give her a pen’north of snuff and a piece of tobacco every
week, for she said the other day that _that_ would make her quite
happy.”

Mr. Hewson laughed, and Billy prattled on, still seated on his knee;
when a noise of footsteps on the ground, mingled with low suppressed
talking, was heard outside.

“James, listen! there’s the noise again.”

It was now nearly dark, but Mr. Hewson, still holding the boy in his
arms, walked towards the window and looked out.

“I can see nothing,” he said--“stay--there are figures moving off among
the trees, and a man running round to the back of the house--very like
Gahan he is too!”

Seizing the bell-rope he rang it loudly, and said to the servant who
answered his summons:--

“Fasten the shutters and put up the bars, Connell; and then tell Gahan I
want to see him.”

The man obeyed; candles were brought, and Gahan entered the room.

Mr. Hewson remarked that, though his cheeks were flushed, his lips were
very white, and his bold dark eyes were cast on the ground.

“What took you round the house just now, Tim?” asked his master, in a
careless manner.

“What took me round the house is it? Why, then, nothing in life, Sir,
but that just as I went outside the kitchen door to take a smoke, I saw
the pigs that Shaneen forgot to put up in their stye, making right for
the mistress’ flower-garden; so I just put my _dudheen_, lighting as it
was, into my pocket, and ran after them. I caught them on the grand walk
under the end window, and indeed, Ma’am, I had my own share of work
turning them back to their proper spear.”

Gahan spoke with unusual volubility, but without raising his eyes from
the ground.

“Who were the people,” asked his master, “whom I saw moving through the
western grove?”

“People! your Honor--not a sign of any people moving there, I’ll be
bound, barring the pigs.”

“Then,” said Mr. Hewson, smiling, to his wife, “the miracle of Circe
must have been reversed and swine turned into men; for, undoubtedly, the
dark figures I saw were human beings.”

“Come, Billy,” said Gahan, anxious to turn the conversation, “will you
come home with me now? I am sure ’twas very good of the mistress to give
you all them fine apples.”

Mrs. Hewson was going to propose Billy’s remaining, but her husband
whispered:--“Wait till to-morrow.” So Gahan and his child were allowed
to depart.

Next morning the magistrates of the district were on the alert, and
several suspicious-looking men found lurking about, were taken up. A hat
which fitted one of them was picked up in Mr. Hewson’s grove; the gravel
under the end window bore many signs of trampling feet; and there were
marks on the wall as if guns had rested against it. Gahan’s information
touching the intended meeting at Kilcrean bog proved to be totally
without foundation; and after a careful search not a single pike or
weapon of any description could be found there. All these circumstances
combined certainly looked suspicious; but, after a long investigation,
as no guilt could be actually brought home to Gahan, he was dismissed.
One of his examiners, however, said privately, “I advise you take care
of that fellow, Hewson. If I were in your place, I’d just trust him as
far as I could throw him, and not an inch beyond.”

An indolent hospitable Irish country gentleman, such as Mr. Hewson, is
never without an always shrewd and often roguish prime minister, who
saves his master the trouble of looking after his own affairs, and
manages everything that is to be done in both the home and foreign
departments,--from putting a new door to the pig-stye, to letting a farm
of an hundred acres on lease. Now in this, or rather these capacities,
Gahan had long served Mr. Hewson; and some seven years previous to the
evening on which our story commences, he had strengthened the tie and
increased his influence considerably by marrying Mrs. Hewson’s favorite
and faithful maid. One child was the result of this union; and Mrs.
Hewson, who had no family of her own, took much interest in little
Billy,--more especially after the death of his mother, who, poor thing!
the neighbors said, was not very happy, and would gladly, if she dared,
have exchanged her lonely cottage for the easy service of her former
mistress.

Thus, though for a time Mr. and Mrs. Hewson regarded Gahan with some
doubt, the feeling gradually wore away, and the steward regained his
former influence.

After the lapse of a few stormy months the rebellion was quelled: all
the prisoners taken up were severally disposed of by hanging,
transportation or acquittal, according to the nature and amount of the
evidence brought against them; and the country became as peaceful as it
is in the volcanic nature of our Irish soil ever to be.

The Hewsons’ kindness towards Gahan’s child was steady and unchanged.
They took him into their house, and gave him a plain but solid
education; so that William, while yet a boy, was enabled to be of some
use to his patron, and daily enjoyed more and more of his confidence.

       *       *       *       *       *

Another Evening, the twentieth anniversary of that with which this
narrative commenced, came round. Mr. and Mrs. Hewson were still hale and
active, dwelling in their hospitable home. About eight o’clock at night,
Tim Gahan, now a stooping, gray-haired man, entered Mr. Hewson’s
kitchen, and took his seat on the corner of the settle, near the fire.

The cook directing a silent significant glance of compassion towards her
fellow-servants, said:

“Would you like a drink of cider, Tim, or will you wait and take a cup
of tay with myself and Kitty?”

The old man’s eyes were fixed on the fire, and a wrinkled hand was
planted firmly on each knee, as if to check their involuntary trembling.
“I’ll not drink anything this night, thank you kindly, Nelly,” he said,
in a slow musing manner, dwelling long on each word.

“Where’s Billy?” he asked, after a pause, in a quick hurried tone,
looking up suddenly at the cook, with an expression in his eyes, which,
as she afterwards said, “took away her breath.”

“Oh, never heed Billy! I suppose he’s busy with the master.”

“Where’s the use, Nelly,” said the coachman, “in hiding it from him?
Sure, sooner or later he must know it. Tim,” he continued, “God knows
’tis sorrow to my heart this blessed night to make yours sore,--but the
truth is, that William has done what he oughtn’t to do to the man that
was all one as a father to him.”

“What has he done? what will you _dar_ say again my boy?”

“Taken money, then,” replied the coachman, “that the master had marked
and put by in his desk; for he suspected this some time past that gold
was missing. This morning ’twas gone; a search was made, and the marked
guineas were found with your son William.”

The old man covered his face with his hands, and rocked himself to and
fro.

“Where is he now?” at length he asked, in a hoarse voice.

“Locked up safe in the inner store-room; the master intends sending him
to gaol early to-morrow morning.”

“He will not,” said Gahan slowly, “kill the boy that saved his
life!--no, no.”

“Poor fellow! the grief is setting his mind astray--and sure no wonder!”
said the cook, compassionately.

“I’m not astray!” cried the old man, fiercely.

“Where’s the master?--take me to him.”

“Come with me,” said the butler, “and I’ll ask him will he see you?”

With faltering steps the father complied; and when they reached the
parlor, he trembled exceedingly, and leant against the wall for support,
while the butler opened the door, and said:

“Gahan is here, Sir, and wants to know will you let him speak to you for
a minute?”

“Tell him to come in,” said Mr. Hewson, in a solemn tone of sorrow, very
different from his ordinary cheerful voice.

“Sir,” said the steward, advancing, “they tell me you are going to send
my boy to prison,--is it true?”

“Too true, indeed, Gahan. The lad who was reared in my house, whom my
wife watched over in health, and nursed in sickness--whom we loved
almost as if he were our own, has _robbed_ us, and that not once or
twice, but many times. He is silent, and sullen, too, and refuses to
tell why he stole the money, which was never withheld from him when he
wanted it. I can make nothing of him, and must only give him up to
justice in the morning.”

“No, Sir, no. The boy saved your life; you can’t take his.”

“You’re raving, Gahan.”

“Listen to me, Sir, and you won’t say so. You remember this night
twenty years? I came here with my motherless child, and yourself and the
mistress pitied us, and spoke loving words to him. Well for us all you
did so! That night--little you thought it!--I was banded with them that
were sworn to take your life. They were watching you outside the window,
and I was sent to inveigle you out, that they might shoot you. A faint
heart I had for the bloody business, for you were ever and always a good
master to me; but I was under an oath to them that I darn’t break,
supposing they ordered me to shoot my own mother. Well! the hand of God
was over you, and you wouldn’t come with me. I ran out to them, and I
said--“Boys, if you want to shoot him, you must do it through the
window,” thinking they’d be afeard of that; but they weren’t--they were
daring fellows, and one of them, sheltered by the angle of the window,
took deadly aim at you. That very moment you took Billy on your knee,
and I saw his fair head on a line with the musket. I don’t know exactly
then what I said or did, but I remember I caught the man’s hand, threw
it up, and pointed to the child. Knowing I was a determined man, I
believe they didn’t wish to provoke me; so they watched you for awhile,
and when you didn’t put him down they got daunted, hearing the sound of
soldiers riding by the road, and they stole away through the grove. Most
of that gang swung on the gallows, but the last of them died this
morning quietly in his bed. Up to yesterday he used to make me give him
money,--sums of money to buy his silence--and it was for that I made my
boy a thief. It was wearing out his very life. Often he went down on his
knees to me, and said: ‘Father, I’d die myself sooner than rob my
master, but I can’t see _you_ disgraced. Oh, let us fly the country!’
Now, Sir, I have told you all--do what you like with me--send me to
gaol, I deserve it--but spare my poor, deluded, innocent boy!”

It would be difficult to describe Mr. Hewson’s feelings, but his wife’s
first impulse was to hasten to liberate the prisoner. With a few
incoherent words of explanation she led him into the presence of his
master, who, looking at him sorrowfully but kindly, said:

“William, you have erred deeply, but not so deeply as I supposed. Your
father has told me everything. I forgive him freely and you also.”

The young man covered his face with his hands, and wept tears more
bitter and abundant than he had ever shed since the day when he followed
his mother to the grave. He could say but little, but he knelt on the
ground, and clasping the kind hand of her who had supplied to him that
mother’s place, he murmured:

“Will _you_ tell him I would rather die than sin again.”

Old Gahan died two years afterwards, truly penitent, invoking blessings
on his son and on his benefactors; and the young man’s conduct, now no
longer under evil influence, was so steady and so upright, that his
adopted parents felt that their pious work was rewarded, and that, in
William Gahan, they had indeed a son.




VIII.

The Miner’s Daughter.--A Tale of the Peak.


I.--THE CHILD’S TRAGEDY.

There is no really beautiful part of this kingdom so little known as the
Peak of Derbyshire. Matlock, with its tea-garden trumpery, and
mock-heroic wonders; Buxton, with its bleak hills and fashionable
bathers; the truly noble Chatsworth and the venerable Haddon, engross
almost all that the public generally have seen of the Peak. It is talked
of as a land of mountains, which in reality are only hills; but its true
beauty lies in valleys that have been created by the rending of the
earth in some primeval convulsion, and which present a thousand charms
to the eyes of the lover of nature. How deliciously do the crystal
waters of the Wye and the Dove rush along such valleys, or dales, as
they are called. With what a wild variety do the gray rocks soar up
amid their woods and copses. How airily stand in the clear heavens the
lofty limestone precipices, and the gray edges of rock gleam out from
the bare green downs--there _never_ called downs. What a genuine Saxon
air is there cast over the population, what a Saxon bluntness salutes
you in their speech!

It is into the heart of this region that we propose now to carry the
reader. Let him suppose himself with us now on the road from
Ashford-in-the-water to Tideswell. We are at the Bulls-Head, a little
inn on that road. There is nothing to create wonder, or a suspicion of a
hidden Arcadia in anything you see, but another step forward,
and--there! There sinks a world of valleys at your feet. To your left
lies the delicious Monsol Dale. Old Finn Hill lifts his gray head
grandly over it. Hobthrush’s Castle stands bravely forth in the hollow
of his side--gray, and desolate, and mysterious. The sweet Wye goes
winding and sounding at his feet, amid its narrow green meadows, green
as the emerald, and its dark glossy alders. Before us stretches on,
equally beautiful, Cressbrook Dale; Little Edale shows its cottages from
amidst its trees; and as we advance, the Mousselin-de-laine Mills
stretch across the mouth of Miller’s Dale, and startle with the aspect
of so much life amid so much solitude.

But our way is still onward. We resist the attraction of Cressbrook
village on its lofty eminence, and plunge to the right, into Wardlow
Dale. Here we are buried deep in woods, and yet behold still deeper the
valley descend below us. There is an Alpine feeling upon us. We are
carried once more, as in a dream, into the Saxon Switzerland. Above us
stretch the boldest ranges of lofty precipices, and deep amid the woods
are heard the voices of children. These come from a few workman’s houses
couched at the foot of a cliff that rises high and bright amid the sun.
That is Wardlow Cop; and there we mean to halt for a moment. Forwards
lies a wild region of hills, and valleys, and lead mines, but forward
goes no road, except such as you can make yourself through the tangled
woods.

At the foot of Wardlow Cop, before this little hamlet of Bellamy Wick
was built, or the glen was dignified with the name of Raven Dale, there
lived a miner who had no term for his place of abode. He lived, he said,
under Wardlow Cop, and that contented him.

His house was one of those little, solid, gray limestone cottages, with
gray flagstone roofs which abound in the Peak. It had stood under that
lofty precipice when the woods which now so densely fill the valley were
but newly planted. There had been a mine near it, which had no doubt
been the occasion of its erection in so solitary a place; but that mine
was now worked out, and David Dunster, the miner, now worked at a mine
right over the hills in Miller’s Dale. He was seldom at home, except at
night, and on Sundays. His wife, besides keeping her little house, and
digging and weeding in the strip of garden that lay on the steep slope
above the house, hemmed in with a stone wall, also seamed stockings for
a framework-knitter in Ashford, whither she went once or twice in the
week.

They had three children, a boy and two girls. The boy was about eight
years of age; the girls were about five and six. These children were
taught their lessons of spelling and reading by the mother, amongst her
other multifarious tasks; for she was one of those who are called
regular plodders. She was quiet, patient, and always doing, though never
in a bustle. She was not one of those who acquire a character for vast
industry by doing everything in a mighty flurry, though they contrive to
find time for a tolerable deal of gossip under the plea of resting a
bit, and “which resting a bit” they always terminate by an exclamation
that “they must be off, though, for they have a world of work to do.”
Betty Dunster, on the contrary, was looked on as rather “a slow coach.”
If you remarked that she was a hard-working woman, the reply was, “Well,
she’s always doing--Betty’s work’s never done; but then she does na
hurry hersen.” The fact was, Betty was a thin, spare woman, of no very
strong constitution, but of an untiring spirit. Her pleasure and rest
were, when David came home at night, to have his supper ready, and to
sit down opposite to him at the little round table, and help him, giving
a bit now and then to the children, that came and stood round, though
they had had their suppers, and were ready for bed as soon as they had
seen something of their “dad.”

David Dunster was one of those remarkably tall fellows that you see
about these hills, who seem of all things the very worst made men to
creep into the little mole holes on the hill sides that they call
lead-mines. But David did manage to burrow under and through the hard
limestone rocks as well as any of them. He was a hard-working man,
though he liked a sup of beer, as most Derbyshire men do, and sometimes
came home none of the soberest. He was naturally of a very hasty temper,
and would fly into great rages; and if he were put out by anything in
the working of the mines, or the conduct of his fellow-workmen, he
would stay away from home for days, drinking at Tideswell, or the Bull’s
Head at the top of Monsal Dale, or down at the Miners’ Arms at
Ashford-in-the-water.

Betty Dunster bore all this patiently. She looked on these things
somewhat as matters of course. At that time, and even now, how few
miners do not drink and “roll a bit,” as they call it. She was,
therefore, tolerant, and let the storms blow over, ready always to
persuade her husband to go home and sleep off his drink and anger, but
if he were too violent, leaving him till another attempt might succeed
better. She was very fond of her children, and not only taught them on
week days their lessons, and to help her to seam, but also took them to
the Methodist Chapel in “Tidser,” as they called Tideswell, whither,
whenever she could, she enticed David. David, too, in his way, was fond
of the children, especially of the boy, who was called David after him.
He was quite wrapped up in the lad, to use the phrase of the people in
that part; in fact, he was foolishly and mischievously fond of him. He
would give him beer to drink, “to make a true Briton on him,” as he
said, spite of Betty’s earnest endeavor to prevent it,--telling him that
he was laying the foundation in the lad of the same faults that he had
himself. But David Dunster did not look on drinking as a fault at all.
It was what he had been used to all his life. It was what all the miners
had been used to for generations. A man was looked on as a milk-sop and
a Molly Coddle, that would not take his mug of ale, and be merry with
his comrades. It required the light of education, and the efforts that
have been made by the Temperance Societies, to break in on this ancient
custom of drinking, which, no doubt, has flourished in these hills since
the Danes and other Scandinavians, bored and perforated them of old for
the ores of lead and copper. To Betty Dunster’s remonstrances, and
commendations of tea, David would reply,--“Botheration Betty, wench!
Dunna tell me about thy tea and such-like pig’s-wesh. It’s all very
well for women; but a man, Betty, a man mun ha’ a sup of real stingo,
lass. He mun ha’ summut to prop his ribs out, lass, as he delves through
th’ chert and tood-stone. When tha weylds th’ maundrel (the pick), and I
wesh th’ dishes, tha shall ha’ th’ drink, my wench, and I’ll ha’ th’
tea. Till then, prithee let me aloon, and dunna bother me, for it’s no
use. It only kicks my monkey up.”

And Betty found that it was of no use; that it did only kick his monkey
up, and so she let him alone, except when she could drop in a persuasive
word or two. The mill-owners at Cressbrook and Miller’s Dale had
forbidden any public-house nearer than Edale, and they had more than
once called the people together to point out to them the mischiefs of
drinking, and the advantages to be derived from the very savings of
temperance. But all these measures, though they had some effect on the
mill people, had very little on the miners. They either sent to
Tideswell or Edale for kegs of beer to peddle at the mines, or they
went thither themselves on receiving their wages.

And let no one suppose that David Dunster was worse than his fellows; or
that Betty Dunster thought her case a particularly hard one. David “was
pretty much of a muchness,” according to the country phrase, with the
rest of his hard-working tribe, which was, and always had been, a
hard-drinking tribe; and Betty, though she wished it different, did not
complain, just because it was of no use, and because she was no worse
off than her neighbors.

Often when she went to “carry in her hose” to Ashford, she left the
children at home by themselves. She had no alternative. They were there
in that solitary valley for many hours playing alone. And to them it was
not solitary. It was all that they knew of life, and that all was very
pleasant to them. In spring, they hunted for bird’s-nests in the copses,
and amongst the rocks and gray stones that had fallen from them. In the
copses built the blackbirds and thrushes: in the rocks the firetails;
and the gray wagtails in the stones, which were so exactly of their own
color, as to make it difficult to see them. In summer, they gathered
flowers and berries, and in the winter they played at horses, kings, and
shops, and sundry other things in the house.

On one of these occasions, a bright afternoon in autumn, the three
children had rambled down the glen, and found a world of amusement in
being teams of horses, in making a little mine at the foot of a tall
cliff, and in marching for soldiers, for they had one day--the only time
in their lives--seen some soldiers go through the village of Ashford,
when they had gone there with their mother, for she now and then took
them with her when she had something from the shop to carry besides her
bundle of hose. At length they came to the foot of an open hill which
swelled to a considerable height, with a round and climbable side, on
which grew a wilderness of bushes, amid which lay scattered masses of
gray crag. A small winding path went up this, and they followed it. It
was not long, however, before they saw something which excited their
eager attention. Little David, who was the guide, and assumed to himself
much importance as the protector of his sisters, exclaimed, “See here!”
and springing forward, plucked a fine crimson cluster of the mountain
bramble. His sisters, on seeing this, rushed on with like eagerness.
They soon forsook the little winding and craggy footpath, and hurried
through sinking masses of moss and dry grass, from bush to bush and
place to place. They were soon far up above the valley, and almost every
step revealed to them some delightful prize. The clusters of the
mountain-bramble, resembling mulberries, and known only to the
inhabitants of the hills, were abundant, and were rapidly devoured. The
dewberry was as eagerly gathered,--its large, purple fruit passing with
them for blackberries. In their hands were soon seen posies of the
lovely grass of Parnassus, the mountain cistus, and the bright blue
geranium.

Higher and higher the little group ascended in this quest, till the
sight of the wide, naked hills, and the hawks circling round the lofty,
tower-like crags over their heads, made them feel serious and somewhat
afraid.

“Where are we?” asked Jane, the elder sister. “Arn’t we a long way from
hom?”

“Let us go hom,” said little Nancy. “I’m afreed here;” clutching hold of
Jane’s frock.

“Pho, nonsense!” said David, “what are you afreed on? I’ll tak care on
you, niver fear.”

And with this he assumed a bold and defying aspect, and said, “Come
along; there are nests in th’ hazzels up yonder.”

He began to mount again, but the two girls hung back and said, “Nay,
David, dunna go higher; we are both afreed;” and Jane added, “It’s a
long wee from hom, I’m sure.”

“And those birds screechin’ so up there; I darna go up,” added little
Nancy. They were the hawks that she meant, which hovered, whimpering and
screaming, about the highest cliffs. David called them little cowards,
but began to descend; and, presently, seeking for berries and flowers
as they descended, they regained the little winding, craggy road, and,
while they were calling to each other, discovered a remarkable echo on
the opposite hill side. On this they shouted to it, and laughed, and
were half-frightened when it laughed and shouted again. Little Nancy
said it must be an old man in the inside of the mountain; at which they
were all really afraid, though David put on a big look, and said,
“Nonsense! it was nothing at all.” But Jane asked how nothing at all
could shout and laugh as it did? and on this little Nancy plucked her
again by the frock, and said in turn, “Oh, dear, let’s go hom!”

But at this David gave a wild whoop to frighten them, and when the hill
whooped again, and the sisters began to run, he burst into laughter, and
the strange spectral Ha! ha! ha! that ran along the inside of the hill
as it were, completed their fear, and they stopped their ears with their
hands, and scuttled away down the hill. But now David seized them, and
pulling their hands down from their heads, he said, “See here! what a
nice place, with the stones sticking out like seats. Why it’s like a
little house; let us stay and play a bit here.” It was a little hollow
in the hill side surrounded by projecting stones like an amphitheatre.
The sisters were still afraid, but the sight of this little hollow with
its seats of crag had such a charm for them that they promised David
they would stop awhile, if he would promise not to shout and awake the
echo. David readily promised this, and so they sat down; David proposed
to keep a school, and cut a hazel wand from a bush and began to lord it
over his two scholars in a very pompous manner. The two sisters
pretended to be much afraid, and to read very diligently on pieces of
flat stone which they had picked up. And then David became a serjeant
and was drilling them for soldiers, and stuck pieces of fern into their
hair for cockades. And then, soon after, they were sheep, and he was the
shepherd; and he was catching his flock and going to shear them, and
made so much noise that Jane cried, “Hold! there’s the echo mocking
us.”

At this they all were still. But David said, “Pho! never mind the echo;
I must shear my sheep;” but just as he was seizing little Nancy to
pretend to shear her with a piece of stick, Jane cried out, “Look! look!
how black it’s coming down the valley there! There’s going to be a
dreadful starm; let us hurry hom!”

David and Nancy both looked up, and agreed to run as fast down the hill
as they could. But the next moment the driving storm swept over the
hill, and the whole valley was hid in it. The three children still
hurried on, but it became quite dark, and they soon lost the track, and
were tossed about by the wind, so that they had difficulty to keep on
their legs. Little Nancy began to cry, and the three taking hold of each
other endeavored in silence to make their way homewards. But presently
they all stumbled over a large stone, and fell some distance down the
hill. They were not hurt, but much frightened, for they now remembered
the precipices, and were afraid every minute of going over them. They
now strove to find the track by going up again, but they could not find
it anywhere. Sometimes they went upwards till they thought they were
quite too far, and then they went downwards till they were completely
bewildered; and then, like the Babes in the Wood, “They sate them down
and cried.”

But ere they had sate long, they heard footsteps, and listened. They
certainly heard them and shouted, but there was no answer. David
shouted, “Help! fayther! mother! help!” but there was no answer. The
wind swept fiercely by; the hawks whimpered from the high crags, lost in
the darkness of the storm; and the rain fell, driving along icy cold.
Presently, there was a gleam of light through the clouds; the hill-side
became visible, and through the haze they saw a tall figure as of an old
man ascending the hill. He appeared to carry two loads slung from his
shoulders by a strap; a box hanging before, and a bag hanging at his
back. He wound up the hill slowly and wearily, and presently he stopped,
and relieving himself of his load, seated himself on a piece of crag to
rest. Again David shouted, but there still was no answer. The old man
sate as if no shout had been heard--immovable.

“It _is_ a man,” said David, “and I _will_ mak him hear;” and with that
he shouted once more with all his might. But the old man made no sign of
recognition. He did not even turn his head, but he took off his hat and
began to wipe his brow as if warm with the ascent.

“What can it be?” said David in astonishment. “It _is_ a man, that’s
sartain. I’ll run and see.”

“Nay, nay!” shrieked the sisters. “Don’t, David! don’t! It’s perhaps the
old man out of the mountain that’s been mocking us. Perhaps,” added
Jane, “he only comes out in starms and darkness.”

“Stuff!” said David, “an echo isn’t a man; it’s only our own voices.
I’ll see who it is;” and away he darted, spite of the poor girls’ crying
in terror, “Don’t; don’t, David! Oh, don’t.”

But David was gone. He was not long in reaching the old man, who sate on
his stone breathing hard, as if out of breath with his ascent, but not
appearing to perceive David’s approach. The rain and the wind drove
fiercely upon him, but he did not seem to mind it. David was half afraid
to approach close to him, but he called out, “Help; help, mester!” The
old man remained as unconscious of his presence. “Hillo!” cried David
again. “Can you tell us the way down, mester?” There was no answer, and
David was beginning to feel a shudder of terror run through every limb,
when the clouds cleared considerably, and he suddenly exclaimed, “Why
it’s old Tobias Turton of top of Edale, and he’s as deaf as a
door-nail!”

In an instant, David was at his side; seized his coat to make him aware
of his presence, and, on the old man perceiving him, shouted in his ear,
“Which is the way down here, Mester Turton? Where’s the track?”

“Down? Weighs o’ the back?” said the old man; “ay, my lad, I was fain
to sit down; it does weigh o’ th’ back, sure enough.”

“Where’s the foot-track?” shouted David again.

“Th’ foot-track? Why, what art ta doing here, my lad, in such a starm?
Is’nt it David Dunster’s lad?”

David nodded. “Why, the track’s here! see;” and the old man stamped his
foot. “Get down hom, my lad, as fast as thou can. What dun they do
letting thee be upon th’ hills in such a dee as this?”

David nodded his thanks, and turned to descend the track, while the old
man adjusting his burden again, silently and wearily recommenced his way
upwards.

David shouted to his sisters as he descended, and they quickly replied.
He called to them to come towards him, as he was on the track, and was
afraid to quit it again. They endeavored to do this; but the darkness
was now redoubled, and the wind and rain became more furious than ever.
The two sisters were soon bewildered amongst the bushes, and David, who
kept calling to them at intervals to direct their course towards him,
soon heard them crying bitterly. At this, he forgot the necessity of
keeping the track, and darting towards them, soon found them by
continuing to call to them, and took their hands to lead them to the
track. But they were now drenched through with the rain, and shivered
with cold and fear. David with a stout heart endeavored to cheer them.
He told them the track was close by, and that they would soon be at
home. But though the track was not ten yards off, somehow they did not
find it. Bushes and projecting rocks turned them out of their course;
and owing to the confusion caused by the wind, the darkness, and their
terror, they searched in vain for the track. Sometimes they thought they
had found it, and went on a few paces, only to stumble over loose
stones, or get entangled in the bushes.

It was now absolutely becoming night. Their terrors increased greatly.
They shouted and cried aloud, in the hope of making their parents hear
them. They felt sure that both father and mother must be come home; and
as sure that they would be hunting for them. But they did not reflect
that their parents could not tell in what direction they had gone. Both
father and mother were come home, and the mother had instantly rushed
out to try to find them, on perceiving that they were not in the house.
She had hurried to and fro, and called--not at first supposing they
would be far. But when she heard nothing of them, she ran in, and begged
of her husband to join in the search. But at first David Dunster would
do nothing. He was angry at them for going away from the house, and said
he was too tired to go on a wild-goose chase through the plantations
after them. “They are i’ th’ plantations,” said he; “they are sheltering
there somewhere. Let them alone, and they’ll come home, with a good long
tail behind them.”

With this piece of a child’s song of sheep, David sat down to his
supper, and Betty Dunster hurried up the valley, shouting--“Children,
where are you? David! Jane! Nancy! where are you?”

When she heard nothing of them, she hurried still more wildly up the
hill towards the village. When she arrived there--the distance of a
mile--she inquired from house to house, but no one had seen anything of
them. It was clear they had not been in that direction. An alarm was
thus created in the village; and several young men set out to join Mrs.
Dunster in the quest. They again descended the valley towards Dunster’s
house, shouting every now and then, and listening. The night was pitch
dark, and the rain fell heavily; but the wind had considerably abated,
and once they thought they heard a faint cry in answer to their call,
far down the valley. They were right; the children had heard the
shouting, and had replied to it. But they were far off. The young men
shouted again, but there was no answer; and after shouting once more
without success, they hastened on. When they reached David Dunster’s
house, they found the door open, and no one within. They knew that David
had set off in quest of the children himself, and they determined to
descend the valley. The distracted mother went with them, crying
silently to herself, and praying inwardly, and every now and then trying
to shout. But the young men raised their strong voices above hers, and
made the cliffs echo with their appeals.

Anon a voice answered them down the valley. They ran on as well as the
darkness would let them, and soon found that it was David Dunster, who
had been in the plantations on the other side of the valley; but hearing
nothing of the lost children, now joined them. He said he had heard the
cry from the hill-side farther down, that answered to their shouts, and
he was sure that it was his boy David’s voice. But he had shouted again,
and there had been no answer but a wild scream as of terror, that made
his blood run cold.

“O God!” exclaimed the distracted mother, “what can it be? David! David!
Jane! Nancy!”

There was no answer. The young man bade Betty Dunster to contain
herself, and they would find the children before they went home again.
All held on down the valley, and in the direction whence the voice came.
Many times did the young men and the now strongly agitated father shout
and listen. At length they seemed to hear voices of weeping and moaning.
They listened--they were sure they heard a lamenting--it could only be
the children. But why then did they not answer? On struggled the men,
and Mrs. Dunster followed wildly after. Now, again, they stood and
shouted, and a kind of terrified scream followed the shout.

“God in heaven!” exclaimed the mother; “what is it? There is something
dreadful. My children! my children! where are you?”

“Be silent, pray do, Mrs. Dunster,” said one of the young men, “or we
cannot catch the sounds so as to follow them.” They again listened, and
the wailings of the children were plainly heard. The whole party pushed
forward over stock and stone up the hill. They called again, and there
was a cry of “Here! here! fayther! mother! where are you?”

In a few moments more the whole party had reached the children, who
stood drenched with rain, and trembling violently, under a cliff that
gave no shelter, but was exposed especially to the wind and rain.

“O Christ! My children!” cried the mother, wildly, struggling forwards
and clasping one in her arms. “Nancy! Jane! But where is David? David!
David! Oh, where is David? Where is your brother?”

The whole party was startled at not seeing the boy, and joined in a
simultaneous “Where is he? Where is your brother?”

The two children only wept and trembled more violently, and burst into
loud crying.

“Silence!” shouted the father. “Where is David, I tell ye? Is he lost?
David, lad, where ar ta?”

All listened, but there was no answer but the renewed crying of the two
girls.

“Where is the lad, then?” thundered forth the father with a terrible
oath.

The two terrified children cried, “Oh, down there! down there!”

“Down where? Oh, God!” exclaimed one of the young men; “why it’s a
precipice! Down there?”

At this dreadful intelligence the mother gave a wild shriek, and fell
senseless on the ground. The young men caught her, and dragged her back
from the edge of the precipice. The father in the same moment, furious
at what he heard, seized the younger child that happened to be near him,
and shaking it violently, swore he would fling it down after the lad.

He was angry with the poor children, as if they had caused the
destruction of his boy. The young men seized him, and bade him think
what he was about; but the man believing his boy had fallen down the
precipice, was like a madman. He kicked at his wife as she lay on the
ground, as if she were guilty of this calamity by leaving the children
at home. He was furious against the poor girls, as if they had led
their brother into danger. In his violent rage he was a perfect maniac,
and the young men, pushing him away, cried shame on him. In a while, the
desperate man, torn by a hurricane of passion, sate himself down on a
crag, and burst into a tempest of tears, and struck his head violently
with his clenched fists, and cursed himself and everybody. It was a
dreadful scene.

Meantime, some of the young men had gone down below the precipice on
which the children had stood, and, feeling amongst the loose stones, had
found the body of poor little David. He was truly dead!

When he had heard the shout of his father, or of the young men, he had
given one loud shout in answer, and saying “Come on! never fear now!”
sprang forward, and was over the precipice in the dark, and flew down
and was dashed to pieces. His sisters heard a rush, a faint shriek, and
suddenly stopping, escaped the destruction that poor David had found.


II.--MILL LIFE.

We must pass over the painful and dreadful particulars of that night,
and of a long time to come; the maniacal rage of the father, the
shattered heart and feelings of the mother, the dreadful state of the
two remaining children, to whom their brother was one of the most
precious objects in a world which, like theirs, contained so few. One
moment to have seen him full of life, and fun, and bravado, and almost
the next a lifeless and battered corpse, was something too strange and
terrible to be soon surmounted. But this was wofully aggravated by the
cruel anger of their father, who continued to regard them as guilty of
the death of his favorite boy. He seemed to take no pleasure in them. He
never spoke to them but to scold them. He drank more deeply than ever,
and came home later; and when there was sullen and morose. When their
mother, who suffered severely, but still plodded on with all her duties,
said, “David, they are thy children too;” he would reply savagely, “Hod
thy tongue! What’s a pack o’ wenches to my lad?”

What tended to render the miner more hard towards the two girls was a
circumstance which would have awakened a better feeling in a softer
father’s heart. Nancy, the younger girl, since the dreadful catastrophe,
had seemed to grow gradually dull and defective in her intellect, she
had a slow and somewhat idiotic air and manner. Her mother perceived it,
and was struck with consternation by it. She tried to rouse her, but in
vain. She could not perform her ordinary reading and spelling lessons.
She seemed to have forgotten what was already learned. She appeared to
have a difficulty in moving her legs, and carried her hands as if she
had suffered a partial paralysis. Jane, her sister, was dreadfully
distressed at it, and she and her mother wept many bitter tears over
her. One day, in the following spring, they took her with them to
Ashford, and consulted the doctor there. On examining her, and hearing
fully what had taken place at the time of the brother’s death--the fact
of which he well knew, for it, of course, was known to the whole country
round--he shook his head, and said he was afraid they must make up their
minds to a sad case; that the terrors of that night had affected her
brain, and that, through it, the whole nervous system had suffered, and
was continuing to suffer the most melancholy effects. The only thing, he
thought, in her favor, was her youth; and added, that it might have a
good effect if they could leave the place where she had undergone such a
terrible shock. But whether they did or not, kindness and soothing
attentions to her would do more than anything else.

Mrs. Dunster and little Jane returned home with heavy hearts. The
doctor’s opinion had only confirmed their fears; for Jane, though but a
child, had quickness and affection for her sister enough to make her
comprehend the awful nature of poor Nancy’s condition. Mrs. Dunster had
told her husband the doctor’s words, for she thought they would awaken
some tenderness in him towards the unfortunate child. But he said,
“That’s just what I expected. Hou’ll grow soft, and then who’s to
maintain her? Hou mun goo to th’ workhouse.”

With that he took his maundrel and went off to his work. Instead of
softening his nature, this intelligence seemed only to harden and
brutalize it. He drank now more and more. But all that summer the mother
and Jane did all they could think of to restore the health and mind of
poor Nancy. Every morning, when the father was gone to work, Jane went
to a spring up in the opposite wood, famed for the coolness and
sweetness of its waters. On this account the proprietors of the mills at
Cressbrook had put down a large trough there under the spreading trees,
and the people fetched the water even from the village. Hence Jane
brought, at many journeys, this cold, delicious water to bathe her
sister in; they then rubbed her warm with cloths, and gave her new milk
for her breakfast. Her lessons were not left off, lest the mind should
sink into fatuity, but were made as easy as possible. Jane continued to
talk to her, and laugh with her, as if nothing was amiss, though she did
it with a heavy heart, and she engaged her to weed and hoe with her in
their little garden. She did not dare to lead her far out into the
valley, lest it might excite her memory of the past fearful time, but
she gathered her flowers, and continued to play with her at all their
accustomed sports, of building houses with pieces of pots and stones,
and imagining gardens and parks. The anxious mother, when some weeks
were gone by, fancied that there was really some improvement. The
cold-bathing seemed to have strengthened the system: the poor child
walked, and bore herself with more freedom and firmness. She became
ardently fond of being with her sister, and attentive to her directions.
But there was a dull cloud over her intellect, and a vacancy in her eyes
and features. She was quiet, easily pleased, but seemed to have little
volition of her own. Mrs. Dunster thought if they could but get her away
from that spot, it might rouse her mind from its sleep. But perhaps the
sleep was better than the awakening might be; however, the removal
came, though in a more awful way than was looked for. The miner, who had
continued to drink more and more, and seemed to have almost estranged
himself from his home, staying away in his drinking bouts for a week or
more together, was one day blasting a rock in the mine, and being
half-stupefied with beer, did not take care to get out of the way of the
explosion, was struck with a piece of the flying stone, and killed on
the spot.

The poor widow and her children were now obliged to remove from under
Wardlow-Cop. The place had been a sad one to her; the death of her
husband, though he had been latterly far from a good one, and had left
her with the children in deep poverty, was a fresh source of severe
grief to her. Her religious mind was struck down with a weight of
melancholy by the reflection of the life he had led, and the sudden way
in which he had been summoned into eternity. When she looked forward,
what a prospect was there for her children! it was impossible for her to
maintain them from her small earnings, and as to Nancy, would she ever
be able to earn her own bread, and protect herself in the world?

It was amid such reflections that Mrs. Dunster quitted this deep,
solitary, and, to her, fatal valley, and took up her abode in the
village of Cressbrook. Here she had one small room, and by her own
labors, and some aid from the parish, she managed to support herself and
the children. For seven years she continued her laborious life, assisted
by the labor of the two daughters, who also seamed stockings, and in the
evenings were instructed by her. Her girls were now thirteen and fifteen
years of age; Jane was a tall and very pretty girl of her years; she was
active, industrious, and sweet-tempered: her constant affection for poor
Nancy was something as admirable as it was singular. Nancy had now
confirmed good health, but it had affected her mother to perceive that,
since the catastrophe of her brother’s death, and the cruel treatment of
her father at that time, she had never grown in any degree as she
ought; she was short, stout, and of a pale and very plain countenance.
It could not be now said that she was deficient in mind, but she was
slow in its operations. She displayed, indeed, a more than ordinary
depth of reflection, and a shrewdness of observation, but the evidences
of this came forth in a very quiet way, and were observable only to her
mother and sister. To all besides she was extremely reserved: she was
timid to excess, and shrunk from public notice into the society of her
mother and sister. There was a feeling abroad in the neighborhood that
she was “not quite right,” but the few who were more discerning, shook
their heads, and observed, “Right she was not, poor thing, but it was
not want of sense; she had more of that than most.”

And such was the opinion of her mother and sister. They perceived that
Nancy had received a shock of which she must bear the effects through
life. Circumstances might bring her feeble but sensitive nerves much
misery. She required to be guarded and sheltered from the rudeness of
the world, and the mother trembled to think how much she might be
exposed to them. But in everything that related to sound judgment, they
knew that she surpassed not only them, but any of their acquaintance. If
any difficulty had to be decided, it was Nancy who pondered on it, and
perhaps at some moment when least expected, pronounced an opinion that
might be taken as confidently as an oracle.

The affection of the two sisters was something beyond the ties of this
world. Jane had watched and attended to her from the time of her
constitutional injury with a love that never seemed to know a moment’s
weariness or change; and the affection which Nancy evinced for her was
equally intense and affecting. She seemed to hang on her society for her
very life. Jane felt this, and vowed that they would never quit one
another. The mother sighed. How many things, she thought, might tear
asunder that beautiful resolve.

But now they were of an age to obtain work in the mill. Indeed, Jane
could have had employment there long before, but she would not quit her
sister till she could go with her,--and now there they went. The
proprietor, who knew the case familiarly, so ordered it that the two
sisters should work near each other; and that poor Nancy should be as
little exposed to the rudeness of the work-people as possible. But at
first so slow and awkward were Nancy’s endeavors, and such an effect had
it on her frame, that it was feared she must give it up. This would have
been a terrible calamity; and the tears of the two sisters, and the
benevolence of the employer, enabled Nancy to pass through this severe
ordeal. In a while she acquired sufficient dexterity, and thenceforward
went through her work with great accuracy and perseverance. As far as
any intercourse with the work-people was concerned, she might be said to
be dumb. Scarcely ever did she exchange a word with any one, but she
returned kind nods and smiles; and every morning and evening, and at
dinner-time, the two sisters might be seen going to and fro, side by
side,--Jane often talking with some of them; the little, odd-looking
sister walking silent and listening.

Five more years and Jane was a young woman. Amid her companions, who
were few of them above the middle size, she had a tall and striking
appearance. Her father had been a remarkably tall and strong man, and
she possessed something of his stature, though none of his irritable
disposition. She was extremely pretty, of a blooming fresh complexion,
and graceful form. She was remarkable for the sweetness of her
expression, which was the index of her disposition. By her side still
went that odd, broad-built, but still pale and little sister. Jane was
extremely admired by the young men of the neighborhood, and had already
many offers, but she listened to none. “Where I go must Nancy go,” she
said to herself, “and of whom can I be sure?”

Of Nancy no one took notice. Her pale, somewhat large features, her
thoughtful silent look, and her short, stout figure, gave you an idea of
a dwarf, though she could not strictly be called one. No one would
think of Nancy as a wife,--where Jane went she must go; the two clung
together with one heart and soul. The blow which deprived them of their
brother seemed to bind them inseparably together.

Mrs. Dunster, besides her seaming, at which, in truth, she earned a
miserable sum, had now for some years been the post-woman from the
village to the Bull’s Head, where the mail, going on to Tideswell, left
the letter-bag. Thither and back, wet or dry, summer or winter, she went
every day, the year round. With her earnings and those of the girls’,
she kept a neat, small cottage; and the world went as well with them as
the world goes on the average with the poor. Cramps and rheumatisms she
began to feel sensibly from so much exposure to rain and cold; but the
never-varying and firm affection of her two children was a balm in her
cup, which made her contented with everything else.

When Jane was about two-and-twenty, poor Mrs. Dunster, seized with
rheumatic fever, died. On her death-bed she said to Jane, “Thou wilt
never desert poor Nancy; and that’s my comfort. God has been good to me.
After all my trouble, he has given me this faith, that come weal come
woe, so long as thou has a home, Nancy will never want one. God bless
thee for it! God bless you both; and he will bless you!” So saying,
Betty Dunster breathed her last.

The events immediately following her death did not seem to bear out her
dying faith; for the two poor girls were obliged to give up their
cottage. There was a want of cottages. Not half of the working people
could be entertained in this village; they went to and fro for many
miles. Jane and Nancy were now obliged to do the same. Their cottage was
wanted for an overlooker,--and they removed to Tideswell, three miles
off. They had thus six miles a day to walk, besides standing at their
work; but they were young, and had companions. In Tideswell they were
more cheerful. They had a snug little cottage; were near a Meeting; and
found friends. They did not complain. Here, again, Jane Dunster
attracted great attention, and a young, thriving grocer paid his
addresses to her. It was an offer that made Jane take time to reflect.
Every one said it was an opportunity not to be neglected; but Jane
weighed in her mind, “Will he keep faith in my compact with Nancy?”
Though her admirer made every vow on the subject, Jane paused and
determined to take the opinion of Nancy. Nancy thought for a day, and
then said, “Dearest sister, I don’t feel easy; I fear that from some
cause it would not do in the end.”

Jane from that moment gave up the idea of the connection. There might be
those who would suspect Nancy of a selfish bias in the advice she gave;
but Jane knew that no such feeling influenced her pure soul. For one
long year the two sisters traversed the hills between Cressbrook and
Tideswell. But they had companions, and it was pleasant in the summer
months. But winter came, and then it was a severe trial. To rise in the
dark, and traverse those wild and bleak hills; to go through snow and
drizzle, and face the sharpest winds in winter, was no trifling matter.
Before winter was over, the two young women began seriously to revolve
the chances of a nearer residence, or a change of employ. There were no
few who blamed Jane excessively for the folly of refusing the last good
offer. There were even more than one who, in the hearing of Nancy,
blamed her. Nancy was thoughtful, agitated, and wept. “If I can, dear
sister,” she said, “have advised you to your injury, how shall I forgive
myself? What _shall_ become of me?”

But Jane clasped her sister to her heart, and said, “No! no! dearest
sister, you are not to blame. I feel you are right; let us wait, and we
shall see!”


III.--THE COURTSHIP AND ANOTHER SHIP.

One evening, as the two sisters were hastening along the road through
the woods on their way homewards, a young farmer drove up in his
spring-cart, cast a look at them, stopped, and said: “Young women, if
you are going my way, I shall be glad of your company. You are quite
welcome to ride.”

The sisters looked at each other. “Dunna be afreed,” said the young
farmer; “my name’s James Cheshire. I’m well known in these parts; you
may trust yersens wi’ me, if it’s agreeable.”

To James’ surprise, Nancy said, “No, sir, we are not afraid; we are much
obliged to you.”

The young farmer helped them up into the cart, and away they drove.

“I’m afraid we shall crowd you,” said Jane.

“Not a bit of it,” replied the young farmer. “There’s room for three
bigger nor us in this seat, and I’m no ways tedious.”

The sisters saw nothing odd in his use of the word “tedious,” as
strangers would have done; they knew it merely meant “not at all
particular.” They were soon in active talk. As he had told them who he
was, he asked them in their turn if they worked at the mills there.
They replied in the affirmative, and the young man said:--

“I thought so. I’ve seen you sometimes going along together. I noticed
you because you seemed so sisterly like, and you are sisters, I reckon.”

They said “Yes.”

“I’ve a good spanking horse, you see,” said James Cheshire. “I shall get
over th’ ground rayther faster than you done a-foot, eh? My word,
though, it must be nation cold on these bleak hills i’ winter.”

The sisters assented, and thanked the young farmer for taking them up.

“We are rather late,” said they, “for we looked in on a friend, and the
rest of the mill-hands were gone on.”

“Well,” said the young farmer, “never mind that. I fancy Bess, my mare
here, can go a little faster nor they can. We shall very likely be at
Tidser as soon as they are.”

“But you are not going to Tidser,” said Jane, “your farm is just before
us there.”

“Yay, I’m going to Tidser though. I’ve a bit of business to do there
before I go hom.”

On drove the farmer at what he called a spanking rate; presently they
saw the young mill-people on the road before them.

“There are your companions,” said James Cheshire, “we shall cut past
them like a flash of lightning.

“Oh,” exclaimed Jane Dunster, “what will they say at seeing us riding
here?” and she blushed brightly.

“Say!” said the young farmer, smiling, “never mind what they’ll say;
depend upon it, they’d like to be here theirsens.”

James Cheshire cracked his whip. The horse flew along. The party of the
young mill-hands turned round, and on seeing Jane and Nancy in the cart,
uttered exclamations of surprise.

“My word, though!” said Mary Smedley, a fresh buxom lass, somewhat
inclined to stoutness.

“Well, if ever!” cried smart little Hannah Bowyer.

“Nay, then, what next!” said Tetty Wilson, a tall, thin girl, of very
good looks.

The two sisters nodded and smiled to their companions; Jane still
blushing rosily, but Nancy sitting as pale and as gravely as if they
were going on some solemn business.

The only notice the farmer took was to turn with a broad smiling face,
and shout to them, “Wouldn’t you like to be here too?”

“Ay, take us up,” shouted a number of voices together; but the farmer
cracked his whip, and giving them a nod and a dozen smiles in one, said,
“I can’t stay. Ask the next farmer that comes up.”

With this they drove on; the young farmer very merry and full of talk.
They were soon by the side of his farm. “There’s a flock of sheep on the
turnips there,” he said, proudly; “they’re not to be beaten on this side
Ashbourne. And there are some black oxen going for the night to the
straw-yard. Jolly fellows, those--eh? But I reckon you don’t understand
much of farming stock?”

“No,” said Jane, and was again surprised at Nancy adding, “I wish we
did. I think a farmer’s life must be the very happiest of any.”

“You think so?” said the farmer, turning and looking at her earnestly,
and evidently with some wonder. “You are right,” said he. “You little
ones are knowing ones. You are right; it’s the life for a king.”

They were at the village. “Pray stop,” said Jane, “and let us go down. I
would not for the world go up the village thus. It would make such a
talk!”

“Talk, who cares for talk?” said the farmer; “won’t the youngsters we
left on the road talk?”

“Quite enough,” said Jane.

“And are _you_ afraid of talk?” said the farmer to Nancy.

“I’m not afraid of it when I don’t provoke it wilfully,” said Nancy;
“but we are poor girls, and can’t afford to lose even the good word of
our acquaintance. You’ve been very kind in taking us up on the road, but
to drive us to our door would cause such wonder as would perhaps make
us wish we had not been obliged to you.”

“Blame me, if you arn’t right again!” said the young farmer,
thoughtfully. “These are scandal-loving times, and th’ neebors might
plague you. That’s a deep head of yourn, though,--Nancy, I think your
sister caw’d you. Well, here I stop then.”

He jumped down and helped them out.

“If you will drive on first,” said Jane, “we will walk on after, and
we’re greatly obliged to you.”

“Nay,” said the young man, “I shall turn again here.”

“But you’ve business.”

“Oh! my business was to drive you here--that’s all.”

James Cheshere was mounting his cart, when Nancy stepped up, and said:
“Excuse me, Sir, but you’ll meet the mill-people on your return, and it
will make them talk all the more as you have driven us past your farm.
Have you no business that you can do in Tidser, Sir?”

“Gad! but thou’rt right again! Ay, I’ll go on!” and with a crack of his
whip, and a “Good night!” he whirled into the village before them.

No sooner was he gone than Nancy, pressing her sister’s arm to her side,
said: “There’s the right man at last, dear Jane.”

“What!” said Jane, yet blushing deeply at the same time, and her heart
beating quicker against her side. “Whatever are you talking of, Nancy?
That young farmer fall in love with a mill-girl?”

“He’s done it,” said Nancy; “I see it in him. I feel it in him. And I
feel, too, that he is true and staunch as steel.”

Jane was silent. They walked on in silence. Jane’s own heart responded
to what Nancy had said; she thought again and again on what he said. “I
have seen you sometimes;” “I noticed you because you seemed so
sisterly.” “He must have a good heart,” thought Jane; “but then he can
never think of a poor mill-girl like me.”

The next morning they had to undergo plenty of raillery from their
companions. We will pass that over. For several days, as they passed to
and fro, they saw nothing of the young farmer. But one evening, as they
were again alone, having staid at the same acquaintance’s as before, the
young farmer popped his head over a stone wall, and said, “Good evening
to you, young women,” He was soon over the wall, and walked on with them
to the end of the town. On the Sunday at the chapel Jane saw Nancy’s
grave face fixed on some object steadily, and, looking in the same
direction, was startled to see James Cheshire. Again her heart beat
pit-a-pat, and she thought “Can he really be thinking of me?”

The moment chapel was over, James Cheshire was gone, stopping to speak
to no one. Nancy again pressed the arm of Jane to her side as they
walked home, and said--“I was not wrong.” Jane only replied by returning
her affectionate pressure.

Some days after, as Nancy Dunster was coming out of a shop in the
evening after their return home from the mill, James Cheshire suddenly
put his hand on her shoulder, and, on her turning, shook her hand
cordially, and said, “Come along with me a bit. I must have a little
talk with you.”

Nancy consented without remark or hesitation. James Cheshire walked on
quickly till they came near the fine old church which strikes travellers
as so superior to the place in which it is located; when he slackened
his pace, and taking Nancy’s hand, began in a most friendly manner to
tell her how much he liked her and her sister. That, to make a short
matter of it, as was his way, he had made up his mind that the woman of
all others in the world that would suit him for a wife was her sister.
“But, before I said so to her, I thought I would say so to you, Nancy,
for you are so sensible, I’m sure you will say what is best for us all.”

Nancy manifested no surprise, but said, calmly: “You are a well-to-do
farmer, Mr. Cheshire. You have friends of property; my sister, and--”

“Ay, and a mill-girl; I know all that. I’ve thought it all over, and so
far you are right again, my little one. But just hear what I’ve got to
say. I’m no fool, though I say it. I’ve an eye in my head and a head on
my shoulders, eh?”

Nancy smiled.

“Well now, it’s not _any_ mill-girl; mind you, it’s not _any_ mill-girl;
no, nor perhaps another in the kingdom, that would do for me. I don’t
think mill-girls are in the main cut out for farmers’ wives, any more
than farmers’ wives are fit for mill-girls; but you see, I’ve got a
notion that your sister is not only a very farrantly lass, but that
she’s one that has particular good sense, though not so deep as you,
Nancy, neither. Well, I’ve a notion she can turn her hand to anything,
and that she’s a heart to do it, when it’s a duty. Isn’t that so, eh?
And if it is so, then Jane Dunster’s the lass for me; that is, if it’s
quite agreeable.”

Nancy pressed James Cheshire’s hand, and said, “You are very kind.”

“Not a bit of it,” said James.

“Well,” continued Nancy; “but I would have you to consider what your
friends will say; and whether you will not be made unhappy by them.”

“Why, as to that,” said James Cheshire, interrupting her, “mark me, Miss
Dunster. I don’t ask my friends for anything. I can farm my own farm;
buy my own cattle; drive my spring-cart, without any advice or
assistance of theirs; and therefore I don’t think I shall ask their
advice in the matter of a wife, eh? No, no, on that score I’m made up.
My name’s Independent, and, at a word, the only living thing I mean to
ask advice of is yourself. If you, Miss Dunster, approve of the match,
it’s settled, as far I’m concerned.”

“Then so far,” said Nancy, “as you and my sister are concerned, without
reference to worldly circumstances--I approve it with all my heart. I
believe you to be as good and honest as I know my sister to be. Oh! Mr.
Cheshire! she is one of ten thousand.”

“Well, I was sure of it;” said the young farmer; “and so now you must
tell your sister all about it; and if all’s right, chalk me a white
chalk inside of my gate as you go past i’ th’ morning, and to-morrow
evening I’ll come up and see you.”

Here the two parted with a cordial shake of the hand. The novel signal
of an accepted love was duly discovered by James Cheshire on his
gate-post, when he issued forth at daybreak, and that evening he was
sitting at tea with Jane and Nancy in the little cottage, having brought
in his cart a basket of eggs, apples, fresh butter, and a pile of the
richest pikelets (crumpets), country pikelets, very different to
town-made ones, for tea.

We need not follow out the courtship of James Cheshire and Jane Dunster.
It was cordial and happy. James insisted that both the sisters should
give immediate notice to quit the mill-work, to spare themselves the
cold and severe walks which the winter now occasioned them. The sisters
had improved their education in their evenings. They were far better
read and informed than most farmers’ daughters. They had been, since
they came to Tideswell, teachers in the Sunday-school. There was
comparatively little to be learned in a farm-house for the wife in
winter, and James Cheshire therefore proposed to the sisters to go for
three months to Manchester into a wholesale house, to learn as much as
they could of the plain sewing and cutting out of household linen. The
person in question made up all sorts of household linen, sheets,
pillow-cases, shirts, and other things; in fact, a great variety of
articles. Through an old acquaintance he got them introduced there,
avowedly to prepare them for house-keeping. It was a sensible step, and
answered well. At spring, to cut short opposition from his own
relatives, which began to show itself, for these things did not fail to
be talked of, James Cheshire got a license, and proceeding to
Manchester, was then and there married, and came home with his wife and
sister.

The talk and gossip which this wedding made all round the country, was
no little; but the parties themselves were well satisfied with their
mutual choice, and were happy. As the spring advanced, the duties of the
household grew upon Mrs. Cheshire. She had to learn the art of
cheese-making, butter-making, of all that relates to poultry, calves,
and household management. But in these matters she had the aid of an old
servant who had done all this for Mr. Cheshire, since he began farming.
She took a great liking to her mistress, and showed her with hearty
good-will how everything was done; and as Jane took a deep interest in
it, she rapidly made herself mistress of the management of the house, as
well as of the house itself. She did not disdain, herself, to take a
hand at the churn, that she might be familiar with the whole process of
butter-making, and all the signs by which the process is conducted to a
successful issue. It was soon seen that no farmer’s wife could produce a
firmer, fresher, sweeter pound of butter. It was neither _swelted_ by
too hasty churning, nor spoiled, as is too often the case, by the
buttermilk or by water being left in it, for want of well kneading and
pressing. It was deliciously sweet, because the cream was carefully put
up in the cleanest vessels and well attended to. Mrs. Cheshire, too,
might daily be seen kneeling by the side of the cheese-pan, separating
the curd, taking off the whey, filling the cheese-vat with the curd, and
putting the cheese herself into press. Her cheese-chamber displayed as
fine a set of well-salted, well-colored, well-turned and regular cheeses
as ever issued from that or any other farm-house.

James Cheshire was proud of his wife; and Jane herself found a most
excellent helper in Nancy. Nancy took particularly to housekeeping; saw
that all the rooms were exquisitely clean; that everything was in nice
repair; that not only the master and mistress, but the servants had
their food prepared in a wholesome and attractive manner. The eggs she
stored up; and as fruit came into season, had it collected for market,
and for a judicious household use. She made the tea and coffee morning
and evening, and did everything but preside at the table. There was not
a farm-house for twenty miles round, that wore an air of so much
brightness and evident good management as that of James Cheshire. For
Nancy, from the first moment of their acquaintance, he had conceived a
most profound respect. In all cases that required counsel, though he
consulted freely with his wife, he would never decide till they had had
Nancy’s opinion and sanction.

And James Cheshire prospered. But, spite of this, he did not escape the
persecution from his relations that Nancy had foreseen. On all hands he
found coldness. None of them called on him. They felt scandalized at his
_evening_ himself, as they called it, to a mill-girl. He was taunted
when they met at market, with having been caught with a pretty face; and
told that they thought he had had more sense than to marry a dressed
doll with a witch by her side.

At first James Cheshire replied with a careless waggery, “The pretty
face makes capital butter, though, eh? The dressed doll turns out a
tolerable dairy, eh? Better,” added James, “than a good many can, that I
know, who have neither pretty faces, nor have much taste in dressing to
crack of.”

The allusion to Nancy’s dwarfish plainness was what peculiarly provoked
James Cheshire. He might have laughed at the criticisms on his wife,
though the envious neighbors’ wives did say that it was the old servant
and not Mrs. Cheshire who produced such fine butter and cheese; for
where-ever she appeared, spite of envy and detraction, her lovely person
and quiet good sense, and the growing rumor of her good management, did
not fail to produce a due impression. And James had prepared to laugh it
off; but it would not do. He found himself getting every now and then
angry and unsettled by it. A coarse jest on Nancy at any time threw him
into a desperate fit of indignation. The more the superior merit of his
wife was known, the more seemed to increase the envy and venom of some
of his relatives. He saw, too, that it had an effect on his wife. She
was often sad, and sometimes in tears.

One day when this occurred, James Cheshire said, as they sat at tea,
“I’ve made up my mind. Peace in this life is a jewel. Better is a dinner
of herbs with peace, than a stalled ox with strife. Well, now, I’m
determined to have peace. Peace and luv,” said he, looking
affectionately at his wife and Nancy, “peace and luv, by God’s blessing,
have settled down on this house; but there are stings here and stings
there, when we go out of doors. We must not only have peace and luv in
the house, but peace all round it. So I’ve made up my mind. I’m for
America!”

“For America!” exclaimed Jane. “Surely you cannot be in earnest.”

“I never was more in earnest in my life,” said James Cheshire. “It is
true I do very well on this farm here, though it’s a cowdish situation;
but from all I can learn, I can do much better in America. I can there
farm a much better farm of my own. We can have a much finer climate than
this Peak country, and our countrymen still about us. Now, I want to
know what makes a man’s native land pleasant to him?--the kindness of
his relations and friends. But then, if a man’s relations are not
kind?--if they get a conceit into them, that because they are relations
they are to choose a man’s wife for him, and sting him and snort at him
because he has a will of his own?--why, then I say, God send a good big
herring-pool between me and such relations! My relations, by way of
showing their natural affection, spit spite and bitterness. You, dear
wife and sister, have none of yourn to spite you. In the house we have
peace and luv. Let us take the peace and luv, and leave the bitterness
behind.”

There was a deep silence.

“It is a serious proposal,” at length said Jane, with tears in her eyes.

“What says Nancy?” asked James.

“It is a serious proposal,” said Nancy, “but it is good. I feel it so.”

There was another deep silence; and James Cheshire said, “Then it is
decided.”

“Think of it,” said Jane earnestly,--“think well of it.”

“I have thought of it long and well, my dear. There are some of these
chaps that call me relation that I shall not keep my hands off, if I
stay amongst them,--and I fain would. But for the present I will say no
more; but,” added he, rising and bringing a book from his desk, “here is
a book by one Morris Birkbeck,--read it, both of you, and then let me
know your minds.”

The sisters read. On the following Lady-day, James Cheshire had turned
over his farm advantageously to another, and he, his wife, Nancy, and
the old servant, Mary Spendlove, all embarked at Liverpool, and
transferred themselves to the United States, and then to the State of
Illinois. Five-and-twenty years have rolled over since that day. We
could tell a long and curious story of the fortunes of James Cheshire
and his family: from the days when, half-repenting of his emigration and
his purchase, he found himself in a rough country, amid rough and
spiteful squatters, and lay for months with a brace of pistols under his
pillow, and a great sword by his bedside for fear of robbery and murder.
But enough, that at this moment, James Cheshire, in a fine cultivated
country, sees his ample estate cultivated by his sons, while as Colonel
and magistrate he dispenses the law and receives the respectful homage
of the neighborhood. Nancy Dunster, now styled Mrs. Dunster, the Mother
in Israel--the promoter of schools and the councillor of old and
young--still lives. Years have improved rather than deteriorated her
short and stout exterior. The long exercise of wise thoughts and the
play of benevolent feelings, have given even a sacred beauty to her
homely features. The dwarf has disappeared, and there remains instead, a
grave but venerable matron,--honored like a queen.




IX.

The Ghost of the late Mr. James Barber.

A YARN ASHORE.


“‘Luck!’ nonsense. There is no such thing. Life is not a game of chance
any more than chess is. If you lose, you have no one but yourself to
blame.”

This was said by a young lieutenant in the Royal Navy, to a middle-aged
midshipman, his elder brother.

“Do you mean to say that luck had nothing to do with Fine Gentleman
Bobbin passing for lieutenant, and my being turned back?” was the
rejoinder.

“Bobbin, though a dandy, is a good seaman, and--and----.” The speaker
looked another way, and hesitated.

“I am _not_, you would add--if you had courage. But I say I am, and a
better seaman than Bobbin.”

“Practically, perhaps, for you are ten years older in the service. But
it was in the theoretical part of seamanship--which is equally
important--that you broke down before the examiners,” continued the
younger officer, in tones of earnest but sorrowful reproach, “You never
_would_ study.”

“I’ll tell you what it is, master Ferdinand,” said the elder middy, not
without a show of displeasure. “I don’t think this is the correct sort
of conversation to be going on between two brothers after a five years’
separation.”

The young lieutenant laid his hand soothingly on his brother’s arm, and
entreated him to take what he said in good part.

“Well, well!” rejoined the middy, with a laugh half-forced. “Take care
what you are about, or, by Jove, I’ll inform against you.”

“What for?”

“Why, for preaching without a license. Besides, you were once as bad as
you pretend I am.”

“I own it with sorrow; but I was warned in time by the wretched end of
poor James Barber----”

“Of whom?” asked the elder brother, starting back as he pushed his glass
along the table. “You don’t mean Jovial Jemmy, as we used to call him;
once my messmate in the brig ‘Rollock.’”

“Yes, I do.”

“What! dead?”

“Yes.”

“Why, it was one of our great delights, when in harbor and on shore, to
‘go the rounds’--as he called it--with Jovial Jemmy. He understood life
from stem to stern--from truck to keel. He knew everybody, from the
First Lord downwards. I have seen him recognized by _the_ Duke one
minute, and the next pick up with a strolling player, and familiarly
treat him at a tavern. He once took me to a quadrille party at the
Duchess of Durrington’s, where he seemed to know and be known to
everybody present, and then adjourned to the Cider Cellars, where he was
equally intimate with all sorts of queer characters. Though a favorite
among the aristocracy, he was equally welcome in less exclusive
societies. He was ‘Brother,’ ‘Past Master,’ ‘Warden,’ ‘Noble Grand,’ or
‘President’ of all sorts of Lodges and Fraternities. Uncommonly knowing
was Jemmy in all sorts of club and fashionable gossip. He knew who gave
the best dinners, and was always invited to the best balls. He was a
capital judge of champagne, and when he betted upon a horse-race
everybody backed him. He could hum all the fashionable songs, and was
the fourth man who could dance the polka when it was first imported.
Then he was as profound in bottled stout, Welsh rabbits, Burton ale,
devilled kidneys, and bowls of Bishop, as he was in Roman punch, French
cookery, and Italian singers. Afloat, he was the soul of fun:--he got up
all our private theatricals, told all the best stories, and sung comic
songs that made even the Purser laugh.”

“An extent and variety of knowledge and accomplishments,” said
Lieutenant Fid, “which had the precise effect of blasting his prospects
in life. He was, as you remember, at last dismissed the service for
intemperance and incompetence.”

“When did you see him last?”

“What, _alive_?” inquired Ferdinand Fid, changing countenance.

“Of course! Surely you do not mean to insinuate that you have seen his
ghost!”

The lieutenant was silent; and the midshipman took a deep draught of his
favorite mixture--equal portions of rum and water--and hinted to his
younger brother, the lieutenant, the expediency of immediately confiding
the story to the Marines; for he declined to credit it. He then ventured
another recommendation, which was that Ferdinand should throw the
impotent temperance tipple he was then imbibing “over the side of the
Ship”--which meant the tavern of that name in Greenwich, at the open
bow-window of which they were then sitting--and clear his intellects by
something stronger.

“I can afford to be laughed at,” said the younger Fid, “because I have
gained immeasurably by the delusion, if it be one; but if ever there was
a ghost, I have seen the ghost of James Barber. I, like yourself and he,
was nearly ruined by love of amusement and intemperance, when he--or
whatever else it might have been--came to my aid.”

“Let us hear. I see I am ‘in’ for a ghost story.”

“Well; it was eighteen forty-one when I came home in the ‘Arrow’ with
despatches from the coast of Africa: you were lying in the Tagus in the
‘Bobstay.’ Ours, you know, was rather a thirsty station; a man inclined
for it comes home from the Slaving Coasts with a determination to make
up his lee way. I did mine with a vengeance. As usual, I looked up
‘Jovial Jemmy.’”

“’Twas easy to find him if you knew where to go.”

“I _did_ know, and went. He had by that time got tired of his more
aristocratic friends. Respectability was too ‘slow’ for him, so I found
him presiding over the ‘Philanthropic Raspers,’ at the ‘Union Jack.’ He
received me with open arms, and took me, as you say, the ‘rounds.’ I
can’t recall that week’s dissipation without a shudder. We rushed about
from ball to tavern, from theatre to supper-room, from club to
gin-palace, as if our lives depended on losing not a moment. We had not
time to walk, so we galloped about in cabs. On the fourth night, when I
was beginning to feel knocked up, and tired of the same songs, the same
quadrilles, the bad whiskey, the suffocating tobacco smoke, and the
morning’s certain and desperate penalties, I remarked to Jemmy that it
was a miracle how he had managed to weather it for so many years. ‘What
a hardship you would deem it,’ I added, ‘if you were _obliged_ to go the
same weary round from one year’s end to another.’”

“What did he say to that?” asked Philip.

“Why, I never saw him so taken aback. He looked quite fiercely at me,
and replied, ‘I _am_ obliged!’”

“How did he make that out?”

“Why, he had tippled and dissipated his constitution into such a state
that use had become second nature. Excitement was his natural condition,
and he dared not become quite sober for fear of a total collapse--or
dropping down like a shot in the water.”

The midshipman had his glass in his hand, but forebore to taste
it.--“Well, what then?”

“The ‘rounds’ lasted two nights longer. I was fairly beaten. Cast-iron
could not have stood it. I was prostrated in bed with fever--and worse.”
Ferdinand was agitated, and took a large draught of his lemonade.

“Well, well, you need not enlarge upon that,” replied Phil Phid, raising
his glass towards his lips, but again thinking better of it; “I heard
how bad you were from Seton, who shaved your head.”

“I had scarcely recovered when the ‘Arrow’ was ordered back, and I made
a vow.”

“Took the pledge, perhaps!” interjected the mid, with a slight curl of
his lip.

“No! I determined to work more and play less. We had a capital naval
instructor aboard, and our commander was as good an officer as ever
trod the deck. I studied--a little too hard perhaps, for I was laid up
again. The ‘Arrow’ was, as usual, as good as her name, and we shot
across to Jamaica in five weeks. One evening as we were lying in
Kingston harbor, Seton, who had come over to join the Commodore as full
surgeon, told me what he had never ventured to divulge before.”

“What was that?”

“Why, that, on the very day I left London, James Barber died of a
frightful attack of _delirium tremens_!”

“Poor Jemmy!” said the elder Fid, sorrowfully, taking a long pull of
consolation from his rummer. “Little did I think, while singing some of
your best songs off Belem Castle, that I had seen you for the last
time!”

“_I_ hadn’t seen him for the last time,” returned the lieutenant, with
awful significance.

Philip assumed a careless air, and said, “Go on.”

“We were ordered home in eighteen forty-five, and paid off in January. I
went to Portsmouth; was examined, and passed as lieutenant.”

This allusion to his brother’s better condition made poor Philip look
rather blank.

“On being confirmed at the Admiralty,” continued Ferdinand, “I had to
give a dinner to the ‘Arrows;’ which I did at the Salopian, Charing
Cross. In the excess of my joy at promotion, my determination of
temperance and avoidance of what is called ‘society’ was swamped. I kept
it up once more; I went the ‘rounds,’ and accepted all the dinner,
supper, and ball invitations I could get, invariably ending each morning
in one of the old haunts of dissipation. Old associations with James
Barber returned, and like causes produced similar effects. One morning
while maundering home, I began to feel the same wild confusion as had
previously commenced my dreadful malady.”

“Ah! a little touched in the top-hamper.”

“It was just day-light. Thinking to cool my self, I jumped into a
wherry to get pulled down here to Greenwich.”

“Of course you were not quite sober.”

“Don’t ask! I do not like even to allude to my sensations, for fear of
recalling them. My brain seemed in a flame. The boat appeared to be
going at the rate of twenty miles an hour. Fast as we were cleaving the
current, I heard my name distinctly called out. I reconnoitred, but
could see nobody. I looked over on one side of the gun-wale, and, while
doing so, felt something touch me from the other; I felt a chill; I
turned round and saw----”

“Whom?” asked the midshipman, holding his breath.

“What seemed to be James Barber.”

“Was he wet?”

“As dry as you are.”

“I summoned courage to speak. ‘Hillo! some mistake!’ I exclaimed.

“‘Not at all,’ was the reply. ‘I’m James Barber. Don’t be frightened,
I’m harmless.’

“‘But----’

“‘I know what you are going to say,’ interrupted the intruder. ‘Seton
did not deceive you--I am only an occasional visitor _up here_.’

“This brought me up with a round turn, and I had sense enough to wish my
friend would vanish as he came. ‘Where shall we land you?’ I asked.

“‘Oh, any where--it don’t matter. I have got to be out every night and
all night; and the nights are plaguy long just now.’

“I could not muster a word.

“‘Ferd Fid,’ continued the voice, which now seemed about fifty fathoms
deep; and fast as we were dropping down the stream, the boat gave a heel
to starboard, as if she had been broadsided by a tremendous wave--‘Ferd
Fid, you recollect how I used to kill time; how I sang, drank, danced,
and supped all night long, and then slept and soda-watered it all day.
You remember what a happy fellow I seemed. Fools like yourself thought I
was so; but I say again, I wasn’t,’ growled the voice, letting itself
down a few fathoms deeper. ‘Often and often I would have given the
world to have been a market-gardener or a dealer in chick-weed while
roaring “He is a jolly good fellow,” and “We won’t go home till
morning!” as I emerged with a group from some tavern into Covent Garden
market. But I’m punished fearfully for my sins now. What do you think I
have got to do every night of my--never mind--what do you think is now
marked out as my dreadful punishment?’

“‘Well, to walk the earth, I suppose,’ said I.

“‘No.’

“‘To paddle about in the Thames from sunset to sun-rise?’

“‘Worse. Ha, ha!’ (his laugh sounded like the booming of a gong). ‘I
only wish my doom was merely to be a mud-lark. No, no, I’m condemned to
rush about from one evening party and public house to another. At the
former I am bound for a certain term on each night to dance all the
quadrilles, and a few of the polkas and waltzes with clumsy partners;
and then I have to eat stale pastry and tough poultry before I am let
off from _that_ place. After, I am bound to go to some cellar or singing
place to listen to “Hail smiling morn,” “Mynheer Van Dunk,” “The monks
of old,” “Happy land,” imitations of the London actors, and to hear a
whole canto of dreary extempore verses. I must also smoke a dozen of
cigars, knowing--as in my present condition I must know,--what they are
made of. The whole to end on each night with unlimited brandy (British)
and water, and eternal intoxication. Oh, F. F., be warned! Take my
advice; keep up your resolution, and don’t do it again. When afloat,
drink nothing stronger than purser’s tea. When on shore be temperate in
your pleasures; don’t turn night into day; don’t exchange wholesome
amusements for rabid debauchery, robust health for disease and--well, I
won’t mention it. When afloat, study your profession and don’t get
cashiered and cold-shouldered as I was. Promise me--nay, you must
swear!’

“At this word I thought I heard a gurgling sound in the water.

“‘If I can get six solemn pledges before the season’s over, I’m only to
go these horrid rounds during the meeting of Parliament.’

“‘_Will_ you swear?’ again urged the voice, with persuasive agony.

“I was just able to comply.

“‘Ten thousand thanks!’ were the next words I heard; ‘I’m off, for there
is an awful pint of pale ale, a chop, and a glass of brandy and water
overdue yet, and I must devour them at the Shades.’ (We were then close
to London Bridge.) ‘Don’t let the waterman pull to shore; I can get
there without troubling him.’

“I remember no more. When sensation returned, I was in bed, in this very
house, a shade worse than I had been from the previous attack.”

“That,” said Philip, who had left his tumbler untasted, “must have been
when you had your head shaved for the second time.”

“Exactly so.”

“And you really believe it was Jovial James’ ghost,” inquired Fid,
earnestly.

“Would it be rational to doubt it?”

Philip rose and paced the room in deep thought for several minutes. He
cast two or three earnest looks at his brother, and a few longing ones
at his glass. In the course of his cogitation, he groaned out more than
once an apostrophe to poor “James Barber.” At length he declared his
mind was made up.

“Ferd!” he said, “I told you awhile ago to throw your lemonade over the
side of the Ship. Don’t. Souse out my grog instead.”

The lieutenant did as he was bid.

“And now,” said Fid the elder, “ring for soda water; for one must drink
_something_.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Last year it was my own good fortune to sail with Mr. Philip Fid in the
“Bombottle” (74). He is not exactly a tee-totaller; but he never drinks
spirits, and will not touch wine unmixed with water, for fear of its
interfering with his studies, at which he is, with the assistance of the
naval instructor (who is also the chaplain), assiduous. He is our first
mate, and the smartest officer in the ship. Seton is our surgeon.

One day, after a cheerful ward-room dinner (of which Fid was a guest),
while we were at anchor in the Bay of Cadiz, the conversation happened
to turn upon Jovial Jemmy’s apparition, which had become the
best-authenticated ghost story in Her Majesty’s Naval service. On that
occasion Seton undertook to explain the mystery upon medical principles.

“The fact is,” he said, “what the commander of the ‘Arrow’ saw
(Ferdinand had by this time got commissioned in his old ship) was a
spectrum, produced by that morbid condition of the brain, which is
brought on by the immoderate use of stimulants, and by dissipation; we
call it Transient Monomania. I could show you dozens of such ghosts in
the books, if you only had patience while I turned them up.”

Everybody declared that was unnecessary. We would take the doctor’s word
for it; though I feel convinced not a soul besides the chaplain and
myself had one iota of his faith shaken in the real presence of Jovial
Jemmy’s _post-mortem_ appearance to Fid the younger.

Ghost or no ghost, however, the story had had the effect of converting
Philip Fid from one of the most intemperate and inattentive to one of
the soberest and best of Her Majesty’s officers. May his promotion be
steady!




X.

A Tale of the Good Old Times.


An alderman of the ancient borough of Beetlebury, and churchwarden of
the parish of St. Wulfstan’s in the said borough, Mr. Blenkinsop might
have been called, in the language of the sixteenth century, a man of
worship. This title would probably have pleased him very much, it being
an obsolete one, and he entertaining an extraordinary regard for all
things obsolete, or thoroughly deserving to be so. He looked up with
profound veneration to the griffins which formed the water-spouts of St.
Wulfstan’s Church, and he almost worshipped an old boot under the name
of a black jack, which on the affidavit of a forsworn broker, he had
bought for a drinking vessel of the sixteenth century. Mr. Blenkinsop
even more admired the wisdom of our ancestors than he did their
furniture and fashions. He believed that none of their statutes and
ordinances could possibly be improved on, and in this persuasion had
petitioned Parliament against every just or merciful change, which,
since he had arrived at man’s estate, had been made in the laws. He had
successively opposed all the Beetlebury improvements, gas, waterworks,
infant schools, mechanics’ institute, and library. He had been active in
an agitation against any measure for the improvement of the public
health, and being a strong advocate of intramural interment, was
instrumental in defeating an attempt to establish a pretty cemetery
outside Beetlebury. He had successfully resisted a project for removing
the pig-market from the middle of the High Street. Through his influence
the shambles, which were corporation property, had been allowed to
remain where they were; namely, close to the Town-Hall, and immediately
under his own and his brethren’s noses. In short, he had regularly,
consistently, and nobly done his best to frustrate every scheme that
was proposed for the comfort and advantage of his fellow creatures. For
this conduct he was highly esteemed and respected; and, indeed, his
hostility with any interference of disease, had procured him the honor
of a public testimonial;--shortly after the presentation of which, with
several neat speeches, the cholera broke out in Beetlebury.

The truth is, that Mr. Blenkinsop’s views on the subject of public
health and popular institutions were supposed to be economical (though
they were, in truth, desperately costly), and so pleased some of the
rate-payers. Besides, he withstood ameliorations, and defended nuisances
and abuses with all the heartiness of an actual philanthropist.
Moreover, he was a jovial fellow,--a boon companion; and his love of
antiquity leant particularly towards old ale and old port wine. Of both
of these beverages he had been partaking rather largely at a
visitation-dinner, where, after the retirement of the bishop and his
clergy, festivities were kept up till late, under the presidency of the
deputy-registrar. One of the last to quit the Crown and Mitre was Mr.
Blenkinsop.

He lived in a remote part of the town, whither, as he did not walk
exactly in a right line, it may be allowable, perhaps, to say that he
bent his course. Many of the dwellers in Beetlebury High-street,
awakened at half-past twelve on that night, by somebody passing below,
singing, not very distinctly,

    “With a jolly full bottle let each man be armed,”

were indebted, little as they may have suspected it, to Alderman
Blenkinsop, for their serenade.

In his homeward way stood the Market Cross; a fine mediæval structure,
supported on a series of circular steps by a groined arch, which served
as a canopy to the stone figure of an ancient burgess. This was the
effigies of Wynkyn de Vokes, once Mayor of Beetlebury, and a great
benefactor to the town; in which he had founded alms-houses and a
grammar-school, A. D. 1440. The post was formerly occupied by St.
Wulfstan; but De Vokes had been removed from the Town Hall in
Cromwell’s time, and promoted to the vacant pedestal, _vice_ Wulfstan,
demolished. Mr. Blenkinsop highly revered this work of art, and he now
stopped to take a view of it by moonlight. In that doubtful glimmer, it
seemed almost life-like. Mr. Blenkinsop had not much imagination, yet he
could well nigh fancy he was looking upon the veritable Wynkyn, with his
bonnet, beard, furred gown, and staff, and his great book under his arm.
So vivid was this impression, that it impelled him to apostrophize the
Statue.

“Fine old fellow!” said Mr. Blenkinsop. “Rare old buck! We shall never
look upon your like again. Ah! the good old times--the jolly good old
times! ‘No times like the good old times--my ancient worthy. No such
times as the good old times!”

“And pray, Sir, what times do you call the good old times?” in distinct
and deliberate accents, answered--according to the positive affirmation
of Mr. Blenkinsop, subsequently made before divers witnesses--the
Statue.

Mr. Blenkinsop is sure that he was in the perfect possession of his
senses. He is certain that he was not the dupe of ventriloquism, or any
other illusion. The value of these convictions must be a question
between him and the world, to whose perusal the facts of his tale,
simply as stated by himself, are here submitted.

When first he heard the Statue speak, Mr. Blenkinsop says, he certainly
experienced a kind of sudden shock, a momentary feeling of
consternation. But this soon abated in a wonderful manner. The Statue’s
voice was quite mild and gentle--not in the least grim--had no funeral
twang in it, and was quite different from the tone a statue might be
expected to take by anybody who had derived his notions on that subject
from having heard the representative of the class in “Don Giovanni.”

“Well; what times do you mean by the good old times?” repeated the
Statue, quite familiarly. The churchwarden was able to reply with some
composure, that such a question coming from such a quarter had taken
him a little by surprise.

“Come, come, Mr. Blenkinsop,” said the Statue, “don’t be astonished.
’Tis half-past twelve, and a moonlight night, as your favorite police,
the sleepy and infirm old watchman, says. Don’t you know that we statues
are apt to speak when spoken to, at these hours? Collect yourself. I
will help you to answer my own questions. Let us go back step by step;
and allow me to lead you. To begin. By the good old times, do you mean
the reign of George the Third?”

“The last of them, Sir,” replied Mr. Blenkinsop, very respectfully, “I
am inclined to think, were seen by the people who lived in those days.”

“I should hope so,” the Statue replied. “Those the good old times? What!
Mr. Blenkinsop, when men were hanged by dozens, almost weekly, for
paltry thefts. When a nursing woman was dragged to the gallows with a
child at her breast, for shop-lifting, to the value of a shilling. When
you lost your American colonies, and plunged into war with France,
which, to say nothing of the useless bloodshed it cost, has left you
saddled with the national debt. Surely you will not call these the good
old times, will you, Mr. Blenkinsop?”

“Not exactly, Sir: no; on reflection I don’t know that I can,” answered
Mr. Blenkinsop. He had now, it was such a civil, well-spoken
statue--lost all sense of the preternatural horror of his situation, and
scratched his head just as if he had been posed in argument by an
ordinary mortal.

“Well, then,” resumed the Statue, “my dear Sir, shall we take the two or
three reigns preceding. What think you of the then existing state of
prisons and prison discipline? Unfortunate debtors confined
indiscriminately with felons, in the midst of filth, vice, and misery
unspeakable. Criminals under sentence of death tippling in the condemned
cell with the Ordinary for their pot companion. Flogging, a common
punishment of women convicted of larceny. What say you of the times when
London streets were absolutely dangerous, and the passenger ran the
risk of being hustled and robbed even in the day-time? When not only
Hounslow and Bagshot Heath, but the public road swarmed with robbers,
and a stagecoach was as frequently plundered as a hen-roost. When,
indeed, ‘the road’ was esteemed the legitimate resource of a gentleman
in difficulties, and a highwayman was commonly called ‘Captain’ if not
respected accordingly. When cock-fighting, bear-baiting, and
bull-baiting were popular, nay, fashionable amusements. When the bulk of
the landed gentry could barely read and write, and divided their time
between fox-hunting and guzzling. When a duellist was a hero, and it was
an honor to have ‘killed your man.’ When a gentleman could hardly open
his mouth without uttering a profane or filthy oath. When the country
was continually in peril of civil war through a disputed succession; and
two murderous insurrections, followed by more murderous executions,
actually took place. This era of inhumanity, shamelessness, brigandage,
brutality, and personal and political insecurity, what say you of it,
Mr. Blenkinsop? Do you regard this wig and pigtail period as
constituting the good old times, respected friend?”

“There was Queen Anne’s golden reign, Sir,” deferentially suggested Mr.
Blenkinsop.

“A golden reign!” exclaimed the Statue. “A reign of favoritism and court
trickery at home, and profitless war abroad. The time of Bolingbroke’s,
and Harley’s, and Churchill’s intrigues. The reign of Sarah, Duchess of
Marlborough, and Mrs. Masham. A golden fiddlestick! I imagine you must
go farther back yet for your good old times, Mr. Blenkinsop.”

“Well,” answered the churchwarden, “I suppose I must, Sir, after what
you say.”

“Take William the Third’s rule,” pursued the Statue. “War, war again;
nothing but war. I don’t think you’ll particularly call these the good
old times. Then what will you say to those of James the Second? Were
they the good old times when Judge Jeffries sat on the bench? When
Monmouth’s rebellion was followed by the Bloody Assize. When the King
tried to set himself above the law, and lost his crown in consequence.
Does your worship fancy that these were the good old times?”

Mr. Blenkinsop admitted that he could not very well imagine that they
were.

“Were Charles the Second’s the good old times?” demanded the Statue.
“With a court full of riot and debauchery--a palace much less decent
than any modern casino--whilst Scotch Covenanters were having their legs
crushed in the “Boots,” under the auspices and personal superintendence
of His Royal Highness the Duke of York. The time of Titus Oates, Bedloe,
and Dangerfield, and their sham-plots, with the hangings, drawings, and
quarterings, on perjured evidence, that followed them. When Russell and
Sidney were judicially murdered. The time of the Great Plague and Fire
of London. The public money wasted by roguery and embezzlement, while
sailors lay starving in the streets for want of their just pay; the
Dutch about the same time burning our ships in the Medway. My friend, I
think you will hardly call the scandalous monarchy of the ‘Merry
Monarch’ the good old times.”

“I feel the difficulty which you suggest, Sir,” owned Mr. Blenkinsop.

“Now, that a man of your loyalty,” pursued the Statue, “should identify
the good old times with Cromwell’s Protectorate, is of course out of the
question.”

“Decidedly, Sir!” exclaimed Mr. Blenkinsop. “_He_ shall not have a
statue, though you enjoy that honor,” bowing.

“And yet,” said the Statue, “with all its faults, this era was perhaps
no worse than any we have discussed yet. Never mind! It was a dreary,
cant-ridden one, and if you don’t think those England’s palmy days,
neither do I. There’s the previous reign then. During the first part of
it, there was the king endeavoring to assert arbitrary power. During the
latter, the Parliament were fighting against him in the open field.
What ultimately became of him I need not say. At what stage of King
Charles the First’s career did the good old times exist, Mr. Alderman? I
need barely mention the Star Chamber and poor and Prynne; I merely
allude to the fate of Strafford and of Laud. On consideration, should
you fix the good old times anywhere thereabouts?”

“I am afraid not, indeed, Sir?” Mr. Blenkinsop responded, tapping his
forehead.

“What is your opinion of James the First’s reign? Are you enamored of
the good old times of the Gunpowder Plot? or when Sir Walter Raleigh was
beheaded? or when hundreds of poor miserable old women were burnt alive
for witchcraft, and the royal wiseacre on the throne wrote as wise a
book, in defence of the execrable superstition through which they
suffered?”

Mr. Blenkinsop confessed himself obliged to give up the times of James
the First.

“Now, then,” continued the Statue, “we come to Elizabeth.”

“There I’ve got you!” interrupted Mr. Blenkinsop, exultingly. “I beg
your pardon, Sir,” he added, with a sense of the freedom he had taken;
“but everybody talks of the times of good Queen Bess, you know!”

“Ha, ha!” laughed the Statue, not at all like Zamiel, or Don Guzman, or
a pavior’s rammer, but really with unaffected gaiety. “Everybody
sometimes says very foolish things. Suppose Everybody’s lot had been
cast under Elizabeth! How would Everybody have relished being subject to
the jurisdiction of the Ecclesiastical Commission, with its power of
imprisonment, rack, and torture? How would Everybody have liked to see
his Roman Catholic and dissenting fellow-subjects, butchered, fined, and
imprisoned for their opinions; and charitable ladies butchered, too, for
giving them shelter in the sweet compassion of their hearts? What would
Everybody have thought of the murder of Mary Queen of Scots? Would
Everybody, would Anybody, would _you_, wish to have lived in these days,
whose emblems are cropped ears, pillory, stocks, thumb-screws, gibbet,
axe, chopping-block, and Scavenger’s daughter? Will you take your stand
upon this stage of History for the good old times, Mr. Blenkinsop?”

“I should rather prefer firmer and safer ground, to be sure, upon the
whole,” answered the worshipper of antiquity, dubiously.

“Well, now,” said the Statue, “’tis getting late, and, unaccustomed as I
am to conversational speaking, I must be brief. Were those the good old
times when Sanguinary Mary roasted bishops, and lighted the fires of
Smithfield? When Henry the Eighth, the British Bluebeard, cut his wives’
heads off, and burnt Catholic and Protestant at the same stake? When
Richard the Third smothered his nephews in the Tower? When the Wars of
the Roses deluged the land with blood? When Jack Cade marched upon
London? When we were, disgracefully driven out of France under Henry the
Sixth, or, as disgracefully, went marauding there, under Henry the
Fifth? Were the good old times those of Northumberland’s rebellion? Of
Richard the Second’s assassination? Of the battles, burnings, massacres,
cruel tormentings, and atrocities, which form the sum of the Plantagenet
reigns? Of John’s declaring himself the Pope’s vassal, and performing
dental operations on the Jews? Of the Forest Laws and Curfew under the
Norman kings? At what point of this series of bloody and cruel annals
will you place the times which you praise? Or do your good old times
extend over all that period when somebody or other was constantly
committing high treason, and there was a perpetual exhibition of heads
on London Bridge and Temple Bar?”

It was allowed by Mr. Blenkinsop that either alternative presented
considerable difficulty.

“Was it in the good old times that Harold fell at Hastings, and William
the Conqueror enslaved England? Were those blissful years the ages of
monkery; of Odo and Dunstan, bearding monarchs and branding queens? Of
Danish ravage and slaughter? Or were they those of the Saxon Heptarchy,
and the worship of Thor and Odin? Of the advent of Hengist and Horsa?
Of British subjugation by the Romans? Or, lastly, must we go back to the
Ancient Britons, Druidism, and human sacrifices; and say that those were
the real, unadulterated, genuine, good old times when the true-blue
natives of this island went naked, painted with woad?”

“Upon my word, Sir,” replied Mr. Blenkinsop, “after the observations
that I have heard from you this night, I acknowledge that I _do_ feel
myself rather at a loss to assign a precise period to the times in
question.”

“Shall I do it for you?” asked the Statue.

“If you please, Sir. I should be very much obliged if you would,”
replied the bewildered Blenkinsop, greatly relieved.

“The best times, Mr. Blenkinsop,” said the Statue, “are the oldest. They
are wisest; for the older the world grows the more experience it
acquires. It is older now than ever it was. The oldest and best times
the world has yet seen are the present. These, so far as we have yet
gone, are the genuine good old times, Sir.”

“Indeed, Sir?” ejaculated the astonished Alderman.

“Yes, my good friend. These are the best times that we know of--bad as
the best may be. But in proportion to their defects they afford room for
amendment. Mind that, Sir, in the future exercise of your municipal and
political wisdom. Don’t continue to stand in the light which is
gradually illuminating human darkness. The Future is the date of that
happy period which your imagination has fixed in the Past. It will
arrive when all shall do what is right; hence none shall suffer what is
wrong. The true good old times are yet to come.”

“Have you any idea when, Sir?” Mr. Blenkinsop inquired, modestly.

“That is a little beyond me,” the Statue answered. “I cannot say how
long it will take to convert the Blenkinsops. I devoutly wish you may
live to see them. And with that, I wish you good night, Mr.
Blenkinsop.”

“Sir,” returned Mr. Blenkinsop with a profound bow, “I have the honor to
wish you the same.”

Mr. Blenkinsop returned home an altered man. This was soon manifest. In
a few days he astonished the Corporation by proposing the appointment of
an Officer of Health to preside over sanitary affairs of Beetlebury. It
had already transpired that he had consented to the introduction of
lucifer-matches into his domestic establishment, in which, previously,
he had insisted on sticking to the old tinder-box. Next, to the wonder
of all Beetlebury, he was the first to propose a great new school, and
to sign a requisition that a county penitentiary might be established
for the reformation of juvenile offenders. The last account of him is
that he has not only become a subscriber to the mechanics’ institute,
but that he actually presided thereat, lately, on the occasion of a
lecture on Geology.

The remarkable change which has occurred in Mr. Blenkinsop’s views and
principles, he himself refers to his conversation with the Statue as
above related. The narrative, however, his fellow townsmen receive with
incredulous expressions, accompanied by gestures and grimaces of like
import. They hint, that Mr. Blenkinsop had been thinking for himself a
little, and only wanted a plausible excuse for recanting his errors.
Most of his fellow-aldermen believe him mad; not less on account of his
new moral and political sentiments, so very different from their own,
than of his Statue story. When it has been suggested to them that he has
only had his spectacles cleaned, and has been looking about him, they
shake their heads, and say that he had better have left his spectacles
alone, and that a little knowledge is a dangerous thing, and a good deal
of dirt quite the contrary. _Their_ spectacles have never been cleaned,
they say, and any one may see they don’t want cleaning.

The truth seems to be, that Mr. Blenkinsop has found an altogether new
pair of spectacles, which enable him to see in the right direction.
Formerly, he could only look backwards; he now looks forwards to the
grand object that all human eyes should have in view--progressive
improvement.

                               THE END.

                   *       *       *       *       *


           [Illustration: Faithfully yours Charles Dickens]




                            PEARL-FISHING.

                            CHOICE STORIES,

                                 FROM

                       Dickens’ Household Words.

                            SECOND SERIES.

                                AUBURN:
                        ALDEN, BEARDSLEY & CO.
                              ROCHESTER:
                        WANZER, BEARDSLEY & CO.
                                 1854.

      ENTERED, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1854, by

                        ALDEN, BEARDSLEY & CO.,

In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States for the
                    Northern District of New York.

                           THOMAS B. SMITH,
                     STEREOTYPER AND ELECTROTYPER,
                       216 William Street, N. Y.




The Publisher’s Notice.


The large demand for the _First Series_ of this publication, has
confirmed the publishers in their opinion of its worth and its
adaptability to meet the wants and tastes of the reading public, and
induced them to issue, in rapid succession, the present volume, which
will be found not less interesting and worthy of attention.

The publishers also announce their intention of continuing this series,
which has been received with so much public favor.

June, 1854.




Contents.


                                             PAGE

  I.--THE YOUNG ADVOCATE                        7

 II.--THE LAST OF A LONG LINE                  33

III.--THE GENTLEMAN BEGGAR                    107

 IV.--EVIL IS WROUGHT BY WANT OF THOUGHT      130

  V.--BED                                     167

 VI.--THE HOME OF WOODRUFFE THE GARDENER      184

 VII.--THE WATER-DROPS                        287

VIII.--AN EXCELLENT OPPORTUNITY               325




I.

The Young Advocate.


Antoine de Chaulieu was the son of a poor gentleman of Normandy, with a
long genealogy, a short rent-roll, and a large family. Jacques Rollet
was the son of a brewer, who did not know who his grandfather was; but
he had a long purse and only two children. As these youths flourished in
the early days of liberty, equality, and fraternity, and were near
neighbors, they naturally hated each other. Their enmity commenced at
school, where the delicate and refined De Chaulieu being the only
gentilhomme among the scholars, was the favorite of the master (who was
a bit of an aristocrat in his heart) although he was about the worst
dressed boy in the establishment, and never had a sou to spend; while
Jacques Rollet, sturdy and rough, with smart clothes and plenty of
money, got flogged six days in the week, ostensibly for being stupid and
not learning his lessons--which, indeed, he did not--but, in reality,
for constantly quarrelling with and insulting De Chaulieu, who had not
strength to cope with him. When they left the academy, the feud
continued in all its vigor, and was fostered by a thousand little
circumstances arising out of the state of the times, till a separation
ensued in consequence of an aunt of Antoine de Chaulieu’s undertaking
the expense of sending him to Paris to study the law, and of maintaining
him there during the necessary period.

With the progress of events came some degree of reaction in favor of
birth and nobility, and then Antoine, who had passed for the bar, began
to hold up his head and endeavored to push his fortunes; but fate seemed
against him. He felt certain that if he possessed any gift in the world
it was that of eloquence, but he could get no cause to plead; and his
aunt dying inopportunely, first his resources failed, and then his
health. He had no sooner returned to his home, than, to complicate his
difficulties completely, he fell in love with Mademoiselle Natalie de
Bellefonds, who had just returned from Paris, where she had been
completing her education. To expiate on the perfections of Mademoiselle
Natalie, would be a waste of ink and paper; it is sufficient to say that
she really was a very charming girl, with a fortune which, though not
large, would have been a most desirable acquisition to De Chaulieu, who
had nothing. Neither was the fair Natalie indisposed to listen to his
addresses; but her father could not be expected to countenance the suit
of a gentleman, however well-born, who had not a ten-sous piece in the
world, and whose prospects were a blank.

While the ambitious and love-sick young barrister was thus pining in
unwelcome obscurity, his old acquaintance, Jacques Rollet, had been
acquiring an undesirable notoriety. There was nothing really bad in
Jacques’ disposition, but having been bred up a democrat, with a hatred
of the nobility, he could not easily accommodate his rough humor to
treat them with civility when it was no longer safe to insult them. The
liberties he allowed himself whenever circumstances brought him into
contact with the higher classes of society, had led him into many
scrapes, out of which his father’s money had one way or another released
him; but that source of safety had now failed. Old Rollet having been
too busy with the affairs of the nation to attend to his business, had
died insolvent, leaving his son with nothing but his own wits to help
him out of future difficulties, and it was not long before their
exercise was called for. Claudine Rollet, his sister, who was a very
pretty girl, had attracted the attention of Mademoiselle de Bellefonds’
brother, Alphonso; and as he paid her more attention than from such a
quarter was agreeable to Jacques, the young men had more than one
quarrel on the subject, on which occasions they had each,
characteristically, given vent to their enmity, the one in contemptuous
monosyllables, and the other in a volley of insulting words. But
Claudine had another lover more nearly of her own condition of life;
this was Claperon, the deputy-governor of the Rouen jail, with whom she
made acquaintance during one or two compulsory visits paid by her
brother to that functionary; but Claudine, who was a bit of a coquette,
though she did not altogether reject his suit, gave him little
encouragement, so that betwixt hopes, and fears, and doubts, and
jealousies, poor Claperon led a very uneasy kind of life.

Affairs had been for some time in this position, when, one fine morning,
Alphonse de Bellefonds was not to be found in his chamber when his
servant went to call him; neither had his bed been slept in. He had been
observed to go out rather late on the preceding evening, but whether or
not he had returned, nobody could tell. He had not appeared at supper,
but that was too ordinary an event to awaken suspicion; and little alarm
was excited till several hours had elapsed, when inquiries were
instituted and a search commenced, which terminated in the discovery of
his body, a good deal mangled, lying at the bottom of a pond which had
belonged to the old brewery. Before any investigations had been made,
every person had jumped to the conclusion that the young man had been
murdered, and that Jacques Rollet was the assassin. There was a strong
presumption in favor of that opinion, which further perquisitions tended
to confirm. Only the day before, Jacques had been heard to threaten M.
de Bellefonds with speedy vengeance. On the fatal evening, Alphonse and
Claudine had been seen together in the neighborhood of the now
dismantled brewery; and as Jacques, betwixt poverty and democracy, was
in bad odor with the prudent and respectable part of society, it was not
easy for him to bring witnesses to character, or prove an
unexceptionable alibi. As for the Bellefonds and De Chaulieus, and the
aristocracy in general, they entertained no doubt of his guilt; and
finally, the magistrates coming to the same opinion, Jacques Rollet was
committed for trial, and as a testimony of good will Antoine de
Chaulieu was selected by the injured family to conduct the prosecution.

Here, at last, was the opportunity he had sighed for! So interesting a
case, too, furnishing such ample occasion for passion, pathos,
indignation! And how eminently fortunate that the speech which he set
himself with ardor to prepare, would be delivered in the presence of the
father and brother of his mistress, and perhaps of the lady herself! The
evidence against Jacques, it is true, was altogether presumptive; there
was no proof whatever that he had committed the crime; and for his own
part he stoutly denied it. But Antoine de Chaulieu entertained no doubt
of his guilt, and his speech was certainly well calculated to carry
conviction into the bosom of others. It was of the highest importance to
his own reputation that he should procure a verdict, and he confidently
assured the afflicted and enraged family of the victim that their
vengeance should be satisfied. Under these circumstances could anything
be more unwelcome than a piece of intelligence that was privately
conveyed to him late on the evening before the trial was to come on,
which tended strongly to exculpate the prisoner, without indicating any
other person as the criminal. Here was an opportunity lost. The first
step of the ladder on which he was to rise to fame, fortune, and a wife,
was slipping from under his feet!

Of course, so interesting a trial was anticipated with great eagerness
by the public, and the court was crowded with all the beauty and fashion
of Rouen. Though Jacques Rollet persisted in asserting his innocence,
founding his defence chiefly on circumstances which were strongly
corroborated by the information that had reached De Chaulieu the
preceding evening,--he was convicted.

In spite of the very strong doubts he privately entertained respecting
the justice of the verdict, even De Chaulieu himself, in the first flush
of success, amid a crowd of congratulating friends, and the approving
smiles of his mistress, felt gratified and happy; his speech had, for
the time being, not only convinced others, but himself; warmed with his
own eloquence, he believed what he said. But when the glow was over, and
he found himself alone, he did not feel so comfortable. A latent doubt
of Rollet’s guilt now burnt strongly in his mind, and he felt that the
blood of the innocent would be on his head. It is true there was yet
time to save the life of the prisoner, but to admit Jacques innocent,
was to take the glory out of his own speech, and turn the sting of his
argument against himself. Besides, if he produced the witness who had
secretly given him the information, he should be self-condemned, for he
could not conceal that he had been aware of the circumstance before the
trial.

Matters having gone so far, therefore, it was necessary that Jacques
Rollet should die; so the affair took its course; and early one morning
the guillotine was erected in the court-yard of the jail, three
criminals ascended the scaffold, and three heads fell into the basket,
which were presently afterwards, with the trunks that had been attached
to them, buried in a corner of the cemetery.

Antoine de Chaulieu was now fairly started in his career, and his
success was as rapid as the first step towards it had been tardy. He
took a pretty apartment in the Hôtel de Marbœuf, Rue Grange-Batelière,
and in a short time was looked upon as one of the most rising young
advocates in Paris. His success in one line brought him success in
another; he was soon a favorite in society, and an object of interest to
speculating mothers; but his affections still adhered to his old love
Natalie de Bellefonds, whose family now gave their assent to the
match--at least, prospectively--a circumstance which furnished such an
additional incentive to his exertions, that in about two years from the
date of his first brilliant speech, he was in a sufficiently flourishing
condition to offer the young lady a suitable home. In anticipation of
the happy event, he engaged and furnished a suite of apartments in the
Rue du Helder; and as it was necessary that the bride should come to
Paris to provide her trousseau, it was agreed that the wedding should
take place there, instead of at Bellefonds, as had been first
projected; an arrangement the more desirable, that a press of business
rendered M. de Chaulieu’s absence from Paris inconvenient.

Brides and bridegrooms in France, except of the very high classes, are
not much in the habit of making those honeymoon excursions so universal
in this country. A day spent in visiting Versailles, or St. Cloud, or
even the public places of the city, is generally all that precedes the
settling down into the habits of daily life. In the present instance St.
Denis was selected, from the circumstance of Natalie having a younger
sister at school there; and also because she had a particular desire to
see the Abbey.

The wedding was to take place on a Thursday; and on the Wednesday
evening, having spent some hours most agreeably with Natalie, Antoine de
Chaulieu returned to spend his last night in his bachelor apartments.
His wardrobe and other small possessions, had already been packed up and
sent to his future home; and there was nothing left in his room now, but
his new wedding suit, which he inspected with considerable satisfaction
before he undressed and lay down to sleep. Sleep, however, was somewhat
slow to visit him; and the clock had struck _one_ before he closed his
eyes. When he opened them again, it was broad day-light; and his first
thought was, had he overslept himself? He sat up in bed to look at the
clock which was exactly opposite, and as he did so, in the large mirror
over the fire-place, he perceived a figure standing behind him. As the
dilated eyes met his own, he saw it was the face of Jacques Rollet.
Overcome with horror he sunk back on his pillow, and it was some minutes
before he ventured to look again in that direction; when he did so, the
figure had disappeared.

The sudden revulsion of feeling such a vision was calculated to occasion
in a man elate with joy, may be conceived! For some time after the death
of his former foe, he had been visited by not unfrequent twinges of
conscience; but of late, borne along by success, and the hurry of
Parisian life, these unpleasant remembrances had grown rarer, till at
length they had faded away altogether. Nothing had been further from his
thoughts than Jacques Rollet, when he closed his eyes on the preceding
night, nor when he opened them to that sun which was to shine on what he
expected to be the happiest day of his life! Where were the high-strung
nerves now! The elastic frame! The bounding heart!

Heavily and slowly he arose from his bed, for it was time to do so; and
with a trembling hand and quivering knees, he went through the processes
of the toilet, gashing his cheek with the razor, and spilling the water
over his well-polished boots. When he was dressed, scarcely venturing to
cast a glance in the mirror as he passed it, he quitted the room and
descended the stairs, taking the key of the door with him for the
purpose of leaving it with the porter; the man, however, being absent,
he laid it on the table in his lodge, and with a relaxed and languid
step proceeded on his way to the church, where presently arrived the
fair Natalie and her friends. How difficult it was now to look happy
with that pallid face and extinguished eye!

“How pale you are! Has anything happened? You are surely ill?” were the
exclamations that met him on all sides. He tried to carry it off as well
as he could, but felt that the movements he would have wished to appear
alert were only convulsive; and that the smiles with which he attempted
to relax his features, were but distorted grimaces. However, the church
was not the place for further inquiries; and while Natalie gently
pressed his hand in token of sympathy, they advanced to the altar, and
the ceremony was performed; after which they stepped into the carriages
waiting at the door, and drove to the apartments of Madame de
Bellefonds, where an elegant _déjeuner_ was prepared.

“What ails you, my dear husband?” inquired Natalie, as soon as they were
alone.

“Nothing, love,” he replied; “nothing, I assure you, but a restless
night and a little overwork, in order that I might have to-day free to
enjoy my happiness!”

“Are you quite sure? Is there nothing else?”

“Nothing, indeed; and pray don’t take notice of it, it only makes me
worse!”

Natalie was not deceived, but she saw that what he said was true; notice
made him worse; so she contented herself with observing him quietly, and
saying nothing; but, as he _felt_ she was observing him, she might
almost better have spoken; words are often less embarrassing things than
too curious eyes.

When they reached Madame de Bellefonds’ he had the same sort of
questioning and scrutiny to undergo, till he grew quite impatient under
it, and betrayed a degree of temper altogether unusual with him. Then
everybody looked astonished; some whispered their remarks, and others
expressed them by their wondering eyes, till his brow knit, and his
pallid cheeks became flushed with anger. Neither could he divert
attention by eating; his parched mouth would not allow him to swallow
anything but liquids, of which, however, he indulged in copious
libations; and it was an exceeding relief to him when the carriage,
which was to convey them to St. Denis, being announced, furnished an
excuse for hastily leaving the table. Looking at his watch, he declared
it was late; and Natalie, who saw how eager he was to be gone, threw her
shawl over her shoulders, and bidding her friends _good morning_, they
hurried away.

It was a fine sunny day in June; and as they drove along the crowded
boulevards, and through the Porte St. Denis, the young bride and
bridegroom, to avoid each others eyes, affected to be gazing out of the
windows; but when they reached that part of the road where there was
nothing but trees on each side, they felt it necessary to draw in their
heads, and make an attempt at conversation, De Chaulieu put his arm
round his wife’s waist, and tried to rouse himself from his depression;
but it had by this time so reacted upon her, that she could not respond
to his efforts, and thus the conversation languished, till both felt
glad when they reached their destination, which would, at all events,
furnish them something to talk about.

Having quitted the carriage, and ordered a dinner at the Hôtel de
l’Abbaye, the young couple proceeded to visit Mademoiselle Hortense de
Bellefonds, who was overjoyed to see her sister and new brother-in-law,
and doubly so when she found that they had obtained permission to take
her out to spend the afternoon with them. As there is little to be seen
at St. Denis but the Abbey, on quitting that part of it devoted to
education, they proceeded to visit the church, with its various objects
of interest; and as De Chaulieu’s thoughts were now forced into another
direction, his cheerfulness began insensibly to return. Natalie looked
so beautiful, too, and the affection betwixt the two young sisters was
so pleasant to behold! And they spent a couple of hours wandering about
with Hortense, who was almost as well informed as the Suisse, till the
brazen doors were open which admitted them to the Royal vault.
Satisfied, at length, with what they had seen, they began to think of
returning to the inn, the more especially as De Chaulieu, who had not
eaten a morsel of food since the previous evening, owned to being
hungry; so they directed their steps to the door, lingering here and
there as they went, to inspect a monument or a painting, when, happening
to turn his head aside to see if his wife, who had stopt to take a last
look at the tomb of King Dagobert, was following, he beheld with horror
the face of Jacques Rollet appearing from behind a column! At the same
instant his wife joined him, and took his arm, inquiring if he was not
very much delighted with what he had seen. He attempted to say yes, but
the word would not be forced out; and staggering out of the door, he
alleged that a sudden faintness had overcome him.

They conducted him to the Hôtel, but Natalie now became seriously
alarmed; and well she might. His complexion looked ghastly, his limbs
shook, and his features bore an expression of indescribable horror and
anguish. What could be the meaning of so extraordinary a change in the
gay, witty, prosperous De Chaulieu, who, till that morning, seemed not
to have a care in the world? For, plead illness as he might, she felt
certain, from the expression of his features, that his sufferings were
not of the body but of the mind; and, unable to imagine any reason for
such extraordinary manifestations, of which she had never before seen a
symptom, but a sudden aversion to herself, and regret for the step he
had taken, her pride took the alarm, and, concealing the distress she
really felt, she began to assume a haughty and reserved manner towards
him, which he naturally interpreted into an evidence of anger and
contempt. The dinner was placed upon the table, but De Chaulieu’s
appetite, of which he had lately boasted, was quite gone, nor was his
wife better able to eat. The young sister alone did justice to the
repast; but although the bridegroom could not eat, he could swallow
champagne in such copious draughts, that ere long the terror and remorse
that the apparition of Jacques Rollet had awakened in his breast were
drowned in intoxication. Amazed and indignant, poor Natalie sat
silently observing this elect of her heart, till overcome with
disappointment and grief, she quitted the room with her sister, and
retired to another apartment, where she gave free vent to her feelings
in tears.

After passing a couple of hours in confidences and lamentations, they
recollected that the hours of liberty granted, as an especial favor, to
Mademoiselle Hortense, had expired; but ashamed to exhibit her husband
in his present condition to the eyes of strangers, Natalie prepared to
re-conduct her to the _Maison Royale_ herself. Looking into the
dining-room as they passed, they saw De Chaulieu lying on a sofa fast
asleep, in which state he continued when his wife returned. At length,
however, the driver of their carriage begged to know if Monsieur and
Madame were ready to return to Paris, and it became necessary to arouse
him. The transitory effects of the champagne had now subsided; but when
De Chaulieu recollected what had happened, nothing could exceed his
shame and mortification. So engrossing indeed were these sensations
that they quite overpowered his previous one, and, in his present
vexation, he, for the moment, forgot his fears. He knelt at his wife’s
feet, begged her pardon a thousand times, swore that he adored her, and
declared that the illness and the effect of the wine had been purely the
consequences of fasting and over-work. It was not the easiest thing in
the world to re-assure a woman whose pride, affection, and taste, had
been so severely wounded; but Natalie tried to believe, or to appear to
do so, and a sort of reconciliation ensued, not quite sincere on the
part of the wife, and very humbling on the part of the husband. Under
these circumstances it was impossible that he should recover his spirits
or facility of manner; his gaiety was forced, his tenderness
constrained; his heart was heavy within him; and ever and anon the
source whence all this disappointment and woe had sprung would recur to
his perplexed and tortured mind.

Thus mutually pained and distrustful, they returned to Paris, which they
reached about nine o’clock. In spite of her depression, Natalie, who
had not seen her new apartments, felt some curiosity about them, whilst
De Chaulieu anticipated a triumph in exhibiting the elegant home he had
prepared for her. With some alacrity, therefore, they stepped out of the
carriage, the gates of the Hôtel were thrown open, the _concierge_ rang
the bell which announced to the servants that their master and mistress
had arrived, and whilst these domestics appeared above, holding lights
over the balustrades, Natalie, followed by her husband, ascended the
stairs. But when they reached the landing-place of the first flight,
they saw the figure of a man standing in a corner as if to make way for
them; the flash from above fell upon his face, and again Antoine de
Chaulieu recognized the features of Jacques Rollet!

From the circumstance of his wife’s preceding him, the figure was not
observed by De Chaulieu till he was lifting his foot to place it on the
top stair: the sudden shock caused him to miss the step, and, without
uttering a sound, he fell back, and never stopped till he reached the
stones at the bottom. The screams of Natalie brought the concierge from
below and the maids from above, and an attempt was made to raise the
unfortunate man from the ground; but with cries of anguish he besought
them to desist.

“Let me,” he said, “die here! What a fearful vengeance is thine! Oh,
Natalie, Natalie!” he exclaimed to his wife, who was kneeling beside
him, “to win fame, and fortune, and yourself, I committed a dreadful
crime! With lying words I argued away the life of a fellow-creature,
whom, whilst I uttered them, I half believed to be innocent; and now,
when I have attained all I desired, and reached the summit of my hopes,
the Almighty has sent him back upon the earth to blast me with the
sight. Three times this day--three times this day! Again! again!”--and
as he spoke, his wild and dilated eyes fixed themselves on one of the
individuals that surrounded him.

“He is delirious,” said they.

“No,” said the stranger! “What he says is true enough,--at least in
part;” and bending over the expiring man, he added, “May Heaven forgive
you, Antoine de Chaulieu! I was not executed; one who well knew my
innocence saved my life. I may name him, for he is beyond the reach of
the law now,--it was Claperon, the jailor, who loved Claudine, and had
himself killed Alphonse de Bellefonds from jealousy. An unfortunate
wretch had been several years in the jail for a murder committed during
the frenzy of a fit of insanity. Long confinement had reduced him to
idiocy. To save my life Claperon substituted the senseless being for me,
on the scaffold, and he was executed in my stead. He has quitted the
country, and I have been a vagabond on the face of the earth ever since
that time. At length I obtained, through the assistance of my sister,
the situation of concierge in the Hôtel Marbœuf, in the Rue
Grange-Batelière. I entered on my new place yesterday evening, and was
desired to awaken the gentleman on the third floor at seven o’clock.
When I entered the room to do so, you were asleep, but before I had time
to speak you awoke, and I recognized your features in the glass.
Knowing that I could not vindicate my innocence if you chose to seize
me, I fled, and seeing an omnibus starting for St. Denis, I got on it
with a vague idea of getting on to Calais, and crossing the Channel to
England. But having only a franc or two in my pocket, or indeed in the
world, I did not know how to procure the means of going forward; and
whilst I was lounging about the place, forming first one plan and then
another, I saw you in the church, and concluding you were in pursuit of
me, I thought the best way of eluding your vigilance was to make my way
back to Paris as fast as I could; so I set off instantly, and walked all
the way; but having no money to pay my night’s lodging, I came here to
borrow a couple of livres of my sister Claudine, who lives in the fifth
story.”

“Thank Heaven!” exclaimed the dying man; “that sin is off my soul!
Natalie, dear wife, farewell! Forgive! forgive all!”

These were the last words he uttered; the priest, who had been summoned
in haste, held up the cross before his failing sight; a few strong
convulsions shook the poor bruised and mangled frame; and then all was
still.

And thus ended the Young Advocate’s Wedding Day.




II.

The Last of a Long Line.


Sir Roger Rockville of Rockville was the last of a very long line. It
extended from the Norman Conquest to the present century. His first
known ancestor came over with William, and must have been a man of some
mark, either of bone and sinew, or of brain, for he obtained what the
Americans would call a prime location. As his name does not occur in the
Roll of Battle Abbey, he was, of course, not of a very high Norman
extraction; but he had done enough, it seems, in the way of knocking
down Saxons, to place himself on a considerable eminence in this
kingdom. The centre of his domains was conspicuous far over the country,
through a high range of rock overhanging one of the sweetest rivers in
England. On one hand lay a vast tract of rich marsh land, capable, as
society advanced, of being converted into meadows; and on the other, as
extensive moorlands, finely undulating, and abounding with woods and
deer.

Here the original Sir Roger built his castle on the summit of the range
of rock, with huts for his followers; and became known directly all over
the country of Sir Roger de Rockville, or Sir Roger of the hamlet on the
Rock. Sir Roger, no doubt, was a mighty hunter before the lord of the
feudal district: it is certain that his descendants were. For
generations they led a jolly life at Rockville, and were always ready to
exchange the excitement of the chase for a bit of the civil war. Without
that the country would have grown dull, and ale and venison lost their
flavor. There was no gay London in those days, and a good brisk skirmish
with their neighbors in helm and hauberk was the way of spending their
season. It was their parliamentary debate, and was necessary to stir
their blood. Protection and Free Trade were as much the great topics of
interest as they are now, only they did not trouble themselves so much
about Corn-bills. Their bills were of good steel, and their protective
measures were arrows a cloth-yard long. Protection meant a good suit of
mail; and a castle with its duly prescribed moats, bastions,
portcullises, and donjon keep. Free Trade was a lively inroad into the
neighboring baron’s lands, and the importation thence of goodly herds
and flocks. Foreign cattle for home consumption was as _striking an
article_ in their markets as in ours, only the blows were expended on
one another’s heads, instead of the heads of foreign bullocks--that is,
bullocks from over the Welch or Scotch Marches, as from beyond the next
brook.

Thus lived the Rockvilles for ages. In all the iron combats of those
iron times they took care to have their quota. Whether it was Stephen
against Matilda, or Richard against his father, or John against the
barons; whether it were York or Lancaster, or Tudor or Stuart. The
Rockvilles were to be found in the _mêlée_, and winning power and
lands. So long as it required only stalwart frames and stout blows, no
family cut a more conspicuous figure. The Rockvilles were at Bosworth
Field. The Rockvilles fought in Ireland under Elizabeth. The Rockvilles
were staunch defenders of the cause in the war of Charles I. with his
Parliament. The Rockvilles even fought for James II. at the Boyne, when
three-fourths of the most loyal of the English nobility and gentry had
deserted him in disgust and indignation. But from that hour they had
been less conspicuous.

The opposition to the successful party, that of William of Orange, of
course brought them into disgrace; and though they were never molested
on that account, they retired to their estate, and found it convenient
to be as unobtrusive as possible. Thenceforward you heard no more of the
Rockvilles in the national annals. They became only of consequence in
their own district. They acted as magistrates. They served as high
sheriffs. They were a substantial county family, and nothing more.
Education and civilization advanced; a wider and very different field of
action and ambition opened upon the aristocracy of England. Our fleets
and armies abroad, our legislature at home, law and the church,
presented brilliant paths to the ambition of those thirsting for
distinction, and the good things that follow it. But somehow the
Rockvilles did not expand with this expansion. So long as it required
only a figure of six feet high, broad shoulders, and a strong arm, they
were a great and conspicuous race. But when the head became the member
most in request, they ceased to go ahead. Younger sons, it is true,
served in army and in navy, and filled the family pulpit, but they
produced no generals, no admirals, no arch-bishops. The Rockvilles of
Rockville were very conservative, very exclusive, and very stereotype.
Other families grew poor, and enriched themselves again by marrying
plebeian heiresses. New families grew up out of plebeian blood into
greatness, and intermingled the vigor of their fresh earth with the
attenuated aristocratic soil. Men of family became great lawyers, great
statesmen, great prelates, and even great poets and philosophers. The
Rockvilles remained high, proud, bigoted, and _borné_.

The Rockvilles married Rockvilles, or their first cousins, the
Craigvilles, simply to prevent property going out of the family. They
kept the property together. They did not lose an acre, and they were a
fine, tall, solemn race--and nothing more. What ailed them?

If you saw Sir Roger Rockville,--for there was an eternal Sir
Roger--filling his office of high sheriff,--he had a very fine carriage,
and a very fine retinue in the most approved and splendid of antique
costumes;--if you saw him sitting on the bench at quarter sessions, he
was a tall, stately, and solemn man. If you saw Lady Rockville shopping,
in her handsome carriage, with very handsomely attired servants; saw her
at the county ball, or on the race-stand, she was a tall, aristocratic,
and stately lady. That was in the last generation--the present could
boast of no Lady Rockville.

Great outward respect was shown to the Rockvilles on account of the
length of their descent, and the breadth of their acres. They were
always, when any stranger asked about them, declared, with a serious and
important air, to be a very ancient, honorable, and substantial family.
“Oh! a great family are the Rockvilles, a very great family.”

But if you came to close quarters with the members of this great and
highly distinguished family, you soon found yourself fundamentally
astonished; you had a sensation come over you, as if you were trying,
like Moses, to draw water from a rock without his delegated power. There
was a goodly outside of things before you, but nothing came of it. You
talked, hoping to get talking in return, but you got little more than
“noes” and “yeses,” and “oh! indeeds!” and “reallys,” and sometimes not
even that, but a certain look of aristocratic dignity or dignification,
that was meant to serve for all answers. There was a sort of resting on
aristocratic oars or “sculls,” that were not to be too vulgarly
handled. There was a feeling impressed on you, that eight hundred years
of descent and ten thousand a-year in landed income did not trouble
themselves with the trifling things that gave distinction to lesser
people--such as literature, fine arts, politics, and general knowledge.
These were very well for those who had nothing else to pride themselves
on, but for the Rockvilles--oh! certainly they were by no means
requisite.

In fact, you found yourself, with a little variation, in the predicament
of Cowper’s people,

        ---- who spent their lives
    In dropping buckets into empty wells,
    And _growing tired_ of drawing nothing up.

Who hasn’t often come across these “dry wells” of society; solemn gulfs
out of which you can pump nothing up? You know them; they are at your
elbow every day in large and brilliant companies, and defy the best
sucking bucket ever invented to extract anything from them. But the
Rockvilles were each and all of this adust description. It was a family
feature, and they seemed, if either, rather proud of it. They must be
so; for proud they were, amazing proud; and they had nothing besides to
be proud of, except their acres, and their ancestors.

But the fact was, they could not help it. It was become organic. They
had acted the justice of peace, maintained the constitution against
upstarts and manufacturers, signed warrants, supported the church and
the house of correction, committed poachers, and then rested on the
dignity of their ancestors for so many generations, that their skulls,
brains, constitutions, and nervous systems, were all so completely
moulded into that shape and baked into that mould, that a Rockville
would be a Rockville to the end of time, if God and Nature would have
allowed it. But such things wear out. The American Indians and the
Australian nations wear out; they are not progressive, and as Nature
abhors a vacuum, she does not forget the vacuum wherever it may be,
whether in a hot desert, or in a cold and stately Rockville;--a very
ancient, honorable, and substantial family, that lies fallow till the
thinking faculty literally dies out.

For several generations there had been symptoms of decay about the
Rockville family. Not in its property, that was as large as ever; not in
their personal stature and physical aspect. The Rockvilles continued, as
they always had been, a tall and not bad-looking family. But they grew
gradually less prolific. For a hundred and fifty years past there had
seldom been more than two, or at most three, children. There had
generally been an heir to the estate, and another to the family pulpit,
and sometimes a daughter married to some neighboring squire. But Sir
Roger’s father had been an only child, and Sir Roger himself was an only
child. The danger of extinction to the family, apparent as it was, had
never induced Sir Roger to marry. At the time that we are turning our
attention upon him, he had reached the mature age of sixty. Nobody
believed that Sir Roger now would marry; he was the last, and likely to
be, of his line.

It is worth while here to take a glance at Sir Roger and his estate.
They bore a strange contrast. The one bore all the signs of progress,
the other of a stereotyped feudality. The estate which in the days of
the first Sir Roger de Rockville had been half morass and half
wilderness, was now cultivated to the pitch of British agricultural
science. The marshlands beyond the river were one splendid expanse of
richest meadows, yielding a rental of four solid pounds per acre. Over
hill and dale on this side for miles, where formerly ran wild deer, and
grew wild woodlands or furze-bushes, now lay excellent farms and
hamlets, and along the ridge of the ancient cliffs rose the most
magnificent woods. Woods, too, clothed the steep-hill sides, and swept
down to the noble river, their very boughs hanging far out over its
clear and rapid waters. In the midst of these fine woods stood Rockville
Hall, the family seat of the Rockvilles. It reared its old brick walls
above the towering mass of elms, and travellers at a distance recognized
it for what it was, the mansion of an ancient and wealthy family.

The progress of England in arts, science, commerce, and manufacture,
had carried Sir Roger’s estate along with it. It was full of active and
moneyed farmers, and flourished under modern influences. How lucky it
would have been for the Rockville family had it done the same.

But amid this estate there was Sir Roger solitary, and the last of the
line. He had grown well enough--there was nothing stunted about him, so
far as you could see on the surface. In stature, he exceeded six feet.
His colossal elms could not boast of a properer relative growth. He was
as large a landlord, and as tall a justice of the peace, as you could
desire; but, unfortunately, he was, after all, only the shell of a man.
Like many of his veteran elms, there was a very fine stem, only it was
hollow. There was a man, just with the rather awkward deficiency of a
soul.

And it were no difficult task to explain, either, how this had come
about. The Rockvilles saw plainly enough the necessity of manuring their
lands, but they scorned the very idea of manuring their family. What!
that most ancient, honorable, and substantial family, suffer any of the
common earth of humanity to gather about its roots! The Rockvilles were
so careful of their good blood, that they never allied it to any but
blood as pure and inane as their own. Their elms flourished in the
rotten earth of plebeian accumulations, and their acres produced large
crops of corn from the sewage of towns and fat sinks, but the Rockvilles
themselves took especial care that no vulgar vigor from the rich heap of
ordinary human nature should infuse a new force of intellect into their
race. The Rockvilles needed nothing; they had all that an ancient,
honorable, and substantial family could need. The Rockvilles had no need
to study at school--why should they? They did not want to get on. The
Rockvilles did not aspire to distinction for talent in the world--why
should they? They had a large estate. So the Rockville soul, unused from
generation to generation, grew--

    Fine by degrees and _spiritually_ less,

till it tapered off into nothing.

Look at the last of a long line in the midst of his fine estate. Tall he
was, with a stoop in his shoulders, and a bowing of his head on one
side, as if he had been accustomed to stand under the low boughs of his
woods, and peer after intruders. And that was precisely the fact. His
features were thin and sharp; his nose prominent and keen in its
character; his eyes small, black, and peering like a mole’s, or a hungry
swine’s. Sir Roger was still oracular on the bench, after consulting his
clerk, a good lawyer,--and looked up to by the neighboring squires in
election matters, for he was an unswerving tory. You never heard of a
rational thing that he had said in the whole course of his life; but
that mattered little, he was a gentleman of solemn aspect, of stately
gait, and of a very ancient family.

With ten thousand a-year, and his rental rising, he was still, however,
a man of overwhelming cares. What mattered a fine estate if all the
world was against him? And Sir Roger firmly believed that he stood in
that predicament. He had grown up to regard the world as full of little
besides upstarts, radicals, manufacturers, and poachers. All were
banded, in his belief, against the landed interest. It demanded all the
energy of his very small faculties to defend himself and the world
against them.

Unfortunately for his peace, a large manufacturing town had sprung up
within a couple of miles of him. He could see its red-brick walls, and
its red-tiled roofs, and its tall smoke-vomiting chimneys, growing and
extending over the slopes beyond the river. It was to him the most
irritating sight in the world; for what were all those swarming weavers
and spinners but arrant radicals, upstarts, sworn foes of the ancient
institutions and the landed interests of England? Sir Roger had passed
through many a desperate conflict with them for the return of members to
parliament. They brought forward men that were utter wormwood to all his
feelings, and they paid no more respect to him and his friends on such
occasions than they did to the meanest creature living. Reverence for
ancient blood did not exist in that plebeian and rapidly multiplying
tribe. There were master manufacturers there actually that looked and
talked as big as himself, and _entre nous_, a vast deal more cleverly.
The people talked of rights and franchises, and freedom of speech and of
conscience, in a way that was really frightful. Then they were given
most inveterately to running out in whole and everlasting crowds on
Sundays and holidays into the fields and woods; and as there was no part
of the neighborhood half so pleasant as the groves and river banks of
Rockville, they came swarming up there in crowds that were enough to
drive any man of acres frantic.

Unluckily, there were roads all about Rockville; foot roads, and high
roads, and bridle roads. There was a road up the river side, all the way
to Rockville woods, and when it reached them, it divided like a fork,
and one prong or footpath led straight up a magnificent grove of a mile
long, ending close to the hall; and another ran all along the river
side, under the hills and branches of the wood.

Oh, delicious were these woods! In the river there were islands, which
were covered in summer with the greenest grass, and the freshest of
willows, and the clear waters rushed around them in the most inviting
manner imaginable. And there were numbers of people extremely ready to
accept this delectable invitation of these waters. There they came in
fine weather, and as these islands were only separated from the
main-land by a little and very shallow stream, it was delightful for
lovers to get across--with laughter, and treading on stepping stones,
and slipping off the stepping-stones up to the ankles into the cool
brook, and pretty screams, and fresh laughter, and then landing on those
sunny, and to them really enchanted, islands. And then came fishermen,
solitary fishermen, and fishermen in rows; fishermen lying in the
flowery grass, with fragrant meadow-sweet and honey-breathing clover all
about their ears; and fishermen standing in file, as if they were
determined to clear all the river of fish in one day. And there were
other lovers, and troops of loiterers, and shouting roysterers, going
along under the boughs of the wood, and following the turns of that most
companionable of rivers. And there were boats going up and down; boats
full of young people, all holiday finery and mirth, and boats with
duck-hunters and other, to Sir Roger, detestable marauders, with guns
and dogs, and great bottles of beer. In the fine grove, on summer days,
there might be found hundreds of people. There were pic-nic parties,
fathers and mothers with whole families of children, and a grand
promenade of the delighted artisans and their wives or sweethearts.

In the times prior to the sudden growth of the neighboring town, Great
Stockington, and to the simultaneous development of the love-of-nature
principle in the Stockingtonians, nothing had been thought of all these
roads. The roads were well enough till they led to these inroads. Then
Sir Roger aroused himself. This must be changed. The roads must be
stopped. Nothing was easier to his fancy. His fellow-justices, Sir
Benjamin Bullockshed and Squire Sheepshank, had asked his aid to stop
the like nuisances, and it had been done at once. So Sir Roger put up
notices all about, that the roads were to be stopped by an Order of
Session, and these notices were signed, as required by law, by their
worships of Bullockshed and Sheepshank. But Sir Roger soon found that it
was one thing to stop a road leading from One-man-Town to Lonely Lodge,
and another to attempt to stop those from Great Stockington to
Rockville.

On the very first Sunday after the exhibition of those notice-boards,
there was a ferment in the grove of Rockville, as if all the bees in the
county were swarming there, with all the wasps and Hornets to boot.
Great crowds were collected before each of these obnoxious placards, and
the amount of curses vomited forth against them was really shocking for
any day, but more especially for a Sunday. Presently there was a rush at
them; they were torn down, and simultaneously pitched into the river.
There were great crowds swarming all about Rockville all that day, and
with looks so defiant that Sir Roger more than once contemplated
sending off for the Yeoman Cavalry to defend his house, which he
seriously thought in danger.

But so far from being intimidated from proceeding, this demonstration
only made Sir Roger the more determined. To have so desperate and
irreverent a population coming about his house and woods, now presented
itself in a much more formidable aspect than ever. So, next day, not
only were the placards once more hoisted, but rewards offered for the
discovery of the offenders, attended with all the maledictions of the
insulted majesty of the law. No notice was taken of this, but the whole
of Great Stockington was in a buzz and an agitation. There were posters
plastered all over the walls of the town, four times as large as Sir
Roger’s notices, in this style:--

“Englishmen! your dearest rights are menaced! The Woods of Rockville,
your ancient, rightful, and enchanting resorts, are to be closed to you.
Stockingtonians! the eyes of the world are upon you. ‘Awake! arise! or
be forever fallen!’ England expects every man to do his duty! And your
duty is to resist and defy the grasping soil-lords, to seize on your
ancient Patrimony!”

“Patrimony! Ancient and rightful resort of Rockville!” Sir Roger was
astounded at the audacity of this upstart, plebeian race. “What! they
actually claimed Rockville, the heritage of a hundred successive
Rockvilles, as their own. Sir Roger determined to carry it to the
Sessions; and at the Sessions was a magnificent muster of all his
friends. There was Sir Roger himself in the chair; and on either
hand, a prodigious row of county squirearchy. There was Sir
Benjamin Bullockshed, and Sir Thomas Tenterhook, and all the
squires,--Sheepshank, Ramsbottom, Turnbull, Otterbrook, and Swagsides.
The Clerk of the Session read the notice for the closing of all the
footpaths through the woods of Rockville, and declared that this notice
had been duly, and for the required period publicly posted. The
Stockingtonians protested by their able lawyer Daredeville, against any
order for the closing of these ancient woods--the inestimable property
of the public.

“Property of the public!” exclaimed Sir Roger. “Property of the public!”
echoed the multitudinous voices of indignant Bullocksheds, Tenterhooks,
and Ramsbottoms. “Why, Sir, do you dispute the right of Sir Roger
Rockville to his own estate?”

“By no means;” replied the undaunted Daredeville; “the estate of
Rockville is unquestionably the property of the honorable baronet, Sir
Roger Rockville; but the roads through it are the as unquestionable
property of the public.”

The whole bench looked at itself; that is, at each other, in wrathful
astonishment. The swelling in the diaphragms of the squires Otterbrook,
Turnbull, and Swagsides, and all the rest of the worshipful row, was too
big to admit of utterance. Only Sir Roger himself burst forth with an
abrupt--

“Impudent fellows! But I’ll see them ---- first!”

“Grant the order!” said Sir Benjamin Bullockshed; and the whole bench
nodded assent. The able lawyer Daredeville retired with a pleasant
smile. He saw an agreeable prospect of plenty of grist to his mill. Sir
Roger was rich, and so was Great Stockington. He rubbed his hands, not
in the least like a man defeated, and thought to himself, “Let them go
at it--all right.”

The next day the placards on the Rockville estate were changed for
others bearing “STOPPED BY ORDER OF SESSIONS!” and alongside of them
were huge carefully painted boards, denouncing on all trespassers
prosecutions according to law. The same evening came a prodigious
invasion of Stockingtonians--tore all the boards and placards down, and
carried them on their shoulders to Great Stockington, singing as they
went, “See, the Conquering Heroes come!” They set them up in the centre
of the Stockington market-place, and burnt them, along with an effigy of
Sir Roger Rockville.

That was grist at once to the mill of the able lawyer Daredeville. He
looked on, and rubbed his hands. Warrants were speedily issued by the
Baronets of Bullockshed and Tenterhook, for the apprehension of the
individuals who had been seen carrying off the notice-boards, for
larceny, and against a number of others for trespass. There was plenty
of work for Daredeville and his brethren of the robe; but it all ended,
after the flying about of sundry mandamuses and assize trials, in Sir
Roger finding that though Rockville was his, the roads through it were
the public’s.

As Sir Roger drove homeward from the assize, which finally settled the
question of these footpaths, he heard the bells in all the steeples of
Great Stockington burst forth with a grand peal of triumph. He closed
fast the windows of his fine old carriage, and sunk into a corner; but
he could not drown the intolerable sound. “But,” said he, “I’ll stop
their pic-nic-ing. I’ll stop their fishing. I’ll have hold of them for
trespassing and poaching!” There was war henceforth between Rockville
and Great Stockington.

On the very next Sunday there came literally thousands of the jubilant
Stockingtonians to Rockville. They had brought baskets, and were for
dining, and drinking success to all footpaths. But in the great grove
there were keepers, and watchers, who warned them to keep the path, that
narrow well-worn line up the middle of the grove. “What! were they not
to sit on the grass?”--“No!”--“What! were they not to pic-nic?”--“No!
not there!”

The Stockingtonians felt a sudden damp on their spirits. But the river
bank! The cry was. “To the river bank! There they _would_ pic-nic.” The
crowd rushed away down the wood, but on the river bank they found a
whole regiment of watchers, who pointed again to the narrow line of
footpath, and told them not to trespass beyond it. But the islands! they
went over to the islands. But there too were Sir Roger’s forces, who
warned them back! There was no road there--- all found there would be
trespassers, and be duly punished.

The Stockingtonians discovered that their triumph was not quite so
complete as they had flattered themselves. The footpaths were theirs,
but that was all. Their ancient license was at an end. If they came
there, there was no more fishing; if they came in crowds, there was no
more pic-nic-ing; if they walked through the woods in numbers, they must
keep to Indian file, or they were summoned before the county magistrates
for trespass, and were soundly fined; and not even the able Daredeville
would undertake to defend them.

The Stockingtonians were chop-fallen, but they were angry and dogged;
and they thronged up to the village and the front of the hall. They
filled the little inn in the hamlet--they went by scores, and roving all
over the churchyard, read epitaphs

    That teach the rustic moralists to die,

but don’t teach them to give up their old indulgences very
good-humoredly. They went and sat in rows on the old churchyard wall,
opposite to the very windows of the irate Sir Roger. They felt
themselves beaten, and Sir Roger felt himself beaten. True, he could
coerce them to the keeping of the footpaths--but, then, they had the
footpaths! True, thought the Stockingtonians, we have the footpaths, but
then the pic-nic-ing, and the fishing, and the islands! The
Stockingtonians were full of sullen wrath, and Sir Roger was--oh, most
expressive old Saxon phrase--HAIRSORE! Yes, he was one universal wound
of vexation and jealousy of his rights. Every hair in his body was like
a pin sticking into him. Come within a dozen yards of him; nay, at the
most, blow on him, and he was excruciated--you rubbed his sensitive
hairs at a furlong’s distance.

The next Sunday the people found the churchyard locked up, except during
service, when beadles walked there, and desired them not to loiter and
disturb the congregation, closing the gates, and showing them out like a
flock of sheep the moment the service was over. This was fuel to the
already boiling blood of Stockington. The week following, what was their
astonishment to find the much frequented inn gone! it was actually gone!
not a trace of it; but the spot where it had stood for ages, turfed,
planted with young spruce trees, and fenced off with post and rail! The
exasperated people now launched forth an immensity of fulminations
against the churl Sir Roger, and a certain number of them resolved to
come and seat themselves in the street of the hamlet and there dine; but
a terrific thunderstorm, which seemed in league with Sir Roger, soon
routed them, drenched them through, and on attempting to seek shelter in
the cottages, the poor people said they were very sorry, but it was as
much as their holdings were worth, and they dare not admit them.

Sir Roger had triumphed! It was all over with the old delightful days at
Rockville. There was an end of pic-nic-ing, of fishing, and of roving in
the islands. One sturdy disciple of Izaak Walton, indeed, dared to fling
a line from the banks of Rockville grove, but Sir Roger came upon him
and endeavored to seize him. The man coolly walked into the middle of
the river, and, without a word, continued his fishing.

“Get out there!” exclaimed Sir Roger, “that is still on my property.”
The man walked through the river to the other bank, where he knew that
the land was rented by a farmer. “Give over,” shouted Sir Roger, “I tell
you the water is mine.”

“Then,” said the fellow, “bottle it up, and be hanged to you! Don’t you
see it is running away to Stockington?”

There was bad blood between Rockville and Stockington forever.
Stockington was incensed, and Sir Roger was hairsore.

A new nuisance sprung up. The people of Stockington looked on the
cottagers of Rockville as sunk in deepest darkness under such a man as
Sir Roger and his cousin the vicar. They could not pic-nic, but they
thought they could hold a camp-meeting; they could not fish for roach,
but they thought they might for souls. Accordingly there assembled
crowds of Stockingtonians on the green of Rockville, with a chair and a
table, and a preacher with his head bound in a red handkerchief; and
soon there was a sound of hymns, and a zealous call to come out of the
darkness of the spiritual Babylon. But this was more than Sir Roger
could bear; he rushed forth with all his servants, keepers, and
cottagers, overthrew the table, and routing the assembly, chased them to
the boundary of his estate.

The discomfited Stockingtonians now fulminated awful judgments on the
unhappy Sir Roger, as a persecutor and a malignant. They dared not enter
again on his parish, but they came to the very verge of it, and held
weekly meetings on the highway, in which they sang and declaimed as
loudly as possible, that the winds might bear their voices to Sir
Roger’s ears.

To such a position was now reduced the last of the long line of
Rockville. The spirit of a policeman had taken possession of him. He had
keepers and watchers out on all sides, but that did not satisfy him. He
was perpetually haunted with the idea that poachers were after his game,
that trespassers were in his woods. His whole life was now spent in
stealing to and fro in his fields and plantations, and prowling along
his river side. He lurked under hedges, and watched for long hours
under the forest trees. If any one had a curiosity to see Sir Roger,
they had only to enter his fields by the wood side, and wander a few
yards from the path, and he was almost sure to spring out over the
hedge, and in angry tones demand their name and address. The descendant
of the chivalrous and steel-clad De Rockvilles was sunk into a restless
spy on his own ample property. There was but one idea in his
mind--encroachment. It was destitute of all other furniture but the
musty technicalities of warrants and commitments. There was a stealthy
and skulking manner in everything that he did. He went to church on
Sundays, but it was no longer by the grand iron gate opposite to his
house, that stood generally with a large spider’s web woven over the
lock, and several others in different corners of the fine iron tracery,
bearing evidence of the long period since it had been opened. How
different to the time when the Sir Roger and Lady of Rockville had had
these gates thrown wide on a Sunday morning, and, with all their train
of household servants at their back, with true antique dignity, marched
with much proud humility into the house of God. Now, Sir Roger--the
solitary, suspicious, undignified Sir Roger, the keeper and policeman of
his own property--stole in at a little side gate from his paddock, and
back the same way, wondering all the time whether there was not somebody
in his pheasant preserves, or Sunday trespassers in his grove.

If you entered his house, it gave you as cheerless a feeling as its
owner. There was the conservatory, so splendid with rich plants and
flowers in his mother’s time--now a dusty receptacle of hampers, broken
hand-glasses, and garden tools. These tools could never be used, for the
gardens were grown wild. Tall grass grew in the walks, and the huge
unpruned shrubs disputed the passage with you. In the wood above the
gardens, reached by several flights of fine, but now moss-grown, steps,
there stood a pavilion, once clearly very beautiful. It was now damp and
ruinous--its walls covered with greenness and crawling insects. It was
a great lurking-place of Sir Roger when on the watch for poachers.

The line of the Rockvilles was evidently running fast out. It had
reached the extremity of imbecility and contempt--it must soon reach its
close.

Sir Roger used to make his regular annual visit to town; but of late,
when there, he had wandered restlessly about the streets, peeping into
the shop-windows; and if it rained, standing under entries for hours
together, till it was gone over. The habit of lurking and peering about,
was upon him; and his feet bore him instinctively into those narrow and
crowded alleys where swarm the poachers of the city--the trespassers and
anglers in the game preserves and streams of humanity. He had lost all
pleasures in his club; the most exciting themes of political life
retained no piquancy for him. His old friends ceased to find any
pleasure in him. He was become the driest of all dry wells. Poachers,
and anglers, and Methodists, haunted the wretched purlieus of his fast
fading-out mind, and he resolved to go to town no more. His whole
nature was centred in his woods. He was forever on the watch; and when
at Rockville again, if he heard a door clap when in bed, he thought it a
gun in his woods, and started up, and was out with his keepers.

Of what value was that magnificent estate to him?--those superb woods;
those finely-hanging cliffs; that clear and _riant_ river coming
travelling on, and taking a noble sweep below his windows,--that
glorious expanse of neat verdant meadows stretching almost to
Stockington, and enlivened by numerous herds of the most beautiful
cattle--those old farms and shady lanes overhung with hazel and wild
rose; the glittering brook, and the songs of woodland birds--what were
they to that worn-out old man, that victim of the delusive doctrine of
blood, of the man-trap of an hereditary name?

There the poet could come, and feel the presence of divinity in that
noble scene, and hear sublime whispers in the trees, and create new
heavens and earths from the glorious chaos of nature around him, and in
one short hour live an empyrean of celestial life and love. There could
come the very humblest children of the plebeian town, and feel a throb
of exquisite delight pervade their bosoms at the sight of the very
flowers on the sod, and see heaven in the infinite blue above them. And
poor Sir Roger, the holder, but not the possessor of all, walked only in
a region of sterility, with no sublimer ideas than poachers and
trespassers--no more rational enjoyment than the brute indulgence of
hunting like a ferret, and seizing his fellow-men like a bull-dog. He
was a specimen of human nature degenerated, retrograded from the divine
to the bestial, through the long-operating influences of false notions
and institutions, continued beyond their time. He had only the soul of a
keeper. Had he been only a keeper, he had been a much happier man.

His time was at hand. The severity which he had long dealt out towards
all sorts of offenders made him the object of the deepest vengeance. In
a lonely hollow of his woods, watching at midnight with two of his men,
there came a sturdy knot of poachers. An affray ensued. The men
perceived that their old enemy, Sir Roger, was there; and the blow of a
hedge-stake stretched him on the earth. His keepers fled--and thus
ignominiously terminated the long line of the Rockvilles. Sir Roger was
the last of his line, but not of his class. There is a feudal art of
sinking, which requires no study; and the Rockvilles are but one family
among thousands who have perished in its practice.

       *       *       *       *       *

In Great Stockington there lived a race of paupers. From the year of the
42d of Elizabeth, or 1601, down to the present generation, this race
maintained an uninterrupted descent. They were a steady and unbroken
line of paupers, as the parish books testify. From generation to
generation their demands on the parish funds stand recorded. There were
no _lacunæ_ in their career; there never failed an heir to these
families; fed on the bread of idleness and legal provision, these people
nourished, increased, and multiplied. Sometimes compelled to work for
the weekly dole which they received, they never acquired a taste for
labor, or lost the taste for the bread for which they did not labor.
These paupers regarded this maintenance by no means as a disgrace. They
claimed it as a right,--as their patrimony. They contended that
one-third of the property of the Church had been given by benevolent
individuals for the support of the poor, and that what the Reformation
wrongfully deprived them of, the great enactment of Elizabeth
rightfully--and only rightfully--restored.

Those who imagine that all paupers merely claimed parish relief because
the law ordained it, commit a great error. There were numbers who were
hereditary paupers, and that on a tradition carefully handed down, that
they were only manfully claiming their own. They traced their claims
from the most ancient feudal times, when the lord was as much bound to
maintain his villein in gross, as the villein was to work for the lord.
These paupers were, in fact, or claimed to be, the original _adscripti
glebæ_, and to have as much a claim to parish support as the landed
proprietor had to his land. For this reason, in the old Catholic times,
after they had escaped from villenage by running away and remaining
absent from their hundred for a year and a day, dwelling for that period
in a walled town, these people were among the most diligent attendants
at the Abbey doors, and when the Abbeys were dissolved, were, no doubt,
among the most daring of these thieves, vagabonds, and sturdy rogues,
who, after the Robin Hood fashion, beset the highways and solitary farms
of England, and claimed their black mail in a very unceremonious style.
It was out of this class that Henry VIII. hanged his seventy-two
thousand during his reign, and, as it is said, without appearing
materially to diminish their number.

That they continued to “increase, multiply, and replenish the earth,”
overflowing all bounds, overpowering by mere populousness all the severe
laws against them of whipping, burning in the hand, in the forehead or
the breast, and hanging, and filling the whole country with alarm, is
evident by the very act itself of Elizabeth.

Among these hereditary paupers who, as we have said, were found in
Stockington, there was a family of the name of Deg. This family had
never failed to demand and enjoy what it held to be its share of its
ancient inheritance. It appeared from the parish records, that they had
practised in different periods the crafts of shoe-making, tailoring, and
chimney-sweeping; but since the invention of the stocking frame, they
had, one and all of them, followed the profession of stocking-weavers,
or as they were there called, stockingers. This was a trade which
required no extreme exertion of the physical or intellectual powers. To
sit in a frame, and throw the arms to and fro, was a thing that might
either be carried to a degree of extreme diligence, or be let down into
a mere apology for idleness. An “idle stockinger” was there no very
uncommon phrase, and the Degs were always classed under that head.
Nothing could be more admirably adapted than this trade for building a
plan of parish relief upon. The Degs did not pretend to be absolutely
without work, or the parish authorities would soon have set them to some
real labor,--a thing that they particularly recoiled from, having a very
old adage in the family, that “hard work was enough to kill a man.” The
Degs were seldom, therefore, out of work, but they did not get enough to
meet and tie. They had but little work if times were bad, and if they
were good, they had large families and sickly wives or children. Be
times what they would, therefore, the Degs were due and successful
attendants at the parish pay-table. Nay, so much was this a matter of
course, that they came at length not even to trouble themselves to
receive their pay, but sent their young children for it; and it was duly
paid. Did any parish officer, indeed, turn restive, and decline to pay a
Deg, he soon found himself summoned before a magistrate, and such pleas
of sickness, want of work, and poor earnings brought up, that he most
likely got a sharp rebuke from the benevolent but uninquiring
magistrate, and acquired a character for hard-heartedness that stuck to
him.

So parish overseers learned to let the Degs alone; and their children
regularly brought up to receive the parish money for their parents, were
impatient as they grew up to receive it for themselves. Marriages in the
Deg family were consequently very early, and there were plenty of
instances of married Degs claiming parish relief under the age of
twenty, on the plea of being the parent of two children. One such
precocious individual being asked by a rather verdant officer why he had
married before he was able to maintain a family, replied, in much
astonishment, that he had married in order to maintain himself by parish
assistance. That he never had been able to maintain himself by his
labor, nor ever expected to do it; his only hope, therefore, lay in
marrying and becoming the father of two children, to which patriarchal
rank he had now attained, and demanded his “pay.”

Thus had lived and flourished the Degs on their ancient patrimony, the
parish, for upwards of two hundred years. Nay, we have no doubt whatever
that, if it could have been traced, they had enjoyed an ancestry of
paupers as long as the pedigree of Sir Roger Rockville himself. In the
days of the most perfect villenage, they had, doubtless, eaten the bread
of idleness, and claimed it as a right. They were numerous, improvident,
ragged in dress, and fond of an ale-house and of gossip. Like the blood
of Sir Roger, their blood had become peculiar through a long persistence
of the same circumstances. It was become pure pauper blood. The Degs
married, if not entirely among Degs, yet among the same class. None but
a pauper would dream of marrying a Deg. The Degs, therefore, were in
constitution, in mind, in habit, and in inclination, paupers. But a pure
and unmixed class of this kind does not die out like an aristocratic
stereotype. It increases and multiplies. The lower the grade, the more
prolific, as is sometimes seen on a large and even national scale. The
Degs threatened, therefore, to become a most formidable clan in the
lower purlieus of Stockington, but luckily there is so much virtue even
in evils, that one, not rarely cures another. War, the great evil,
cleared the town of Degs.

Fond of idleness, of indulgence, of money easily got, and as easily
spent, the Degs were rapidly drained off by recruiting parties during
the last war. The young men enlisted, and were marched away; the young
women married soldiers that were quartered in the town from time to
time, and marched away with them. There were, eventually, none of the
once numerous Degs left except a few old people, whom death was sure to
draft off at no distant period with his regiment of the line which has
no end. Parish overseers, magistrates, and master manufacturers,
felicitated themselves at this unhoped-for deliverance from the ancient
family of the Degs.

But one cold, clear winter evening, the east wind piping its sharp
sibilant ditty in the bare-shorn hedges, and poking his sharp fingers
into the sides of well broad-clothed men by way of passing jest, Mr.
Spires, a great manufacturer of Stockington, driving in his gig some
seven miles from the town, passed a poor woman with a stout child on her
back. The large ruddy-looking man in the prime of life, and in the
great-coat and thick-worsted gloves of a wealthy traveller, cast a
glance at the wretched creature trudging heavily on, expecting a pitiful
appeal to his sensibilities, and thinking it a bore to have to pull off
a glove and dive into his pocket for a copper; but to his surprise there
was no demand, only a low curtsey, and the glimpse of a face of singular
honesty of expression, and of excessive weariness.

Spires was a man of warm feelings; he looked earnestly at the woman, and
thought he had never seen such a picture of fatigue in his life. He
pulled up and said,

“You seem very tired, my good woman.”

“Awfully tired, sir.”

“And are you going far to-night?”

“To Great Stockington, sir, if God give me strength.”

“To Stockington!” exclaimed Mr. Spires. “Why you seem ready to drop.
You’ll never reach it. You’d better stop at the next village.”

“Ay, sir, it’s easy stopping for those that have money.”

“And you’ve none, eh?”

“As God lives, sir, I’ve a sixpence, and that’s all.”

Mr. Spires put his hand in his pocket, and held out to her the next
instant half-a-crown.

“There stop, poor thing--make yourself comfortable--it’s quite out of
the question to reach Stockington. But stay--are your friends living in
Stockington--what are you?”

“A poor soldier’s widow, sir. And may God Almighty bless you!” said the
poor woman, taking the money, the tears standing in her large brown eyes
as she curtsied very low.

“A soldier’s widow,” said Mr. Spires. She had touched the softest place
in the manufacturer’s heart, for he was a very loyal man, and vehement
champion of his country’s honor in the war. “So young,” said he, “how
did you lose your husband?”

“He fell, sir,” said the poor woman; but she could get no further; she
suddenly caught up the corner of her gray cloak, covered her face with
it, and burst into an excess of grief.

The manufacturer felt as if he had hit the woman a blow by his careless
question; he sat watching her for a moment in silence, and then said,
“Come, get into the gig, my poor woman; come, I must see you to
Stockington.”

The poor woman dried her tears, and heavily climbed into the gig,
expressing her gratitude in a very touching and modest manner. Spires
buttoned the apron over her, and taking a look at the child, said in a
cheerful tone to comfort her, “Bless me, but that is a fine thumping
fellow, though. I don’t wonder you are tired, carrying such a load.”

The poor woman pressed the stout child, apparently two years old, to her
breast, as if she felt it a great blessing and no load: the gig drove
rapidly on.

Presently Mr. Spires resumed his conversation.

“So you are from Stockington?”

“No, sir; my husband was.”

“So: what was his name?”

“John Deg, sir.”

“Deg?” said Mr. Spires. “Deg, did you say?”

“Yes, sir.”

The manufacturer seemed to hitch himself off towards his own side of the
gig, gave another look at her, and was silent. The poor woman was
somewhat astonished at his look and movement, and was silent too.

After awhile Mr. Spires said again, “And do you hope to find friends in
Stockington? Had you none where you came from?”

“None, sir, none in the world!” said the poor woman, and again her
feelings seemed too strong for her. At length she added, “I was in
service, sir, at Poole, in Dorsetshire, when I married; my mother only
was living, and while I was away with my husband, she died. When--when
the news came from abroad--that--when I was a widow, sir, I went back to
my native place, and the parish officers said I must go to my husband’s
parish, lest I and my child should become troublesome.”

“You asked relief of them?”

“Never; oh, God knows, never! My family have never asked a penny of a
parish. They would die first, and so would I, sir; but they said I might
do it, and I had better go to my husband’s parish at once--and they
offered me money to go.”

“And you took it, of course?”

“No, sir; I had a little money, which I had earned by washing and
laundering, and I sold most of my things, as I could not carry them, and
came off. I felt hurt, sir; my heart rose against the treatment of the
parish, and I thought I should be better among my husband’s
friends--and my child would, if anything happened to me; I had no
friends of my own.”

Mr. Spires looked at the woman in silence. “Did your husband tell you
anything of his friends? What sort of a man was he?”

“Oh, he was a gay young fellow, rather, sir; but not bad to me. He
always said his friends were well off in Stockington.”

“He did!” said the manufacturer, with a great stare, and as if bolting
the words from his heart in a large gust of wonder.

The poor woman again looked at him with a strange look. The manufacturer
whistled to himself, and giving his horse a smart cut with the whip,
drove on faster than ever. The night was fast settling down; it was
numbing cold; a gray fog rose from the river as they thundered over the
old bridge; and tall engine chimneys, and black smoky houses loomed
through the dusk before them. They were at Stockington.

As they slackened their pace up a hill at the entrance of the town, Mr.
Spires again opened his mouth.

“I should be sorry to hurt your feelings, Mrs. Deg,” he said, “but I
have my fears that you are coming to this place with false expectations.
I fear your husband did not give you the truest possible account of his
family here.”

“Oh, Sir! What--what is it?” exclaimed the poor woman; “in God’s name,
tell me!”

“Why, nothing more than this,” said the manufacturer, “that there are
very few of the Degs left here. They are old, and on the parish, and can
do nothing for you.”

The poor woman gave a deep sigh, and was silent.

“But don’t be cast down,” said Mr. Spires. He would not tell her what a
pauper family it really was, for he saw that she was a very feeling
woman, and he thought she would learn that soon enough. He felt that her
husband had from vanity given her a false account of his connections;
and he was really sorry for her.

“Don’t be cast down,” he went on, “you can wash and iron, you say; you
are young and strong; those are your friends. Depend on them, and
they’ll be better friends to you than any other.”

The poor woman was silent, leaning her head down on her slumbering
child, and crying to herself; and thus they drove on, through many long
and narrow streets, with gas flaring from the shops, but with few people
in the streets, and these hurrying shivering along the payment, so
intense was the cold. Anon they stopped at a large pair of gates; the
manufacturer rung a bell, which he could reach from his gig, and the
gates presently were flung open, and they drove into a spacious yard,
with a large handsome house, having a bright lamp burning before it, on
one side of the yard, and tall warehouses on the other.

“Show this poor woman and her child to Mrs. Craddock’s, James,” said Mr.
Spires, “and tell Mrs. Craddock to make them very comfortable; and if
you will come to my warehouse to-morrow,” added he, addressing the poor
woman, “perhaps I can be of some use to you.”

The poor woman poured out her heartfelt thanks, and following the old
man servant, soon disappeared, hobbling over the pebbly pavement with
her living load, stiffened almost to stone by her fatigue and her cold
ride.

We must not pursue too minutely our narrative. Mrs. Deg was engaged to
do the washing and getting up of Mr. Spire’s linen, and the manner in
which she executed her task insured her recommendations to all their
friends. Mrs. Deg was at once in full employ. She occupied a neat house
in a yard near the meadows below the town, and in those meadows she
might be seen spreading out her clothes to whiten on the grass, attended
by her stout little boy. In the same yard lived a shoemaker, who had two
or three children of about the same age as Mrs. Deg’s child. The
children, as time went on, became play-fellows. Little Simon might be
said to have the free run of the shoemaker’s house, and he was the more
attracted thither by the shoemaker’s birds, and by his flute, on which
he often played after his work was done.

Mrs. Deg took a great friendship for this shoemaker; and he and his
wife, a quiet, kind-hearted woman, were almost all the acquaintances
that she cultivated. She had found out her husband’s parents, but they
were not of a description that at all pleased her. They were old and
infirm, but they were of the true pauper breed, a sort of person, whom
Mrs. Deg had been taught to avoid and to despise. They looked on her as
a sort of second parish, and insisted that she should come and live with
them, and help to maintain them out of her earnings. But Mrs. Deg would
rather her little boy had died than have been familiarized with the
spirit and habits of those old people. Despise them she struggled hard
not to do, and she agreed to allow them sufficient to maintain them on
condition that they desisted from any further application to the parish.
It would be a long and disgusting story to recount all the troubles,
annoyance, and querulous complaints, and even bitter accusations that
she received from these connections, whom she could never satisfy; but
she considered it one of her crosses in her life, and patiently bore it,
seeing that they suffered no real want, so long as they lived, which was
for years; but she would never allow her little Simon to be with them
alone.

The shoemaker neighbor was a stout protection to her against the greedy
demands of these old people, and of others of the old Degs, and also
against another class of inconvenient visitors, namely, suitors, who saw
in Mrs. Deg a neat and comely young woman with a flourishing business,
and a neat and soon well-furnished house, a very desirable acquisition.
But Mrs. Deg had resolved never again to marry, but to live for her boy,
and she kept her resolve in firmness and gentleness.

The shoemaker often took walks in the extensive town meadows to gather
groundsell and plantain for his canaries and gorse-linnets, and little
Simon Deg delighted to accompany him with his own children. There
William Watson, the shoemaker, used to point out to the children the
beauty of the flowers, the insects, and other objects of nature; and
while he sate on a stile and read in a little old book of poetry, as he
often used to do, the children sate on the summer grass, and enjoyed
themselves in a variety of plays.

The effect of these walks, and the shoemaker’s conversation on little
Simon Deg was such as never wore out of him through his whole life, and
soon led him to astonish the shoemaker by his extraordinary conduct. He
manifested the utmost uneasiness at their treading on the flowers in the
grass; he would burst with tears if they persisted in it; and when asked
why, he said they were so beautiful, and that they must enjoy the
sunshine, and be very unhappy to die. The shoemaker was amazed, but
indulged the lad’s fancy. One day he thought to give him a great treat,
and when they were out in the meadows, he drew from under his coat, a
bow and arrow, and shot the arrow high up in the air. He expected to see
him in an ecstacy of delight; his own children clapped their hands in
transport, but Simon stood silent, and as if awestruck. “Shall I send up
another?” asked the shoemaker.

“No, no,” exclaimed the child, imploringly. “You say God lives up there,
and he mayn’t like it.”

The shoemaker laughed, but presently he said, as if to himself, “There
is too much imagination there. There will be a poet, if we don’t take
care.”

The shoemaker offered to teach Simon to read, and to solidify his mind,
as he termed it, by arithmetic, and then to teach him to work at his
trade. His mother was very glad; and thought shoemaking would be a good
trade for the boy; and that with Mr. Watson she should have him always
near her. He was growing now a great lad, and was especially strong, and
of a frank and daring habit. He was especially indignant at any act of
oppression of the weak by the strong, and not seldom got into trouble by
his championship of the injured in such cases amongst the boys of the
neighborhood.

He was now about twelve years of age; when, going one day with a basket
of clothes on his head to Mr. Spires’s for his mother, he was noticed by
Mr. Spires himself from his counting-house window. The great war was
raging; there was much distress amongst the manufacturers; and the
people were suffering and exasperated against their masters. Mr. Spires,
as a staunch tory, and supporter of the war, was particularly obnoxious
to the work-people, who uttered violent threats against him. For this
reason his premises were strictly guarded, and at the entrance of his
yard, just within the gates, was chained a huge and fierce mastiff, his
chain allowing him to approach near enough to intimidate any stranger,
though not to reach him. The dog knew the people who came regularly
about, and seemed not to notice them, but on the entrance of a stranger,
he rose up, barked fiercely, and came to the length of his chain. This
always drew the attention of the porter, if he were away from his box,
and few persons dared to pass till he came.

Simon Deg was advancing with the basket of clean linen on his head,
when the dog rushed out, and barking loudly, came exactly opposite to
him, within a few feet. The boy, a good deal startled at first, reared
himself with his back against the wall, but at a glance perceiving that
the dog was at the length of his tether, he seemed to enjoy his
situation, and stood smiling at the furious animal, and lifting his
basket with both hands above his head, nodded to him, as if to say,
“Well, old boy, you’d like to eat me, wouldn’t you?”

Mr. Spires, who sate near his counting-house window at his books, was
struck with the bold and handsome bearing of the boy, and said to a
clerk, “What boy is that?”

“It is Jenny Deg’s,” was the answer.

“Ha! that boy! Zounds! how boys do grow! What that’s the child that
Jenny Deg was carrying when she came to Stockington; and what a strong,
handsome, bright-looking fellow he is now!”

As the boy was returning, Mr. Spires call him to the counting-house
door, and put some questions to him as to what he was doing and
learning, and so on. Simon, taking off his cap with much respect,
answered in such a clear and modest way, and with a voice that had so
much feeling and natural music in it, that the worthy manufacturer was
greatly taken with him.

“That’s no Deg,” said he, when he again entered the counting-house, “not
a bit of it. He’s all Goodrick, or whatever his mother’s name was, every
inch of him.”

The consequences of that interview was, that Simon Deg was very soon
after perched on a stool in Mr. Spires’ counting-house, where he
continued till he was twenty-two. Mr. Spires had no son, only a single
daughter; and such were Simon Deg’s talents, attention to business, and
genial disposition, that at that age Mr. Spires gave him a share in the
concern. He was himself now getting less fond of exertion than he had
been, and placed the most implicit reliance on Simon’s judgment and
general management. Yet no two men could be more unlike in their
opinions beyond the circle of trade. Mr. Spires was a staunch tory of
the staunch old school. He was for Church and King, and for things
remaining forever as they had been. Simon, on the other hand, had
liberal and reforming notions. He was for the improvement of the people,
and their admission to many privileges. Mr. Spires was, therefore, liked
by the leading men of the place, and disliked by the people. Simon’s
estimation was precisely in the opposite direction. But this did not
disturb their friendship; it required another disturbing cause--and that
came.

Simon Deg and the daughter of Mr. Spires, grew attached to each other;
and, as the father had thought Simon worthy of becoming a partner in the
business, neither of the young people deemed that he would object to a
partnership of a more domestic description. But here they made a
tremendous mistake. No sooner was such a proposal hinted it, than Mr.
Spires burst forth with the fury of all the winds from the bag of
Ulysses.

“What! a Deg aspire to the hand of the sole heiress of the enormously
opulent Spires?”

The very thought almost cut the proud manufacturer off with an
apoplexy. The ghosts of a thousand paupers rose up before him, and he
was black in the face. It was only by a prompt and bold application of
leeches and lancet, that the life of the great man was saved. But there
was an end of all further friendship between himself and the expectant
Simon. He insisted that he should withdraw from the concern, and it was
done. Simon, who felt his own dignity deeply wounded too, for dignity he
had, though the last of a long line of paupers--his own dignity, not his
ancestors’--took silently, yet not unrespectfully, his share--a good,
round sum, and entered another house of business.

For several years there appeared to be a feud and a bitterness between
the former friends; yet it showed itself in no other manner than by a
careful avoidance of each other. The continental war came to an end; the
manufacturing distress increased exceedingly. There came troublous
times, and a fierce warfare of politics. Great Stockington was torn
asunder by rival parties. On one side stood pre-eminent, Mr. Spires; on
the other towered conspicuously, Simon Deg. Simon was grown rich, and
extremely popular. He was on all occasions the advocate of the people.
He said that he had sprung from, and was one of them. He had bought a
large tract of land on one side of the town; and intensely fond of the
country and flowers himself, he had divided this into gardens, built
little summer-houses in them, and let them to the artisans. In his
factory he had introduced order, cleanliness, and ventilation. He had
set up a school for the children in the evenings, with a reading-room
and conversation-room for the work-people, and encouraged them to bring
their families there, and enjoy music, books, and lectures. Accordingly,
he was the idol of the people, and the horror of the old school of the
manufacturers.

“A pretty upstart and demagogue I’ve nurtured,” said Mr. Spires often to
his wife and daughter, who only sighed and were silent.

Then came a furious election. The town, for a fortnight, more resembled
the worst corner of Tartarus than a Christian borough. Drunkenness,
riot, pumping on one another, spencering one another, all sorts of
violence and abuse ruled and raged till the blood of all Stockington was
at boiling heat. In the midst of the tempest were everywhere seen,
ranged on the opposite sides, Mr. Spires, now old and immensely
corpulent, and Simon Deg, active, buoyant, zealous, and popular beyond
measure. But popular though, he still was, the other and old tory side
triumphed. The people were exasperated to madness; and when the chairing
of the successful candidate commenced, there was a terrific attack made
on the procession by the defeated party. Down went the chair, and the
new member, glad to escape into an inn, saw his friends mercilessly
assailed by the populace. There was a tremendous tempest of sticks,
brick-bats, paving-stones, and rotten eggs. In the midst of this, Simon
Deg, and a number of his friends, standing at the upper window of a
hotel, saw Mr. Spires knocked down, and trampled on by the crowd. In an
instant, and, before his friends had missed him from among them, Simon
Deg was then darting through the raging mass, cleaving his way with a
surprising vigor, and gesticulating, and no doubt shouting vehemently to
the rioters, though his voice was lost in the din. In the next moment
his hat was knocked off, and himself appeared in imminent danger; but,
another moment, and there was a pause, and a group of people were
bearing somebody from the frantic mob into a neighboring shop. It was
Simon Deg, assisting in the rescue of his old friend and benefactor, Mr.
Spires.

Mr. Spires was a good deal bruised, and wonderfully confounded and
bewildered by his fall. His clothes were one mass of mud, and his face
was bleeding copiously; but when he had had a good draught of water, and
his face washed, and had time to recover himself, it was found that he
had received no serious injury.

“They had like to have done for me though,” said he.

“Yes, and who saved you?” asked a gentleman.

“Ay, who was it? who was it?” asked the really warm-hearted
manufacturer; “let me know? I owe him my life.”

“There he is!” said several gentlemen, at the same instant pushing
forward Simon Deg.

“What, Simon!” said Mr. Spires, starting to his feet. “Was it thee, my
boy?” He did more, he stretched out his hand; the young man clasped it
eagerly, and the two stood silent, and with a heartfelt emotion, which
blended all the past into forgetfulness, and the future into a union
more sacred than esteem.

A week hence and Simon Deg was the son-in-law of Mr. Spires. Though Mr.
Spires had misunderstood Simon, and Simon had borne the aspect of
opposition to his old friend in defence of conscientious principle, the
wife and daughter of the manufacturer had always understood him, and
secretly looked forward to some day of recognition and re-union.

Simon Deg was now the richest man in Stockington. His mother was still
living to enjoy his elevation. She had been his excellent and wise
house-keeper, and she continued to occupy that post still.

Twenty-five years afterwards, when the worthy old Spires was dead, and
Simon Deg had himself two sons attained to manhood; when he had five
times been mayor of Stockington, and had been knighted on the
presentation of a loyal address; still his mother was living to see it;
and William Watson, the shoe-maker, was acting as the sort of orderly at
Sir Simon’s chief manufactory. He occupied the Lodge, and walked about,
and saw that all was safe, and moving on as it should do.

It was amazing how the most plebeian name of Simon Peg had slid, under
the hands of the Heralds, into the really aristocratical one of Sir
Simon Degge. They had traced him up a collateral kinship, spite of his
own consciousness, to a baronet of the same name of the county of
Stafford, and had given him a coat of arms that was really astonishing.

It was some years before this that Sir Roger Rockville breathed his
last. His title and estate had fallen into litigation. Owing to two
generations having passed without any issue of the Rockville family
except the one son and heir, the claims, though numerous, were so
mingled with obscuring circumstances, and so equally balanced, that the
lawyers raised quibbles and difficulties enough to keep the property in
Chancery, till they had not only consumed all the ready money and
rental, but had made frightful inroads into the estate itself. To save
the remnant, the contending parties came to a compromise. A neighboring
squire, whose grandfather had married a Rockville, was allowed to secure
the title, on condition that the rest carried off the residuum of the
estate. The woods and lands of Rockville were announced for sale!

It was at this juncture that old William Watson reminded Sir Simon Degge
of a conversation in the great grove of Rockville, which they had held
at the time that Sir Roger was endeavoring to drive the people thence.
“What a divine pleasure might this man enjoy,” said Simon Deg to his
humble friend, “if he had a heart capable of letting others enjoy
themselves.”

“But we talk without the estate,” said William Watson, “what might we do
if we were tried with it?”

Sir Simon was silent for a moment; then observed that there was sound
philosophy in William Watson’s remark. He said no more, but went away;
and the next day announced to the astonished old man that he had
purchased the groves and the whole ancient estate of Rockville!

Sir Simon Degge, the last of a long line of paupers, was become the
possessor of the noble estate of Sir Roger Rockville of Rockville, the
last of a long line of aristocrats!

The following summer, when the hay was lying in fragrant cocks in the
great meadows of Rockville, and on the little islands in the river, Sir
Simon Degge, Baronet of Rockville,--for such was now his title--through
the suggestion of a great lawyer, formerly recorder of the borough of
Stockington to the crown--held a grand fête on the occasion of his
coming to reside at Rockville Hall, henceforth the family seat of the
Degges. His house and gardens had been restored to the most consummate
order. For years Sir Simon had been a great purchaser of works of art
and literature, paintings, statuary, books, and articles of antiquity,
including rich armor and precious works in ivory and gold.

First and foremost he gave a great banquet to his wealthy friends, and
no man with a million and a half is without them--and in abundance. In
the second place, he gave a substantial dinner to all his tenantry, from
the wealthy farmer of five hundred acres to the tenant of a cottage. On
this occasion he said, “Game is a great subject of heart-burning, and of
great injustice to the country. It was the bane of my predecessor; let
us take care it is not ours. Let every man kill the game on the land
that he rents--then he will not destroy it utterly, nor allow it to grow
into a nuisance. I am fond of a gun myself, but I trust to find enough
for my propensity to the chase in my own fields and woods--if I
occasionally extend my pursuit across the lands of my tenants, it shall
not be to carry off the first-fruits of their feeding, and I shall still
hold the enjoyment as a favor.”

We need not say that this speech was applauded most vociferously.
Thirdly, and lastly, he gave a grand entertainment to all his
work-people, both of the town and the country. His house and gardens
were thrown open to the inspection of the whole assembled company. The
delighted crowd admired immensely the pictures and the pleasant gardens.
On the lawn, lying between the great grove and the hall, an enormous
tent was pitched, or rather a vast canvas canopy erected, open on all
sides, in which was laid a charming banquet; a military band from
Stockington barracks playing during the time. Here Sir Simon made a
speech as rapturously received as that to the farmers. It was to the
effect, that all the old privileges of wandering in the grove, and
angling, and boating on the river, were restored. The inn was already
rebuilt in a handsome Elizabethan style, larger than before, and to
prevent it ever becoming a fane of intemperance, he had there posted as
landlord, he hoped for many years to come, his old friend and
benefactor, William Watson. William Watson should protect the inn from
riot, and they themselves the groves and river banks from injury.

Long and loud were the applauses which this announcement occasioned. The
young people turned out upon the green for a dance, and in the evening,
after an excellent tea--the whole company descended the river to
Stockington in boats and barges decorated with boughs and flowers, and
singing a song made by William Watson for the occasion, called “The
Health of Sir Simon, last and first of his Line.”

Years have rolled on. The groves and river banks and islands of
Rockville are still greatly frequented, but are never known to be
injured: poachers are never known there, for four reasons. First, nobody
would like to annoy the good Sir Simon; secondly, game is not very
numerous there; thirdly, there is no fun in killing it where there is
no resistance; and fourthly, it is vastly more abundant in other
proprietors’ demesnes, and _it is_ fun to kill it there, where it is
jealously watched, and there is a chance of a good spree with the
keepers.

And with what different feelings does the good Sir Simon look down from
his lofty eyrie, over the princely expanse of meadows, and over the
glittering river, and over the stately woods to where Great Stockington
still stretches farther and farther its red brick walls, its red-tiled
roofs, and its tall smoke-vomiting chimneys. There he sees no haunts of
crowded enemies to himself or any man. No upstarts, nor envious
opponents, but a vast family of human beings, all toiling for the good
of their families and their country. All advancing, some faster, some
slower, to a better education, a better social condition, a better
conception of the principles of art and commerce, and a clearer
recognition of their rights and their duties, and a more cheering faith
in the upward tendency of humanity.

Looking on this interesting scene from his distant and quiet home, Sir
Simon sees what blessings flow--and how deeply he feels them in his own
case--from a free circulation, not only of trade, but of human
relations. How this corrects the mischiefs, moral and physical, of false
systems and rusty prejudices;--and he ponders on schemes of no ordinary
beauty and beneficence yet to reach his beloved town through them. He
sees lecture halls and academies, means of sanitary purification, and
delicious recreation, in which baths, wash-houses, and airy homes figure
largely; while public walks extend all round the great industrial hive,
including wood, hills, meadow, and river in their circuit of many miles.
There he lived and labored; there live and labor his sons; and there he
trusts his family will continue to live and labor to all future
generations; never retiring to the fatal indolence of wealth, but aiding
onwards its active and ever-expanding beneficence.

Long may the good Sir Simon live and labor to realize these views. But
already in a green corner of the pleasant churchyard of Rockville may
be read this inscription on a marble headstone:--“Sacred to the Memory
of Jane Deg, the mother of Sir Simon Degge, Bart., of Rockville. This
stone is erected in honor of the best of Mothers by the most grateful of
sons.”




III.

The Gentleman Beggar

AN ATTORNEY’S STORY.


One morning, about five years ago, I called by appointment on Mr. John
Balance, the fashionable pawnbroker, to accompany him to Liverpool, in
pursuit for a Levanting customer,--for Balance, in addition to pawning,
does a little business in the sixty per cent. line. It rained in
torrents when the cab stopped at the passage which leads past the
pawning boxes to his private door. The cabman rang twice, and at length
Balance appeared, looming through the mist and rain in the entry,
illuminated by his perpetual cigar. As I eyed him rather impatiently,
remembering that trains wait for no man, something like a hairy dog, or
a bundle of rags, rose up at his feet, and barred his passage for a
moment. Then Balance cried out with an exclamation, in answer apparently
to a something I could not hear, “What, man alive!--slept in the
passage!--there, take that, and get some breakfast for Heaven’s sake!”
So saying, he jumped into the “Hansom,” and we bowled away at ten miles
an hour, just catching the Express as the doors of the station were
closing. My curiosity was full set,--for although Balance can be free
with his money, it is not exactly to beggars that his generosity is
usually displayed; so when comfortably ensconced in a _coupé_, I
finished with--

“You are liberal with your money this morning; pray, how often do you
give silver to street cadgers?--because I shall know now what walk to
take when flats and sharps leave off buying law.”

Balance, who would have made an excellent parson if he had not been bred
to a case-hardening trade, and has still a soft bit left in his heart
that is always fighting with his hard head, did not smile at all, but
looked as grim as if squeezing a lemon into his Saturday night’s punch.
He answered slowly, “A cadger--yes; a beggar--a miserable wretch, he is
now; but let me tell you, Master David, that that miserable bundle of
rags was born and bred a gentleman; the son of a nobleman, the husband
of an heiress, and has sat and dined at tables where you and I, Master
David, are only allowed to view the plate by favor of the butler. I have
lent him thousands, and been well paid. The last thing I had from him
was his court suit; and I hold now his bill for one hundred pounds that
will be paid, I expect, when he dies.”

“Why, what nonsense you are talking! you must be dreaming this morning.
However, we are alone, I’ll light a weed, in defiance of Railway law,
you shall spin that yarn; for, true or untrue, it will fill up the time
to Liverpool.”

“As for yarn,” replied Balance, “the whole story is short enough; and as
for truth, that you may easily find out if you like to take the
trouble. I thought the poor wretch was dead, and I own it put me out
meeting him this morning, for I had a curious dream last night.”

“Oh, hang your dreams! Tell us about this gentleman beggar that bleeds
you of half-crowns--that melts the heart even of a pawnbroker!”

“Well, then, that beggar is the illegitimate son of the late Marquis of
Hoopborough by a Spanish lady of rank. He received a first-rate
education, and was brought up in his father’s house. At a very early age
he obtained an appointment in a public office, was presented by the
marquis at court, and received into the first society, where his
handsome person and agreeable manners made him a great favorite. Soon
after coming of age, he married the daughter of Sir E. Bumper, who
brought him a very handsome fortune, which was strictly settled on
herself. They lived in splendid style, kept several carriages, a house
in town, and a place in the country. For some reason or other, idleness,
or to plead his lady’s pride he said, he resigned his appointment. His
father died, and left him nothing; indeed, he seemed at that time very
handsomely provided for.

“Very soon Mr. and Mrs. Molinos Fitz-Roy began to disagree. She was
cold, correct--he was hot and random. He was quite dependent on her, and
she made him feel it. When he began to get into debt, he came to me. At
length some shocking quarrel occurred; some case of jealousy on the
wife’s side, not without reason, I believe; and the end of it was Mr.
Fitz-Roy was turned out of doors. The house was his wife’s, the
furniture was his wife’s, and the fortune was his wife’s--he was, in
fact, her pensioner. He left with a few hundred pounds ready money, and
some personal jewellery, and went to a hotel. On these and credit he
lived. Being illegitimate, he had no relations; being a fool, when he
spent his money he lost his friends. The world took his wife’s part,
when they found she had the fortune, and the only parties who interfered
were her relatives, who did their best to make the quarrel incurable. To
crown all, one night he was run over by a cab, was carried to a
hospital, and lay there for months, and was during several weeks of the
time unconscious. A message to the wife, by the hands of one of his
debauched companions, sent by a humane surgeon, obtained an intimation
that ‘if he died, Mr. Croak, the undertaker to the family, had orders to
see to the funeral,’ and that Mrs. Molinos was on the point of starting
for the Continent, not to return for some years. When Fitz-Roy was
discharged, he came to me limping on two sticks, to pawn his court suit,
and told me his story. I was really sorry for the fellow, such a
handsome, thoroughbred-looking man. He was going then into the west
somewhere, to try to hunt out a friend. ‘What to do, Balance,’ he said,
‘I don’t know. I can’t dig, and unless somebody will make me their
gamekeeper, I must starve or beg, as my Jezebel bade me when we parted!’

“I lost sight of Molinos for a long time, and when I next came upon him
it was in the Rookery of Westminster, in a low lodging-house, where I
was searching with an officer for stolen goods. He was pointed out to
me as the ‘gentleman cadger,’ because he was so free with his money when
‘in luck.’ He recognized me, but turned away then. I have since seen
him, and relieved him more than once, although he never asks for
anything. How he lives, Heaven knows. Without money, without friends,
without useful education of any kind, he tramps the country, as you saw
him, perhaps doing a little hop-picking or hay-making, in season, only
happy when he obtains the means to get drunk. I have heard through the
kitchen whispers that you know come to me, that he is entitled to some
property; and I expect if he were to die his wife would pay the hundred
pound bill I hold; at any rate, what I have told you I know to be true,
and the bundle of rags I relieved just now is known in every thieves’
lodging in England as the ‘gentleman cadger.’”

This story produced an impression on me,--I am fond of speculation, and
like the excitement of a legal hunt as much as some do a fox-chase. A
gentleman a beggar, a wife rolling in wealth, rumors of unknown
property due to the husband; it seemed as if there were pickings for me
amidst this carrion of pauperism.

Before returning from Liverpool, I had purchased the gentleman beggar’s
acceptance from Balance. I then inserted in the “Times” the following
advertisement: “_Horatio Molinos Fitz-Roy_.--If this gentleman will
apply to David Discount, Esq., Solicitor, St. James’s, he will hear of
something to his advantage. Any person furnishing Mr. F.’s correct
address, shall receive 1_l._ 1_s._ reward. He was last seen,” &c. Within
twenty-four hours I had ample proof of the wide circulation of the
“Times.” My office was besieged with beggars of every degree, men and
women, lame and blind, Irish, Scotch, and English, some on crutches,
some in bowls, some in go-carts. They all knew him as “the gentleman,”
and I must do the regular fraternity of tramps the justice to say that
not one would answer a question until he made certain that I meant the
“gentleman” no harm.

One evening, about three weeks after the appearance of the
advertisement, my clerk announced “another beggar.” There came in an old
man leaning upon a staff, clad in a soldier’s great coat all patched and
torn, with a battered hat, from under which a mass of tangled hair fell
over his shoulders and half concealed his face. The beggar, in a weak,
wheezy, hesitating tone, said, “You have advertised for Molinos
Fitz-Roy. I hope you don’t mean him any harm; he is sunk, I think, too
low for enmity now; and surely no one would sport with such misery as
his.” These last words were uttered in a sort of piteous whisper.

I answered quickly, “Heaven forbid I should sport with misery; I mean
and hope to do him good, as well as myself.”

“Then, Sir, I am Molinos Fitz-Roy!”

While we were conversing candles had been brought in. I have not very
tender nerves--my head would not agree with them--but I own I started
and shuddered when I saw and knew that the wretched creature before me
was under thirty years of age and once a gentleman. Sharp, aquiline
features, reduced to literal skin and bone, were begrimed and covered
with dry fair hair; the white teeth of the half-open mouth chattered
with eagerness, and made more hideous the foul pallor of the rest of the
countenance. As he stood leaning on a staff half bent, his long, yellow
bony fingers clasped over the crutch-head of his stick, he was indeed a
picture of misery, famine, squalor, and premature age, too horrible to
dwell upon. I made him sit down, sent for some refreshment, which he
devoured like a ghoul, and set to work to unravel his story. It was
difficult to keep him to the point; but with pains I learned what
convinced me that he was entitled to some property, whether great or
small there was no evidence. On parting, I said “Now Mr. F., you must
stay in town while I make proper inquiries. What allowance will be
enough to keep you comfortably?”

He answered humbly after much pressing, “Would you think ten shillings
too much!”

I don’t like, if I do those things at all, to do them shabbily, so I
said, “Come every Saturday and you shall have a pound.” He was profuse
in thanks of course, as all such men are as long as distress lasts.

I had previously learned that my ragged client’s wife was in England,
living in a splendid house in Hyde Park Gardens, under her maiden name.
On the following day the Earl of Owing called upon me, wanting five
thousand pounds by five o’clock the same evening. It was a case of life
or death with him, so I made my terms and took advantage of his pressure
to execute a _coup de main_. I proposed that he should drive me home to
receive the money, calling at Mrs. Molinos in Hyde Park Gardens, on our
way. I knew that the coronet and liveries of his father, the Marquis,
would ensure me an audience with Mrs. Molinos Fitz-Roy.

My scheme answered. I was introduced into the lady’s presence. She was,
and probably is, a very stately, handsome woman, with a pale complexion,
high solid forehead, regular features, thin, pinched, self-satisfied
mouth. My interview was very short. I plunged into the middle of the
affair, but had scarcely mentioned the word husband, when she
interrupted me with “I presume you have lent this profligate person
money, and want me to pay you.” She paused, and then said, “He shall not
have a farthing.” As she spoke, her white face became scarlet.

“But, Madam, the man is starving. I have strong reasons for believing he
is entitled to property, and if you refuse any assistance, I must take
other measures.” She rang the bell, wrote something rapidly on a card;
and, as the footman appeared, pushed it towards me across the table,
with the air of touching a toad, saying, “There, Sir, is the address of
my solicitors; apply to them if you think you have any claim. Robert,
show the person out, and take care he is not admitted again.”

So far I had effected nothing; and, to tell the truth, felt rather
crest-fallen under the influence of that grand manner peculiar to
certain great ladies and to all great actresses.

My next visit was to the attorneys Messrs’. Leasem and Fashun, of
Lincoln’s Inn Square, and there I was at home. I had had dealings with
the firm before. They are agents for half the aristocracy, who always
run in crowds like sheep after the same wine-merchants, the same
architects, the same horse-dealers, and the same law-agents. It may be
doubted whether the quality of law and land management they get on this
principle is quite equal to their wine and horses. At any rate, my
friends of Lincoln’s Inn, like others of the same class, are
distinguished by their courteous manners, deliberate proceedings,
innocence of legal technicalities, long credit and heavy charges.
Leasem, the elder partner, wears powder and a huge bunch of seals, lives
in Queen Square, drives a brougham, gives the dinners and does the
cordial department. He is so strict in performing the latter duty, that
he once addressed a poacher who had shot a Duke’s keeper, as “my dear
creature,” although he afterwards hung him.

Fashun has chambers in St. James Street, drives a cab, wears a tip, and
does the grand haha style.

My business lay with Leasem. The interviews and letters passing were
numerous. However, it came at last to the following dialogue:--

“Well, my dear Mr. Discount,” began Mr. Leasem, who hates me like
poison. “I’m really very sorry for that poor dear Molinos--knew his
father well; a great man, a perfect gentleman; but you know what women
are, eh, Mr. Discount? My client won’t advance a shilling, she knows it
would only be wasted in low dissipation. Now don’t you think (this was
said very insinuatingly)--don’t you think he had better be sent to the
work-house; very comfortable accommodation there, I can assure you--meat
twice a week, and excellent soup; and then, Mr. D., we might consider
about allowing you something for that bill.”

“Mr. Leasem, can you reconcile it to your conscience to make such an
arrangement. Here’s a wife rolling in luxury, and a husband starving!”

“No, Mr. Discount, not starving; there is the work-house, as I observed
before; besides, allow me to suggest that these appeals to feeling are
quite unprofessional--quite unprofessional.”

“But, Mr. Leasem, touching this property which the poor man is entitled
to.”

“Why, there again, Mr. D., you must excuse me; you really must. I don’t
say he is, I don’t say he is not. If you know he is entitled to
property, I am sure you know how to proceed; the law is open to you, Mr.
Discount--the law is open; and a man of your talent will know how to use
it.”

“Then, Mr. Leasem, you mean that I must in order to right this starving
man, file a Bill of Discovery to extract from you the particulars of his
rights. You have the Marriage Settlement, and all the information, and
you decline to allow a pension, or afford any information; the man is to
starve, or go to the work-house?”

“Why, Mr. D., you are so quick and violent, it really is not
professional; but you see (here a subdued smile of triumph), it has been
decided that a solicitor is not bound to afford such information as you
ask, to the injury of his client.”

“Then you mean that this poor Molinos may rot and starve, while you
keep secret from him, at his wife’s request, his title to an income, and
that the Court of Chancery will back you in this iniquity?”

I kept repeating the word “starve,” because I saw it made my respectable
opponent wince. “Well, then, just listen to me. I know that in the happy
state of our equity law, Chancery can’t help my client; but I have
another plan; I shall go hence to my office, issue a writ, and take your
client’s husband in execution--as soon as he is lodged in jail, I shall
file his schedule in the Insolvent Court, and when he comes up for his
discharge, I shall put you in the witness-box, and examine you on oath,
‘touching any property of which you know the insolvent to be possessed,’
and where will be your privileged communications then?”

The respectable Leasem’s face lengthened in a twinkling, his comfortable
confident air vanished, he ceased twiddling his gold chain, and at
length he muttered, “Suppose we pay the debt?”

“Why, then, I’ll arrest him the day after for another.”

“But, my dear Mr. Discount, surely such, conduct would not be quite
respectable?”

“That’s my business; my client has been wronged, I am determined to
right him, and when the aristocratic firm of Leasem and Fashun takes
refuge, according to the custom of respectable repudiators, in the cool
arbors of the Court of Chancery, why, a mere bill-discounting attorney,
like David Discount, need not hesitate about cutting a bludgeon out of
the Insolvent Court.”

“Well, well, Mr. D., you are so warm--so fiery; we must deliberate, we
must consult. You will give me until the day after to-morrow, and then
we’ll write you our final determination; in the, meantime send us copy
of your authority to act for Mr. Molinos Fitz-Roy.”

Of course I lost no time in getting the gentleman beggar to sign a
proper letter.

On the appointed day came a communication with the L. and F. seal,
which I opened not without unprofessional eagerness. It was as follows:

    “_In re Molinos Fitz-Roy and Another._

     “Sir,--In answer to your application on behalf of Mr. Molinos
     Fitz-Roy, we beg to inform you that under the administration of a
     paternal aunt who died intestate, your client is entitled to two
     thousand five hundred pounds eight shillings and sixpence, Three
     per Cents; one thousand five hundred pounds nineteen shillings and
     fourpence, Three per Cents Reduced; one thousand pounds, Long
     Annuities; five hundred pounds, Bank Stock; three thousand five
     hundred pounds, India Stock, besides other securities, making up
     about ten thousand pounds, which we are prepared to transfer over
     to Mr. Molinos Fitz-Roy’s direction forthwith.”

Here was a windfall! It quite took away my breath.

At dusk came my gentleman beggar, and what puzzled me was how to break
the news to him. Being very much overwhelmed with business that day, I
had not much time for consideration. He came in rather better dressed
than when I first saw him, with only a week’s beard on his chin; but, as
usual, not quite sober. Six weeks had elapsed since our first interview.
He was still the humble, trembling, low-voiced creature, I first knew
him.

After a prelude, I said, “I find, Mr. F., you are entitled to something;
pray, what do you mean to give me in addition to my bill for obtaining
it?” He answered rapidly, “Oh, take half; if there is one hundred
pounds, take half; if there is five hundred pounds, take half.”

“No, no, Mr. F., I don’t do business in that way, I shall be satisfied
with ten per cent.”

It was so settled. I then led him out into the street, impelled to tell
the news, yet dreading the effect; not daring to make the revelation in
my office for fear of a scene.

I began hesitatingly, “Mr. Fitz-Roy, I am happy to say that I find you
are entitled to.... ten thousand pounds!”

“Ten thousand pounds!” he echoed. “Ten thousand pounds!” he shrieked.
“Ten thousand pounds!” he yelled, seizing my arm violently.

“You are a brick,---- Here, cab! cab!” Several drove up--the shout might
have been heard a mile off. He jumped in the first.

“Where to?” said the driver.

“To a tailor’s, you rascal!”

“Ten thousand pounds! ha, ha, ha!” he repeated hysterically, when in the
cab; and every moment grasping my arm. Presently he subsided, looked me
straight in the face, and muttered with agonizing fervor, “What a jolly
brick you are!”

The tailor, the hosier, the bootmaker, the hairdresser, were in turn
visited by this poor pagan of externals. As by degrees under their hands
he emerged from the beggar to the gentleman, his spirits rose; his eyes
brightened; he walked erect, but always nervously grasping my arm;
fearing, apparently, to lose sight of me for a moment, lest his fortune
should vanish with me. The impatient pride with which he gave his order
to the astonished tradesman for the finest and best of everything, and
the amazed air of the fashionable hairdresser when he presented his
matted locks and stubble chin to be “cut and shaved,” may be _acted_--it
cannot be described.

By the time the external transformation was complete, and I sat down in
a _café_ in the Haymarket opposite a haggard but handsome
thoroughbred-looking man, whose air, with the exception of the wild eyes
and deeply-browned face, did not differ from the stereotyped men about
town sitting around us, Mr. Molinos Fitz-Roy had already almost
forgotten the past; he bullied the waiter, and criticized the wine, as
if he had done nothing else but dine and drink and scold there all the
days of his life.

Once he wished to drink my health, and would have proclaimed his whole
story to the coffee-room assembly in a raving style. When I left he
almost wept in terror at the idea of losing sight of me. But, allowing
for these ebullitions--the natural result of such a whirl of events--he
was wonderfully calm and self-possessed.

The next day his first care was to distribute fifty pounds among his
friends the cadgers, at a house of call in Westminster, and formally to
dissolve his connection with them; those present undertaking for the
“fraternity,” that for the future he should never be noticed by them in
public or private.

I cannot follow his career much further. Adversity had taught him
nothing. He was soon again surrounded by the well-bred vampires who had
forgotten him when penniless; but they amused him, and that was enough.
The ten thousand pounds were rapidly melting when he invited me to a
grand dinner at Richmond, which included a dozen of the most agreeable,
good-looking, well-dressed dandies of London, interspersed with a
display of pretty butterfly bonnets. We dined deliciously, and drank as
men do of iced wines in the dog-days--looking down from Richmond Hill.

One of the pink bonnets crowned Fitz-Roy with a wreath of flowers; he
looked--less the intellect--as handsome as Alcibiades. Intensely excited
and flushed, he rose with a champagne glass in his hand to propose my
health.

The oratorical powers of his father had not descended on him. Jerking
out sentences by spasms, at length he said, “I was a beggar--I am a
gentleman--thanks to this----”

Here he leaned on my shoulder heavily a moment, and then fell back. We
raised him, loosened his neckcloth--

“Fainted!” said the ladies--

“Drunk!” said the gentlemen--

He was _dead_!




IV.

“Evil is Wrought by Want of Thought.”


“It must come some day; and come when it will, it will be hard to do, so
we had best go at once, Sally. I shall have more trouble with Miss
Isabel than you will with Miss Laura; for I am twice the favorite you
are.”

So said Fanny to her cousin, who had just turned to descend the
staircase of Aldington Hall, where they had both lived since they were
almost children, in attendance on the two daughters of the old baronet,
who were near their own ages, and had always treated them with great
kindness.

“I am not sure of that,” replied Sally, “for Miss Laura is so seldom put
out, that when once she is vexed, she will be hard to comfort; and I am
sure, Fanny, she loves me every bit as well as Miss Isabel does you,
though it is her way to be so quiet. I dare say she will cry when I say
I must go; but then John would be like to cry too, if I put him off
longer.”

This consideration restored Sally’s courage, and she proceeded with
Fanny to the gallery into which the rooms of their young mistresses
opened; but here Fanny’s heart failed her; and, stopping short, she
said,

“Suppose we tell them to wait awhile longer, as the young ladies are
going to travel. We might as well see the world first, and marry in a
year or two. But still,” added she, after a pause, “I could not find it
in my heart to say so to Thomas; and I promised him to speak to-day.”

Each cousin then knocked at the door of her mistress. Laura was not in
her room, and Sally went to seek her below stairs; but Isabel called to
Fanny to go in.

Fanny obeyed, and walking forward a few steps, faltered out, with many
blushes, that as young Thomas had kept company with her for nearly a
twelvemonth, and had taken and furnished a little cottage, and begged
hard to take her home to it; she was sorry to say, that if Miss Isabel
would give her leave, she wished to give warning and to go from her
service in a month.

Fanny’s most sanguine wishes or fears, must have been surpassed by the
burst of surprise and grief that followed her modest statement. Isabel
reproached her; refused to take her warning; declared she would never
see her again if she left the Hall, and that rather than be served by
any but her dear Fanny, she would wait upon herself all her life. Fanny
expostulated, and told her mistress that, foreseeing her unwillingness
to lose her, she had already put Thomas off several months; and that at
last, to gain further delay, she had run the risk of appearing selfish,
by refusing to marry him till he had furnished a whole cottage for her.
This, she said he had--by working late and early--accomplished in a
surprisingly short time, and had the day before claimed the reward of
his industry. “And now, Miss,” added she, “he gets quite pale, and
begins to believe I do not love him, and yet I do, better than all the
world, and could not find it in my heart to vex him, and make him look
sad again. Yesterday he seemed so happy, when I promised to be his wife
in a month.” Here Fanny burst into tears. Her sobs softened Isabel, who
consented to let her go; and after talking over her plans, became as
enthusiastic in promoting, as she had at first been, in opposing them.
Thomas was to take Fanny over to see the cottage, that evening, and
Isabel, in the warmth of her heart, promised to accompany them. Fanny
thanked her with a curtesy, and thought how pleased she ought to be at
such condescension in her young mistress, but could not help fearing
that her sweetheart would not half appreciate the favor.

After receiving many promises of friendship and assistance, Fanny
hastened to report to Sally the success of her negotiation. Sally was
sitting in their little bedroom, thoughtful, and almost sad. She
listened to Fanny’s account; and replied in answer to her questions
concerning Miss Laura’s way of taking her warning, “I am afraid, Fanny,
you were right in thinking yourself the greatest favorite, for Miss
Laura seemed almost pleased at my news; she took me by the hand, and
said, ‘I am very glad to hear you are to marry such a good young man as
every one acknowledges John Maythorn to be, and you may depend upon my
being always ready to help you, if you want assistance.’ She then said a
deal about my having lived with her six years, and not having once
displeased her, and told me that master had promised my mother and yours
too, that his young ladies should see after us all our lives. This was
very kind, to be sure; but then Miss Isabel promised you presents
whether you wanted assistance or not, and is to give you a silk gown and
a white ribbon for the wedding, and is to go over to the cottage with
you; now Miss Laura did not say a word of any such thing.”

Fanny tried to comfort her cousin by saying it was Miss Laura’s quiet
way; but she could not help secretly rejoicing that her own mistress
was so generous and affectionate.

In the evening the two sweethearts came to lead their future wives to
the cottages, which were near each other, and at about a mile from the
Hall. John had a happy walk. He learned from Sally that he was to “take
her home” in a month, and was so pleased at the news, that he could
scarcely be happier when she bustled about, exclaiming at every new
sight in the pretty bright little cottage. The tea-caddy, the cupboard
of china, and a large cat, each called forth a fresh burst of joy. Sally
thought everything “the prettiest she had ever seen;” and when John made
her sit in the arm-chair and put her feet on the fender, as if she were
already mistress of the cottage, she burst into sobs of joy. We will not
pause to tell how her sobs were stopped, nor what promises of unchanging
kindness, were made in that bright little kitchen; but we may safely
affirm that Sally and John were happier than they had ever been in their
lives, and that old Mrs. Maythorn, who was keeping the cottage for
Sally, felt all her fondest wishes were fulfilled as she saw the two
lovers depart.

Fanny and Thomas, who had left them at the cottage door, walked on to
their own future home, quite overwhelmed by the honor Miss Isabel was
conferring on them by walking at their side.

“You see, Miss,” said Thomas, as he turned the key of his cottage-door,
“there is nothing to speak of here, only such things as are necessary,
and all of the plainest; but it will do well enough for us poor folks;”
and as he threw open the door, he found to his surprise that what had
seemed to him yesterday so pretty and neat, now looked indeed “all of
the plainest.” The very carpet, and metal teapot, which he had intended
as surprises for Fanny, he was now ashamed of pointing out to her, and
he apologized to Isabel for the coarse quality of the former, telling
her it was only to serve till he could get a better.

“Yes,” answered she, “this is not half good enough for my little Fanny,
she must have a real Brussels carpet. I will send her one. I will make
your cottage so pretty, Fanny, you shall have a nice china tea set, not
these common little things, and I will give you some curtains for the
window.” Thomas blushed as this deficiency was pointed out. “Why, Miss,”
said he, “I meant to have trained the rose tree over the window, I
thought that would be shady, and sweet in the summer, and in the winter,
why, we should want all the day-light; but then to be sure, curtains
will be much better.”

“Yes, Thomas,” replied the young lady, “and warm in the winter; you
could not be comfortable with a few bare rose stalks before your window,
when the snow was on the ground.” This had not occurred to Thomas, who
now said faintly, “Oh, no, Miss,” and felt that curtains were
indispensable to comfort.

Similar deficiencies or short-comings were discovered everywhere, so
that even Fanny, who would at first be pleased with all she saw, in
spite of the numerous defects that seemed to exist everywhere, gradually
grew silent and ashamed of her cottage. She did her utmost to conceal
from Thomas how entirely she agreed with her mistress, and as this
generous young lady finished every remark, by saying “I will get you
one,” or “I will send you another,” she felt that all would be right
before long.

As Thomas closed the door, he wondered how in his wish to please Fanny
he could have deceived himself so completely as to the merits of his
cottage and furniture; but he too comforted himself by remembering how
his kind patroness was to remedy all the defects; “though,” thought he,
“I should have liked better to have done it all well myself.”

The lady and the two lovers walked homewards, almost without speaking,
till they overtook John and Sally, who were whispering and laughing,
talking of their cottage, Mrs. Maythorn’s joy at seeing them happy,
their future plans for themselves and her, and all in so confused a way,
that though twenty new subjects were started and discussed, none came to
and conclusion, but that John and Sally loved each other and were very,
very happy.

“What ails you, Thomas?” said John. “Has any one robbed your house? I
told you it was not safe to leave it,” but seeing Miss Isabel, he
touched his hat and fell back to where Fanny was talking to her cousin.
Isabel, however, left them that she might take a short cut through the
park, while they went round by the road.

At the end of the walk, Sally was half inclined to be dissatisfied with
her furniture, so much had Fanny boasted of the improvements that were
to be made in her own, but she could not get rid of the first impression
it had made on her, and in a few days she quite forgot the want of
curtains and carpet, and could only remember the happy time when she sat
in the arm-chair with her foot on the fender.

As the month drew to a close, the two sisters made presents to their
maids. Laura gave Sally a merino dress, a large piece of linen, a cellar
full of coals, and a five pound note. Isabel gave Fanny a silk gown
that cost three guineas, a beautiful white bonnet ribbon, a small
chimney glass (for which she kindly went into debt), three left-off
muslin dresses, a painting done by her own hand, in a handsome gilt
frame, and a beautiful knitted purse. Besides all this, she told Fanny
it was still her intention to get the other things she had promised for
the cottage, as soon as she had paid for the chimney glass. “I am very
sorry,” she said, “that just now I am so poor, for unfortunately, as you
know, I have had to pay for those large music volumes I ordered when I
was in London, and which after all I never used. It always happens that
I am poor when I want to make presents.”

Fanny stopped her mistress with abundant thanks for the beautiful things
she had already given her. “I am sure, Miss,” said she, “I shall
scarcely dare wear these dresses, they look so lady-like and fine; Sally
will seem quite strange by me. And this purse too, Miss; I never saw
anything so smart.”

Isabel was quite satisfied that she had eclipsed her sister in the
number and value of her gifts, but she still assured Fanny she had but
made a beginning. Large and generous indeed, were this young lady’s
intentions.

On the wedding morning Isabel rose early and dressed herself without
assistance, then crossing to the room of the two cousins, she entered
without knocking. Sally was gone, and Fanny lay sleeping alone.

“How pretty she is!” said Isabel to herself. “She ought to be dressed
like a lady to-day. I will see to it;” then glancing proudly at the silk
gown, which was laid out with all the other articles of dress, ready for
the coming ceremony, her heart swelled with consciousness of her own
generosity. “I have done nothing yet,” continued she; “she has been with
me nearly six years, and always pleased me entirely, then papa promised
her mother that he should befriend her as long as we both lived, and he
has charged us both to do our utmost for our brides. Laura has bought
Sally a shawl, I ought to give one too--what is this common thing?
Fanny! Fanny! wake up. I am come to be your maid to-day, for you shall
be mistress on your wedding morning and have a lady to dress you. What
is this shawl? It will not do with a silk dress, wait a minute,” and off
she darted, leaving Fanny sitting up and rubbing her eyes trying to
remember what her young mistress had said. Before she was quite
conscious, Isabel returned with a Norfolk shawl of fine texture and
design, but somewhat soiled. “There,” said she, throwing it across the
silk gown, “those go much better together. I will give it you, Fanny.”

“Thank you, Miss,” said Fanny, in a tone of hesitation; “but--but
suppose, Miss, I was to wear Thomas’ shawl just to-day, as he gave it me
for the wedding, and John got Sally one like it--I think, Miss--don’t
you think, Miss, it might seem unkind to wear any other just to-day?”

“Why, it is just to-day I want to make you look like a lady, Fanny; no,
no, you must not put on that white cotton-looking shawl with a silk
dress, and this ribbon,” said Isabel, taking up the bonnet, proudly.
Fanny looked sad, but the young mistress did not see this, for she was
examining the white silk gloves that lay beside the bonnet. “These,”
thought she, “are not quite right, they look servantish, but my kid
gloves would not fit her, besides, I have none clean, and it is well,
perhaps, that she should have a few things to mark her rank. Yes, they
will do.”

There was so much confusion between the lady’s offering help, and the
maid’s modestly refusing it, that the toilette was long in completing.
At last, however, Isabel was in ecstasies. “Look,” said she, “how the
bonnet becomes you! and the Norfolk shawl, too, no one would think you
were only a lady’s-maid, Fanny. Stop, I will get a ribbon for your
throat.” Off she flew, and was back again in five minutes. “But what is
that for, Fanny? Are you afraid it will rain this bright morning?”

Fanny had, in Isabel’s absence, folded Thomas’ shawl, and hung it across
her arm. “I thought, Miss,” answered she, blushing, “that I might just
carry it to show Thomas that I did not forget his present, or think it
too homely to go to church with me.”

“Impossible,” said Isabel, who, to do her justice, we must state, was
far too much excited to suspect that she was making Fanny uncomfortable;
“you will spoil all. There, put the shawl away,--that’s right, you look
perfect. Go down to your bridegroom, I hear his voice in the hall, I
will not come too, though I should like above all things to see his
surprise, but I should spoil your meeting, and I am the last person in
the world to do anything so selfish. One thing more, Fanny: I shall give
you two guineas, that you may spend three or four days at L----, by the
sea-side; no one goes home directly, you would find it very dull to
settle down at once in your cottage; tell Thomas so.” Isabel then
retired to her room, wishing heartily that she could part with half her
prettiest things, that she might heap more favors on the interesting
little bride.

Laura’s first thought that morning had also been of the little orphan,
who had served her so long and faithfully, and whom her father had
commended to her special care. She, too, had risen early, but without
dressing herself, she went across to Sally. Sally was asleep, with the
traces of tears on her cheeks; Laura looked at her for a few moments,
and remembered how, when both were too young to understand the
distinction of rank, they had been almost play-mates; she wiped from her
own eyes a little moisture that dimmed them, then putting her hand
gently on Sally’s shoulder, she said, “Wake, Sally, I call you early
that you may have plenty of time to dress me first and yourself
afterwards. I know you would not like to miss waiting on me, or to do it
hurriedly for the last time. You have been crying, Sally, do not color
about it, I should think ill of you if you were not sorry to leave us,
you cannot feel the parting more than I do. I dare say I shall have hard
work to keep dry eyes all day, but we must do our best, Sally, for it
will not for John to think I grudge you to him, or that you like me
better than you do him.”

“Oh, no, Miss!” replied Sally, who felt at that moment that she could
scarcely love any one better than her kind mistress. “Still John will
not be hard upon me for a few tears,” added she, putting the sheet to
her eyes.

“Come, come, Sally, this will not do, jump up and dress yourself
quickly, that you may be ready to brush my hair when I return from the
dressing-room; you must do it well to day, for you know I am not yet
suited with a maid, and do it myself to-morrow.”

This roused Sally, who dressed in great haste and was soon at her post.
Laura asked her many questions about her plans for the future, and found
with pleasure that most things had been well considered and arranged.
“There is only one thing, Miss,” said Sally, in conclusion, “that we are
sorry for, and it is that we cannot offer old Mrs. Maythorn a home. She
has no child but John, and will sadly feel his leaving her.”

“But why cannot she live with you and work as she does now, so as to pay
you for what she costs?”

“Why, Miss, where she is she works about the house for her board, and
does a trifle outdoors besides, that gets her clothing. John says it
makes him feel quite cowardly, as it were, to see his old mother working
at scrubbing and scouring, making her poor back ache, when he is so
young and strong; yet we scarcely know if we could undertake for her
altogether. I wish we could.”

“How much would it cost you?”

“A matter of four shillings a week; besides, we must get a bed and
bedding. That we could put up in the kitchen, if we bought it to shut up
in the day-time, and, as John says, Mrs. Maythorn would help us nicely
when we get some little ones. But it would cost a deal of money to begin
and go on with.”

“I will think of this for you, Sally. It would be easy for me to give
you four shillings a week now, but I may not always be able to do it. I
may marry a poor man, or one who will not allow me to spend my money as
I please, and were Mrs. Maythorn to give up her present employments,
she would not be able to get them back again three or four years hence,
nor would she, at her age, be able to meet with others; and if you would
find it difficult to keep her now, you would much more when you have a
little family; so we must do nothing hastily. I will consult papa; he
will tell me directly whether I shall be right in promising you the four
shillings a week. If I do promise it, you may depend on always having
it.”

“Oh, thank you, thank you, Miss, for the thought: I will tell John
directly I see him; the very hope will fill him with joy.”

“No,” said Laura, “do not tell him yet, Sally, for you would be sorry to
disappoint him afterwards, if I could not undertake it. Wait a day or
two, and I will give you an answer; or, if possible, it shall be sooner.
Now, thank you for the nice brushing: I will put up my hair while you go
and dress; it is getting late. If you require assistance, and Fanny is
not in your room, tap at my door, for I shall be pleased to help you
to-day.”

Laura was not called in; but when she thought the toilette must be
nearly completed, went to Sally with the shawl which she had bought for
her the day before. As she entered, Sally was folding the white one John
had given her. “I have brought you a shawl,” said Laura, “which I want
you to wear to-day; it is much handsomer than that you are folding. See,
do you like it?”

“Yes, Miss,” said Sally, “it is a very good one, I see,” and she began
to re-fold the other; but Laura noticed the expression of disappointment
with which she made the change, and taking up the plain shawl, said, “I
do not know whether this does not suit your neat muslin dress better
than mine. Did you buy it yourself, Sally?”

“No, Miss, it was John’s present; but I will put on yours this morning,
if you please, Miss, and I can wear John’s any day.”

“No, no,” replied Laura, “you must put on John’s to-day. It matters but
little to me when you wear mine, so long as it does you good service;
but John will feel hurt if you cast his present aside on your
wedding-day, because some one else has given you a shawl worth a few
shillings more.” So Laura put the white shawl on the shoulders of Sally,
who valued it more than the finest Cashmere in the world.

As Sally went down stairs, she saw Fanny in tears on the landing. “I
cannot think how it is,” answered she, in reply to Sally’s questioning,
“but just on this day, when I thought to feel so happy, I am quite low.
Miss Isabel has been so kind, she has dressed me, and quite flustered me
with her attentions. See what nice things she has given me--this
shawl--though for that matter, I’d rather have worn Thomas’s. Oh, how
nice you look. Dear, so neat and becoming your station, and with John’s
shawl, too, but then Miss Laura has made you no present.”

“Yes, a good shawl and a promise besides, but I well tell you about that
another time. Let us go in now, they must be waiting for us.”

Fanny felt so awkward in her fine clothes, that she could scarcely be
prevailed on to encounter the gaze of the servants; but her
good-natured cousin promising to explain that all her dress was given
and chosen by her mistress, she at last went into the hall. Sally’s
explanation was only heard by a few of the party, and as Fanny, in
trying to conceal herself from the gaze of the astonished villagers,
slunk behind old Mrs. Maythorn, she had the mortification of hearing her
say to John, in the loud whisper peculiar to deaf people, “I am so glad,
John, the neat one is yours; I should be quite frightened to see you
take such a fine lady as Fanny to the altar; it makes me sorry for
Thomas to see her begin so smart.”

When the ceremony was over, the party returned to the Hall, where a
hospitable meal had been provided for all the villagers of good
character who chose to partake of it. It was a merry party, for even
Fanny, when every one had seen her finery long enough to forget it,
forgot it herself. Thomas was very good-natured about the shawl, and
delighted at the prospect of spending a few days at L----. He and Fanny
talked of the boat-excursions they would have, the shells they would
gather for a grotto in their garden, and the long rambles they would
take by the sea-side, till they wondered how ever they could have been
contented with the prospect of going to their cottage at once.

As the pony-chaise which the good baronet had lent for the day, drove up
to take the bridal party to L----, for John and Sally were also to spend
one day there, the two young ladies came to take leave of their
_protégées_. Laura said, “Good-bye, Sally, I have consulted papa, and
will undertake to allow you four shillings a week as long as Mrs.
Maythorn lives. Here is a sovereign towards expenses; you will not, I am
sure, mind changing your five pound note for the rest.”

Isabel said, “Good-bye, Fanny. I am very, very sorry to disappoint you
of your treat at L----, but I intended to have borrowed the two pounds
of Miss Laura, and I find she cannot lend them to me. Never mind, I am
sure you will be happy enough in your little cottage. I never saw such a
sweet little place as it is.” So the bridal party drove away.

In less than a week the cousins were established in their new abode.
Sally settled and happy; but Fanny, unsettled, always expected the new
carpet, the china tea-set, and the various other alterations that Isabel
had suggested and promised to make. The young lady, however, was
unfortunate with her money. At one time she lost a bank-note; at
another, just as she was counting out money for the Brussels carpet, the
new maid entered to tell her that sundry articles of dress were “past
mending,” and must be immediately replaced. One thing after another
nipped her generous intentions in the bud, and at last she was obliged
to set out for her long-expected journey to France without having done
more towards the fulfilment of her promises than call frequently on
Fanny, to remind her that all her present arrangements were temporary,
and that she should shortly have almost everything new.

“Good-bye, Fanny,” said she at parting; “I shall often write to you,
and send you money. I will not make any distinct promise, for I dare say
I shall be able to do more than I should like to say now.”

Laura had given Sally a great many useful things for her cottage, but
made no promise at parting. She said, “Be sure you write to me, Sally,
from time to time, to say how you are going on, and tell me if you want
help.”

When Isabel was gone, Fanny saw that she must accustom herself to her
cottage as it was, and banish from her mind the idea of the
long-anticipated improvements. It was, however, no easy task. The window
once regarded as bare and comfortless still seemed so, in spite of
Fanny’s reasoning that it was no worse than Sally’s, which always looked
cheerful and pretty. To be sure, John, who did not think of getting
curtains, had trained a honeysuckle over it, still that made but little
show at present. The carpet, too, so long regarded as a coarse temporary
thing, never regained the beauty it first had to the eye of Thomas, as
he laid it down the evening before he took Fanny to the cottage; and
Fanny could never forget, as she arranged her tea-things, that Miss
Isabel had called them “common little things;” so of all the other
pieces of furniture that the young lady had remarked upon. Sally’s house
was, in reality, more homely than her cousin’s, yet as she had never
entertained a wish that it should be better, and as Laura had been
pleased with all its arrangements, she bustled about it with perfect
satisfaction; and even to Fanny it seemed replete with the comfort her
own had always wanted.

At the end of three months Isabel enclosed an order for three pounds to
Fanny, desiring her to get a Brussels carpet, and if there was a
sufficient remainder, to replace the tea seat.

“I would rather,” said Fanny to her cousin, “put up with the old carpet
and china, and get a roll of fine flannel, some coals, an extra blanket
or two, and a cradle for the little one that’s coming, for it will be
cold weather when I am put to bed; but I suppose as Miss Isabel has set
her mind on the carpet and china, I must get them.”

A week or two after John was invited, with his wife and mother, to drink
tea from Fanny’s new china. It was very pretty, so was the carpet, and
so was Fanny making tea, elated with showing her new wealth.

“Is not Miss Isabel generous?” asked she, as she held the milk-pot to be
admired.

“I sometimes wish Miss Laura had as much money to spare,” replied Sally;
“for she lets me lay it out as I please, and I could get a number of
things for three guineas.”

“Fie, Sally,” said her husband; “are not three shillings to spend as one
pleases, better than three guineas laid out to please some one else?”

“Nonsense, John,” said Fanny, pettishly; “how can a carpet for my
kitchen be bought to please any one but me?”

“John isn’t far wrong either,” answered her husband; “but the carpet is
very handsome, and does please you and me too, now it is here.”

Time passed on, and Fanny gave birth to a little girl. Isabel stood
sponsor for her by proxy, sending her an embroidered cloak and lace cap,
and desiring that she should be called by her own name. Little Bella was
very sickly, and as her mother had not been able to procure her good
warm clothing, or lay in a large stock of firing, she suffered greatly
from cold during the severe winter that followed her birth. The spring
and summer did not bring her better health; and as Fanny always
attributed her delicacy to the want of proper warmth in her infancy, she
took a great dislike to the Brussels carpet, which now lay in a roll
behind a large chest, having been long ago taken up as a piece of
inconvenient luxury in a kitchen. “I wish you could find a corner for it
in your cottage, Sally,” said she, “for I never catch a sight of it
without worrying myself to think how much flannels and coals I might
have bought with the money it cost.”

Laura frequently sent Sally small presents of money, but Isabel, though
not so regular as her sister, surprised every one by the splendor of
her presents, when they did come. As Bella entered her second year she
received from her godmother a beautiful little carriage, which Thomas
said must have “spoilt a five-pound note.” This was Isabel’s last gift,
for it was at about this time that she accepted an offer from a French
count, and became so absorbed in her own affairs, that she forgot Fanny
and Bella too. Poor Bella grew more and more sickly every month; the
apothecary ordered her beef tea, arrowroot, and other strengthening
diet, but work was slack with Thomas, and it was with difficulty that he
could procure her the commonest food. “I am sure,” said Fanny to her
cousin, as little Bella was whining on her knee, “that if only Miss
Isabel were here, she would set us all right. She never could bear to
see even a stranger in distress.”

“I wish,” said Thomas, “that great folks would think a little of what
they don’t see. I’ll lay anything Miss Isabel gives away a deal of
money, more than enough to save our little one, to a set of French
impostors that cry after her in the street, and yet, when she knows our
child is ill, she never cares, because she can’t see it grow thin, or
hear it cry.”

“For shame, Thomas,” said his wife, “do not speak so rudely of the young
lady. Have you forgotten the pretty carriage she sent Bella, and how
pleased we were when it came?”

“I don’t mean any harm,” answered her husband; “only it strikes me that
Miss was pleased to buy the carriage because it was pretty, and seemed a
great thing to send us, and that she wouldn’t have cared a straw to give
us a little cash, that would have served us every bit as well.”

“I never heard you so ungrateful, Thomas. Of course she wouldn’t,
because she wished to please us.”

“Or herself, as John said; but maybe I am wrong; only it goes to my
heart to see the child want food while there is a filagree carriage in
the yard that cost more than would keep her for six months.”

“Well, cheer up,” said Sally; “Miss Laura will be coming home soon, and
I’ll lay anything she won’t let Bella die of want.”

“I’m afraid she won’t think of giving to me, Sally,” said Fanny
despondingly; “I was never her maid, you know.”

“You wouldn’t fear, if you knew Miss Laura as I do, Fanny; she never
cares who she helps so long as the person is deserving, and in want. She
has no pride of that sort.”

Isabel’s marriage was put off, and Laura’s return, consequently,
postponed. As Bella grew worse every day, and yet no help came, the
unselfish Sally wrote to her patroness, telling her of poor Fanny’s
distress, and begging her either to send her help, or speak on her
behalf to her sister.

Isabel was dressing for a party when Laura showed her Sally’s letter.
“Poor Fanny,” said she, “I wish I had known it before I bought this
wreath. I have, absolutely, not a half-franc in the world. Will you buy
the wreath of me at half-price, it has not even been taken from its
box.”

“I do not want it,” said Laura, “but I will lend you some money.”

“No, I cannot borrow more,” said her sister despondingly. “I owe you
already for the flowers, the brooch, the bill you paid yesterday, and I
know not what else besides; but I will tell Eugène there is a poor
Englishwoman in distress, I am sure he will send her something.”

Eugène gave her a five-franc piece.

It was late one frosty evening when Sally ran across to her cousin’s
cottage, delighted to be the bearer of the long hoped-for letter. Fanny
was sitting on the fender before a small fire, hugging her darling to
her breast, and breathing on its little face to make the air warmer.
“I’m afraid,” said she, in answer to Sally’s inquiries, “that the child
won’t be here long;” and she wiped away a few hot tears that had forced
their way as she sat listening to the low moans of the little sufferer.

“But I have good news for you,” said her cousin, cheerfully. “Here is a
letter from Miss Isabel at last. I would not tell you before, but I
wrote to Miss Laura, saying how you were expecting every week to be put
to bed again, and how Bella was wasting away, and see, I was right about
her, she has sent you a sovereign, and her sister’s letter, no-doubt,
contains a pretty sum.”

Fanny started up, and could scarcely breathe as she broke the seal. What
was her disappointment on seeing an order for five shillings!

“I am very sorry, my good Fanny,” said Isabel, “that just now I have no
money. A charitable gentleman sends you five shillings, and as soon as I
possibly can, I will let you have a large sum. I have not yet paid for
the carriage I sent you, and as the bill has been given me several
times, I must discharge it before I send away more money. I hope that by
this time, little Bella is better.”

Fanny laid her child upon the bed, and putting her face by its side,
shed bitter tears. Sally did not speak, and so both remained till Thomas
came in from his work. Fanny would have hidden the letter from him, but
he saw and seized it in a moment.

“Five guineas for a carriage, and five shillings for a child’s life,”
said he with a sneer, as he laid it down. “Do not look for the large
sum, Fanny, you won’t get it; but I will work hard, and bury the child
decently.”

Fanny felt no inclination to defend her mistress. For the first time, it
occurred to her that Thomas and John might be right in their judgment of
her. She raised Bella, as Thomas, who had been twisting up the money
order, was about to throw it in the fire. He caught a sight of the
child’s wan face, and, advancing to the bed, said, in a softened tone,
“Do you know father, pretty one?” and as Bella smiled faintly, he added,
“I will do anything for your sake. Here, Fanny, take the money, and get
the child something nourishing.”

Bella seemed to revive from getting better food; and the apothecary held
out great hope of her ultimate recovery, if the improved diet could be
continued; but expenses fell heavily on Thomas, Fanny was put to bed
with a fine strong little boy, and, although Sally and Mrs. Maythorn
devoted themselves to her and Bella, the anxiety she suffered from
being separated from her invalid child, added to her former constant
uneasiness, and want of proper food, brought on a fever that threatened
her life. In a few days she became quite delirious. During this time
Isabel was married, and Laura returned to England.

When Fanny regained her consciousness she was in the dark, but she could
see some one standing by the window. On her speaking the person advanced
to her side. “Do not be startled to find me here,” said a sweet soft
voice. “Sally has watched by your side for three nights, and when I came
this evening she looked so ill that I insisted on her going to bed;
then, as we could find no one on whose care and watchfulness we could
depend, I took her place. You have been in a sound sleep. Dr. Hart said
you would wake up much better. Are you better?”

“Yes, ma’am, a deal better; but where am I, and who is it with me?”

“You are in your own pretty cottage, and Miss Laura is with you. You
expected me home, did you not?”

“Oh, thank God; who sent you, dear Miss Laura? How is--but may-be I had
best not ask just while I am so weak. Is the dear boy well?”

“Yes, quite well; and Bella is much better. I have sent her for a few
days to L----, with Mrs. Maythorn; the sea air will do her good.”

“Oh, thank you--thank you--dear young lady, for the thought. I seem so
bound up in that dear child, that nothing could comfort me for her loss.
How good and kind you are, Miss--you do all so well and so quietly!”

“Yes, Fanny, dear,” said Thomas, coming from behind the curtain and
stooping to kiss his wife. “Miss Laura has saved you and Bella, and me,
too, for I couldn’t have lived if you had died; and has found me work;
and all without making one great present, or doing anything one could
speak about. I’ll tell you what it is, wife, dear, Miss Isabel does all
for the best, but it is just as she feels at the moment. Now Miss
Laura--if I may be so bold to speak, Miss--Miss Laura does not give to
please her own feelings, but to do good. I can’t say it well, but do you
say it for me, Miss; I want Fanny to know the right words, to teach the
little ones by-and-by. You know what I wish to say, Miss Laura.”

“Yes, Thomas,” said Laura, blushing, “but I do not say you are right.
You mean, I think, that my sister acts from impulse, and I from
principle. Is that it?”

“I suppose that’s it, Miss,” said Thomas, considering, and apparently
not quite satisfied.

“You have no harder meaning, I am sure,” said Laura, quietly, “because I
love my sister very much.”

“Certainly not, Miss,” returned Thomas. “But, myself, if I may take the
liberty of gratefully saying so, I prefer to be acted to on principle,
and think it a good deal better than impulse.”




V.

Bed.

    “Oh, Sleep! it is a gentle thing,
      Beloved from pole to pole!”


Was the heart’s cry of the Ancient Mariner at the recollection of the
blessed moment when the fearful curse of life in death fell off him, and
the heavenly sleep first “slid into his soul.” “Blessings on sleep!”
said honest Sancho Panza: “it wraps one all around like a mantle!”--a
mantle for the weary human frame, lined softly, as with the down of the
eider-duck, and redolent of the soothing odors of the poppy. The fabled
cave of Sleep was in the land of Darkness. No ray of the sun, or moon,
or stars, ever broke upon that night without a dawn. The breath of
somniferous flowers floated in on the still air from the grotto’s
mouth. Black curtains hung round the ever-sleeping god; the Dreams stood
around his couch; Silence kept watch at the portals. Take the winged
Dreams from the picture, and what is left? The sleep of matter.

The dreams that come floating through our sleep, and fill the dormitory
with visions of love or terror--what are they? Random freaks of the
fancy? Or is sleep but one long dream, of which we see only fragments,
and remember still less? Who shall explain the mystery of that loosening
of the soul and body, of which night after night whispers to us, but
which day after day is unthought of? Reverie, sleep, trance--such are
the stages between the world of man and the world of spirits. Dreaming
but deepens as we advance. Reverie deepens into the dreams of
sleep--sleep into trance--trance borders on death. As the soul retires
from the outer senses, as it escapes from the trammels of the flesh, it
lives with increased power within. Spirit grows more spirit-like as
matter slumbers. We can follow the development up to the last stage.
What is beyond?

    “And in that _sleep of death_, what dreams may come!”

says Hamlet--pausing on the brink of eternity, and vainly striving to
scan the inscrutable. Trance is an awful counterpart of sleep and
death--mysterious in itself, appalling in its hazards. Day after day
noise has been hushed in the dormitory--month after month it has seen a
human frame grow weaker and weaker, wanner, more deathlike, till the
hues of the grave colored the face of the living. And now he lies,
motionless, pulseless, breathless. It is not sleep--is it death?

Leigh Hunt is said to have perpetrated a very bad pun connected with the
dormitory, and which made Charles Lamb laugh immoderately. Going home
together late one night, the latter repeated the well-known proverb, “A
home’s a home, however homely.” “Ay,” added Hunt, “and a bed’s a bed,
however _bedly_.” It is a strange thing, a bed. Somebody has called it a
bundle of paradoxes; we go to it reluctantly, and leave it with regret.
Once within the downy precincts of the four posts, how loth we are to
make our exodus into the wilderness of life. We are as enamored of our
curtained dwelling as if it were the land of Goshen or the cave of
Circe. And how many fervent vows have those dumb posts heard broken!
every fresh perjury rising to join its cloud of hovering fellows, each
morning weighing heavier and heavier on our sluggard eyelids. A caustic
proverb says,--we are all “good risers at night;” but woe’s me for our
agility in the morning. It is a failing of our species, ever ready to
break out in all of us, and in some only vanquished after a struggle
painful as the sundering of bone and marrow. The Great Frederic of
Prussia found it easier, in after life, to rout the French and
Austrians, than in youth to resist the seductions of sleep. After many
single-handed attempts at reformation, he had at last to call to his
assistance an old domestic, whom he charged, on pain of dismissal, to
pull him out of bed every morning at two o’clock. The plan succeeded,
as it deserved to succeed. All men of action are impressed with the
importance of early rising. “When you begin to turn in bed, its time to
turn out,” says the old Duke; and we believe his practice has been in
accordance with his precept. Literary men--among whom, as Bulwer says, a
certain indolence seems almost constitutional--are not so clear upon
this point: they are divided between Night and Morning, though the best
authorities seem in favor of the latter. Early rising is the best
_elixir vitæ_: it is the only lengthener of life that man has ever
devised. By its aid the great Buffon was able to spend half a
century--an ordinary lifetime--at his desk; and yet had time to be the
most modish of all the philosophers who then graced the gay metropolis
of France.

Sleep is a treasure and a pleasure; and, as you love it, guard it
warily. Over-indulgence is ever suicidal, and destroys the pleasure it
means to gratify. The natural times for our lying down and rising up are
plain enough. Nature teaches us, and unsophisticated mankind followed
her. Singing birds and opening flowers hail the sunrise, and the hush of
groves and the closed eyelids of the parterre mark his setting. But “man
hath sought out many inventions.” We prolong our days into the depths of
night, and our nights into the splendor of day. It is a strange result
of civilization! It is not merely occasioned by that thirst for varied
amusement which characterizes an advanced stage of society--it is not
that theatres, balls, dancing, masquerades, require an artificial light,
for all these are or have been equally enjoyed elsewhere beneath the eye
of day. What is the cause, we really are not philosopher enough to say;
but the prevalence of the habit must have given no little pungency to
honest Benjamin Franklin’s joke, when, one summer, he announced to the
Parisians as a great discovery--that the sun rose each morning at four
o’clock; and that, whereas, they burnt no end of candles by sitting up
at night, they might rise in the morning and have light for nothing.
Franklin’s “discovery,” we dare say, produced a laugh at the time, and
things went on as before. Indeed, so universal is this artificial
division of day and night, and so interwoven with it are the social
habits, that we shudder at the very idea of returning to the natural
order of things. A Robespierre could not carry through so stupendous a
revolution. Nothing less than an avatar of Siva the destroyer--Siva
with his hundred arms, turning off as many gas-pipes, and replenishing
his necklace of human skulls by decapitating the leading
conservatives--could have any chance of success; and, ten to one, with
our gassy splendors, and seducing glitter, we should convert that pagan
devil ere half his work was done.

But of all the inventions which perverse ingenuity has sought out, the
most incongruous, the most heretical against both nature and art, is
reading in bed. Turning rest into labor, learning into ridicule. A man
had better be up. He is spoiling two most excellent things by attempting
to join them. Study and sleep--how incongruous! It is an idle coupling
of opposites, and shocks a sensible man as much as if he were to meet
in the woods the apparition of a winged elephant. Only fancy an elderly
or middle-aged man (for youth is generally orthodox on this point),
sitting up in bed, spectacles on his nose, a Kilmarnock on his head, and
his flannel jacket round his shivering shoulders,--doing what? Reading?
It may be so--but he winks so often, possibly from the glare of the
candle, and the glasses now and then slip so far down on his nose, and
his hand now and then holds the volume so unsteadily, that if he himself
didn’t assure us to the contrary, we should suppose him half asleep. We
are sure it must be a great relief to him when the neglected book at
last tumbles out of bed to such a distance that he cannot recover it.

Nevertheless, we have heard this extraordinary custom excused on the no
less extraordinary ground of its being a soporific. For those who
require such things, Marryat gives a much simpler recipe--namely, to
mentally repeat any scraps of poetry you can recollect; if your own, so
much the better. The monks of old, in a similar emergency, used to
repeat the seven Penitential Psalms. Either of these plans, we doubt
not, will be found equally efficacious, if one is able to use them--if
anxiety of mind does not divert him from his task, or the lassitude of
illness disable him for attempting it. Sleep, alas! is at times fickle
and coy; and, like most sublunary friends, forsakes us when most wanted.
Reading in that repertory of many curious things, the “Book of the
Farm,” we one day met with the statement that “a pillow of hops will
ensure sleep to a patient in a delirious fever when every other
expedient fails.” We made a note of it. Heaven forbid that the recipe
should ever be needed for us or ours! but the words struck a chord of
sympathy in our heart with such poor sufferers, and we saddened with the
dread of that awful visitation. The fever of delirium! when incoherent
words wander on the lips of genius; when the sufferer stares strangely
and vacantly on his ministering friends, or starts with freezing horror
from the arms of familiar love! Ah! what a dread tenant has the
dormitory then. No food taken for the body, no sleep for the brain! a
human being surging with diabolic strength against his keepers--a human
frame gifted with superhuman vigor only the more rapidly to destroy
itself! Less fearful to the eye, but more harrowing to the soul, is the
dormitory whose walls enclose the sleepless victim of Remorse. No
poppies or mandragora for him! His malady ends only with the fever of
life. _Ends?_ Grief, anxiety, “the thousand several ills that flesh is
heir to,” pass away before the lapse of time or the soothings of love,
and sleep once more folds its dove-like wings above the couch.

“If there be a regal solitude,” says Charles Lamb, “it is a bed. How the
patient lords it there; what caprices he acts without control! How
king-like he sways his pillow,--tumbling and tossing, and shifting, and
lowering, and thumping, and flatting, and moulding it to the
ever-varying requisitions of his throbbing temples. He changes _sides_
oftener than a politician. Now he lies full-length, then half-length,
obliquely, transversely, head and feet quite across the bed; and none
accuses him of tergiversation. Within the four curtains he is absolute.
They are his Mare Clausum. How sickness enlarges the dimensions of a
man’s self to himself! He is his own exclusive object. Supreme
selfishness is inculcated on him as his only duty. ’Tis the two Tables
of the Law to him. He has nothing to think of but how to get well. What
passes out of doors or within them, so he hear not the jarring of them,
affects him not.”

In this climate a sight of the sun is prized; but we love to see it most
from bed. A dormitory fronting the east, therefore, so that the early
sunbeams may rouse us to the dewy beauties of morning, we love. Let
there also be festooned roses without the window, that on opening it the
perfume may pervade the realms of bed. Our night-bower should be
simple--neat as a fairy’s cell, and ever perfumed with the sweet air of
heaven. It is not a place for showy things, or costly. As fire is the
presiding genius in other rooms, so let water, symbol of purity, be in
the ascendant here; water, fresh and unturbid as the thoughts that here
make their home--water, to wash away the dust and sweat of a weary
world. Let no _fracas_ disturb the quiet of the dormitory. We go there
for repose. Our tasks and our cares are left outside, only to be put on
again with our hat and shoes in the morning. It is an asylum from the
bustle of life--it is the inner shrine of our household gods--and should
be respected accordingly. We never entered during the ordinary process
of bed-making--pillows tossed here, blankets and sheets pitched hither
and thither in wildest confusion, chairs and pitchers in the middle of
the floor, feathers and dust everywhere--without a jarring sense that
sacrilege was going on, and that the _genius loci_ had departed. Rude
hands were profaning the home of our slumbers!

A sense of security pervades the dormitory. A healthy man in bed is free
from everything but dreams, and once in a life-time, or after adjudging
the Cheese Premium at an Agricultural Show--the nightmare. We once heard
a worthy gentleman, blessed with a very large family of daughters,
declare he had no peace in his house except in bed. There we feel as if
in a city of refuge, secure alike from the brawls of earth and the
storms of heaven. Lightning, say old ladies, won’t come through,
blankets. Even tigers, says Humboldt, “will not attack a man in his
hammock.” Hitting a man when he’s down is stigmatized as villanous all
the world over; and lions will rather sit with an empty stomach for
hours than touch a man before he awakes. Tricks upon a sleeper! Oh,
villanous! Every perpetrator of such unutterable treachery should be put
beyond the pale of society. The First of April should have no place in
the calendar of the dormitory. We would have the maxim, “Let sleeping
dogs lie,” extended to the human race. And an angry dog, certainly, is a
man roused needlessly from his slumbers. What an outcry we Northmen
raised against the introduction of Greenwich time, which defrauded us of
fifteen minutes’ sleep in the morning; and how indiscriminate the
objurgations lavished upon printers’ devils! Of all sinners against the
nocturnal comfort of literary men, these imps are the foremost; and
possibly it was from their malpractices in such matters that they first
acquired their diabolic cognomen.

The nightcap is not an elegant head-dress, but its comfort is
undeniable. It is a diadem of night; and what tranquillity follows our
self-coronation! It is priceless as the invisible cap of Fortunatus;
and, viewless beneath its folds, our cares cannot find us out. It is
graceless. Well; what then? It is not meant for the garish eye of day,
nor for the quizzing glass of our fellow-men, or of the ridiculing race
of women; neither does it outrage any taste for the beautiful in the
happy sleeper himself. We speak as bachelors, to whom the pleasures of a
manifold existence are unknown. Possibly the æsthetics of night are not
uncared for when a man has another self to please, and when a pair of
lovely eyes are fixed admiringly on his upper story; but such is the
selfishness of human nature, that we suspect this abnegation of comfort
will not long survive the honeymoon. The French, ever enamored of
effect, and who, we verily believe, even _sleep_, “_posé_,” sometimes
substitute the many-colored silken handkerchief for the graceless
“_bonnet-de-nuit_.” But all such substitutes are less comfortable and
more troublesome; and of all irritating things, the most irritable is a
complex operation in undressing. Æsthetics at night, and for the weary!
No, no. The weary man frets at every extra button or superfluous knot,
he counts impatiently every second that keeps him from his couch, and
flies to the arms of sleep as to those of his mistress. Nevertheless,
French novelette writers make a great outcry against nightcaps. We
remember an instance. A husband--rather good-looking fellow--suspects
that his wife is beginning to have too tender thoughts towards a
glossy-ringletted Lothario who is then staying with them. So, having
accidentally discovered that Lothario slept in a huge peeked nightcowl,
and knowing that ridicule would prove the most effectual disenchanter,
he fastened a string to his guest’s bell, and passed it into his own
room.

At the dead of night, when all were fast asleep, suddenly Lothario’s
bell rang furiously. Upstarted the lady--“their guest must be
ill;”--and, accompanied by her husband, elegantly coiffed in a turbaned
silk handkerchief, she entered the room whence the alarum had sounded.
They find Lothario sitting up in bed--his cowl rising pyramid-fashion, a
fool’s cap all but the bells--bewildered and in ludicrous consternation
at being surprised thus by the fair Angelica; and, unable to conceal his
chagrin, he completes his discomfiture by bursting out in wrathful abuse
of his laughing host for so betraying his weakness for nightcaps.

The Poetry of the Dormitory! It is an inviting but too delicate a
subject for our rough hands. Do not the very words call up a vision? By
the light of the stars we see a lovely head resting on a downy pillow;
the bloom of the rose is on that young cheek, and the half-parted lips
murmur as in a dream: “Edward!” Love is lying light at her heart, and
its fairy wand is showing her visions. May her dreams be happy!
“Edward!” Was it a sigh that followed that gentle invocation? What would
the youth give to hear that murmur,--to gaze like yonder stars on his
slumbering love. Hush! are the morning-stars singing together--a lullaby
to soothe the dreamer? A low dulcet strain floats in through the window;
and soon, mingling with the breathings of the lute, the voice of youth.
The harmony penetrates through the slumbering senses to the dreamer’s
heart; and ere the golden curls are lifted from the pillow, she is
conscious of all. The serenade begins anew. What does she hear?

    “Stars of the summer night!
         Far in yon azure deeps,
     Hide, hide your golden light!
         She sleeps!
     My lady sleeps!
         Sleeps!

     Dreams of the summer night!
         Tell her her lover keeps
     Watch! while in slumbers light
         She sleeps
     My lady sleeps!
         Sleeps!”




VI.

The Home of Woodruffe the Gardener.


I.

“How pleased the boy looks, to be sure!” observed Woodruffe to his wife,
as his son Allan caught up little Moss (as Maurice had chosen to call
himself before he could speak plain) and made him jump from the top of
the drawers upon the chair, and then from the chair to the ground. “He
is making all that racket just because he is so pleased he does not know
what to do with himself.”

“I suppose he will forgive Fleming now for carrying off Abby,” said the
mother. “I say, Allan, what do you think now of Abby marrying away from
us?”

“Why, I think it’s a very good thing. You know she never told me that we
should go and live where she lived, and in such a pretty place, too,
where I may have a garden of my own, and see what I can make of it--all
fresh from the beginning, as father says.”

“You are to try your hand at the business, I know,” replied the mother,
“but I never heard your father, nor any one else, say that the place was
a pretty one. I did not think new railway stations had been pretty
places at all.”

“It sounds so to him, naturally,” interposed Woodruffe. “He hears of a
south aspect, and a slope to the north for shelter, and the town seen
far off; and that sounds all very pleasant. And then, there is the
thought of the journey, and the change, and the fun of getting the
ground all into nice order, and, best of all, the seeing his sister so
soon again. Youth is the time for hope and joy, you know, love.”

And Woodruffe began to whistle, and stepped forward to take his turn at
jumping Moss, whom he carried in one flight from the top of the drawers
to the floor. Mrs. Woodruffe smiled, as she thought that youth was not
the only season, with some people, for hope and joy.

Her husband, always disposed to look on the bright side, was
particularly happy this evening. The lease of his market-garden ground
was just expiring. He had prospered on it; and would have desired
nothing better than to live by it as long as he lived at all. He desired
this so much that he would not believe a word of what people had been
saying for two years past, that his ground would be wanted by his
landlord on the expiration of the lease, and that it would not be let
again. His wife had long foreseen this; but not till the last moment
would he do what she thought should have been done long before--offer to
buy the ground. At the ordinary price of land, he could accomplish the
purchase of it; but when he found his landlord unwilling to sell, he bid
higher and higher, till his wife was so alarmed at the rashness, that
she was glad when a prospect of entire removal opened. Woodruffe was
sure that he could have paid off all he offered at the end of a few
years; but his partner thought it would have been a heavy burden on
their minds, and a sad waste of money; and she was therefore, in her
heart, obliged to the landlord for persisting in his refusal to sell.

When that was settled, Woodruffe became suddenly sure that he could pick
up an acre or two of land somewhere not far off. But he was mistaken;
and, if he had not been mistaken, market-gardening was no longer the
profitable business it had been, when it enabled him to lay by something
every year. By the opening of a railway, the townspeople, a few miles
off, got themselves better supplied with vegetables from another
quarter. It was this which put it into the son-in-law’s head to propose
the removal of the family into Staffordshire, where he held a small
appointment on a railway. Land might be had at a low rent near the
little country station where his business lay; and the railway brought
within twenty minutes’ distance a town where there must be a
considerable demand for garden produce. The place was in a raw state at
present; and there were so few houses, that, if there had been a choice
of time, the Flemings would rather have put off the coming of the family
till some of the cottages already planned had been built; but the
Woodruffes must remove in September, and all parties agreed that they
should not mind a little crowding for a few months. Fleming’s cottage
was to hold them all till some chance of more accommodation should
offer.

“I’ll tell you what,” said Woodruffe, after standing for some time, half
whistling and thinking, with that expression on his face which his wife
had long learned to be afraid of, “I’ll write to-morrow--let’s see--I
may as well do it to-night;” and he looked round for paper and ink.
“I’ll write to Fleming, and get him to buy the land for me at once.”

“Before you see it?” said his wife, looking up from her stocking
mending.

“Yes. I know all about it, as much as if I were standing on it this
moment; and I am sick of this work--of being turned out just when I had
made the most of a place, and got attached to it. I’ll make a sure thing
of it this time, and not have such a pull at my heart-strings again. And
the land will be cheaper now than later; and we shall go to work upon it
with such heart, if it is our own! Eh?”

“Certainly, if we find, after seeing it, that we like it as well as we
expect. I would just wait till then.”

“As well as we expect! Why, bless my soul! don’t we know all about it?
It is not any land-agent or interested person, that has described it to
us; but our own daughter and her husband; and do not they know what we
want? The quantity at my own choice; the aspect capital; plenty of water
(only too much, indeed); the soil anything but poor, and sand and marl
within reach to reduce the stiffness; and manure at command, all along
the railway, from half-a-dozen towns; and osier-beds at hand (within my
own bounds if I like) giving all manner of convenience for fencing, and
binding, and covering! Why, what would you have?”

“It sounds very pleasant, certainly.”

“Then, how can you make objections? I can’t think where you look, to
find any objections?”

“I see none now, and I only want to be sure that we shall find none when
we arrive.”

“Well! I do call that unreasonable! To expect to find any place on earth
altogether unobjectionable! I wonder what objection could be so great as
being turned out of one after another, just as we have got them into
order. Here comes our girl. Well, Becky, I see how you like the news!
Now, would not you like it better still if we were going to a place of
our own, where we should not be under any landlord’s whims? We should
have to work, you know, one and all. But we would get the land properly
manured, and have a cottage of our own in time; would not we? Will you
undertake the pigs, Becky?”

“Yes, father; and there are many things I can do in the garden too. I am
old and strong, now; and I can do much more than I have ever done here.”

“Aye; if the land was our own,” said Woodruffe, with a glance at his
wife. She said no more, but was presently up stairs putting Moss to bed.
She knew, from long experience, how matters would go. After a restless
night, Woodruffe spoke no more of buying the land without seeing it; and
he twice said, in a meditative, rather than a communicative way, that he
believed it would take as much capital as he had to remove his family,
and get his new land into fit condition for spring crops.


II.

“You may look out now for the place. Look out for our new garden. We are
just there now,” said Woodruffe to the children as the whistle sounded,
and the train was approaching the station. It had been a glorious autumn
day from the beginning; and for the last hour, while the beauty of the
light on fields and trees and water had been growing more striking, the
children, tired with the novelty of all that they had seen since
morning, had been dropping asleep. They roused up suddenly enough at the
news that they were reaching their new home; and thrust their heads to
the windows, eagerly asking on which side they were to look for their
garden. It was on the south, the left-hand side; but it might have been
anywhere, for what they could see of it. Below the embankment was
something like a sheet of gray water, spreading far away.

“It is going to be a foggy night,” observed Woodruffe. The children
looked into the air for the fog, which had always, in their experience,
arrived by that way from the sea. The sky was all a clear blue, except
where a pale green and a faint blush of pink streaked the west. A large
planet beamed clear and bright; and the air was so transparent that the
very leaves on the trees might almost be counted. Yet could nothing be
seen below for the gray mist which was rising, from moment to moment.

Fleming met them as they alighted; but he could not stay till he had
seen to the other passengers. His wife was there. She had been a
merry-hearted girl; and now, still so young, as to look as girlish as
ever, she seemed even merrier than ever. She did not look strong, but
she had hardly thrown off what she called “a little touch of the ague;”
and she declared herself perfectly well when the wind was anywhere but
in the wrong quarter. Allan wondered how the wind could go wrong. He had
never heard of such a thing before. He had known the wind too high, when
it did mischief among his father’s fruit trees; but it had never
occurred to him that it was not free to come and go whence and whither
it would, without blame or objection.

“Come--come home,” exclaimed Mrs. Fleming, “Never mind about your bags
and boxes! My husband will take care of them. Let me show you the way
home.”

She let go the hands of the young brothers, and loaded them, and then
herself, with parcels, that they might not think they were going to lose
everything, as she said; and then tripped on before to show the way. The
way was down steps, from the highest of which two or three chimney-tops
might be seen piercing the mist which hid everything else. Down, down,
down went the party, by so many steps that little Moss began to totter
under his bundle.

“How low this place lies!” observed the mother.

“Why, yes;” replied Mrs. Fleming. “And yet I don’t know. I believe it is
rather that the railway runs high.”

“Yes, yes; that is it,” said Woodruffe. “What an embankment this is! If
this is to shelter my garden to the north--”

“Yes, yes, it is. I knew you would like it,” exclaimed Mrs. Fleming. “I
said you would be delighted. I only wish you could see your ground at
once; but it seems rather foggy, and I suppose we must wait till the
morning. Here we are at home.”

The travellers were rather surprised to see how very small a house this
“home” was. Though called a cottage, it had not the look of one. It was
of a red brick, dingy, though evidently new; and, to all appearance, it
consisted of merely a room below, and one above. On walking round it,
however, a sloping roof in two directions gave a hint of further
accommodation.

When the whole party had entered, and Mrs. Fleming had kissed them all
round, her glance at her mother asked, as plainly as any words, “Is not
this a pleasant room?”

“A pretty room, indeed, my dear,” was the mother’s reply, “and as nicely
furnished as one could wish.”

She did not say anything of the rust which her quick eye perceived on
the fire-irons and the door-key, or of the damp which stained the walls
just above the skirting-board. There was nothing amiss with the ceiling,
or the higher parts of the wall,--so it might be an accident.

“But, my dear,” asked the mother, seeing how sleepy Moss looked, “Where
are you going to put us all? If we crowd you out of all comfort, I shall
be sorry we came so soon.”

As Mrs. Fleming led the way upstairs, she reminded her family of their
agreement not to mind a little crowding for a time. If her mother
thought there was not room for all the newly arrived in this chamber,
they could fit out a corner for Allan in the place where she and her
husband were to sleep.

“All of us in this room?” exclaimed Becky.

“Yes, Becky; why not? Here, you see, is a curtain between your bed and
the large one; and your bed is large enough to let little Moss sleep
with you. And here is a morsel of a bed for Allan in the other corner;
and I have another curtain ready to shut it in.”

“But,” said Becky, who was going on to object. Her mother stopped her by
a sign.

“Or,” continued Mrs. Fleming, “if you like to let Allan and his bed and
curtain come down to our place, you will have plenty of room here; much
more than my neighbors have, for the most part. How it will be when the
new cottages are built, I don’t know. We think them too small for new
houses; but, meantime, there are the Brookes sleeping seven in a room no
bigger than this, and the Vines six in one much smaller.”

“How do they manage, now?” asked the mother. “In case of illness, say;
and how do they wash and dress?”

“Ah! that is the worst part of it. I don’t think the boys wash
themselves--what we should call washing--for weeks together; or at least
only on Saturday nights. So they slip their clothes on in two minutes;
and then their mother and sisters can get up. But there is the pump
below for Allan, and he can wash as much as he pleases.”

It was not till the next day that Mrs. Woodruffe knew--and then it was
Allan who told her--that the pump was actually in the very place where
the Flemings slept,--close by their bed. The Flemings were, in truth,
sleeping in an outhouse, where the floor was of brick, the swill-tub
stood in one corner, the coals were heaped in another, and the light
came in from a square hole high up, which had never till now been
glazed. Plenty of air rushed in under the door, and yet some more
between the tiles,--there being no plaster beneath them. As soon as Mrs.
Woodruffe had been informed of this, and had stepped in, while her
daughter’s back was turned, to make her own observations, she went out
by herself for a walk,--so long a walk, that it was several hours before
she reappeared, heated and somewhat depressed. She had roamed the
country round, in search of lodgings; and finding none,--finding no
occupier who really could possibly spare a room on any terms,--she had
returned convinced that, serious as the expense would be, she and her
family ought to settle themselves in the nearest town,--her husband
going to his business daily by the third-class train, till a dwelling
could be provided for them on the spot.

When she returned, the children were on the watch for her; and little
Moss had strong hopes that she would not know him. He had a great cap
of rushes on his head, with a heavy bulrush for a feather; he was stuck
all over with water-flags and bulrushes, and carried a long osier wand,
wherewith to flog all those who did not admire him enough in his new
style of dress. The children were clamorous for their mother to come
down, and see the nice places where they got these new playthings; and
she would have gone, but that their father came up, and decreed it
otherwise. She was heated and tired, he said; and he would not have her
go till she was easy and comfortable enough to see things in the best
light.

Her impression was that her husband was, more or less (and she did not
know why), disappointed; but he did not say so. He would not hear of
going off to the town, being sure that some place would turn up
soon,--some place where they might put their heads at night; and the
Flemings should be no losers by having their company by day. Their
boarding all together, if the sleeping could but be managed, would be a
help to the young people,--a help which it was pleasant to him, as a
father, to be able to give them. He said nothing about the land that was
not in praise of it. Its quality was excellent; or would be when it had
good treatment. It would take some time and trouble to get it in
order,--so much that it would never do to live at a distance from it.
Besides, no trains that would suit him ran at the proper hours; so there
was an end of it. They must all rough it a little for a time, and expect
their reward afterwards.

There was nothing that Woodruffe was so hard to please in as the time
when he should take his wife to see the ground. It was close at hand;
yet he hindered her going in the morning, and again after their early
dinner. He was anxious that she should not be prejudiced, or take a
dislike at first; and in the morning, the fog was so thick that
everything looked dank and dreary; and in the middle of the day, when a
warm autumn sun had dissolved the mists, there certainly was a most
disagreeable smell hanging about. It was not gone at sunset; but by
that time Mrs. Woodruffe was impatient, and she appeared--Allan showing
her the way--just when her husband was scraping his feet upon his spade,
after a hard day of digging.

“There, now!” said he, good-humoredly, striking his spade into the
ground, “Fleming said you would be down before we were ready for you;
and here you are!--Yes, ready for you. There are some planks coming, to
keep your feet out of the wet among all this clay.”

“And yours, too, I hope,” said the wife. “I don’t mind such wet, after
rain, as you have been accustomed to; but to stand in a puddle like this
is a very different thing.”

“Yes--so ’tis. But we’ll have the planks; and they will serve for
running the wheelbarrow, too. It is too much for Allan, or any boy, to
run the barrow in such a soil as this. We’ll have the planks first; and
then we’ll drain, and drain, and get rare spring crops.”

“What have they given you this artificial pond for,” asked the wife, “if
you must drain so much?”

“That is no pond. All the way along here, on both sides the railway,
there is the mischief of these pits. They dig out the clay for bricks,
and then leave the places--pits like this, some of them six feet deep.
The railways have done a deal of good for the poor man, and will do a
great deal more yet; but, at present, this one has left those pits.”

“I hope Moss will not fall into one. They are very dangerous,” declared
the mother, looking about for the child.

“He is safe enough there, among the osiers,” said the father. “He has
lost his heart outright to the osiers. However, I mean to drain and fill
up this pit, when I find a good out-fall; and then we will have all high
and dry, and safe for the children. I don’t care so much for the pit as
for the ditches there. Don’t you notice the bad smell?”

“Yes, indeed, that struck me the first night.”

“I have been inquiring to-day, and I find there is one acre in twenty
hereabouts occupied with foul ditches like that. And then the overflow
from them and the pits, spoils many an acre more. There is a stretch of
water-flags and bulrushes, and nasty coarse grass and rushes, nothing
but a swamp, where the ground is naturally as good as this; and, look
here! Fleming was rather out, I tell him, when he wrote that I might
graze a pony on the pasture below, whenever I have a market-cart. I ask
him if he expects me to water it here.”

So saying, Woodruffe led the way to one of the ditches which, instead of
fences, bounded his land; and, moving the mass of weed with a stick,
showed the water beneath, covered with a whitish bubbling scum, the
smell of which was insufferable.

“There is plenty of manure there,” said Woodruffe; “that is the only
thing that can be said for it. We’ll make manure of it, and sweep out
the ditch, and deepen it, and narrow it, and not use up so many feet of
good ground for a ditch that does nothing but poison us. A fence is
better than a ditch any day. I’ll have a fence, and still save ten feet
of ground, the whole way down.”

“There is a great deal to do here,” observed the wife.

“And good reward when it is done,” Woodruffe replied. “If I can fall in
with a stout laborer, he and Allan and I can get our spring crops
prepared for; and I expect they will prove the goodness of the soil.
There is Fleming. Supper is ready, I suppose.”

The children were called, but both were so wet and dirty that it took
twice as long as usual to make them fit to sit at table; and apologies
were made for keeping supper waiting. The grave half-hour before Moss’s
bed-time was occupied with the most solemn piece of instruction he had
ever had in his life. His father carried him up to the railway, and made
him understand the danger of playing there. He was never to play there.
His father would go up with him once a day, and let him see a train
pass; and this was the only time he was ever to mount the steps, except
by express leave. Moss was put to bed in silence, with his father’s
deep, grave voice, sounding in his ears.

“He will not forget it,” declared his father. “He will give us no
trouble about the railway. The next thing is the pit. Allan, I expect
you to see that he does not fall into the pit. In time, we shall teach
him to take care of himself; but you must remember, meanwhile, that the
pit is six feet deep--deeper than I am high; and that the edge is the
same clay that you slipped on so often this morning.”

“Yes, father,” said Allan, looking as grave as if power of life and
death were in his hands.


III.

One fine morning in the next spring, there was more stir and
cheerfulness about the Woodruffes’ dwelling than there had been of late.
The winter had been somewhat dreary; and now the spring was anxious; for
Woodruffe’s business was not, as yet, doing very well. His hope, when he
bought his pony and cart, was to dispatch by railway to the town the
best of his produce, and sell the commoner part in the country
neighborhood, sending his cart round within the reach of a few miles. As
it turned out, he had nothing yet to send to the town, and his agent
there was vexed and displeased. No radishes, onions, early salads, or
rhubarb were ready, and it would be some time yet before they were.

“I am sure I have done everything I could,” said Woodruffe to Fleming,
as they both lent a hand to put the pony into the cart. “Nobody can say
that I have not made drains enough, or that they are not deep enough;
yet the frost has taken such a hold that one would think we were living
in the north of Scotland, instead of in Staffordshire.”

“It has not been a severe season either,” observed Fleming.

“There’s the vexation,” replied Woodruffe. “If it had been a season
which set us at defiance, and made all sufferers alike, one must just
submit to a loss, and go on again, like one’s neighbors. But, you see,
I am cut out, as my agent says, from the market. Everybody else has
spring vegetables there, as usual. It is no use telling him that I never
failed before. But I know what it is. It is yonder great ditch that does
the mischief.”

“Why, we have nothing to do with that.”

“That is the very reason. If it was mine or yours, do you think I should
not have taken it in hand long ago? All my draining goes for little
while that shallow ditch keeps my ground a continual sop. It is all
uneven along the bottom;--not the same depth for three feet together
anywhere, and not deep enough by two feet in any part. So there it is,
choked up and putrid; and, after an hour or two of rain, my garden gets
such a soaking that the next frost is destruction.”

“I will speak about it again,” said Fleming. “We must have it set right
before next winter.”

“I think we have seen enough of the uselessness of speaking,” replied
Woodruffe, gloomily. “If we tease the gentry any more, they may punish
you for it. I would show them my mind by being off,--throwing up my
bargain at all costs, if I had not put so much into the ground that I
have nothing left to move away with.”

“Don’t be afraid for me,” said Fleming, cheerfully. “It was chiefly my
doing that you came here, and I must try my utmost to obtain fair
conditions for you. We must remember that the benefit of your outlay has
all to come.”

“Yes; I can’t say we have got much of it yet.”

“By next winter,” continued Fleming, “your privet hedges and screens
will have grown up into some use against the frost; and your own
drainage----. Come, come, Allan, my boy! be off! It is getting late.”

Allan seemed to be idling, re-arranging his bunches of small radishes,
and little bundles of rhubarb, in their clean baskets, and improving the
stick with which he was to drive; but he pleaded that he was waiting for
Moss, and for the parcel which his mother was getting ready for Becky.

“Ah I my poor little girl!” said Woodruffe. “Give my love to her, and
tell her it will be a happy day when we can send for her to come home
again. Be sure you observe particularly, to tell us how she looks; and,
mind, if she fancies anything in the cart,--any radishes, or whatever
else, because it comes out of our garden, be sure you give it her. I
wish I was going myself with the cart, for the sake of seeing Becky; but
I must go to work. Here have I been all the while, waiting to see you
off. Ah! here they come! you may always have notice now of who is coming
by that child’s crying.”

“O, father! not always!” exclaimed Allan.

“Far too often, I’m sure. I never knew a child grow so fractious. I am
saying, my dear,” to his wife, who now appeared with her parcel, and
Moss in his best hat, “that boy is the most fractious child we ever had;
and he is getting too old for that to begin now. How can you spoil him
so?”

“I am not aware,” said Mrs. Woodruffe, her eyes filling with tears,
“that I treat him differently from the rest; but the child is not well.
His chilblains tease him terribly, and I wish there may be nothing
worse.”

“Warm weather will soon cure the chilblains, and then I hope we shall
see an end of the fretting.--Now, leave off crying this minute, Moss, or
you don’t go. You don’t see me cry with my rheumatism, and that is worse
than chilblains, I can tell you.”

Moss tried to stifle his sobs, while his mother put more straw into the
cart for him, and cautioned Allan to be careful of him, for it really
seemed as if the child was tender all over. Allan seemed to succeed best
as comforter. He gave Moss the stick to wield, and showed him how to
make believe to whip the pony, so that before they turned the corner,
Moss was wholly engrossed with what he called driving.

“Yes, yes,” said Woodruffe, as he turned away to go to the garden,
“Allan is the one to manage, him. He can take as good care of him as any
woman without spoiling him!”

Mrs. Woodruffe submitted to this in silence; but with the feeling that
she did not deserve it.

Becky had had no notice of this visit from her brothers; but no such
visit could take her by surprise; for she was thinking of her family all
day long, every day, and fancying she should see them whichever way she
turned. It was not her natural destination to be a servant in a
farm-house; she had never expected it,--never been prepared for it. She
was as willing to work as any girl could be; and her help in the
gardening was beyond what most women are capable of; but it was a bitter
thing to her to go among strangers, and toil for them, when she knew
that she was wanted at home by father and mother, and brothers, and just
at present by her sister too; for Mrs. Fleming’s confinement was to
happen this spring. The reason why Becky was not at home while so much
wanted there was, that there really was no accommodation for her. The
plan of sleeping all huddled together as they were at first would not
do. The girl herself could not endure it; and her parents felt that she
must be got out at any sacrifice. They had inquired diligently till they
found a place for her in a farm-house, where the good wife promised
protection, and care, and kindness; and fulfilled her promise to the
best of her power.

“I hope they do well by you here, Becky,” asked Allan, when the surprise
caused by his driving up with a dash had subsided, and everybody had
retired, to leave Becky with her brothers for the few minutes they could
stay. “I hope they are kind to you here.”

“O, yes,--very kind. And I am sure you ought to say so to father and
mother.”

Becky had jumped into the cart, and had her arms round Moss, and her
head on his shoulder. Raising her head, and with her eyes filling as she
spoke, she inquired anxiously how the new cottages went on, and when
father and mother were to have a home of their own again. She owned, but
did not wish her father and mother to hear of it, that she did not like
being among such rough people as the farm servants. She did not like
some of the behavior that she saw; and, still less, such talk as she was
obliged to overhear. When _would_ a cottage be ready for them?

“Why, the new cottages would soon be getting on now,” Allan said; but he
didn’t know, nobody fancied the look of them. He saw them just after the
foundations were laid; and the enclosed parts were like a clay-puddle.
He did not see how they were ever to be improved; for the curse of wet
seemed to be on them, as upon everything about the Station. Fleming’s
cottage was the best he had seen, after all, if only it was twice as
large. If anything could be done to make the new cottages what cottages
should be, it would be done: for everybody agreed that the railway
gentlemen desired to do the best for their people, and to set an example
in that respect; but it was beyond anybody’s power to make wet clay as
healthy as warm gravel. Unless they could go to work first to dry the
soil, it seemed a hopeless sort of affair.

“But, I say, Becky,” pursued Allan, “you know about my garden--that
father gave me a garden of my own.”

Becky’s head was turned quite away; and she did not look round, when she
replied,

“Yes; I remember. How does your garden get on?”

There was something in her voice which made her brother lean over and
look into her face; and, as he expected, tears were running down her
cheeks.

“There now!” said he, whipping the back of the cart with his stick;
“something must be done, if you can’t get on here.”

“O! I can get on. Be sure you don’t tell mother that I can’t get on, or
anything about it.”

“You look healthy, to be sure.”

“To be sure I am. Don’t say any more about it. Tell me about your
garden.”

“Well: I am trying what I can make of it, after I have done working with
father. But it takes a long time to bring it round.”

“What! is the wet there, too?”

“Lord, yes! The wet was beyond everything at first. I could not leave
the spade in the ground ten minutes, if father called me, but the water
was standing in the hole when I went back again. It is not so bad now,
since I made a drain to join upon father’s principal one; and father
gave me some sand, and plenty of manure; but it seems to us that manure
does little good. It won’t sink in when the ground is so wet.”

“Well, there will be the summer next, and that will dry up your garden.”

“Yes. People say the smells are dreadful in hot weather, though. But we
seem to get used to that. I thought it sickly work, just after we came,
going down to get osiers, and digging near the big ditch that is our
plague now: but somehow, it does not strike me now as it did then,
though Fleming says it is getting worse every warm day. But come--I must
be off. What will you help yourself to? And don’t forget your parcel.”

Becky’s great anxiety was to know when her brothers would come again. O!
very often, she was assured--oftener and oftener as the vegetables came
forward; whenever there were either too many or too few to send to the
town by rail.

After Becky had jumped down, the farmer and one of the men were seen to
be contemplating the pony.

“What have you been giving your pony lately?” asked the farmer of Allan.
“I ask as a friend, having some experience of this part of the country.
Have you been letting him graze?”

“Yes, in the bit of meadow that we have leave for. There is a good deal
of grass there, now. He has been grazing there these three weeks.”

“On the meadow where the osier beds are? Ay! I knew it by the look of
him. Tell your father that if he does not take care, his pony will have
the staggers in no time. An acquaintance of mine grazed some cattle
there once; and in a week or two, they were all feverish, so that the
butcher refused them on any terms; and I have seen more than one horse
in the staggers, after grazing in marshes of that sort.”

“There is fine thick grass there, and plenty of it,” said Allan, who did
not like that anybody but themselves should criticise their new place
and plans.

“Ay, ay; I know,” replied the farmer. “But if you try to make hay of
that grass, you’ll be surprised to find how long it takes to make, and
how like wool it comes out at last. It is a coarse grass, with no
strength in it; and it must be a stronger beast than this that will bear
feeding on it. Just do you tell your father what I say, that’s all; and
then he can do as he pleases; but I would take a different way with that
pony, without loss of time, if it was mine.”

Allan did not much like taking this sort of message to his father, who
was not altogether so easy to please as he used to be. If anything vexed
him ever so little, he always began to complain of his rheumatism--and
he now complained of his rheumatism many times in a day. It was managed,
however, by tacking a little piece of amusement and pride upon it. Moss
was taught, all the way as they went home, after selling their
vegetables, how much everything sold for; and he was to deliver the
money to his father, and go through his lesson as gravely as any big
man. It succeeded very well. Everybody laughed. Woodruffe called the
child his little man-of-business; gave him a penny out of the money he
brought; and when he found that the child did not like jumping as he
used to do, carried him up to the railway to listen for the whistle, and
see the afternoon train come up, and stop a minute, and go on again.


IV.

Fleming did what he could to find fair play for his father-in-law. He
spoke to one and another--to the officers of the railway, and to the
owners of neighboring plots of ground, about the bad drainage, which was
injuring everybody; but he could not learn that anything was likely to
be done. The ditch--the great evil of all--had always been there, he
was told, and people never used to complain of it. When Fleming pointed
out that it was at first a comparatively deep ditch, and that it grew
shallower every year from the accumulations formed by its uneven bottom,
there were some who admitted that it might be as well to clean it out;
yet nobody set about it. And it was truly a more difficult affair now
than it would have been at an earlier time. If the ditch was shallower,
it was much wider. It had once been twelve feet wide, and it was now
eighteen. When any drain had been flowing into it, or after a rainy day,
the contents spread through and over the soil on each side, and softened
it, and then the next time any horse or cow came to drink, the whole
bank was made a perfect bog; for the poor animals, however thirsty,
tried twenty places to find water that they could drink before going
away in despair. Such was the bar in the way of poor Woodruffe’s success
with his ground. Before the end of summer his patience was nearly worn
out. During a showery and gleamy May and a pleasant June, he had gone
on as prosperously as he could expect under the circumstances; and he
confidently anticipated that a seasonable July and August would set him
up. But he had had no previous experience of the peculiarities of
ill-drained land; and the hot July and August, from which he hoped so
much, did him terrible mischief. The drought which would have merely
dried and pulverized a well-drained soil, leaving it free to profit much
by small waterings, baked the overcharged soil of Woodruffe’s garden
into hard hot masses of clay, amidst which his produce died off faster
and faster every day, even though he and all his family wore out their
strength with constant watering. He did hope, he said, that he should
have been spared drought at least; but it seemed as if he was to have
every plague in turn; and the drought seemed, at the time, to be the
worst of all.

One day Fleming saw a welcome face in one of the carriages; Mr. Nelson,
a director of the railway, who was looking along the line to see how
matters went. Though Mr. Nelson was not exactly the one, of all the
directors, whom Fleming would have chosen to appeal to, he saw that the
opportunity must not be lost; and he entreated him to alight, and stay
for the next train.

“Eh! what!” said Mr. Nelson; “what can you want with us here? A station
like this! Why, one has to put on spectacles to see it!”

“If you would come down, sir, I should be glad to show you....”

“Well; I suppose I must.”

As they were standing on the little platform, and the train was growing
smaller in the distance, Fleming proceeded to business. He told of the
serious complaints that were made for a distance of a few miles on
either hand, of the clay pits left by the railway brickmakers, to fill
with stagnant waters.

“Pho! pho! Is that what you want to say?” replied Mr. Nelson. “You need
not have stopped me just to tell me that. We hear of those pits all
along the line. We are sick of hearing of them.”

“That does not mend the matter in this place,” observed Fleming. “I
speak freely, sir, but I think it my duty to say that something must be
done. I heard a few days ago, more than the people hereabouts
know,--much more than I shall tell them--of the fever that has settled
on particular points of our line; and I now assure you, sir, that if the
fever once gets a hold in this place, I believe it may carry us all off
before anything can be done. Sir, there is not one of us within half a
mile of the station that has a wholesome dwelling.”

“Pho! pho! you are a croaker,” declared Mr. Nelson. “Never saw such a
dismal fellow! Why, you will die of fright, if ever you die of
anything.”

“Then, sir, will you have the goodness to walk round with me, and see
for yourself what you think of things. It is not only for myself and my
family that I speak. In an evil day I induced my wife’s family to settle
here, and....”

“Ay! that is a nice garden,” observed Mr. Nelson, as Fleming pointed to
Woodruffe’s land. “You are a croaker, Fleming. I declare I think the
place is much improved since I saw it last. People would not come and
settle here if the place was like what you say.”

Instead of arguing the matter, Fleming led the way down the long flight
of steps. He was aware that leading the gentleman among bad smells and
over shoes in a foul bog would have more effect than any argument was
ever known to have on his contradictious spirit.

“You should have seen worse things than these, and then you would not be
so discontented,” observed Mr. Nelson, striking his stick upon the
hard-baked soil, all intersected with cracks. “I have seen such a soil
as this in Spain, some days after a battle, when there were scores of
fingers and toes sticking up out of the cracks. What would you say to
that?--eh?”

“We may have a chance of seeing that here,” replied Fleming; “if the
plague comes, and comes too fast for the coffin-makers,--a thing which
has happened more than once in England, I believe.”

Mr. Nelson stopped to laugh; but he certainly attended more to business
as he went on; and Fleming, who knew something of his ways, had hopes
that if he could only keep his own temper, this visit of the director
might not be without good results.

In passing through Woodruffe’s garden, very nice management was
necessary. Woodruffe was at work there, charged with ire against railway
directors and landed proprietors, whom, amidst the pangs of his
rheumatism, he regarded as the poisoners of his land and the bane of his
fortunes; while, on the other hand, Mr. Nelson, who had certainly never
been a market gardener, criticized and ridiculed everything that met his
eye. What was the use of such a tool-house as that?--big enough for a
house for them all. What was the use of such low fences?--of such high
screens?--of making the walks so wide?--sheer waste?--of making the beds
so long one way, and so narrow another?--of planting or sowing this and
that?--things that nobody wanted. Woodruffe had pushed back his hat in
preparation for a defiant reply, when Fleming caught his eye, and, by a
good-tempered smile, conveyed to him that they had an oddity to deal
with. Allan, who had begun by listening reverently, was now looking from
one to another in great perplexity.

“What is that boy here for, staring like a dunce? Why don’t you send him
to school? You neglect a parent’s duty if you don’t send him to school.”

Woodruffe answered by a smile of contempt, walked away, and went to work
at a distance.

“That boy is very well taught,” Fleming said, quietly. “He is a great
reader, and will soon be fit to keep his father’s accounts.”

“What does he stare in that manner for, then? I took him for a dunce.”

“He is not accustomed to hear his father called in question, either as a
gardener or a parent.”

“Pho! pho! I might as well have waited, though, till he was out of
hearing. Well, is this all you have to show me? I think you make a great
fuss about nothing.”

“Will you walk this way?” said Fleming, turning down towards the osier
beds, without any compassion for the gentleman’s boots or olfactory
nerves. For a long while Mr. Nelson affected to admire the reed, and
water-flags, and marsh-blossoms, declared the decayed vegetation to be
peat soil, very fine peat, which the ladies would be glad of for their
heaths in the flower-garden,--and thought there must be good fowling
here in winter. Fleming quietly turned over the so-called peat with a
stick, letting it be seen that it was a mere dung-heap of decayed
rushes, and wished Mr. Nelson would come in the fowling season, and see
what the place was like.

“The children are merry enough, however,” observed the gentleman. “They
can laugh here, much as in other places. I advise you to take a lesson
from them, Fleming. Now, don’t you teach them to croak.”

The laughter sounded from the direction of the old brick-ground; and
thither they now turned. Two little boys were on the brink of a pit, so
intent on watching a rat in the water and on pelting it with stones,
that they did not see that anybody was coming to disturb them. In answer
to Mr. Nelson’s question, whether they were vagrants, and why vagrants
were permitted there, Fleming answered that the younger one--the
pale-faced one--was his little brother-in-law; the other--

“Ay, now, you will be telling me next that the pale face is the fault of
this place.”

“It certainly is,” said Fleming. “That child was chubby enough when he
came.”

“Pho, pho! a puny little wretch as ever I saw--puny from its birth, I
have no doubt of it. And who is the other--a gypsy?”

“He looks like it,” replied Fleming. On being questioned, Moss told that
the boy lived near, and he had often played with him lately. Yes, he
lived near, just beyond those trees; not in a house, only a sort of
house the people had made for themselves. Mr. Nelson liked to lecture
vagrants, even more than other people; so Moss was required to show the
way, and his dark-skinned playfellow was not allowed to skulk behind.

Moss led his party on, over the tufty hay-colored grass, skipping from
bunch to bunch of rushes, round the osier-beds, and at last straight
through a clump of elders, behind whose screen now appeared the house,
as Moss had called it, which the gypsies had made for themselves. It was
the tilt of a wagon, serving as a tent. Nobody was visible but a woman,
crouching under the shadow of the tent, to screen from the sun that
which was lying across her lap.

“What is that that she’s nursing? Lord bless me! Can that be a child?”
exclaimed Mr. Nelson.

“A child in the fever,” replied Fleming.

“Lord bless me!--to see legs and arms hang down like that!” exclaimed
the gentleman; and he forthwith gave the woman a lecture on her method
of nursing--scolded her for letting the child get a fever--for not
putting it to bed--for not getting a doctor to it--for being a gypsy,
and living under an alder clump. He then proceeded to inquire whether
she had anybody else in the tent, where her husband was, whether he
lived by thieving, how they would all like being transported, whether
she did not think her children would all be hanged, and so on. At first,
the woman tried a facetious and wheedling tone, then a whimpering one,
and, finally, a scolding one. The last answered well. Mr. Nelson found
that a man, to say nothing of a gentleman, has no chance with a woman
with a sore heart in her breast, and a sick child in her lap, when once
he has driven her to her weapon of the tongue. He said afterwards, that
he had once gone to Billingsgate, on purpose to set two fisherwomen
quarrelling, that he might see what it was like. The scene had fulfilled
all his expectations; but he now declared that it could not compare with
this exhibition behind the alders. He stood a long while, first trying
to overpower the woman’s voice; and, when that seemed hopeless, poking
about among the rushes with his stick, and finally, staring in the
woman’s face, in a mood between consternation and amusement;--thus he
stood, waiting till the torrent should intermit; but there was no sign
of intermission; and when the sick child began to move and rouse itself,
and look at the strangers, as if braced by the vigor of its mother’s
tongue, the prospect of an end seemed farther off than ever. Mr. Nelson
shrugged his shoulders, signed to his companions, and walked away
through the alders. The woman was not silent because they were out of
sight. Her voice waxed shriller as it followed them, and died away only
in the distance. Moss was grasping Fleming’s hand with all his might
when Mr. Nelson spoke to him, and shook his stick at him, asking him how
he came to play with such people, and saying that if ever he heard him
learning to scold like that woman, he would beat him with that stick; so
Moss vowed he never would.

When the train was in sight by which Mr. Nelson was to depart, he turned
to Fleming, with the most careless air imaginable, saying, “Have you
any medicine in your house?--any bark?”

“Not any. But I will send for some.”

“Ay, do. Or,--no--I will send you some. See if you can’t get these
people housed somewhere, so that they may not sleep in the swamp. I
don’t mean in any of your houses, but in a barn, or some such place. If
the physic comes before the doctor, get somebody to dose the child. And
don’t fancy you are all going to die of the fever. That is the way to
make yourselves ill; and it is all nonsense, too, I dare say.”

“Do you like that gentleman?” asked Moss, sapiently, when the train was
whirling Mr. Nelson out of sight. “Because I don’t--not at all.”

“I believe he is kinder than he means, Moss. He need not be so rough;
but I know he does kind things sometimes.”

“But, do you like him?”

“No, I can’t say I do.”

Before many hours were over, Fleming was sorry that he had admitted
this, even to himself; and for many days after he was occasionally
heard telling Moss what a good gentleman Mr. Nelson was, for all his
roughness of manners. With the utmost speed, before it would have been
thought possible, arrived a surgeon from the next town, with medicines,
and the news that he was to come every day while there was any fear of
fever. The gypsies were to have been cared for; but they were gone. The
marks of their fire and a few stray feathers which showed that a fowl
had been plucked, alone told where they had encamped. A neighbor, who
loved her poultry yard, was heard to say that the sick child would not
die for want of chicken broth, she would be bound; and the nearest
farmer asked if they had left any potato-peels and turnip tops for his
pig. He thought that was the least they could do after making their
famous gypsy stew (a capital dish, it was said) from his vegetables.
They were gone; and if they had not left fever behind, they might be
forgiven, for the sake of the benefit of taking themselves off. After
the search for the gypsies was over, there was still an unusual stir
about the place. One and another stranger appeared and examined the low
grounds, and sent for one and another of the neighboring proprietors,
whether farmer, or builder, or gardener, or laborer; for every one who
owned or rented a yard of land on the borders of the great ditch, or
anywhere near the clay-pits or osier-beds.

It was the opinion of the few residents near the Station that something
would be done to improve the place before another year; and everybody
said that it must be Mr. Nelson’s doings, and that it was a thousand
pities that he did not come earlier, before the fever had crept thus far
along the line.


V.

For some months past, Becky had believed without a doubt, that the day
of her return home would be the very happiest day of her life. She was
too young to know yet that it is not for us to settle which of our days
shall be happy ones, nor what events shall yield us joy. The promise had
not been kept that she should return when her father and mother removed
into the new cottage. She had been told that there really was not, even
now, decent room for them all; and that they must at least wait till the
hot weather was completely over before they crowded the chamber, as they
had hitherto done. And then, when autumn came on, and the creeping mists
from the low grounds hung round the place from sunset till after
breakfast the next day, the mother delayed sending for her daughter,
unwilling that she should lose the look of health which she alone now,
of all the family, exhibited. Fleming and his wife and babe prospered
better than the others. The young man’s business lay on the high ground,
at the top of the embankment. He was there all day while Mr. Woodruffe
and Allan were below, among the ditches and the late and early fogs.
Mrs. Fleming was young and strong, full of spirit and happiness; and so
far fortified against the attacks of disease, as a merry heart
strengthens nerve and bone and muscle, and invigorates all the vital
powers. In regard to her family, her father’s hopeful spirit seemed to
have passed into her. While he was becoming permanently discouraged, she
was always assured that everything would come right next year. The time
had arrived for her power of hope to be tested to the utmost. One day
this autumn, she admitted that Becky must be sent for. She did not
forget, however, to charge Allan to be cheerful, and make the best of
things, and not frighten Becky by the way.

It was now the end of October. Some of the days were balmy
elsewhere--the afternoons ruddy; the leaves crisp beneath the tread; the
squirrel busy after the nuts in the wood; the pheasants splendid among
the dry ferns in the brake, the sportsman warm and thirsty in his
exploring among the stubble. In the evenings the dwellers in country
houses called one another out upon the grass, to see how bright the
stars were, and how softly the moonlight slept upon the woods. While it
was thus in one place, in another, and not far off, all was dank, dim,
dreary and unwholesome; with but little sun, and no moon or stars; all
chill, and no glow; no stray perfumes, the last of the year, but sickly
scents coming on the steam from below. Thus it was about Fleming’s
house, this latter end of October, when he saw but little of his wife,
because she was nursing her mother in the fever, and when he tried to
amuse himself with his young baby at meal-times (awkward nurse as he
was) to relieve his wife of the charge for the little time he could be
at home. When the baby cried, and when he saw his Abby look wearied, he
did wish, now and then, that Becky was at home; but he was patient, and
helpful, and as cheerful as he could be, till the day which settled the
matter. On that morning he felt strangely weak, barely able to mount the
steps to the station. During the morning, several people told him he
looked ill; and one person did more. The porter sent a message to the
next large Station that somebody must be sent immediately to fill
Fleming’s place, in case of his being too ill to work. Somebody came;
and before that, Fleming was in bed--certainly down in the fever. His
wife was now wanted at home; and Becky must come to her mother.

Though Becky asked questions all the way home, and Allan answered them
as truthfully as he knew how, she was not prepared for what she
found--her father aged and bent, always in pain, more or less, and far
less furnished with plans and hopes than she had ever known him; Moss,
fretful and sickly, and her mother unable to turn herself in her bed.
Nobody mentioned death. The surgeon who came daily, and told Becky
exactly what to do, said nothing of anybody dying of the fever, while
Woodruffe was continually talking of things that were to be done when
his wife got well again. It was sad, and sometimes alarming, to hear the
strange things that Mrs. Woodruffe said in the evenings when she was
delirious; but if Abby stepped in at such times, she did not think much
of it, did not look upon it as any sign of danger; and was only thankful
that her husband had no delirium. His head was always clear, she said,
though he was very weak. Becky never doubted, after this, that her
mother was the most severely ill of the two; and she was thunderstruck
when she heard one morning the surgeon’s answers to her father’s
questions about Fleming. He certainly considered it a bad case; he would
not say that he could not get through; but he must say it was contrary
to his expectation. When Becky saw her father’s face as he turned away
and went out, she believed his heart was broken.

“But I thought,” said she to the surgeon, “I thought my mother was most
ill of the two.”

“I don’t know that,” was the reply, “but she is very ill. We are doing
the best we can. You are, I am sure,” he said, kindly; “and we must hope
on, and do our best till a change comes. The wisest of us do not know
what changes may come. But I could not keep your father in ignorance of
what may happen in the other house.”

No appearances alarmed Abby. Because there was no delirium, she
apprehended no danger. Even when the fatal twitchings came, the arm
twitching as it lay upon the coverlid, she did not know it was a symptom
of anything. As she nursed her husband perfectly well, and could not
have been made more prudent and watchful by any warning, she had no
warning. Her cheerfulness was encouraged, for her infant’s sake, as well
as for her husband’s and her own. Some thought that her husband knew his
own case. A word or two,--now a gesture, and now a look,--persuaded the
surgeon and Woodruffe that he was aware that he was going. His small
affairs were always kept settled; he had probably no directions to give;
and his tenderness for his wife showed itself in his enjoying her
cheerfulness to the last. When, as soon as it was light, one December
morning, Moss was sent to ask if Abby could possibly come for a few
minutes, because mother was worse, he found his sister alone, looking at
the floor, her hands on her lap, though her baby was fidgetting in its
cradle. Fleming’s face was covered, and he lay so still that Moss, who
had never seen death, felt sure that all was over. The boy hardly knew
what to do; and his sister seemed not to hear what he said. The thought
of his mother,--that Abby’s going might help or save her,--moved him to
act. He kissed Abby, and said she must please go to mother; and he took
the baby out of the cradle, and wrapped it up, and put it into its
mother’s arms; and fetched Abby’s bonnet, and took her cloak down from
its peg, and opened the door for her, saying, that he would stay and
take care of everything. His sister went without a word; and, as soon as
he had closed the door behind her, Moss sank down on his knees before
the chair where she had been sitting, and hid his face there till some
one came for him,--to see his mother once more before she died.

As the two coffins were carried out, to be conveyed to the churchyard
together, Mr. Nelson, who had often been backward and forward during the
last six weeks, observed to the surgeon that the death of such a man as
Fleming was a dreadful loss.

“It is that sort of men that the fever cuts off,” said the surgeon.
“The strong man, in the prime of life, at his best period, one may say,
for himself and for society, is taken away,--leaving wife and child
helpless and forlorn. That is the ravage that the fever makes.”

“Well; would not people tell you that it is our duty to submit?” asked
Mr. Nelson, who could not help showing some emotion by voice and
countenance.

“Submit!” said the surgeon. “That depends on what the people mean who
use the word. If you or I were ill of the fever, we must resign
ourselves, as cheerfully as we could. But if you ask me whether we
should submit to see more of our neighbors cut off by fever as these
have been, I can only ask in return, whose doing it is that they are
living in a swamp, and whether that is to go on? Who dug the clay pits?
Who let that ditch run abroad, and make a filthy bog? Are you going to
charge that upon Providence and talk of submitting to the consequences?
If so, that is not my religion.”

“No, no. There is no religion in that,” replied Mr. Nelson, for once
agreeing in what was said to him. “It must be looked to.”

“It must,” said the surgeon, as decidedly as if he had been a railway
director, or king and parliament in one.


VI.

“I wonder whether there is a more forlorn family in England than we are
now,” said Woodruffe, as he sat among his children, a few hours after
the funeral.

His children were glad to hear him speak, however gloomy might be his
tone. His silence had been so terrible that nothing that he could say
could so weigh upon their hearts. His words, however, brought out his
widowed daughter’s tears again. She was sewing--her infant lying in her
lap. As her tears fell upon its face, it moved and cried. Becky came and
took it up, and spoke cheerfully to it. The cheerfulness seemed to be
the worst of all. Poor Abby laid her forehead to the back of her chair,
and sobbed as if her heart would break.

“Ay, Abby,” said her father, “your heart is breaking, and mine too. You
and I can go to our rest, like those that have gone before us; but I
have to think of what will become of these young things.”

“Yes, father,” said Becky gently, but with a tone of remonstrance, “you
must endeavor to live, and not make up your mind to dying, because life
has grown heavy and sad.”

“My dear, I am ill--very ill. It is not merely that life is grown
intolerable to me. I am sure I could not live long in such misery of
mind; but I am breaking up fast.”

The young people looked at each other in dismay. There was something
worse than the grief conveyed by their father’s words in the hopeless
daring--the despair--of his tone when he ventured to say that life was
unendurable.

Becky had the child on one arm; with the other hand she took down her
father’s plaid from its peg, and put it round his rheumatic shoulders,
whispering in his ear a few words about desiring that God’s will should
be done.

“My dear,” he replied, “it was I who taught you that lesson when you
were a child on my knee, and it would be strange if I forgot it when I
want so much any comfort that I can get. But I don’t believe (and if you
ask the clergyman, he will tell you that he does not believe) that it is
God’s will that we, or any other people, should be thrust into a swamp
like this, scarcely fit for the rats and the frogs to live in. It is
man’s doing, not God’s, that the fever makes such havoc as it has made
with us. The fever does not lay waste healthy places.”

“Then why are we here?” Allan ventured to say. “Father, let us go.”

“Go! I wonder how or where! I can’t go, or let any of you go. I have not
a pound in the world to spend in moving, or in finding new employment.
And if I had, who would employ me? Who would not laugh at a crippled old
man asking for work and wages?”

“Then, father, we must see what we can do here, and you must not forbid
us to say ‘God’s will be done!’ If we cannot go away, it must be His
will that we should stay and have as much hope and courage as we can.”

Woodruffe threw himself back in his chair. It was too much to expect
that he would immediately rally; but he let the young people confer, and
plan, and cheer each other.

The first thing to be done, they agreed, was to move hither, whenever
the dismal rain would permit it, all Abby’s furniture that could not be
disposed of to her husband’s successors. It would fit up the lower room.
And Allan and Becky settled how the things could stand so as to make it
at once a bed-room and sitting-room. If, as Abby had said, she meant to
try to get some scholars, and keep a little school, room must be left to
seat the children.

“Keep a school?” exclaimed Woodruffe, looking round at Abby.

“Yes, father,” said Abby, raising her head. “That seems to be a thing
that I can do; and it will be good for me to have something to do. Becky
is the stoutest of us all, and....”

“I wonder how long that will last,” groaned the father.

“I am quite stout now,” said Becky; “and I am the one to help Allan with
the garden. Allan and I will work under your direction, father, while
your rheumatism lasts; and....”

“And what am I to do?” asked Moss, pushing himself in.

“You shall fetch and carry the tools,” said Becky; “that is, when the
weather is fine, and when your chilblains are not very bad. And you
shall be bird-boy when the sowing season comes on.”

“And we are going to put up a pent-house for you, in one corner, you
know, Moss,” said his brother. “And we will make it so that there shall
be room for a fire in it, where father and you may warm yourselves, and
always have dry shoes ready.”

“I wonder what our shoe leather will have cost us by the time the spring
comes,” observed Woodruffe. “There is not a place where we ever have to
take the cart or the barrow that is not all mire and ruts; not a path in
the whole garden that I call a decent one. Our shoes are all pulled to
pieces; while the frost, or the fog, or something or other, prevents our
getting any real work done. The waste is dreadful. Nothing should have
made me take a garden where none but summer crops are to be had, if I
could have foreseen such a thing. I never saw such a thing
before,--never--as market-gardening without winter and spring crops.
Never heard of such a thing!”

Becky glanced towards Allan, to see if he had nothing to propose. If
they could neither mend the place nor leave it, it did seem a hard case.
Allan was looking into the fire, musing. When Moss announced that the
rain was over, Allan started, and said he must be fetching some of
Abby’s things down, if it was fair. Becky really meant to help him; but
she also wanted opportunity for consultation, as to whether it could
really be God’s will that they should neither be able to mend their
condition nor to escape from it. As they mounted the long flight of
steps, they saw Mr. Nelson issue from the Station, looking about him to
ascertain if the rain was over, and take his stand on the embankment,
followed by a gentleman who had a roll of paper in his hand. As they
stood, the one was seen to point with his stick, and the other with his
roll of paper, this way and that. Allan set off in that direction,
saying to his sister, as he went,

“Don’t you come. That gentleman is so rude, he will make you cry. Yes, I
must go, and I won’t get angry; I won’t indeed. He may find as much
fault as he pleases; I must show him how the water is standing in our
furrows.”

“Hallo! what do you want here?” was Mr. Nelson’s greeting, when, after a
minute or two, he saw Allan looking and listening. “What business have
you here, hearkening to what we are saying?”

“I wanted to know whether anything is going to be done below there. I
thought, if you wished it, I could tell you something about it.”

“You! what, a dainty little fellow like you?--a fellow that wears his
Sunday clothes on a Tuesday, and a rainy Tuesday too! You must get
working clothes and work.”

“I shall work to-morrow, Sir. My mother and my brother-in-law were
buried to-day.”

“Lord bless me! You should have told me that. How should I know that
unless you told me?” He proceeded in a much gentler tone, however,
merely remonstrating with Allan for letting the wet stand in the
furrows, in such a way as would spoil any garden. Allan had a good ally,
all the while, in the stranger, who seemed to understand everything
before it was explained. The gentleman was, in fact, an agricultural
surveyor--one who could tell, when looking abroad from a height, what
was swamp and what meadow; where there was a clean drain, and where an
uneven ditch; where the soil was likely to be watered, and where flooded
by the winter rains; where genially warmed, and where fatally baked by
the summer’s sun. He had seen, before Allan pointed it out, how the
great ditch cut across between the cultivated grounds and the little
river into which those grounds should be drained; but he could not know,
till told by Allan, who were the proprietors and occupiers of the
parcels of land lying on either side the ditch. Mr. Nelson knew little
or nothing under this head, though he contradicted the lad every minute;
was sure such an one did not live here, nor another there; told him he
was confusing Mr. Smith and Mr. Brown; did not believe a word of Mr.
Taylor having bought yonder meadow, or Mrs. Scott now renting that
field. All the while, the surveyor went on setting down the names as
Allan told them; and then observed that they were not so many but that
they might combine, if they would, to drain their properties, if they
could be relieved of the obstruction of the ditch--if the surveyor of
highways would see that the ditch were taken in hand. Mr. Nelson
pronounced that there should be no difficulty about the ditch, if the
rest could be managed; and then, after a few whispered words between the
gentlemen, Allan was asked first, whether he was sure that he knew where
every person lived whose name was down in the surveyor’s book; and next,
whether he would act as guide to-morrow. For a moment he thought he
should be wanted to move Abby’s things; but, remembering the vast
importance of the plan which seemed now to be fairly growing under his
eye, he replied that he would go; he should be happy to make it his
day’s work to help, ever so little, towards what he wished above
everything in the world.

“What makes you in such a hurry to suppose we want to get a day’s work
out of you for nothing?” asked Mr. Nelson. He thrust half-a-crown into
the lad’s waistcoat pocket, saying that he must give it back again, if
he led the gentleman wrong. The gentleman had no time to go running
about the country on a fool’s errand; Allan must mind that. As Allan
touched his hat, and ran down the steps, Mr. Nelson observed that boys
with good hearts did not fly about in that way, as if they were merry,
on the day of their mother’s funeral.

“Perhaps he is rather thinking of saving his father,” observed the
surveyor.

“Well; save as many of them as you can. They seem all going to pot as it
is.”

When Allan burst in, carrying nothing of Abby’s, but having a little
color in his cheeks for once, his father sat up in his chair, the baby
suddenly stopped crying, and Moss asked where he had been. At first, his
father disappointed him by being listless--first refusing to believe
anything good, and then saying that any good that could happen now was
too late; and Abby could not help crying all the more because this was
not thought about a year sooner. It was her poor husband that had made
the stir; and now they were going to take his advice the very day that
he was laid in his grave. They all tried to comfort her, and said how
natural it was that she should feel it so; yet, amidst all their
sympathy, they could not help being cheered that something was to be
done at last.

By degrees, and not slow degrees, Woodruffe became animated. It was
surprising how many things he desired Allan to be sure not to forget to
point out to the surveyor, and to urge upon those he was to visit. At
last he said he would go himself. It was a very serious business, and he
ought to make an effort to have it done properly. It was a great effort,
but he would make it. Not rheumatism, nor anything else, should keep him
at home. Allan was glad at heart to see such signs of energy in his
father, though he might feel some natural disappointment at being left
at home, and some perplexity as to what, in that case, he ought to do
about the half-crown, if Mr. Nelson should be gone home. The morning
settled this, however. The surveyor was in his gig. If Allan could hang
on, or keep up with it, it would be very well, as he would be wanted to
open the gates, and to lead the way in places too wet for his father,
who was not worth such a pair of patent waterproof tall boots as the
surveyor had on.

The circuit was not a very wide one; yet it was dark before they got
home. There are always difficulties in arrangements which require
combined action. Here there were different levels in the land, and
different tempers and views among the occupiers. Mr. Brown had heard
nothing about the matter, and could not be hurried till he saw occasion.
Mr. Taylor liked his field best, wet--would not have it drier on any
account, for fear of the summer sun. When assured that drought took no
hold on well-dried land in comparison with wet land, he shook with
laughter, and asked if they expected him to believe that. Mrs. Scott,
whose combination with two others was essential to the drainage of three
portions, would wait another year. They must go on without her; and
after another year, she would see what she would do. Another had
drained his land in his own way long ago, and did not expect that
anybody would ask him to put his spade into another man’s land, or to
let any other man put his spade into his. These were all the
obstructions. Everybody else was willing, or at least, not obstructive.
By clever management, it was thought that the parties concerned could
make an island of Mrs. Scott and her field, and win over Mr. Brown by
the time he was wanted, and show Mr. Taylor that, as his field could no
longer be as wet as it had been, he might as well try the opposite
condition--they promising to flood his field as often and as thoroughly
as he pleased, if he found it the worse for being drained. They could
not obtain all they wished, where everybody was not as wise as could be
wished; but so much was agreed upon as made the experienced surveyor
think that the rest would follow; enough, already, to set more laborers
to work than the place could furnish. Two or three stout men were sent
from a distance; and when they had once cut a clear descent from the
ditch to the river, and had sunk the ditch to seven feet deep, and made
the bottom even, and narrowed it to three feet, it was a curious thing
to see how ready the neighbors became to unite their drains with it. It
used to be said, that here--however it might be elsewhere--the winter
was no time for digging; but that must have meant that no winter-digging
would bring a spring crop; and that therefore it was useless. Now, the
sound of the spade never ceased for the rest of the winter; and the
laborers thought it the best winter they had ever known for constant
work. Those who employed the labor hoped it would answer--found it
expensive--must trust it was all right, and would yield a profit by and
by. As for the Woodruffes, they were too poor to employ laborers. But
some little hope had entered their hearts again, and brought strength,
not only to their hearts, but to their very limbs. They worked like
people beginning the world. As poor Abby could keep the house and sew,
while attending to her little school, Becky did the lighter parts (and
some which were far from light) of the garden work, finding easy tasks
for Moss; and Allan worked like a man at the drains. They had been
called good drains before; but now, there was an outfall for deeper
ones; and deeper they must be made. Moreover, a strong rivalry arose
among the neighbors about their respective portions of the combined
drainage; and under the stimulus of ambition, Woodruffe recovered his
spirits and the use of his limbs wonderfully. He suffered cruelly from
his rheumatism; and in the evenings felt as if he could never more lift
a spade; yet, not the less was he at work again in the morning, and so
sanguine as to the improvement of his ground, that it was necessary to
remind him, when calculating his gains, that it would take two years, at
least, to prove the effects of his present labors.


VII.

It was observed by Woodruffe’s family, during one week of spring of the
next year, that he was very absent. He was not in low spirits, but
absorbed in thought, and much devoted to making calculations with pencil
and paper. At last, out it came, one morning at breakfast.

“I wonder how we should all like to have Harry Hardiman to work with us
again?”

Every one looked up. Harry! where was Harry? Was he here? Was he coming?

“Why, I will tell you what I have been thinking,” said their father. “I
have thought long and carefully, and I believe I have made up my mind to
send for Harry, to come and work for us as he used to do. We have not
labor enough on the ground. Two stout men to the acre is the smallest
allowance for trying what could be made of the place.”

“That is what Taylor and Brown are employing now on the best part of
their land,” said Allan; “that is, when they can get the labor. There is
such difference between that and one man to four or five acres, as there
was before, that they can’t always get the labor.”

“Just so; and therefore,” continued Woodruffe, “I am thinking of sending
for Harry. Our old neighborhood was not prosperous when we left it, and
I fancy it cannot have improved since; and Harry might be glad to follow
his master to a thriving neighborhood; and he is such a careful fellow
that I dare say he has money for the journey,--even if he has a wife by
this time, as I suppose he has.”

Moss looked most pleased, where all were pleased, at the idea of seeing
Harry again. His remembrance of Harry was of a tall young man, who used
to carry him on his shoulders, and wheel him in the empty water-barrel,
and sometimes offer to dip him into it when it was full, and show him
how to dig in the sand-heap with his little wooden spade.

“Your rent, to be sure, is much lower than in the old place,” observed
Abby.

“Why, we must not build upon that,” replied the father; “rent is rising
here, and will rise. My landlord was considerate in lowering mine to £3
per acre, when he saw how impossible it was to make it answer; and he
says he shall not ask more yet on account of the labor I laid out at the
time of the drainage. But when I have partly repaid myself, the rent
will rise to £5; and, in fact, I have made my calculations in regard to
Harry’s coming at a higher rent than that.”

“Higher than that?”

“Yes; I should not be surprised if I found myself paying, as
market-gardeners near London do, ten pounds per acre before I die.”

“Or rather, to let the ground to me for that, father,” said Allan, “when
it is your own property, and you are tired of work, and disposed to turn
it over to me. I will pay you ten pounds per acre then, and let you have
all the cabbages you can eat besides. It is capital land, and that is
the truth. Come--shall that be a bargain?”

Woodruffe smiled, and said he owed a duty to Allan. He did not like to
see him so hard worked as to be unable to take due care of his own
corner of the garden;--unable to enter fairly into the competition for
the prizes at the Horticultural Show in the summer. Becky now, too,
ought to be spared from all but occasional help in the garden. Above
all, the ground was now in such an improving state that it would be
waste not to bestow due labor upon it. Put in the spade where you would,
the soil was loose and well-aired as needs be: the manure penetrated it
thoroughly; the frost and heat pulverized, instead of binding it; and
the crops were succeeding each other so fast, that the year would be a
very profitable one.

“Where will Harry live, if he comes?” asked Abby.

“We must get another cottage added to the new row. Easily done! Cottages
so healthy as these new ones pay well. Good rents are offered for
them,--to save doctors’ bills and loss of time from sickness;--and, when
once a system of house-drainage is set a-going, it costs scarcely more
in adding a cottage to a group, to make it all right, than to run it up
upon solid clay as used to be the way here. Well, I have a good mind to
write to Harry to-day. What do you think of it,--all of you?”

Fortified by the opinion of all his children, Mr. Woodruffe wrote to
Harry. Meantime, Allan and Becky went to cut the vegetables that were
for sale that day; and Moss delighted himself in running after and
catching the pony in the meadow below. The pony was not very easily
caught, for it was full of spirit. Instead of the woolly insipid grass
that it used to crop, and which seemed to give it only fever and no
nourishment, it now fed on sweet fresh grass, which had no sour stagnant
water soaking its roots. The pony was so full of play this morning that
Moss could not get hold of it. Though much stronger than a year ago, he
was not yet anything like so robust as a boy of his age should be; and
he was growing heated, and perhaps a little angry, as the pony galloped
off towards some distant trees, when a boy started up behind a bush,
caught the halter, brought the pony round with a twitch, and led him to
Moss. Moss fancied he had seen the boy before, and then his white teeth
reminded Moss of one thing after another.

“I came for some marsh plants,” said the boy. “You and I got plenty once
somewhere hereabouts, but I cannot find them now.”

“You will not find any now. We have no marsh now.”

The stranger said he dared not go back without them; mother wanted them
badly. She would not believe him if he said he could not find any. There
were plenty about two miles off, along the railway, among the clay-pits,
he was told; but none nearer. The boy wanted to know where the clay-pits
hereabouts were. He could not find one of them.

“I will show you one of them,” said Moss; “the one where you and I used
to hunt rats.” And, leading the pony, he showed his old gypsy
play-fellow all the improvements, beginning with the great ditch,--now
invisible from being covered in. While it was open, he said, it used to
get choked, and the sides were plastered after rain, and soon became
grass-grown, so that it was found worth while to cover it in; and now it
would want little looking to for years to come. As for the clay-pit,
where the rats used to pop in and out,--it was now a manure-pit, covered
in. There was a drain into it from the pony’s stable and from the
pig-styes; and it was near enough to the garden to receive the refuse
and sweepings. A heavy lid, with a ring in the middle, covered the pit,
so that nobody could fall in in the dark, and no smell could get out.
Moss begged the boy to come a little further, and he would show him his
own flower-bed; and when the boy was there, he was shown everything
else: what a cart-load of vegetables lay cut for sale; and what an arbor
had been made of the pent-house under which Moss used to take shelter,
when he could do nothing better than keep off the birds; and how fine
the ducks were,--the five ducks that were so serviceable in eating off
the slugs; and what a comfortable nest had been made for them to lay
their eggs in, beside the water-tank in the corner; and what a variety
of scarecrows the family had invented,--each having one, to try which
would frighten the sparrows most. While Moss was telling how difficult
it was to deal with the sparrows, because they could not be frightened
for more than three days by any kind of scarecrow, he heard Allan
calling him, in a tone of vexation, at being kept waiting so long. In an
instant the stranger boy was off,--leaping the gate, and flying along
the meadow till he was hidden behind a hedge.

Two or three days after this one of the ducks was missing. The last time
that the five had been seen together was when Moss was showing them to
his visitor. The morning after Moss finally gave up hope, the glass of
Allan’s hotbed was found broken, and in the midst of the bed itself was
a deep foot-track, crushing the cucumber plants, and, with them,
Allan’s hopes of a cucumber prize at the Horticultural Exhibition in the
summer. On more examination, more mischief was discovered, some cabbages
had been stolen, and another duck was missing. In the midst of the
general concern, Woodruffe burst out a-laughing. It struck him that the
chief of the scarecrows had changed his hat; and so he had. The old
straw hat which used to flap in the wind so serviceably was gone, and in
its stead appeared a helmet,--a saucepan full of holes, battered and
split, but still fit to be a helmet to a scarecrow.

“I could swear to the old hat,” observed Woodruffe, “if I should have
the luck to see it on anybody’s head.”

“And so could I,” said Becky, “for I mended it,--bound it with black
behind, and green before, because I had not green ribbon enough. But
nobody would wear it before our eyes.”

“That is why I suspect there are strangers hovering about. We must
watch.”

Now Moss, for the first time, bethought himself of the boy he had
brought in from the meadow; and now, for the first time, he told his
family of that encounter.

“I never saw such a simpleton,” his father declared. “There, go along
and work! Now, don’t cry, but hold up like a man and work.”

Moss did cry; he could not help it; but he worked too. He would fain
have been one of the watchers, moreover; but his father said he was too
young. For two nights he was ordered to bed, when Allan took his dark
lantern, and went down to the pent-house; the first night accompanied by
his father, and the next by Harry Hardiman, who had come on the first
summons. By the third evening, Moss was so miserable that his sisters
interceded for him, and he was allowed to go down with his old friend
Harry.

It was a starlight night, without a moon. The low country lay dim, but
unobscured by mist. After a single remark on the fineness of the night,
Harry was silent. Silence was their first business. They stole round the
fence as if they had been thieves themselves, listened for some time
before they let themselves in at the gate, passed quickly in, and locked
the gate (the lock of which had been well oiled), went behind every
screen, and along every path, to be sure that no one was there, and
finally, perceiving that the remaining ducks were safe, settled
themselves in the darkness of the pent-house.

There they sat, hour after hour, listening. If there had been no sound,
perhaps they could not have borne the effort; but the sense was relieved
by the bark of a dog at a distance, and then by the hoot of the owl that
was known to have done them good service in mousing, many a time; and
once, by the passage of a train on the railway above. When these were
all over, poor Moss had much ado to keep awake, and at last his head
sank on Harry’s shoulder, and he forgot where he was, and everything
else in the world. He was awakened by Harry’s moving, and then
whispering quite into his ear:--

“Sit you still. I hear somebody yonder. No--sit you still. I won’t go
far--not out of call; but I must get between them and the gate.”

With his lantern under his coat, Harry stole forth, and Moss stood up,
all alone in the darkness and stillness. He could hear his heart beat,
but nothing else, till footsteps on the path came nearer and nearer.
They came quite up; they came in, actually into the arbor; and then the
ducks were certainly fluttering. In an instant more, there was a gleam
of light upon the white plumage of the ducks, and then light enough to
show that this was the gypsy boy, with a dark lantern hung round his
neck, and, at the same moment, to show the gypsy boy that Moss was
there. The two boys stood, face to face, motionless from utter
amazement, and the ducks had scuttled and waddled away before they
recovered themselves. Then, Moss flew at him in a glorious passion, at
once of rage and fear.

“Leave him to me, Moss,” cried Harry, casting light upon the scene from
his lantern, while he collared the thief with the other hand. “Let go,
I say, Moss. There, now we’ll go round and be sure whether there is any
one else in the garden, and then we’ll lodge this young rogue where he
will be safe.”

Nobody was there, and they went home in the dawn, locked up the thief in
the shed, and slept through what remained of the night.

It was about Mr. Nelson’s usual time for coming down the line; and it
was observed that he now always stopped at this station till the next
train passed,--probably because it was a pleasure to him to look upon
the improvement of the place. It was no surprise therefore to Woodruffe
to see him standing on the embankment after breakfast; and it was
natural that Mr. Nelson should be immediately told that the gypsies were
here again, and how one of them was caught thieving.

“Thieving! So you found some of your property upon him, did you!”

“Why, no. I thought myself that it was a pity that Moss did not let him
alone till he had laid hold of a duck or something.”

“Pho! pho! don’t tell me you can punish the boy for theft, when you
can’t prove that he stole anything. Give him a whipping, and let him
go.”

“With all my heart. It will save me much trouble to finish off the
matter so.”

Mr. Nelson seemed to have some curiosity about the business; for he
accompanied Woodruffe to the shed. The boy seemed to feel no awe of the
great man whom he supposed to be a magistrate, and when asked whether he
felt none, he giggled and said “No;” he had seen the gentleman more
afraid of his mother than anybody ever was of him, he fancied. On this,
a thought struck Mr. Nelson. He would now have his advantage of the
gypsy woman, and might enjoy, at the same time, an opportunity of
studying human nature under stress--a thing he liked, when the stress
was not too severe. So he passed a decree on the spot that, it being now
nine o’clock, the boy should remain shut up without food till noon, when
he should be severely flogged, and driven from the neighborhood; and
with this pleasant prospect before him, the young rogue remained,
whistling ostentatiously, while his enemies locked the door upon him.

“Did you hear him shoot the bolt?” asked Woodruffe. “If he holds to
that, I don’t know how I shall get at him at noon.”

“There, now, what fools people are! Why did you not take out the bolt? A
pretty constable you would make! Come--come this way. I am going to find
the gypsy-tent again. You are wondering that I am not afraid of the
woman, I see; but, you observe, I have a hold over her this time. What
do you mean by allowing those children to gather about your door? You
ought not to permit it.”

“They are only the scholars. Don’t you see them going in? My daughter
keeps a little school, you know, since her husband’s death.”

“Ah, poor thing! poor thing!” said Mr. Nelson, as Abby appeared on the
threshold, calling the children in.

Mr. Nelson always contrived to see some one or more of the family when
he visited the station; but it so happened, that he had never entered
the door of their dwelling. Perhaps he was not himself fully conscious
of the reason. It was, that he could not bear to see Abby’s young face
within the widow’s cap, and to be thus reminded that hers was a case of
cruel wrong; that if the most ordinary thought and care had been used in
preparing the place for human habitation, her husband might be living
now, and she the happy creature that she would never be again.

On his way to the gypsies, Mr. Nelson saw some things that pleased him
in his heart, though he found fault with them all. What business had
Woodruffe with an additional man in his garden? It could not possibly
answer. If it did not, the fellow must be sent away again. He must not
burden the parish. The occupiers here seemed all alike. Such a fancy for
new labor! One, two, six men at work on the land within sight at that
moment, over and above what there used to be! It must be looked to.
Humph! he could get to the alders dryshod now; but that was owing
solely to the warmth of the spring. It was nonsense to attribute
everything to drainage. Drainage was a good thing; but fine weather was
better.

The gypsy-tent was found behind the alders as before, but no longer in a
swamp. The woman was sitting on the ground at the entrance as before,
but not now with a fevered child laid across her knees. She was weaving
a basket.

“Oh, I see,” said Woodruffe, “this is the way our osiers go.”

“You have not many to lose, now-a-days,” said the woman.

“You are welcome to all the rushes you can find,” said Woodruffe; “but
where is your son?”

Some change of countenance was seen in the woman; but she answered
carelessly that the children were playing yonder.

“The one I mean is not there,” said Woodruffe, “We have him safe--caught
him stealing my ducks.”

She called the boy a villain--disowned him, and so forth; but when she
found the case a hopeless one, she did not, and, therefore, probably
could not scold--that is, anybody but herself and her husband. She
cursed herself for coming into this silly place, where now no good was
to be got. When she was brought to the right point of perplexity about
what to do, seeing that it would not do to stay, and being unable to go
while her boy was in durance, she was told that his punishment should be
summary, though severe, if she would answer frankly certain questions.
When she had once begun giving her confidence, she seemed to enjoy the
license. When her husband came up, he looked as if he only waited for
the departure of his visitors to give his wife the same amount of
thrashing that her son was awaiting elsewhere. She vowed that they would
never pitch their tent here again. It used to be the best station in
their whole round--the fogs were so thick! From sunset to long after
sunrise, it had been as good as a winter night, for going where they
pleased without fear of prying eyes. There was not a poultry-yard or
pig-stye within a couple of miles round, where they could not creep up
through the fog. And they escaped the blame, too; for the swamp and
ditches used to harbor so much vermin, that the gypsies were not always
suspected, as they were now. Till lately, people shut themselves into
their homes, or the men went to the public-house in the chill evenings;
and there was little fear of meeting any one. But now that the fogs were
gone, people were out in their gardens, on these fine evenings, and
there were men in the meadows, returning from fishing; for they could
angle now, when their work was done, without the fear of catching an
ague in the marsh as they went home.

Mr. Nelson used vigorously his last opportunity of lecturing these
people. He had it all his own way, for the humility of the gypsies was
edifying. Woodruffe fancied he saw some finger-talk passing, the while,
though the gypsies never looked at each other, or raised their eyes from
the ground. Woodruffe had to remind the Director that the whistle of the
next train would soon be heard; and this brought the lecture to an
abrupt conclusion. On his finishing off with, “I expect, therefore, that
you will remember my advice, and never show your face here again, and
that you will take to a proper course of life in future, and bring up
your son to honest industry;” the woman, with a countenance of grief,
seized one hand and covered it with kisses, and the husband took the
other hand and pressed it to his breast.

“We must make haste,” observed Mr. Nelson, as he led the way quickly
back; “but I think I have made some impression upon them. You see now
the right way to treat these people. I don’t think you will see them
here again.”

“I don’t think we shall.”

As he reached the steps the whistle was heard, and Mr. Nelson could only
wave his hand to Woodruffe, rush up the embankment, and throw himself
panting into a carriage. Only just in time!

By an evening train he re-appeared. When thirty miles off, he had wanted
his purse, and it was gone. It had no doubt paid for the gypsies’ final
gratitude.

Of course, a sufficient force was immediately sent to the alder clump;
but there was nothing there but some charred sticks, and some clean pork
bones, this time, instead of feathers of fowls, and a cabbage leaf or
two. The boy had had his whipping at noon, after a conference with his
little brother at the keyhole, which had caused him to withdraw the
bolt, and offer no resistance. Considering his cries and groans, he had
run off with surprising agility, and was now, no doubt, far away.


VIII.

The gypsies came no more. The fogs came no more. The fever came no more,
at least, in such a form as to threaten the general safety. Where it
still lingered, it was about those only who deserved it,--in any small
farm-house, where the dung-yard was too near the house; and in some
cottage where the slatternly inmates did not mind a green puddle or
choked ditch within reach of their noses. More dwellings arose, as the
fertility of the land increased, and invited a higher kind of tillage;
and among the prettiest of them was one which stood in the corner,--the
most sunny corner,--of Woodruffe’s paddock. Harry Hardiman and his wife
and child lived there, and the cottage was Woodruffe’s property.

Yet Woodruffe’s rent had been raised, and pretty rapidly. He was now
paying eight pounds per acre for his garden-ground, and half that for
what was out of the limits of the garden. He did not complain of it; for
he was making money fast. His skill and industry deserved this; but
skill and industry could not have availed without opportunity. His
ground once allowed to show what it was worth, he treated it well; and
it answered well to the treatment. By the railway he obtained what
manure he wanted from the town; and he sent it back by the railway to
town in the form of crisp celery and salads, wholesome potatoes and
greens, luscious strawberries, and sweet and early peas. He knew that a
Surrey gardener had made his ground yield a profit of two hundred and
twenty pounds per acre. He thought that, with his inferior market, he
should do well to make his yield one hundred and fifty pounds per acre;
and this, by close perseverance, he attained. He could have done it more
easily if he had enjoyed good health; but he never enjoyed good health
again. His rheumatism had fixed itself too firmly to be entirely
removed; and for many days in the year, he was compelled to remain
within doors, or to saunter about in the sun, seeing his boys and Harry
at work, but unable to help them.

From the time that Allan’s work became worth wages in addition to his
subsistence, his father let him rent half a rood of the garden-ground
for three years, saying--

“I limit it to three years, my boy, because that term is long enough for
you to show what you can do. After three years, I shall not be able to
spare the ground at any rent. If you fail, you have no business to rent
ground. If you succeed, you will have money in your pocket wherewith to
hire land elsewhere. Now you have to show us what you can do.”

“Yes, father,” was Allan’s short but sufficient reply.

It was observed by the family that, from this time forward, Allan’s eye
was on every plot of ground in the neighborhood which could, by
possibility, ever be offered for hire; yet did his attention never
wander from that which was already under his hand. And that which was so
great an object to him became a sort of pursuit to the whole family.
Moss guarded Allan’s frames, and made more and more prodigious
scarecrows. Their father gave his very best advice. Becky, who was no
longer allowed, as a regular thing, to work in the garden, found many a
spare half-hour for hoeing and weeding, and trimming and tying up, in
Allan’s beds; and Abby found, as she sat in her little school, that she
could make nets for his fruit trees. It was thus no wonder that, when a
certain July day in the second year arrived, the whole household was in
a state of excitement, because it was a sort of crisis in Allan’s
affairs.

Though breakfast was early that morning, Becky and Allan and Moss were
spruce in their best clothes. A hamper stood at the door, and Allan was
packing in another, which had no lid, two or three flower-pots, which
presented a glorious show of blossom. Abby was putting a new ribbon on
her sister’s straw bonnet; and Harry was in waiting to carry up the
hampers to the station. It was the day of the Horticultural Show at the
town. Woodruffe had been too unwell to think of going till this morning;
but now the sight of the preparations, and the prospect of a warm day,
inspired him, and he thought he would go. At last he went, and they were
gone. Abby never went up to the station; nobody ever asked her to go
there, not even her own child, who perhaps had not thought of the
possibility of it. But when the train was starting, she stood at the
upper window with her child, and held him so that he might lean out, and
see the last carriage disappear as it swept round the curve. After that
the day seemed long, though Harry came up at the dinner-hour to say what
he thought of the great gooseberry in particular, and of everything else
that Allan had carried with him. It was holiday time, and there was no
school to fill up the day. Before the evening, the child became
restless, and Abby fell into low spirits, as she was apt to do when left
long alone; so that Harry stopped suddenly at the door when he was
rushing in to announce that the train was within sight.

“Shall I take the child, Miss?” said Harry. (He always called her
“Miss.”) “I will carry him---- But, sure, here they come! Here comes
Moss,--ready to roll down the steps! My opinion is that there’s a
prize.”

Moss was called back by a voice which everybody obeyed. Allan should
himself tell his sister the fortune of the day, their father said.

There were two prizes, one of which was for the wonderful plate of
gooseberries; and at this news Harry nodded, and declared himself
anything but surprised. If that gooseberry had not carried the day,
there would have been partiality in the judges, that was all; and nobody
could suppose such a thing as that. Yet Harry could have told, if put
upon his honor, that he was rather disappointed that everything that
Allan carried had not gained a prize. When he mentioned one or two, his
master told him he was unreasonable; and he supposed he was.

Allan laid down upon the table, for his sister’s full assurance, his
sovereign, and his half-sovereign, and his tickets. She turned away
rather abruptly, and seemed to be looking whether the kettle was near
boiling for tea. Her father went up to her; and on his first whispered
words, the sob broke forth which made all look round.

“I was thinking of one, too, my dear, that I wish was here at this
moment. I can feel for you, my dear.”

“But you don’t know--you don’t know--you never knew----.” She could not
go on.

“What don’t I know, my dear?”

“That he constantly blamed himself for saying anything to bring you
here. He said you had never prospered from the hour you came, and
now----”

And now Woodruffe could not speak, as the past came fresh upon him. In a
few moments, however, he rallied, saying,

“But we must consider Allan. He must not think that his success makes us
sad.”

Allan declared that it was not about gaining the prizes that he was
chiefly glad. It was because it was now proved what a fair field he had
before him. There was nothing that might not be done with such a soil as
they had to deal with now.

Harry was quite of this opinion. There were more and more people set to
work upon the soil all about them; and the more it was worked the more
it yielded. He never saw a place of so much promise. And if it had a
bad name in regard to healthiness, he was sure that was unfair,--or no
longer fair. He and his were full of health and happiness, as they hoped
to see everybody else in time; and, for his part, if he had all England
before him, or the whole world, to choose a place to live in, he would
choose the very place he was in, and the very cottage, and the very
ground to work on that had produced such a gooseberry and such
strawberries as he had seen that day.




VII.

The Water-Drops.

A FAIRY TALE.


I.

THE SUITORS OF CIRRHA, AND THE YOUNG LADY; WITH A REFERENCE TO HER PAPA.

Far in the west there is a land mountainous, and bright of hue, wherein
the rivers run with liquid light; the soil is all of yellow gold; the
grass and foliage are of resplendent crimson; where the atmosphere is
partly of a soft green tint, and partly azure. Sometimes on summer
evenings we see this land, and then, because our ignorance must refer
all things that we see, to something that we know, we say it is a mass
of clouds made beautiful by sunset colors. We account for it by
principles of Meteorology. The fact has been omitted from the works of
Kaemtz or Daniell; but, notwithstanding this neglect, it is well known
in many nurseries, that the bright land we speak of, is a world
inhabited by fairies. Few among fairies take more interest in man’s
affairs than the good Cloud Country People; this truth is established by
the story I am now about to tell.

Not long ago there were great revels held one evening in the palace of
King Cumulus, the monarch of the western country. Cirrha, the daughter
of the king, was to elect her future husband from a multitude of
suitors. Cirrha was a maiden delicate and pure, with a skin white as
unfallen snow; but colder than the snow her heart had seemed to all who
sought for her affections. When Cirrha floated gracefully and slowly
through her father’s hall, many a little cloud would start up presently
to tread where she had trodden. The winds also pursued her; and even men
looked up admiringly whenever she stepped forth into their sky. To be
sure they called her Mackerel and Cat’s Tail, just as they call her
father Ball of Cotton; for the race of man is a coarse race, and calling
bad names appears to be a great part of its business here below.

Before the revels were concluded, the King ordered a quiet little wind
to run among the guests, and bid them all come close to him and to his
daughter. Then he spoke to them as follows:--

“Worthy friends! there are among you many suitors to my daughter Cirrha,
who is pledged this evening to choose a husband. She bids me tell you
that she loves you all; but since it is desirable that this our royal
house be strengthened by a fit alliance with some foreign power, she has
resolved to take as husband one of those guests who have come hither
from the principality of Nimbus.” Now, Nimbus is that country, not
seldom visible from some parts of our earth, which we have called the
Rain-Cloud. “The subjects of the Prince of Nimbus,” Cumulus continued,
“are a dark race, it is true, but they are famed for their beneficence.”

Two winds, at this point, raised between themselves a great disturbance,
so that there arose a universal cry that somebody should turn them out.
With much trouble they were driven out from the assembly; thereupon,
quite mad with jealousy and disappointment, they went howling off to
sea, where they played pool-billiards with a fleet of ships, and so
forgot their sorrow.

King Cumulus resumed his speech, and said that he was addressing
himself, now, especially to those of his good friends who came from
Nimbus. “To-night, let them retire to rest, and early the next morning
let each of them go down to Earth; whichever of them should be found on
their return to have been engaged below in the most useful service to
the race of man, that son of Nimbus should be Cirrha’s husband.”

Cumulus, having said this, put a white nightcap on his head, which was
the signal for a general retirement. The golden ground of his dominions
was covered for the night, as well as the crimson trees, with cotton. So
the whole kingdom was put properly to bed. Late in the night the moon
got up, and threw over King Cumulus a silver counterpane.


II.

THE ADVENTURES OF NEBULUS AND NUBIS.

The suitors of the Princess Cirrha, who returned to Nimbus, were a-foot
quite early the next morning, and petitioned their good-natured Prince
to waft them over London. They had agreed among themselves, that by
descending there, where men were densely congregated, they should have a
greater chance of doing service to the human race. Therefore the
Rain-Cloud floated over the great City of the World, and, as it passed
at sundry points, the suitors came down upon rain-drops to perform their
destined labor. Where each might happen to alight depended almost wholly
upon accident; so that their adventures were but little better than a
lottery for Cirrha’s hand. One, who had been the most magniloquent among
them all, fell with his pride upon the patched umbrella of an early
breakfast woman, and from thence was shaken off into a puddle. He was
splashed up presently, mingled with soil, upon the corduroys of a
laborer, who stopped for breakfast on his way to work. From thence,
evaporating, he returned crest-fallen to the Land of Clouds.

Among the suitors there were two kind-hearted fairies, Nebulus and
Nubis, closely bound by friendship to each other. While they were in
conversation, Nebulus, who suddenly observed that they were passing over
some unhappy region, dropped, with a hope that he might bless it. Nubis
passed on, and presently alighted on the surface of the Thames.

The district which had wounded the kind heart of Nebulus was in a part
of Bermondsey, called Jacob’s Island. The fairy fell into a ditch; out
of this, however, he was taken by a woman, who carried him to her own
home, among other ditch-water, within a pail. Nebulus abandoned himself
to complete despair, for what claim could he now establish on the hand
of Cirrha? The miserable plight of the poor fairy we may gather from a
description given by a son of man of the sad place to which he had
descended. “In this Island may be seen, at any time of the day, women
dipping water, with pails attached by ropes to the backs of the houses,
from a foul fetid ditch, its banks coated with a compound of mud and
filth, and strewed with offal and carrion; the water to be used for
every purpose, culinary ones not excepted; although close to the place
whence it is drawn, filth and refuse of various kinds are plentifully
showered into it from the outhouses of the wooden houses overhanging its
current, or rather slow and sluggish stream; their posts or supporters
rotten, decayed, and in many instances broken, and the filth dropping
into the water, to be seen by any passer by. During the summer, crowds
of boys bathe in the putrid ditches, where they must come in contact
with abominations highly injurious.”[1]

So Nebulus was carried in a pail out of the ditch to a poor woman’s
home, and put into a battered saucepan with some other water. Thence,
after boiling, he was poured into an earthen tea-pot over some stuff of
wretched flavor, said to be tea. Now, thought the fairy, after all, I
may give pleasure at the breakfast of these wretched people. He pictured
to himself a scene of love as preface to a day of squalid toil, but he
experienced a second disappointment. The woman took him to another room
of which the atmosphere was noisome; there he saw that he was destined
for the comfort of a man and his two children, prostrate upon the floor
beneath a heap of rags. These three were sick; the woman swore at them,
and Nebulus shrunk down into the bottom of the tea-pot. Even the thirst
of fever could not tolerate too much of its contents, so Nebulus, after
a little time, was carried out and thrown into a heap of filth upon the
gutter.

Nubis, in the meantime, had commenced his day with hope of a more
fortunate career. On falling first into the Thames he had been much
annoyed by various pollutions, and been surprised to find, on kissing a
few neighbor drops, that their lips tasted inky. This was caused, they
said, by chalk pervading the whole river in the proportion of sixteen
grains to the gallon. That was what made their water inky to the taste
of those who were accustomed to much purer draughts. “It makes,” they
explained, “our river-water hard, according to man’s phrase; so hard as
to entail on multitudes who use it, some disease, with much expense and
trouble.”

“But all the mud and filth,” said Nubis, “surely no man drinks that?”

“No,” laughed the River-Drops, “not all of it. Much of the water used in
London passes through filters, and a filter suffers no mud or any
impurity to pass, except what is dissolved. The chalk is dissolved, and
there is filth and putrid gas dissolved.”

“That is a bad business,” said Nubis, who already felt his own drops
exercising that absorbent power for which water is so famous, and
incorporating in their substance matters that the Rain-Cloud never
knew.

Presently Nubis found himself entangled in a current, by which he was
sucked through a long pipe into a meeting of Water-Drops, all summoned
from the Thames. He himself passed through a filter, was received into a
reservoir, and, having asked the way of friendly neighbors, worked for
himself with small delay a passage through the mainpipe into London.

Bewildered by his long, dark journey underground, Nubia at length saw
light, and presently dashed forth out of a tap into a pitcher. He saw
that there was fixed under the tap a water-butt, but into this he did
not fall. A crowd of women holding pitchers, saucepans, pails, were
chattering and screaming over him, and the anxiety of all appeared to be
to catch the water as it ran out of the tap, before it came into the tub
or cistern. Nubis rejoiced that his good fortune brought him to a
district in which it might become his privilege to bless the poor, and
his eye sparkled as his mistress, with many rests upon the way, carried
her pitcher and a heavy pail upstairs. She placed both vessels, full of
water, underneath her bed, and then went out again for more, carrying a
basin and a fish-kettle. Nubis pitied the poor creature, heartily
wishing that he could have poured out of a tap into the room itself to
save the time and labor of his mistress.

The pitcher wherein the good fairy lurked, remained under the bed
through the remainder of that day, and during the next night, the room
being, for the whole time, closely tenanted. Long before morning, Nubis
felt that his own drops and all the water near him had lost their
delightful coolness, and had been busily absorbing smells and vapors
from the close apartment. In the morning, when the husband dipped a
teacup in the pitcher, Nubis readily ran into it, glad to escape from
his unwholesome prison. The man putting the water to his lips, found it
so warm and repulsive, that, in a pet, he flung it from the window, and
it fell into the water-butt beneath.

The water-butt was of the common sort, described thus by a member of the
human race:--“Generally speaking, the wood becomes decomposed and
covered with fungi; and indeed, I can best describe their condition by
terming them filthy.” This water-butt was placed under the same shed
with a neglected cesspool, from which the water--ever absorbing--had
absorbed pollution. It contained a kitten among other trifles. “How many
people have to drink out of this butt?” asked Nubis. “Really I cannot
tell you,” said a neighbor Drop. “Once I was in a butt in Bethnal Green,
twenty-one inches across, and a foot deep, which was to supply
forty-eight families.[2] People store for themselves, and when they know
how dirty these tubs are, they should not use them.” “But the labor of
dragging water home, the impossibility of taking home abundance, the
pollution of keeping it in dwelling-rooms and under beds.” “Oh, yes,”
said the other Drop; “all very true. Besides, our water is not of a sort
to keep. In this tub there is quite a microscopic vegetable garden, so I
heard a doctor say who yesterday came hither with a party to inspect
the district. One of them said he had a still used only for distilling
water, and that one day, by chance, the bottoms of a series of
distillations boiled to dryness. Thereupon, the dry mass became heated
to the decomposing point, and sent abroad a stench plain to the dullest
nose as the peculiar stench of decomposed organic matter. It infected,
he said, the produce of many distillations afterwards.”[3] “I tell you
what,” said Nubis, “water may come down into this town innocent enough,
but it’s no easy matter for it to remain good among so many causes of
corruption. Heigho!” Then he began to dream of Princess Cirrha and the
worthy Prince of Nimbus, until he was aroused by a great tumult. It was
an uproar caused by drunken men. “Why are those men so?” said Nubis to
his friend. “I don’t know,” said the Water-Drop, “but I saw many people
in that way last night, and I have seen them so at Bethnal Green.” A
woman pulled her husband by, with loud reproaches for his visits to the
beer-shop. “Why,” cried the man, with a great oath, “where would you
have me go for drink?” Then, with another oath, he kicked the water-butt
in passing--“You would not have me to go there!” All the bystanders
laughed approvingly, and Nubis bade adieu to his ambition for the hand
of Cirrha.


III.

     NEPHELO GOES INTO POLITE SOCIETY, AND THEN INTO A DUNGEON--HIS
     ESCAPE, RECAPTURE, AND HIS PERILOUS ASCENT INTO THE SKY, SURROUNDED
     BY A BLAZE OF FIRE.

Nephelo was a light-hearted subject of the Prince of Nimbus. It is he
who often floats, when the whole cloud is dark, as a white vapor on the
surface. For love of Cirrha, he came down behind a team of rain-drops
and leaped into the cistern of a handsome house at the west end of
London.

Nephelo found the water in the cistern greatly vexed at riotous
behavior on the part of a large number of animalcules. He was told that
Water-Drops had been compelled to come into that place, after undergoing
many hardships, and had unavoidably brought with them germs of these
annoying creatures. Time and place favoring, nothing could hinder them
from coming into life; the cistern was their cradle, although many of
them were already anything but babes. Hereupon, Nephelo himself was
dashed at by an ugly little fellow like a dragon; but an uglier little
fellow, who might be a small Saint George, pounced at the dragon, and
the heart of the poor fairy was the scene of contest.

After awhile there was an arrival of fresh water from a pipe, the flow
of which stirred up the anger of some decomposing growth which lined the
sides and bottom of the cistern. So there was a good deal of confusion
caused, and it was some time before all parties settled down into their
proper places.

“The sun is very hot,” said Nephelo. “We all seem to be getting very
warm.” “Yes, indeed,” said a Lady-Drop; “it’s not like the cool
Cloud-Country. I have been poisoned in the Thames, half filtered, and
made frowzy by standing, this July weather, in an open reservoir. I’ve
travelled in pipes laid too near the surface to be cool, and now am
spoiling here. I know if water is not cold it can’t be pleasant.” “Ah,”
said an old Drop, with a small eel in one of his eyes; “I don’t wonder
at hearing tell that men drink wine, and tea, and beer.” “Talking of
beer,” said another, “is it a fact that we’re of no use to the brewers?
Our character’s so bad, they can’t rely on us for cooling the worts, and
so sink wells, in order to brew all the year round with water cold
enough to suit their purposes.” “I know nothing of beer,” said Nephelo;
“but I know that if the gentlemen and ladies in this cistern were as
cold as they could wish to be, there wouldn’t be so much decomposition
going on among them.” “Your turn in, sir,” said a polite Drop, and
Nephelo leaped nimbly through the place of exit into a china jug placed
ready to receive him. He was conveyed across a handsome kitchen by a
cook, who declared her opinion that the morning’s rain had caused the
drains to smell uncommonly. Nephelo then was thrown into a kettle.

Boiling is to an unclean Water-Drop, like scratching to a bear, a
pleasant operation. It gets rid of the little animals by which it had
been bitten, and throws down some of the impurity with which it had been
soiled. So, after boiling, water becomes more pure, but it is, at the
same time, more greedy than ever to absorb extraneous matter. Therefore,
the sons of men who boil their vitiated water ought to keep it covered
afterwards, and if they wish to drink it cold, should lose no time in
doing so. Nephelo and his friends within the kettle danced with delight
under the boiling process. Chattering pleasantly together, they compared
notes of their adventures upon earth, discussed the politics of
Cloud-Land, and although it took them nearly twice as long to boil as it
would have done had there been no carbonate of lime about them, they
were quite sorry when the time was come for them to part. Nephelo then,
with many others, was poured out into an urn. So he was taken to the
drawing-room, a hot iron having, in a friendly manner, been put down his
back, to keep him boiling.

Out of the urn into the tea-pot; out of the tea-pot into the slop-basin;
Nephelo had only time to remark a matron tea-maker, young ladies
knitting, and a good-looking young gentleman upon his legs, laying the
law down with a tea-spoon, before he (the fairy, not the gentleman) was
smothered with a plate of muffins. From so much of the conversation as
Nephelo could catch, filtered through muffin, it appeared that they were
talking about tea.

“It’s all very well for you to say, mother, that you’re confident you
make tea very good, but I ask--no, there I see you put six spoonfuls in
for five of us. Mother, if this were not hard water--(here there was a
noise as of a spoon hammering upon the iron)--two spoonfuls less would
make tea of a better flavor and of equal strength. Now, there are three
hundred and sixty-five times and a quarter tea-times in the year ----”

“And how many spoonfuls, brother, to the quarter of a tea-time?”

“Maria, you’ve no head for figures. I say nothing of the tea consumed at
breakfast. Multiply----”

“My dear boy, you have left school; no one asks you to multiply. Hand me
the muffin.”

Nephelo, released, was unable to look about him, owing to the high walls
of the slop-basin which surrounded him on every side. The room was
filled with pleasant sunset light, but Nephelo soon saw the coming
shadow of the muffin-plate, and all was dark directly afterwards.

“Take cooking, mother. M. Soyer[4] says you can’t boil many vegetables
properly in London water. Greens won’t be greens; French beans are
tinged with yellow, and peas shrivel. It don’t open the pores of meat,
and make it succulent, as softer water does. M. Soyer believes that the
true flavor of meat cannot be extracted with hard water. Bread does not
rise so well when made with it. Horses----”

“My dear boy, M. Soyer don’t cook horses.”

“Horses, Dr. Playfair tells us, sheep, and pigeons, will refuse hard
water if they can get it soft, though from the muddiest pool.
Race-horses, when carried to a place where the water is notoriously
hard, have a supply of softer water carried with them to preserve their
good condition. Not to speak of gripes, hard water will assuredly
produce what people call a staring coat.”

“Ah, no doubt, then, it was London water that created Mr. Blossomley’s
blue swallow-tail.”

“Maria, you make nonsense out of everything. When you are Mrs.
Blossomley----”

“Now pass my cup.”

There was a pause and a clatter. Presently the muffin-plate was lifted,
and four times in succession there were black dregs thrown into the face
of Nephelo. After the perpetration of these insults he was once again
condemned to darkness.

“When you are Mrs. Blossomley, Maria,” so the voice went on, “when you
are Mrs. Blossomley, you will appreciate what I am now going to tell you
about washerwomen.”

“Couldn’t you postpone it, dear, until I am able to appreciate it. You
promised to take us to Rachel to-night.”

“Ah!” said another girlish voice, “you’ll not escape. We dress at seven.
Until then--for the next twelve minutes you may speak. Bore on, we will
endure.”

“As for you, Catherine, Maria teaches you, I see, to chatter. But if
Mrs. B. would object to the reception of a patent mangle as a wedding
present from her brother, she had better hear him now. Washerwoman’s
work is not a thing to overlook, I tell you. Before a shirt is worn out,
there will have been spent upon it five times its intrinsic value in the
washing-tub. The washing of clothes costs more, by a great deal, than
the clothes themselves. The yearly cost of washing to a household of the
middle class amounts, on the average, to about a third part of the
rental, or a twelfth part of the total income. Among the poor, the
average expense of washing will more probably be half the rental if they
wash at home, but not more than a fourth of it if they employ the Model
Wash-houses. The weekly cost of washing to a poor man averages certainly
not less than fourpence halfpenny. Small tradesmen, driven to economize
in linen, spend perhaps not more than ninepence; in the middle and upper
classes, the cost weekly varies from a shilling to five shillings for
each person, and amounts very often to a larger sum. On these grounds,
Mr. Bullar, Honorary Secretary to the Association for Promoting Baths
and Wash-houses, estimates the washing expenditure of London at a
shilling a week for each inhabitant, or, for the whole, five millions of
pounds yearly. Professor Clark--”

“My dear Professor Tom, you have consumed four of your twelve minutes.”

“Professor Clark judges from such estimates as can be furnished by the
trade, that the consumption of soap in London is fifteen pounds to each
person per annum--twice as much as is employed in other parts of
England. That quantity of soap costs six-and-eightpence; water, per
head, costs half as much, or three-and-fourpence; or each man’s soap and
water costs throughout London, on an average, ten shillings for twelve
months. If the hardness of the water be diminished, there is a
diminution in the want of soap. For every grain of carbonate of lime
dissolved in each gallon of any water, Mr. Donaldson declares two ounces
of soap more for a hundred gallons of that water are required. Every
such grain is called a degree of hardness. Water of five degrees of
hardness requires, for example, two ounces of soap; water of eight
degrees of hardness, then will need fifteen; and water of sixteen
degrees, will demand thirty-two. Sixteen degrees, Maria, is the hardness
of Thames water--of the water, mother, which has poached upon your
tea-caddy. You see, then, that when we pay for the soap we use at the
rate of six-and-eightpence each, since the unusual hardness of our water
causes us to use a double quantity, every man in London pays at an
average rate of three-and-fourpence a year his tax for a hard water
through the cost of soap alone.”

“Now you must finish in five minutes, brother Tom.”

“But soap is not the only matter that concerns the washerwoman and her
customers. There is labor, also, and the wear and tear; there is a
double amount of destruction to our linen, involved in the double time
of rubbing and the double soaping, which hard water compels washerwomen
to employ. So that, when all things have been duly reckoned up in our
account, we find that the outlay caused by the necessities for washing
linen in a town supplied like London with exceedingly hard water, is
four times greater than it would be if soft water were employed. The
cost of washing, as I told you, has been estimated at five millions
a-year. So that, if these calculations be correct, more than three
millions of money, nearly four millions, is the amount filched yearly
from the Londoners by their hard water through the wash-tub only. To
that sum, Mrs. Blossomley, being of a respectable family and very
partial to clean linen, will contribute of course much more than her
average proportion.”

“Well, Mr. Orator, I was not listening to all you said, but what I heard
I do think much exaggerated.”

“I take it, sister, from the Government Report; oblige me by believing
half of it, and still the case is strong. It is quite time for people to
be stirring.”

“So it is, I declare. Your twelve minutes are spent, and we will always
be ready for the play. If you talk there of water, I will shriek.”

Here there arose a chatter which Nephelo found to be about matters that,
unlike the water topic, did not at all interest himself. There was a
rustle and a movement; and a creaking noise approached the drawing-room,
which Nephelo discovered presently to be caused by papa’s boots as he
marched upstairs after his post-prandial slumberings. There was more
talk uninteresting to the fairy; Nephelo, therefore, became drowsy; his
drowsiness might at the same time have been aggravated by the close
confinement he experienced in an unwholesome atmosphere beneath the
muffin-plate. He was aroused by a great clattering; this the maid caused
who was carrying him down stairs upon a tray with all the other
tea-things.

From a sweet dream of nuptials with Cirrha, Nephelo was awakened to the
painful consciousness that he had not yet succeeded in effecting any
great good for the human race; he had but rinsed a teapot. With a faint
impulse of hope the desponding fairy noticed that the slop-basin in
which he sat was lifted from the tray, in a few minutes after the tray
had been deposited upon the kitchen-dresser. Pity poor Nephelo! By a
remorseless scullery-maid he was dashed rudely from the basin into a
trough of stone, from which he tumbled through a hole placed there on
purpose to engulf him,--tumbled through into a horrible abyss.

This abyss was a long dungeon running from back to front beneath the
house, built of bricks--rotten now, and saturated with moisture. Some of
the bricks had fallen in, or crumbled into nothingness; and Nephelo saw
that the soil without the dungeon was quite wet. The dungeon-floor was
coated with pollutions, travelled over by a sluggish shallow stream,
with which the fairy floated. The whole dungeon’s atmosphere was foul
and poisonous. Nephelo found now what those exhalations were which rose
through every opening in the house, through vent-holes and the
burrowings of rats; for rats and other venom tenanted this noisome den.
This was the pestilential gallery called by the good people of the
house, their drain. A trap door at one end confined the fairy in this
place with other Water-Drops, until there should be collected a
sufficient body of them to negotiate successfully for egress.

The object of this door was to prevent the ingress of much more foul
matter from without; and its misfortune was, that in so doing it
necessarily pent up a concentrated putrid gas within. At length Nephelo
escaped; but, alas! it was from a Newgate to a Bastille--from the drain
into the sewer. This was a long-vaulted prison running near the surface
underneath the street. Shaken by the passage overhead of carriages, not
a few bricks had fallen in; and Nephelo hurrying forward, wholly
possessed by the one thought--could he escape?--fell presently into a
trap. An oyster-shell had fixed itself upright between two bricks
unevenly jointed together; much solid filth had grown around it; and in
this Nephelo was caught. Here he remained for a whole month, during
which time he saw many floods of water pass him, leaving himself with a
vast quantity of obstinate encrusted filth unmoved. At the month’s end
there came some men to scrape, and sweep, and cleanse; then with a
sudden flow of water, Nephelo was forced along, and presently, with a
large number of emancipated foulnesses, received his discharge from
prison, and was let loose upon the River Thames.

Nephelo struck against a very dirty Drop.

“Keep off, will you?” the Drop exclaimed. “You are not fit to touch a
person, sewer-bird.”

“Why, where are you from, my sweet gentleman?”

“Oh! I? I’ve had a turn through some Model Drains. Tubular drains they
call ’em. Look at me; isn’t that clear?”

“There’s nothing clear about you,” replied Nephelo. “What do you mean by
Model Drains?”

“I mean I’ve come from Upper George Street through a twelve-inch pipe
four or five times faster than one travels over an old sewer-bed;
travelled express, no stoppage.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes. Impermeable, earthenware, tubular pipes, accurately dove-tailed. I
come from an experimental district. When it’s all settled, there’s to be
water on at high pressure everywhere, and an earthenware drain pipe
under every tap, a tube of no more than the necessary size. Then these
little pipes are to run down the earth; and there’s not to be a great
brick drain running underneath each house into the street; the pipes run
into a larger tube of earthenware that is to be laid at the backs of
all the houses; these tubes run into larger ones, but none of them very
monstrous; and so that there is a constant flow, like circulation of the
blood; and all the pipes are to run at last into one large conduit,
which is to run out of town with all the sewage matter and discharge so
far down the Thames, that no return tide ever can bring it back to
London. Some is to go branching off into the fields to be manure.”

“Humph!” said Nephelo. “You profess to be very clever. How do you know
all this?”

“Know? Bless you, I’m a regular old Thames Drop. I’ve been in the
cisterns, in the tumblers, down the sewers, in the river, up the pipes,
in the reservoirs, in the cisterns, in the teapots, down the sewers, in
the river, up the pipes, in the reservoirs, in the cisterns, in the
saucepans, down the sewers, in the Thames--”

“Hold! Stop there now!” said Nephelo. “Well, so you have heard a great
deal in your lifetime. You’ve had some adventures, doubtless?”

“I believe you,” said the Cockney-Drop. “The worst was when I was pumped
once as fresh water into Rotherhithe. That place is below high-water
mark; so are Bermondsey and St. George’s, Southwark. Newington, St.
Olave’s, Westminster, and Lambeth, are but little better. Well, you
know, drains of the old sort always leak, and there’s a great deal more
water poured into London than the Londoners have stowage room for, so
the water in low districts can’t pass off at high water, and there’s a
precious flood. We sopped the ground at Rotherhithe, but I thought I
never should escape again.”

“Will the new pipes make any difference to that?”

“Yes; so I am led to understand. They are to be laid with a regular
fall, to pass the water off, which, being constant, will be never in
excess. The fall will be to a point of course below the water level, and
at a convenient place the contents of these drains are to be pumped up
into the main sewer. Horrible deal of death caused, Sir, by the damp in
those low districts. One man in thirty-seven died of cholera in
Rotherhithe last year, when in Clerkenwell, at sixty-three feet above
high water, there died but one in five hundred and thirty. The
proportion held throughout.”

“Ah, by the bye, you have heard, of course, complainings of the quality
of water. Will the Londoners sink wells for themselves?”

“Wells! What a child you are! Just from the clouds, I see. Wells in a
large town get horribly polluted. They propose to consolidate and
improve two of the best Thames Water Companies, the Grand Junction and
Vauxhall, for the supply of London, until their great scheme can be
introduced; and to maintain them afterwards as a reserve guard in case
their great scheme shouldn’t prove so triumphant as they think it will
be.”

“What is this great scheme, I should like to know?”

“Why, they talk of fetching rain-water from a tract of heath between
Bagshot and Farnham. The rain there soaks through a thin crust of
growing herbage, which is the only perfect filter, chemical as well as
mechanical--the living rootlets extract more than we can, where impurity
exists. Then, Sir, the rain runs into a large bed of silicious sand,
placed over marl; below the marl there is silicious sand again--Ah, I
perceive you are not geological.”

“Go on.”

“The sand, washed by the rains of ages, holds the water without soiling
it more than a glass tumbler would, and the Londoners say that in this
way, by making artificial channels and a big reservoir, they can collect
twenty-eight thousand gallons a day of water nearly pure. They require
forty thousand gallons, and propose to get the rest in the same
neighborhood from tributaries of the River Wey, not quite so pure, but
only half as hard as Thames water, and unpolluted.”

“How is it to get to London?”

“Through a covered aqueduct. Covered for coolness’ sake, and
cleanliness. Then it is to be distributed through earthenware pipes,
laid rather deep, again for coolness’ sake in the first instance, but
for cleanliness as well. The water is to come in at high pressure, and
run in iron or lead pipes up every house, scale every wall. There is to
be a tap in every room, and under every tap there is to be the entrance
to a drain-pipe. Where water supply ends, drainage begins. They are to
be the two halves of a single system. Furthermore, there are to be
numbers of plugs opening in every street, and streets and courts are to
be washed out every morning, or every other morning, as the traffic may
require, with hose and jet. The Great Metropolis mustn’t be dirty, or be
content with rubbing a finger here and there over its dirt. It is to
have its face washed every morning, just before the hours of business.
The water at high pressure is to set people’s invention at work upon the
introduction of hydraulic apparatus for cranes, et cætera, which now
cause much hand labor and are scarcely worth steam-power. Furthermore--”

“My dear friend,” cried Nephelo, “you are too clever. More than half of
what you say is unintelligible to me.”

“But the grand point,” continued the garrulous Thames drop, “is the
expense. The saving of cisterns, ball-cocks, plumbers’ bills, expansive
sewer-works, constant repairs, hand labor, street-sweeping, soap, tea,
linen, fuel, steam-boilers now damaged by incrustation, boards,
salaries, doctors’ bills, time, parish rates--”

The catalogue was never ended, for the busy Drop was suddenly entangled
among hair upon the corpse of a dead cat, which fate also the fairy
narrowly escaped, to be in the next minute sucked up as Nubis had been
sucked, through pipes into a reservoir. Weary with the incessant
chattering of his conceited friend, whose pride he trusted that a night
with puss might humble, Nephelo now lurked silent in a corner. In a
dreamy state he floated with the current underground, and was half
sleeping in a pipe under some London street, when a great noise of
trampling overhead, mingled with cries, awakened him.

“What is the matter now?” the fairy cried.

“A fire, no doubt, to judge by the noise,” said a neighbor quietly.
Nephelo panted now with triumph. Cirrha was before his eyes. Now he
could benefit the race of man.

“Let us get out,” cried Nephelo; “let us assist in running to the
rescue.”

“Don’t be impatient,” said a drowsy Drop. “We can’t get out of here till
they have found the Company’s turncock, and then he must go to this plug
and that plug in one street, and another, before we are turned off.”

“In the meantime the fire--”

“Will burn the house down. Help in five minutes would save a house. Now
the luckiest man will seldom have his premises attended to in less than
twenty.”

Nephelo thought here was another topic for his gossip in the Thames. The
plugs talked of with a constant water-supply would take the sting out of
the Fire-Fiend.

Presently among confused movements, confused sounds, amid a rush of
water, Nephelo burst into the light--into the vivid light of a great
fire that leapt and roared as Nephelo was dashed against it! Through the
red flames and the black smoke in a burst of steam, the fairy reascended
hopeless to the clouds.


IV.

RASCALLY CONDUCT OF THE PRINCE OF NIMBUS.

The Prince of Nimbus, whose good-nature we have celebrated, was not good
for nothing. Having graciously permitted all the suitors of the Princess
Cirrha to go down to earth and labor for her hand, he took advantage of
their absence, and, having the coast clear, importuned the daughter of
King Cumulus with his own addresses. Cirrha was not disposed to listen
to them, but the rogue her father was ambitious. He desired to make a
good alliance, and that object was better gained by intermarriage with a
prince than with a subject. “There will be an uproar,” said the old
man, “when those fellows down below come back. They will look black and
no doubt storm a little, but we’ll have our royal marriage
notwithstandstanding.” So the Prince of Nimbus married Cirrha, and
Nephelo arrived at the court of King Cumulus one evening during the
celebration of the bridal feast. His wrath was seen on earth in many
parts of England in the shape of a great thunderstorm on the 16th of
July. The adventures of the other suitors, they being thus cheated of
their object, need not be detailed. As each returns he will be made
acquainted with the scandalous fraud practised by the Prince of Nimbus,
and this being the state of politics in Cloud-Land at the moment when we
go to press, we may fairly expect to witness five or six more
thunderstorms before next winter. Each suitor, as he returns and finds
how shamefully he has been cheated, will create a great disturbance; and
no wonder. Conduct so rascally as that of the Prince of Nimbus is enough
to fill the clouds with uproar.




VIII.

An Excellent Opportunity.


In one of the dirtiest and most gloomy streets leading to the Rue Saint
Denis, in Paris, there stands a tall and ancient house, the lower
portion of which is a large mercer’s shop. This establishment is held to
be one of the very best in the neighborhood, and has for many years
belonged to an individual on whom we will bestow the name of Ramin.

About ten years ago, Monsieur Ramin was a jovial red-faced man of forty,
who joked his customers into purchasing his goods, flattered the pretty
_grisettes_ outrageously, and now and then gave them a Sunday treat at
the barrier, as the cheapest way of securing their custom. Some people
thought him a careless, good-natured fellow, and wondered how, with his
off-hand ways, he contrived to make money so fast, but those who knew
him well saw that he was one of those who “never lost an opportunity.”
Others declared that Monsieur Ramin’s own definition of his character
was, that he was a “_bon enfant_,” and that “it was all luck.” He
shrugged his shoulders and laughed when people hinted at his deep
scheming in making, and his skill in taking advantage of Excellent
Opportunities.

He was sitting in his gloomy parlor one fine morning in Spring,
breakfasting from a dark liquid honored with the name of onion soup,
glancing at the newspaper, and keeping a vigilant look on the shop
through the open door, when his old servant Catherine suddenly
observed:--

“I suppose you know Monsieur Bonelle has come to live in the vacant
apartment on the fourth floor?”

“What!” exclaimed Monsieur Ramin in a loud key.

Catherine repeated her statement, to which her master listened in total
silence.

“Well!” he said, at length, in his most careless tones, “what about the
old fellow?” and he once more resumed his triple occupation of reading,
eating, and watching.

“Why,” continued Catherine, “they say he is nearly dying, and that his
housekeeper, Marguerite, vowed he could never get up stairs alive. It
took two men to carry him up; and when he was at length quiet in bed,
Marguerite went down to the porter’s lodge and sobbed there a whole
hour, saying, ‘Her poor master had the gout, the rheumatics, and a bad
asthma; that though he had been got up stairs, he would never come down
again alive; that if she could only get him to confess his sins and make
his will, she would not mind it so much; but that when she spoke of the
lawyer or the priest, he blasphemed at her like a heathen, and declared
he would live to bury her and everybody else.’”

Monsieur Ramin heard Catherine with great attention, forgot to finish
his soup, and remained for five minutes in profound rumination, without
so much as perceiving two customers who had entered the shop and were
waiting to be served. When aroused, he was heard to exclaim:

“What an excellent opportunity!”

Monsieur Bonelle had been Ramin’s predecessor. The succession of the
latter to the shop was a mystery. No one ever knew how it was that this
young and poor assistant managed to replace his patron. Some said that
he had detected Monsieur Bonelle in frauds which he threatened to
expose, unless the business were given up to him as the price of his
silence; others averred that, having drawn a prize in the lottery, he
had resolved to set up a fierce opposition over the way, and that
Monsieur Bonelle, having obtained a hint of his intentions, had thought
it most prudent to accept the trifling sum his clerk offered, and avoid
a ruinous competition. Some charitable souls--moved no doubt by Monsieur
Bonelle’s misfortune--endeavored to console and pump him; but all they
could get from him was the bitter exclamation, “To think I should have
been duped by _him_!” For Ramin had the art, though then a mere youth,
to pass himself off on his master as an innocent provincial lad. Those
who sought an explanation from the new mercer, were still more
unsuccessful. “My good old master,” he said in his jovial way, “felt in
need of repose, and so I obligingly relieved him of all business and
botheration.”

Years passed away; Ramin prospered, and neither thought nor heard of his
“good old master.” The house, of which he tenanted the lower portion,
was offered for sale; he had long coveted it, and had almost concluded
an agreement with the actual owner, when Monsieur Bonelle unexpectedly
stepped in at the eleventh hour, and by offering a trifle more secured
the bargain. The rage and mortification of Monsieur Ramin were extreme.
He could not understand how Bonelle, whom he had thought ruined, had
scraped up so large a sum; his lease was out, and he now felt himself at
the mercy of the man he had so much injured. But either Monsieur Bonelle
was free from vindictive feelings, or those feelings did not blind him
to the expediency of keeping a good tenant; for though he raised the
rent, until Monsieur Ramin groaned inwardly, he did not refuse to renew
the lease. They had met at that period; but never since.

“Well, Catherine,” observed Monsieur Ramin to his old servant on the
following morning, “how is that good Monsieur Bonelle getting on?”

“I dare say you feel very uneasy about him,” she replied with a sneer.

Monsieur Ramin looked up and frowned.

“Catherine,” said he, dryly, “you will have the goodness, in the first
place, not to make impertinent remarks; in the second place, you will
oblige me by going up stairs to inquire after the health of Monsieur
Bonelle, and say that I sent you.”

Catherine grumbled and obeyed. Her master was in the shop, when she
returned in a few minutes, and delivered with evident satisfaction the
following gracious message:

“Monsieur Bonelle desires his compliments to you, and declines to state
how he is; he will also thank you to attend to your own shop, and not to
trouble yourself about his health.”

“How does he look?” asked Monsieur Ramin with the most perfect
composure.

“I caught a glimpse of him, and he appears to me to be rapidly preparing
for the good offices of the undertaker.”

Monsieur Ramin smiled, rubbed his hands, and joked merrily with a
dark-eyed grisette, who was cheapening some ribbon for her cap. That
girl made an excellent bargain that day.

Towards dusk the mercer left the shop to the care of his attendant, and
softly stole up to the fourth story. In answer to his gentle ring, a
little old woman opened the door, and giving him a rapid look, said
briefly,

“Monsieur is inexorable; he won’t see any doctor whatever.”

She was going to shut the door in his face, when Ramin quickly
interposed, under his breath, with, “_I_ am not a doctor.”

She looked at him from head to foot.

“Are you a lawyer?”

“Nothing of the sort, my good lady.”

“Well, then, are you a priest?”

“I may almost say, quite the reverse.”

“Indeed, you must go away; master sees no one.”

Once more she would have shut the door, but Ramin prevented her.

“My good lady,” said he, in his most insinuating tones, “it is true I am
neither a lawyer, a doctor, nor a priest. I am an old friend, a very old
friend of your excellent master; I have come to see good Monsieur
Bonelle in his present affliction.”

Marguerite did not answer, but allowed him to enter, and closed the door
behind him. He was going to pass from the narrow and gloomy ante-chamber
into an inner room--whence now proceeded a sound of loud coughing--when
the old woman laid her hand on his arm, and raising herself on tip-toe
to reach his ear, whispered:

“For Heaven’s sake, sir, since you are his friend, do talk to him; do
tell him to make his will, and hint something about a soul to be saved,
and all that sort of a thing: do, sir!”

Monsieur Ramin nodded and winked in a way that said “I will.” He proved,
however, his prudence by not speaking aloud, for a voice from within
sharply exclaimed,

“Marguerite, you are talking to some one. Marguerite, I will see neither
doctor nor lawyer; and if any meddling priest dare--”

“It is only an old friend, sir;” interrupted Marguerite, opening the
inner door.

Her master, on looking up, perceived the red face of Monsieur Ramin
peeping over the old woman’s shoulder, and irefully cried out,

“How dare you bring that fellow here? And you, sir, how dare you come?”

“My good old friend, there are feelings,” said Ramin, spreading his
fingers over the left pocket of his waistcoat,--“there are feelings,” he
repeated, “that cannot be subdued. One such feeling brought me here.
The fact is, I am a good-natured, easy fellow, and I never bear malice.
I never forget an old friend, but love to forget old differences when I
find one party in affliction.”

He drew a chair forward as he spoke, and composedly seated himself
opposite to his late master.

Monsieur Bonelle was a thin old man, with a pale sharp face, and keen
features. At first, he eyed his visitor from the depths of his vast
arm-chair; but, as if not satisfied with this distant view, he bent
forward, and laying both hands on his thin knees, he looked up into
Ramin’s face with a fixed and piercing gaze. He had not, however, the
power of disconcerting his guest.

“What did you come here for?” he at length asked.

“Merely to have the extreme satisfaction of seeing how you are, my good
old friend. Nothing more.”

“Well, look at me--and then go.”

Nothing could be so discouraging; but this was an Excellent Opportunity,
and when Monsieur Ramin _had_ an excellent opportunity in view, his
pertinacity was invincible. Being now resolved to stay, it was not in
Monsieur Bonelle’s power to banish him. At the same time, he had tact
enough to render his presence agreeable. He knew that his coarse and
boisterous wit had often delighted Monsieur Bonelle of old, and he now
exerted himself so successfully as to betray the old man two or three
times into hearty laughter.

“Ramin,” said he, at length, laying his thin hand on the arm of his
guest, and peering with his keen glance into the mercer’s purple face,
“you are a funny fellow, but I know you; you cannot make me believe you
have called just to see how I am, and to amuse me. Come, be candid for
once; what do you want?”

Ramin threw himself back in his chair, and laughed blandly, as much as
to say, “_Can_ you suspect me?”

“I have no shop now out of which you can wheedle me,” continued the old
man; “and surely you are not such a fool as to come to me for money.”

“Money?” repeated the draper, as if his host had mentioned something he
never dreamt of. “Oh no!”

Ramin saw it would not do to broach the subject he had really come
about, too abruptly, now that suspicion seemed so wide awake--_the_
opportunity had not arrived.

“There is something up, Ramin, I know; I see it in the twinkle of your
eye; but you can’t deceive me again.”

“Deceive _you_?” said the jolly schemer, shaking his head reverentially.
“Deceive a man of your penetration and depth? Impossible! The bare
supposition is flattery. My dear friend,” he continued, soothingly, “I
did not dream of such a thing. The fact is, Bonelle, though they call me
a jovial, careless, rattling dog, I have a conscience; and, somehow, I
have never felt quite easy about the way in which I became your
successor downstairs. It _was_ rather sharp practice, I admit.”

Bonelle seemed to relent.

“Now for it,” said the Opportunity-hunter to himself--“By-the-by,”
(speaking aloud,) “this house must be a great trouble to you in your
present weak state? Two of your lodgers have lately gone away without
paying--a great nuisance, especially to an invalid.”

“I tell you I’m as sound as a colt.”

“At all events, the whole concern must be a great bother to you. If I
were you, I would sell the house.”

“And if I were _you_,” returned the landlord, dryly, “I would buy it--”

“Precisely,” interrupted the tenant, eagerly.

“That is, if you could get it. Phoo! I knew you were after something.
Will you give eighty thousand francs for it?” abruptly asked Monsieur
Bonelle.

“Eighty thousand francs!” echoed Ramin. “Do you take me for Louis
Philippe or the Bank of France?”

“Then, we’ll say no more about it--are you not afraid of leaving your
shop so long?”

Ramin returned to the charge, heedless of the hint to depart. “The fact
is, my good old friend, ready money is not my strong point just now. But
if you wish very much to be relieved of the concern, what say you to a
life annuity? I could manage that.”

Monsieur Bonelle gave a short, dry, churchyard cough, and looked as if
his life were not worth an hour’s purchase. “You think yourself
immensely clever, I dare say,” he said. “They have persuaded you that I
am dying. Stuff! I shall bury you yet.”

The mercer glanced at the thin fragile frame, and exclaimed to himself,
“Deluded old gentleman!” “My dear Bonelle,” he continued, aloud, “I know
well the strength of your admirable constitution; but allow me to
observe that you neglect yourself too much. Now, suppose a good sensible
doctor--”

“Will you pay him?” interrogated Bonelle sharply.

“Most willingly,” replied Ramin, with an eagerness that made the old man
smile. “As to the annuity, since the subject annoys you, we will talk of
it some other time.”

“After you have heard the doctor’s report,” sneered Bonelle.

The mercer gave him a stealthy glance, which the old man’s keen look
immediately detected. Neither could repress a smile; these good souls
understood one another perfectly, and Ramin saw that this was not the
Excellent Opportunity he desired, and departed.

The next day Ramin sent a neighboring medical man, and heard it was his
opinion that if Bonelle held on for three months longer, it would be a
miracle. Delightful news!

Several days elapsed, and although very anxious, Ramin assumed a
careless air, and did not call upon his landlord, or take any notice of
him. At the end of the week old Marguerite entered the shop to make a
trifling purchase.

“And how are we getting on up-stairs?” negligently asked Monsieur Ramin.

“Worse and worse, my good Sir,” she sighed. “We have rheumatic pains,
which make us often use expressions the reverse of Christian-like, and
yet nothing can induce us to see either the lawyer or the priest; the
gout is getting nearer to our stomach every day, and still we go on
talking about the strength of our constitution. Oh, Sir, if you have any
influence with us, do, pray do, tell us how wicked it is to die without
making one’s will or confessing one’s sins.”

“I shall go up this very evening,” ambiguously replied Monsieur Ramin.

He kept his promise, and found Monsieur Bonelle in bed, groaning with
pain, and in the worst of tempers.

“What poisoning doctor did you send?” he asked, with an ireful glance;
“I want no doctor, I am not ill; I will not follow his prescription; he
forbade me to eat; I _will_ eat.”

“He is a very clever man,” said the visitor. “He told me that never in
the whole course of his experience has he met with what he called so
much ‘resisting power’ as exists in your frame. He asked me if you were
not of a long-lived race.”

“That is as people may judge,” replied Monsieur Bonelle. “All I can say
is, that my grandfather died at ninety, and my father at eighty-six.”

“The doctor owned that you had a wonderfully strong constitution.”

“Who said I hadn’t?” exclaimed the invalid feebly.

“You may rely on it, you would preserve your health better if you had
not the trouble of these vexatious lodgers. Have you thought about the
life annuity?” said Ramin as carelessly as he could, considering how
near the matter was to his hopes and wishes.

“Why, I have scruples,” returned Bonelle, coughing. “I do not wish to
take you in. My longevity would be the ruin of you.”

“To meet that difficulty,” quickly replied the mercer, “we can reduce
the interest.”

“But I must have high interest,” placidly returned Monsieur Bonelle.

Ramin, on hearing this, burst into a loud fit of laughter, called
Monsieur Bonelle a sly old fox, gave him a poke in the ribs, which made
the old man cough for five minutes, and then proposed that they should
talk it over some other day. The mercer left Monsieur Bonelle in the act
of protesting that he felt as strong as a man of forty.

Monsieur Ramin felt in no hurry to conclude the proposed agreement. “The
later one begins to pay, the better,” he said, as he descended the
stairs.

Days passed on, and the negotiation made no way. It struck the observant
tradesman that all was not right. Old Marguerite several times refused
to admit him, declaring her master was asleep; there was something
mysterious and forbidding in her manner that seemed to Monsieur Ramin
very ominous. At length a sudden thought occurred to him; the
housekeeper--wishing to become her master’s heir--had heard his scheme
and opposed it. On the very day that he arrived at this conclusion, he
met a lawyer, with whom he had formerly had some transactions, coming
down the staircase. The sight sent a chill through the mercer’s
commercial heart, and a presentiment--one of those presentiments that
seldom deceive--told him it was too late. He had, however, the fortitude
to abstain from visiting Monsieur Bonelle until evening came; when he
went up, resolved to see him in spite of all Marguerite might urge. The
door was half-open, and the old housekeeper stood talking on the landing
to a middle-aged man in a dark cassock.

“It is all over! The old witch has got the priests at him,” thought
Ramin, inwardly groaning at his own folly in allowing himself to be
forestalled.

“You cannot see Monsieur to-night,” sharply said Marguerite, as he
attempted to pass her.

“Alas! is my excellent friend so very ill?” asked Ramin, in a mournful
tone.

“Sir,” eagerly said the clergyman, catching him by the button of his
coat, “if you are indeed the friend of that unhappy man, do seek to
bring him into a more suitable frame of mind. I have seen many dying
men, but never so much obstinacy, never such infatuated belief in the
duration of life.”

“Then you think he really _is_ dying?” asked Ramin; and, in spite of the
melancholy accent he endeavored to assume, there was something so
peculiar in his tone, that the priest looked at him very fixedly as he
slowly replied,

“Yes, Sir, I think he is.”

“Ah!” was all Monsieur Ramin said; and as the clergyman had now relaxed
his hold of the button, Ramin passed in spite of the remonstrances of
Marguerite, who rushed after the priest. He found Monsieur Bonelle still
in bed in a towering rage.

“Oh! Ramin, my friend,” he groaned, “never take a housekeeper, and never
let her know you have any property. They are harpies, Ramin,--harpies!
such a day as I have had; first, the lawyer, who comes to write down ‘my
last testamentary dispositions,’ as he calls them; then the priest, who
gently hints that I am a dying man. Oh, what a day!”

“And _did_ you make your will, my excellent friend?” softly asked
Monsieur Ramin, with a keen look.

“Make my will?” indignantly exclaimed the old man; “make my will? what
do you mean, Sir? do you mean to say I am dying?”

“Heaven forbid!” piously ejaculated Ramin.

“Then why do you ask me if I have been making my will?” angrily resumed
the old man. He then began to be extremely abusive.

When money was in the way, Monsieur Ramin, though otherwise of a violent
temper, had the meekness of a lamb. He bore the treatment of his host
with the meekest patience, and having first locked the door so as to
make sure that Marguerite would not interrupt them, he watched Monsieur
Bonelle attentively, and satisfied himself that the Excellent
Opportunity he had been ardently longing for had arrived. “He is going
fast,” he thought; “and unless I settle the agreement to-night, and get
it drawn up and signed to-morrow, it will be too late.”

“My dear friend,” he at length said aloud, on perceiving that the old
gentleman had fairly exhausted himself and was lying panting on his
back, “you are indeed a lamentable instance of the lengths to which the
greedy lust of lucre will carry our poor human nature. It is really
distressing to see Marguerite, a faithful, attached servant, suddenly
converted into a tormenting harpy by the prospect of a legacy! Lawyers
and priests flock around you like birds of prey, drawn hither by the
scent of gold! Oh, the miseries of having delicate health combined with
a sound constitution and large property!”

“Ramin,” groaned the old man, looking inquiringly into his visitor’s
face, “you are again going to talk to me about that annuity--I know you
are!”

“My excellent friend, it is merely to deliver you from a painful
position.”

“I am sure, Ramin, you think in your soul I am dying,” whimpered
Monsieur Bonelle.

“Absurd, my dear Sir. Dying? I will prove to you that you have never
been in better health. In the first place you feel no pain.”

“Excepting from rheumatism,” groaned Monsieur Bonelle.

“Rheumatism! who ever died of rheumatism? and if that be all--”

“No, it is not all,” interrupted the old man with great irritability;
“what would you say to the gout getting higher and higher up every
day?”

“The gout is rather disagreeable, but if there is nothing else--”

“Yes, there is something else,” sharply said Monsieur Bonelle. “There is
an asthma that will scarcely let me breathe, and a racking pain in my
head that does not allow me a moment’s ease. But if you think I am
dying, Ramin, you are quite mistaken.”

“No doubt, my dear friend, no doubt; but in the meanwhile, suppose we
talk of this annuity. Shall we say one thousand francs a year.”

“What?” asked Bonelle, looking at him very fixedly.

“My dear friend, I mistook; I meant two thousand francs per annum,”
hurriedly rejoined Ramin.

Monsieur Bonelle closed his eyes, and appeared to fall into a gentle
slumber. The mercer coughed; the sick man never moved.

“Monsieur Bonelle.”

No reply.

“My excellent friend.”

Utter silence.

“Are you asleep?”

A long pause.

“Well, then, what do you say to three thousand?”

Monsieur Bonelle opened his eyes.

“Ramin,” said he, sententiously, “you are a fool; the house brings me in
four thousand as it is.”

This was quite false, and the mercer knew it; but he had his own reasons
for wishing to seem to believe it true.

“Good Heavens!” said he, with an air of great innocence, “who could have
thought it, and the lodgers constantly running away. Four thousand?
Well, then, you shall have four thousand.”

Monsieur Bonelle shut his eyes once more, and murmured “The mere
rental--nonsense!” He then folded his hands on his breast, and appeared
to compose himself to sleep.

“Oh, what a sharp man of business he is!” Ramin said, admiringly; but
for once omnipotent flattery failed in its effect; “So acute!” continued
he, with a stealthy glance at the old man, who remained perfectly
unmoved. “I see you will insist upon making it the other five hundred
francs.”

Monsieur Ramin said this as if five thousand five hundred francs had
already been mentioned, and was the very summit of Monsieur Bonelle’s
ambition. But the ruse failed in its effect; the sick man never so much
as stirred.

“But, my dear friend,” urged Monsieur Ramin in a tone of feeling
remonstrance, “there is such a thing as being too sharp, too acute. How
can you expect that I shall give you more when your constitution is so
good, and you are to be such a long liver?”

“Yes, but I may be carried off one of those days,” quietly observed the
old man, evidently wishing to turn the chance of his own death to
account.

“Indeed, and I hope so,” muttered the mercer, who was getting very
ill-tempered.

“You see,” soothingly continued Bonelle, “you are so good a man of
business, Ramin, that you will double the actual value of the house in
no time. I am a quiet, easy person, indifferent to money; otherwise this
house would now bring me in eight thousand at the very least.”

“Eight thousand!” indignantly exclaimed the mercer. “Monsieur Bonelle,
you have no conscience. Come now, my dear friend, do be reasonable. Six
thousand francs a-year (I don’t mind saying six) is really a very
handsome income for a man of your quiet habits. Come, be reasonable.”
But Monsieur Bonelle turned a deaf ear to reason, and closed his eyes
once more. What between opening and shutting them for the next quarter
of an hour, he at length induced Monsieur Ramin to offer him seven
thousand francs.

“Very well, Ramin, agreed,” he quietly said; “you have made an
unconscionable bargain.” To this succeeded a violent fit of coughing.

As Ramin unlocked the door to leave, he found old Marguerite, who had
been listening all the time, ready to assail him with a torrent of
whispered abuse for duping her “poor dear innocent old master into such
a bargain.” The mercer bore it all very patiently; he could make
allowances for her excited feelings, and only rubbed his hands and bade
her a jovial good evening.

The agreement was signed on the following day, to the indignation of old
Marguerite, and the mutual satisfaction of the parties concerned.

Every one admired the luck and shrewdness of Ramin, for the old man
every day was reported worse; and it was clear to all that the first
quarter of the annuity would never be paid. Marguerite, in her wrath,
told the story as a grievance to every one; people listened, shook their
heads, and pronounced Monsieur Ramin to be a deuced clever fellow.

A month elapsed. As Ramin was coming down one morning from the attics,
where he had been giving notice to a poor widow who had failed in paying
her rent, he heard a light step on the stairs. Presently a sprightly
gentleman, in buoyant health and spirits, wearing the form of Monsieur
Bonelle, appeared. Ramin stood aghast.

“Well, Ramin,” gaily said the old man, “how are you getting on? Have you
been tormenting the poor widow up stairs? Why, man, we must live and let
live!”

“Monsieur Bonelle,” said the mercer, in a hollow tone, “may I ask where
are your rheumatics?”

“Gone, my dear friend,--gone.”

“And the gout that was creeping higher and higher every day,” exclaimed
Monsieur Ramin, in a voice of anguish.

“It went lower and lower, till it disappeared altogether,” composedly
replied Bonelle.

“And your asthma----”

“The asthma remains, but asthmatic people are proverbially long-lived.
It is, I have been told, the only complaint that Methuselah was troubled
with.” With this, Bonelle opened his door, shut it, and disappeared.

Ramin was transfixed on the stairs; petrified with intense
disappointment, and a powerful sense of having been duped. When
discovered, he stared vacantly, and raved about an Excellent Opportunity
of taking his revenge.

The wonderful cure was the talk of the neighborhood, whenever Monsieur
Bonelle appeared in the streets, jauntily flourishing his cane. In the
first frenzy of his despair, Ramin refused to pay; he accused every one
of having been in a plot to deceive him; he turned off Catherine and
expelled his porter; he publicly accused the lawyer and priest of
conspiracy; brought an action against the doctor, and lost it. He had
another brought against him for violently assaulting Marguerite, in
which he was cast in heavy damages. Monsieur Bonelle did not trouble
himself with useless remonstrances, but, when his annuity was refused,
employed such good legal arguments as the exasperated mercer could not
possibly resist.

Ten years have elapsed, and MM. Ramin and Bonelle still live on. For a
house which would have been dear at fifty thousand francs, the draper
has already handed over seventy thousand.

The once red-faced, jovial Ramin, is now a pale, haggard man, of sour
temper and aspect. To add to his anguish, he sees the old man thrive on
that money which it breaks his heart to give. Old Marguerite takes a
malicious pleasure in giving him an exact account of their good cheer,
and in asking him if he does not think Monsieur looks better and better
every day. Of one part of this torment Ramin might get rid, by giving
his old master notice to quit, and no longer having him in his house.
But this he cannot do; he has a secret fear that Bonelle would take some
Excellent Opportunity of dying without his knowledge, and giving some
other person an Excellent Opportunity of personating him, and receiving
the money in his stead.

The last accounts of the victim of Excellent Opportunities represent him
as being gradually worn down with disappointment. There seems every
probability of his being the first to leave the world; for Bonelle is
heartier than ever.

                               THE END.

                *       *       *       *       *

              =Popular Work! Twelfth Thousand Now Ready!=

                      LEWIE, OR THE BENDED TWIG.

                           BY COUSIN CICELY,

              Author of “Silver Lake Stories,” etc., etc.

              =One Volume 12mo.,            Price $1.00.=

  ALDEN, BEARDSLEY & CO., AUBURN, N. Y.,       }
  WANZER, BEARDSLEY & CO., ROCHESTER, N. Y.,   } _Publishers_.

    “Mother! thy gentle hand hath mighty power,
    For thou alone may’st train, and guide, and mould
    Plants that shall blossom, with an odor sweet,
    Or, like the cursed fig-tree, wither, and become
    Vile cumberers of the ground.”

Brief Extracts from Notices of the Press.

* * * A tale which deserves to rank with “The Wide, Wide World.” It is
written with graphic power, and full of interest.--_Hartford Repub._

* * * Her writings are equal to the best. She is a second Fanny
Fern.--_Palmyra Democrat._

* * * It is recommended by its excellent moral tone and its wholesome
practical inculcations.--_N. Y. Tribune._

* * * Full of grace and charm, its style and vivacity make it a most
amusing work. For the intellectual and thinking, it has a deeper lesson,
and while it thrills the heart, bids parents beware of that weakness
which prepares in infancy the misery of man. “Lewie” is one of the most
popular books now before the public, and needs no puffing, as it is
selling by thousands.--_N. Y. Day Book._

* * * The moral of the book is inestimable. The writer cannot fail to be
good, as she so faithfully portrays the evils which owe their origin to
the criminal neglect of proper parental discipline.--_Hunt’s Merchants’
Magazine._

* * * The plot is full of dramatic interest, yet entirely free from
extravagance; the incidents grow out of the main plot easily and
naturally, while the sentiment is healthy and unaffected. Commend us to
more writers like Cousin Cicely--books which we can see in the hands of
our young people without uneasiness. Books which interest by picturing
life as it is, instead of giving us galvanized society.--_National
Democrat._

* * * A touching and impressive story, unaffected in style and effective
in plot.--_N. Y. Evangelist._

* * * The story of the Governess, contained in this volume, is one of
rare interest.--_Highland Eagle._

* * * The story is a charming one--the most affecting we ever
read.--_Jersey Shore Republican._

* * * “Cousin Cicely” is just the person to portray family scenes.

* * * This story will be profitable reading.--_Daily Capital City Fact,
Columbus, Ohio._

* * * The contents of the work are of the first order, and
unexceptionable.--_Hartford Daily Times._

       *       *       *       *       *

FOOTNOTES:

 [1] Report of Mr. Bowie on the cause of Cholera in Bermondsey.

 [2] Report of Dr. Gavin.

 [3] Evidence of Mr. J. T. Cooper, Practical Chemist.

 [4] Evidence before the Board of Health.

       *       *       *       *       *

Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:

gave him little encouagement=> gave him little encouagement {pg 11}

where an elegaut _déjeuner_=> where an elegant _déjeuner_ {pg 20}

wo had sprung=> woe had sprung {pg 27}

againt the barons=> against the barons {pg 35}

Ths spirit of a policeman=> The spirit of a policeman {pg 62}

three feet together anwhere=> three feet together anywhere {pg 207}

Nepho now lurked=> Nephelo now lurked {pg 321}

cried Nepho=> cried Nephelo {pg 322}

you are are not such a fool=> you are not such a fool {pg 334}