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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 70716 ***



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                             ILLUSTRATIONS
                                   OF
                           POLITICAL ECONOMY.


                                   BY

                           HARRIET MARTINEAU.

                                 ——●——

                           LIFE IN THE WILDS.
                        THE HILL AND THE VALLEY.
                        BROOKE AND BROOKE FARM.

                                 ——●——

                           _IN NINE VOLUMES._

                                VOL. I.

                                 ——●——

                                LONDON:
                     CHARLES FOX, PATERNOSTER-ROW.
                                 ——●——
                              MDCCCXXXIV.




                                LONDON.
                       Printed by WILLIAM CLOWES,
                         Duke-street, Lambeth.




                               CONTENTS.

                          LIFE IN THE WILDS.
      CHAP.                                                    PAGE
         1. What have they left us?                            1001
         2. What is Wealth?                                    1022
         3. Earn your Bread before you eat it                  1030
         4. Hand-Work and Head-Work                            1043
         5. Heart-Work                                         1055
         6. Many Hands make quick Work                         1070
         7. Getting up in the World                            1083
         8. A bright Sunset                                    1099
         9. Signs of the Times                                 1109

                       THE HILL AND THE VALLEY.
         1. Every Man his Whim                                 2001
         2. Much may come of Little                            2017
         3. The harm of a Whim                                 2030
         4. Prosperity                                         2049
         5. How to use Prosperity                              2070
         6. Disasters                                          2084
         7. Discontents                                        2103
         8. Uproar                                             2117
         9. All quiet again                                    2133

                        BROOKE AND BROOKE FARM.
         1. Brooke and its Politicians                         3001
         2. George Gray’s Way of Living                        3016
         3. George Gray in the Way to Prosper                  3028
         4. A Conversation under the Limes                     3040
         5. Past, Present, and to Come                         3056
         6. Sergeant Rayne’s Story                             3072
         7. Great Changes at Brooke                            3083
         8. Small Farming                                      3092
         9. Great Joy at Brooke                                3106
        10. What Joe Harper saw Abroad                         3114
        11. What must come at last                             3127
        12. Prosperity to Brooke!                              3132




                                PREFACE.

                             --------------


In an enlightened nation like our own, there are followers of every
science which has been marked out for human pursuit. There is no study
which has met with entire neglect from all classes of our countrymen.
There are men of all ranks and every shade of opinion, who study the
laws of Divine Providence and human duty. There are many more who
inquire how the universe was formed and under what rules its movements
proceed. Others look back to the records of society and study the
history of their race. Others examine and compare the languages of many
nations. Others study the principles on which civil laws are founded,
and try to discover what there has been of good as well as of evil in
the governments under which men have lived from the time of the
patriarchs till now. Others—but they are very few—inquire into the
principles which regulate the production and distribution of the
necessaries and comforts of life in society.

It is a common and true observation that every man is apt to think his
own principal pursuit the most important in the world. It is a
persuasion which we all smile at in one another and justify in
ourselves. This is one of the least mischievous of human weaknesses;
since, as nobody questions that some pursuits are really more important
than others, there will always be a majority of testimonies in favour of
those which are so, only subject to a reservation which acts equally
upon all. If, for instance, votes were taken as to the comparative value
of the study of medicine, the divine would say that nothing could be
more important except theology; the lawyer the same, excepting law; the
mathematician the same, excepting mathematics; the chemist the same,
excepting chemistry; and so on. As long as every man can split his vote,
and all are agreed to give half to themselves, the amount of the poll
will be the same as if all gave whole votes. There is encouragement,
therefore, to canvass, as we are about to do, in favour of a candidate
whom we would fain see more popular than at present.

Can anything more nearly concern all the members of any society than the
way in which the necessaries and comforts of life may be best procured
and enjoyed by all? Is there anything in any other study (which does not
involve this) that can be compared with it in interest and importance?
And yet Political Economy has been less studied than perhaps any other
science whatever, and not at all by those whom it most concerns,—the
mass of the people. This must be because its nature and its relation to
other studies are not understood. It would not else be put away as dull,
abstract and disagreeable. It would be too absurd to complain of its
being difficult in an age when the difficulties of science appear to
operate as they should do, in stimulating to enterprise and improving
patience.

Political Economy treats of the Production, Distribution and Consumption
of Wealth; by which term is meant whatever material objects contribute
to the support and enjoyment of life. Domestic economy is an interesting
subject to those who view it as a whole; who observe how, by good
management in every department, all the members of a family have their
proper business appointed them, their portion of leisure secured to
them, their wants supplied, their comforts promoted, their pleasures
cared for; how harmony is preserved within doors by the absence of all
causes of jealousy; how good will prevail towards all abroad through the
absence of all causes of quarrel. It is interesting to observe by what
regulations all are temperately fed with wholesome food, instead of some
being pampered above-stairs while others are starving below; how all are
clad as becomes their several stations, instead of some being brilliant
in jewels and purple and fine linen, while others are shivering in
nakedness; how all have something, be it much or little, in their
purses, instead of some having more than they can use, while others are
tempted to snatch from them in the day-time or purloin by night. Such
extremes as these are seldom or never to be met with under the same roof
in the present day, when domestic economy is so much better understood
than in the times when such sights were actually seen in rich men’s
castles: but in that larger family,—the nation,—every one of these
abuses still exists, and many more. If it has been interesting to watch
and assist the improvement of domestic economy from the days of feudal
chiefs till now, can it be uninteresting to observe the corresponding
changes of a state? If it has been an important service to equalize the
lot of the hundred members of a great man’s family, it must be
incalculably more so to achieve the same benefit for the many millions
of our population, and for other nations through them. This benefit
cannot, of course, be achieved till the errors of our national
management are traced to their source, and the principles of a better
economy are established. It is the duty of the people to do this.

If a stranger had entered the castle of a nobleman, eight hundred years
ago, and, grieved at what he saw, had endeavoured to put matters on a
better footing, how ought he to set about it, and in what temper should
he be listened to? If he had the opportunity of addressing the entire
household at once, he would say, “I have been in your splendid halls,
and I saw vast sums squandered in gaming, while hungry creditors were
looking on from without with rage in their countenances. I have been in
your banqueting-room, and I saw riot and drunkenness to-day where there
will be disease and remorse to-morrow. I have been in your kitchens, and
I saw as much waste below as there had been excess above, while the
under servants were driven into a cold corner to eat the broken food
which was not good enough for their masters’ dogs. I have been in your
dungeons, and I saw prisoners who would fain have labored for themselves
or their fellow-captives, condemned to converse in idleness with their
own melancholy thoughts, or with companions more criminal and miserable
than themselves. I have been among the abodes of those who hew your wood
and draw your water, and till your fields, and weave your garments; and
I find that they are not allowed to exchange the produce of their labor
as they will, but that artificial prices are set upon it, and that gifts
are added to the profits of some which are taken out of the earnings of
others. I hear complaints from all in turn, from the highest to the
lowest; complaints which I cannot call unreasonable, since it is equally
true that the poor among you are oppressed, and that the rich are
troubled; that the rulers are perplexed and the governed discontented.
These things need not be. There are methods of governing a family which
will secure the good of all. I invite you to join me in discovering what
these methods are.” What would be thought of the good sense of such a
household if they should reject the invitation,—if the rulers should
say, “We are much perplexed, it is true, to know how to govern; but it
is very difficult to change the customs of a family, and so we will go
on as we are;” if the sons and daughters of the house should reply, “It
is true the servants threaten us with vengeance, and we have more
trouble than enough with their complaints; but we should find the
inquiry you propose very dull and disagreeable, so do not let us hear
any more about it,” if the servants should say, “We have many grievances
certainly, and we can easily tell what ought to be remedied; but as to
what the remedies are, we are told we cannot understand the subject; so
instead of trying to learn, we shall redress our troubles in our own
way?” If this is folly, if this is neglect, if this is madness, it is no
more than as many people are guilty of as refuse to hear anything of
Political Economy, because it is new, or because it is dull, or because
it is difficult. No one could make any of these objections, if he knew
the nature, or saw anything of the utility and beauty of the science.

Half-civilized states were like the half-civilized household we have
described, eight centuries ago. We wish we could go on to say that
civilized states are managed like civilized households, that Political
Economy was nearly as well understood by governments as domestic economy
is by the heads of families. That it is far otherwise, our national
distresses too plainly show. The fault lies, however, quite as much with
the governed as with their rulers. Unless the people will take the pains
to learn what it is that goes wrong, and how it should be rectified,
they cannot petition intelligently or effectually, and government will
regard their complaints as unreasonable and their afflictions as past
help. However true it may be that governments ought to look over the
world at large for the purpose of profiting by universal experience and
improving their measures in proportion as knowledge advances, it is
equally true that the people should look abroad also, and observe and
compare and reflect and take to heart whatever concerns the common
interests of the millions of their countrymen. If many of them occupy
such a position as that they cannot do this, is it not at least their
duty, should it not be their pleasure, to listen to those who have
observed and compared and reflected and come to a certain knowledge of a
few grand principles, which, if generally understood, would gradually
remove all the obstructions, and remedy the distresses, and equalize the
lot of the population? Such ought to be the disposition of the people.

But the people complain, and justly, that no assistance has been offered
them which they could make use of. They complain that all they can do is
to pick up bits and scraps of knowledge of Political Economy, because
the works which profess to teach it have been written for the learned,
and can interest only the learned. This is very true, and it is the
consequence of the science being new. All new sciences are for some time
engrossed by the learned, both because preparation is required before
they can be generally understood, and because it is some time before men
perceive how close an interest the bulk of society has in every new
truth. It is certain, however, that sciences are only valuable in as far
as they involve the interests of mankind at large, and that nothing can
prevent their sooner or later influencing general happiness. This is
true with respect to the knowledge of the stars; to that of the
formation and changes of the structure of the globe; to that of chemical
elements and their combinations; and, above all, to that of the social
condition of men. It is natural that the first eminent book on this new
science should be very long, in some parts exceedingly difficult, and,
however wonderful and beautiful as a whole, not so clear and precise in
its arrangement as it might be. This is the case with Smith’s Wealth of
Nations,—a book whose excellence is marvelous when all the circumstances
are considered, but which is not fitted nor designed to teach the
science to the great mass of the people. It has discharged and is
discharging its proper office in engaging the learned to pursue the
study, and in enabling them to place it in new lights according to the
various needs of various learners. It is natural, again, that the first
followers of the science should differ among themselves, and that some
should think certain points important which others think trifling; and
it is a matter of course that their disputes must be tiresome to those
who know little of the grounds of them. It is perfectly natural that the
science should be supposed obscure and the study of it fruitless which
could thus cause contradictions and perplexities at the very outset. It
is perfectly natural that when certainty began to be obtained and
regularity to come out of the confusion, formality should be the order
of the day; that truths should be offered in a cold dry form, and should
be left bare of illustration, and made as abstract and unattractive as
possible. This is a very hopeful state of things, however: for when
truth is once laid hold of, it is easy to discover and display its
beauty; and this, the last and easiest process, is what remains to be
done for Political Economy. When it is done, nobody must again excuse
himself from learning, out of discontent at the way in which it is
taught.

The works already written on Political Economy almost all bear a
reference to books which have preceded, or consist in part of
discussions of disputed points. Such references and such discussions are
very interesting to those whom they concern, but offer a poor
introduction to those to whom the subject is new. There are a few, a
very few, which teach the science systematically as far as it is yet
understood. These too are very valuable: but they do not give us what we
want—the science in a familiar, practical form. They give us its
history; they give us its philosophy; but we want its _picture_. They
give us truths, and leave us to look about us, and go hither and thither
in search of illustrations of those truths. Some who have a wide range
in society and plenty of leisure, find this all-sufficient; but there
are many more who have neither time nor opportunity for such an
application of what they learn. We cannot see why the truth and its
application should not go together—why an explanation of the principles
which regulate society should not be made more clear and interesting at
the same time by pictures of what those principles are actually doing in
communities.

For instance: if we want to teach that security of property is necessary
to the prosperity of a people, and to shew how and in what proportion
wealth increases where there is that security, and dwindles away where
there is not, we may make the fact and the reasons very well understood
by stating them in a dry, plain way: but the same thing will be quite as
evident, and far more interesting and better remembered, if we confirm
our doctrine by accounts of the hardships suffered by individuals, and
the injuries by society, in such a country as Turkey, which remains in a
state of barbarism chiefly through the insecurity of property. The story
of a merchant in Turkey, in contrast with one of a merchant in England,
will convey as much truth as any set of propositions on the subject, and
will impress the memory and engage the interest in a much greater
degree. This method of teaching Political Economy has never yet been
tried, except in the instance of a short story or separate passage here
and there.

This is the method in which we propose to convey the leading truths of
Political Economy, as soundly, as systematically, as clearly and
faithfully, as the utmost pains-taking and the strongest attachment to
the subject will enable us to do. We trust we shall not be supposed to
countenance the practice of making use of narrative as a trap to catch
idle readers, and make them learn something they are afraid of. We
detest the practice, and feel ourselves insulted whenever a book of the
_trap_ kind is put into our hands. It is many years since we grew sick
of works that pretend to be stories, and turn out to be catechisms of
some kind of knowledge which we had much rather become acquainted with
in its undisguised form. The reason why we choose the form of narrative
is, that we really think it the best in which Political Economy can be
taught, as we should say of nearly every kind of moral science. Once
more we must apply the old proverb, “Example is better than precept.” We
take this proverb as the motto of our design. We declare frankly that
our object is to teach Political Economy, and that we have chosen this
method not only because it is new, not only because it is entertaining,
but because we think it the most faithful and the most complete. There
is no doubt that all that is true and important about any
virtue—integrity, for instance—may be said in the form of a lecture, or
written in a chapter of moral philosophy; but the faithful history of an
upright man, his sayings and doings, his trials, his sorrows, his
triumphs and rewards, teaches the same truths in a more effectual as
well as more popular form. In like manner, the great principle of
Freedom of Trade may be perfectly established by a very dry argument;
but a tale of the troubles, and difficulties, and changes of good and
evil fortune in a manufacturer and his operatives, or in the body of a
manufacturing population, will display the same principle, and may be
made very interesting besides, to say nothing of getting rid of the
excuse that these subjects cannot be understood.

We do not dedicate our series to any particular class of society,
because we are sure that all classes bear an equal relation to the
science, and we much fear that it is as little familiar to the bulk of
one as of another. We should not be so ready to suspect this ignorance
if we heard less of the difficulty of the subject. We trust it will be
found that as the leading principles come out in order, one after
another, they are so clear, so indisputable, so apparently familiar,
that the wonder is when the difficulty is to come,—where the knotty
points are to be encountered. We suspect that these far-famed
difficulties arise, like the difficulties of mathematical and other
sciences, from not beginning at the beginning and going regularly on. A
student who should open Euclid in the middle, could no more proceed from
want of knowing what came before, than a sawyer who should insert his
saw in a hole in the middle of a plank could go on sawing while the wood
was closed both behind and before. In like manner, any novice who wishes
to learn in a hurry the philosophy of Wages, and dips into a treatise
for the purpose, can make nothing of it for want of understanding the
previous chapters on Labour and Capital. This is the only way in which
we can account for the common notion of the difficulty of the science;
and as this notion is very prevalent, we are constrained to believe that
the ignorance we speak of is prevalent too. When, therefore, we dedicate
our series to all to whom it may be of use, we conceive that we are
addressing many of every class.

If we were to dedicate our work to all whom it may concern, it would be
the same thing as appealing to the total population of the empire. We
say this, of course, in reference to the subject, and not to our
peculiar method of treating it. Is there any one breathing to whom it is
of no concern whether the production of food and clothing and the
million articles of human consumption goes on or ceases? whether that
production is proportioned to those who live? whether all obtain a fair
proportion? whether the crimes of oppression and excess on the one hand,
and violence and theft on the other, are encouraged or checked by the
mode of distribution? Is there any one living to whom it matters not
whether the improvement of the temporal condition of the race shall go
on, or whether it shall relapse into barbarism? whether the supports of
life, the comforts of home, and the pleasures of society, shall become
more scanty or more abundant? whether there shall be increased
facilities for the attainment of intellectual good, or whether the old
times of slavery and hardship shall return? Is any one indifferent
whether famine stalks through the land, laying low the helpless and
humbling the proud; or whether, by a wise policy, the nations of the
earth benefit one another, and secure peace and abundance at home by an
exchange of advantages abroad? Is there any one living, in short, to
whom it matters not whether the aggregate of human life is cheerful and
virtuous or mournful and depraved? The question comes to this: for none
will doubt whether a perpetuity of ease or hardship is the more
favourable to virtue. If it concerns rulers that their measures should
be wise, if it concerns the wealthy that their property should be
secure, the middling classes that their industry should be rewarded, the
poor that their hardships should be redressed, it concerns all that
Political Economy should be understood. If it concerns all that the
advantages of a social state should be preserved and improved, it
concerns them likewise that Political Economy should be understood _by
all_.

As society is in widely different states of advancement in various parts
of the world, we have resolved to introduce as wide a diversity of
scenery and characters as it might suit our object to employ. Each tale
will therefore be usually, if not always, complete in itself, as a tale,
while the principles it exhibits form a part of the system which the
whole are designed to convey. As an instance of what we mean: the scene
of the first tale is laid in a distant land, because there is no such
thing to be found in our own country as Labour uncombined with Capital,
and proceeding through many stages to a perfect union with Capital. In
the next volume, which treats of the operation and increase of Capital,
the scene is laid in a more familiar region, because Capital can be seen
in full activity only in a highly civilized country.

As the necessaries and comforts of life must be produced before they can
be distributed, and distributed before they can be consumed, the order
of subjects seems to be determined by their nature.

We propose to show what Labour can effect, and how it is to be
encouraged and economized and rewarded: to treat of Capital, its nature
and operation, and the proportions of its increase; and to exhibit the
union of these two mighty agents of PRODUCTION. Under the second head,
DISTRIBUTION, occur the great questions of Rent, Profits, Wages, and
Population, the various modes of Interchange at home and abroad,
including the consideration of all Monopolies, domestic and foreign.
Under the third head, CONSUMPTION, are considered the modes of Demand
and Supply, and of Taxation. All these and many more will be exemplified
in sketches of society, in narratives of those who labour and earn and
spend, who are happy or otherwise, according as the institutions under
which they live are good or bad. There can be no lack of subjects for
such tales in our own country, where the pauper and the prince, the
beneficent landlord and the unreasonable tenant, the dissolute grandee
and the industrious artizan, are to be found in the near neighbourhood
of each other. If we look farther abroad into lands where different
institutions vary the interests of individuals, we are furnished with
rich illustrations of every truth our science can furnish. If we could
hope to supply the interest as abundantly as society does the
subject-matter of our tales, we should reckon upon their success and
usefulness as certain. We will do our best.

It is our design to affix to each volume a summary of the principles of
Political Economy which it contains. In this volume only we shall prefix
it, in order to lead the reader to a full understanding of the purpose
of the work as he advances with it.


        _Summary of Principles illustrated in the first Volume._


Wealth consists of such commodities as are useful,—that is, necessary or
agreeable to mankind.

Wealth is to be obtained by the employment of labour on materials
furnished by nature.

As the materials of nature appear to be inexhaustible, and as the supply
of labour is continually progressive, no other limits can be assigned to
the operations of labour than those of human intelligence? And where are
the limits of human intelligence?

Productive labour being a beneficial power, whatever stimulates and
directs this power is beneficial also.

Many kinds of unproductive labour do this. Many kinds of unproductive
labour are therefore beneficial.

All labour for which there is a fair demand is equally respectable.

Labour being a beneficial power, all economy of that labour must be
beneficial.


Labour is economized,

  I. By Division of Labour;—in three ways.
  1. Men do best what they are accustomed to do.
  2. Men do the most quickly work which they stick to.
  3. It is a saving of time to have several parts of a work going on at
  once.

Labour is economized,

  II. By the use of machinery, which
  1. Eases man’s labour.
  2. Shortens man’s labour; and thus, by doing his work, sets him at
  liberty for other work.

Labour should be protected by securing its natural liberty: that is,—

  1. By showing no partiality.
  2. By removing the effects of former partiality.








                      ----------------------------


                           LIFE IN THE WILDS.

                           LIFE IN THE WILDS.

                      ----------------------------

                               CHAPTER I.

                        WHAT HAVE THEY LEFT US?


There are few climates in the world more delightful to live in than that
of the south of Africa. The air of the mountains behind the Cape of Good
Hope is pure and wholesome, and the plains which stretch out towards the
north at a great height above the sea, are fertile in native plants when
uncultivated, and richly repay the toil of the farmer. The woods are
remarkable for the variety of trees and shrubs, and there are as many
animals which may serve for food or for beasts of burden as in this
country. These advantages would lead numbers of our countrymen to settle
in southern Africa, who now go elsewhere, if it were not for one great
drawback. It is not that there are beasts of prey; for lions, leopards,
and panthers, may be kept away from a settlement by the use of proper
precautions: it is that a race of men, more fierce than wild beasts, and
full of cunning, inhabit the mountains on the northern frontier of the
European settlements, and descend, from time to time, upon the lonely
farms or small villages scattered over the plain, and slaughter the
inhabitants, burn their dwellings, and carry off their cattle and their
goods. It is nearly impossible to guard against the attacks of these
savages; and as a considerable force is required to resist them, it is
no wonder that settlers are disposed to sacrifice many advantages of
climate, soil, and productions, rather than be subject to the continual
dread of a visit from the Bushmen, as these people are called. The
settlements towards the northern frontier are therefore few and small,
and consist of those whose poverty induces them to brave danger, and
whose courage is improved by constant exercise.

The Bushmen were the original possessors of much of the country about
the Cape, which the British and the Dutch have since taken for their
own. The natives were hunted down like so many wild beasts. This usage
naturally made them fierce and active in their revenge. The hardships
they have undergone have affected their bodily make also; and their
short stature and clumsy form are not, as some suppose, a sufficient
proof that they are of an inferior race to the men they make war upon.
If we may judge by the experiments which have been tried upon the
natives of various countries, it seems probable that if Europeans were
driven from their homes into the mountains, and exposed to the hardships
of a savage life, they would become stunted in their forms, barbarous in
their habits, and cruel in their revenge. They might, like the Bushmen,
visit the sins of the first invaders upon their innocent successors, and
cause as much undeserved distress as that we are about to relate.

It was in the month of September—a season of extreme heat in the climate
we have described—when the inhabitants of a small British settlement in
the north of the European territories of South Africa, met to consider
what should be done to relieve the want to which they were suddenly
reduced. The evening before, their village looked thriving, and its
inhabitants gay and prosperous; and now, just when morning had dawned,
they assembled to look on the ruin of their habitations, and the
nakedness of their meadows, from which all the cattle had been driven
away. The savages had carried off their tools and their arms, burned
their little furniture with the houses, and left them nothing but the
clothes they wore, and the seed which was buried in the ground. Happily,
but few lives were lost, for the attack had been so sudden, that little
resistance had been attempted: but yet some were gone whose services
could ill be spared, even if they had not attached their companions to
them by having shared the same toils, or by their several good
qualities. Williams, the carpenter, was found dead among the ashes in
the saw-pit; and Humby had been slaughtered on the threshold of the new
hut he was building on his little farm. Some of the children, too, had
perished in the flames; but the loss of life was found to be much less
than every one had supposed before the numbers were called over. The
most general and eager inquiries were for the safety of Captain Adams,
and of Mr. and Mrs. Stone and their child, who were all alive and
unhurt.

Mr. Stone was the best-educated man in the settlement, and was therefore
much valued as a chaplain and teacher, as well as in his character of a
practical farmer. His wife was an amiable, strong-minded woman, who
assisted her husband in his labours abroad and at home. She was, by
common consent, called the Lady of the settlement; but she refused the
title; not because she was not really a lady, but because she thought
there was no reason for such a distinction in a place where all were
obliged to exert their own power for their own subsistence. She had one
child, a girl of three years old.

Mr. Adams was called Captain only because he, in a manner, took the
direction of the affairs of the settlement. Having been long accustomed
to the climate, and acquainted with all the peculiarities of the
country, he was well qualified to advise respecting the proceedings of
his neighbours, who looked up to him as if he had really been what they
called him, and had a captain’s authority over them. It was he who now
assembled them under the shelter of a few trees which grew in a nook
between two hills.

When they met, they looked on one another, and no one seemed disposed to
speak. The captain was about to break silence, when the sobbing of one
of the women who had lost her child, and the wailing of the carpenter’s
widow, affected him so much that he could not command his voice. Mr.
Stone, who was remarkable for his self-command, next came forward, and
said that the friends around him had been called together that they
might determine what measures should be taken for their safety and
subsistence; and that it appeared to him that the right way to begin was
by addressing God in a spirit of resignation for what they had lost, and
of thankfulness for what remained. This was the readiest means of
consoling the mourners who were among them, and of so calming the minds
of all, as that they might deliberate soberly, and judge wisely in an
extremity so awful.

To this there was a general assent; and all heads were bowed, and all
sounds, except the voice of Mr. Stone, hushed in prayer.

When this was over, and a pause had succeeded, the captain observed that
the first consideration of every man among them must be to secure food
and shelter,—food for the present day, and shelter for perhaps one night
only, for the next question was, whether they should remain in the
settlement and build up its ruins as well as they could, or set out
southwards with the hope of finding a safer resting-place, or aid from
their countrymen. In the first place, then, he must declare his hope
that every individual would lay aside all selfish thoughts, and come
forward to say what provisions remained in his hands or upon his portion
of ground.

Mr. Stone offered an antelope which had been snared the day before, and
fastened within an inclosure which the savages had not entered. He
feared that but little was left of his first crop of fruit, and that the
next would not be ripe for some weeks; but said, that whatever remained
should be carried to any appointed spot. Campbell, the herdsman, said he
had not a beast left of all the flocks he had charge of; but he would
venture to follow on the track of the savages for a few miles, and if a
stray ox or sheep should be left behind, it should be in the camp before
nightfall. Upon this, two or three men offered to go out hunting if
weapons were furnished; and others proposed fishing, if they had but
tackle.

“This is all very well,” said the captain, who suspected that neither
weapons nor tackle were to be had; “but our object is to find out what
food is actually in our possession.”

Alas! this was soon made out. There was only Mr. Stone’s antelope, a few
oranges, grapes, and figs; some eggs which were found near the roosts,
and some fowls which began to appear again after having been scared away
by the fires. This was all the provision that could be collected for
fifty-four persons.

“It is clear, then,” said the captain, “that the greater number of us
must disperse in search of food, and that all considerations of removal
must be deferred till to-morrow, at least. We are in no condition to
travel this day. But our night’s shelter must also be thought of. Let
any one speak who has a plan to propose.”

Here again there was a pause, for every one was wishing that poor
Williams, the carpenter, was among them. At length, Robertson, a farmer
said,

“If we could find up tools enough, we might have a sort of roof over our
heads before night, for I believe there are several here who have been
used, like myself, to handle a hatchet, though not as a regular
business, like poor Williams who is gone. But if we cannot have tools, I
see nothing for it but to sleep under the open sky. It is damp in the
woods; and besides, the beasts would couch in our neighbourhood, and the
women and children would not sleep for their roaring, even supposing we
men could.”

“The nights are frosty,” said Mr. Stone; “it is dangerous to sleep
unsheltered after such hot days. Who has a hatchet to produce?”

Not one was forthcoming, and each looked at his neighbour in dismay.

A labourer then proposed that a party of two or three should explore the
pass of the mountains to the east, and see whether there were caves, or
any places in the rock which might be covered in with boughs and rushes
so as to make a convenient sleeping-place.

“Excellent!” cried the captain. “And lest this plan should fail us, let
another company go into the wood, and try whether we cannot get
possession of some stout branches, though we have no tools. Some must
have snapped in the wind last week, I should think; and so dry as the
weather has been for many weeks, some will yield to force, if we put our
strength into our hands. We must remember that our hands are our tools
to-day, and we must ply them well.”

“I do not see,” said Mr. Stone, “why the weakest should be idle. Cannot
the children pluck dry grass and brushwood to make fires round our
sleeping-place?”

“My child shall do her part,” said Mrs. Stone. “She shall look for eggs
about the roost; and some of the boys and I will gather the fruit and
cook the antelope, and whatever game may be brought in.”

“And I,” said her husband, “will see that the bodies of those we have
lost are buried without delay, and with proper respect. Let the mourners
of their families follow me.”

When Mr. Stone and about eight of the company had retired, the captain
proceeded to appoint to the others their various tasks. His office of
superintendent was enough for him. His advice and help were wanted every
moment; for it was no easy matter to perform tasks, all the materials
for which were wanting.

First of all, Campbell, the herdsman, was sent with two of Robertson’s
labourers to follow the Bushmen, and pick up any stray lamb or wearied
beast which might have been left behind. They looked round wistfully for
a noose, thinking that they might snare an antelope by the way; but not
a thread of cordage was left. They were obliged to be content with a
stout cudgel each, which they took from the trees as they passed.

Jack, the tanner’s man, set off with two companions up the pass in
search of a sleeping-place; while his master, who was accustomed to go
into the woods to obtain bark for tanning, guided a party of labourers
to a tree of remarkably hard and tough wood which he had barked and
stripped of its branches, of which he thought tools of a rude kind might
be made. It occurred to him also that the want of ropes might be
supplied by thongs of leather tanned and prepared according to the
manner of the natives; and he wished, therefore, to proceed upon the
antelope’s skin without delay. So his object was to obtain hard wood to
make a rude sort of tools, and bark for tanning.

Hill, the barber-surgeon, had explored the whole neighbourhood in search
of herbs for his medical purposes; and he told of a pool of remarkably
fine water, about two miles off, which abounded with carp. They had only
to pass a net through the water, he said, and they would soon catch
enough to feed their company. This might be true, but where was the net?
Hill could not furnish one; but he could tell how one might be obtained
within a short time. He could shew where flax grew in abundance; and if
two or three clever pairs of hands would help him, the fibres might be
dried and pulled out and twisted and woven into a net, and in three days
they might have a plentiful meal of fish. Hill’s wife and her sister
Kate, and the three children, went with him about this business.

“If they had but left us our dogs,” said Arnall, a great sportsman and
one of the partners of the store or shop where all the commodities of
the settlement were exchanged,—“if they had but left us our dogs, we
might have started game in abundance.”

“And much use it would be of to us,” replied his partner, Mr. Dunn,
“when we have no guns to bring it down.”

“I shot a partridge without a gun, the other day,” said George Prest,
the butcher’s son. “Mr. Arnall laughed at my bow and arrows then; but
perhaps he would like such an one now very well.”

“If you will bring me such an one to-morrow, my boy,” said Arnall, “you
shall have the first bird I bring down.”

“I am afraid your arrows are not strong enough to kill a hare,” said
Dunn. “If you help me to a hare, you shall have her skin to make a cap
of for your bare head.”

“If your dogs will run me down a porcupine,” said the boy, “you shall
have your hare and her skin into the bargain. A hedgehog’s bristles are
strong enough to wound a partridge, but nothing less than a porcupine
quill will reach larger game.”

So saying, George ran off to beg a string of the gut of the antelope
from Mrs. Stone, and to find a suitable slip of wood for a bow, and some
lighter pieces for arrows, with tufts of the soft hair of the antelope,
which must serve instead of feathers till a bird could be brought down.
Meanwhile, Arnall climbed a hill, and whistled shrill and long for his
dogs, one of which at length made his appearance, limping and wearied.
Jowler had, however, sport enough in him to turn out a hedgehog, which
was immediately killed, stripped of its bristles, and put away to be
cooked the next day, after the manner of the natives, if better food
should fall short.

The rest of the labourers, meanwhile, were employed under the captain’s
direction in various tasks. Some assisted at the burial of their
companions. As they had not the means of digging graves for the dead,
and as it was necessary, on account of the extreme heat, not to defer
the rite, the bodies were deposited together in the saw-pit, which was
afterwards filled up with sand and earth. Others of the men built a sort
of oven with stones; one large flat one being placed at the bottom of a
hole scooped out in the sand, and others placed upright round the sides
of the hole. This was filled with burning wood till the stones were
thoroughly heated; then the ashes were swept out, and the meat (which
had been skinned and cut up with fragments of granite) put in, and the
whole closed with a hot stone; and lastly, fire was heaped above and
round the whole.

“I wonder whether it will be good,” said one of the children, who
watched the whole proceeding. “There is no flour to sprinkle it with,
nor yet salt. There will be very little gravy.”

“And what there is will all run out between the stones into the sand,”
said another. “And what shall we eat our dinner off? We have no dishes
or plates. I never had my dinner without a plate.”

“If you cannot eat without a plate,” said Mrs. Stone, “suppose you try
to find or make one, instead of standing with your hands behind you. If
you and your brother go into that quarry which is just opened, I should
not wonder if you find a service of plates which will answer our purpose
very well.”

“There is nothing there but slates,” said the boy. “They are flat enough
for plates, to be sure; but they have no rim; and even Jowler’s trencher
had a rim.”

Being again reminded, however, that there was likely to be no gravy to
run over, little Harry set off in search of a dinner service. He looked
out a great many flat pieces of slate, and rubbed them so clean with dry
grass, that no dust remained. His brother, meanwhile, broke stones
against the hard rock, and picked out the sharpest bits to serve for
knives.

When they had done this, Mrs. Stone called them to help her to gather
fruit; and they climbed the trees in the orchard, where a few oranges
were still hanging among the dark leaves. Some plums and apples also
remained, and a purple bunch of grapes here and there upon the trailing
vines. Little Betsy, their sister, had a quick ear; and while she was
picking up oranges, she heard, some way off in the wood, the cry of a
bird which she knew very well. So she slipped away, without being
missed, to try whether she could not add something acceptable to the
dessert, by the help of this bird. The Honey-cuckoo, as Betsy’s friend
is called, lives on the honey which the wild bees store in the hollow
trunks of trees. It is sometimes called the Indicator, because by
uttering its peculiar cry whenever it meets with a stock of honey, it
points out the way to the honey-tree. Betsy had often followed this bird
from tree to tree, and when the bees were absent, (as wild bees usually
are on a sunny day,) it was her custom to place a leaf on the ground
with some honey on it for the bird, and then to carry off a part of what
remained. Nothing had been easier, hitherto, than to obtain and bring
away this honey, which was as clear and liquid as water. Betsy brushed
it out of the hollows of the wood with a painter’s brush which she kept
clean for the purpose; and she let it run into the white basin out of
which she ate her breakfast. But now, the brush was burned and the basin
gone; and when she had overtaken the bird in the wood, she did not know
what to do for want of her utensils, and her guide fluttered onwards and
did not like to be kept waiting. She twisted a wisp of dry grass, which
did very well instead of her brush: but after she had taken possession
of a leaf-full of honey, and found that it ran over and escaped between
her fingers, she found she must devise a better plan or leave the honey
behind. She had nothing on that she could make into a basket or
basin;—no hat, no pocket; nothing but her shoes, and those she could not
spare. At last, she bethought herself of marking the trees and returning
for the honey when the bird should be gone: so she picked up a piece of
red earth, and marked each honey-tree with a cross. When she had marked
six and began to be tired, she followed the bird no farther, but sat
down beside a pool of water where rushes grew in plenty, and began to
weave them into a sort of basket or basin. She had been accustomed to
make caps of rushes for her brothers in play, and was expert. She made
just such an one now, and lined it thick with the large leaves of the
fig-tree, and tied twigs crosswise over the top to keep it in shape. By
the time this was done, she was rested, and made her way back merrily
through the wood, delighted to find how abundant the honey was, and how
well her vessel held it. On the way, it occurred to her that it would
not be pleasant to eat honey by dipping the fingers into it when other
persons were doing the same; and no better mode seemed to be left. She
wondered whether she could make a _spoon-brush_, such as she had seen
the natives prepare and use for taking up liquids. The plant of which
this sort of brush is made grows in great abundance in those parts, and
she had no difficulty in finding it. Its stem is hard and fibrous, and
flat: being about two inches broad, and very thin. Betsy cut the stem
off in the middle with a sharp stone, and then beat it till it was
bruised so that she could separate the fibres with her fingers. When it
was done, she dipped it into the honey, and found that it took up quite
sufficient for a mouthful. She made six before she turned her face
homewards. As she took down her honey-basket from the bough on which she
had hung it, she was rather alarmed to see that the sun was getting low
in the sky, and pursued her way as fast as she could, lest she should
hear the roaring of wild beasts before she got out of the wood.

Just when she was quitting the shade, and going to cross the meadow, she
heard a rustling in the bushes close beside her. She did not scream, but
her limbs bent under her, for she expected to see a panther, or perhaps
a lion, ready to spring upon her. She looked behind her for the fiery
eyes which she supposed were glaring amidst the underwood. Her delight
was great to see that it was the herdsman’s dog—an old acquaintance,
whose bark now sounded cheerily, when she had listened only for a savage
growl. Campbell himself soon appeared with a lamb on his shoulder, which
he had overtaken feeding by itself upon the hills.

Betsy wished him joy of his prize; but he did not answer her, and looked
very melancholy.

“Has any new thing happened?” asked the little girl. “Are Will and
Richard safe?”

“Yes; they are behind, driving home a bullock; and Will has got a hare
that Keeper took by the ears for us.”

“O, what good luck!” cried Betsy. “But one would not have thought it by
your looks. What makes you look so gloomy?”

“Why, it seems ungrateful to say that it is this lamb,” said Campbell.
“It is not that I do not like to have it back again; but it makes me
pine for the rest. This morning, when I went out, I thought, as was fit,
less about the poor beasts than about the folks we are going to, seeing
how little prospect of food there was before them. But when I heard the
bleat of this lamb, and I saw it come skipping towards me, I thought to
myself, ‘Where are the rest?’ And then it seemed hard to see the very
traces of them in the track, and to know what a little way they were
before us, and yet to turn back and leave them to be slaughtered by
those savages. I little thought when I called home the cows, and penned
the sheep, last night, that I should never see one of all of them again
but this poor beast.”

Little Betsy did not know what to say; and so she plucked a handful of
grass for the lamb.

In a few minutes they reached the place where dinner was going forward.
Though it was the first meal that day, many of the people had eaten
sparingly, not knowing whether anything might be provided for the next
day. When they saw the lamb, however, and heard of the bullock, they
helped themselves again. They did not relish their hard-earned meal the
less for the clumsy manner in which they were obliged to eat it.

Campbell would not join them till he had disposed of his charge. The
fences were so injured that it was necessary to pile up all the wood
that could be laid hold of to stop the gaps. This done, the herdsman
cast a mournful glance at these poor remains of his droves and flocks,
and sat down to refresh himself.

Mrs. Stone, and Betsy’s mother, Mrs. Links, the smith’s wife, had grown
uneasy about the little girl, on account of her long absence: but they
could not blame her when they saw what she had been doing. They bade her
carry the honey and brushes to the captain, who acted as store-keeper,
and receiver-general of whatever was brought in. He patted her on the
head, and said she had done her part; and he moreover gave her his share
of fruit, without which she would have had none, for there was not
enough for everybody. The captain said that the honey should be for
those who came too late for the fruit, that all might have some kind of
vegetable nourishment. And as for the spoon-brushes, they were so useful
that everybody must have one. So little Betsy determined to make plenty
more the next day, and was quite happy.

“And now,” said the captain, “it is high time we were setting off to our
sleeping-place. Jack, kindle your torch and go first, and Hill and
Robertson will follow with lights. The rest of you must take care of
your own families, and see that none are left behind but the few who
have not returned from the woods. I will just stay to light the fire we
have piled for them, and then follow you. If they do not come by the
time that wood-heap is burnt, we shall not see them to-night.”

So saying, the brave captain took his stand, and hurried the people
away, first lighting his torch, and promising to follow soon. All the
way as they went, Mr. Stone looked back, in hopes of seeing his friend
advancing; but it was not till they had been settled at their
sleeping-place nearly an hour, that they saw the glimmering light of his
torch coming slowly up the pass between the rocks.

The sleeping-place was such an one as the whole party were very thankful
to have found, though its distance (two miles) from the settlement was
likely to add considerably to their daily toils. It consisted of two
caverns, one within the other, sufficiently dry and open to the air to
be wholesome, but not lofty enough to admit of a fire being kindled
within, or even of a torch being burned there for any length of time.
The inner cave, which was set apart for the women and children, had been
swept out with bundles of rushes, and the floor thick-strewn with dry
grass, by the men who had explored it in the morning. Mr. Stone entered
it first this night, in order to satisfy himself that there was no other
passage to it than from the larger cave; and when he came out, he
delivered the torch to his wife, desiring her to give it into no hand
less careful than her own, while her companions were laying themselves
down to rest, and to return it to him before she should herself retire;
for if a single spark should fall on the dry grass, they would
inevitably be driven from their shelter.

“What a beautiful room!” cried some of the little children, as they
opened their sleepy eyes, and saw how the sides and roof, glittering
with crystals, sparkled in the torch-light.

“If they do but keep up the fire on the outside,” said one of the
mothers, “we may sleep as safely and warmly as in our own houses.”

Perhaps she would not have said this if she had known what Jack could
have told, but wisely kept to himself, that he had found in that very
cave traces of a lion, which had perhaps couched there the night before.
Jack properly considered that this was not a sufficient objection to the
place, as there were few spots in the neighbourhood where lions had not
couched some time or other, and as a good fire at the entrance of the
cave was always a perfect security against the attack of wild beasts.
Lest others should not think so, however, he held his peace towards
everybody but the captain, taking care that brushwood enough was stored
to keep up a large fire till sunrise.

When the captain had joined his people, Mr. Stone offered to conduct
their devotions, as he had done this morning. Standing at the entrance,
between the two caverns, so that he could be heard by those within and
those without, he offered thanksgiving for their preservation during so
eventful and perilous a day, and besought protection during the night.

He and the captain then took their station as watchers just within the
outer cave, having promised that Robertson and Arnall should be called
up to take their place when half the night had passed.




                              CHAPTER II.

                            WHAT IS WEALTH?


“Well, my friend,” said the captain to Mr. Stone, as they sat watching
their fire, “how do you feel at the close of this strange day?”

“Very much as if I were in a dream. When I look round this place and
think of all that I have seen and done since morning, I can scarcely
believe that we are the same people, living in the same age of the world
as yesterday. We seem to have gone back in the course of a night from a
state of advanced civilization to a primitive condition of society.”

“Except,” interrupted his friend, “that the intelligence belonging to a
state of advancement remains.”

“True,” replied Mr. Stone; “and it is this which makes the present too
good an opportunity to be lost of observing what the real wealth of
society consists of, and what the unassisted labour of man can do
towards producing that wealth.”

“I wish,” said the captain, “that the people in England, who think that
wealth consists in gold, and silver, and bank notes, would come here,
and see how much their money is worth in our settlement. A thousand
sovereigns would not here buy a hat, nor a roll of bank notes a loaf of
bread. Here, at least, money is not wealth.”

“Nor any where else,” said Mr. Stone, “as we may see by putting a very
simple case. Put a man with a bag of gold into an empty house, in
England or anywhere else, and he will starve in a week, unless he is
allowed to give his gold in exchange for what will supply his wants. But
give a man, who has not a shilling, a room well stocked with meat, and
bread, and beer, and he has wealth enough to maintain him for a week or
a fortnight, or as long as his provision lasts. And this is a test which
holds good all the world over.”

“And yet gold and silver may be called riches,” said the captain, “while
they procure us things of greater value than themselves.”

“Certainly they are, as long as they can be made use of, a part of
wealth, though only one, and that not the greatest part. Wealth is made
up of many things—of land, of houses, of clothes, furniture, food, and
of the means (whether gold and silver, or anything else) by which these
things may be obtained. Whatever lives, or grows, or can be produced,
that is necessary, or useful, or agreeable to mankind, is wealth.”

“Then our settlement,” said the captain, “is not stripped of all its
property. We have some wealth left.”

“Poor as we are,” said his friend, “we are richer than if we were in the
midst of the sandy desert to the north of us, with a waggon full of gold
in our possession. We have here what gold could not buy in such a place,
food and shelter.”

“And other things too,” said the captain. “We have clothing, for flax
grows in the woods, and there are plenty of animals within reach, whose
skins can be dried and cleaned to make us cloaks or beds, or tanned for
shoes and caps and aprons for our workmen. We have furniture, for there
is plenty of timber in the woods to make tables and chairs. We have——”

“Stay,” interrupted his friend, “you are getting on too fast. All these
things are likely to become ours, I grant you; but before we can call
them our own,—before they become wealth to us, something must be added
which we have not yet taken into consideration. You forget that there is
no wealth without labour; and labour must be applied before the
commonest productions can become wealth.”

“True,” replied the captain. “The flax must be gathered, and dried, and
hackled, and woven, before it will make a shirt; and the animals must be
caught, and a great deal of labour be spent upon their skins before they
become fit for clothing or bedding; and the timber must be felled and
sawn, and the pieces put skilfully together, before we possess it in the
form of tables and chairs. But surely the case is different with food,
of some kinds at least. There is fish in the pond, and fruit on the
tree, ready made for man’s use. Man spends no labour on the fruit that
grows wild in such a climate as this; and yet we daily find that it is
wealth to us.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Stone. “There is the labour of gathering
it. An orange is of no use to any man living unless he puts out his hand
to pluck it. And as for the fish in the pond,—think of the carp that
Hill told us of this morning. They are no wealth to us till we can catch
them, though the pool is within reach, and they belong to nobody else.”

“We should have had them by this time if we had but got a net,” said the
captain.

“The net is one thing wanting, certainly,” said his friend, “but labour
is another. If the net were now lying ready on the bank, we should be no
better for the fish, unless some one took the trouble of drawing them
out of the water. I do not say that unassisted labour will furnish us
with all that we want; but I do say that nothing can be had without the
exertion of getting it; that is, that there is no wealth without
labour.”

“True,” said the captain. “Even the manna in the wilderness would have
been of no more use to the Hebrews than the carp in the pool to us, if
they had not exerted themselves to gather it up. Food was never yet
rained into the mouth of any man.”

“And if it had been,” said Mr. Stone, “he must have troubled himself to
hold back his head and open his mouth. So you see what conclusion we
come to, even in an extreme case.”

“But with all our labour,” said the captain, “how little we can do in
comparison with what is done for us! Labour may be necessary to make the
productions of Nature useful to us; but how much greater are the powers
of Nature in preparing them for us! To look back on farther than
to-day,—the antelope could not have been food for us unless human hands
had prepared it; but how much was done beforehand! It was nourished, we
know not how, by the grass it fed upon; it was made, we know not how,
fit food for our bodies: and our bodies were so formed as to be
strengthened by this food. Neither do we understand how fire acts upon
the flesh so as to make it tender; or even how wood in its turn
nourishes the fire. All that human labour has done was to bring together
the wood, and the fire, and the animal, and then to eat the food
prepared. Nature did the rest.”

“The case was the same with little Betsy’s treat of honey,” added Mr.
Stone. “The earth, and the air, and the dew, had nourished the flowers
from which the honey was collected: the bees were curiously formed and
animated, so that they could gather and store the honey; and the hollows
of the tree so made as to hold it. Then again, the rushes, and the
twigs, and the leaves, were all fit for the use Betsy made of them; her
business was to bring them together in a particular manner so as to make
a basket. And thus it is in every case. And even where we seem to make
the materials, we only bring together simple materials to make compound
ones. We say that the materials of a rush basket are not made by human
labour; but that the materials of a paper basket are made by human
labour; but though paper is made of linen-rags, those rags are made of
flax which grows out of the ground. So that Nature still works at the
bottom.”

“In the same way,” said the captain, “we say that the material of a
hare-skin waistcoat is not produced by human labour, but that the velvet
one of a gentleman of fashion is altogether made by human hands; but
still Nature works at the bottom, as you say; for velvet is woven of
silk spun by a worm.”

“True,” said Mr. Stone; “and thus far only is the labour of man
appointed to go. He works with Nature, and his only way of doing so is
by _motion_. He moves her materials together; but how they act upon one
another he does not know. You put your torch of wood into the flame, and
it blazes. Robertson lets the seed fall into the ground, and it sprouts;
he pulls up a root, and it withers. Hill applies certain herbs to a
wound, or gives certain medicines, and his patients are cured; or, if
they die, he does not know how to prevent it. Fulton dips and rubs his
leather in a certain preparation of bark, and it becomes soft and fit
for use. His mother puts flour and salt and barm together, and the dough
works; she places it in a great heat, and it becomes fit for food. So
man brings materials together; but Nature first furnishes them, and then
makes them act upon one another.”

“It seems but little that man can do,” said the captain; “but yet that
little is all-important to him.”

“Since it is _necessary_ to him,” said Mr. Stone, “it becomes great; and
indeed it may be said that there are no bounds to what man can do, since
there seem to be no bounds to the powers of Nature. Look what has been
done! There may have been, I doubt not there was, a time when the
founders of nations could do nothing more than gather the wild fruits of
the earth, and find shelter in caves; and now, the successors of these
very men produce merchandize, and build ships, and rear splendid
buildings, and make roads over mountains, and do a thousand things which
would have appeared miracles to their forefathers: and all this time,
the wisest men are aware that labour may be employed in a multitude of
ways of which we yet know nothing.”

“I should like our people to remain in this settlement,” said the
captain, “that we might observe how fast they will advance from the
primitive state to which we are reduced, to that in which their
countrymen are in England.”

“They will advance rapidly,” replied Mr. Stone; “because they know how
to apply their labour. They know what improvements they would aim at,
instead of having to try experiments. I hope we shall all stay, for I am
curious to see how much may be done by pure labour; and pure labour is
our only resource till we can get tools from Cape Town.”

“It will take a long time to do that,” said the captain: “but I am not
uneasy. The Bushmen know well enough that nothing more is to be had from
us; and we are therefore safe from another attack till we shall have
gathered some property about us again. Do you know, my dear friend,
nothing has given me so much satisfaction to-day as seeing your wife and
yourself in such good spirits. None of our people had so much to lose in
the way of property as yourselves,—for I, being a single man, do not
care much about those matters. You neither of you seem to be downcast
about your losses.”

“Nor are we,” replied Mr. Stone; “but you must remember how different it
is to lose everything in such a place as this, and in England. Here
there are so few inhabitants, and the natural productions are in such
plenty, that we know we have only to work, under the blessing of
Providence, to provide ourselves and our child with all that is
necessary now, and with comforts and luxuries by and by. Besides, there
is here no loss of rank, or sacrifice of independence, because all are
in the same condition. It could not happen so in England; and if any
calamity should there oblige us to descend to a lower rank in society,
or, worse still, to be dependent for our subsistence upon others, we
should try, I hope, to be patient, but we could not be so happy as you
have seen us to-day.”

“You have both good health, and industry, and contentment,” said the
captain; “and they are exactly the qualities we all have most need of
just now.”

“Thank God! we have always had cause for content,” replied his friend;
“and as for industry, the only difference is, that we must now work in
another way. We have always declared that none deserved to be maintained
who would not labour. Before, we worked most with our heads; now we must
work with our hands as well. And we are both willing.”

“And in order to be fit for labour,” said the captain, “you must sleep;
so let us pile some more wood on the fire, and then rouse our watchmen.”

So when they had arranged the time and place for a general consultation
on the affairs of the settlement, the next morning, the gentlemen gave
up their charge to Robertson and Arnall and betook themselves to rest.

                      ----------------------------


                              CHAPTER III.

                   EARN YOUR BREAD BEFORE YOU EAT IT.


During the first day of the troubles of our settlers, before the
impression of their terror was worn out, and when it remained doubtful
whether their immediate wants could be supplied, there was a general
concern for the good of the community, and forgetfulness of petty
personal considerations. None but the little children were heard that
day to cry, “What will become of _me_?” One little boy complained, as we
have seen, that there was no rim to his plate; and it was said that one
baby girl lifted up her voice in weeping for her doll; but the grown
children of the society seemed to have laid aside their childishness on
so great an occasion. It was not long in appearing again, however; for
amidst the winding course of human life, character is sure to peep out
and show itself at every turn, however it may occasionally be hidden.
There was as great a variety of habits and dispositions among these
settlers as there is among the same number of persons all the world
over: and when the first fears and difficulties were surmounted, this
variety began to be quite as evident as before any misfortune had
befallen. It would have been a curious study to an observer,—it was so
to Mr. Stone,—to mark the different deportment of the people who
attended the morning’s consultation on the general state of their
affairs. Some were in high spirits, excited by the novelty of their
situation, and full of a spirit of enterprise. These were principally
labourers, who had had little or nothing to lose, or young men whose
activity was greater than their love of property. Some were gloomy and
panic-struck: the old and the weak, whose terrors made them equally
afraid to attempt, unprovided, a journey southwards, and to remain
within reach of the Bushmen. Some were more careful of their own dignity
than of all besides, ready to plead their rights, to refuse any
employment they might fancy degrading, and to resent any hint that the
less was now said of distinction of ranks the better.

At the head of these was Arnall, the storekeeper, who had always been
disliked for his haughtiness. He had complained of his partner, Mr.
Dunn, ever since their first connexion, for being on such familiar terms
with the customers of all ranks who came to their shop; and it spoke
well for Mr. Dunn that this was the only fault of which his fastidious
partner did complain. Arnall was as obsequious as any man to the public
as a whole. No petitions for custom were so full of compliments and
protestations as his; but he was not the less insolent for this. His
insolence was particularly evident this morning, when the captain was
offering his advice respecting the manner in which the various members
of the society should employ their industry. Arnall was anxious to be
sent out shooting, which he thought a very gentlemanly amusement; but as
he had no gun, and had never practised with bows and arrows, it was
thought best that he should yield the sport to the boys who were skilful
at it, and assist, with all the hands that could be spared from other
occupations, in carrying on the trenching, on which the growth of the
crops depended. In very dry seasons in that climate, there is no means
of preserving the young corn but by digging trenches from the
neighbouring streams through the fields. A large trench, from which
several smaller ones were to branch out, had been nearly finished in Mr.
Stone’s field when the savages made their attack; and as the spring
rains (for our autumn is their spring) were not expected for a month or
more, it was of the utmost importance that water should be conveyed to
the crops. Even if the settlers should wish to remove, they could not
stir till they had provision for their journey, as, in a country like
that, there was nothing to depend on by the way. Many were eager to be
employed in a work of such pressing importance: but not so Mr. Arnall.

“Do you actually mean, captain,” said he, “that I am to work in a ditch
with ploughmen and hedgers? I am as willing as any body to do my part;
but I assure you I have not been used to such companionship.”

“Nor have I,” said Mr. Stone, “yet I am going about my work without
delay.”

“But it is contrary to all my habits,” persisted Arnall.

“Not more so than to your partner, Mr. Dunn’s,” said the captain; “and
there he is at work already. He and Jack made a very pretty spade
between them this morning, of a piece of hard wood, which they sawed and
burnt into shape with the fragments of the saw left in the pit, and with
heated stones. They will give you that spade and make another, if you
will go and ask them. Then you can work by yourself, which will suit
your dignity better than helping those men who are turning out the clods
so cleverly by crossing the stakes they have taken from the fence.”

“You must excuse me, indeed,” replied Arnall. “I must beg some other
employment. Could not I be your messenger to Cape Town, and send out
tools and all that you want? I shall have pleasure in undertaking the
journey, and will represent your case forcibly to the Governor.”

“I am afraid, Sir, you are scarcely the man to be the representative of
a hard-working agricultural community as ours must be now. There is a
rival candidate in the person of Richard the labourer. We can ill spare
him; but he is a hardy traveller on foot, and is, besides, a good judge
of implements, which, by your own statement, you cannot be for want of
experience. Stand aside, Sir, if you please, for my time is precious
this morning. Choose your own occupation; but remember that you must
find your own food unless you do our work.”

“The tables are turned, you see,” said one of the labourers to Arnall as
he was retiring. “You held your head very high a week ago, because you
had a genteeler employment than ours, as you thought. And now that we
are all put to the test, see what a poor figure you make! I always said
a farmer ought to rank above a shopkeeper.”

“Hey-day! what is that I hear?” said the captain. “Let me tell you, you
are quite in the wrong, my friend. What our society is now, is no test
of the value of its members a week ago. Because we cannot have a shop
to-day, it does not follow that a shop was not a good thing when we had
goods to buy and sell. If Mr. Arnall transacted his business properly,
he deserved as well of society as the farmer who did his part honestly.
As far as their labour is concerned, they rank equally.”

“But farmers do not give themselves airs like some shopkeepers I have
known,” persisted the labourer; “and I see no gentility in such airs.”

“Nor I,” said the captain; “but I have seen farmers as haughty with
their men as any shopkeeper. All this has nothing to do with the
question. A man may make himself liked or disliked by his manners; but
they do not affect his rank as a labourer in the community.”

Arnall did not much relish being called a labourer in any sense, having
a very narrow notion of the meaning of the word. Some others who were
present fell into the same mistake, as we shall see by-and-by. Business
was so pressing just now, however, that there was no time for
conversation: but many minds were active that day in thinking over what
was happening, while the hands were busily employed in various tasks.

It was soon settled that no removal should be thought of till after the
rains, at any rate, as the settlers could not hope to establish
themselves elsewhere in the interval, and were unwilling to desert their
fields after all the labour which had been spent upon them. With heart
and good-will, therefore, men, women, and children set about improving
their condition, determined to try what industry could do to make up for
a scarcity of hands, and an almost total deficiency of tools.

Betsy’s father, the smith, was in high spirits at having found the
fragments of the large saw. Of one part he believed a serviceable
hand-saw might be made, and of another a hatchet, if he could but fix
handles to them. This he thought he could do by burning grooves in two
pieces of wood which he fixed at each end of the fragment, and tying
them on with thongs of the leather cordage we have mentioned, the thongs
being passed from one end to the other through holes also burned in the
wood. Fulton, the tanner, was, meanwhile, twisting and tanning his
thongs as expeditiously as possible, for as many were wanted as he could
prepare. They could not even make houses without his help, for cordage
must now supply the place of nails.

There was some deliberation about what these houses were to be made of.
They were to be only temporary sheds to sleep in, to save the extra
labour of walking two miles up the pass every night to their cave. It
was evident that they could not be built like their former habitations
with timbers. Till tools should arrive, this was impossible.—Harrison,
the brickmaker and potter of the settlement, (for in several instances
two somewhat similar employments were undertaken by one man,) was urgent
to be allowed to begin brick-making, as the clay-pits were open, and
stones and wood were all the implements he should require. But a quicker
method was devised, and Harrison was to build in a new fashion. The huts
of the natives were composed of reeds, bound together and plastered over
with clay, inside and out. The roofs were covered in with branches of
trees and dry grass. Such were to be the sheds of the settlers.

Thus there was work for everybody. The men were some digging, some
tanning, some smoothing a space among the trees for the sheds, for, as
no foundations could be dug, it was necessary to make the trees
themselves the corner-posts. The boys were busy scooping out and working
the clay, or making bows and arrows, or cutting reeds. The women were
preparing flax or cooking the dinner, or, with their little girls,
collecting brushwood and dry grass for the fires, and to thatch the
sheds with. The captain meanwhile went about from one party to another,
ready to advise, and encourage, and assist, wherever he could.

One little party, however, escaped his notice, and that of everybody
else. Little Betsy had taken her cue from what the captain had said the
night before about her spoon-brushes and her basket. She could teach her
little companions to make spoon-brushes, while she fancied that, with
help from her brothers, she could make what was wanted much more, a
strong substantial basket. There was a difficulty about carrying away
the earth from the trench; and it occurred to her that, in the absence
of barrows and all means of making them, it would be a good thing to
have baskets which would take it all away in time, though it would
certainly be slow work. Her brothers and she collected twigs in the
wood, and she went for rushes to the water-side, and then they sat down
to their work.

Having found, the day before, that she had no means of fastening the
bottom in firm, she did not attempt to make a basket that would stand.
She bent the twigs into the same shape she had been accustomed to make,
only on a much larger scale, so that the basket, when finished, would
look very like a sieve. She was particularly careful to fasten the ends
of the twigs firmly to the stronger ones that made the rim, and to twist
in the handles so that they would not easily give way. She tied the
twigs wherever they crossed with bands of rushes, and then wove in the
whole as closely as possible. This was not done in an hour’s time. She
and her companions made many attempts before they could get the twigs
into any shape at all, and their fingers were scarcely strong enough to
twist the rim firmly. Once, just when she thought she should succeed,
the little boys left hold, saying they were tired and hungry. She was
very near crying; but she thought the wiser way would be to let them
rest, and find them something to eat, when they would, perhaps, help her
again; for she little expected that any better assistance would come.
She desired one of the boys to watch her basket lest the monkeys, which
abounded in the wood, should destroy it; while, with the other brother,
she looked about for wild strawberries and chesnuts. There were a few
strawberries still left, and a great many chesnuts lying in the grass,
and more to be had by throwing stones at the monkeys in the trees, which
provoked the animals to pelt them with chesnuts in return. After a
hearty laugh at these mimics, Betsy returned with her treasure of fruit;
but the young gentleman who, the day before, was mourning for gravy,
could not, hungry as he was, eat his chesnuts unless they were roasted.
Betsy cared much less about eating than about her basket; but she was a
good-natured little girl, and ready to remember that her brother was
younger than herself. So she advised him to run home and roast his
chesnuts at the oven-fire; and told him not to come back again unless he
liked. She sent a message to her mother to say that she was quite safe,
and would be back before dark; but she charged Ned not to tell any body
what she was busy about. Then she sent her other little companion with
some chesnuts to the children who were making spoon-brushes some way
off; and as soon as he was gone, she looked at her basket and sighed;
for she feared she should not be able to finish it. Just then she heard
some one coming through the bushes, and looking up, she saw it was Mr.
Arnall. He had his hands in his pockets, and anybody would have thought
by his appearance that it was a holiday in the colony.

“So you are eating chesnuts; my little girl,” said he. “Can you spare me
some?”

“Yes, sir,” answered Betsy, pointing to the little heap beside her.
“Will you help yourself?”

Arnall went on eating for some time in silence. “Where did you get these
chesnuts?” he asked at length, when he had nearly made an end of them.

“Yonder, under the trees there.”

“They are very good. I dare say you will be my little maid, and get me
some more: and here comes your brother; I will send him to roast them by
the fire.”

“You must do it yourself, if you please, sir. We are very busy.”

“Indeed! What can children like you be busy about? Basket-making! Why,
that basket will never stand.”

“It is not meant to stand,” said Betsy, who began to wish her visitor
would go away and leave her to her business.

Arnall sat idly watching the little work-people, till seeing that
greater strength of finger was what they wanted, he offered his
services, which Betsy was very willing to accept. He became more
interested as the affair went on, and continued his assistance till the
framework was complete and the rim secure.

“And now,” said Betsy, jumping up joyfully, “now I will get you some
chesnuts and welcome. I can easily finish the rest, for the weaving part
will soon be done; and I should never have got so far without you.”

As soon as she was gone, Arnall took up the remainder of the twigs, and
began another basket. He was really ashamed of doing nothing, and was
glad to have found an employment which did not reduce him to toil with
labourers or to provide his own dinner. He flattered himself that Betsy
was saving his dignity by procuring his food; while she, in the
innocence of her heart, thought he was working as much for her as she
for him, and was grateful to him accordingly.

When it began to grow dusk, the little party in the wood made haste to
gather up their materials and be gone. Arnall was no coward, as some
very haughty people are. He had been long accustomed to the dangers of
the woods, and if he had had his gun, would have been as ready as any
man to make a defence against wild men or beasts: but it was only
prudent, as he was unarmed, to leave the shade before night-fall. He did
not choose to return to the settlement in company with the children;
neither would he carry any of their goods. He lingered a while, till
they were some way before him, and then appeared with his usual lounging
gait, and his hands in his pockets. Of those who had time to observe
him, some smiled at the unsuitability of his appearance to his
circumstances, and others were indignant at his seating himself to eat
that which they supposed he had done nothing to earn.

“Pardon me, sir,” said the captain; “but I hope you have your dinner in
your pockets, or I am afraid you will have none. Our provisions are the
right of those who work for them.”

“Mr. Arnall helped me to make my basket,” said little Betsy, “and he has
got a great way with another; so I hope he may have the dinner I should
have wanted if I had not found the chesnuts, and some for his own share
besides.”

“Hold your tongue, child,” cried the gentleman, who was quite above
owing his meal to the request of a little girl. “Who has any business
with what I have been doing? Things have come to a pretty pass when one
must account to anybody that asks for the use of one’s time and hands.”

“By sitting down to table, sir”——

“To grass, you mean,” said Arnall. “We are in a fair way to eat in
Nebuchadnezzar fashion, I think. Was ever a meal so served before?”

“If you will make us a table, we shall very thankfully accept it,” said
the captain. “Meanwhile, as I was saying, by asking food, you demand the
wages of labour, as we have agreed to live by the natural law, that food
cannot be obtained without labour. You are accountable to us in no other
way than all labourers are accountable to those who pay them wages.
Little Betsy has settled your account with us: allow me, therefore, to
help you to a lump (I wish I could say a slice) of lamb; or would you
prefer hare?”

While the gentleman was picking his bone in silence, wondering when he
should again be blessed with a knife and fork, Betsy placed beside him a
pretty dessert of wild strawberries on a leaf.

He seemed barely to thank her, but began to resolve that he would either
find some mode of being more useful, and thus feeling himself on equal
terms with other people, or take himself off, where he need be
accountable to nobody.

                      ----------------------------


                              CHAPTER IV.

                        HAND-WORK AND HEAD WORK.


The heat of the weather was, we have said, very oppressive during the
middle of the day. It was hard work to dig in the trench, for the
badness of the tools more than compensated for the lightness of the
soil. The labourers, fully aware of the importance of conveying water to
the crops, toiled most diligently through all hours of the day, till it
became evident that such exertion was injurious to their strength. A new
regulation was made, according to which they began work two hours
earlier in the morning, and rested in the shade for two hours at noon.
Some slept, while others, who were stronger or more industrious,
employed themselves in some light occupation, either preparing flax with
the women, or looking for honey or fruit, or cutting the reeds of proper
lengths, and binding them in bundles ready for the builder, or helping
to make bows and arrows. This was the most pleasant and refreshing time
of the day. It was the only time for conversation; for in working hours
they were too busy, and at night too weary to enjoy it. Mr. Stone was
always ready for cheerful talk at these intervals, both because he was
sociable, and because he knew it to be a very important thing to keep up
the spirits of the people by all such natural and proper means. A few
days after the labours of the settlement were got into train, he was
sitting with a party of companions on the trunk of a tree which served
as a work-bench, and which was drawn within the shadow of a noble
chesnut. He was making sandals for some of the people whose shoes were
worn out, by fastening leather thongs to slips of wood made as nearly
the size of the foot as the saw could bring them. Some of the men had
been for walking barefoot; thinking shoes too great a luxury for the
present state of their affairs: but Mr. Stone would not hear of this, on
account of the venomous reptiles in the grass, from whose bite there
could be no security to the barefooted. He engaged to furnish each man
with sandals as his shoes wore out, till there should be leather enough
to make a sort of socks with wooden soles, which would serve the purpose
better still. While he was thus busied, his wife was beside him mending
his coat, which had received a terrible rent. It was amusing enough at
first to see her set about this new sort of tailoring; for she had
neither needle, thimble, nor scissors. George had furnished her with a
porcupine’s quill from the stock which had been placed in his hands for
his arrows. With this she pricked holes in the cloth, through which a
string of flax was passed; and thus, by slow degrees, the edges of the
rent were brought together. To be sure, it did not look much like a
gentleman’s coat after this; but, as all clothes were now worn for a
covering and not for ornament, it did not much signify. Next Mrs. Stone
sat Hill, sorting and picking the herbs and roots he had gathered, that
he might not be without medicines in case of sickness or accidental
bruises. He had also furnished a poison in which the points of the
arrows were dipped, as it was found that though the bristles wounded the
game, they were not strong enough to bring it down. Hill had discovered
how the natives procured, from a venomous snake, poison so powerful as
to destroy all animals which it could be made to reach; and having
provided himself with it, he suffered no one else to touch it, for fear
of accidents. George, who formed one of the party, was therefore obliged
to give up his arrows as they were made, and did not receive them again
till the venom was dried on their tips. All the game, as it was brought
in, was given into the charge of the butcher, who carefully took out the
parts round the wound the arrow had made. His wife was now plucking
partridges, which had become abundant since the best way of bringing
down game had been discovered. The feathers were carefully dried and
preserved to answer various purposes of clothing and bedding hereafter.

While the little party were thus busily employed and sociably
conversing, they saw Arnall at a distance, practising shooting with bow
and arrow at a mark.

“I wonder at the captain,” said Hill, “for calling that gentleman yonder
a labourer, as he did the other day.”

“Arnall himself was surprised,” said Mr. Stone; “and I do not wonder at
it: but I should have expected you would allow him the title. Remember
the captain spoke of him as he had been,—a shopkeeper.”

“He led a pretty genteel life as a shopkeeper,” replied Hill. “Look at
his delicate hands and his slight make, and it seems ridiculous to call
him a labourer.”

“Did he not buy his goods at Cape Town, and have them brought in his
waggon; and did he not purchase various productions of his neighbours in
large quantities and sell them by retail?” asked Mr. Stone.

“Certainly,” replied Hill; “but there was no hard work in all this. It
would have done him good to have driven his own team over the mountains,
and to have stuck fast among the rocks, as many a waggoner does, unless
he can put his own shoulder to the wheel.”

“I should have liked to see him kill his own meat,” added the butcher’s
wife, “or thresh the corn he used to sell. A heavy flail would be a fine
thing to put into hands like his.”

“We are not inquiring,” replied Mr. Stone, “what sort of discipline
would be good for such a man; but whether he can properly be called a
labourer. You seem to think, Hill, that there is no labour but that of
the hands, and that even that does not deserve the name unless it be
rough and require bodily strength to a great degree.”

“I don’t mean to say so,” replied Hill. “I consider that I work pretty
hard, and yet my hands shew it more by being dyed with these plants than
roughened by toil. And there are the straw-platters of my native town in
dear old England;—the Dunstable folks labour hard enough, delicate as
their work is.”

“And you, sir,” said Mrs. Prest, the butcher’s wife, “have done so much,
setting aside your farm, that it would be a sin to say you have not
toiled night and day for us. If there was a person sick or unhappy, or
if your advice was wanted any hour in the twenty-four, you were always
ready to help us. But you would not call yourself a labourer, would
you?”

“Certainly,” replied Mr. Stone. “There is labour of the head as well as
of the hands, you know. Any man who does anything is a labourer, as far
as his exertion goes.”

“The king of England is a labourer,” said Mrs. Stone. “If he does
nothing more than sign the acts of parliament which are brought to him,
he does a very great thing for society. Those acts cannot become law
till they are so signed; and the man, whoever he be, who performs a
necessary part in making laws, is a labourer of a very high order,
however little trouble the act of signing may cost him.”

“Arnall did take more trouble than that, to do him justice,” said Hill.
“He kept his books very well, besides purchasing and looking after and
selling goods: but still I cannot think he was so useful a man as the
ploughman who helps us to food; for food is the most necessary of all
things.”

“A great deal of harm has been done,” said Mr. Stone, “by that notion of
yours, when it has been held by people who have more power to act upon
it than you. In many states, it has been a received maxim that
commercial labour is inferior in value to agricultural; and agriculture
has therefore been favoured with many privileges, and manufactures and
commerce burdened with many difficulties. This seems to me to be a very
unjust and foolish policy; for the greatest good of society cannot be
attained without the union of both kinds of labour. The thresher, and
the miller, and the baker, do not help to produce food like the
ploughman; but they are quite as useful as he, because we could not have
bread without their help. They are manufacturers, and the retail baker
is engaged in commerce; but it would be absurd to say that they are on
that account to be thought less valuable than the sower.”

“But is not the case different, sir,” said Hill, “when things of less
importance than food are in question? Is not a weaver worth less than a
ploughman in society?”

“Suppose,” said Mr. Stone, “that in our society, consisting of
fifty-four persons, fifty-three were engaged in tilling the ground every
day and all day long, and that the other was able to prepare flax and
weave it into cloth and make it into clothes. Suppose you were that one;
do not you think you would always have your hands full of business, and
be looked to as a very important person; and that, if you died, you
would be more missed than any one of the fifty-three ploughmen?”

“Certainly,” said Hill, laughing. “But what a folly it would be to raise
ten or twenty times as much corn as we could eat, and to be in want of
everything else!”

“It would,” replied Mr. Stone: “and in such a case, we should be ready
to pass a vote of thanks to any man who would leave the plough and turn
tanner or weaver; and then we would spare another to be a tailor; and,
at last, when we had gathered a good many comforts about us, we would
thank another to set up a shop where we might exchange our goods. Now,
would it not be ungrateful and foolish, when we had reached this point,
to say that the farmers were, after all, the most valuable to us; and
that they must have particular honour and particular privileges?”

“To be sure,” said Hill. “The natural consequence of such partiality
would be to tempt the shopkeeper to give up his shop, and the weaver his
loom, and the tailor his sheers, to go back to the plough, and then we
should be as badly off as before.”

“This would be the consequence in larger states, as well,” said Mr.
Stone, “if the practice of the people were not wiser than the principles
of the policy by which they have hitherto been governed. People buy
clothes and furniture and other comforts as they have need of them,
without stopping to pronounce how much less valuable they are than
food.”

“All the world seems to have agreed,” said Mrs. Stone, “that the right
leg is worth more than the left; and if a man had the choice which he
would lose, he would probably rather part with the left: but it would be
a sad waste of time to argue about which is the more useful in walking.”

“All labour, then, should be equally respected,” said Hill, “and no one
kind should be set above another.”

“Nay; I was far from saying that,” replied Mr. Stone. “Our friend
George, there, makes beautiful little boats out of walnut-shells, and he
must have spent a good deal of trouble on his art before he could carve
the prow and stern and put in the deck as he does. If he were now to set
to work and make us each one within a week, he would no more have earned
his dinner every day than if he should lie down and sleep for seven
days. We do not want walnut-shell boats, and his ill-directed labour
would be worth no more than no labour at all.”

“The captain was telling me, though,” said George, “that if I were at
some place he mentioned in England, I might get a very pretty living by
those same boats. He said the quality would give me five shillings
a-piece for them.”

“Very likely,” said Mr. Stone; “and in that case your labour would not
be ill-directed. The rich, in any country, who have as much as they want
of food and clothes and shelter, have a right to pay money for baubles,
if they choose; and in such a state of things there are always labourers
who, not being wanted for necessary occupations, are ready to employ
their labour in making luxuries.”

“The lace-makers and jewellers and glass-cutters, and even those who
spin glass for the amusement of the wealthy, are respectably employed in
England, where there is a demand for their services,” observed Mrs.
Stone; “but they would be sadly out of place here, and very ridiculous.
All labour must be directed by the circumstances of the state of society
in which it is employed; and all labour, so regulated, is equally
respectable.”

“I am afraid, madam,” said Hill, “that your doctrine would go far
towards doing away the difference between labour that is productive and
that which is unproductive.”

“It is impossible,” replied Mr. Stone, “to do away that difference,
because it is a difference of fact which no opinions can alter. It must
always be as clear as observation can make it whether a man’s labour
_produces_ any of the things which constitute wealth. But the
respectability of labour does not depend on this circumstance. I hope
you do not think it does?”

“I have been accustomed, certainly, to think productive labourers more
valuable than unproductive.”

“It depends upon what you mean by the word _valuable_,” replied Mr.
Stone. “If you mean that productive labourers add more to the wealth of
the society, the very way of putting the question shews that you are
right: but we may see, in the case of every civilized state, that a
mixture of productive and unproductive labourers is the best for the
comfort and prosperity of society.”

“What would the English nation do,” said Mrs. Stone, “without household
servants, without physicians and soldiers, and clergy and lawyers,
without a parliament, without a government? If they were a nation of
farmers and graziers and builders, without any unproductive labourers,
they would have abundance of corn and cattle and houses; but no towns,
no commerce, no law, and no king. They would be a savage nation.”

“Ours was not a savage settlement,” said George, “and we had no
unproductive labourers. Everybody worked very hard.”

“However hard our people worked,” said Mr. Stone, “they were divided
into productive and unproductive labourers, as the people of every
civilized society are. If you will just run over a few names, we will
try to divide the two classes.”

“Let us begin with the lowest,” said George. “The labourers on
Robertson’s farm and on yours, sir, are productive labourers, because
they produce corn for ourselves, and hay for the horses, and flax for
our clothes. Then there are the other servants, who have wages paid
them,—the captain’s errand-boy, and your maid, ma’am, who nurses the
child, and kept the house clean when you had one, and Goody Fulton, who
attended to Arnall’s shop when he was out shooting——”

“Well: go on,” said Mr. Stone; “tell us what they produced.”

George laid down his bow to consider; but he could not think of anything
produced by these last-mentioned people. He owned that however
industrious and useful they might be, domestic servants were
unproductive labourers. Then he went on with his list.

“Fulton, I suppose, sir, produces leather out of what was only the hide
of a beast; and Harrison makes bricks out of what was only clay; and
Links——let me see, what does the farrier do? He puts on horse-shoes:
that is not making anything. He is unproductive, I suppose.”

“As a farrier;—but he is also a smith, and makes horse shoes and nails,
and implements of many sorts, out of what was only a lump or a bar of
iron.”

“Then he is a labourer of both kinds. That is curious. And so are you,
Mr. Hill. You make medicines; but when you give your advice, or bleed
your patients, or shave my father on Saturday night, you are an
unproductive labourer.”

“And at the same time, one of the last men we could spare,” said Mr.
Stone. At which, Hill rose and bowed low.

“I am afraid my father is an unproductive labourer,” said George. “I
cannot think of anything that a butcher makes.”

“Why should you say ‘afraid’?” inquired Mr. Stone. “Your father is of
the same class with the captain.”

“Why, that’s true,” cried George; “and there’s an end of all objections
to unproductive labour; for who works harder than the captain, and how
should we get on without him?”

“And how do you class yourself, my dear?” said Mrs. Stone.

“Unproductive in my pulpit and in the school-room,” replied her husband,
“and productive when I am working in my field. I leave it to my friends
to say in which capacity I am most useful.”

“You have cleared up the matter completely, sir,” said Hill. “We see now
that the words relate to wealth and not to usefulness. I am only sorry I
ever understood any reproach by the word _unproductive_; but I shall
never fall into the mistake again.”

“It is as well to observe, however,” said Mr. Stone, “that the
prosperity of a nation depends much on the proportion between these two
classes of labourers. If it would be a bad thing to have a population
that could do nothing but produce food, and clothes, and habitations,
with as many other comforts and luxuries as the industry of man can
supply, it would be worse by far to have more unproductive labourers
among us than the labour of the productive could maintain.”

“Our settlement would soon be ruined,” observed his wife, “if we had a
great many soldiers, and two or three clergymen, and four or five
surgeons, and several household servants in every family. However
skilful all these might be in their several ways, they would soon eat us
out of house and home. In the same way the welfare of an empire depends
on its productive resources being abundant enough to supply the wants
and reasonable wishes of the whole people. But, my dear, what noise is
that?”

The little party started to their feet as they heard the sound of a
horn. For a moment they were alarmed by the fear that an enemy was upon
them; but some labourers passing by informed them that the captain had
ordered the horns of the bullock which had been slain to be taken care
of; and had turned one to the best account by using it as a summons to
call the people together. It was, from this time forward, to be blown at
the hours of work, of eating, and of rising and going to rest. The two
hours of repose being now over, Mr. Stone went to his work in the
trench, and the little party broke up.

                      ----------------------------


                               CHAPTER V.

                              HEART-WORK.


In a few days from this time, some of the most thoughtful of the
settlers began to ponder the necessity of increasing their supplies of
food. Prest, the butcher, sighed every day as he passed the ruined
paddocks and saw no cattle in them for him to exercise his skill upon.
“Heaven knows,” said he to his wife, “when I may have the pleasure of
slaying a beast again. And as for our ever having a drove or a herd,
there is no possibility of it unless we can get hides enough to make
thongs for snares. Fulton says he has used up every scrap of leather,
and unless we can get more, Campbell and I may both lay aside our craft,
for we shall never more have droves in our fields, or smoking joints on
the table.”

“We must live like savages, on roots and fruit and fish,” said his wife.
“Now, fish is very good in its way; but we have had so much lately, that
one might fancy it was to be Lent all the year round.”

While they were thus talking, a plan was being settled between Arnall
and the captain which promised fair to supply the butcher with
employment, and the paddocks with stock which might increase in time so
as to employ a herdsman on the hills. This magnificent plan entered
Arnall’s head one day when he was thinking how he might distinguish
himself in a genteel way, and shew himself a benefactor to the
settlement without sacrificing his dignity.

He had once passed a pit, dug in the middle of a plain and quite empty
and apparently useless. He could not make out at the time what it was
for; but now he remembered having read that the natives of some
countries dig pits for snaring wild animals, covering them over lightly
so as to look even with the rest of the ground, that the beast may fall
in unawares. He thought that he might secure antelopes in this way, or
even the buffalo—fierce and strong as it is, and more difficult to deal
with than the wildest bull of his own country. He could not prepare the
pit with his own delicate hands, of course; and was therefore obliged to
apply to the captain for leave to employ some labourers. Their help was
promised as soon as the trench should be completed, which was to be in
two days. Nothing must interrupt that important work, the captain said;
and in the mean while they must live as well as they could on what might
come in.

“Now is my time then,” thought the sportsman, “to try my new arrows, and
my skill in using them; and if I fail, nobody will know but George
Prest, and I can trust him for not telling. He will hold his tongue in
return for my shewing him how to get the eggs.”

Here were three different schemes,—the pits for buffaloes, a new sort of
arrows for smaller game, and a way of getting the enormous eggs of the
ostrich,—a rich and nourishing food. Truly Arnall had exerted his wits
to some purpose.

“If I succeed,” thought he, “I will give each man his due. I will own
that Harrison gave me these reeds, so much stronger and more fit for
arrows than the common sort. And I will thank Prest for pointing out how
sharp the thigh bone of the antelope is, though he did not think of
making an arrow-head of it; and Hill has the merit of the poison
altogether. And then,—if the captain should say that no other man might
have put these things together so ingeniously and made so good a use of
them,—why, then I need not mind their laughing at me as they did last
week, because I would not work in the trench. What a pity I cannot climb
trees! for then I might get these eggs without any body’s help.”

Thus thinking, Arnall went out into the plain in search of game. He hid
himself among some bushes till he saw a herd of buffaloes coming in
sight. They ran for some way, tossing their horned heads in the air and
lashing their tails; then some among them stopped to graze. Arnall
determined that if a stray one came within shot, he would take aim at
it; but it was long before any of the herd seem disposed to afford him
the opportunity, and when they did, they seemed likely to give him too
much of it. They all set off again at once, and exactly in the direction
of the bushes where the sportsman lay. He knew something of what it was
to be trodden and gored by a buffalo, as he had seen more than one man
who had been maimed by such an accident, and had heard of the deaths of
others: so when he saw the herd coming on in full trot, he had half a
mind to try whether he could not really climb a tree. If he had had
three minutes more, he would certainly have made the attempt; but it was
now too late; and all he could do was to crouch in the thicket, and take
his chance for escape. Only two entered the bushes, and they passed
quickly through, and left poor Arnall breathing space again. He soon
recovered from his terror; for, as we have said, he was not a timid man.
Looking out upon the plain, he saw that two of the herd were again
grazing, and now within bow-shot. Thinking this too good an opportunity
to be lost, he let fly one of his precious arrows. It struck the animal
in the flank, but was not strong enough to pierce the thick hide. It
broke and fell to the ground, while the startled beast, now tossing his
horns and now goring the ground beneath him, turned his flight first one
way and then another, and at length followed his companions at full
speed.

“There is one arrow gone to no purpose,” thought Arnall; “but I think I
can recover the head. I must aim at a thinner hide next time.”

He looked for and found the fragments of his arrow, and took his
station, waiting to see what game would next come by. In the course of a
few hours, several flocks of ostriches passed within sight, but at a
great distance. As Arnall watched these enormous birds, running swiftly
with their wings outspread in the wind, like sails to help their
progress, he longed to be near enough to fix an arrow in the tender part
beneath the wing where it is easiest to wound them; but they kept their
distance; and he was obliged to content himself with vowing a warfare
against them for the sake of their eggs, if they would not let
themselves be caught.

At last, he was rewarded by the approach of a troop of antelopes of the
largest kind, called Elands. As he looked at their majestic form, (like
that of the ox, only more slender,) and measured them with his eye, he
felt that if he could secure one, he would have made a good day’s work
of his hunting. Their length was, as nearly as he could measure by the
eye, seven or eight feet, and their height between four and five; and he
knew that the weight of each was seldom less than seven or eight hundred
pounds. He counted fifteen of them, and thought it would be hard if not
one of such a number should fall into his power. They came nearer,
sometimes trotting all together, sometimes dispersing on the plain, and
then collecting again. It seemed a wearisome time to Arnall, till, after
many freaks and gambols, the whole herd began to graze very near him. He
laid an arrow on the string, and disposed two more close beside him,
that he might shoot one after another as quickly as possible. Whizz!
went the first, and struck the nearest animal in the neck. While it was
staggering away to a little distance, and before the alarm had well been
given, he shot again and wounded another in the flank. The poor beast
took flight, but Arnall knew that if the poison did its work, the run
would be soon over. A third arrow which he despatched fell short, for
the troop were making their escape full speed. Arnall came out of his
hiding-place with the sort of stone-hatchet that he used for a knife,
and seating himself on the head of his victims, which were quivering in
the agonies of death, he cut their throats. As soon as they were quite
dead, he carefully cut out all the parts round the poisoned arrow-head,
and then prepared to carry home his trophies of victory. It was
necessary to lose no time, if the carcasses were to be housed before
night; so, severing the horns and gathering up his weapons, he hastened
home. There was great joy in the settlement at his success; and Prest,
the butcher, had soon formed his party, and prepared the hurdles on
which the prey was to be dragged home. They took torches with them, to
guard against the dangers of being benighted; and it was well they did;
for the procession did not reappear till two hours after dark, and
reported that the howlings of wild beasts were heard, not far off, the
whole way as they were returning. Not the youngest child in the
settlement went to rest that night till fires were lighted round the
carcasses and the dogs set to watch.

The next day, all hands that could be spared were employed in preparing
this new supply of meat for being preserved. There was a pool of very
salt water in the neighbourhood—such as occurs very frequently in that
part of the world—and the salt which had been procured from it by
evaporation was rubbed into the meat as the butcher cut it into strips;
and then the strips were hung up in the smoke of a wood fire till they
were quite dry; after which they were buried in a hole in the sand,
lined and well secured with stones. The honour of superintending the
preparation of this game was offered to Arnall; but he declined it,
asking, in preference, the favour of having George for his companion in
an excursion, and the loan of a hide-sack which had been made for
general use. George, who was not particularly fond of Arnall, and did
not know what they were going to do, had much rather have stayed to help
his father: but he felt that Arnall had earned the right of asking his
assistance, and therefore willingly accompanied him.

When they were out upon the plain, Arnall looked round upon the various
clumps of trees which grew here and there.

“Which is the highest, George,” said he, “yonder middle tree of that
copse, or the straggler to the west?”

“That to the west,” answered George, “but they are neither of them
fruit-trees, and they are not places likely for monkeys to lodge in.”

“I want neither monkeys nor fruit,” said Arnall. “They can be had nearer
home. I want ostriches’ eggs.”

George looked puzzled, for he knew ostriches laid their eggs in the
sand, far away from trees. His companion, however, explained that the
ostrich is so shy a creature, that it is impossible to learn where her
eggs are hid, unless she is watched from a distance, and even at that
distance it must be from some place of concealment, so sharpsighted and
timid are these singular birds.

“Do you get as high in the tree as you can,” said Arnall, “and watch for
ostriches on all sides. If you see any one run round and round in a
circle, mark the spot carefully, and when you are sure of it, come down.
If the birds choose to go to a distance of their own accord and to leave
the eggs (as they often do on so hot a day as this), we shall be obliged
to them for saving us a deal of trouble; but if one remains sitting, I
will go out with my dogs and make a hubbub, and put them all to flight.
While we are pursuing them, do you take the sack and go straight to the
nest, and carry off some eggs.”

“How many?” asked George.

“Why, I must tell you a little about the make of the nest. It is nothing
more than a large hole in the ground, with a little bank round it, made
by their scratching up the earth with their feet. Inside you will see
the eggs set up on end, to save room. If there should be half a dozen or
so, you may bring all; for then they can have been only just laid, and
must be good eating. If you find as many as fifteen, bring away the
outer circle, which will be eight or nine. If there are thirty—”

“Thirty eggs in one nest!” cried George. “I never heard of such a
thing.”

“Perhaps not, because you may never before have heard of a tribe of
birds whose habit is to unite in flocks that all the eggs of a flock may
be laid in one nest. As I was saying, if there are as many as thirty,
you will find some laid on the outside of the bank. They are the best
that can be got, so bring them all, and as many of the next outer circle
as you can carry.”

“And if I find any feathers,” said George, “shall I bring them too? The
time may come when we shall be able to sell them to advantage. Ostrich
feathers bear a good price in England at all times.”

“True,” said Arnall; “but when we deal in ostrich feathers, we must take
more pains to get them than just picking them up. You will find plenty
lying about the nest; but let them lie. They are good for nothing,
unless it be to stuff our pillows by and by, when we come to have
pillows again. The beautiful white feathers which English ladies wear
must be plucked from the male ostrich. The feathers of the female are of
a dark grey or black. When we get every thing comfortable about us, we
will have ostrich-hunts, and sell the feathers for three or four
shillings a-piece; but just now we want the eggs more by far.”

Arnall knew that a few snakes of the poisonous kind would be very
acceptable to Hill; so he employed himself in looking for them in the
copse, while George was swinging about at the top of the tree. There is
little or no danger of a bite when people are on their guard; and the
dogs having been trained to catch them, several were soon secured
without difficulty, their heads cut off for a present to Hill, and the
bodies put into the sack to be cooked for dinner, many people being as
fond of them as of eels. Arnall was just carrying a beautiful one,
lemon-coloured, and speckled with black, and five feet long, to the foot
of the tree, to show to his young companion, when he saw George coming
down in great haste.

“Off with you and your dogs,” said the boy.

“Which way?”

“Due east, to the left of yonder thicket, and I will follow and strip
the nest presently. They are not three hundred paces off. But where’s
the sack?”

Arnall pointed to the place in the copse where he had left it, whistled
to his dogs, and set off at full speed. As soon as the ostriches saw
him, they took flight; and as his pursuit was only a pretence, he was
not too eager to observe their motions. There was something laughable in
the way in which they sped along, one behind another, with their short
wings and tufted tails spread, and their long legs clearing the ground
as swiftly as a race-horse can follow. When they were out of sight, our
sportsman whistled back his dogs, and stood to wipe his brows and look
round for his companion. He could see no one, but supposed some rising
of the ground might conceal the lad, or that he might be stooping after
the eggs; so he walked leisurely back. Presently he came upon an
ostrich’s nest, crowded with eggs, and with so many lying round the
outside, that he was sure no one had meddled with it. He looked again
and again, and measured the space with his eye, and calculated the
direction, and after all could not make himself sure whether this was
the right nest. It was not usual, he knew, for two nests to be so near
together; but, if this were the one, he could not conceive the reason of
George’s delay.

“He is so ready-witted and so quick-handed,” thought he, “it is
impossible he should be groping for the sack all this time. I will carry
off as many as I can take, and come back with him for more. I will put
one of these feathers into my cap too, grey though they be, and give one
to him too, for a trophy. And I do not see why these skins should not
make us caps and waistcoats, under Fulton’s good management; so I shall
take these dead beasts into the shade and skin them.”

The beasts he spoke of were a jackal and two wild cats, which had
ventured near the nest for eggs in the night, and had apparently been
crushed to death by a blow from the foot of the cock-ostrich, whose
office it is to keep guard at night. Arnall tied them together by the
tails, and slung them over his shoulder, and carried also three eggs,
which were as many as he could manage without a sack; for they were each
as large as a pumpkin. All the way as he went, he whistled aloud and
shouted, but could see and hear nothing of George.

When he entered the shade of the copse, his heart misgave him, for at
last he began to fear some accident had happened. Before he had advanced
many paces, he saw the poor lad lying on his back, his face expressive
of great suffering, and one of his legs swollen to an enormous size. His
countenance brightened a little when Arnall appeared.

“I thought you would not go home without coming back to see what had
become of me,” he said.

“And what has happened to you, my poor boy?” said his companion. “Have
you been bitten by a snake, or a scorpion, or what?”

“By a horned-snake,” said George, “I did not see him till I was close
upon him, so that I could not get away: so I tried to kill him as the
natives do; but he struggled hard and slipped his neck from under my
foot; and before I could get him down again, he bit me in the calf of my
leg. I did kill him at last, and yonder he lies; but do you know, Mr.
Arnall, I think he has killed me too!”

Arnall was too much grieved to speak. He examined the wound, and tried
to ease the swollen limb by cutting off the trowser which confined it.
He gathered some leaves of a particular plant, and bruised them, and
applied them to the part, as he had seen the natives do on such an
occasion, and then told George that he would carry him home as fast as
possible.

“Can you carry me three miles?” said George. “I do not feel as if I
could help myself at all, but I will try. I should like to see father
and mother again.”

“They shall come to you if we cannot reach home,” replied Arnall; “but
let us try without losing more time. I want that Hill should see your
leg.”

“There would be little use in that,” said poor George, faintly, as, on
trying to sit up, he felt sick and dizzy.

“Put your arm round my neck, and I will lift you up,” said Arnall; but
George did not move. His companion put the arm over his shoulder; but it
fell again. George seemed insensible.—Arnall made one more trial.

“Will you not make an effort to see your mother?”

George opened his eyes, raised himself, and made a sort of spring upon
his companion’s shoulder, and then laid his head down, clinging with all
his remaining strength. Arnall used all the speed he could with so heavy
a burden, and was comforted by finding that either the air or the motion
seemed to rouse the poor patient, who appeared better able to keep his
hold, and even spoke from time to time.

“Mr. Arnall!” said he.

“Well, George.”

“There is a thing I want to tell you about making arrows. Bring me a
reed when you put me down, and I will shew you how the natives barb
them. I meant to have made the first myself, but as I can’t, I will
teach you.”

“Thank you: but do not tire yourself with talking.”

After a while, however, George began again.

“Do you know, Mr. Arnall, I think when the crops are got in, and the
houses built, and some cattle in the fields again, you will have the
Bushmen down upon you some night?”

“Well, we have sent for arms and powder from Cape Town.”

“I know: but they will be of no use if every body is asleep. I meant to
ask to be a watchman with as many as would join me, and to take it in
turn, three or four every night. I wish you would see it done, and have
all the boys taught to fire a gun.”

Arnall promised, and again urged him to be silent.

“I will, when I have said one other thing about my mother. I wish you
would tell her——”

Here his head drooped on Arnall’s shoulder, and presently, being unable
to hold on any longer, he fell gently on the grass, and his companion
saw with grief, that it was impossible to move him farther.

“The dogs will stay and take care of you, George,” said he, “while I run
for your parents and Hill. I will be back the first moment I can. Here;
I will put the sack under your head for a pillow. In less than an hour
you will see us. God bless you!”

“Stay one moment,” said George. “Tell little Mary the whistle I promised
to make her is just finished, and it lies in the hollow of the
chestnut-tree,—call it my cupboard and she will know.”

“All this will do when I come back,” said Arnall, who was impatient to
be gone. He wiped the boy’s moist forehead and kissed it. George pressed
his hand and whispered:

“Let me say one thing more, only this one. If my father had seen you do
that, he would never call you proud again; and if you would only play
with Mary Stone sometimes, and speak a little kinder to dame Fulton, you
can’t think what a difference it would make. Do, for my sake. I want
them to know how kind you are, and I do not think I shall live to tell
them. You are not crying for me, surely? No; ’tis for mother. God bless
you for those tears, then! Good bye, Mr. Arnall.”

Arnall looked back once or twice, and then George feebly waved his hand.

As many as were near enough to hear the sad news Arnall brought to the
settlement followed with those he came to seek. They made all speed; but
the whining of the dogs as they approached made them fear that they were
too late. It was indeed so, though at the first moment it seemed
doubtful whether George was not asleep. One arm was about the neck of
his favourite Rover. The other hand was over his eyes, as if the light
had been too much for him. He did not move when the dog was released. He
never moved again.

                      ----------------------------


                              CHAPTER VI.

                      MANY HANDS MAKE QUICK WORK.


The death of George Prest was lamented as a public misfortune in the
settlement; for he was not only a dutiful son and an amiable companion,
but one of the most ready and industrious of the labourers for the
community. A sudden damp seemed to be cast over all the plans and doings
of the little society by this event, and the affairs which had been most
interesting in the morning had lost their interest by night.—The water
flowed into the finished trenches, and no one looked on but the one
labourer and Mr. Stone who finished the work; and when, the next
morning, the young corn which had been parched and withered began
already to show signs of revival, no one smiled at this promise of
fruitfulness. The little company walked in silence to their cave at
night, and seemed unwilling to be roused by the dawn. The fathers
grasped the hands of their children, as if some danger was at hand; and
it was long before any mother in the settlement would allow her little
ones to go out of her sight. It was an affecting thing to observe how
George was missed by every body;—a sure sign what a valuable member of
society he had been. His father and mother mourned him in silence, but
the little children, who could not be made to understand what had
happened, were continually asking for him.

“I want George. Where is George?” was the daily complaint of little Mary
and some of her playmates; and long after they had become accustomed to
his absence, and had ceased to mention him, his older friends felt the
same want, though they did not express it. The captain himself often
said in his heart, “I wish George was here.”

As the captain was going his rounds a few days after the funeral, he
stopped to look on while Harrison worked at the reed-house. Harrison
looked grave,—almost sulky.

“I’ll tell you what, captain,” said he, “it is too bad to expect so much
of me as you seem to do. Unless I have more help, I shall never get a
roof over our heads before the rains come. ’Tis a folly to expect it.”

“That is just what I was thinking about,” said the captain. “Mr. Stone
told me this morning that the wind has changed a little, and that he
thinks we shall be in for the rainy season ten days hence. What help
would you like?”

“As much as ever you can spare me,” answered Harrison. “If we had half a
dozen hands, the work would go on a dozen times as fast, for I lose much
of my time in turning from one thing to another, and so does my man.
Before he has brought reeds enough, I want them made up in bundles to my
hand; and before he has tied three or four bundles, he wants more
thongs. And then again the clay might be drying on the parts that are
done if it was ready, and somebody was here to plaster; and if I set
about that, I am directly told that the first thing to be done is to
cover in the part that is reared, in case of the rains coming; but then
the wood (whatever it is to be) for the roof is not ready, nor yet the
thatch: and so we go on.”

“I was sorry,” said the captain, “to call off the men I promised you at
first; but the trench was the great object, you know. Now that is
finished; and I hope the folks will be home from the hunt to-night, and
then you shall have as much help as you wish for.”

Harrison touched his cap, and hoped no offence from his manner of
speaking; but it wounded him, he said, to think how he had lost the
little help he had. It was poor George who had worked the clay, and who
had plastered the chief part of the wall that was done.

The captain himself took up the spade that lay idle, and watered and
worked the clay till he was called away; and this, and the prospect of
more help to-morrow, put Harrison into good humour again.

The hunt, of which the captain spoke, proved grandly successful. As
there were neither horses nor guns, and a very few dogs, it could
scarcely be called a hunt, in comparison with many which take place in
that country. All that could be done was to alarm the herds of buffaloes
and antelopes with noise, and so to echo the din as to drive the animals
towards the pits which had been dug and carefully covered over, that
they might not be observed by the prey. On they rushed; and though some
seemed to escape the traps by a hair’s breadth, others fell in: and when
one herd after another had been driven over the ground till dark, it was
found that out of seven pits which had been prepared, five had caught a
prey. The huntsmen then lighted their torches, and proceeded to examine
their gains; two or three of them with secret hopes that they might find
a stray horse or two out of a small number they had seen crossing the
plain in the morning. As it does not appear that there is now a breed of
wild horses at the Cape (though it is supposed there formerly was),
these were probably once the property of settlers in some neighbouring
district, who had either lost them after turning them out to feed on the
mountains, or had set them free on quitting their settlement. However it
might be, these horses appeared of so elegant a form, and so rapid and
even in their paces, that our hunters could not but long to have them in
possession; and their wishes were partly gratified. A fine grey mare was
found in one of the traps. The fear was that she might have been injured
by the fall; and great was the anxiety of the lookers on till, one noose
being securely slipped over her head, and another prepared for her
fore-legs, she was got out of the pit. She appeared to be unhurt, and
sound in every part, and began to neigh when she felt herself on open
ground again, as if she would have called all her companions round her.
One only answered her; her own foal, which came bounding to her,
fearless of all the enemies at hand. He was presently secured, and this
valuable prey led home. In three of the other pits they found three
antelopes, which were led home for stock, and in the fourth a buffalo.
He alone was destined for slaughter. He was slain and removed at once,
that the pits might again be covered over for the chance of a further
prey. It was very late before the whole was finished; but it was a
satisfaction that most of the hands thus employed would be at liberty
for other work the next day.

Before they slept, the captain and Mr. Stone had a consultation on a
matter of increasing importance.

“I am afraid,” said the captain, “we are on a wrong plan. Indeed, I hope
to find we are, for unless some change can be made in our mode of
operation, I shall be quite at a loss to know what answer to make to all
the entreaties for help in the works we have in hand. Our people seem to
think I can command labour to any extent.”

“All governors,” said Mr. Stone, “are supposed to have boundless
resources, and are doomed to disappoint their subjects. You only pay the
regular tax for your dignity. But do you think there is a proper economy
of labour in our society?”

“That is what I want to consult you about. I think not. I think we have
too many undertakings at once for our number of hands.”

“It has occurred to me,” said Mr. Stone, “that we should get on faster
by putting all our strength into one task at a time, than by having a
dozen at once on hand, with little prospect of finishing them. Look how
poor Harrison frets over his building; and well he may. The weather is
beginning to change, and instead of having three sheds, I doubt whether
we shall have one finished by the time the rains come on.”

The captain here interrupted him with an account of what had passed in
the morning; and it was agreed that building should now be the first
object.

“I could not help thinking,” said Mr. Stone, “that the women and
children set us a good example as to the wisdom of saving labour, when
they laid their own little plans for doing their appointed tasks. Have
you observed the boys making their bows and arrows, and other weapons?”

“I saw by the number they made that they must be proceeding on a good
plan. What was it?”

“The first day,” said Mr. Stone, “they sat down, each by himself under a
tree, to cut his piece of wood the right length and thickness for his
bow. It was weary work with any tool but the hatchet, which was lent
them while it was not wanted for other purposes. There was but one
hatchet among three, after all; so while Joe used it, little Tommy stood
by waiting. He would not go to seek reeds for arrows like John, because
he expected every moment that he might have the hatchet; so there he
stood, with the wood in his hand, winking at every stroke of the
hatchet, and looking disappointed as often as Joe shook his head and
began again. At last, he got possession of it; but he was very awkward,
and first chopped his wood too short, and then shaved it too thin; and
by the time he had spoiled one piece, John came up and wanted the tool.
‘Presently,’ said Tommy; and in his hurry he split the next piece all
the way up, so that it was fit for nothing. Then he lost his patience,
and cried out, ‘I wish you would look and see what Joe is doing, instead
of staring at me in that manner.’ So John turned to observe his friend
Joe.

“And what was Joe doing?”

“He was getting on little better than Tommy. The next thing to be done
was to twist the gut for the bow-string—an easy task enough: but Joe’s
hand shook so with using the hatchet, that he could scarcely fasten the
ends ready to twist. Besides this, it was all uneven and knotty, and not
fit to be used at last. ‘Dear me,’ said Tommy, coming to see, while he
fanned himself with his cap and took breath, ‘I can twist a bow-string
better than that any day.’ ‘Well, then,’ said Joe, ‘I wish you would do
my job for me, and I will do yours for you.’ ‘And while your hand is
in,’ said John, ‘you may as well do mine too, and I will make your
arrows; for that is a sort of work I am accustomed to.’”

“A good bargain,” observed the captain.

“Indeed, they found it so; for instead of wounding themselves and
spoiling their materials and losing time by going from one kind of work
to another, they each did what he could do best, and thus made a great
saving of time and labour. The three bows were finished so soon, that
the little lads were inclined to make more to change away for something
they wished for; and they have set up a regular manufactory under the
great oak. There is a block for Joe to chop upon; and a hook for Tommy
to fasten his bow-strings to; and a sharp stone fixed into a chink, for
John to point and barb his reeds with.”

“So with them the division of labour has led to the invention of
machinery,” said the captain.

“A certain consequence,” replied his friend. “Men, women, and children,
are never so apt at devising ways of easing their toils as when they are
confined to one sort of labour, and have to give their attention wholly
to it. That puts me in mind of what our ladies are doing.”

“What is that?”

“They have divided their labour according to their talents or habits,
and daily find the advantages of such a plan. My wife was telling me how
little she could get done while she had to turn from her cooking to her
sewing, and from her sewing to take charge of the children when they
strayed into the wood.”

“It was a new sort of sewing and a new sort of cooking,” said the
captain, “and I dare say it was some time before she got her hand in, as
we say.”

“To be sure; and it is clear that if each person had only one new method
to practise, and was not disturbed when once her hand was in, the work
of every kind would go on faster. My wife’s neighbours found that she
used the porcupine’s quill—her new needle—and the threads of flax more
handily than they; so they offered to do her other work, if she would
mend their own and their husbands’ clothes. She was very willing,
because she could thus keep our little girl always beside her. The child
is too young, you know, to play in the wood with the others.”

“And what becomes of them?”

“Kate goes with them to take care of them; and while she watches their
play, she plats dry grass to make hats for us all. She is a neat and
quick hand at this, and it is a work which can be done as she goes from
place to place. By the time the sun shines out again after the rains,
there will be a large light straw hat for each labourer—a very good
thing in such a climate.”

“I wondered,” said the captain, “what made Robertson steal away into the
wood so often, so steady a workman as he is; and I thought it was a new
fancy in him to have some pretty wild flower in his hat or his breast
when he came again.”

“I dare say the lovers do not turn off less work on the whole,” said Mr.
Stone, “for these few moments’ chat during the day. Did you not observe
that he is the first man in the settlement who has had a straw hat?”

“I did. Well: who undertakes the cooking?”

“Mrs. Prest; whose husband helps her with the management of the oven and
the more laborious parts of her business. Then little Betsy and her
mother are our housemaids. They stay behind when we leave the cave in
the morning, and sweep it out, and strew fresh rushes, and pile the wood
for the night fire. And between this division of labour and the little
contrivances to which it gives occasion, we are certainly better waited
on and taken care of by our wives and companions than if each had to do
all the offices of one household.”

“True: and as long as we cannot have the comfort of a private home to
each family, such a division is wise in every way. But it will not be
long before the state of things will change.”

“Even then,” said Mr. Stone, “it will be desirable to continue the same
plan till labour becomes less precious than it will be to us for months
to come. When each family has a house, let each family eat in private;
but why should not the cooking go on as at present? There will soon be
baking to do in addition, and an increase of labour in proportion to our
increased means of comfort: so that we must spare labour to the utmost
till we can get a stock of labourers who do not require to be fed and
taken care of.”

“You mean machines.”

“I mean, in the first place, the tools which will soon be on their way
from Cape Town, and which will be our simple machinery and, in the next
place, the more complicated machinery which those tools will make. When
we get such a fund of labour as this at our command, we may begin to
indulge in the luxury of having everything within our houses done for us
by those we love best, and according to our own fancy. Our society must
be much richer, one and all, than now, before I think of having one of
my wife’s Dorsetshire pies, made by her own neat hands, and baked in an
oven of our own.”

“There must be an extensive division of labour,” said the captain,
“before even that single dish can be prepared. To say nothing of what
has already been done in our fields in fencing, ploughing, sowing, and
trenching, there is much work remaining in reaping, threshing, and
grinding, before you can have the flour. Then the meat for your pie is
still grazing, and must be brought home and slaughtered and cut up. Then
the salt must be got from the lake yonder; and the pepper,—what will you
do for pepper?”

“The pepper must come from over the sea; and only think of all the
labour that will cost: the trouble of those who grow and prepare it in
another land, the boxes in which it is packed, the ship in which it is
conveyed, the waggon which brings it from Cape Town; all these things
are necessary to afford us pepper for our plainest pies.”

“And how much more would a plum-pudding cost! The flour and the butter
may be had near home; but the sugar must be brought from one country,
and the raisins from another, and the spice from a third, and the brandy
from a fourth. There could be no plum-puddings without such a division
of labour as it almost confuses one to think of.”

“No, indeed; for we must consider, moreover, the labour which has been
spent in providing the means of producing and conveying the things which
make a plum-pudding. Think of the toil of preparing the vineyards where
the raisins grow; of the smith and the carpenter who made the press
where the grapes are prepared, and of the miner, the smelter, the
founder, the furnace-builder, the bricklayer, and others who helped to
make their tools, and the feller of wood, the grower of hemp, the
rope-makers, the sail-makers, the ship-builders, the sailors who must do
their part towards bringing the fruit to our shores. And then—”

“Nay, stop,” said the captain laughing; “you have said quite enough to
show that it would cost more than the toil of a man’s whole life to make
a plum-pudding without the division of labour which renders it so easy a
matter to any cook in England. I have heard it said that the breakfast
of an English washerwoman has cost the labour of many hundred hands; and
I believe it. If we think of nothing but the tea and the sugar, we may
fairly say this; for the one comes from the East Indies and the other
from the West, and innumerable are the hands which have been engaged in
growing and preparing and conveying them to the table of an English
kitchen. Our countrymen little think how much the poorest of them owes
to this grand principle of the division of labour.”

“They little think,” added Mr. Stone, “how many kings and princes of
countries less favoured than theirs would be glad to exchange their
heaps of silver and gold for the accommodations of an English
day-labourer. Many a sovereign, who covers himself and his courtiers
with jewels, or who has absolute power over the lives and liberties of a
million of people, could not, if he would, have anything better than a
mat or a skin to sleep on: he could not, if he would, have anything
better than a wooden trencher to eat off, or the shell of a large nut to
drink out of; and as to what he eats and drinks, he might give the
wealth of his kingdom in vain for any thing so good as a plum-pudding,
or a Dorsetshire pie, or a breakfast of tea and toast. And all this,
because he and his people know nothing about the division of labour.”

“Well,” said the captain, “we are not yet in a condition to have tea and
toast; but we will try to-morrow what a division of labour will do
towards rearing a house over our heads.”

“And next,” said Mr. Stone, “in getting some earthenware utensils. I see
Harrison is in a hurry to begin his pottery. I tell him that we can eat
off wooden trenchers for a while; but I believe we shall be glad to have
a better draught than we can fetch with the palms of our hands.”

                      ----------------------------


                              CHAPTER VII.

                        GETTING UP IN THE WORLD.


A rapid improvement took place in the affairs of the settlement within
three months. An abundant supply of food being secured by the getting in
of the harvest, the most efficient labour of the society was directed
towards the procuring of the domestic comforts for which every man,
woman, and child of them was beginning to pine. Their condition at this
time may be best described by giving a picture of a sick-room,
inhabited, alas! by Mrs. Stone, who had fallen ill of a fever in
consequence of over-exertion, and of anxiety for her husband and for the
poor little girl who had appeared too young and tender for the hardships
of a settler’s life. Mr. Stone, however, had suffered nothing beyond
temporary fatigue; and the little girl was taken so much care of by
every body, that she throve as well as she could have done under any
circumstances. The warmest corner of the cave and the softest bed of dry
grass had been set apart for this child. Little Mary was presented with
a straw-hat by Kate before her lover’s was even begun; and it was made
large enough to protect her delicate skin as well as to shade her eyes
from the glare of the sun. The first draught that was milked from the
antelope was brought to little Mary; and dame Fulton tied a charm round
her neck to prevent her being wounded by any venomous reptile. Nobody,
to be sure, thought this of any use but the dame herself; but as the
child was never stung by any thing worse than midges, the old lady
appealed triumphantly to fact in defence of her charm. The men used to
carry Mary on their shoulders to the wood and hold her up to gather an
orange or a bunch of grapes; and then the fruit was brought to the
captain or Mary’s papa as the little girl’s gift. Then the boys had a
tame monkey, and they taught Mary how to play with it without teasing
it; and they trained one of the dogs to carry the little girl while one
of the older lads held her on; and she generally took a ride every
morning and every evening, before and after work; and being thus
carefully tended and so well amused, little Mary grew fat and strong,
and her papa found, as regularly as Sunday came about, (for he could not
be much with her on other days,) that she had learned to do something
which she could not do the week before. At last, Mrs. Stone ceased to be
anxious about her child, and then she fell it herself. It was not a
dangerous illness; but it was a tedious time to herself, and a very
uneasy one to her husband, who sighed for many comforts on her account
that he would never have cared for on his own. She tried continually to
console him, and often pointed out her many blessings, and expressed her
thankfulness for the care that was taken of her. Mr. Hill who was not
very sorry to have a patient once more, was experienced as well as
attentive. He was a good deal put out at first at having neither phials
nor gallipots to send in to his patient, for he had been accustomed to
think them as essential to a sick-room as the medicines themselves: but
when he found that the lady slept as well after taking her draught out
of a coarse earthen pipkin as if it had been brought, duly labelled, in
a phial, he began to think, as she did, that it was a fine thing to have
medicine at all in such a situation, and that his importance was wholly
independent of the furniture of his surgery.

It was a happy circumstance that the removal from the cave had taken
place before Mrs. Stone’s illness began. She was lodged in the largest
of the three reed-houses which had been built, and each of which had
been partitioned off into apartments for the families of the settlement.
The invalid had the middlemost one, as being the coolest. A very good
bed had been made by sewing up a soft hide into a bag and filling it
with chaff. This was laid in one corner, on a frame supported by blocks
of wood, the second bottom being made of hide in the absence of sacking.
It is too dangerous to lie on the ground in places where venomous
insects may enter. The covering of the bed was a light, flexible mat,
woven by Kate’s neat hands. A shelf of wood rested on tressels, within
reach of the patient, on which stood a rude earthenware plate of figs
and grapes, and a basin of cooling drink pressed from the sweet orange,
and flavoured with its fragrant rind. There was a cupboard, stored with
little dainties sent in by the neighbours to tempt the appetite of the
sick lady:—sweetmeats, made of various fruits and honey; cakes of wheat
and other flour with orange peel, honey, and seeds of various flavour;
and abundance of broth, jelly, and other preparations of animal food.
The only comfort the lady wanted was that of books; but as she knew it
was impossible at present to procure them, she said nothing of her wish.
Her neighbours were very kind in coming to see her and amuse her with
accounts of all that was going on; and her husband spent by her side
whatever time his other duties allowed. She had also a well-stored mind,
and was thankful to be able to interest herself again in what she had
read when she had little idea that she should ever be debarred from
books. But with all these resources, she could not help sighing now and
then for one favourite volume or another that might improve her
knowledge and occupy her attention.

One day when she was sitting up, and when her husband was sure she was
so much better as to be able to see a new face without too much fatigue,
he brought the captain to pay her a visit.

“Why, really,” said he, when he began to look round him, “though this is
not exactly the way one would furnish a sick-room if one had the choice,
it is surprising how comfortable this place has been made.”

“I assure you,” said Mrs. Stone, “I have wanted for nothing really
necessary, and have had many luxuries. I do not believe I should have
recovered a day sooner if I had had the best room in the best house in
England.”

“Every thing needful for bodily comfort has been furnished,” said her
husband; “but it has been a daily regret to me that we could not supply
you with the independent enjoyment of books. If we could, you would have
been spared many a tedious hour when I was obliged to be away from you.”

“I have certainty felt enough of this,” said his wife, “to be more than
ever sensible that, though it is a most desirable thing that the
external comforts of life should be provided for every body, these
comforts are after all only means to a higher end. When we have all that
can be obtained in that way, we remain unsatisfied unless there be
pursuits to occupy the mind.”

“It is as a pursuit occupying the mind,” observed her husband, “that
productive industry is chiefly valuable. It has another object,—to place
us in a condition fit for a further and better pursuit: and if we stop
short when we have secured the requisite leisure and comfort, we stop
short of what we were made for.”

“I am rather afraid of our people mistaking the means for the end,” said
Mrs. Stone. “They know that they are doing their duty—that they are
employed to the best possible purpose at present, in providing for the
support and comfort of themselves and their families; and the pursuit
itself keeps their minds active, and therefore makes them happy. But I
am afraid of their going on to make this their only object, when they
ought to be reaching forward to something better. In a few months we
shall have stores of whatever we want; and it would be a pity to forget
all we have learned from books and seen in the world, for the sake of
heaping up more food and clothing than we can possibly use.”

“You need not fear, madam,” said the captain. “Our people are already
thinking of trading with the next settlement, and even with Cape Town. I
should not wonder if in five years we have a flourishing commerce,
exchanging our productions for the manufactures of England. If we should
go on working till we have a regular town of brick or stone houses, and
roads and bridges, and periodical conveyances to and from Cape Town,
with all the new objects which would be introduced by these means, you
would no longer fear our people’s not having a sufficient variety of
pursuits, would you?”

“Certainly not,” said Mrs. Stone, “because I know what is the natural
course of things where such improvements take place. We shall by that
time have a chapel and a school-house, and a library; and, however the
business of the society may be extended and varied, its members will
become more and more disposed to find leisure for the improvement of
their minds.”

“And this in its turn,” said the captain, “will tend to the improvement
of their temporal condition. We shall have new inventions and
discoveries which will help us to procure the comforts we have been used
to with more and more ease continually, and will supply us with new ones
which we little dream of at present. There are no bounds to what labour
can do when directed by knowledge.”

“We were saying one night over our fire, captain, (as I dare say you
remember,) that it is Nature that works, and that human labour only
brings her materials together. Now,—as we do not know nearly all the
materials that there are in nature, nor nearly all the different ways in
which they may be combined, we do not know nearly all that human labour
can do.”

“Witness what has been already done,” said the captain. “It is probable
that men were possessed of timber, and cloth, and ropes, and that they
had observed the power of the winds, long before they brought these
things together to make a ship. And see what human labour, working with
nature, has done in enabling men to cross oceans, and to traverse the
globe if they choose. And so it is with the steam-engine, and with all
the arts of life which raise the condition of man higher and higher.
Nature has furnished the materials ever since the day of creation; it is
human labour directed by knowledge, which makes more and more use of
them from age to age.”

“We can see no bounds to the improvements which will take place,” said
Mr. Stone, “because we see no bounds to the means which constitute them.
Nature appears inexhaustible; human labour increases with the increase
of population; to say nothing of a more rapid mode of growth.”

“What is that?” asked his wife.

“I will explain myself by and by. Natural materials and human labour are
inexhaustible, and the other thing wanted—the directing wisdom of
man—seems likely to grow forever. So where shall improvement stop?”

“Providence,” said the captain, “by which all these things are framed
and adapted, seems to work on a plan of perpetual progress, and to open
a prospect of growing brightness to all who will look far enough.
Providence points out one great truth respecting the temporal condition
of mankind which, if properly understood, would banish all fear for the
temporal prosperity of the whole race in the long run, and if duly acted
upon, would put an end to most of the partial distress which now
exists.”

“What is that truth?”

“That Labour is a power of which Man is the machine; and that its
operation can be limited only by the resources of Man.”

“And how do you mean to act upon your knowledge of this truth, captain?
You hold a very responsible situation; and I know you are not the man to
let a truth lie by idle when you have a firm hold of it.”

“I have been thinking a great deal about my duty in this matter, I
assure you,” replied the captain. “The more I consider the influence of
a government in guiding or perverting this vast power of human labour,
the more anxious I am to exercise my share of influence properly.”

“I thought,” said Mrs. Stone, “the only thing government had to do in
this matter was to let people alone, and leave labour to find its right
direction.”

“That is true,” replied the captain, “as far as the _different kinds_ of
labour are in question. It is no business of mine to pronounce a
farmer’s labour better than a shop-keeper’s, or to show favour to any
one class more than to another; but it is in my power to increase or
lessen the usefulness of labour by the policy I pursue.”

“For instance,” said Mr. Stone, “if you encourage the division of labour
to the utmost that our supply will allow, you increase its power
immeasurably. If, on the other hand, you were to use your influence in
persuading our people to work apart, each for himself, you would be
wasting, to the utmost, the chief resource of the settlement.”

“True,” said the captain; “and thus may the _energy_ of labour be
increased without bounds by encouraging the division of labour: for, by
such division, the same quantity of labour furnishes a more abundant
produce: and the same remark applies to the encouragement of machinery;
for machines shorten and assist all the operations of industry to a
greater degree than we can calculate. But I have it in my power also to
affect the _extent_ of labour. I must take care that the more mouths
there are to feed, the more industry there is in raising food. I must
allow no idleness, and see that the number of unproductive labourers is
not out of proportion to the productive.”

“You can do this in a little settlement like ours, captain; but surely
the rulers of an empire cannot?”

“It is not the duty of the English government,” replied the captain, “to
inquire who is idle in the kingdom and who is not, and to punish or
encourage individuals accordingly. This would be an endless task, and an
irksome one both to rulers and the ruled. But the same work may be done
in a shorter way. Governments should protect the natural liberty of
industry by removing all obstacles,—all bounties and prohibitions,—all
devices by which one set of people tries to obtain unfair advantages
over another set. If this were fairly done, industry would find its
natural reward and idleness its natural punishment; and there would be
neither more nor less unproductive labourers than the good of society
would require.”

“I see plainly,” said Mrs. Stone, “the truth of what you have last said,
but I want to know——”

Before she could explain what it was that she wished to learn, a message
was brought in that the gentlemen were wanted.

“Which of us?”

“Both, sir, I fancy. There has been a meeting held under the great
chestnut, and I believe it is a deputation from the meeting that is
waiting without.”

Mrs. Stone said that if her husband would give her his arm, she should
like to go and sit in the porch, and hear what was going forward. In
answer to his fears that she would be tired, she declared that
conversation, like a book, refreshed instead of fatiguing her, and that
she was quite disposed for more of it.

Hill, who was one of the deputation, was surprised to see his patient
advancing and appearing fully able to walk with her husband’s
assistance. Suiting his advice to the inclinations of his patient,
(which medical men know it is often wise to do,) he doubted not that she
would find the air reviving; and if she was strong enough to be amused,
nothing could be better for her. So the lady was soon seated in the
porch with her pillow at her back, and a log at her feet for a
footstool, and a straw hat, as large as a West India planter’s, on her
head. Little Mary saw from a distance that something was doing in the
porch, and came to look on. She had left her mamma on the bed an hour
before, and had no idea of seeing her anywhere else this day.

“Mamma! mamma!” cried the delighted child, trying to climb the seat.
“Take me up on your lap, mamma; I want you to kiss me.”

Her papa lifted her upon the seat, and she nestled with her head on her
mamma’s shoulder, and would not go to play again, though her companions
came and peeped and called her. They all looked in in turn, that they
might each have a nod and a smile from Mrs. Stone, and then they ran
away, and left Mary where she wished to be.

“Well, my friends,” said the captain to Hill, and Harrison, and Dunn,
who composed the deputation—“take a seat and tell us what is your
business with us.”

There had hitherto been very little observance of ranks in the
settlement, since the calamity which, befalling all alike, had reduced
all to one level. On the present occasion, however, the deputation
persisted in remaining standing and uncovered.

Their business was to report that a meeting of the people had been held
to consider what were their resources, with a view to providing a
permanent establishment for the captain as their chief magistrate, and
for Mr. Stone as their chaplain and the schoolmaster of the society.
They proposed to build a good house for each, as soon as the necessary
tools should arrive; and to set apart for each a specified share of the
productions of the place, till the introduction of money should enable
them to pay a salary in the usual mode. This offer was accompanied with
many grateful acknowledgments of the benefits which the society had
derived from the exertions of both gentlemen, and with apologies for the
freedom which had prevailed in their intercourse while poverty reduced
all to a temporary equality. Now that they were rising above want was
the time for each man to take his own station again, and the gentlemen
should henceforth be treated with the deference which belonged to their
superior rank.

“You are all in the wrong, my good friends,” cried the captain, rising
and throwing off his cap. “Upon my word, I don’t know what you mean. I
am the son of a tradesman, and therefore exactly on a level with
yourself, Mr. Dunn; for I have done nothing to gain a higher rank. And I
must differ from you so far as to say that such circumstances as we have
lately been in are the best test of rank, and that I, for one, would
give not a fig for that sort of dignity which disappears just when the
dignity of man should show itself. If I was on an equality with you when
we were all in danger together——”

“But you were not, sir,” said Hill; “and that was one thing which Dunn
was to have said, but I suppose he forgot it. It is because you guided
us then, that we want you to govern us now. It was because you showed
yourself superior to us then, that we want to honour you now.”

“Indeed!” said the captain. “Well, that is another matter. No man can be
more sensible than I am of the advantages of a gradation of ranks in
society, provided it be founded on a right principle: and I therefore
cheerfully accept the honours you offer me, as well as the office to
which it is right they should belong. It is for you and not for me to
judge whether I have deserved either the one or the other; and there
would be no true humility in questioning your decision. Will you be
pleased to make known to those who have sent you my gratification at
possessing their good opinion, and my acceptance of the office they
propose, and of their plan for maintaining the charges of such an
office?”

The deputation bowed low.

“I shall wish,” continued the captain, “to call a meeting of the whole
society, in order to explain the principles on which I shall proceed in
my government, and to obtain their advice respecting some regulations,
and their consent to others which I may wish to adopt for the public
good. This meeting, however, cannot be held till the return of our
messenger from Cape Town shall enable us to calculate our resources for
maintenance and defence.”

The three messengers bowed again, and then turned to Mr. Stone for his
reply. He thus spoke:

“I receive with much satisfaction your request that I will continue my
exertions as the guide of your religious services, and as the teacher of
your children. Such a request implies much that it is gratifying to me
to know. It implies that your interest in concerns of the highest
importance is not lessened by the anxieties which have pressed upon you
of late: and if not lessened, we may hope it is increased; for if
adversity does not harden the heart, it softens it: if it does not make
us discontented with Providence, it must draw us towards God.—Your
request also implies that the immediate pressure of your adversity is
past, or you would not be thinking of giving up the labour of your
children in order that they might be taught by me, or of sparing some of
your earnings for such a purpose.—Again: your request implies that you
have that opinion of my services which it has been my endeavour to earn,
and which I shall labour no less diligently to retain.—These
considerations leave me no inclination to object to your plan, except in
one particular.”

Here every body looked eager to know the nature of the objection. Mr.
Stone continued,

“The captain is right in accepting a salary for his office;—because the
benefit cannot in such a case be apportioned to individuals so that each
may afford a recompense for the good he receives. The blessings of a
good government are general in the society governed; and all ought to
pay their share for those blessings; and none can know what amount of
evil he escapes by living under such a government. But the case is
different with services like mine; and the reward should therefore be
differently given. Let every man who finds himself benefited by my
religious services bring me such a portion of his temporal goods as he
is inclined to offer. Let every father, whose children are taught by me,
set apart whatever he may think an equivalent for the pains I shall
bestow. If I find I am possessed of more than I want for present and
future purposes, I will return a part. If I have not enough, I will ask
for more.”

“If I might venture to speak, sir,” said Hill,—“this is all very well
between you and us who understand one another so well; but this is not
the rule to go upon with all pastors and schoolmasters, is it?”

“I believe you will always find,” replied Mr. Stone, “that the work of
any office is best done where the reward is proportioned to the labour,
instead of being given in the form of a fixed salary. In many government
and other offices, this cannot be done with any precision; but where it
can be, it should be; whether in the case of a pastor or a schoolmaster,
or any other labourer for the public. Magistrates, soldiers, domestic
servants, and others, must be paid by salaries; but in every office
where the benefit can be estimated in individual cases, let the payment
be made accordingly. This may be depended upon as the best way of making
the labourer exert himself, and exciting the benefited to make the most
of his exertions. May I trouble you to explain my views to your
companions?”

And then, after a few more expressions of mutual good will, the parties
separated.

When Mr. Stone turned to speak to his wife, he saw tears upon her cheek.
She was still weak-spirited, and the honour paid to her husband had
affected her. He calmed her by turning her attention to the improvement
which must be taking place in the affairs of the settlement, if its
inhabitants could thus meet to deliberate on its judicial interests.

“Yes, indeed,” said the captain, “the appointment of a deputation to
bring messages like these is a pretty good proof that we are getting up
in the world.”

                      ----------------------------


                             CHAPTER VIII.

                            A BRIGHT SUNSET.


One fine evening, about the beginning of February,—that is, near the end
of summer at the Cape,—a very extraordinary sight was seen by our
settlers. The boys who were climbing trees for fruit perceived it first,
and made such haste down from their perches, and shouted the news so
loudly in their way home, that in a few minutes every one was out at the
door, and all formed in a body to go and meet the new arrival. This
arrival was no other than a loaded waggon, drawn by eight oxen; a scanty
team at the Cape, where they sometimes harness twelve or sixteen.

There was a momentary anxiety about what this waggon might be, and to
whom it might belong; for it did now and then happen that a new band of
settlers, or a travelling party from Cape Town, passed through the
village, and requested such hospitality as it would, in the present
case, have been inconvenient or impossible to grant. The young eyes of
the party, however, presently discovered that the driver of the team was
their friend Richard the labourer, their messenger to Cape Town, of whom
they spoke every day, but whom they little expected to see back again so
soon. It was Richard assuredly. They could tell the crack of his whip
from that of any other driver. The captain waved his cap above his head
and cheered; every man and boy in the settlement cheered; the mothers
held up their babies in the air, and the little ones struggled and
crowed for joy. The oxen quickened their pace at the noise, and Richard
stood up in front of the waggon, and shaded his eyes with his cap from
the setting sun, that he might see who was who in the little crowd, and
whether his old mother had come out to meet him. He saw her presently,
leaning on the captain’s arm, and then he returned the cheer with might
and main. A load of anxiety was removed from his mind at that moment. He
had left his companions in a destitute state, without shelter, or arms,
or provision beyond the present day. He had not received any tidings of
them; it was impossible he should; and a hundred times during his
journey home, he had pictured to himself the settlement as he might find
it. Sometimes he fancied it deserted by all who had strength to betake
themselves to the distant villages: sometimes he imagined it wasted by
famine, and desolated by wild beasts or more savage men. At such times
he thought how little probable it was that one so infirm as his mother
should survive the least of the hardships that all were liable to; and
though he confided in the captain’s parting promise to take care of her,
he scarcely expected to meet her again. Now, he had seen her with his
own eyes, and he saw also that the general appearance of the throng
before him was healthful and gladsome, and his heart overflowed with
joy.

“God bless you, God bless you all!” he cried, as he pushed his way
through the crowd which had outstripped his mother and the captain.

“Let him go; do not stop him,” exclaimed several, who saw his eagerness
to be at his mother’s side: and they turned away and patted the oxen and
admired the waggon, till the embrace was received and the blessing
given, and Richard at liberty to greet each friend in turn.

“Tell me first,” said he, in a low voice to Mr. Stone, “are all safe?
Have all lived through such a time as you must have had of it?”

“All but one. We have lost George Prest. We could ill spare him; but it
was God’s will.”

Richard looked for George’s father, who appeared to be making
acquaintance with the oxen, but had only turned away to hide the tears
which he could not check. Richard wrung his hand in silence, and was not
disposed for some time to go on with his tale or his questions.

The first thing he wanted to know was where and how his friends were
living.

“You shall see presently,” said the captain. And, as soon as they turned
round the foot of the hill, he did see a scene which astonished him.
Part of the slope before him, rich with summer verdure, was inclosed
with a rude fence, within which two full grown and three young antelopes
were grazing. In another paddock were the grey mare and her foal. Across
the sparkling stream at the bottom of the slope lay the trunk of a tree
which served as a foot-bridge. On the other side at some little distance
was the wood, in its richest beauty. Golden oranges shone among the dark
green leaves, and vines were trained from one stem to another. On the
outskirts of the wood were the dwellings, overshadowed by the oaks and
chestnuts which formed their corner-posts. Plastered with clay, and
rudely thatched, they might have been taken for the huts of savages but
for their superior size, and for certain appearances round them which
are not usual among uncivilized people. A handmill, made of stones, was
placed under cover beside one of the dwellings; a sort of work-bench was
set up under one of the trees, where lay the implements of various
employments which had been going on when the arrival of the waggon had
called every one from his work. The materials for straw-platting were
scattered in the porch, and fishing-nets lay on the bank of the stream
to dry. The whole was canopied over with the bluest of summer skies.
Dark mountains rose behind.

“We are just in time to show you our village before sunset,” said the
captain, observing how the last level rays were glittering on the
stream.

“And is this our home?” said Richard, in quiet astonishment. “Is this
the bare, ruined place I left five months ago? Who has helped you? Your
own hands can never have done all this.”

“Nature,—or He who made nature—has given us the means,” replied the
captain; “and our own hands have done the rest. Well-directed labour is
all we have had to depend on.”

“Wonderful!” cried Richard. “The fields are tilled——”

“By simple individual labour. There can be little combination in tillage
on a small scale where different kinds of work must succeed each other,
instead of being carried on at the same time.”

“These houses and so many utensils——”

“Are the produce of a division of labour as extensive as our resources
would allow.”

“There must have been wise direction as well as industrious toil.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Stone, smiling, “we have been as fortunate in our
unproductive as in our productive labourers.”

“And have you had plenty for all?”

“Abundance; because we have had no more unproductive labourers than we
really wanted, and not a single idle person in the society, except
infants in arms.”

“I don’t see that you want anything,” said Richard, laughing; “I might
have spared my journey, I think.”

“You will not say so,” replied the captain, “when you see how behindhand
we are in some things from a deficiency of labour.”

“Of labour!” cried Richard; “I can help but little there. I bring but
one pair of hands you know.—There are the oxen to be sure.”

“And much besides, full as valuable as either. The waggon will save many
a week’s or month’s work of all our people, if we consider the toil of
conveying goods from place to place with the hands only, or with such
poor contrivances as ours have been. This waggon would have saved a
store of labour if we had had it at harvest time. Many a long day’s work
did it cost us all to carry our corn in bundles, and on hurdles, or in
the few sacks we had. Such a waggon as this would have carried it in a
day, and we should have had all the rest of our labour to spare for
other things.”

“I hope,” said Mr. Stone, “you have brought the materials for a
water-mill. It is a pity such a fall of water as there is yonder should
be wasted.”

“I have brought all but such as we may get out of our wood,” replied
Richard. “It would have been folly to load the waggon with woodwork when
we have so much timber at hand. But I have brought all the necessary
tools.”

“We shall make a prodigious saving of labour there,” said the captain.
“We are obliged to keep three handmills constantly at work; and even so
can scarcely get flour enough for our daily wants. When our mill is up,
it will grind our whole stock in a week, and one man will be enough to
look after it.”

“As I had not room to bring everything,” said Richard, “I have been more
particular about a good supply of tools than about articles of
machinery. I thought we might make machinery with tools more easily than
we could make tools with machinery.”

“Very right. You brought the simple machinery by which we could make the
complicated: for both are machinery and both are tools. Tools are simple
machinery; and machinery is a complicated tool. So you have brought the
means by which we may get together the parts of a forge; and then the
forge will in its turn make and keep in repair our tools. But was the
Governor willing to advance these goods for us?”

“Perfectly; when he heard what a variety of things we hoped to send by
and by in exchange for them. I told him we were honest people, who hoped
to pay for the help we wanted: and when he heard how well we were doing
before we were robbed, he said he would trust us for the debt, for he
thought, for our own sakes, we should keep a better watch henceforth.”

“We must see to that without delay, Richard.”

“Yes, sir; and I have brought arms and powder; and we have made an
arrangement about exchanging. The Governor says it is hard upon our
settlement and others to have to send so far as Cape Town; so he is to
despatch a ship to an appointed place on the coast, only fifty miles
from hence, and there we and all the settlers between this place and the
mountains to the south are to send our fruit, and our corn, and our
hides, and ostrich feathers, and anything else we may have, to be
exchanged for powder, and iron, and any manufactured things that we
cannot get for ourselves. The convenience is so great, that among so
many settlements we can well afford to defray the expense of the little
voyage; and, when I look round me, sir, I have no fear of our not being
able to pay off our debt, if we can but keep thieves at a distance.”

When the waggon had crossed the stream (which was easy in its present
shallow state) everybody was eager to begin to unpack; but the captain
forbade any such proceeding till the morning. It was necessary that
Richard should superintend; and Richard was very tired; so, when the
oxen were taken out, the curious were obliged to content themselves with
peeping and prying under the leather covering. There appeared a tempting
store of packages, but so neatly done up, that nothing could be seen of
them but here and there the blade of a saw, or the edge of a
ploughshare, or the stock of a musket.

Some one asked whether watch should not be kept over their new wealth
during the night.—“No doubt,” the captain replied. “There was little
fear of another attempt from the Bushmen at present; but there could not
be too much care in watching.”

Arnall suggested that the watchers should be furnished with fire-arms,
and offered his own services in that case, as he was accustomed to
handle a musket. This seemed so reasonable, that Richard undertook to
produce two muskets and a small barrel of powder. Arnall was properly
thanked, while one said to another that his love of handling fire-arms
must be very strong to overcome the dislike of night-air and fatigue in
one who was so fond of his ease.

While Richard was busy upon the waggon, Arnall was seen to be talking
very earnestly with him, till Richard laughed aloud, when the gentleman
marched off with a very haughty step.

“What is the matter, Richard?” said the captain.

“Why, sir, Mr. Arnall came to beg me to transgress your orders so far as
just to unpack a razor and soap for him. He says he shall not feel
himself again till he is shaved, and I suppose that is the reason he
skulked behind so when I would have spoken to him at first.”

“He need not be ashamed of his beard,” said the captain, “for we are all
in the same plight. It is just five months since we have had a razor
among us.”

“But the best of it is, sir,” said Richard, “that I have got no razors.
It was that made Mr. Arnall so angry. I am sure I am sorry; but being
shaved myself only once a week, it never came into my mind how much
gentlemen think of being shaved every day.”

“We must forgive you an omission here and there,” said the captain, “if
we find you have had a good memory on the whole.”

“You will please to remember, sir, that I had no list, for want of paper
to make one. All the way as I went, I kept planning and saying over to
myself what I should get: and at last it occurred to me that if I could
not have pen and ink, I might find a slate: and so I did.”

“You picked one up by the road-side, I suppose.”

“Yes, sir; I found a flat piece and a sharp piece, and wrote down
whatever occurred to me that we should want; but I never once thought of
razors. There are scissors enough, however, and Mr. Arnall may clip his
chin, if he can persuade the ladies to lend him a pair.”

While Arnall was examining, and priming, and loading his piece, his
good-humour returned; and as he held up his head and paced backwards and
forwards beside the waggon, he presented a very good example to all who
wished to learn how a sentinel should look. It did not make him angry to
see the little boys imitating him in the morning, till one of them put
his hand to his chin in a way not to be mistaken. It was impossible,
however, to find out whether they were laughing at his beard or at his
wish to be rid of it.

                      ----------------------------


                              CHAPTER IX.

                          SIGNS OF THE TIMES.


It was just such a bright morning as every body had hoped for. The
children, always ready to make a festival, had been stirring early, and
with two or three grown-up playfellows had gone into the wood for green
boughs, of which they stuck up some at the doors of the houses, made a
sort of canopy of others over the precious vehicle which contained their
treasures, and carried a waving grove about the settlement, singing and
tossing their hats. They gave three cheers to the captain when he came
forth to see what was doing; and they would have bestowed the honour of
three times three on Richard, had not his mother appeared, holding up
her finger as a signal for silence. Her son, over-wearied with his
journey, was still unawakened by the bustle before the door, and she was
unwilling that his rest should be disturbed. Eager as these boys and
girls were for the pleasure of the unpacking, they were considerate
enough to leave their hero to his repose, and marched off in silence,
resolved to wait patiently till noon, if need should be, for the
commencement of the grand ceremony of the day.

The gentlemen meanwhile were planning how this ceremony might be best
conducted. It was well worth consideration; for, as they agreed, the
introduction of machinery into a society which had depended on pure
labour was a far more rational occasion of public rejoicing than those
which, in larger communities than theirs, light up candles in the
windows and bonfires in the market-places. In rejoicings for national
victories, there is always much to trouble the spirits of many. Some are
mourning the death of friends, and others grieving over the woes of the
millions who suffer by war; and many feel shame and horror that so
barbarous a custom as war should subsist among those who profess a
religion of peace. But, on the present occasion, the joy of one was the
joy of all; and it was fully justified by the acquisition the society
had made. If some one had discovered a gold mine in the midst of their
dwellings, he would not have conferred such means of wealth as Richard
by his single waggon-load of wood and iron. Labour was that of which
there was the greatest deficiency in the community; and the means of
shortening and easing labour was therefore the most valuable present
which could be conferred. While the gentlemen understood this fully, the
children picked it up after their own manner. One had heard his father
say that if he could but lay his hand on a plough again, he should feel
as much at ease as a prince; for bread itself was hardly worth the
slavery of tillage without tools. Another had seen his mother sigh when
she looked at the tattered garments of her children and remembered that
she had not wherewith to repair the old or make new. Another had
observed the captain cast many an anxious look upon the frail walls and
slight roofs of their dwellings, and had learned, therefore, to dread a
summer tempest or a winter snow. And now the remedies for these evils
and fears had arrived. The fathers might drive the plough and rejoice in
their manly toil: the mothers might ply the needle and sing over their
easy task; and soon the thunder-cloud might burst overhead, or the
frosty winds sweep by, without fear that tender infants would be driven
forth from a tottering house into the storm. It was truly an occasion of
rejoicing; and none were more sensible of this than Richard, as might be
seen by the brightness of his countenance when he at length came out,
refreshed and full of apologies for having kept every body waiting.

The waggon had been drawn into the shade where there was open space
large enough to admit every body to a perfect view of what was going on,
for, the contents being common property, the captain desired that there
should be an equal knowledge among his people of what their riches
consisted of. The old people were seated in a row under the tree; and
the others ranged in a circle, with the exception of Richard and two or
three more, who were engaged in the centre, and Arnall, who, with a look
of prodigious importance, placed himself somewhat in advance of his
companions. He folded his arms and looked on in silence while the larger
articles were being unpacked, displayed, and carried to the place
appointed for them by the captain. But when some smaller packages
appeared, containing the carpenter’s lesser tools, or drugs, or linens
and woollens, or needles and hardware articles, &c., &c., he stepped
forward towards the captain, and proposed that, as the society was now
restored to a state of civilization, he should resume the employment for
which he felt himself most fit, and should take possession of these
articles in order to retail them to customers as before.

“By what right do you propose to take such possession?” asked the
captain, as much amused as he was astonished.

“By right of purchase, like an honest man.” replied Arnall, pulling out
a canvas bag from some corner of his apparel, and displaying a pretty
large amount of gold coin. “I did not presume upon this ground of
superiority to my companions while we had nothing among us to buy or
sell; but now that we are coming out of a state of barbarism, it is time
that we should be resuming our several stations.”

“I wonder you do not perceive, sir,” said the captain, “that a new test
of rank has been introduced by our late circumstances. Our members rank
according to the comparative utility of their labours; and many here
possess a better title than the having saved a bag of their own gold
from the flames. There are some, sir, who, while you were looking after
your gold, snatched infants from destruction, which is a somewhat
greater service to the community. Pray, to whom do you propose to pay
your gold in exchange for these goods?”

“To yourself, as governor.”

“This property is not mine. I am only the trustee in whose hands it is
placed. If you wish to trade with money, it must be in some other
society where money is valuable, which it will not be here for some time
to come.”

Observing that some of the people looked surprised at hearing that money
could be otherwise than valuable, the captain continued,

“Keep your coin, sir, and take care of it, I advise you; for I hope to
see the time when gold and silver will pass from hand to hand; but much
must be done first. We must have more productions before a regular
system of exchange can take place; and that exchange will be of the
productions themselves for some time before we find it convenient to pay
in coin: and before coin can come into common use among us, there must
be more of it than your bag holds, Mr. Arnall.”

“What is to be done then, captain? How am I benefited by the arrival of
these goods?”

“Your labour will be made easier, that is all. Labour is still the
purchase money of every thing here.”

Arnall had no heart to remain any longer. He walked away by himself,
vexed that he had let out the secret of his gold, and sighing for the
gentility of keeping a shop in preference to the drudgery of
hand-labour. Nobody looked after him, and nobody wished for his
money-bag while so many better things were spread before their eyes.

One package, directed to Mr. Stone, drew more tears from the beholders
than had been shed since the first day of their misfortune. The
governor’s chaplain at Cape Town having learned from Richard that every
book in the settlement had been destroyed with other possessions, had
sent a supply of such as he imagined would be most useful in their
circumstances. On the first day of the week the people had assembled
regularly for worship, when Mr. Stone, in addition to his addresses, had
recited such portions of the Scriptures as he could sufficiently
remember to convey the sense. It was not to be expected that his flock
in general should know and remember as much of the sacred books as
himself; but many an one was surprised and humbled to find how imperfect
and how unconnected were his own notions of the sense and design of even
the most important parts of the sacred volume. Finding amidst their
distresses the need of that which they had not hitherto sufficiently
prized, and having in Mr. Stone a friend ever ready to help them to what
they wanted, when, with a Bible at hand, they might, perhaps, have put
off the inquiry to a future day, it strangely happened that some learned
more of what was in the Bible when there was not a copy within many
miles, than they had done when there was one in every family. They were
much assisted by Richard’s old mother, whose memory was better stored
with some parts of Scripture than even Mr. Stone’s. When she found her
sight beginning to fail, she applied herself to learn that which she
could never more read; and, by the help of her good son, she
accomplished her wish. During his absence, it had been a frequent custom
for groups to gather round the aged woman in the porch, when the toils
of the day were done, to listen to a psalm, or a parable, or a
discourse, which would send them home to their rest full of calm and
serious thought. They were thus prepared to value the precious gift
which they received from the chaplain; viz. several copies of the whole
Bible, many more of the Testament, and some other works of a kind likely
to turn to the best account the impressions which late events could not
but have made upon them.

This gentleman had been thoughtful enough also to send a file of
newspapers, just arrived from England. They were by this time of old
date; but never did the most eager politician, the most anxious
speculator, open his wet newspaper at a London breakfast-table so
impatiently as the dullest and slowest of readers in our settlement
devoured every paragraph from the newest and most important to the very
advertisements of a year and a half before. Every thing was presently
forgotten for these papers; the accustomed labour, the unusual festival,
the new riches, all were nothing in comparison of news from England.
They even forgot their good manners towards Mr. Stone, peeping over his
shoulders and pressing upon him while he glanced over the intelligence
of the latest date. He was able to make allowance for their eagerness,
and with a good-natured smile gave up the sheet he held, and invited his
wife to walk with him, judging that his people might communicate more
freely, and enjoy their new pleasure with less restraint, in his
absence.

He had seen enough to fill his mind with thoughts of his own land; but
in a little while his interest returned to the society in which his lot
was cast, and he encouraged in his companion and himself the most
cheering hopes of the improvement of the social condition of all. He
directed her attention to the particular circumstances on which he
founded his hopes.

“See, my dear,” said he. “On that fall of the stream will be our mill;
in that nook our saw-pit; behind that inclosure our forge. The stables
for the bullocks are to be built yonder. I began to be afraid the sheep
and cows would arrive from the mountains before we had produce to give
in exchange for them, or a winter fold to secure them in: but there is
no saying how rapidly we may get forward now we have so many means of
saving our labour.”

“That reminds me,” said Mrs. Stone, “of what I was wishing to ask you. I
see clearly, and I suppose the most ignorant person in the settlement
sees, how useful machinery is in a case like ours, where the great
object is to save labour. But are those in the wrong who dislike the
extensive use of machinery in countries, such as England at the present
day, where the great object is to find employment for labour?”

“Clearly wrong, in my opinion,” replied her husband: “because, till the
human race reaches its highest point of attainment, there must be always
something more to do; and the more power is set at liberty to do it, the
better. Till all the arts and sciences are exhausted, till Nature has
furnished the last of her resources, and man found the limit of his
means of making use of them, the greatest possible supply of human
labour is wanted, and it is our duty to make the utmost possible saving
of it.”

“I remember,” said his wife, “what the captain said about labour being a
power of which man is the machine; and I see how it must be for man’s
advantage to economise this power to the utmost. But I cannot reconcile
this with the evils caused by the introduction of machinery where labour
is abundant.”

“I do not deny the evil,” replied her husband: “but I see that the
distress is temporary and partial, while the advantage is lasting and
universal. You have heard of the dismay of those who got their living by
copying manuscripts, when the art of printing was introduced?”

“Yes; and that many thousands now are maintained by printing to one who
used to copy for bread. The case is the same with cotton-spinning, I
know. Where one was employed to spin by hand, hundreds are now
maintained by spinning with machinery; and thousands of times as much
work is done.”

“Such a result in any one case, my dear, shows that the principle is a
good one; and if, in any other case, it appears not to be good, we may
be pretty sure of finding that the blame lies,—not with the
principle,—but with some check or other which interferes with it. Such
checks are imposed by the bad policy of some governments, and by the
want of union between the different parts of society. While the race at
large has still so many wants and wishes ungratified, it ought to be an
easy thing for any quantity of labour which is turned away from one kind
of work to find employment in another. That it is not easy, is the fault
of the constitution of society, and we should be far from remedying the
evil by repressing the principle and restricting the power of labour.”

“So you think that if labour had its free course, all over the world,
machinery might be extended to the utmost perfection without doing any
thing but good to the whole of the race?”

“I do.—And I see yet further evil in restricting the use of machinery in
any one country;—that it invariably increases the amount of distress on
the very spot. Since no power on earth can stop the improvement of
machinery in the whole world at once, it does nothing but mischief to
stop it in any one place. Wherever it is done, that place is thrown back
in the race of competition, and will soon suffer under a failure of
demand for its productions and manufactures; because, by the aid of
machinery, they can be furnished more cheaply elsewhere.”

“Then the only thing to be done is to open as many channels to industry
as possible, and to remove all obstructions to its free course?”

“Just so.—Those in power should do this by pursuing the ‘letting-alone’
course of policy; and private individuals like you and me, my dear, can
do no more than form right opinions, and when we are sure of them,
spread them. We can only influence by forming a fraction of that mighty
amount of power,—Public Opinion.”

“It will be long before we shall be wanted as advocates of the use of
machinery in this place,” replied Mrs. Stone. “I can scarcely imagine
that in our lifetime there will be any complaints of too great an
abundance of productive power.”

“When we can afford it, my dear, perhaps we may indulge ourselves with a
visit to England, and then we can judge for ourselves whether it has
been a good thing or not for our Yorkshire friends and neighbours that
improved machinery has been introduced there. If they have any trade at
all, it is owing to this cause, for they could never have supported a
competition with other manufacturing places by any means but this.”

“Your father seems well enough satisfied with his trade,” said Mrs.
Stone. “He and his people have suffered occasionally, as all do, from a
temporary glut in the market; but he has witnessed, through a long life,
a gradual and steady extension of trade with the gradual introduction
and improvement of machinery. I only wish that our settlement may have
the same experience on the small scale which will suit our numbers.

“Perhaps,” said her husband, “if we should live to see our
grand-children grow up in this place, we may be able to give them a
lesson out of our experience. I can fancy you, a venerable grandmother,
sitting at a window of a handsome stone house on yonder slope, and
saying to a grandchild,—

“‘I well remember cutting up our meat with stones, and cooking it in a
hole in the ground on the very spot where those tanpits are in use,
preparing leather enough to maintain a hundred people by its sale.
There, where the threshing machines turn out corn on which thousands are
to feed, stood our labourers with their flails, toiling to supply our
little band with a scanty provision. There, where that range of mills is
preparing dye-woods to be sent east and west, were hands which could ill
be spared once employed in chopping fuel for our nightly fires; and,
beyond, where the straw-platting and basket manufactory employs a
hundred and fifty of our population, sat little Betsy on the grass,
trying to make a frame-work of twigs. And, on that side, where the
brick-grounds and potteries extend over three acres, did our first
potter attempt his first basin, unsteady and crooked as it was, for want
of the machinery which now enables us to make such ware as we may well
be proud of. There is now not a house within a hundred miles that has
not some of our blue and white tea-ware, or a dinner service of our
yellow ware, or, at least, some of our brown basins.’”

“Some of our grand-children will surely be potters, if you be a true
prophet,” said Mrs. Stone, laughing.

“Very likely. And if they are, I hope they will be always on the watch
to introduce every mechanical improvement into their business, as a duty
to society and to themselves.”

Just then Kate was seen approaching. With many blushes, she asked
permission to speak with Mrs. Stone in private. Mr. Stone immediately
walked away, when Kate explained that her lover was gone to consult the
captain about his matrimonial plans, and that she wished to know whether
Mrs. Stone saw any impropriety in their marrying while the settlement
was in its present state. They did not mention it, she said, while every
thing was in a precarious condition, and nobody knew whether they should
remove or stay; but now that help had arrived, and there was a general
disposition to remain, her lover urged her to delay no longer, and
assured her that his work would be worth all the more to the society for
the help she could give him, as well as for the domestic comfort he
should enjoy.

Mrs. Stone was quite of Robertson’s opinion. As long as the young people
were sure of being able to provide for themselves so as to be no burden
to the society, nobody had any right to object to their marrying. In
England, at present, this was too often not the case: but in their
infant settlement, where there was more than work enough for every body,
she could see no possible objection to the parties pleasing themselves.
She offered to ask Mr. Stone’s opinion, for Kate’s further satisfaction,
though she knew very well what it would be.—Mr. Stone was within
hearing, and when the case was put to him, smiled, and said that he
should be happy to marry them on any day they might appoint. It was well
for the young people that that rule of the former Dutch government at
the Cape was given up, which obliged every body to go to Cape Town to be
married. It would have been a wearisome and expensive journey, and have
caused a great waste of time and much inconvenience to all concerned.

As it was, the affair was soon settled. The captain not only gave his
approbation, but insisted that a cottage should be built for Robertson
before the foundations of his own house were laid. Every body showed the
same good will, so that the young couple enjoyed the first-fruits of all
the mechanical labours of the settlement, taking care to repay them by
their own exertions. Harrison’s first bricks went to build their walls,
and the first pottery that came off his wheel graced their shelves.
Links and Richard (who had become a carpenter) furnished Robertson with
a complete set of farming tools, and the labourers employed their spare
hours in repairing his fences and laying out a pretty garden, which
Betsy and her young companions stocked with the gay flowers and rich
fruits which abounded in the neighbourhood. Mr. Prest furnished hides,
which were tanned by Fulton into a set of chair-bottoms and some
articles of bedding. Mr. Arnall and Kate’s brother-in-law, Hill,
ornamented the best room with some stuffed birds of rich plumage, and a
collection of the gay insects of that country. Kate was almost ashamed
of possessing ornamental luxuries, whilst so many comforts were wanting
to those who, she said, deserved better than herself; but Mr. Stone told
her that it ought to be gratifying to all lovers of the public good to
witness tokens of pure tastes as well as of good will. His present was a
range of beehives, both the stand and the hives being of neat
workmanship, and placed just above a bed of sweet-smelling herbs,
arranged and stocked by his wife. Kate determined in her own mind that
her first bottle of mead should be sent to the parsonage before the
return of her wedding-day.

The first week-day holiday in the settlement was on the occasion of
Robertson’s marriage,—a joyful day for all who were disposed to look
round and see what, under the protection of Providence, had been
effected, and what more was in prospect for the good of this united
little community.

“Let us still be united, let us still be industrious,” said the good
captain to one and another; “let us, as one man, discountenance crime,
if such a scourge should appear,—let us be tolerant of mere folly, and
honour wisdom and reverence virtue, and we shall be sure of enjoying all
the happiness a benignant Providence thinks good for us. Let us try
whether it be not true of societies as well as of individuals, that
Providence places their best happiness within their own reach.”

                                THE END.

            London · Printed by W. CLOWES, Stamford-street.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

                                  THE
                          HILL AND THE VALLEY.

                            =A Tale.=

                                   BY

                           HARRIET MARTINEAU.

                           _FOURTH EDITION._

                                LONDON:
                   CHARLES FOX, 67, PATERNOSTER-ROW.

                                 1833.

                               CONTENTS.


     Chap.                                                     Page
        1.                                 Every Man his Whim  2001
        2.                            Much may come of Little  2017
        3.                                 The harm of a Whim  2030
        4.                                         Prosperity  2049
        5.                              How to use Prosperity  2070
        6.                                          Disasters  2084
        7.                                        Discontents  2103
        8.                                             Uproar  2117
        9.                                    All quiet again  2133


                                  THE
                          HILL AND THE VALLEY.




                               CHAPTER I.

                          EVERY MAN HIS WHIM.

                             --------------


Among the hills, in a wild district of South Wales, stood a dwelling,
known to few and avoided by most of those whose curiosity had led them
to inquire concerning the inmates. This cottage was too humble in its
appearance to attract frequent notice, and there was so much difficulty
in reaching it, that no call but that of business was likely to bring
any stranger to its threshold. A narrow path led up the hills to the
foot of a steep flight of steps, made of rude stones, placed not very
securely. At the top of a slippery bank above these steps was a gate,
too high to be easily climbed, and too well tethered to be quickly
opened. When one or the other difficulty, however, was overcome, the
path lay direct to the porch of the cottage, on the bench of which lay
sometimes a newspaper or a tobacco-pipe, and sometimes a ricketty
work-basket, full of undarned stockings, according as the master or
mistress of the cottage had been sitting there to enjoy the air. No
place could be more retired than this porch, for it was nearly
surrounded by garden and orchard ground, and was screened by a thick
hedge of elder on the side where the gate was placed.

The master of this abode was John Armstrong, a hale man of seventy-nine.
Its mistress was Margaret Blake, his housekeeper, a middle-aged woman,
but as old-fashioned in her habits and appearance as her venerable
companion. They were both very strange people in the eyes of everybody
who knew them, being not only unsociable with strangers, but preserving,
as it appeared, an almost perpetual silence toward each other. They
never sat in the same room, except at meal-times. Old Armstrong avoided
the porch unless Margaret was busy within; and she looked out to see
that he was gardening, before she brought her work-basket out into the
sunshine. It was reported by the only person who had the opportunity by
invitation of witnessing their domestic habits, that Armstrong always
read the newspaper at breakfast, mused at dinner-time, and studied the
Farmer’s Journal at supper: so that Margaret did not forget her own
language was a wonder to everybody; especially as it was known that she
had parted with her parrot because Armstrong had as great a dislike to
tame birds as to dogs and cats. There was music enough, however, to
break the silence which Margaret’s own voice seldom disturbed. The
little orchard was full of singing-birds, whose notes were far
pleasanter than those of any chattering parrot. Armstrong played the
flute too; and it whiled away the time to hear him play airs that she
was taught to sing when a child on her mother’s knee. Then there were
other sounds as agreeable as music—the clinking of the chain when her
master was letting down his bucket into the well; and the creaking of
the roller on the smooth grass, and the whetting of the scythe in the
early morning. Now and then, too, Margaret had to go to the next town
for groceries and other things which were wanted; and then it was
necessary that she should speak and that people should speak to her; and
this practice, though it came very seldom, was enough to prevent her
growing dumb.

She generally went twice a year to the town, which was four miles off.
By her master’s desire, she kept so large a stock of all necessaries by
her, that there was no occasion to go oftener. He would not allow the
name of “necessary” to whatever would not keep so long as six months. As
to their food—he had the baking, and churning, and the rearing and
killing of fowls, done at home, that no baker or marketman need come
near his dwelling. His garden supplied his table, except that he
regularly brought home a joint of meat after morning service on Sundays,
the meat having been left for him at the house of an acquaintance on the
Saturday. He sometimes went out fishing, and thus varied his fare quite
enough for his own satisfaction: for he used to declare to a friend whom
he saw occasionally, that he knew not what a prince could have better
than good milk in the morning, potatoes, artichokes, peas and cabbages,
with sometimes fish, flesh, or fowl for dinner, and a well-seasoned
basin of gruel at night.

He was as easily satisfied as to clothing. The same blue coat with its
large yellow buttons, the same leather breeches, mottled stockings,
shoe-buckles, and cambric stock, had lasted him for many years, for he
only wore them on Sundays; and it was quite enough for Margaret to buy
his linen and the materials for his labourer’s frock when she purchased
her own stuff petticoat in the fall of the year, and laid in her stock
of winter oil. He would not even have more frequent intercourse with the
shoemaker, though he wore many shoes. He sent his worn shoes to town
twice a year, and new ones were always ready to be sent back by the same
messenger.

When people live so retired as Armstrong and his housekeeper, it is
always supposed that they have some reason for dreading intercourse with
their neighbours. It was believed, in the present case, that Armstrong
was a miser, and that he kept a quantity of gold by him, of which he was
afraid of any body getting a sight. It was prophesied, many a time, that
he and Margaret would be found some day with their throats cut for the
sake of this wealth. This was partly reasonable and partly false.
Armstrong did keep money by him, and it was therefore likely that he
would be robbed, if not murdered, living in so defenceless a way as his
appeared to be. But he was no miser. He had been in trade in early life,
and had lost money through the knavery of his partner. He immediately
took a disgust to business, turned all he had into hard gold, bought
this lone cottage and two acres of ground, and laid by two hundred
guineas in a chest which he kept under his bed. Not all the reasonings
of his friends about the uselessness of cash thus locked up, not all the
hints that his life was not safe, not all the petitions of his only
daughter that her husband might be allowed the use of the cash at a fair
rate of interest, could induce him to unlock his chest. He declared that
he would be cozened out of no more money; that he was resolved to leave
his child two hundred guineas, and would not put it into the power even
of her husband to lessen the sum; and as for thieves, he knew how to
fire a pistol as well as any man, and could undertake to defend himself
and Margaret and the cash-chest against more thieves than were likely to
attack him. Of course, this was taken to be avarice; but he was by no
means so careful in his expenditure as he might have been: he allowed
two-thirds of his fruit and vegetables to rot, rather than sell them or
let off any of his land; and what was more, he paid a boy for bringing a
newspaper every morning as far as the foot of the steps, where he went
to fetch it as soon as the lad had turned his back. No miser would have
done this. A small yearly income arose from some commercial concern
which was charged with an annuity to him. If any of this remained after
the expenses of repairs, clothing, &c., were defrayed, he gave it all
away the next Sunday to the poor whom he met in his way to the place of
worship, except a few shillings which he put into Margaret’s hands to
answer any sudden occasion.

One fine summer morning Armstrong went to his arbour at the bottom of
the garden to read the newspaper, preferring the smell of the
honeysuckles to the heat of the porch, where the sun was shining in. He
had left Margaret busy within doors, as usual at that time of day; and
was surprised, when he had done reading and went in for his
fishing-tackle, to find her dressed in her best, with her mob-cap and
beaver, such as the Welsh women wear, of the shape of a man’s hat. She
was putting a clean cloth into the basket which hung on her arm, and
preparing to set out.

“Why, Peg, is this the first of the month?”

“What has come to you, John Armstrong, not to know that?” said Margaret,
looking alarmed for her master’s senses. “That with the almanack hanging
there, and the newspaper in your hand, you should not know that it is
the first of the month!”

“I’ve mistaken a day, and I am sorry for it, for I had set my mind on
fishing to-day. It is too hot for work, and just the day for good luck
beside the pool yonder. You will have a cooler day and be more fit for
walking to-morrow, Peg. Suppose you let me go fishing to-day?”

Margaret stared more than ever.

“Did I ever hear such a thing before?” cried she: “I that have never
missed the first of the month since I kept your house, John Armstrong!
And what will the people in the town think? I shall have them up here to
see whether we are murdered; for they will say nothing else would keep
me at home on the first of this month. And me to have to tell them that
it is all because you have a fancy to go a fishing! And I have never
been used to be dressed this way for nothing; but it must be as you
please, John Armstrong.”

Margaret stopped to take breath; for she had not made so long a speech
since she was in the town six months before. On her master’s muttering
something about losing such a season for a good bite, she made the
exertion, however, to continue.

“If you must fish to-day, you need not keep me at home. You can lock the
door and put the key in yon corner of the porch; and then, if I come
back first, I shall know where to find it. It was my grandmother taught
me that way, when she went out and I did not want to be left behind; for
I was not fond of being lonesome then. Says she, ‘Stay at home as your
grandfather bids you, like a good girl: but if you must go out, be sure
you leave the key in the thatch.’ And so I did often and often, till
grandfather came home one day and found out my trick, and then——”

“Ay, Peg; somebody will find out our trick too; and if you come back and
find the chest gone, what will you say then? Off with you! but you will
have no fish when you come back, that’s all.”

Margaret smiled and shook her head and departed.

When she was out of sight, the old man felt restless and uncomfortable.
He was not accustomed to be crossed and put out of his way, and he
always accomplished, every day, exactly what he planned before
breakfast. He had never given up an intention of fishing before. He
wandered about the cottage. The beds were made, and everything was left
in such order that he could see nothing to find fault with, which would
have been a great relief. He sauntered about the garden, and cut off
some faded flowers, and tied up a few more, and wished it was evening,
that he might water such as looked drooping. He wiped his brows and said
to himself again that it was too hot to work. He got his telescope, and
looked seaward; but a haze hung on the horizon, and he could discern no
vessels. After a yawn, and a sudden thought that he could not dine for
two hours later than usual on account of Margaret’s absence, he began to
think of taking her advice and going to fish after all. He locked the
door, put the key into the hiding-place in the porch, walked round the
cottage to see that the windows were fast, tethered the gate doubly, and
marched off with his fishing-tackle. He turned to look back two or three
times; but no one was in sight the whole length of the little valley.
There was no sound of horse or carriage on the road below; and the
stream looked so clear and cool as it splashed among the pebbles, that
he was tempted to hasten on towards the pool above, where there was
shade and an abundance of fish. He thought no more of the heat now that
he had let himself have his own way; and proceeded whistling at a pace
which would have done credit to a man of half his years. Once more he
turned—at the top of the hill which was now to hide his dwelling from
him—and fixing his telescope, saw to his great satisfaction that all was
quiet; for the poultry were picking their food in a way which they would
not have done if a footstep had been within hearing.

The shadows were lying dark and cool upon the water; the trout were
unusually ready to be caught, and Armstrong had time for a comfortable
nap after he had caught the number he had fixed upon beforehand as good
sport. When he awoke, he resolved to hasten home that he might arrive
before Margaret and surprise her with a dish of trout, while she
supposed he had been at home all the morning. From the top of the hill
he looked again through his telescope, and saw a sight which made his
limbs tremble under him. The fowls were scudding about the yard in
terror of a dog which was pursuing them; which dog was called off by a
man who was making the circuit of the house, looking in at the windows
and trying at the door. Armstrong threw down all that he was carrying,
put his hands to his mouth and hallooed with all his might. But the
attempt was absurd. In the stillest midnight, no human voice could have
been heard from such a distance. Armstrong was soon sensible of this,
and cursing himself for all the follies he had been guilty of that day,
he snatched up his goods and ran down the steep path as fast as his old
legs would carry him. He caught a glimpse of the man and the dog
leisurely descending the steps, but when he arrived there himself, all
was as vacant as when he departed. As he stood hesitating whether to
follow the enemy, or go home and see what mischief was done, Margaret
appeared below. While she toiled up the steps, her master reproached her
bitterly with her morning’s advice, and said that if his money was gone
he should lay the loss to her charge. In the midst of her terrors,
Margaret could not help observing that it was rather hard to have one’s
advice laughed at, and then to be blamed for the consequences of
following it. She thought her master should either not have laughed at
her, or not have changed his mind; and then she should not have wasted
her money in buying him fish that he did not want. Armstrong was duly
ashamed when he saw how his housekeeper had tried to console him for
being left at home by bringing a dainty for his dinner. He helped her to
open the gate, her trembling hands being unable to untwist the rope, and
carried her heavy basket into the porch. The key was safe in its
hiding-place, as was the precious chest; and all within doors was in
perfect order. No fowls were missing; no flower-beds were trampled; but
it was certain that the newspaper had been moved from one bench to the
other of the arbour.

“How you flurry yourself for nothing!” said the housekeeper. “I dare say
it was nobody but Mr. Hollins come to play the flute with you.”

“He always comes in the evening; and besides he has no dog.”

“He is a likely man to read the newspaper, however, and I do not know
anybody else that would sit here and wait for you, as some one seems to
have done. Suppose it was your son-in-law come to ask for the money
again?”

“He would not have gone away without his errand,” answered the old man
with a sour smile; “and besides, you would have met him.”

“That puts me in mind, John Armstrong, I certainly saw a gentleman in
the wood just down below, and I remember he whistled to his dog that was
rustling among the bushes. A smart, pleasant-looking gentleman he was
too; and when I turned to remark him again, he seemed to be watching
where I was going.”

“A gentleman! Well, he is the first that ever came here to see me,
except Hollins. But now, Peg, what do you mean by a gentleman?”

“A gentleman? Why, you always know a gentleman, do not you? A gentleman
looks like a man—like a person—like a gentleman.”

“No doubt,” said Armstrong laughing. “But tell me now, would you call me
a gentleman?”

“Why, in as far as you are beholden to no one for your living——”

“No, no, I do not mean that. Look at me and say if I look like a
gentleman.”

Margaret hesitated while she said that she did not think any gentleman
commonly wore frocks of that sort; but that on Sundays, when she brushed
his coat before he went to the town, she always thought he looked very
genteel: but that this gentleman was dressed rather differently.

“Differently enough, I dare say,” said Armstrong. “I am sure I hope my
best suit will last my time; for there is not a shop within twenty miles
that would furnish me with such a waistcoat-piece as I should choose to
wear; and I like to button my coat with buttons that one can take hold
of, instead of such farthing-pieces as your Birmingham folks make now.”

“It is a pity,” said Margaret as she moved towards the cottage, “that
the gentleman did not stay to take a bit of fish, for we have more than
we can eat while it is good.”

For a month afterwards, Margaret’s prevailing idea was a superfluity of
fish. She had great pleasure in making an acceptable present; but she
could not bear to throw away money.

So much breath had been spent this day, that the inhabitants of the
cottage felt quite weary before night, and scarcely opened their lips
for many days, during which there was no further alarm.

One morning early, however, the sound of wheels was heard in the road
below—a rare sound; for though the road was good and had formerly been
much frequented when there were iron-works a few miles farther on, it
was now seldom used but by a solitary traveller. The astonishment of
Armstrong and his housekeeper was great to observe that carts laden with
materials for building, and attended by a number of workmen, were
passing by, and presently stopped at a level place at the foot of a hill
full in sight of Armstrong’s dwelling. He now, for the first time,
perceived that the ground was marked out by stakes driven in at certain
distances. Armstrong brought his basin of milk out of doors that he
might watch what was doing; and the whole day was one of idleness and
lamentation; for it was very evident, from the way that the labourers
set to business, that an iron-work was about to be established where the
wild heath and the green woods had flourished till now.

The next day made all clear. As the old man was drawing water for his
plants at sunset, two gentlemen approached the gate. As one of them was
Mr. Hollins, Armstrong advanced to welcome them.

“I have not brought my flute,” said Mr. Hollins, “for I am come on quite
a new errand this evening—to introduce to you a future neighbour, Mr.
Wallace, who wishes for the pleasure of your acquaintance.”

Mr. Wallace, the same whom Margaret had seen in the wood, explained that
he was a partner in the new iron-work, and that as his business would
lead him to be every day within a stone’s cast of Armstrong’s dwelling,
though he was at present inhabiting a house a little way off, he wished
to be on a neighbourly footing at once, and had therefore called the
week before, and was sorry to find the house shut up.

“I did not believe him at first,” said Mr. Hollins, “when he told me
that he read the newspaper for an hour in your arbour, in the hope of
somebody appearing. I never knew you and Mrs. Blake both absent at once.
How happened it?”

When the story was told, Mr. Wallace praised the garden and the
situation of the dwelling to the heart’s content of the owner, who was
always made eloquent by any allusions to his singular mode of life.

“Sir,” said he, “this plot of ground has produced to me something more
valuable than ever grew out of a garden soil. It has given me health,
sir. My own hands have dug and planted and gathered, and see the fruits
of my labour! Here I am, at seventy-nine, as strong as at forty. Not a
grain of any drug have I swallowed since I came here; not a night’s rest
have I lost; not a want have I felt: for I pride myself on having few
wants which my own hands cannot satisfy. I find no fault with other
men’s ways while they leave me mine. Let them choke one another up in
towns if they choose, and stake their money, and lose their peace in
trade. I did so once, and therefore I do not wonder that others try the
experiment; but I soon had enough of it. I am thankful that I found a
resting-place so early as I did.”

“You are very right, sir,” replied Mr. Wallace, “to judge for yourself
only; for while men have different tempers and are placed in different
circumstances, they cannot all find happiness in the same way. Even
supposing every man possessed of the means of purchasing such an abode
as this, your way of life would not suit persons of social dispositions,
or those who wish to rise in the world, or those who have families to
educate and provide for. I am glad to see you enjoy life; and I am glad
that you allow others to enjoy it in a different way.”

“As long as they let me alone, I said, sir. I own I cannot look with any
pleasure on what you are doing below; and I never shall, sir. It is very
hard that we tenants of the wilderness cannot be left in peace. The
birds will be driven from yonder wood, the fishes will be poisoned in
the streams, and where my eye has rested with pleasure on the purple
heath, I shall see brick walls and a column of smoke. I call this very
hard; and though I mean no offence to you, sir, personally, I must say I
wish you had carried your schemes anywhere else.”

“I am sorry our undertaking is so offensive to you,” said Mr. Wallace:
“but I trust, when you see some hundreds of human beings thriving where
there are now only woodcocks and trout, you will be reconciled to the
change.”

“Never, sir, never. Let your gangs of labourers go where there is no
beauty to be spoiled and no peaceable inhabitants to be injured. There
is space enough in the wide world where they will be welcome.”

Mr. Hollins touched the arm of the stranger as a hint to vex the old man
no further by opposition. Mr. Wallace therefore changed the course of
conversation, and soon won the regard of his host by admiring his
flowers and shrubs, and remarking on the fine promise of fruit, all
which he could do with perfect sincerity. When he went away, Armstrong
invited him to come whenever he liked, if—and here he sighed—he should
remain in the neighbourhood.

“What do you think of my old friend?” asked Mr. Hollins, as he descended
the hill with his companion.

“It gives one pleasure to see so fine an old man, and there are few who
enjoy life so much at his age: but it would not do to have many fall in
love with his way of living.”

“O no,” replied Mr. Hollins: “it is very well for one here and there who
can afford it to indulge his own fancy as to his mode of life: but I do
not know what the world would come to if our young men did no more for
society than Armstrong. He takes up more room to much less purpose than
could be afforded to people in general. I really grudge the quantity of
food I see rotting in his garden every year; and I am sure if he was
aware how many thousands are in want of it, he would give up his peace
and quiet for the sake of sharing it among them.”

“It would also be a great misfortune to any but so old a man to be cut
off from all the advantages of society. The young would be ignorant and
the aged prejudiced in such a state.”

“He is prejudiced,” said Mr. Hollins, “as you perceive. But we must make
allowance for him.”

“I can do more than make allowance,” replied his friend. “I sincerely
admire the activity and cheerfulness which are so unlike the temper we
often meet with at so advanced an age. But while we account for your
friend’s prejudices by the circumstances of his life, it is no less true
that men are not living in the right way who live to themselves alone.”

                      ----------------------------


                              CHAPTER II.

                        MUCH MAY COME OF LITTLE.


Under the active management of Mr. Wallace, the establishment of the
iron-work proceeded rapidly. It was set on foot on rather a small scale
at first, there being but one furnace erected. There was a house built
for Mr. Wallace and a great many dwellings for the labourers, so that
the place presently bore the appearance of a village. It was reported
that Mr. Wallace would be married before long, and bring his lady to his
new house; and it was observed that if any of the other partners should
come to reside, the place would be a thriving and pleasant one to live
in. Though old Armstrong groaned at the mention of every new inhabitant,
everybody else thought it would be an advantage to have as many people
settled there as could be provided with employment.

There were several partners in this concern, though their names did not
all appear in the firm. Mr. Leslie, the richest of them, lived in London
and was a Member of Parliament. He advanced a great deal of money to
carry on the works, but took no trouble in the business, besides signing
his name to papers sometimes, and receiving his large profits when the
accounts were made up. Mr. Cole was also rich. He held about one-third
of the whole concern; and was far more interested in the proceedings
than Mr. Leslie. He came now and then to see what was doing, found fault
with everything, contradicted Mr. Wallace’s orders, and when he had done
all he could to put everybody out, went away, promising to repeat his
visit by and by, and if he was better satisfied, to send his son to
learn business and qualify himself to take a share in time. Mr. Bernard,
the third partner, had sons whom he wished to be instructed in the
management of an iron-work, and he resolved to settle himself and his
whole family on the spot, and to be an acting partner. Mr. Wallace was
very glad of this; for he was young and had not had much experience of
business, and felt the responsibility of his present situation very
great. He had a high opinion of Mr. Bernard in every way, and hoped that
if his own zeal and industry were supported by the talent and experience
of his partner, the concern would prosper. He was sorry that some time
must elapse before the Bernard family could come; but this afforded the
better opportunity for getting everything into order before their
arrival.

Mr. Wallace was possessed of less property than any of his partners; but
he held a good share of the concern in consideration of his devoting his
whole time and exertions to business. His great-grandfather had begun
the world without a shilling. He was a labourer, and by his skill and
industry he managed to earn rather more than was sufficient to feed and
clothe his family of four children. He thought within himself whether he
should lay by the surplus to set his young people forward in the same
way of life with himself, or whether he should give it them in the shape
of such an education as he could procure for them. He was too sensible a
man to think of spending money in indulgences for himself or them, for
no better reason than that he had it by him. He chose the wisest way: he
put out at interest a sum sufficient to secure him against want in case
of sickness or old age, and employed the rest in giving his children a
good plain education, which fitted them for a somewhat higher occupation
than his own. His eldest son was first apprentice and then shopman to a
linen-draper, and was at last made a partner, and left a little capital
to his son, our Mr. Wallace’s father, who stocked a shop and rose in the
world so as to be able to leave his son a few thousand pounds, which he
embarked, as we have seen, in an iron-work which promised large profits.

Mr. Wallace never forgot how his little fortune had come to him. He was
accustomed to say to his friend Mr. Bernard, that it arose out of labour
and grew by means of saving; and that if it was henceforth to increase,
it must be in the same way: so he was not sparing of his labour, and was
careful to spend less than his income that his capital might grow.

When he came to establish the iron-work, he did not bring all his own
capital or that of his partners in the form of money. Their capital was
divided into three parts—the implements of labour, the materials on
which labour was to be employed, and the subsistence of the labourers;
or—which is the same thing—the money which would enable the labourers to
purchase their subsistence. In the first division were comprehended the
blast-furnace, the refineries, the forge, and mill, with all their
machinery, and the tools of the labourers. All these may be termed
instruments of labour. In the second division were reckoned the iron
ore, the coal and limestone, which were purchased with the estate. In
the third division were included the wages of the work-people. This
division of the capital would have remained unaltered whether the people
had been paid for their labour in bread and clothes and habitations, or
in wages which enabled them to purchase these necessaries. It was merely
as a matter of convenience to both parties, that the wages were paid in
money; and indeed, in some cases, the men preferred having a cottage and
less wages, to more wages and no dwelling. However this matter was
settled, Mr. Wallace always considered that his capital consisted of the
three parts,—implements of labour, the materials on which labour is
employed, and the subsistence of labourers. Capital may exist in one
only of these forms, or in two, or, as we have seen, in three; but it
cannot exist in any form which does not belong to one of these three
divisions.

It gave Mr. Wallace great pleasure to go round the works and see how the
employment of this capital afforded subsistence to nearly three hundred
people, and to remember that the productions of their labour would
promote the comfort and convenience of many hundreds or thousands more
in the distant places to which the iron of this district was carried. He
made this remark one day to his friend Mr. Hollins, when he was taking
him round the works and pointing out what progress had been made since
his last visit. “It is indeed rather better employed than if it were
locked up in a chest,” said Mr. Hollins. “I wish we could persuade our
old friend on the hill to invest his two hundred guineas in your
concern. His daughter would be very glad of the proceeds; you would be
glad of the increase of capital; more iron would be prepared for the use
of society, and more labourers provided for here.”

“Two hundred guineas would certainly go some little way towards
procuring all these advantages, and the least of them would be
preferable to letting the guineas lie by as useless as so many pebbles.
Not one of all the owners of capital round us would be guilty of such a
waste of the resources by which society must live.”

“And, pray, how many capitalists do you reckon beside yourself?” said a
voice near.

The gentleman turned and saw a strange-looking figure standing just
behind them, whom Mr. Wallace remembered to have seen repeatedly, within
a few days. He was a strong, hearty-looking man of about thirty, with a
cheerful countenance, but a most destitute appearance. His clothes hung
in tatters about him; he had neither hat, shoes, nor stockings. He had
lingered about the place for some time; now seating himself on the hills
near and watching the labourers for hours, and then coming down to talk
with them till sent away by the overlooker.

“Pray who may you be, friend?” asked Mr. Wallace.

“If it suits you to call me Paul, that name will do as well as another,”
said the man. “And if you want to know my profession, I will tell you
that I am just about making my choice; and if you further inquire what
is my business here, I answer that I am come to suit myself.”

“Indeed! you seem to make very sure of suiting me,” said Mr. Wallace.
“But I would have you know we allow no idlers on our premises.”

“Show me the hardest labourer in your works, and I will engage to do
more than he.”

“In which department.?”

“Why, it would be bad policy to own oneself ignorant of all; so I came
down this morning to find out which sort of labour is best paid; and to
that I will swear myself equal. But I think I must begin humbly; so,
suppose I take a pick and work at the tunnel? I will tell you to-morrow
how my new way of life suits me. So good morning.”

“Stop, Sir. Let us hear a little of your old way of life, if you please.
I should like to know where you picked up so much assurance. I thought
you were a beggar and not a labourer. There is no difficulty in getting
employment in this neighbourhood, and the lowest wages that ever were
given would find you better clothing than that you have on.”

“Very true,” said Paul. “You are right in every particular. I have been
idle, as far as the labour of the hands is concerned, for nearly six
months; but I have all the time been busy observing and reflecting, in
which occupation my neighbours have been kind enough to indulge me, by
giving me food as often as I said I was hungry.”

“And pray what were you six months ago?”

“That I will leave untold, that you may have the amusement of guessing
how it is that I speak so little like either a beggar or a labourer. All
that you are concerned with is, what I am now. I am a man with a strong
pair of arms to work, and a strong mind to persevere.”

“I am afraid that you are too proud a gentleman to work under the eye of
the overlooker, which you must do if you work for me at all.”

“What matters it to me where the overlooker stands, as long as he does
not hinder my work? None but knaves fear being watched, and I am an
honest man.”

“If your account of yourself be true, it is a pity you should be a
beggar. I will call the overlooker and bid him set you to work.”

“First answer me, unless you have any objection, the question with which
I introduced myself to you. Remember how many of your inquiries I have
answered, and be pleased to observe that the tunnel-workmen are going to
dinner, so that I have nearly an hour before me, which might hang heavy
as I have no dinner to eat.”

The gentlemen were so amused at the oddity of this man, that they did
not walk away, as many would have done after such a speech. Paul’s
manner, though free, was not disrespectful, and his language testified
that he must have held a superior situation to that in which he now
appeared.

“Am I to refer your hint about a dinner,” said Mr. Wallace, laughing,
“to your old trade, or your new one? Are you begging your dinner, or do
you wish for it as wages in advance?”

“Neither the one nor the other, sir. I used to wait for my dinner till
seven for fashion’s sake; and now I can wait till six for honesty’s
sake. By that time I hope to have earned my meat; and from the moment
you promised me work, I gave up begging. I shall beg no more.”

Mr. Wallace thought, however, it would not be fair play to let Paul
begin his labours hungry. He called to Briggs, one of the cokers, and
asked if he had more dinner in his basket than he wanted. He had.

“Well, then, give this man some, and he will pay you to-night, and if he
does not, I will.”

“And now,” said Paul, after apologizing for eating in the gentleman’s
presence, “will you tell me who are capitalists here besides yourself?”

“Every man about the works might be so, except perhaps yourself, Paul;
and you may be a capitalist six hours hence.”

“That depends upon what we mean by the word,” said Paul, smiling. “Do
you mean by capital, something produced with a view to further
production, or any production which may be exchanged for some other
production? There is a vast difference between the two.”

“A great difference indeed,” observed Mr. Hollins. “Parry, the
overlooker, is a capitalist, for he has saved money enough to build
yonder cottage, which he lets at a rent of five pounds a year; but is
Briggs, the coker, a capitalist? He has property, I know; a bed, a
table, and a few chairs, and other articles of furniture; but as these
are not instrumental to further production, can they be called capital?”

“In a certain sense they might,” said Mr. Wallace; “for they might be
turned into money, which could be employed productively. Furniture is
one way of investing capital, though not a profitable one; but when I
spoke of all our people being capitalists, I meant that all earned more
than is absolutely necessary for them to spend; which is, I believe, the
case, in the present prosperous state of our trade. Every man does, I
believe, possess more than food for the hour, always excepting Paul: and
that possession whether it be a shilling or fifty pounds, is capital at
the time it is received, whether it be afterwards invested in furniture,
which might be sold again, or lent out at interest, or made productive
in any other way.”

“But if that only is capital which is produced with a view to further
production,” said Mr. Hollins, “I hope there are a good many among your
three hundred labourers who are capitalists in this sense.”

“Several,” said Mr. Wallace; “and such I reckon benefactors to society;
but there are also many who, having a roof over their heads and
something to cover them, are satisfied, and spend all their earnings as
fast as they get them in a way which brings no return. Such men become,
sooner or later, a burden to the community.”

A deep sigh from Paul made the gentlemen look at him, and they were
struck with the melancholy expression of his countenance. When he saw
that he was observed, he roused himself and put in his word again.

“I have heard people say you may see plants grow in a thunder-shower,
and that the sun sees a baby grow in a summer’s day; but neither is so
easy to be seen as the growth of capital. I should like to be by at the
opening of a new iron-work,—not with all the helps that we have about us
here,—but where people had only their wits and their hands to depend
upon. That would be the place to watch capital from its birth, through
all the stages of its nursing till it was full grown like yours.”

“Let us hear your notion of the process, Paul.

“I suppose it might occur to a shrewd man, finding a lump of the mineral
melted in a very hot fire and hardened again, that it would make better
tools than wood. He would heat his lump, and beat it with stones while
it was hot, and bend it and notch it and sharpen it in a rude way, till
he would be so much better off for tools than his neighbours, that they
would try to get some like his. If they could not find any more
ironstone, he would use his tools to dig or pick it out of the earth for
them.”

“Then, Paul, his tools would be his capital.”

“Certainly: his tools would be capital arising from labour, and tending
to further production. His neighbours would pay him well in such produce
as they could spare for furnishing them with iron, and then they would
all set about making tools. They would soon find that they could get on
faster and better by dividing their labour, and so one would keep up the
fire, and another would see that the ore flowed into the hole as it
should do; and another would beat it while soft, and another would notch
it into a saw, and another sharpen it into an axe.”

“Very well, then. As there must be labour before capital, there must be
capital before division of labour.”

“To be sure. There would be nothing for them to divide their labour upon
if they had not the ironstone, which is their capital as much as the
man’s first tool is his.—The more tools they make, the more ore they can
procure.”

“So the division of labour assists the increase of capital.”

“There is the beauty of it,” replied Paul. “They play into one another’s
hands. Labour makes capital; capital urges to a division of labour; and
a division of labour makes capital grow. When the people we are talking
of are all supplied with tools, (which have gone on improving all this
time in the quality of the metal as well as the make of the implements,)
they begin to traffic with the next district, bartering their
manufacture for whatever productions they may agree to take in exchange.
As their manufacture improves, they get more wealth; and then again, as
they get more wealth, their manufacture improves; they find new devices
for shortening their labour; they make machines which do their work
better than their own hands could do it, till an iron-work becomes what
we see it here,—a busy scene where man directs the engines whose labour
he once performed; where earth and air and fire and water are used for
his purposes as his will directs; and a hundred dwellings are filled
with plenty where, for want of capital, men once wrapped themselves in
skins to sleep on the bare ground, and cut up their food with
flints.—So, now that I have given you the natural history of capital as
I read it, I will wish you good morning and go to my work.”

“Paul, you astonish me,” said Mr. Wallace. “How is it that one who
understands so well the history of wealth should be so destitute?”

“Do not you know,” said Paul, turning once more as he was departing,—“do
not you know that the bare-headed pauper understands well what is meant
by a kingly crown? Do you not suppose that the hungry children who stand
round a fruiterer’s door see that a pine-apple is not a turnip? Then why
should not I, clothed in rags, be able to speak of wealth? I told you my
head had not been as idle as my hands. On yonder crag I have sat for
weeks, watching the busy crowd below, as the stray sheep marks from a
distance how the flock browses by day and is penned in the fold at
night. The stray sheep may come back experienced in pasturage, and not
the worse for its fleece being torn by briars; and I, for all my
tatters, may, by tracing the fortunes of others as on a map, have
discovered the best road to my own.”

As he said these last words, he held forth his hands, as if to intimate
that they were to be the instruments of his fortune, and then, with a
slight bow to the gentlemen, hastened to the tunnel where he was
appointed to work, leaving his companions to express to one another
their curiosity and surprise.

                      ----------------------------


                              CHAPTER III.

                          THE HARM OF A WHIM.


The report that Mr. Wallace was going to be married was true. He
disappeared in course of time; and when his agent said he was gone to
London on business and would soon be back, everybody guessed that he
would not return alone. It was observed that the house appeared to be
very elegantly furnished, and the garden laid out as if for a lady’s
pleasure; and the curricle and pair of ponies, which took their place in
the coach-house and stables, were luxuries which Mr. Wallace would not
have procured for himself.

A murmur of surprise and pleasure ran through the place one Sunday
morning when this curricle was seen standing at Mr. Wallace’s door.
Nobody knew that he was home except the agent, who was now remembered to
have been particularly strict the previous night about having the whole
establishment in good order. Before many gazers could gather round the
carriage, Mr. Wallace appeared with a lady on his arm. She looked young
and elegant, to judge by her figure, but she was closely veiled, and
never once looked up to make any acknowledgment of the bows of the men
who stood hat in hand, or of the curtseys of the women. Mr. Wallace
spoke to two or three who stood nearest, and nodded and smiled at the
others, and then drove off, fearing that they should be late for church.

When a turn in the road had hid from them all traces of human
habitation, the lady threw back her veil and began to look about her,
and to admire the charms of hill, dale, and wood, which her husband
pointed out to her. She had much taste for natural beauties of this
kind; and to this her husband trusted for the removal of a set of
prejudices which gave him great concern. She was very amiable when among
persons of her own rank of life; but, from having associated solely with
such, she felt awkward and uncomfortable when obliged to have
communication with any others. The poor in her neighbourhood, who saw
her beautifully dressed and surrounded with luxuries, while she never
bestowed a word or a look on them, supposed her to be very proud, and
did not love her the more for all the money she gave away in charity;
but she was not proud,—only shy. This her husband knew; and as he liked
to keep up a good understanding with everybody about him, and was
familiar with the ways of his neighbours, whether high or low, he
trusted to bring her round to habits of intercourse with all in turn,
and to relieve her from an awkwardness which must be more distressing to
herself than to anybody else. While she was standing up in the carriage,
pointing out with eagerness the beauty of the situation of the town, her
husband checked the horses, and held out his hand to somebody whom they
had overtaken on the road. Mrs. Wallace instantly sat down, and drew her
veil round her face, and put but little grace into her manner when her
husband introduced his friend and neighbour, Mr. Armstrong, to whom he
had promised on her behalf that she should pay a visit to his cottage
some day. Mr. Armstrong replaced his hat when aware of the coldness of
the lady’s behaviour, and after one or two civil inquiries about her
journey, begged he might not detain her, and returned to the pathway.
She was considerably surprised to learn that she should see him again
presently at church, as he sat in the same pew. There was a corner in
this pew which had been his own for some years; and it was not the
intention of Mr. Wallace, or the desire of his lady when she heard the
circumstances, that he should be put out of his accustomed place for the
sake of a new comer.

The new comer scarcely knew, however, what to think or do when Armstrong
took his seat beside her after the service had begun. The clatter of his
hob-nailed shoes as he entered, the ease with which he flung down his
hat, and then stood a minute to smooth his hair and look round upon the
congregation before he composed himself in his snug corner, were all
strange to her: but she was most startled by the strength with which he
put forth his tremulous voice in the psalm. He was heard far above all
the other singers which would have been very well if he had been thirty
years younger, for he understood music and had a good ear; but
considering that his voice was cracked and quavering with age, it was
desirable that he should now moderate its power. When the psalm was
over, Mrs. Wallace drew a long breath, and hoped that she should grow
accustomed to this sort of music in time.

“I wish somebody would give Mr. Armstrong a hint not to sing so loud,”
said she, when again in the curricle, after having undergone some bridal
introductions.

“It does not disturb those who are used to it, as I am afraid it did you
to-day. I should have prepared you for it, but I forgot to mention it.
When you hear him play the flute you will pardon his singing.”

“What a wonderful thing for a man of eighty to have breath to play the
flute!”

“Every thing belonging to him is extraordinary, as you will see when we
pay him a visit, which we will do to-morrow.”

“Why not this evening? The sooner it is over the better, if we must go.”

“He will not be at home till dark this evening; and besides, I want you
to visit him and his housekeeper in the midst of their week-day
business. You can form no idea of his usual appearance from seeing him
in his Sunday trim.”

“I cannot tell what to expect, then, for I am sure he is like nobody
else to-day. But what a pleasant countenance he has, when one has
presence of mind to observe it!”

“I hoped you would think so.”

“But where will he be this afternoon?”

“Worshipping God after his own fashion, as he says. In the morning he
pays his devotions after the manner of society,—the last social custom
he has retained. In the afternoon, when the weather is fine, he climbs
yonder peak, with a microscope in his pocket and his telescope in his
hand, and there he by turns examines the heaths and mosses under foot,
and looks out for fleets on the far horizon, repeating at intervals with
the full power of his voice, the hundred and fourth—his favourite
psalm.”

“That is beautiful!” cried Mrs. Wallace. “O let us go to-morrow. Let us
go very often if he will let us.”

On the next evening, accordingly, they went. Armstrong was employed in
his garden, looking less like the owner of so beautiful a spot of ground
than the humblest of labourers. His hat was brown and unshapely, and his
frock earthstained. He stretched out his hard hand to the lady when she
appeared, and bade her welcome. The housekeeper did not show herself, as
her maxim was, that it was time enough to come when she was called.

As Mrs. Wallace was not tired, and as she perceived that the old man was
happier in his garden than any where else, she proposed that he should
show her on what plan he arranged and tilled it. It proved very unlike
any garden she had ever seen, having all the beauty of wildness, but
poorly cultivated and laid out in a wasteful manner. It consisted of
three distinct portions,—one, half-orchard, half-shrubbery, where lilacs
grew luxuriantly out of the turf, and fruit-trees bordered the green
walks; another half potato-field, half kitchen-plot; and a third which
might have been a lady’s pleasure-garden. This part was better taken
care of than the rest, and was the old man’s pride. It sloped towards
the south, and was hedged in so securely that none could overlook it,
and it was no easy matter to find its entrance. A well in the midst of a
plot of turf, was as picturesque an object as could have been placed in
the nook near the entrance. Strawberry beds occupied the sloping bank,
and borders crowded with rich flowers completed the beauty of the whole.

“These gravel walks suit a lady’s feet better than the grass in the
orchard,” said Armstrong. “I must find time to mow those paths some day
soon.”

“I should think you must be at a loss sometimes,” observed Mrs. Wallace,
“to know what task to set about first, as you will let nobody help you.”

“I assure you, madam, I often think of Eve’s dilemma of the same kind.
But if men had no worse perplexities than how to choose between a
variety of pleasant tasks, ours would be a very happy world.”

“But Eve would have been glad of help if she could have had it as easily
as you. She would have set one to train the branches, and another to
remove the fallen blossoms, and another to water the young shoots, while
she tied up the roses as before.”

“Not if she had known, as I know, the mischief that arises as soon as
people begin to join their labours. There is no preserving peace and
honesty but by keeping men’s interests separate. When I look down, sir,
upon your establishment there, I say to myself that I had rather live
where I am if I had only a tenth part of this ground and one room in my
cottage, than own yonder white house and be master of three hundred
labourers.”

Mr. Wallace smiled, and would have changed the conversation, knowing the
uselessness of reasoning about the advantages of society with one whose
passion was for solitude; but his wife’s curiosity and the old man’s
love of the subject soon caused them to return to the topic.

“I should like to know,” said Mrs. Wallace, “what is it that shocks you
so much in our doings below.”

She could not have made a more welcome inquiry. Armstrong was eloquent
upon the inelegance of smoke, and rows of houses, and ridges of cinders,
and all the appearances which attend an iron-work, and appealed to his
guest as a lady of taste, whether such a laying waste of the works of
nature was not melancholy. Mrs. Wallace could not agree that it was. It
was true that a grove was a finer object at this distance than a
cinder-ridge, and that a mountain-stream was more picturesque than a
column of smoke; but there was beauty of a different kind which belonged
to such establishments, and to which she was sure Mr. Armstrong would
not be blind if he would only come down and survey the works. There was
in the first place the beauty of the machinery. She thought it could not
but gratify the taste to see how men bring the powers of nature under
their own control by their own contrivances; how the wind and the fire
are made to act in the furnace so that the metal runs out in a pure
stream below; how, by the application of steam, such a substance as iron
is passed between rollers, and compressed and shaped by them as easily
as if it were potter’s clay, and then cut into lengths like twigs.

Armstrong shook his head, and said this was all too artificial for him;
and that granting (as he did not deny) that nature worked as much as man
in these processes, she worked in another way which was not so
beneficial,—in men’s hearts, making them avaricious, deceitful, and
envious.

“I was going to say,” replied Mrs. Wallace, “that there is another sort
of beauty in such establishments, which I prefer to that I was speaking
of. I know nothing more beautiful than to see a number of people fully
employed, and earning comforts for themselves and each other. If people
obtain their money as they want it, they are less likely to be
avaricious than if it came to them without exertion on their part;
because the energy which they give to the pursuit in the one case is
likely to fix itself upon its rewards in the other. I do not know of any
particular temptation to deceit or envy where all have their appointed
labour and a sufficient reward without interfering with one another.”

“I have seen enough of the tricks of trade,” said the old man.

“You have been unfortunate, as I have understood,” said Mr. Wallace;
“but it does not follow that there is knavery wherever there is social
industry, any more than that every one has such a pretty place as this
to retire to in case of disgust with the world. But as I was going to
add to my wife’s description, there appears to me not less beauty in the
mechanism of society than in the inventions of art.”

“That is you being a master, like to survey the ranks of slaves under
you.”

“Not so,” said Mr. Wallace mildly, for he was not inclined to resent the
petulence of the old man. “There is no slavery, no enforced labour, no
oppression, that I am aware of, in our establishment. Masters and men
agree upon measures of mutual service, and the exertions of each party
are alike necessary to the success of their undertaking.”

“It may be so just now, because your trade is flourishing more than it
ever was before, and labour is scarce, and your people are well paid;
but they will not be long contented. When prices fall and wages must
come down, they will discover that they are slaves.”

“Never,” replied Mr. Wallace, “for this reason: there is no bond of
mutual interest between master and slave, as there is between the
capitalist and the free labourer. It matters nothing to the slave
whether his master employs his capital actively or profitably or not;
while this is the all-important consideration between the free labourer
and his employer. It is the interest of our men and ourselves that the
productiveness of our trade should be increased to the utmost; that we
should turn out as much work as possible, and that therefore we should
improve our machinery, divide our labour to the best advantage, and
bring all our processes to the greatest possible perfection. All our
labourers therefore, who understand their own interest, try to improve
their industry and skill: while, if they were slaves and their lot did
not depend on their own exertions, they would probably be careless and
indolent. In such a case, I should have no more pleasure than you in
surveying our establishment, if indeed such an one could exist.”

“You are the first iron-master, the first master of any kind, whom I
ever heard declare that both parties in such a concern had a common
interest.”

“I am surprised at that,” replied Mr. Wallace, “for no truth appears to
me more evident. How many classes have you been accustomed to consider
concerned in production?”

Armstrong laughed, while he pointed significantly to himself, and then
looked about him.

“You unite in yourself the functions of Capitalist and Labourer,”
replied Mr. Wallace; “but yours is, I am happy to say, an uncommon
case.”

“You are happy to say?”

“Yes; for if all men had followed your mode of life to this day, there
would have been no iron-work nor any other sort of manufacture in
existence, and life would have been barbarous in comparison with what it
is, and there would have been few in comparison born to enjoy it. You
would yourself have been a sufferer. You would have had no spade and no
scythe, no bucket for your well, no chain for your bucket, no newspaper
in the morning, and no Farmer’s Journal in the afternoon. Since you owe
all these things and a thousand others to the co-operation of
capitalists and labourers, my dear sir, it seems rather ungracious to
despise such a union.”

“Well, sir, you shall have it your own way. How many classes of
producers do you reckon?”

“Speaking of manufacturing produce, I reckon two,—the two I have
mentioned; and I never listen to any question of their comparative
value, since they are both necessary to production.”

“I should have thought Labour more valuable than Capital,” said Mrs.
Wallace, “because it must have been in operation first. The first
material must have been obtained, the first machine must have been made,
by labour.”

“True. Capital owes its origin to labour; but labour is in its turn
assisted and improved by capital to such a degree that its
productiveness is incalculably increased. Our labourers could no more
send ship-loads of bar-iron abroad without the help of the furnace and
forge and machinery supplied by their masters, than their masters
without the help of their labour.”

“Then the more valuable this capital is, the more abundant the material
wrought, the more perfect the machinery, the better for the labourer.
And yet all do not think so.”

“Because those who object to machinery do not perceive its true nature
and office. Machinery, as it does the work of many men, or that which it
would take one man a long time to do, may he be viewed as _hoarded
labour_. This, being set to work in addition to natural labour, yields a
greatly-increased produce; and the gains of the capitalist being thus
increased, he employs a yet larger portion of labour with a view to yet
further gains; and so a perpetual progress is made.”

“Not without drawbacks, however,” said Armstrong. “Do not forget the
consequent failure of demand.”

“That is only a temporary evil: for when the market is overstocked,
prices fall; and when the price has fallen, more people can afford to
buy than bought before, and so a new demand grows up. If printing and
paper-making, for instance, were still unknown, we should have no
newspapers; if the machinery were very imperfect, they would be so
expensive as to be within reach of none but the wealthy; but, as the
produce of both arts is abundant and therefore cheap, we find newspapers
in every alehouse, and if it were not for a duty which has nothing to do
with their production, we should see them lying in many a cottage
window. Thus the public are equally obliged to the owners of printing
presses and their workmen. These workmen are obliged to the masters
whose capital sets them to work; and the masters are obliged to their
men for the labour which sets their presses going. All are gainers by
the co-operation of Labour and Capital.”

“I was very near doing a thing the other day,” said Armstrong, “which
would have made you suppose that I was going to adopt some of your
notions. I had observed a man lingering about the hills——”

“Is his name Paul?”

“I never asked; but he was a beggar, covered with rags who used to sit
for hours watching what went on below. I was so persuaded that he was of
my opinion about your doings, that I became quite interested in him.”

“You liked him for being neither a labourer nor a capitalist?”

“Not quite so,” said Armstrong laughing; “for I would not have the poor
become beggars. I was just going to ask him to help me to get my garden
into winter order, when I found he had secured a cell in your hive. I
was quite disappointed.”

“That the drone had become a busy bee, or that he had left you to gather
in your own stores?”

“My hands are sufficient for my own business, as they have ever been,”
said Armstrong. “But I was sorry that the man forfeited his
independence, which was the very thing I liked in him.”

“Will you continue to pity him when you see his tatters exchanged for
decent clothing, his bare head housed in a snug dwelling, and his
independent tastes gratified by the beauty of his flower-beds and the
luxury of a book to amuse his winter evenings? Paul seems to me a very
extraordinary man. I expect soon to see him circumstanced as I have
described, for he works with might and main, and I imagine has rather a
different notion of independence from yours.”

In order to give Mrs. Wallace a distinct idea of what his own passion
for independence was, Mr. Armstrong invited her into his house, and
shewed her all his plans for waiting upon, and employing, and amusing
himself. He was not satisfied with her admiring his fishing-tackle, his
fowling-piece, his flute, and his books; he wanted her to acknowledge
that there was more security and peace in his mode of life than any
other;—a somewhat unreasonable thing to expect from a bride whose
husband was so differently engaged. She could not in this respect
satisfy him; but she endeavoured to conquer the shyness she felt coming
on when Margaret made her appearance, and to converse with her in her
own style; and when the lady and gentleman at length departed, they
expressed with equal warmth their hopes that the old man would long
continue to find his mode of life secure and peaceful. They little
imagined, at the moment, what was soon to happen,—they little knew when
they discussed his favourite notions over their breakfast-table the next
morning, what had already happened, to overthrow his sense of security
for ever.

After parting with his guests, Armstrong stood for some time at the top
of the rocky steps, watching the two figures winding down the hill in
the twilight. Then he recollected that he had been interrupted in
watering some choice plants, and hastened to finish his task. When he
had hung up his bucket, and put away his tools, and seen that his gate
was fastened, he leaned upon it, watching the last fading of the sky,
and listening to the brook as it rippled along. His meditations took
their character in part from the preceding conversation: for while he
repeated to himself how much pleasanter it was to observe and love
nature than to gather wealth, he could not drive from his mind the
question which had been often asked him, of what use his gold was to
him; and when he thanked God for having given him enough for his simple
wants, it occurred to him whether he ought not to dispose of the wealth
he did not use for the benefit of others; especially as there was a way
of doing so,—by putting it out to circulate and bear interest,—by which
it might be useful without losing any of its value. While so many were
in want, could it be right in him to hoard? While so many could
advantageously employ capital, could it be right that any should lie by
idle?—Such thoughts were not at all out of place in a religious
meditation; for the best part of religion is to imitate the benevolence
of God to man; and every study to do this is a religious contemplation.

Armstrong’s mind was so full of this subject, that when the darkness
sent him in doors, he could not settle, as usual, to the Farmer’s
Journal. He stirred his evening fire, and played the flute a little, and
wound up his watch, and then, supposing he must be very tired with
seeing company, he went early to bed. He did not sleep, directly,
however; he heard Margaret for some time murmuring to herself, as she
often did when darning stockings alone; then she tried the fastenings of
the doors and windows, raked out the fire, and went into her own room,
where he heard her slip the bolt, as usual. The boasted security of the
master of this cottage did not prevent its inhabitants from using as
many precautions against enemies as the richest merchant in London. Nor
were these precautions needless.

About three hours after, when Armstrong was sound asleep, he began to
dream very uncomfortably of strange noises which he took to proceed from
the machinery of the iron-work, and of a cold blast which proceeded from
the furnace when he expected a hot one. This dream appeared to last very
long, though it had in reality passed through his brain in a few
moments, at the end of which time he was completely roused by a creak
and screech of the latticed window of his room, the cold air having
blown upon him as it was opened. He started up and saw a man leaning in
at the window as if on the point of entering. Armstrong seized the
pistol he always kept by him and fired. The man retreated, but
apparently not wounded; for after some whisperings without, a dark form
again appeared at the lattice, and others moved behind.

“I will shoot as many of you as dare to come to the window,” cried
Armstrong with his loudest voice, “I am well armed, so shew yourselves
at your peril.”

He fired again, but the figure had the instant before retreated. On
listening for a moment, Armstrong thought the thieves were gone round to
attack some other point of entrance. He hastily closed the window, and
upreared the chimney board against it that he might at least hear if
they returned to his chamber. He then thundered at Margaret’s door; for
which there was little occasion, as she was up and crying out to know
what was the matter.

“Thieves; but not in the house; so make haste and get a light.”

This was presently done, and it then appeared that Margaret had as much
courage as her master. She valiantly brandished the poker while he
reloaded his pistols; and they both made so much noise in the intervals
of listening, that unless the thieves were well informed that there were
only two people in the house, they might have supposed there were half a
dozen. It was impossible to find out whether they remained at hand or
not. Windows and doors shook and rattled many times before daylight; but
whether acted upon by human hands or by the autumn nightwind, was never
known. “Hark!” was said by one or the other of the watchers perpetually,
and they wandered from window to door and from door to window till dawn,
and then very naturally started at their own shadows in the twilight.

Upon examination, which they ventured at sunrise, footsteps were visible
all round the cottage; but there were no marks of blood, of which
Armstrong was glad, among other reasons, because he detested the idea of
a prosecution, and was willing that the thieves should escape
punishment, provided he could get over the affair quietly.

“What do you mean to do next?” Margaret ventured to ask when he had done
ruminating over his breakfast.

“I have made up my mind,” he replied, “and I do not mean to change it.
We are neither of us to say a syllable of what has happened.”

Margaret nodded, for this was what she expected.

“Can you fire a pistol, Margaret?”

She had never tried, but she had no doubt she could.

“Very well; then you will do to stay with me, if you choose to comply
with my conditions. If we tell what has happened, it will put it into
other people’s heads to attack us: and it will do no good to remove the
chest, now that I have the reputation of having one. It must be for that
they came. You and I will watch by turns this winter, one going to bed
at dark to sleep till midnight, and then watching while the other sleeps
till dawn. Now, Margaret, will you stay or go?”

Margaret asked a little time for consideration which was of course
given. By dinner-time she was ready with her assent to the plan. Not
many women would have given it; but attachment to her master and her
office prevailed over the few fears she had; and the condition of
silence would not be difficult to observe if, as she expected, she
should see nobody for some months, unless indeed it should be the
thieves themselves.

Armstrong was again haunted with the idea that it would have been better
to allow his gold to circulate so that it would be robbed of none of its
value to himself, than to risk its being obtained by others in such a
way as that he should lose the whole.

                      ----------------------------


                              CHAPTER IV.


                              PROSPERITY.


The iron trade continued for some time after this to be so flourishing,
that Mr. Wallace found himself at length quite unequal to the pressure
of business which rested wholly on him. He wrote so repeatedly and
urgently to Mr. Bernard on this subject, that that gentleman hastened
the settlement of his affairs, that he might remove himself and his
family into Mr. Wallace’s neighbourhood. He owned that after his young
partner had found the management of an iron-work with one furnace as
much as he could manage, it was unreasonable to leave all the business
to him when there were four, and when the demand for iron was so brisk
that the utmost diligence could not enable them to answer all the orders
they received. Instead of three hundred, upwards of eleven hundred
labourers were now employed about the works. More and more capital was
daily employed in the concern: and it was abundantly supplied as capital
always is, where such speedy and profitable returns are made as in the
iron trade, at the time we speak of. Many a man who found himself
getting on but slowly in a manufacture of another kind, endeavoured to
obtain a share in the iron-work. Many a farmer threw up his farm, and
went into South Wales to find a more profitable settlement. Many a
capitalist withdrew his money from concerns in London, or elsewhere,
where he had received moderate interest for it, and invested it where
the highest legal interest was willingly given. Even ladies, who had
small properties in the funds, transferred them to the hands of any
iron-master they might happen to be acquainted with, and were much
delighted with their increase of income. Some experienced people who
observed this vast flow of capital towards one point, predicted
unpleasant results. The immediate consequences were agreeable enough,
they allowed. Iron-works were established, wherever a promising
situation could be found. Smokes arose from a hundred places where the
hills where all before had been a mountain solitude. The cottages of
well-paid labourers multiplied every day; and prosperity seemed, at
last, to have visited the working classes in an equal proportion with
their masters. But the quantity of iron prepared was so great, that it
seemed scarcely possible that the demand could long remain as brisk as
at present. Any one who observed the trains of waggons on the rail-roads
of the various works, or the traffic on the canals, or the shipments at
Newport and Cardiff, would have wondered where a market could be found
for such a quantity of metal; but as long as the masters found it
impossible to keep any stock by them, or even to supply their orders,
they were very sanguine about the continuance of their prosperity, and
went on fearlessly enlarging their works in number and extent,
regardless of the warnings offered them that a glut must be the
consequence.

Mr. Wallace and his partners were more prudent than most of their
neighbours. They were mindful enough of the probability of change to be
careful how much they invested as _fixed_ capital, which could not be
easily withdrawn or transferred in case of a change of times.

_Fixed Capital_, that is, money laid out in land, buildings, machinery,
and tools, is a necessary part of the property of every one who
endeavours to increase his wealth. The farmer must have not only land to
produce grain, but ploughs and harrows to prepare the soil, sickles to
reap the corn, waggons to carry it away, barns to store it in, &c., if
he means to make the utmost profit he can of his produce. He thus
increases his wealth by fixing his capital, though his tools and
buildings and horses do not directly afford him any profit like his
_circulating capital_. That which is commonly called _circulating
capital_ is the wealth laid out with an immediate view to farther
production; such as the farmer’s seed-corn, and the wages of his
labourers. But as nothing is said in the word _circulating_ about this
farther production, we had rather find a better word. _Reproducible_
seems to us the right term. Thus, the manufacturer’s raw silk and
cotton, the farmer’s seed-corn, or the sheep and oxen he intends to sell
again, the iron-master’s coal and iron-stone, and that which is paid by
all in the shape of wages, are _reproducible capital_, because it comes
back to its owner when it has fulfilled its purpose and procured a
profit. It is clear that the business which requires the least fixed
capital in proportion to the reproducible capital must be the least in
danger from a change of times. The wine-merchant, whose fixed capital
consists only of cellars, casks, hampers, and a cart and horses, has
less of his wealth locked up in a useless form in bad times than the
silk or cotton manufacturer, who has his factories, his steam-engine,
and all the machinery connected with it. Both may have a large stock,
the one of wine, the other of raw or wrought silk or cotton; both may
complain of having their reproducible capital made unproductive by a
failure of demand; but he is the worst off who has the largest
proportion of fixed capital locked up at the same time. On a smaller
scale, the basket-maker risks less in bad times than the baker. The one
has merely his shed, and his block, and knife for his fixed, and osiers
for his reproducible, capital; while the other has his bakehouse, ovens,
bins, yeast-pails, and many other articles as his fixed capital; and
flour and fuel for his reproducible capital. If a demand for baskets and
for bread should ever cease, the baker would have a much larger capital
laid by useless than the basket-maker.

A very large fixed capital is necessary in an iron-work, and of a kind
too which cannot be turned to any other account in bad times. Land may
generally be made to produce something which is in demand; sheds and
waggons and horses may be used for a variety of purposes, but
blast-furnaces and forges serve no object but that for which they were
erected. There is, therefore, a degree of risk in thus investing capital
which ought to make reflecting men very watchful in their calculations,
and very cautious in extending their works even in the best times. Mr.
Wallace and his partners were thus cautious, while some of their
neighbours, flushed with the present prosperous state of their trade,
erected their works in magnificent style, and to such an extent that one
would have thought they had a contract for supplying the world with iron
for ever. The firm thought themselves justified in erecting new furnaces
to the number we have mentioned; but a judicious economy was consulted
in the mode of building; an economy which was smiled at by many who
appeared as lavish of money and fond of splendour in respect of their
furnaces, as of their dwelling-houses.

Mr. Wallace’s impatience that his acting-partner should come and see and
approve what was done, was at length gratified. A letter was received
one day announcing that Mr. Bernard, his two sons, his three daughters,
and their governess, would arrive to a late dinner on the next
Wednesday. It was a winter day, and darkness had come on long before
there were any tokens of the approach of the party. The housekeeper (who
had come some time before) listened to the blustering wind, and then
looked at the clock, now trembling for the safety of her young masters
and mistresses, and then vexed that her good dinner should be spoiled by
the delay. Mrs. Wallace sent more than once to know whether the
travellers had arrived. A crowd of little children, who had gathered
together, unmindful of the cold, to cheer the carriage as soon as it
appeared, were called home to bed by their mothers. The overlooker
pronounced that there would be no arrival that evening, and every body
at last hoped there would not, as the roads among the hills were very
wild and dreary, and morning was the best time to pass along them. The
travellers were approaching, however, all this time. The last stage was
a very irksome one to horses and driver, and not very pleasant to those
inside. No care could keep out the cold wind which obliged the driver to
tie on his hat, and which terrified the child of three years old who hid
her face in her papa’s bosom every time the gust roared among the hills.
Another little girl pressed close to her governess, and the lads
themselves wished that it had not been so dark; for it was impossible to
keep the lamps lighted. Their father and Mrs. Sydney—the lady who
educated their sisters—tried to amuse them by talking cheerfully; but
whenever they stopped for a moment, some little voice was sure to ask
“How far have we to go now?” “Shall we get home to-night?” “How late
will it be when we get home?”

“How dark, how very dark it is!” cried Francis. “I cannot make out
whether there is a hill on each side of us, or whether it is the black
sky.”

“It is the sky,” said his brother John. “I see a fiery flush on this
side, which I suppose comes from some iron-work near. How it brightens
every moment!”

“Ah ha! we shall have light enough presently,” said his father. “We are
nearer home than I thought. That light comes from behind the hill, and
when we reach the turn of the road, we shall see a good fire, though we
shall not feel one this half hour.”

In a moment the carriage turned the corner, and the children started up,
forgetting cold and hunger and fear, to gaze at the extraordinary scene
before them. Strange sounds rose when the gust fell—a roaring like that
of a mighty wind, which their father told them was caused by the blast
of the furnaces; and a hissing and rumbling which came from the
machinery of the forge and mill. These buildings stood on a level
beneath a sort of terrace, faced with stone, on which were placed the
kilns where the ironstone is calcined ready to be put in at the top of
the furnace. On this terrace also was the coke-hearth, where the coal
was burning in a long ridge open to the sky. The flame blazed and
flickered, and shot up in red and white spires, and disappeared and
kindled again, as the wind rose and fell; and there were black figures
of men, brandishing long rakes, sometimes half-hidden by red smoke, and
sometimes distinctly marked against a mass of flame. At some distance
were rows of twinkling lights almost too faint to be seen after looking
at the furnaces. These were in the cottages of the work-people, Farther
off was a solitary light, so far raised as to give the idea that it came
from a house on a hill The children eagerly asked if this light shone
from their home. No; it must be Mr. Wallace’s house; but their own
really was near now. Accordingly, when they had passed another reach of
the road in utter darkness, and had heard a gate swing, and knew by the
crashing sound that the carriage was on a gravel road, they saw an open
hall-door, and knew the figure of the housekeeper as she stood ready to
welcome them.

The children grew sleepy as they grew warm, and forgot the irksomeness
of their journey; and having made a good supper from what was to have
been dinner, they crept to their beds and were presently asleep.

Mr. Wallace arrived before breakfast was over the next morning, to
welcome his partner and accompany him down to the works. He brought a
message from his wife that she hoped to call on Mrs. Sydney and the
young ladies during the forenoon. Accordingly, soon after the gentlemen
were gone, the little carriage drawn by a brace of sleek ponies, and
containing this elegant young personage wrapped up in furs, appeared
before the door. Mrs Wallace’s extreme shyness infected the young
people, who were just of an age to be reserved with strangers; and Mrs.
Sydney, who was always at her ease, found it very difficult to maintain
the conversation. Mrs. Wallace had seen no one high or low, in the
neighbourhood, except Mr. Armstrong. She did not appear interested in
the manufacture going on before her eyes. She admired those parts of the
country which remained green and wild, and this appeared the only
subject on which she had anything to say. Mrs. Sydney’s chief interest
was respecting the eleven hundred people, and the families to which they
belonged, who were placed in such near neighbourhood; but she presently
found that she must learn all that she wanted to know of them for
herself, instead of being guided by the lady who had lived among them
for so many months.

While Mrs. Wallace was blushing and rising from her seat preparatory to
taking her leave, the gentlemen returned. They had come to propose that,
as it was a clear, calm day, the party should view the works and become
acquainted at once with the place and people among whom they were to
live. Mrs. Wallace drew back, evidently wishing to be excused; but her
husband urged that it was a good opportunity for doing what she could
not be expected to do while she had no lady-companion; and Mrs. Sydney
seemed to think the proceeding so very desirable as well as pleasant,
that it was soon agreed that the whole party should go together and on
foot; the curricle being sent away with orders to return for its
mistress in two hours.

Mr. Wallace explained how the ironstone, or _mine_ as it is called, is
calcined in the kilns upon the terrace which we have described. He
shewed how this substance, cleansed in the kiln from clay and other
impurities, is put into the furnace at the top with the coke and the
limestone which are burned with it, the coke to keep the whole burning,
and the limestone to unite with the mixtures of the ironstone, so that
the ore may be separated pure. They saw the filler at his stand near the
top of the furnace,—at the tunnel head, as it is called, pouring in at
the doors the materials which were furnished from the terrace. They saw
the furnace-keeper below, as intent upon his work as if his life
depended on it, watching the appearance of the cinder as it was thrown
off, and regulating the blast accordingly. He took no notice of any body
being by, and never looked up or spoke or changed countenance.

“How intent that man is on his business!” said Mrs. Sydney to Mr.
Bernard. “I suppose his office is a very important one.”

“Very important indeed. The quality of the iron produced by this furnace
depends mainly on his care. It may be, and often is, ruined without his
being able to help it or even knowing why; but it would certainly be
spoiled without incessant care on his part.

“Is it from pure fear of spoiling his work that he is so engrossed with
it, or are his wages regulated by the produce of the furnace?”

“We find so much depends on the care of the men who break the limestone
and prepare the coke, and burn the mine, and fill and keep the furnace,
that they are all paid by the ton of iron produced, in order to secure
their mutual help and the proper regulation of the whole.”

“Well, I should be sorry if this man should suffer by the carelessness
of any of the people overhead; for I never saw any thing more perfect
than his own attention.”

“He is an extraordinary man,” said Mr. Wallace, who stood within
hearing. “I cannot discover the motive to such indefatigable industry
and frugality as his. He has worked his way up in a few months from
being one of our lowest order of labourers to his present situation. He
was a beggar when we first set him to work in excavating the tunnel; and
he looks like a beggar still, though he accomplishes more work and lays
by more money than any man among our people.”

“I wondered to see him so ill-dressed,” observed Mr. Bernard.

“I told him yesterday,” said Mr. Wallace, “that I expected to see him
decently clothed, knowing, as I did, that he earned a great deal of
money, and laid it all by in the Monmouth Savings Bank, except what is
barely sufficient to procure him shelter and daily food.”

“Has he neither wife nor family to support?”

“He seems not to have a relation or acquaintance in the world. He speaks
to nobody but the overlooker and myself.”

“And what sort of intercourse have you with him?”

“I converse with him as often as we can both spare time, and always with
pleasure; for he is well, I might say highly, educated, and has the
speech and manners of a gentleman.”

“How strange! And do not you know where he comes from, and what brought
him?”

“I know nothing of him but that he is a genius and a miser—two
characters which are rarely seen united. Paul keeps his own counsel so
perfectly as to who he is and whence he comes, that my curiosity is very
strongly excited, and I would take some pains to get at the bottom of
the mystery, if I did not feel that every man has a right to his own
secret. He is an industrious and faithful servant to me, and that is all
I have any business with.”

Mrs. Sydney ventured so far as to put a question to Paul; but he was
just going to tap the furnace, i. e. to let out the fused iron,—a very
important operation,—and was therefore too busy to answer her.

“I will bring you together after working-hours some day,” whispered Mr.
Wallace to her. “If we should meet him taking his ramble on a Sunday, or
when, as now and then happens, we put somebody in his place to relieve
him for a day, he will be more disposed for conversation than now. He is
sociable enough when he falls in with any one whom he thinks worthy of
being talked to.”

“I am afraid we shall be quite looked down upon by such a high and
mighty personage,” said Mrs. Sydney, laughing. But Mr. Wallace promised
to draw him out.

The party then proceeded to the refinery where the pig-iron is refined,
and to the forge and mill where it is formed into bars. They saw the
_refiners_ take it by turns to run out their moulds of metal; and the
_weigher_ who examines their work and keeps an account of it; and the
_puddler_ at the forge who improves the quality of the metal by another
refining process; and the _shingler_ who hammers the balls of metal into
an oblong form for going through the roll; and the _roller_ and his
_catcher_ who stand on each side of the rolling machine, and put the bar
into a smaller roll every time it is handed from one to the other; and
the _straighteners_ who straighten the bars while they are hot, and mark
them with the stamp of the works where they are made; and the
_bar-weighers_ who examine the finished work; and the clerks or
superintendents who conduct the whole. The youths were as much struck as
the ladies with the grandeur of the scale on which the manufacture was
carried on, and with the ingenuity of the contrivances for aiding and
saving labour.

“What a sum of money must have been laid out here!” cried Francis.

“And what a quantity of labour that money has brought into operation!”
observed Mrs. Sydney.

“Yes, but there is nothing so very remarkable in seeing eleven hundred
people at work, as in observing what comes of such an outlay of
capital.”

“It was not merely the labour of eleven hundred pairs of hands that I
was speaking of,” replied Mrs. Sydney, “but of the hoarded labour which
does what no unassisted human hands could do; the shears and the
rollers, and all the complicated machinery which enables us to treat
iron as it were wood or clay. I suppose, Mr. Wallace, you are free from
complaints about the use of machinery; as your works are of a kind which
cannot be done by hand?”

“At present we hear no complaints,” replied Mr Wallace, “because trade
is good and wages are high, and the great object with us all is to
prepare as much metal as machines and men can get ready. But if times
should change, I am afraid we should suffer as cotton and silk
manufacturers do. We should be told of this process, and that, and
another, which might be effected with less machinery and more labour.
Rolling and clipping must be done by wood and iron, because no bone and
muscle are equal to such work; but there is much labour in preparing
limestone, stacking and loading the mine, and other processes in which
we shall be assisted by machinery hereafter; and then I expect an outcry
against such an employment of capital, though it must produce good to
all in the end.”

“To be sure,” said Mrs. Sydney. “These works would never have existed in
their present flourishing state but for the improvements in the
manufacture of iron; and if they are to be yet more flourishing a
hundred years hence, it must be by further improvements.”

“Such improvements are much wanted, I assure you; for we have much to
learn before the iron manufacture becomes nearly as perfect as many
others in the kingdom. The silk and cotton manufactures are less
difficult and hazardous, and are more improved than ours. So, Francis,
you must have your wits about you, and be always thinking what
alterations for the better must be made when the times change: for we
cannot expect our present prosperity to last for ever.”

“I see great heaps of cinders that appear to be wasted.” said Francis.
“Look at that one which is more like a mountain than a pile of
furnace-refuse. Can no use be made of it?”

“That is a question which I have asked myself a hundred times,” replied
Mr. Wallace: “and I bear the thing in mind to be considered when the
demand for iron slackens, as I suppose it will some time or other. Now
our attention is fully occupied in supplying our customers by the usual
methods, and there is no leisure for trying experiments, and little need
of new methods of economy. They will come with a change of times.”

“What is to be done with these people of yours when those days come?”
asked Mrs. Sydney. “When I look at the ranges of cottages and see how
many children are playing before the doors, I wonder whether it will
always be easy to maintain so increasing a population.”

Mr. Wallace told her that it was his constant endeavour to impress upon
his people that it is the duty of well-paid labourers to become
capitalists if they can, as a security against a reverse of fortune. The
difficulty he always found was to persuade them that the earnings which
are only enough to maintain them for a few days, may, by being properly
disposed of, be made sufficient for the maintenance of years. He wished
his labourers to furnish themselves and their families in the first
place with food, clothing, and habitation, and then to put out at
interest, or invest in some other profitable way, their surplus wages,
that they might have something with which to begin a new employment, in
case of their present work being taken from them. Some had attended to
his advice and some had not. Some had money in the Monmouth Savings
Bank, which was a good way. Some laid out their earnings in stocking a
little shop at the iron-work, which was kept by their wives and
children. This was also a very good plan. Some laid by their notes and
silver in a stocking or glove in their own cupboard, which was a safe
method enough, but not so good as one which would have made the money
profitable. Others spent the whole as it came in, which was the worst
plan of all.

Some who had several children growing up, had them taught different
trades, that there might be a resource for the family in case of one
trade failing. There could be no better way of employing money than
this, for it was sure of a return in the profitable industry of the
young people,—a return which would be afforded exactly when it was most
needed. It also yielded an immediate return, not the less valuable
because it could not be estimated in gold and silver,—the peace of mind
which arose from the consideration that all the resources of the family
could not be cut off at once, and that if some were thrown out of
employment, there would be others in a condition to help them.

All that Mrs. Sydney heard made her wish to begin an acquaintance with
the families of the work-people. She proposed that the party should
return by way of their dwellings. Mr. Wallace gave his arm to his wife,
who had been in conversation with Mr. Bernard, and they all set forward.
Mrs. Wallace envied Mrs. Sydney the ease and kindness of manner with
which she conversed with people of all classes. The difference between
them was, that the one was ignorant of the habits and manners of all
ranks except her own, and that the other had mixed with each in turn,
and was therefore familiar with whatever concerned them. Both were
generous and kind-hearted, though they showed their kindness in
different ways. Mrs. Wallace would have given away all she had to a
neighbour in want; but when her neighbours, as now, were not in want,
she was at a loss to express her good-will, while Mrs. Sydney, by merely
conversing with them, made herself liked by them without trying to do
so, or ever thinking of anything beyond satisfying her own kind
interest.

Mr. Wallace had thought that Paul worked too hard; and as he was anxious
to make inquiries of Paul’s host about his health, he conducted the
party to the cottage of John Jones, with whom Paul lodged. Jones was
out, but his wife was within, preparing dinner for herself and two of
her younger children who were playing beside her. She thought, like Mr.
Wallace, that Paul had grown thin lately, and was not so strong as
formerly; and she did not wonder, considering how little food and sleep
he took. She never saw anybody so sparing of both, or so eager after
money. She had no reason to complain, she said; for he paid for his
lodging exactly and regularly every Saturday night, but it did make her
sorry to see him work so hard and allow himself so few comforts.—He was
up at four, summer and winter, doing his tailoring and cobbling work,
and would sit from six till eleven in the evening, cutting corks when he
had nothing more profitable to do.

Mr. Wallace looked astonished, for he had no notion that Paul had been a
Jack-of-all-trades.

Mrs. Jones explained that he seemed able to learn any employment he
chose when the inducement of money was set before him. With the first
wages he had earned at the works, he purchased a tailor’s and cobbler’s
implements, and patched and cobbled for half the neighbourhood at his
leisure hours. He still complained that he had not enough to do, and
went to the next town to look for some employment which he might bring
home. He brought a package of cork on his back, and a cork-cutter’s
knife in his pocket, and for many and many a gross had he received
payment from the druggists and others of the next town, and even of
Newport. The same bench and the same dirty clothes served him for his
cobbling and his cork-cutting; and another advantage of the latter
employment was, that a very little light would serve his purpose. He
usually burned a farthing candle at hours when he could not have the
advantage of the Joneses’ lamp.

Mrs. Jones shewed her guests how neatly Paul had partitioned off half
his little room to serve as a workshop: the inner half, where he slept
and kept his few clothes, was as neat and orderly as possible; for Paul
always said that there was good economy in cleanliness and older. The
workshop also was kept as tidy as the nature of things allowed.

Mr. Wallace was surprised to see a very pretty picture placed against
the wall of the inner room, and covered with a piece of muslin to keep
it from the dust. It had no frame, but appeared a good painting. It
seemed to be the likeness of a boy, handsome and well-dressed, with a
hoop in his hand and a greyhound beside him. The back-ground was a park,
with deer grazing, and a mansion seen among the trees.

Mrs. Jones said this picture had a very elegant frame when Paul first
put it up in his room, but that he had, after looking at it very often
and for a long time together, taken off the frame and carried it with
him when he went to the fair to sell his cattle.

His cattle! What cattle?

He seemed to be a very good judge of cattle, and had managed to buy a
cow and two or three sheep which he had sold to advantage at the last
fair. It had been curious to observe his caution in his calculations. He
sat on his bench with a piece of chalk beside him, reckoning and
reckoning his sums in the intervals of his work, till it seemed as if
all his thoughts were engaged on numbers. The same process had begun
again now; so the Joneses concluded he was going to buy and sell more
cattle.

Mrs. Sydney inquired whether he was a pleasant inmate and a kind
neighbour. So far as he was sober and regular, Mrs. Jones replied, he
was a valuable lodger; but he did not often speak or smile at the
children; which would, she said, have been the best way of gaining her.
He took no notice of the neighbours, whether they laughed at him for a
miser, or whether he might have laughed in his turn at their petitions
for a loan of money. Altogether, those who cared for Paul had as much
sorrow as comfort on his account; for if it was a pleasant thing to see
one who was once a beggar acquiring property every day, it was a sad
thought that he could not enjoy his earnings reasonably, but pinched
himself with want and care as much as if he had still been a beggar.

“However,” added Jones’s wife, “I have no right to find fault with his
way of disposing of his wages any more than my neighbours have with
mine. If I complain of their laughing at me and my husband, Paul may
complain of my finding fault with him. Only he does not mind these
things as I do.”

In explanation of this, Mr. Wallace told his companions that the Joneses
were ridiculed by some of their neighbours for not getting employment
for all their children at the iron-work, which would make the family
quite rich at present. Instead of doing this, at the risk of being all
out of work at once by and by, the parents had chosen to apprentice one
of their boys to a shoemaker at Newport, and another to a smith, while
only one was employed on the works. The neighbours boasted that no
expenses of apprenticeship were likely to fall on them, while at the
same time they were earning more than Jones’s family would ever be
making at one time; and were continually urging that the young shoemaker
should be brought home to be made a catcher, and the little smith to be
a straightener.

“Keep to your own plan, I advise you,” said Mr. Bernard. “If you do not
repent it now, you never will; for there can scarcely be better days for
our works, and there will probably be worse.”

Mrs. Wallace had all this time been playing with the children, for she
was not afraid of _them_. She had let the little one hide its face in
her muff, and had listened while the older one told her how mammy let
her help to make the bed, and how she was learning to hem her own
pinafore, and how she could thread a needle for Mr. Paul when he was
mending a coat. Mrs. Wallace had been laughing with the children, but
looked so grave the instant their mother turned round, that Jones’s wife
thought she was offended with the little ones, and chid them for their
freedom, so that they went and hid themselves. This was all a mistake;
but it was no fault of Mrs. Jones’s, for she could not possibly suppose
the lady liked to be treated with freedom while she looked so grave upon
it and said nothing.

                      ----------------------------


                               CHAPTER V.


                         HOW TO USE PROSPERITY.


When the spring advanced, it was observed by many people that Armstrong
had not been at church for several Sundays. He had been seen alive and
well, during the week-days, by many people; so there were no
apprehensions about him; but Mr. Wallace was so curious to know the
reason of his absence, that he inquired very particularly of Mr.
Hollins, whom he often met.

“He has become a great theologian,” replied Mr. Hollins. “He tells me
that he now studies his Bible and religious books for six hours out of
the twenty-four. I cannot think how he manages it, for his garden looks
as well as usual, and we play the flute as formerly, only he sends me
away somewhat earlier in the evenings. I tell him I shall appear at his
window some night when the clock strikes twelve, to see if he is at his
books then.”

“Take care how you do that, Mr. Hollins. He will shoot you for a thief.
But has his study of the Bible made him leave off going to church? Such
a pursuit generally leads the other way.”

“He says he was always fond of worshipping in the open air, as Adam and
Eve did; and he finds so much in the Bible about the multitudes being
collected in the wilderness to hear the word, that having an opportunity
just now of doing the same, he is disposed to try this new, or, as he
says, very ancient method. Now, there is a company of Ranters near who
preach among the hills about two miles off; and he attends their
ministry every Sunday morning.”

“One would think,” replied Mr. Wallace, “that he had read nothing of
synagogues in the Bible, or of the Christians assembling under a roof
for worship. However, it matters little where a pious heart pays its
devotions; and Armstrong’s worship, pure and sincere, I doubt not, will
be acceptable whether it rises from the hill-side or the house of
prayer. Do you know how he likes his new practice?”

“He complains terribly of the psalm-tunes being new-fangled and
difficult to sing; but he enjoys having so much space to sing in, and
likes all the rest of the service very well, except now and then, when
he would fain dispute a knotty point with the preachers.”

“And how do the preachers like him?”

“They are no respecters of persons, you know: but they are naturally
pleased at having made such a convert, and never forget the observance
due to his age. I perceive he is always seated in a sheltered place on a
windy day, and that pains are taken to furnish him with the hymns, and
to make the service perfectly audible to him. All this is natural, and
right enough, and he has no objection to it.”

“You speak as if you went sometimes.”

“I do; and it would be worth while your going once or twice to witness
the Sunday customs of your people; for a great number attend these
Ranters.”

It was curious enough that Mr. Wallace’s curricle came in sight of the
mountain-path which led off from the road to the Ranters’ place of
meeting, just when Armstrong and Mr. Hollins were turning into it. They
stopped at the sound of the carriage.

“I wish,” said Mr. Hollins, “that you would allow me to drive Mrs.
Wallace, while you go with our good friend to the church he likes best.”

“Make haste either way,” said Armstrong, “for we are full late, I am
afraid.”

In a moment the gentlemen had changed places, and Mr. Wallace was
striding along the rough path, trying to keep up with his vigorous old
friend.

They were all full late. The silence, preparatory to opening the
service, was so profound, that Mr. Wallace was taken by surprise, when a
sudden turn brought them into the presence of a thousand people, seated
in ranks upon the grass, in a recess between two hills. A few idle boys
were playing hide-and-seek among the furze: bushes on the ridge of the
hill, and some spectators walked slowly round the outskirts of the
congregation; but all besides was as still as in a church at the time of
prayer. It seemed as if the service had been delayed for Armstrong; for
as soon as he and his companion had taken the seat which had evidently
been reserved, a movement took place in the waggon which served for a
pulpit, and a man stood up to address the assembled hearers.

This man explained that owing to the illness of the preacher who usually
conducted the service that duty devolved upon himself, who had hitherto
taken only a very humble part in the offices of the day. He trusted that
the word of grace would be acceptable, from whatever lips it came; and
had, therefore, taken upon him the preacher’s office, rather than
dismiss them without their accustomed worship.

“This person,” whispered Armstrong, “is more fit to preach than many a
trained clergyman, if I may judge by what I have heard. He generally
acts only as clerk; but I once heard an address from him, which makes me
very glad of an opportunity of hearing him again.”

Mr. Wallace was in too much astonishment to reply, for this man was
Paul.

This remarkable fact being once established, nothing very surprising
followed; for Mr. Wallace knew enough of Paul to suppose that his
service would be, as it proved, very good. He only could not help
guessing what the subject of his sermon would be, and hoping that his
text would be, “Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth.” It was,
however, one from which Paul could preach with more propriety, “Thou
shalt not steal.”

It was now Armstrong’s turn to do something which appeared strange. He
started when the text was given out, and listened with extraordinary
eagerness for some time. At length, when the preacher began to describe
the pangs of conscience which disturb the thief, even while no human eye
has seen, and no human heart suspected, his guilt, Armstrong rose,
mounted the waggon, took his stand beside the preacher, and looked again
and again round the assembled hearers, shading his eyes with his hand,
and gazing as if he would read every countenance. Paul himself paused
for an instant, and looked surprised; but probably supposed, like Mr.
Wallace, that it was merely a whim of the old man’s. It was no whim; and
the accidental choice of this text and subject was a fortunate
circumstance for Armstrong’s peace of mind; for he was now firmly
convinced that none of those with whom he was accustomed to worship on
the Lord’s-day, were those who had invaded his repose and his property
by night. Prejudiced as he was against all that was done, and against
everybody concerned in the iron-works, he had always suspected that the
thieves came from a different quarter, and that there were persons
better informed than any of Mr. Wallace’s labourers of the extent of his
wealth and the place where it was deposited.

Mr. Wallace watched what Paul would do when the service was over and the
people were dispersing. He took not the slightest notice of anybody by
word or sign, but stood leaning against a tree with his arms folded,
following the groups with his eyes as they parted off among the hills.
As the last of them disappeared, Mr. Wallace and his companion
approached the preacher and thanked him for his service, and asked if he
was about to proceed homewards. He was, and they took the same path in
company.

“You speak so seldom,” said Mr. Wallace to Paul, “that I suppose you
think a great deal; and the society we live in gives a reflective man
much to think about.”

“Indeed it does,” replied Paul. “We speak of society as one thing, and
regard men in the mass; but what a variety of interests there is among
them! Scarcely any two find their chief satisfaction in the same
pursuit; and it is this which makes it so difficult to get at the hearts
of men. For instance, there might be two or three who would be
interested in the subject of my sermon, but how many more would feel
they had no concern in it! What is the use and what the interest of such
an address to yourself and Mr. Armstrong, or to any others who are
thoroughly honest or placed out of the reach of temptation to steal?”

“Its interest seemed to be very great to Armstrong,” observed Mr.
Wallace.

“As an observer,” added Paul. “He looked to see how other people were
affected by it, which is a very different thing from being himself
affected. I was surprised at his eagerness too.”

Armstrong made no other reply than a smile to the inquiring looks of his
companions. Paul proceeded:—

“We should each have a sermon to ourselves, and one every day of the
week, if preaching is to balance its power against the other powers
which act upon us. There is Jones, my host; he is always thinking about
establishing his sons well in the world; that is his chief interest. As
for his wife, she is taken up with making her husband comfortable and
cherishing her babies.”

“What sort of a sermon would you preach to them?”

“I could only tell them what they feel already—that the pure in heart
are blessed. If any pursuits are pure, theirs are; and if any people are
blessed, they are this day, with their good, promising children about
them, and love and comfort within their door. Then there are their
neighbours, the Davisons; there pleasures are of a very different
kind,—a glass of spirits each at the end of the day, and a debauch at
the fair as often as they can get there. I would preach a very short
sermon to them. I would send them trooping, bag and baggage, instead of
letting them corrupt the morals and laugh at the sobriety of their
neighbours, and waste the capital which they ought to employ for the
good of society. The money they lay out in gin and gaming would stock a
shop.”

“And what sort of a sermon would you preach to me, Paul?” asked
Armstrong, “and what is my chief interest?”

“Your chief interest is yourself, and therefore my sermon would be a
pretty severe one,” answered Paul. “But it is a harmless, good-natured
self, so I would make allowance. But I can’t forgive your great sin
against society.”

“You mean my living by myself.”

“Live where you please: but how do you justify it to yourself to share
the benefits of society when you do nothing in return? You enjoy the
fruits of the labour and capital of others,—you drink your tea from the
East Indies and your coffee from the West; you read your newspaper,
which is the production of a hundred brains and pairs of hands; you—”

“But I pay for all I use.”

“You do, because you could have nothing without; but not a single
service do you render to society that you could avoid, while the means
are hourly within your reach. Every man in society ought to belong to
one class of producers or the other, or to stimulate production by
useful though unproductive labour. You are not like the labourer who
adds to his employer’s capital, nor yet like the capitalist who,
assisted by the labourer, increases the resources of society; nor yet
like the professional man who, by improving the social state, opens new
demands for the comforts and pleasures of life. You would be a better
citizen if you were a surgeon in the next town, or a partner in this
concern, or the humblest labourer about the works.”

“You would preach to me from the parable of the talents, I suppose?”

“Exactly so. You understand your own case, I see. I should tell you that
the unprofitable servant might be a man of very fine tastes. He might be
a star-gazer, or a musician, or a politician, or particularly fond of
gardening; but he would still be an unprofitable servant while he hid
the money committed to him. It matters little whether it was in a napkin
under the ground or in a chest under the bed.”

Mr. Wallace seeing that Armstrong looked troubled, asked Paul how he
would set about lecturing _him_.

“I have less fault to find with you than with most people,” replied
Paul, who put such perfect good-humour into his manner that it was
almost impossible to be offended with his freedom. “Your chief earthly
interest is,—what it ought to be,—your lady; and next to her, the
prosperity of the people about you. This latter you understand well, and
manage wisely.”

“And not the former?”

“I think you will wish, some time or other, that rather less of your
expenditure had been of the unproductive kind. I know you are too much
of a man of principle to spend the whole income of a fluctuating capital
in an unproductive manner; but I should like to see fewer ponies and
grooms and lady’s maids, and furs and cachemires and similar luxuries.”

“Surely,” said Mrs. Wallace, “when my income is the fruit of my own
capital, and my own exertions in employing it, I may fairly indulge my
wife and myself in a few luxuries which I can well afford.”

“Very fairly. The only question is, to what extent. If you think it
probable that you will continue to enrich society by the accumulation of
your capital in any proportion whatever, you are justified in laying out
the rest of your income as you and your lady please. But if less
prosperous days should come, and you must employ more capital for a less
return, your lady may find it a harder thing to walk than if she had
never had a carriage, and to dress her own hair than if she had kept her
hand in all this time.”

Mr. Wallace could not help smiling at Paul’s business-like way of
speaking of a lady’s toilet. Paul saw that he gave no offence and went
on.

“Mr. Bernard’s family seem to me to have found the right medium. The
lads show by the way they set about learning their business that they
have been used to put their souls into their pursuits, and the young
ladies and Mrs. Sidney were out on foot every day during the winter in
their cloth cloaks and stout shoes, and they seldom went back without
carrying a blessing with them. Not that they gave alms. Nobody here
wants any, thank Heaven! and if any one did, Mrs. Sidney knows there is
no real kindness in giving away money as alms. But they attached the
people to them, and put them in the way of managing better, and helped
to keep up good-will among neighbours, and incited many a one to
industry by proper encouragement. These are the personal services the
rich are called upon to render; and to this Mr. Bernard adds an
expenditure which can never be repented of. I was in his drawing-room
once, and I saw at a glance the nature of his luxuries.”

“What did you see?”

“Every thing that was useful and comfortable in the way of furniture,
and all that was handsome and genteel in the dress of the ladies. But I
was more struck with the books and the globes and the musical
instruments and the pictures.”

“Then you do not object to all luxuries?”

“O dear no. Whatever helps to inform the mind and improve the taste is a
proper object of pursuit to those who can afford it. It is a productive
expenditure in a very high sense. Mr. Bernard will, I hope, live to see
a fine return for the money he spends on his library in the talent and
knowledge which his sons will employ in the service of society. And the
accomplishments of his daughters will not only increase the domestic
pleasures of all connected with them, but stimulate production, if you
will have the whole matter before you. Harps and pianos are made up of
labour and capital as much as pig-iron.”

“What a romantic lover you would make!” said Mr. Wallace, laughing.
“What a strange figure you would cut in high life if you carried your
method of reasoning into an exalted station!”

“If more men did so,” said Paul with a deep sigh; “if, while the great
are possessed of their grandeur, they thought as much of its sources as
when they are stripped of it, there would be a more just gradation of
ranks than there is; there would be no starving paupers on the steps of
a palace; there would be no excess in the highest or riot in the lowest
classes of society. The worst faults of the extremes of society would be
done away if those extremes were brought nearer together. If the rich
were more thoughtful and the poor more clear-sighted, both might be
surrounded with the luxuries most proper for them: the great man might
have unreproached his assemblies of the learned and the gay, and the
labourer might refresh himself with his newspaper or his flute when the
task of the day is over, while the rose and the jessamine bloom beside
his cottage door.—And now,” continued Paul, while his companions
remained silent, “I have preached five sermons where I promised only
one, so you will be glad if I wish you good day.”

“Stay,” said Mr. Wallace, “you must give us our turn. Do you think you
need no admonishing?”

“I need it and I have it. My lot is my best admonition.”

“I see no evil in your lot but what you inflict on yourself. Short rest
and long toil, scanty food and warmth, solitude and care,—these are
severe evils, but they are your own choice.”

“They are, and therefore they are not evils to me. They are means to the
attainment of my great end, and that end is—wealth.”

His companions looked astonished at so bare-faced a confession. “What
can you mean?” “How do you justify it?” “What, then, are the evils of
your lot?” they asked impatiently.

“One question at a time,” said Paul quietly. “I mean, that as all the
good and all the evil of my life thus far have been connected with
wealth, and as I am so made that I must have one great interest, it is
natural that I should be passionately devoted to the pursuit of wealth.
I mean that I am a miser.”

“And how do you justify yourself for being a miser? For I suppose, as
you are not ashamed to own it, you think you can justify it.”

“I do not pretend to justify it, any more than the drunkard pretends to
justify the vice he cannot deny. I do not even make the allowance for
myself which you would make for me if you knew all that I could tell. My
first choice of an object in life was bad. It was snatched from me, and
I have chosen another equally bad. Heaven knows whether I shall be
baffled here too, and whether I shall have strength enough to make
another choice. Meantime, the misery of my lot is warning enough, if all
warning were not in vain.—You ask what this misery is. Sleepless nights,
when I lie cold and hungry and weary, fancying all the mischances that
may happen to my earnings: incessant self-reproach when I think I have
lost an opportunity of making profit; teazing thoughts of pounds,
shillings, and pence, when I would now and then think of other
things;—all these are evils, are they not? I cannot listen to a running
stream, or sit watching the fieldfares in a clear winter day, or follow
the sheep-track among the heath on a summer’s evening, with the light
heart I once had; for I always have the feeling that I am wasting my
time, since these things can bring me no gold. If I think of prayer, my
lips will say nothing but ‘Thou canst not serve both God and Mammon.’ Is
not this an evil? Could you preach me a better sermon than God speaks in
his word and in the mountain breeze?”

There was a long silence; for Paul looked so deeply moved by his own
self-reproaches that neither of his companions ventured to address him.
At length, he stopped as if he was about to leave them.

“Beware,” said he to Armstrong, “of despising my hints about your way of
life because I have condemned my own. Remember that however much I
injure myself, I serve society after a certain manner. Not by example, I
own. In this, I can only be of use as a warning,—a humbling thought to a
proud man.—But I not only pay my way honestly, like you, but I am
providing wealth for others. It benefits them already, for I put it out
to use. It will benefit them again when I am dead. May it never more
make any one so wretched as it makes me!”

“Are you a man,” said Mr. Wallace solemnly, “and do you yet submit to
such bondage? I could not acknowledge such slavery for an hour. Break
your habits of care, and enjoy the life a good God has given you. Think
of the days when your father’s smile was what you loved best, when your
mother’s voice was your sweetest music, when perhaps there were
playmates beside you whom you loved more than you now love gold. Be a
child again in heart while you are a man in understanding, and then you
will be at ease without and at peace within.”

Paul made no reply, but turned away to hide the workings of his face,
and with long strides crossed the ridge of the hill and disappeared.

                      ----------------------------


                              CHAPTER VI.


                               DISASTERS.


The change of times of which Mr. Wallace was ever mindful came at last.
At the end of three years the price of bar-iron was just half what it
had been in the days we have described. There were many perceivable
reasons for this change. The political state of various countries was
unsettled, and trade in general therefore, disturbed. The quantity of
iron produced by the flow of capital and labour to that department had
more than met the immediate demand, and there was a glut in the market.
It was hoped that this glut was only temporary; but there was much doubt
whether the demand for bar-iron from South Wales would ever again be as
extensive as formerly, for the Welsh iron-masters had now rivals abroad.
In America and in various parts of Europe, establishments for the
preparation of iron were beginning to flourish at the expense of those
of longer standing in our own country. Where the iron-stone, coal, and
limestone were of good quality, and the works were situated near some
navigable river, their produce could be brought into the market at
little more than half the price for which the Welsh iron-masters could
afford to sell theirs.

This circumstance seemed to destroy the hope that the works in which we
are interested could ever more enjoy the prosperity which had been their
lot for a few years. Many a sigh escaped from their masters as they were
obliged to diminish their profits again and again; and many a curse did
the least wise amongst their people vent upon the French or the
Americans who took their trade from them; forgetting that as nature had
scattered her mineral treasures over various regions of the earth, all
their inhabitants have an equal right to use those treasures as the
interest of society may prompt. What men have to do is not to refrain,
or to expect others to refrain, from using the materials put within the
reach of all; but by industry and ingenuity so to improve the resources
of art as that the greatest possible number of men may share the
benefit; in other words, that the produce may be made as excellent and
as cheap as possible. To render any article of production more and more
cheap, and more and more excellent, is the only way to create a
permanent demand; as the competition among producers which has always
subsisted, and always will and ought to subsist, can only be met by
bringing the article into more general use. So that Mr. Wallace’s
labourers, instead of cursing their competitors on the other side of the
water, had better have aided their employer in devising means for
improving his manufacture, and thus becoming better able to stand a
competition which could not be prevented.

The affairs of the concern underwent perpetual and anxious consideration
by the partners. They thought apart, they consulted together, they
exercised the greatest possible care to promote the interest of all
concerned in all their measures. Knowing that it is an unfounded
prejudice that the interests of the two parties united in production can
be opposed to each other, they wished that their men should understand
the reasons of their measures and approve of them, and were therefore
ever ready to converse with such as made their complaints or proposed
their doubts in a reasonable manner. Some such there were, and some had
already informed themselves sufficiently respecting the fluctuations to
which trade is liable, to be more sorry than surprised at the present
state of things; but there were many more who were ignorant enough to
suppose that their earnings were never to be lessened, however the
fortunes of their masters might be suffering; and who made as heavy
complaints at every mention of a reduction of wages as if they had been
treated with injustice. It was hard for the partners, who were as
benevolent as they were discreet, to bear these complaints in addition
to their own change of fortune; but they would willingly have listened
to them, if the grumblers would in turn have heard their reply. This,
however, the men were unwilling to do. If they had chosen, they might
have known that the affairs of the concern stood thus.

The capital employed in this iron-work was made up, as we have seen, of
three parts,—the implements of labour, the material on which labour was
to be employed, and the subsistence, or wages, of labourers.—Of these
three parts, the first, comprehending the buildings, machinery, and
tools, came under the head of fixed capital. The second and third,
comprehending the mineral material of the manufacture and the wages of
the work-people who carried it on, constituted the reproducible capital
of the concern. The fixed capital had not itself brought in any profit;
its purpose had been to enable the reproducible capital to bring in a
profit: that is, the furnaces and steam-engine had yielded no money
themselves, but were necessary to bring the iron-stone into a saleable
shape. When the bar-iron sold well, it not only paid the owners the
interest of the money they had laid out as fixed capital, and whatever
they had spent in iron-stone and in wages, but a great deal over for
profit. This profit was called their revenue, and out of it they paid
the expenses of living, and then added what remained to their capital,
which enabled them to employ more labour, to produce more iron, and
therefore to increase again their revenue and their capital. If all had
proceeded smoothly, if there had been a continually increasing demand
and no foreign competition, it is clear that the wealth of the partners
and the prosperity of the concern would have gone on continually
increasing; but as it did not, a change in the employment of the capital
became necessary.

It is common to speak of two kinds of revenue. That which we have
mentioned,—the profits of capital,—is called neat revenue; while the
name of gross revenue is given to the whole return made to the
capitalist; that is, his reproduced capital and his profits together
make his gross revenue, and his profits alone make his neat revenue.

When the price of bar-iron fell, the gross revenue was of course less
than it had been; so that when the capital was replaced, a smaller neat
revenue than usual remained. The partners immediately did what all wise
men do in such a case,—they diminished the expenses of living. Mr.
Bernard dismissed two of his household servants, and did not indulge his
children with a journey that year, and bought very few books, and left
off many luxuries. Mr. Wallace laid down his curricle; and his lady sent
away her maid and got her hand in again, as Paul would have said, to
dress her hair. These retrenchments did not effect all the partners
wished, and, for the first time since they opened their concern, they
added nothing to their capital at the end of the year. The next year,
though they retrenched still further, their neat revenue was not enough
for their family expenses, and they were compelled to consider what
retrenchments they could carry into their business as well as their
domestic management. They knew that the grand point they must aim at,
for the sake of all, was to keep their capital entire; for the less
capital they laid out, the less labour they could employ, and the less
iron they would send into the market, and their gross and neat revenue
would dwindle away year by year.

It was evident that their fixed capital must be left as it was. Whenever
any change was made in that department, it must be to add to it; not by
building more furnaces, but by substituting machinery,—hoarded
labour,—for the labour which demanded wages; but this would not be done
till the effect of a reduction of wages had been tried. Whatever change
was made, therefore, must be with respect to the reproducible capital.
Could any economy be carried into the preparation of the iron-stone? The
different parts of the process were pondered frequently with this view;
and the result was, that no change could at present be made in the first
fusion of the metal, but that the cinder which came from the refinery
and the forge might, by being mixed with a particular kind of earth, be
made to produce an inferior sort of iron which would sell well for
certain purposes. The experiment was tried and succeeded to some extent,
though not so triumphantly as was expected by Francis and his brother,
who had turned their attention long and industriously to this point.
They had hoped that the piles of cinder which formed so ugly an object
in their view would disappear by degrees under their new process; but
they were obliged to be content with using up that which was daily
thrown off in the manufacture of the superior kinds of iron.

What was to be done besides? The outlay of reproducible capital in wages
must be lessened. It was so. The first reduction was taken quietly; the
second excited murmurs among the ignorant, and fear and sorrow among the
clear-sighted of the sufferers; the third occasioned threats of actual
rebellion. Some of the men refused to work for such wages. Their masters
explained to them the necessity of keeping the works going, and
continuing to produce as much iron as possible, at however low a price,
in order to retain their stand in the market as long as their capital
could be returned entire. The men once more submitted, but were not long
quiet.

It became necessary to diminish the cost of production still further, as
prices continued to fall. It was found that parts of the work which were
now done by hand could be done more cheaply by mechanical contrivances;
and some new machinery was therefore introduced, and some men and boys
dismissed. This created an outcry; but how could it be helped? There was
no other way of preserving the capital of the concern, and on that
capital every man belonging to it depended as much as the partners. The
work-people to be dismissed were, of course, chosen from among the least
industrious and able. It was hoped by their masters and neighbours that
they would carry their labour where it was more wanted, and leave the
place in peace; but instead of this they remained till their last
farthing was spent, trying to persuade others to throw up their work
unless higher wages were given, and swearing at the machinery, and
abusing the owners, to the great annoyance of all sober people. Some who
went away to find work, returned continually to spread discontent
wherever they could, and to aggravate the existing distress by adding
ill-will to poverty and anxiety. On pay-days especially, they gathered
round the doors when the people went to receive their wages, and laughed
at them for the smallness of their earnings, and tried to exasperate
them by reminding them how much was now done by wood and iron that was
till lately wrought by human labour, and how prosperous they had all
been once when less machinery was in use. Some were too wise to be taken
in by all this, and answered, that the new machinery was the consequence
and not the cause of the change of times; and that prosperous as they
were three years before, they might have been more so if these
mechanical improvements had been then in use. But many more, who were
ignorant or so dispirited as to be ready to take up any cause of
complaint, allowed themselves to be deceived and persuaded that their
employers were conspiring to oppress them.

It soon after happened, most unfortunately, that a boy, who had in
charge the management of some part of the new machinery, was careless,
and put himself in the way of receiving a blow on the head, which killed
him on the spot. There was no more reason to complain of the new
machinery than the old on account of this accident. If the filler had
allowed himself to fall into the furnace, or the keeper had put himself
in the way of being burned when he tapped the hearth, or the catcher had
thrust his arm in the way of being crushed by the rollers, no one would
have blamed anything but their own carelessness; and so it ought to have
been in the present case. But the new invention was now to bear the
blame of everything, and people were present when the accident happened,
who took advantage of the occasion to work upon the feelings of the
discontented. It was a sad scene.

A sudden cry brought the overlooker to the spot. He found four or five
people gathered about the boy, who lay quite dead, with his skull
fractured and his face distorted, so that he was a terrible object. One
man was holding forth in a great passion, demanding whether their lives
were to be sported with at the fancy of those who chose to enjoy their
luxuries at the cost of the poor; if they must submit, not only to have
their work done for them before their faces, but to be liable to be
wounded and struck dead by a power which they could not resist? A cool,
wary-looking man, who stood by, appeared to check the furious orator,
but in reality inflamed his passion.

“You forget, my man,” said he, “that it must be a pleasant thing to our
employers to have slaves that want nothing to eat and drink, and ask no
wages and make no complaints. They find us very troublesome, because we
tell them we and our wives and little ones must live. Wood and iron have
no such tales to tell, so no wonder they are preferred to us.”

“They have no such tales to tell; and the saying is, that dead men tell
no tales; but this boy,” cried the passionate man, pointing to the body,
“shall tell a tale that shall rouse the spirit of all the oppressed
within many a mile. I will carry him from one end of the district to the
other; and all that want redress shall follow in his funeral train.”

“How will you frame your complaint?” asked the other quietly. “Our
masters will laugh and ask if it is their fault that iron breaks bones.
They will tell you that if the lad had been out of work, as they want us
all to be, this would not have happened. They will tell you that if he
had been loitering about the baker’s door, longing for the food he could
not buy, instead of being quietly at work——”

“O, my boy, my boy!” cried a dreadful voice at this moment. “I will see
my boy, I will see who murdered him, I will have revenge on whoever
murdered him! O, you are cruel to keep me away! I will have revenge on
ye all!”

It was the unhappy mother, who had heard that her son was killed, but
did not know how. She was so possessed by the idea that he had been
destroyed by human force, that when she saw him she was not undeceived,
and continued to vow revenge.

“Revenge is not so easy to be had,” observed the quiet man. “You may
pull the machine to pieces, but it will feel nothing, and so do you no
good; and they that put up the machine are too high for the revenge of
such as we are.”

“They are not,” cried the passionate man. “If we pull their works to
pieces, we only take what is our right as wages; and do you think it
will not gall our masters to see us take our own? If it did not, would
they not give us our own? As for you, poor creature,” he continued,
addressing the mother, who was passionately wailing over the body, “take
your own. Take the cold clay that should have been alive and strong
before you this many a year. Close his eyes that always looked bright
upon you. Nay, never grasp his hand in that manner. Those hands should
have brought you bread when your own are feeble; they should have
smoothed your pillow when you could only have raised yours to his head
to bless him. Cover up his face, you that stand there! His mother will
forget his pretty smile, and this ghastly look of his will haunt her,
night and day, till she goes to her grave. It is well he cannot smile
again; it would make her forget her revenge.”

“Who dares talk of revenge? Upon whom do you seek revenge?” cried a
powerful voice from the outskirts of the crowd, which had, by this time,
assembled. It was Paul, who had arrived so as to hear the last words,
and had more courage than the overlooker to interfere.

“I demand revenge,” shrieked the mother, starting up with clenched hands
and glaring eyes, while her hair fell over her shoulders.

“Was it you?” replied Paul in a gentle voice, as he made his way to her.
“I thought it had been another voice. Come with me,” he added, drawing
her arm within his own; “I will take you home. _He_ will follow,”—seeing
that she was going to lay hold of the body. “They will bring him home,
and you will be quieter there.”

“Quieter! quiet enough when I shall have no son to speak to me night nor
morning,” cried the woman, bursting into another passion of grief.

“She does not want quiet, she wants revenge, and it was my voice you
heard say so,” exclaimed the passionate man.

“Then you did not know what you were saying,” replied Paul gravely.

“You shall say the same, you shall be one of us, or I will knock you
down,” cried the man.

“I will not say so, for nobody has been injured that I know of——”

Paul could not proceed for the outcry. “Nobody injured! Was it no injury
for a widow woman to have her son killed at his work by an _unnatural
accident_ like this? She was as much injured as if his throat had been
cut before her eyes by the masters’ own hands.” Inflamed more than ever
by this outcry, the passionate man rushed upon Paul, and tried to knock
him down. But Paul had the advantage of being cool, and was besides a
very powerful man. He stood the attack, and then floored his adversary.
It was a dreadful sight to see the mother, who should by this time have
been hiding her grief at home, helping the fight. The flush and sneer of
passion were on her face as she tried to raise and encourage the fallen
man. Paul had nearly lost his temper on so unprovoked an attack; but one
glance at the woman brought tears into his eyes.

At this moment the clatter of a horse’s feet was heard, and Mr. Wallace,
who had been absent from the works for some hours, rode up. The
overlooker now seemed to recover the use of his limbs and his senses. He
made way for his employer, who showed by his countenance more than by
words how much he was shocked that such a scene should take place on
such an occasion. He rode between the two fighters, and desired them to
depart by opposite ways, gave the unhappy woman into the charge of the
overlooker, and sent the bystanders about their business.

In half an hour, Mrs. Wallace, who had heard of the accident merely from
common report, and knew none of the succeeding circumstances, was
sitting beside the poor woman, endeavouring to comfort her and to keep
her quiet from the intrusions of her neighbours. This was construed into
a new offence by the discontented; and when the sufferer was found to
have changed her tone, to speak calmly of her loss, and gratefully of
the attentions that were paid to her, she was told that the lady only
came to speak her fair and make her give up her revenge. One said they
had got something by their discontent already, for it was a fine thing
to see an elegant lady come on foot to a labourer’s cottage and sit down
as if she lived in a cottage herself; and another asked what sort of a
story she had wheedled the mourner into believing about the new
machinery.

The woman replied that it was not the first time by many that Mrs.
Wallace had come down among them, to say nothing of the other ladies,
who spoke with one or another every day of their lives. Mrs. Wallace was
a tender-hearted lady, she would say that for her, though she seemed
high when nothing happened to make her take particular notice. She had
never so much as mentioned the new machinery, and knew nothing about it,
it seemed. It was not to be supposed that ladies were told all that was
going on at the works; and though the offence was not to be forgiven or
forgotten, it was to be brought home to the partners and not to their
families, to whom she, for one, should never mention it.

“’Tis all the lady’s art,” cried one. “She has gained you over by a few
soft words,” said another. “I wonder you let yourself be so taken in,”
added a third; so that the poor woman, who was of a changeable temper at
all times, and now weakened by what had happened, was persuaded to think
as ill of Mrs. Wallace as her neighbours would have her.

When the lady came early after breakfast the next morning, she observed
that the children ran out to stare at her, and that their mothers looked
scornfully upon her from the windows. This was very painful to her; and
she passed on quickly till she reached the house of the woman she came
to seek. The door was locked, and when she tapped to ask admittance, a
lattice above was flung open, and she was told by a saucy voice that the
person she wanted did not wish to be interrupted.

“Will you come down, then, and let me speak a few words to you about the
funeral?”

The neighbour above drew back as if to repeat what was said. In a moment
the mourner (who could not be interrupted) took her place, and screamed
out like a virago, as she looked,—

“Let alone me and mine at your peril. They that killed my boy shall not
bury him.” And she continued to pour out such a torrent of abuse that
the lady, who had never before heard such language, was ready to sink to
the ground. Her servant-boy, who had stayed a little behind on an
errand, now came up, and looked so fierce on those who dared to insult
his lady, that her fear of the consequences recalled her presence of
mind. When her spirit was once roused, no one had more courage or good
sense. Determining instantly what to do, she held up her finger as a
sign to John to be quiet, laid her commands on him to make no reply to
anything that was said, and stood at the window-sill to write a few
words on a slip of paper which she bade him carry to Mr. Bernard or one
of his sons, absolutely forbidding him to let her husband know, even if
he should meet him, how she was placed.

“I cannot leave you, ma’am, among these wretches,” cried John, looking
round on the mob of women and children who were collecting.

“Do not call them wretches, or look as if there was anything to be
afraid of,” said his mistress, “but make haste, and then come to me
under that tree.”

What she had written was, “Say nothing to my husband, but come and help
me to clear up a mistake of some consequence.” When John disappeared
with the note, which everybody had seen her write, the cry of abuse rose
louder than ever. It was hard to bear; but the lady felt that if she
retreated now, she should lose her own and injure her husband’s
influence for ever among these people. The thought came across her, too,
that she might owe some of this to the reserve of her usual demeanour;
and as a punishment also she resolved to stand it well. She therefore
only made her way to the tree she had pointed out, and sat down under
it; a necessary proceeding, for she could scarcely stand. There she
waited for John’s return with Mr. Bernard, longing to look every instant
whether they were coming, but carefully refraining from turning her head
that way, lest the people should see her anxiety.

“What is all this?” cried Mr. Bernard, when at length he arrived
breathless, with John at his heels, wiping his brows. “Have these people
dared to hurt you?”

“No: they have only railed at me, so that I could not make myself heard;
and I want you to help me to find out why. Keep your temper, I implore
you. I sent for you instead of my husband, because I was afraid he would
not command himself.”

John was eager to explain why he had been so long. Mr. Bernard was not
at the office, as John expected. Mr. Wallace was, and John had much ado
to avoid telling him; but he held his peace and went on his errand. It
seemed as if he had been gone for hours, he said, for he did not know
what might have happened in his absence.

Mr. Bernard knew more of the present disposition and complaints of the
people than Mrs. Wallace, and—what was on this occasion of as much
consequence—he had a stronger voice; so that he soon got to the bottom
of the matter.

He showed them the folly of supposing that the lady’s object was
different now from what it had been in many former cases where she had
shown kindness; and began to rate them soundly for their ingratitude and
savage behaviour, when the lady interceded for them. When he stopped to
listen to her, there was a dead silence. She said that she did not wish
them to be reproached more than she was sure they would soon reproach
themselves; that she did not come among them for the sake of making them
grateful to her, but in order to show her good-will at times when
good-will is worth more than anything else that can be given. As long as
her neighbours were willing to accept this good-will as freely as it was
offered, she should come among them, undeterred by the mistakes about
her motives which a few might fall into; but that no person was called
upon to encounter a second time such treatment as she had met with that
day; and therefore, unless she was sent for, she should not appear among
them again. If this should be the last time they should ever speak to
one another, she hoped they would remember it was not by her wish, but
their own.

The people were now in a condition to hear reason, and they believed the
lady’s assurance, that when she came down the day before, she knew
nothing whatever of the cause of the boy’s death, and was silent on the
subject of the new machinery only because she had no idea how much the
people were thinking and feeling on the subject. She was ready
henceforth to talk about it as much as they pleased.

When she stood up and took Mr. Bernard’s arm to go homewards, nothing
could exceed the attention of the people—so changeable were they in
their moods. One brought water, which the lady accepted with a kind
smile; and glad she was of it, for she was very thirsty. The mourner’s
door was now wide open; and, with many curtseys, Mrs. Wallace was
invited to enter and rest herself. This, however, she declined for the
present day. The mothers called their children off as a huntsman calls
off his dogs, and the hunted lady was at last left in peace with her
friend and her servant. When Mr. Bernard had left her safe at home, her
spirits sank. She did not fall into hysterics, nor alarm her household
with an account of what she had gone through; but she sat alone in her
dressing-room, dropping many a bitter tear over the blindness and folly
of the people whose happiness seemed quite overthrown, and unable to
keep down a thousand fears of what was to happen next.

                      ----------------------------


                              CHAPTER VII.

                              DISCONTENTS.


The delusion that the improvement in machinery was the cause of a change
in the times, and not the consequence of the future remedy for such a
change, had become too general and too firmly established in this
society to be removed by a few explanations or strong impressions here
and there. Discontent grew hourly; and the complaints which had before
been divided between the American and French iron-works, the rivals in
the neighbourhood, the government of the country, and the whole body of
customers who would not give so high a price as formerly for their iron,
were now turned full upon the new machinery and those who had set it up.
Growlings met the ears of the partners whereever they turned; the young
men had to keep a constant restraint upon their tempers, and the ladies
directed their walks where they might be out of hearing of threats which
alarmed or murmurings which grieved them.

Two days after Mrs. Wallace’s adventure, her husband, on rising from the
breakfast-table, saw Armstrong coming in at the gate.

“It is a sign of the times that you are here,” said he, as he shook
hands with the old man. “How are we to read it?”

“As your discretion may direct when you have heard my story,” replied
the old man gravely.

Mr. Wallace looked doubtfully at him, as if to ask whether they had not
better save his wife from alarm by being private. Armstrong understood
him.

“Sit down, madam, if you please,” said he. “Women are not often so
cowardly as they are said to be, if they are but treated fairly, and
given to understand what they are to expect. It is too much to look for
courage from such as know that the worst they have to dread is often
kept from them. So you shall hear, ma’am, and judge for yourself. Only
do not turn pale before I begin, or you will make me look ashamed of
having so little to tell.”

Comforted by the end of this speech as much as she had been alarmed by
the beginning, Mrs. Wallace smiled in answer to her husband’s anxious
looks, and drew her chair to listen.

Armstrong related that he had observed from his garden, after working
hours the evening before, an unusual number of people sauntering about a
field at a considerable distance from his dwelling. He had called his
housekeeper out to look and guess what it might be. She had once seen
Punch in a field with a crowd; and her only idea, therefore, was that it
might be Punch; and when her master sent her for his telescope, she
fixed it at the window before she brought it, and was almost sure she
saw a stand with a red curtain such as she had seen when Punch appeared
to her. Her master, however, who was not apt to see visions through his
glass, could make out nothing but that all the people in the field
seemed to be now collected in one place, and that one man was raised
above the rest, and apparently haranguing them. He instantly resolved to
go, partly from curiosity, and partly because he expected to hear
complaints of the management of the neighbouring concern, complaints
which, kind-hearted as he was, he loved to hear, because they confirmed
his prejudices, which were dearer to him than even his friend Mr.
Wallace or Mr. Wallace’s gentle wife. He did not give the account of his
motives exactly as we have given it; but he conveyed it clearly enough
by what he said to make Mr. and Mrs. Wallace glance at each other with a
smile.

He arrived on the spot only in time for the conclusion of the last
speech, from which he gathered that the object of the meeting was to
consider what measures should be taken with their employers to induce
them to alter such of their plans as were displeasing to their men; and
that it was determined that a deputation should wait upon the partners
to demand that the quantity of labour which was displaced by machinery
should be restored to human hands. In order to try the disposition of
the masters, it was also to be demanded that every man, woman, and child
in the society, except the few necessary to attend to the furnaces,
should be allowed to follow the funeral of the deceased boy the next
day. If both requests were refused, the people were to take their own
way about attending the funeral, and another meeting was to be held
round the boy’s grave, as soon as the service was over. Armstrong’s
description of the vehemence with which this last resolution was agreed
to, convinced Mr. Wallace that it was time to take more decided measures
for keeping the peace than he had yet thought would be necessary. While
he was musing, Armstrong continued,—

“I hate your iron-work, and everything (not everybody) belonging to it,
as you know; but I had rather see it quietly given up than pulled to
pieces. So, if you will let me, I will go and tell the magistrates in
the next town the condition you are in, and bid them send a sufficient
force for your safety. I am afraid there is no chance of your giving up
your new-fangled machinery.”

“No chance whatever,” replied Mr. Wallace decidedly. “If we give up that
we give up the bread of the hundreds who depend on us for employment. By
means of this machinery, we can just manage to keep our business going,
without laying by any profit whatever. If we give up any one of our
measures of economy, the concern must be closed and all these people
turned adrift. I shall tell them so, if they send a deputation to-day.”

Armstrong contented himself with shaking his head, as he had nothing
wherewith he could gainsay Mr. Wallace. At length he asked what Mr.
Wallace chose to do.

“To refuse both demands, stating my reasons. I am sure my partner will
act with me in this. As to your kind offer of going to the magistrates,
I will, if you please, consult him, and let you know in an hour or two.
I have little doubt we shall accept your services; but I can do nothing
so important without Mr. Bernard’s concurrence. Where will my messenger
find you?”

“At home in my garden. But take care how you choose your messenger. Some
of the people saw me in the field last night, and if anybody goes
straight from you to me to-day, they may suspect something. I took care
to come by a round-about way where nobody could see me; and by the same
way I shall go back.”

“But why go back? Why not stay where nobody will be looking for you?”

“Because home is one stage of my journey to the town, and I can slip
away quietly from my own gate. By the way, your messenger must be one
who will not blab his errand to my housekeeper or to any one he may
meet. Peg is silent enough when there is no one for her to speak to; but
we cannot tell in these strange days who may cross her path.”

Who should the messenger be? Mrs. Wallace offered her services, thinking
that a lady would hardly be suspected; but her husband would not hear of
her stirring out that day.

“Why not use a signal?” asked Armstrong at length. “A white handkerchief
tells no tales, and I can see your windows plainly enough with my glass
from my garden hedge. So hang out your flag and I shall know.”

This was at once pronounced the best plan; and it was agreed that at
three o’clock precisely (by which time the temper of the deputation
would be known) Armstrong should watch for the signal. If he saw a white
handkerchief, all would be well, and he might stay at home; if a red, he
was to go to the magistrates and state the case, and leave them to judge
what force should be provided for the defence of the works. Mr. Wallace
furnished the old man with a written certificate that he was authorised
by the firm, and then bidding his wife hope for the best, hastened away
to business. Armstrong also took his leave; and the three meditated, as
they pursued their different occupations, on the ignorance and weakness
through which members of the same society, who ought to work together
for the good of each and all, are placed in mutual opposition, and waste
those resources in contest which ought to be improved by union.

During the whole morning the partners remained on the spot in
expectation of the message they were to receive from the great body of
their work people; but none came. All went quietly on with their
business as if no unusual proceeding was meditated; so that when two
o’clock came, Mr. Wallace went home to comfort his wife with the tidings
that she might hang out a white flag. There was no use in speculating on
what had changed the plan of the discontented; it was certain that no
pretence remained for sending for civil or military protection.
Relieved, for the present, of a load of anxiety, the lady ran up stairs
to prepare her signal with a step as light as any with which she had
ever led off a dance; while, on the distant height, Margaret wondered
what had possessed John Armstrong that he could not mind his work this
day, but must be peering through his glass every minute, till, after a
long, low whistle, he laid it aside and looked no more. She was almost
moved to ask him what he had seen; but habit was stronger than impulse
with her, and she held her peace.

When Mr. Wallace went down to the works again, he observed that Paul,
who, as furnace-keeper, was accustomed to keep his eye on his work as
steadily as an astronomer on a newly-discovered star, looked up as his
employer’s step drew near, and met his eye with a glance full of
meaning. Mr. Wallace stopped; but as several people were by, explanation
was impossible. “Paul, I want to know——but there is no use in asking you
a question while you are busy. You will be meddled with by nobody at
this time of day.”

“I had rather be questioned in broad day, when I am about my work,”
replied Paul with another quick glance, “than at night when I am snug at
home and think it is all over till the next day.”

“O ho!” thought Mr Wallace, “I understand. Well, but,” he continued,
“the question I was going to ask is not about your furnace-work, but one
of your other trades. If I came to you in the evening, I suppose you
would bolt your door and send me away without an answer.”

“Not so,” said Paul; “for I think every man that asks a fair question
should have a plain answer. Such a one I would give with all civility;
but when that was done, I should say this was no time for talk, and wish
you good evening.”

“And if I would not go till I had got all I wanted, would you call Jones
and his lads to turn me out by force?”

“Not the first time; but if you grew angry at being sent away, I should
take good care how I let you come near me again in a passion. If you put
a finger on my work-bench, I should call the Joneses to rap your
knuckles and cry ‘Hands off!’ So you see, sir, what you have to expect.”

“You are a strange fellow,” said Mr. Wallace; “but I thank you for
warning me how to behave.”

“It would be well if he behaved himself a little more mannerly,” said
one of the work-people near. “If any of us were to threaten a gentleman
in that manner, what an outcry there would be about it!”

“Paul is an oddity, and does not mind being thought so,” observed Mr.
Wallace. “But he shows us the respect of doing our work well, and taking
as much care of our interests as if they were his own. Blunt speech and
fair deeds for me, rather than fair words and rough deeds.”

“What do you think of rough words and deeds together?” said another
workman. “They seem likely to be the order of the day.”

“No man is bound to put up with them,” replied his employer. “Here, at
least, they shall not be borne.”

The man’s companion jogged his elbow, and he said no more.

The partners, in communicating with each other, agreed that it was
probable, from what Paul had said, that a tumultuous demand for leave to
attend the next day’s funeral would be made that night. As it was
scarcely likely that the people would proceed to violence before the
churchyard meeting they had appointed, it was determined that their
absurd demand should be refused.

The gates of both dwellings were early closed that evening, and the
doors well fastened. The ladies were not kept in ignorance of what was
expected; for their companions had confidence in their courage, and
remembered besides that it would add much to whatever confusion might
occur to have consternation within the house, at the same time as tumult
without.

It must be owned that Mrs. Wallace fell into a reverie more than once
while her husband read to her; and that the young ladies at Mr.
Bernard’s played their duet more by rote than con amore this night. In
all the pauses they listened for shouting or the trampling of feet; and
when they had done, their father himself opened the shutters, and looked
out and commanded silence. The moon had not risen, and there was no
light but from the furnace-fires below, which sent up a red cloud into
the sky; and there was no sound but the distant roar and rumble of the
works. It was a warm evening, and the family stood for some time at the
open window, talking little, but some trying to distinguish the stars
through the columns of smoke, and others wondering what would have
happened by the same hour the next night, while the little ones kept as
quiet as possible in the hope that their papa and Mrs. Sydney would
forget to send them to bed.

“Father!” cried Frank, “I saw a man leap the hedge,—there,—in that
corner.” All had heard the rustling among the shrubs.

“Who is there?” demanded Mr. Bernard.

“Shut your shutters, Sir, I advise you,” said Jones in a low voice.
“They are near, and they should not see your lights as they turn the
corner. I ran on first, and Paul is gone with the party to Mr.
Wallace’s. I must make haste and join them again before I am missed. I
only came to see that you were fast.”

“Will they proceed to violence to-night?” asked Mr. Bernard before he
closed the window.

“No fear if you are decided and civil-spoken; but I won’t answer for so
much for to-morrow.”

So saying, Jones ran off and climbed the hedge again, that he might drop
in at the rear of the party, the glare of whose torches began to appear
at the turn of the road.

“Upstairs, all of you, and let nobody appear at the windows but my lads
and myself,” said Mr. Bernard. “And do not be afraid. You heard that
there is no fear of violence to-night.”

There was a tremendous knocking and ringing at the door before all the
family were up stairs.

“What do you want with me?” asked Mr. Bernard, throwing up a sash of the
second story.

“We want, in the first place, your promise to take to pieces the new
machinery, which keeps so many people out of work, and never to use it
again without the consent of all parties concerned.”

“A reasonable request, truly! I believe there is more to be said, to
bring us into the same mind on that point, than can be got through in a
short summer’s night.”

“Answer us Yes or No,” cried the speaker.

“Tell him the conditions,” said the man next to him. “Let him know what
he has to expect either way.”

“No; tell me of no conditions,” said Mr. Bernard; “I deny your right to
impose any, and I will not hear them. As long as my partners and I are
in business, we will keep the management of our own concerns. So say
nothing of conditions.”

“Answer us Yes or No, then,” repeated the first speaker. “Will you pull
down the machinery, or will you not?”

“I will not. So you have my answer. My reasons are at your service
whenever you choose to ask for them in a proper time and manner.”

The crowd murmured at the mention of reasons; but a man who flitted
about among them, urged them to bring forward their second demand. This
man was Jones; and his object was to shorten the scene, and get the
people to disperse.

“Your reply is taken down, Sir——”

“Where it will never be forgotten,” growled a deep voice.

“And we proceed to request that all the people in the works may attend
the funeral of James Fry to-morrow, and not return to work till the next
day, with the exception of the smallest number necessary to keep the
furnaces.”

“For what purpose?”

“For the purpose of expressing their abhorrence of the means by which
the boy came by his death.”

“What could make you suppose my partner and I should grant your
request?”

“Not any idea that you would like it, certainly. But what should hinder
our taking leave, if you will not give it?”

“Hear my answer, and then spend to-morrow as you may choose. I refuse
permission to any man to quit the work he has agreed to perform, with
the exception of the four named by the boy’s mother to attend the
funeral. All besides who quit their work to-morrow, quit it for ever.”

“Suppose we make you quit your works?” cried an insolent voice.

“You have it in your power to do so by withdrawing your labour; but the
day when yonder furnaces are out of blast will be the day of your ruin.
If you force us to choose between two evils, we had rather close our
concern, and go whence we came, than carry on the most prosperous
business under the control of those who depend on our capital for
subsistence.”

Another murmur arose at the last sentence.—“We will soon see what
becomes of your capital!” “What is your capital to us, if you are so
afraid of having anybody to touch it but yourselves?” “We will carry
away our labour, and then much good may your capital do you!”

“Just as much, and no more,” said Mr. Bernard, “than your labour can do
without our capital. Remember, it is not our wish that the two powers
should be separated to the ruin of us all. If you throw up your work
to-morrow, our concern is ruined. If you will have a little patience,
and supply your share of our contract, we may all see better days. Judge
for yourselves.”

He shut down the window and closed the shutters. The crowd below, after
uttering various strange noises, and vehemently cheering sentiments
proposed by their leaders, dispersed, and by midnight the shrubbery
looked as still in the moonlight as if no intruder’s step had been
there.

A nearly similar scene, with a corresponding conclusion, had been
exhibited at Mr. Wallace’s. As soon as the people were gone, that
gentleman determined to lose no time in communicating with Armstrong, as
it was now evident that protection would be necessary if the people
chose to gratify their passions by attending the funeral and subsequent
meeting.

Mr. Wallace was little disposed for sleep, and thought a moonlight walk
would refresh him, and remembered that he should be his own safest
messenger; so when all was silent, he set forth, telling his wife that
he should be back within two hours, when he hoped to inform her that
Armstrong was gone to bespeak the necessary assistance.

It was just eleven when he reached the steps below Armstrong’s gate. As
he climbed the gate, the dog barked, growled, and made ready for a
spring.

“How now, Keeper!” cried the master from within and his guest without,
at the same moment. The dog knew Mr. Wallace’s voice, but was not sure
enough of his man, muffled in a cloak as he was, to give over his alarm
at once. He leaped and frisked about, still growling while the old man
held forth a gleaming pistol in the moonlight from his lattice. “Stand
off, or I’ll fire,” cried he. But when he heard “Do not be in a hurry to
shoot your friend Wallace,” he was in greater alarm than before. He
hastened to let in his guest, that he might hear what had happened.

Mr. Wallace observed with some surprise that he had not called the old
man from his bed. Armstrong had been sitting, with his labourer’s dress
on, beside the table, where lay his open Bible, his pistols, his
spectacles, and the lamp. Before the visitor had time to ask what kept
his friend up so late, the housekeeper put her night-capped head into
the room.

“No thieves, Peg,” said her master, and the head withdrew; for Margaret
did not see that she had any business with what brought Mr. Wallace
there at so strange an hour. Her master was quite of her mind; for, when
it was settled what he was to do, he tapped at her door and only said,

“I am going out, and if I should not be back till dinner to-morrow,
don’t be frightened. Keeper will take good care of you.”

And then he set off to rouse the magistrates, while Mr. Wallace
proceeded homewards, pausing now and then to hear whether all was quiet
below, and watching how the twinkling lights went out (so much later
than usual) one by one in the cottage windows.

                      ----------------------------


                             CHAPTER VIII.

                                UPROAR.


Early the next morning a messenger came to the Joneses’ door to let them
know that the funeral procession would form at the widow Fry’s, at eight
o’clock, and that punctuality was particularly requested. Paul asked
what this message meant, as nobody in that house was going to attend.
The messenger was sorry for it. He had been ordered to give notice from
house to house, and he believed almost every body meant to go.

“Then, Jones,” said Paul, “the sooner we are off to our work the better.
Example may do something in such a case.”

These two and a few others went to their work earlier than usual, for
the sake of example. More kept close at home, and only came forth when
the procession was out of sight, creeping quietly to their business, as
if they were ashamed or afraid. But by far the greater number followed
the coffin to its burial-place in a churchyard among the hills, near the
Ranters’ place of meeting. These walked arm in arm, four abreast,
keeping a gloomy silence, and looking neither to the right hand nor to
the left.

It had occurred to Mr. Bernard that the clergyman who was to perform the
service might exert a very useful influence in favour of peace over
those who were brought together on such an occasion. He therefore sent a
letter to him by a man and horse, communicating the present position of
affairs.

The clergyman was young and timid; and being unable to determine what he
should do, he did the very worst thing of all: he escaped in an opposite
direction, leaving no account of where he might be found. He was waited
for till the people, already in an irritable mood, became very
impatient; and when a party, who had gone to his house to hasten him,
brought news of his absence, the indignation of the crowd was unbounded.
They at once jumped to the conclusion that their employers had chosen to
prevent the interment taking place, and to delay them thus for the sake
of making fools of them. They forgot, in their rage, that their masters’
best policy was to get the coffin of the poor lad underground and out of
sight as soon as possible, and to conciliate rather than exasperate
their people.

Mrs. Wallace kept as constant a watch from her upper windows this day as
sister Ann in Blue-beard. Many a cloud of dust did she fancy she saw on
the distant road; many a time did she tremble when any sound came over
the brow of the opposite hills. All her hopes were fixed on the highway;
all her fears upon the path to the churchyard. The safety of the
concern, and perhaps of her husband, seemed to depend on whether the
civil or rebellious force should arrive first. It was not long doubtful.

The crowd came pouring over the opposite ridge, not in order of march as
they went, but pell-mell, brandishing clubs and shouting as if every man
of them was drunk. In front was a horrid figure. It was the mother of
the lad who had been placed in his grave without Christian burial. The
funeral festival seemed likely to be as little Christian as the manner
of interment, to judge from the frantic screams of his mother, and the
gestures with which she pointed to the works as the scene where the
people must gratify their revenge.

They made a sudden halt at the bottom of the hill, as if at the voice of
a leader; and then, forming themselves rapidly into a compact body, they
marched almost in silence, but with extreme rapidity, till they had
surrounded the building they meant first to attack. The labourers in it
had but just time to escape by a back way before the doors were down and
a hundred hands busy within knocking the machinery to pieces, and
gutting the place. This done, they went to a second and a third
building, when there arose a sudden cry of “fire!” The leaders rushed
out and saw indeed a volume of smoke making its way out of the doors and
windows of one of the offices where the books were kept and the wages
paid. The least ignorant among the rioters saw at a glance that this
kind of destruction would ensure the total ruin of the iron-work and of
all belonging to it. With vehement indignation they raised three groans
for the incendiary, and hastened to put out the fire and save the books
and papers. At the door they met the furious woman they had made one of
their leaders, brandishing a torch and glorying in the act she had done.
Her former companions looked full of rage, and shook their fists at her
as they passed.

“Stop her! Lay her fast, or she will be the ruin of us all,” cried
several voices. With some difficulty this was done, and the poor wretch
conveyed to her own house and locked in.

It was a singular sight to see the gentlemen and Paul, and a portion of
the mob labouring together at the fire, while the rest of the rioters
were pushing their work of destruction, unresisted but by the small
force of orderly work-people, which they soon put to flight. It was the
aim of the leaders to show that they confined their vengeance to the
machinery; but when vengeance once begins, there is no telling where it
will stop. The very sight of the fire was an encouragement to the
evil-disposed, and many thefts were committed and much violence done
which had no connection with machinery.

Paul was among the most active of the defenders. Seeing that as many
hands as could assist were engaged at the fire, he bethought himself of
a building where there was a great deal of valuable machinery which was
likely to fall a sacrifice if undefended. He ran thither and found all
quiet. He locked himself in and began to barricade the windows. He had
not half done when the rioters arrived, and, finding the door fastened,
applied to the window. This was soon forced; but then Paul appeared with
a huge iron bar, with which he threatened to break the sculls of all who
came within reach. He stood at some height above them, so as to have
greatly the advantage over them, and there was a moment’s pause. Some
were for forcing the door, but they did not know how many iron bars
might be ready there to fall on the heads of those who first entered.
“Smoke them out!” was the cry at length, and half a dozen lighted
torches were presently thrown in. Paul stamped out as many as he could
reach with either foot; but while he was trying to do this with one
which had already caught some light wood beside it, three men took
advantage of his attention being divided to leap up to the window,
wrench his bar from him, and fling it down below. Paul lost not his
presence of mind for a moment. He snatched up a blazing torch in each
hand, and thrust them in the faces of his enemies, who, not much
relishing this kind of salute, jumped down again whence they came. “It
is my turn to smoke out,” cried he; but this was his last act of
defence. The three men had been long enough on the window to perceive
that Paul was the entire garrison of the place; and while they kept up a
show of attack at the window, the door was forced, and the building
filled without resistance. When it was about half gutted, Paul thought
he heard a welcome sound without above the crashing and cries within. It
was the galloping of horse; and the sabres of soldiers were soon seen
glittering in the red light from the fire. They rode up and surrounded
the building, making Paul, who was still astride on the window, their
first prisoner. He smiled at this, knowing he should soon be set free;
but he was presently touched by the earnestness with which some of the
guilty protested his innocence and begged his discharge. When one of the
masters came up and had him released, he had a painful duty to perform
in pointing out which of the people who remained cooped up in the place
had been the most guilty. He was, however, sufficiently aware of its
being a duty to do it without flinching; and he marked the men who had
first broken the window, thrown the first torches, and burst in the
door.

The work of destruction was now stopped; but the state of things was
little less wretched than if it had continued. The partners were seen in
gloomy conference with the commanding officer. The steady workmen, whose
means of subsistence had been destroyed before their faces, stood with
folded arms gazing on the smoke which slowly rose from the ruins. There
was a dull silence in the empty building where the prisoners were
guarded by a ring of soldiers, who sat like so many statues on their
horses. At the houses of the partners there were sentinels at the gates
and before the parlour windows, and the ladies within started every time
a horse pawed the gravel walk. The anxious housekeeper, meantime, was
trying to keep the frightened servants in order; for they had much to do
in preparing refreshments for the soldiers. But, perhaps, the most
wretched of all were those who hid their grief within their humble
homes. The little children, who were forbidden by their mothers to stray
beyond the rows of labourers’ cottages, came running in with tidings
from time to time, and many times did the anxious wife, or sister, or
mother, lift her head in the hope of hearing “Father is coming over the
green,” or “John is safe, for here he is,” or “Now we shall hear all
about it, for Will is telling neighbour so and so;” and as often was the
raised head drooped again when the news was “Neighbour such-a-one is a
prisoner,” or “Neighbour Brown is crying because her son is going to
jail,” or “Mary Dale is gone down to try and get sight of her husband,
if the soldiers will let her; for she won’t believe he set fire to any
place.”

Again and again the children resolved, “I won’t go in to mother any more
till she has done crying,” and again some fresh piece of bad news sent
them in to make the tears flow afresh.

It was found that the prisoners could not be removed till the next day;
and when food, and drink, and straw to sleep on was being supplied to
them, it was melancholy to see how the relations of the men wandered
about hoping to find means to speak to one or another. Many an entreaty
was addressed to the soldiers just to be permitted to step up to the
window between the horses, and see whether John, or Will, or George
wanted anything or had anything to say. This could not of course be
allowed; but it was long after dark before the last lingerer had shut
herself into her cheerless home to watch for the morning.

That morning rose fair and bright as a June morning can be. Mr. Wallace
opened the shutters of his drawing-room, where, with Mr. Bernard, he had
passed the night, arranging plans for their next proceedings, and
writing letters to their partners in London respecting the readiest mode
of closing their concern; and to their law officers, respecting the
redress which they should obtain for the injury done to their property.
The crimson light of the dawn, the glittering of the dew on the shrubs,
and the cheruping of the waking birds, were so beautiful a contrast to
the lamp-light and silence within, that Mr. Wallace felt his spirits
rise at once. They were at once depressed, however, when he saw the
glancing of weapons in the first rays of the sun, and observed that the
furnaces were out, and that all the scene, usually so busy, was as still
as if it had been wasted by the plague. Manly as he was, and well as he
had sustained himself and everybody about him till now, he could not
bear these changes of feeling; and tears, of which he had no reason to
be ashamed, rolled down his cheeks.

“You dread the sending off the prisoners,” said his partner. “So do I;
and the sooner we can get it done the better.”

They therefore went out and saw that their sentinels were properly
refreshed, and that every thing was prepared for their departure as
speedily as might be. No one who walked about the place that morning
could think for a moment that any further violence was to be
apprehended. The most restless spirits were well guarded; and of those
who were at large, all, the injurers and the injured, seemed equally
subdued by sorrow and fear.

Just as the great clock of the works struck eight, a waggon drew up to
the door of the building where the prisoners were confined. In a few
minutes the whole population was on the spot. The soldiers kept a space
clear, and obliged the people to form a half-circle, within which stood
the partners and the commanding officer; and here the relations of each
prisoner were allowed to come as he was brought out. The parting was so
heart-breaking a scene that it was found necessary to shorten it; and
for the sake of the prisoners themselves, it was ordered that they
should only take one farewell embrace. Some took a shorter leave still;
for there were wives and sisters—though not one mother—who would not own
a relation in disgrace, and hid themselves when entreated by the
prisoner to come and say “Farewell.” The entreaty was not in one
instance repeated. A look of gloomy displeasure was all the further
notice taken by the culprit as he mounted to his seat in the waggon.

At length, the last prisoner was brought out; the soldiers formed
themselves round the waggon, and it drove off, amidst a chorus of
lamentation from the crowd. Almost every face was turned to watch it
till it was out of sight; but some few stole into the place which had
lately been a prison, and sank down in the straw to hide their shame and
their tears.

The partners thought that no time could be fitter than this for
explaining to the assembled people the present state of affairs as it
regarded them, and the prospect which lay before them. Mr. Wallace, who,
as longest known to the people, had agreed to make this explanation,
mounted to the window of a neighbouring building, and, while Mr. Bernard
and his sons stood beside him, thus addressed the crowd below:—

“It is partly for our own sakes, though chiefly for yours, that we now
offer to explain to you the condition and prospects of this concern. We
still say, what we have often said, that we are accountable to no man
for our manner of conducting our own affairs; but we wish you clearly to
understand why we close our iron-work, in order that you may see that we
cannot help doing so, and that it is through no act of ours that so many
industrious and sober labourers are turned out of work in one day. We
make this explanation for your sakes; because we hope that those among
you who have been guilty of the intention, if not the deed of riot, will
learn the folly as well as the sin of such proceedings, and that those
who are innocent will train up their children in such a knowledge of
facts as will prevent their ever bringing destruction on themselves and
others by such errors as have ruined our concern.

“When we came here to settle, an agreement was made, in act if not in
words, between the two classes who hoped to make profit out of these
works. You offered your labour in return for a subsistence paid out of
our capital. We spent the money we and our fathers had earned in buying
the estate, building the furnaces, making or improving roads, and paying
the wages which were your due. Both parties were satisfied with an
agreement by which both were gainers, and hoped that it would long be
maintained without difficulty or misunderstanding. No promise was or
could reasonably be made as to how long the labour should be furnished
on the one side and the capital on the other, in the same proportions;
for it was impossible for either party to tell what might happen to the
other. It was possible that so great a demand for labour might take
place in some other manufacture as to justify your asking us for higher
wages, or leaving us if we did not think proper to give them. It was
equally possible that the prices of our manufacture might fall so as to
justify us in lowering your wages, or in getting a part of our work done
without your assistance.

“Nothing was said, therefore, about the length of time that your labour
and our capital were to work together: and it was well that there was
not; for in time both the changes happened that I have described. First,
the demand for labour increased so much that you asked higher wages,
which we cheerfully gave, because the prosperous state of trade pointed
them out as your due. After a while the opposite change took place.
Demand declined, prices fell, and we could not afford to give you such
high wages, and you agreed to take less, and again less, as trade grew
worse. So far both parties were of one mind. Both felt the change of
times, and were sorry on account of all; but neither supposed that the
other could have helped the misfortune. The point on which they
split—unhappily for both—was the introduction of new machinery.”

Here there was a murmur and bustle among the people below, which seemed
to betoken that they were unwilling to hear. Some, however, were curious
to know what Mr. Wallace would say, and cried “Silence!” “Hush!” with so
much effect that the speaker was soon able to proceed.

“As no profit can be made, no production raised from the ground, or
manufactured in the furnace or the loom, or conveyed over land and sea,
without the union of capital and labour, it is clear that all attempts
to divide the two are foolish and useless. As all profit is in
proportion to the increase of labour and capital, as all the comforts
every man enjoys become more common and cheap in proportion as these two
grow in amount, it is clear that it must be for the advantage of
everybody that labour and capital should be saved to the utmost, that
they may grow as fast as possible. The more capital and labour, for
instance, there is spent upon procuring and preparing mahogany, the more
cheap will be mahogany tables and chairs, and the more common in the
cottages of the working classes. In the same way, broad-cloth was once a
very expensive article, because very few attempted to manufacture it;
but now, when many more capitalists have set up their manufactories of
broad-cloth, and much more labour is spent upon it, every decent man has
his cloth coat for Sundays. In like manner the more capital and labour
can be saved to be employed in the iron-trade, the cheaper and more
common will iron be: and if it can be an evil to us that it is already
cheaper, we must find a remedy in making it more common, more
extensively used, so that the quantity we sell may make up for the
lowering of the price. It is plain, then, that all economy of capital
and labour is a good thing for everybody in the long run. How is this
saving to be effected?

“Capital is made to grow by adding to it as much as can be spared of the
profit it brings. We all know that if a hundred pounds bring in five
pounds’ interest at the year’s end, and if two of the five pounds only
are spent, the capital of the next year will be a hundred and three
pounds, and the interest five pounds, three shillings; and so on,
increasing every year. This is the way capital grows by saving. Labour
does not grow by saving in like manner; but methods of improving and
economizing it have been found, and more are invented every year. Labour
is saved by machinery, when a machine either does what man cannot do so
well, or when it does in a shorter time, or at a less expense, the work
which man can do equally well in other respects. This last was the case
with our new machinery. It did not, like the furnaces and rollers, do
what man could not do; but it did in a quicker and cheaper manner what
man had hitherto done. It was a saving of labour; and as all saving of
labour is a good thing, our machinery was a good thing.

“You wish to interrupt me, I see. You wish to say that though it is a
good thing for us capitalists, it is not for you labourers. Hear me
while I show you the truth. If we could have brought back the state of
the world to what it was four years ago; if we could have made the
foreign iron-works melt into air, and some nearer home sink into the
ground; if we could have made the demand what it once was, and have
raised the prices to the highest ever known, you would not have cared
whether we put up machinery or not, because there would have been
employment enough for everybody notwithstanding. You care for it now
because it throws some people out of work; but you should remember, that
it has also kept many busy who must be idle, now that it is destroyed.
We should be as glad as you if there was work enough for all the men and
all the machinery together that our concern could contain; but when
changes which we could not prevent or repair brought before us the
question whether we should employ two-thirds of our people with
machinery, or none without, we saw it to be for the interest of all to
set up our new labourers in the midst of the grumblings of the old. We
tell you plainly that we could not have employed any of you for the last
six months, but for the saving caused by the new machinery; and that,
now it is gone, we can employ none of you any longer.

“You may say that the county will repair our losses, and that we may
soon build up what is destroyed, and go on as before. It is true that
the damages must be paid out of the public fund; but it is not so true
that a remedy will thus be found for the distress which violence has
brought upon you. The state of trade being what it is, and confidence
being so completely destroyed between the two parties to the original
contract, there is little encouragement to enter on a new one. My
partner and his family will depart immediately. I shall remain with a
very few men under me to assist in disposing of our stock, and to wind
up the concern; and then this place, lately so busy, and so fruitful of
the necessaries and comforts of life to so many hundred persons, will
present a melancholy picture of desertion and ruin. If, in after years,
any of your descendants, enriched by the labours of generations, should
come hither and provide the means of enriching others, may they meet
with more success than we have done! May they have to do with men
informed respecting the rights and interests of society, as happy in
their prosperity as you once were, and more patient and reasonable in
adversity!

“If these should ever inquire respecting the transactions of this day,
it will strike them that the revenge which you have snatched—for I am
told you call it revenge—is as foolish as it is wicked. Of all the
parties concerned in this outrage, your masters suffer the least—though
their sufferings are not small—and yourselves the most. Your occupation
is gone; the public resources, to which many here have contributed, must
be wasted in repairing the damage intended for us; and worst of all,
disgrace and the penalties of the law await many with whom you are
closely connected. Having enjoyed from their birth the security and
various benefits of the social state, they have thought fit to forfeit
their privileges by a breach of the laws; and they must take the
consequences. How many of the guilty are now mourning that those
consequences cannot be confined to themselves! How many—but I will not
pursue this subject further, for I see you cannot bear it. I only
entreat those of you who hold your children by the hand, and see them
wondering at the mournful solemnities of this day, to impress upon them
that the laws must be obeyed, and to assure them from your own
experience that, however sad undeserved poverty may be, it is easily
endurable in comparison with the thought which will haunt some of you to
your dying day—‘my own hands have brought this misery upon myself, and
upon those who lookup to me for bread.’

“I have only to add that which it may be a satisfaction to some of you
to know, that we freely forgive to such the injury they have meditated
against us. We are indeed too deeply concerned for your misfortunes to
have much thought to bestow upon our own. Farewell.”

The people slowly and silently dispersed, and few showed their faces
abroad again that day.

                      ----------------------------


                              CHAPTER IX.

                            ALL QUIET AGAIN.


Paul was one of the very few whom his employer selected to remain with
him till the stock should be sold off and the concern closed. The Jones
family had been one of the first to depart of the many who were gone to
seek employment and a home. They settled in the place where their sons
were apprenticed to different trades, and where they had a good name for
honesty, industry, and prudence. The fund which they had saved in better
days was sufficient to maintain them for some time, if, as was not
likely, people so respectable should find it difficult to obtain
employment. They left Paul in possession of their cottage, as he was
unwilling to shift his work-bench, or leave off cutting corks till the
last moment.

As he was thus employed late one evening, Mr. and Mrs. Wallace came to
him. Mr. Wallace had heard from a friend of his engaged in a
neighbouring iron-work, who wished to know whether an able over-looker
could be recommended to him from among those who would be thrown out by
the closing concern. Mr. Wallace was glad of this opportunity of
securing a good situation for Paul, to whom he felt himself greatly
indebted for his conduct during the riots, and whom he knew to be
competent to the duties of such an office. Paul was duly obliged by this
offer, but requested time to consider of it, as he had already the
choice of two modes of investing his little capital,—one in a shop in
London, and another in a Birmingham concern.

Mr. Wallace was surprised at the good fortune which placed before one
man, in days like these, three employments to choose out of. Paul
answered with a stern smile, that he owed it to his reputation of being
a miser; misers having two good qualifications for partnership,—the
possession of money, and a close attachment to the main chance.

“I wish I could see any aim in this desperate pursuit of money,” said
Mr. Wallace, gravely.

Paul answered by going into the inner room and bringing out the picture
which hung there.

“Can you guess who that is?” said he.

“It has occurred to me that it might be yourself; but I can trace little
or no likeness now.”

“No wonder,” said Paul, looking at his blackened hands and sordid dress.
“It is not myself, however, but a brother,—an only, elder brother, who
died when I was twenty, and he twenty-one, just entering on the
enjoyment of his property.”

“And did that property come to you?” asked Mrs. Wallace, in surprise.

“Every acre of it, with the mansion you see there. I lost it all by
gaming and other pleasures—_pleasures_ indeed!—and in ten years was
sitting in rags, without a crust in my wallet, as beggars usually have,
on yonder hill where I traced the map of my future fortunes. I have an
aim, sir. It is to get back that estate; to plant an oak for every one
that has been felled; and to breed a buck for every one that has been
slain since the gates were shut upon me for a graceless profligate.”

“Do you think you should be able to enjoy your property if you got it
back again?” asked Mr. Wallace. “Or, perhaps, there is some family
connexion to whom you wish to restore it by will?”

“Neither the one nor the other,” replied Paul. “I have not a relation in
the world; and I see as clearly as you can do, that I shall be by that
time too confirmed in my love of money to enjoy the pleasures of a fine
estate. I shall screw my tenants, and grudge my venison, and sell all
the furniture of the house but that of two rooms.”

“Then do propose to yourself some more rational object?” said Mrs.
Wallace, kindly. “Let those have your estate who can enjoy it, and leave
off accumulating money before it is too late. As soon as you have enough
to buy and furnish a cottage, and afford a small income, give up
business, and occupy yourself with books, and politics, and works of
benevolence, and country sports and employments; with anything that may
take off your attention from the bad pursuit which is ruining your
health, and your mind, and your reputation.”

“If you do not,” said Mr. Wallace, “I shall wish, as the best thing that
could happen to you, that you may lose all your gains.”

Paul raised his clenched fist, and ground his teeth at the mention of
such a possibility. Mrs. Wallace turned pale at such a symptom of
passion; but she thought it right to add,—

“You have twice had warning of the fleeting nature of riches. You have
lost your own fortune, and seen the prosperity of this place overthrown.
If you still make wealth your god, I hope you prepare yourself to find
it vanish when you need it most. I hope you picture to yourself what it
will be to die destitute of that for which alone you have lived.”

“Yet this,” added her husband, “is a better lot than to live and die
miserable in the possession of that for which alone he has lived. Take
your choice, Paul; for the one lot or the other will be yours unless you
make a grand effort now.”

Paul was not inclined to dispute this; but he was not, therefore, the
more disposed to make the effort. He was pronounced by everybody a man
of strong character. Whatever pride he had in himself was in his
strength of character. Yet he was weak,—weak as an idiot,—in the most
important point of all.

He was once seen to smile compassionately on the perseverance of a
little child who laboured through a whole sultry day in digging a little
pond in his garden. By the time it was finished, and before it could be
filled, it was bed-time, and a rainy night rendered it useless.

When Paul despised the labour of this child, he little thought how his
own life would resemble that sultry day. He, too, spent his sunshiny
hours in laborious preparation; and fell into his long sleep to find on
waking that his toil had been in vain.

When the Wallaces at length took their final leave of the place, they
alighted at Armstrong’s, on their way, to say farewell. The old man was,
as usual, in his garden.

“Are you the last, the very last?” said he.

“Except two or three workmen and servants who stay to pack a few things
and lock up our house.”

“I hope then they will take down yonder clock which sounds to me like a
funeral bell.”

“Can you hear it so far as this?”

“O yes. Hark! It is beginning to strike noon. I used to like its stroke
when it brought the work-people flocking from their cottages in the
morning, or when they came pouring out as it told their dinner hour. But
now it only puts one in mind of days that are gone, and I shall be glad
when it is down.”

“You do then see something to regret in the days you speak of?” said Mr.
Wallace. “This is more than I expected from you.

“I might not say so, perhaps,” returned the old man, “if yonder valley
could be made what it once was. But that can never be; and there is no
comparison between a settlement where art and industry thrive, and a
greater number of human beings share its prosperity every year, and a
scene like that, where there is everything to put one in mind of man but
man himself.”

“And where,” said Mr. Wallace, “we are chiefly reminded of the ignorance
and folly to which the change is owing. I should wish for your sake that
we could raze all those buildings, and make the ground a smooth turf as
it was before, if I did not hope that the works might be
reopened,—though not by us,—in happier days.”

“I should be more glad to see such a day than I was to witness that
which brought you here,” said the old man. “But my sands are nearly run;
and, even if nobody shakes the glass, I can scarcely hope that anything
will bring you back within my hour. But come,” he added, swallowing his
emotion, “where’s your lady?”

“Gone to speak to Mrs. Margaret. Will you gather her a bunch of your
flowers before we go?”

“Aye, and a choice one; for she is a choice flower herself,” said the
old man. “From the hour that one saw her walking over the heath in the
wintry wind in her cloak and thick shoes to show a poor neighbour how to
manage a new-dropt calf, I pronounced you, sir, a happy man. Whatever
fortune betides you, you will find a companion and helper in her.”

Mrs. Wallace appeared in time to put a stop to further praise of
herself. She had left Mrs. Margaret engaged in admiration of a painting
by the lady’s own hands, which she wished to leave as a remembrance, and
which henceforth ornamented the chimney-piece of the cottage, and
occasioned more discourse than any other possession they had ever had.

Armstrong handed the lady gently down to the chaise. When it was out of
sight, he was a long time tethering the gate; and the housekeeper
observed that he drew his hand across his eyes as he turned into his
orchard plot.


          _Summary of Principles illustrated in this Volume._

CAPITAL is something produced with a view to employment in further
production.

Labour is the origin, and

Saving is the support, of Capital.

Capital consists of

1. Implements of labour.

2. Material, simple or compound, on which labour is employed.

3. Subsistence of labourers.

Of these three parts, the first constitutes Fixed Capital: the second
and third, Reproducible Capital.

Since Capital is derived from Labour, whatever economizes Labour assists
the growth of Capital.

Machinery economizes Labour, and therefore assists the growth of
Capital.

The growth of Capital increases the demand for Labour.

Machinery, by assisting the growth of Capital, therefore increases the
demand for Labour.

In other words, Productive Industry is proportioned to Capital, whether
that Capital be fixed or reproducible.

The interests of the two classes of producers, Labourers and
Capitalists, are therefore the same; the prosperity of both depending on
the accumulation of CAPITAL.




                                -------

             London: Printed by W. CLOWES, Stamford-street.

                                 BROOKE
                                  AND
                              BROOKE FARM.

                            =A Tale.=

                                   BY
                           HARRIET MARTINEAU.


                            _THIRD EDITION._


                                LONDON:
                   CHARLES FOX, 67, PATERNOSTER-ROW.

                                  ---

                                 1833.

                               CONTENTS.

                                -------

     Chap.                                                     Page
     1.    Brooke and its Politicians                          3001
     2.    George Gray’s Way of Living                         3016
     3.    George Gray in the Way to Prosper                   3028
     4.    A Conversation under the Limes                      3040
     5.    Past, Present, and to Come                          3056
     6.    Sergeant Rayne’s Story                              3072
     7.    Great Changes at Brooke                             3083
     8.    Small Farming                                       3092
     9.    Great Joy at Brooke                                 3106
     10.   What Joe Harper saw Abroad                          3114
     11.   What must come at last                              3127
     12.   Prosperity to Brooke!                               3132




                        BROOKE AND BROOKE FARM.

                         ---------------------




                               CHAPTER I.

                      BROOKE AND ITS POLITICIANS.


There is not a village in England that I love so well as Brooke: but I
was born and have always lived there, and this is probably the reason
why I see beauty in it; for strangers do not appear struck with it.

There is one long, straggling street where the blacksmith, the publican,
the grocer, and the haberdasher live; their houses being separated, some
by gardens, others by cowsheds or pigsties. My father’s house stands a
little way out of the village, just a quarter of a mile from the
“Withers’ Arms,” the only public-house in the place. Our dwelling stands
so far back from the road, and is just so much planted with trees and
shrubs, as to be free from noise and dust; while it is not so retired as
to appear ashamed of keeping company with the houses in the
neighbourhood. The children playing in the road may see the ladies at
work in the bow-window by peeping through the bars of the white gate;
and if any little boy should venture in to pick up his ball or recover
his kite, he may chance to meet the master looking after his
fruit-trees, or to catch a glimpse of the mistress cutting her roses.

Our house is, however, only the second-best in the place, without
reckoning Sir Henry Withers’s fine old castle, which, besides being five
miles off, is too grand to be brought into comparison with any
neighbouring estate. Brooke Farm is a far larger and handsomer place
than ours. The house, a solid old English mansion with many modern
additions, which have been made as its owner, Mr. Malton, grew rich, is
approached from the village by an avenue of fine chestnuts; but there
are sundry other approaches which are much preferred by those who, like
myself, frequent the fields and lanes of Brooke Farm. There is a green
lane where wild anemones grow in profusion, and at the end of which,
close by the back of the mansion, stand some tall elms, the habitation
of a society of rooks. When I go to visit Mrs. Malton, I generally
choose this road, and pay my respects to the rookery before doing the
same to the lady.—Mr. Malton is by far the largest land-owner within a
circuit of many miles, and has added to his property, year by year, till
it has become as extensive as he can manage himself. Up to this point he
believed himself justified in enlarging his farm, but not beyond; for he
knows well that the personal superintendence of the proprietor is
necessary to the due improvement of an estate of any kind, and
especially of a farm.

At the west end of the village street stands the church, upon a rising
ground planted with evergreens, while the modest parsonage retires
behind it, with its little court in front, and its blooming pear-tree
trained against the walls. Beyond, are a fine range of fields and some
flourishing young plantations; but in my early days they were not to be
seen. There was, instead, a wide common, skirted in some parts with very
poor cottages. No trees, no gardens were seen around them. I remember
how bleak and bare the situation of those dwellings used to appear. A
pool of muddy water was before the doors of some, and a dunghill was
heaped up against the wall of others. Each had a cowshed, such as it
was, with its ragged thatch and its sides full of holes, through which
the wind whistled. Each cottager possessed a cow which grazed on the
common, and which, though lean from being only half-fed, was the best
wealth of its master. As each villager had a right of common, every
housekeeper possessed a cow; and often in my evening walk I met eight or
nine of these miserable cattle coming home to be milked. Little John
Todd, the blacksmith’s son, used to drive in several in company with his
father’s. He took charge of Miss Black’s the milliner, of Wickstead’s
the publican, and of Harper’s the grocer. With all these cows, there was
no great abundance of milk, butter, and cheese, in the place; for no
more milk was yielded than was wanted for each family. There were tribes
of children in most of the cottages; and the grocer had his shop-boy,
the publican his stable-boy, and the milliner her apprentice, to feed;
so that there was a demand for as much milk as the poor animals could
supply. A donkey or two, and a few pigs and geese, were also to be seen
on the common, grazing or drinking from the pools, or dabbling in them.
There was a pretty pond of clear water near the pathway which led across
the common; and it was overhung on one side by a clump of beeches which
formed a pleasant shade in summer, and were a relief to the eye in
winter when the ground was covered with snow. Behind this clump the
common was no longer level, but swelled into heathy hillocks, bright
with gorse and broom, and the variety of plants which usually flourish
in company with them. The view of the church and parsonage from the
highest of these hills was particularly pretty when the setting sun
shone full on their windows and on the bench in the churchyard, where
the old men used to go to enjoy its last beams. I have sat on that hill
for many an hour, watching the children at their sports about the pond,
or tending the cows; and have remained there with my father till no
sound was heard but the dying hum from a distance, and nothing was to be
seen of the village but the sparks from the blacksmith’s forge.—My
father agrees with me that Brooke is one of the prettiest villages in
England.

The character of the place and of the people is, however, very much
changed within my remembrance;—whether for the better or the worse, the
reader will judge for himself when I have described the changes to which
I refer. A few years ago, as I have said, the cottages on the common
wore a comfortless appearance. The families they contained, some large,
some small, were, however, supported in independence, and few complaints
were heard, though the children went barefoot and half-naked, and had
never thought of such a thing as learning to read. Blacksmiths are
always sure of a living; and Mr. Todd was then neither better nor worse
off than at present. The same may be said of Wickstead the publican. The
grocer has got on in the world considerably; and Miss Black’s window
displays a much grander assortment of caps and ribbons than in former
days. But as she has grown rich, some of her neighbours have grown poor;
and parish relief is sought by several families who would have little
thought of such a mode of subsistence ten years ago.

I well remember the day when my father announced to us a piece of news
which nearly concerned the interests of our village. As we were sitting
round the table after dinner, my mother remarked that she had seen Sir
Henry Withers ride down the street in the morning, and thought he was
going to call; but that just as he had reached the gate, he turned his
horse’s head another way.

“He came to speak to me on business,” said my father, “and seeing me a
little way farther on the road, he chose to overtake me instead of
turning in here. He left his respects for you, and was sorry he had no
time afterwards to call.”

My mother was sorry too, for she wanted to give him some instructions
about rearing a foreign plant which he thought was drooping.

“He will be here again in a day or two,” said my father. “If the news he
brought has got wind, as I believe it has through his groom, he will
scarcely be so well received as usual in the village.”

A piece of news being a rare and welcome thing among the inhabitants of
Brooke, whether high or low, the whole family party looked eagerly to my
father for an explanation. He went on:

“Sir Henry tells me that an act of Parliament is likely to be obtained
for inclosing Brooke common.”

“O, our pretty common!” cried I. “So we shall see it all divided into
patches, with ugly hedges and ditches between. I shall never have any
pleasure in walking there again.”

“And we must give up playing hide and seek among the hillocks,” said one
of the boys.

“And there will be no place for me to fly my kite,” exclaimed Frederick;
“and Arthur must not swim his boat on the pond, I suppose.”

“What are the poor people to do with their cows?” added my mother.

“You too, my dear!” exclaimed my father, smiling. “I was going to tell
the children that they must not set an example of discontent to their
poor neighbours; and now, I am afraid, I must begin my lecture with
you.”

“You will not need,” replied my mother. “I am well convinced that it is
right that waste lands should be inclosed: but the first thought which
occurred to me was the immediate distress which such a change would
cause among the cottagers.”

“I am sorry for them,” said my father,“ because they will be full of
alarm, and may, by mismanagement, make that an evil which ought to be
none. If they choose, they may be the better for this change. Whether
they will choose it is the question.”

“That they will be the better in the end, I have no doubt,” replied my
mother. “But how are they to do without pasture for their cows in the
mean time?”

“An allotment of land will be given to each,” replied my father, “which
may be made much more valuable than the right of common, of which people
think so much.”

“But, mamma,” said I, “you spoke of the common as waste land, just as if
it was of no use to anybody. Surely, if it feeds cows for the whole
village, and geese besides, it is quite useful enough?”

“Not if it can be made more useful by cultivation, Lucy,” said my
father. “It is now but poor pasture for a score of cows and a few geese.
If it can be made to produce abundant food for double the number of
cattle, and some hundreds of human beings besides, we may well call its
present condition waste, in comparison with that which will be.”

“But it will be very expensive work to bring it to this state,” argued
I. “How much it will cost to make the fences and prepare the ground
before anything will grow in it!”

“That is the affair of those who are going to lay out their capital upon
it,” replied he. “You may trust them for having made their calculations
that they will be repaid in time. If you should see that day, if you
live to admire fine fields of corn and valuable plantations flourishing
where nothing grows now but heath and broom, you will wonder that you
could ever lament the change because it has cost you the loss of a
pretty walk.”

I was ready to allow that my regret was selfish.

“As for you, children,” added my father, turning to the little boys, “it
is natural that you should ask about your kite and your boat. I can tell
you for your comfort that the pond is not to be touched, and that there
will be plenty of room for some years to come for all your sports. The
whole common will not be enclosed at once, and the level ground will be
taken in first. So you may play at hide and seek among the hillocks till
you grow too old for the game.”

As we went for our evening walk, we could perceive that there was an
unusual stir in the village. Two or three old men, who were always to be
seen about sunset sitting on the bench under the elm in front of the
public-house, were smoking their pipes very quietly; but more than the
usual number of gossips was standing round them, and the politicians who
took the lead in the discussion of the news were holding forth with more
than common energy of speech and action.—On one side of the tree two men
appeared engaged in an argument less vehement, and to which there were
no listeners. One was Sergeant Rayne, who, having spent many years in
foreign parts and lost an arm there, had come back, covered with glory,
to spend his remaining days in his native village, where he was looked
up to as a kind of oracle on account of his superior knowledge of the
world. His companion was the grocer, who conceived himself to be little
less of a man of the world than Sergeant Rayne, since he had paid three
visits to London, and many more to the market town of M——.

I directed my father’s attention to this pair of speakers, exclaiming,

“How I should like to know what they are saying! They look as earnest as
their neighbours, though they are less noisy.”

“It is easy to see,” replied my father, “that there is speechifying
going on on one side of the elm, and argument on the other. I am glad of
it, if, as I suppose, they are discussing the inclosure-bill; for I was
afraid they were all of one mind, all opposed to it.”

As we passed Miss Black’s, we saw her talking at the door with Mr.
Gregson, the smart young haberdasher, who was the lady’s man of the
village. As it was a rare thing for her to condescend to gossip with her
neighbours, except at the tea-table, we concluded that she too had heard
the news, and that concern for the interests of her cow had overcome her
usual dignity.

We were always sure of hearing the substance and result of every
argument which took place within the parish of Brooke, in the space of
twenty-four hours at farthest, from a reporter as faithful as he was
minute.

Carey the barber, who shaved and dressed my father every morning, would
as soon have thought of appearing unprovided with razor and soap as with
a report of what passed under the elm the evening before. All that he
heard there was told, whether my father listened or not. If left to talk
without interruption, he was satisfied with the mere pleasure of
talking. If encouraged by observation and reply, he was doubly pleased.
He considered that it was his office to speak and my father’s to hear,
and was resolved that the duty should be thoroughly performed on his
part at least. Happy would it be for society if every office were filled
with equal zeal and industry!

“I hope, sir,” said he, the morning after the occurrences I have
related,—“I hope, sir, you enjoyed your walk last evening? Charming
evening, sir! I saw you pass as I was with my neighbours at the Arms.
Charming evening, indeed!”

“Very pleasant; and I suppose your neighbours found it so, as they did
not disperse till late. We were home later than usual, and yet you were
all as busy talking when we returned as at sunset.”

“True sir; very true: though I am ashamed to say I did not see you pass
the second time. Yet not ashamed either, for I believe it was quite
dark. We had a very animated discussion, sir. We were occupied with a
subject of very unusual interest, sir; though I assure you it did not
prevent my observing to Wickstead that I supposed you had gone round by
the lanes, as nobody had seen you return. But, as I was saying, sir, if
we had remained under the elm till this time, it would not have been
very surprising.”

He paused to observe whether he had raised my father’s curiosity. He was
satisfied by the reply:—

“Indeed! I do not remember that even when the French invasion was
expected, any discussion lasted all night. It must be something of high
importance indeed.”

“It is sir, as you say, something of the utmost importance,—as much as
the event you speak of. It is in fact an invasion that we apprehend,
sir: an invasion of our privileges, of our rights, which are perhaps as
valuable to us as our country itself.”

“What can have happened?” said my father. “You alarm me, Carey.”

“I am happy to hear it, sir. The best service which I can render to
myself and my friends is to alarm those who have the power to defend our
rights. It was agreed last night that as it would be proper to rouse
Jowler if your house was attacked, it was now our part to awaken you,
sir, to guard our properties. I hope no offence, sir, in comparing you
to Jowler; but you perceive what we mean; or rather what Tom Webster
means, for it was he that said it, being, as it were, the speaker of the
assembly. But I assure you, sir, when your constant anxiety for our
welfare was mentioned, we all said ‘Amen!’ so that you perceive no
disrespect was meant by the comparison of Jowler.”

“But let me hear what it is that you apprehend,” said my father. “What
is this terrible news?”

“It is said, sir, that an Act of Parliament is to be obtained for
enclosing Brooke common.”

“So I have heard,” replied my father, quietly.

“Then I conclude it is true,” continued Carey; “and the only obstacle to
our proceeding immediately to action is removed. Our meeting will no
doubt be held without delay.”

“What meeting?”

“I will tell you, sir, briefly what passed last night. As soon as I
arrived at the Arms, I heard from Wickstead that Sir Henry Withers’s
groom had called in the morning and announced the news of which we are
speaking;—that the common is to be inclosed, and that we are to be
deprived in consequence of the right of grazing our cows there.”

“Without any exchange?” inquired my father. “Without any advantage being
afforded instead of it?”

“The groom mentioned none, sir. Sergeant Rayne said, indeed, that in
these cases a piece of land was given to each person instead of the
right of common; but we do not know whether it is true. And if it is,
what then? What am I, for instance, to do with a bit of land? Only
conceive, sir!—Well: we were all of one mind at once, with the exception
of Sergeant Rayne, who, between ourselves, has the most extraordinary
notions on some subjects. We at once determined to make a stand against
oppression; but we should not have known the best method of doing so if
it had not been for Tom Webster.”

“Who is he?” asked my father. “I did not know we had a person of that
name in the village.”

“No wonder sir, for he has only just arrived—two days ago, I think. He
is a cousin of Harper’s,—a very fine young man, but out of health. He
lives at M——, and is come on a visit for the sake of country air and
quiet. A very fine young man he is, sir, and has seen a great deal of
the world. If he stays long enough, I should hope he may infuse much
spirit into our meetings, and impart a degree of polish to our society.”

“And what is his advice on the present occasion?”

“That a public meeting should be held, sir, at the Withers’ Arms, and
that a petition should be presented to the legislature against the
threatened measure. He offered (having been engaged in a public meeting
at M——) to prepare and move the resolutions, and proposed that Sergeant
Rayne should be invited to take the chair, in case you, sir, as we
feared, should decline doing us the honour of presiding.”

“I disapprove the object of such a meeting, and could not therefore
preside,” said my father.

“We feared so, sir; as the groom said he believed you and his master
were both of one mind,—both opposed to our opinions.”

“And what says Sergeant Rayne?”

“He too is of the objective school, sir.”

“Indeed! And were his objections listened to?”

“We thought it better to defer the consideration of them till the day of
meeting. Every one, as Tom Webster says, will then have fair play, be he
friend or be he enemy. So we proceeded with our arrangements till the
sergeant made a very sensible remark, which put an end to our measures
for the time. He observed that we were by no means certain of the fact
regarding the common, which was indeed the case. But now, sir, we can
proceed on your authority.”

“Remember,” said my father, “that I know no more than that the act is
likely to be obtained, and——”

“True, sir; very true: but we must bestir ourselves now or never.”

“Observe also, Carey, that the reason why I do not countenance your
meeting is, that I believe it to be for the interest of Brooke and of
every person in it that Brooke common should be cultivated.”

“Indeed, sir! Well, as Tom Webster says, there is no end to varieties of
opinion in this strange world; and where there is a difference,
discussion is a very good thing.”

“I am quite of Tom Webster’s opinion there, Carey; and therefore I shall
always be ready to explain the grounds of my opinion to any one who
cares to know them; and I am equally ready to hear any defence of the
other side of the question.”

“Why, then, if I may ask, sir, do you refuse to attend our meeting?”

“Because I understood that the object of the meeting is not to discuss
the question of inclosing waste lands, but to petition Parliament
against the measure in our own case.”

“Exactly so. Tom Webster said nothing about a public meeting for the
sake of mere argument.”

“Probably not. Besides, your evening conversations would answer the
purpose as well, every man in Brooke being present, I believe. Only I
suppose you are all on one side of the question.”

“With the exception of the sergeant, sir; and he is so quiet, that
little could be made out of his opposition.”

“His quietness speaks in favour of his opinions to my mind,” observed my
father; “for he is not too indolent or too timid to say what he thinks.
He is not afraid of standing alone, is he?”

“O dear, no, sir! Far from it. He was a brave soldier, and does not know
what cowardice is, one way or another. I hope we all approve frankness
and fair play; and therefore, sir, if I have your leave, I will declare
to him for his encouragement that you are on his side, and will
represent to him, as faithfully as I can, the views which you have done
me the honour to explain.”

“I was not aware,” said my father, laughing, “that I had put you in
possession of my views. They are no secret, however, and every one may
know them who wishes it.”

With a compliment to my father’s condescension, the barber withdrew.

                      ----------------------------


                              CHAPTER II.

                      GEORGE GRAY’S WAY OF LIVING.


We happened about this time to want an errand-boy, and looked round
among the cottagers’ families to see who were the poorest or the most
burdened with young children, that we might offer the place where it
would be most acceptable. My brothers and I were willing to teach
reading and writing to the lad that should be chosen, for there was no
chance of his having learned so much beforehand; and my mother hoped she
should have patience to bear with the dulness and awkwardness common to
most of the children of the village, and to train him to be not only an
honest, but an intelligent servant.

My mother went with us one day to the cottage of George Gray, a
labourer, who had eight children, and but small wages to maintain them
upon, and who would probably be very glad to send his eldest boy to
service.

The children were, as usual, at play near the cottage. Billy, the
eldest, was mounted on a donkey, while three or four of the little ones
were attempting to drive the animal on by beating him with sticks and
bunches of furze.

“Do look at that stupid animal,” cried Frederick. “Why does he not
canter away with the boy instead of standing to be beaten in that
manner?”

“He is heavily clogged,” said my mother.

Before the words were spoken, Frederick and Arthur were off at full
speed, crying, “Holla! holla! down with your sticks. How can you beat
the poor animal so when you see he is clogged, and can’t move a step
with any one on his back?”

“He’ll go well enough sometimes,” said one of the children, raising his
bunch of furze for another blow.

“Stop!”—cried Arthur. “Don’t you see that if he moves a step, down goes
his head, and the rider slips off.”

One would have thought the donkey knew what was passing; for the next
time he was touched, he stooped his head, kicked his hind-feet high in
the air, and threw Billy to some distance. Away scampered the
tormentors: my brothers laughed, and Billy got up whimpering and
ashamed.

“Well, Billy,” said my mother, “you have had riding enough for to-day;
and to-morrow you will remember that donkeys cannot run with their legs
tied.”

We left him hiding his face and rubbing his knees. The eldest girl was
sitting on the step of the door, hushing the baby to sleep. Three or
four others were making mud-pies just under the dunghill. Hannah Gray,
their mother, was in the cottage, setting out the table for dinner; for
it was near one o’clock. The potatoes, which formed their daily meal,
were boiling on the fire.

In answer to my mother’s inquiry how all went on at home, she answered
that they were much as usual; that was, poorly off enough; for they had
many mouths to fill, and but little to do it with. My mother thought
that so fine-grown and healthy-looking as the children were, some of
them might be able to bring in a little money. Their mother explained
that the boys cut firing on the common and drove home the cow, and that
Peggy nursed the baby. But she did not see how they could do anything
more profitable. They were too young yet to work much, and would have
hardship enough, poor things, when they grew up.—My mother believed that
children thought it no hardship to be employed, but were proud to be
useful, and often found their work as amusing as their play.

“Well, ma’am,” said Hannah, “I am sure I do not know what work I could
give them that they would like.”

“Will you let me try?” inquired my mother. “I want a boy to clean the
shoes and knives, and weed the flower-garden, and run errands; and I
will make trial of your eldest boy, if you choose to let him come.”

Hannah dropped a curtsey and looked very thankful, but said she was
afraid Billy was not fit to go into a gentleman’s family, he was so
unmannerly. My mother said she should not make that an objection, if he
was a good boy; knowing as she did that those who wish to please soon
learn the way.

Hannah declared the boy to be a good boy, and very sharp-witted,
considering how little he had been taught. How to get clothes for him,
however, she did not know; for the rent had been paid the day before,
and she had not a shilling at command. It was settled that he was to be
clothed instead of having money-wages at first.

On inquiring into the condition of his clothes, it appeared that he had
neither shoes nor stockings.

“I thought, Mrs. Gray,” said my mother, “that your children never went
to church barefoot.”

“They never did till lately, ma’am; but I cannot afford stockings for so
many, nor shoes either; and they do not mind going without, poor things!
I was so ashamed, ma’am, and my husband too, the first day they went to
church on their bare feet. I thought everybody was taking notice, and I
am sure the parson did when he spoke to us in the churchyard. But it
can’t be helped.”

“I am not quite sure of that,” replied my mother. “You know I promised
that my house-maid should teach your girls to knit; but you have never
sent them.”

“Why, ma’am, I am not the less obliged to you; but they have no time,
you see. There’s the baby to take care of.”

My mother looked out of the window and saw three little girls still
making mud-pies.

“Why should not they be knitting at this moment,” said she, “instead of
soiling their clothes and their faces, and learning habits of idleness?”

“Well, to be sure, ma’am, if you think they can learn——”

“Let them try. In another twelvemonth, those three girls will be able to
knit stockings for the whole family, and the elder boys might earn their
own shoe-leather presently.”

George Gray was now seen approaching, talking earnestly with a
well-dressed young man. They entered the cottage together.

“Your servant, ma’am,” said George. “This is Tom Webster,” he added,
seeing that Tom looked awkward.

“What is the matter, George?” said his wife, who saw by his face that
something disagreeable had happened.

“What is the matter!” cried he, flinging his hat into a corner in a
passion. “We are going to be ruined; that is what’s the matter. Here
have I been working as hard as a horse for years, and we have both been
pinching ourselves just to be able to feed the children, and now after
all we must go to ruin. We must give up our cow; we must give up our
firing: the common is going to be inclosed!”

“Perhaps not, if we hold a meeting,” said Tom.

“Nonsense, Tom!” cried George. “You talk of your meeting; but what will
be the use of all we can say, if the rich men and the parliament have
settled the matter between them? No, no; the thing is done, and my
landlord has got the last rent I shall ever pay.”

Hannah sank down in a chair as she heard these words.

“I hope you will find yourself mistaken there,” observed my mother.
“Have you heard that, in case of the common being inclosed, a piece of
ground will be given to every housekeeper in return for his right of
common?”

“Surely, George,” said his wife, “that makes a difference?”

“A very great difference,” he replied, “if the lady be sure of it. I
make bold, ma’am, to ask?”

On being assured of the fact, George turned round upon Tom to ask why he
had not mentioned it.

“Such a promise as that is always made,” said Tom, “but it is never
kept. Besides, if it was, what would you do with a piece of ground? You
could not afford to till it.”

“Leave that to me,” said George, brightening up. “I may find my own ways
and means to keep my cow after all: so remember I make no promises about
the meeting till I am sure I have heard the whole truth about the
common.”

Tom Webster went away, looking a little mortified; and, as it was
dinner-time, and the potatoes were ready, my mother also took her leave,
advising George not to be hasty in blaming public measures before he
knew the reasons of them. George promised this all the more readily for
hearing what favours were designed for his boy. Billy was called in to
receive his first lesson in good manners, and to hear what brilliant
fortune was in store for him. He was to get himself measured by the
tailor and shoe-maker, and to make his appearance the next Monday
morning.

Instead of turning homewards, we prolonged our walk through the lanes to
a considerable distance.

When we entered the village, we observed as great a bustle in the street
as if it had been the day of the much-talked-of meeting. A crowd was
slowly making its way along the middle of the street. At first we
thought it was a fight; but there was no scuffling, no rocking of the
group backwards and forwards as in a fight, no giving way and closing
again as if there was fear of any object within. Before we were near
enough to see or hear, Sir H. Withers’s carriage came along the street,
and the crowd being obliged to give way to let it pass, we saw in the
midst a ballad-singer—a youth with tattered dress and a bundle of
papers. As the carriage passed, he raised his voice in song, as if to
catch the ears of the coachman and footman who were looking back from
the box. Ballad-singers and ballads were sufficiently rare at Brooke to
justify their curiosity. They soon heard what made them long to stop and
hear more, as they no doubt would have done if the carriage had been
empty. The singer bawled after them in something like music,

                      ’Twill be all a humbug
                    To talk of deprivations,
                      When the pheasants roost snug.
                    In Sir Harry’s new plantations.

“It is about Sir Henry Withers!” cried my brothers; and they were
running off to hear more, when my mother called them back and bade them
walk quietly beside her, and wait till they got home, to hear the rest
of this beautiful song. We were favoured with another verse, however,
when the ballad-man saw that we were fairly within hearing. It ran thus:

                 Let your babes cry with cold,
                 For the turf it is sold,
             And the cows are all gone.—Why, you blockhead!
                 Fire and food are but trash,
                 So they’re now turned to cash,
             And they dangle in Malton’s big pocket.

Just as the last quaver on the big pocket died away, we turned into Miss
Black’s shop, where I wanted to make a purchase.

Miss Black appeared from an inner room with her usual trailing curtsey,
her everlasting brown silk gown, black silk apron, mits on her hands,
and scissors at her girdle. The only variation ever observed in her
indoor dress was in the cap, which changed its make and the colour of
its ribbons every month: the reason of which was, that she wished to be
neither in the front nor in the rear of the fashion, and therefore
adopted the youngest but one of the fashions for her own. Perhaps this
was on the same principle which leads some tender mammas to pet the
youngest but one of their tribe, feeling that it is unjust to discard it
in favour of a newer, while it is not quite able to take care of itself.
Miss Black reaped the reward of thus bestowing her patronage where it
was wanted; for she looked so well in whatever she wore, (from her
manner of wearing it,) that her last month’s stocks sold off among the
farmers’ families, within a few miles, who could aspire to nothing in
the way of dress beyond looking as genteel as Miss Black.—In one respect
she did not look like herself this day. There was a shade of care on her
brow such as I had never seen before, but on occasion of the illness of
a favourite apprentice, and once besides, when there was a report of a
change in the silk-duties, and she could not make out whether it would
be for her advantage or not. Her private anxieties, however, did not
impair her civility to her customers, and she began,—

“Great revolutions in these days, ma’am, both in public and private. I
am sure I hope Billy Gray will be as sensible as we could wish of his
good fortune.”

My mother, laughing, inquired how this piece of domestic news could have
travelled so far already. The matter had not been mentioned till two
hours before.

“So I understand, ma’am. But Mr. Webster carries news fast, as he has
nothing else to do, you know. It was he who told somebody at the bar of
the Arms, where Mr. Gregson’s boy was at the time, and Mr. Gregson just
stepped across to tell me.—Not quite broad enough, miss? I am afraid I
have not any of the same shade of any other breadth: but perhaps you are
not exact about the shade.—Great revolutions as I was saying, madam.”
And she sighed.

“Have you taken the alarm too about the common?”

“As to alarm, ma’am, I hardly know what to say, for I do not wish to
meddle in politics, and am not clear on the point. But I really am
perplexed; for do you know, ma’am, I have had Mr. Webster and Mr. Carey
both with me to say that, as the owner of a cow, I must be present at
their meeting either in person or by proxy; and you know, ma’am, nothing
is so injurious to a business like mine as taking any part in public
affairs. On the other hand, these gentlemen assure me that silence will
be construed as an affront to the public of this place. If I could only
make out how to avoid offending any party——Three yards and a half, miss?
Thank you. Three yards and a half.——Then there is another circumstance,
ma’am, which I am not afraid to mention to _you_. Mr. Webster assured me
so positively that cockades would be worn at the meeting to mark the
opposite parties, and he told me so particularly what the colours would
be, that I did not hesitate to write to M—— to order ribbons: and now
Mr. Carey insists upon it that there will be no cockades; so that I am
quite at a loss whether or not to countermand my order. He says that
laurel will be worn by one party and oak by the other; but he does not
even know whether there is to be gold-leaf. Now really, this being the
day that I must write to M——, I am quite perplexed.” And she looked
inquiringly at my mother, who asked her whether she was sure there would
be any public meeting at all. This new doubt was very astonishing to
Miss Black; but it determined her to countermand the ribbons; and she
heaved a deep sigh when the matter was settled, as if a heavy load was
removed from her mind.

Carey waylaid us at the door, under pretence of a necessary inquiry, but
evidently for the purpose of finding out whether we had heard the
ballad. While talking about it, he smirked, and rubbed his hands and
checked himself so strangely, as to excite some suspicions in my
mother’s mind concerning the authorship. She remarked that it was
astonishing that the people at M—— should take so much interest in the
affair as to print songs about it, and send somebody to sing them to us.
Carey observed that ballad singers were always ready.——But this man, my
mother was sure, was not a regular ballad-singer. Indeed! who was he
then?—If my mother might guess, he was a gipsy, hired by some village
poet; and that poet she fancied might be Mr. Carey.

Carey smiled, and fidgeted more than ever, while he pretended to
disclaim the honour, and vowed that he never wrote a whole song in his
life except on wedding occasions; and talked a great deal about his
professional avocations, and the muses, and his desire at the same time
to guide the public mind, &c.

My mother replied, that, as to the honour, there was none in stringing
rhymes, unless they had reason in them; and that she hoped that before
he and Webster composed their next joint production, they would make
sure that they were “guiding the public mind” in the right track. She
urged his calling in the remaining stock of ballads, but he was ready
with the answer that every one was sold. This fact and the pleasure he
felt in becoming known to us as a poet, supported his self-complacency
under my mother’s mortifying remarks; and he looked as smiling as ever
when he made his parting bow and tripped away to his shop.

His reports of the conversations under the elm continued for some days
to be very interesting. Tom Webster bustled and declaimed, while
Sergeant Rayne quietly argued. The light and giddy sung the ballad daily
and hourly when they had once caught the tune; while the grave and
thoughtful weighed the pros and cons of the argument till they had made
up their minds. It was finally agreed that no petition should be sent to
parliament. In reply to the angry remonstrances of the orators, some
declared that it was too late; others that it would be of no use; some
said that it was a folly to suppose that the poor could hold out against
the rich; others, that as Sir H. Withers and Mr. Malton had always been
kind landlords and good men, they ought to be trusted now. Some few
declared that, from all they could learn, it seemed to them that the
measure of inclosing the common would be of service to the interests of
the village.

                      ----------------------------


                              CHAPTER III.

                   GEORGE GRAY IN THE WAY TO PROSPER.


One fine September morning, on returning from a ride with my father and
Frederick, I was surprised to see from a distance what an animated scene
our common presented. There were groups of children; but they were not
flying their kites. There were many women; but they were neither cutting
furze, nor tending their cows. Men were arriving from all sides, seeming
disposed to see what was going forward, rather than to sit down to
dinner at home.

We put our horses to a canter, and soon arrived at the scene of action.
The people were observing the motions of the surveyors, who, accompanied
by Sir H. Withers and Mr. Malton, were settling the boundaries of the
land to be inclosed. The variety of countenances plainly declared how
various were the feelings with which the proceedings were viewed. I was
myself so sorry that the time was come when ugly hedges and ditches must
spoil the beauty of my favourite walk, that I could not wonder at some
of the lamentations I heard around me, or at the sour looks with which
the strangers were regarded.

“It’s a fine thing,” said one, “to be a baronet. It’s a fine thing to
have one’s own way with parliament, and to do as one likes with land
that belongs to people who can’t defend their right to it.”

“It’s a fine thing to be a great farmer,” cried another. “There’s Mr.
Malton, who has so much land that it takes him hours to ride through
it—he is able to get as much more as he likes because he is rich.
Parliament never asks whether the land he wants belongs to anybody else,
or whether he has not enough already, but as soon as ever he wishes for
more, he gets it.”

“Remember that he pays for it,” said a neighbour. “He takes no unfair
advantage of anybody. You have no reason to complain, for you have no
right of common; and if we who have choose to exchange ours for a bit of
land, what is that to anybody but ourselves? I say it is very wrong in
you to make your neighbours discontented without reason.”

“You say so,” retorted the other, “because you hope to get work under
the surveyors. I hear you have hired yourself out as a labourer already,
and I wonder you choose to have any thing to do with such a business. If
my boy had the offer of work on this spot to-morrow, he should not take
it.”

“Then somebody would soon be found to take it instead,” replied the
neighbour. “It will be a happy chance for many of our labourers; and I
do not believe anybody will be the worse in the end for Mr. Malton’s
being richer.”

“How should that be, if he takes the money out of our pockets?”

“That is the very thing that I deny. I say he puts money into our
pockets in return for our labour; and out of the ground and our labour
together, he gets back more money than he paid to us. So that he grows
richer without making us poorer.”

When we joined the gentlemen who were talking with the surveyors, Mr.
Malton was observing that he was sorry, but not very much surprised to
remark how much discontent existed among the people on account of this
new proceeding.

“One cannot expect,” said Sir Henry Withers, “that they should look
forward beyond the present inconvenience to the future profits in which
they will share with us. All that they think about now is, that their
cows cannot feed where they have fed; but if they could see how, in a
hundred years, a multitude of their descendants will be supported by the
produce of your fields, and how the value of the land will be increased
by my plantations, they would wonder at their own complaints.”

“They will not trouble you much, Sir Henry,” replied Mr. Malton. “You
and your ancestors have always been allowed to take your own way in this
neighbourhood. It is with me that they are the most angry; but I can
bear it because I see where the mistake lies, and that time will explain
it. It is natural enough that men should like being proprietors better
than being labourers; and because I laid several small fields into one
farm, they fancy I have injured the former proprietors; though they
would find, if they chose to inquire, that the very men who were
starving on land of their own, are now flourishing on the wages I give
them. Now, in times like these, the friends of the people will think
more about how to satisfy their wants than to flatter their pride.”

Frederick and I looked at one another, wondering how it could happen
that a man should be richer without land than with it; but as my father
seemed to agree with Mr. Malton, we supposed there was something more in
the matter than we saw. My desire to understand the opinions of the
gentlemen made me attend to whatever was said this morning or at any
future time on the subject of this important inclosure. I had many
opportunities of learning what my father’s opinions were and why he held
them; for it was a common practice with his neighbours to come to him
for advice when they were in doubt, as well as for assistance when they
had need. On the present occasion, so much of his time was taken up in
arguing, explaining, and advising, that he jokingly said he thought he
must call the inhabitants together to hear a lecture, or conduct a
public disputation. My own convictions, from all that I heard, were,
that no man can be properly regarded as an enemy to the public who so
manages his capital as that it may produce the largest returns, whether
that capital consists of ten thousand acres, with droves of cattle and
spacious granaries, or of half an acre with a single pig. If a man
obtains his property by fair purchase, and makes it produce the utmost
that it can, he is a friend to the public as well as to himself and his
family; since production is the aim of all such management, and the
interest of every individual in the society. I therefore looked on the
baronet as a public benefactor when I saw him planting his pines,
beeches, and alders here, and his oaks and chestnuts there; because I
knew that a vast increase of capital would be the result. I looked on
Mr. Malton as a public benefactor when I saw him draining and manuring
his new land; because I foresaw that these tracts would afford food and
work to hundreds of a future generation. I looked on every labourer as a
public benefactor who put his wages out to increase, either on his slip
of garden-ground, or in improving the condition of his cow and pigs, or
in the Savings Bank. Every man who assists the accumulation of cattle is
a public benefactor, because he improves the fund for the employment of
labour, and adds to the means of human subsistence and comfort. It was
now George Gray’s turn to try what he could do for society by improving
his own condition. He was now a capitalist; and it remained to be seen
whether he could, by prudence in the outlay and by saving, make his
capital accumulate.

On the Monday morning he brought his boy Billy, according to
appointment, to take the lowest place among our domestics. The lad was
much abashed at being shown into the parlour; and being besides rather
sorry to leave his brothers and sisters, and much encumbered with his
shoes and stockings and other new clothes, he turned very red, twirled
his hat round and round, shifted from one leg to the other, and at last,
on being spoken to, began to cry. His father told him he ought to be
ashamed of himself for crying before the ladies; but that only made the
matter worse. My mother, wisely supposing that the best way to stop his
tears was to give him something to do, took him into the garden and
shewed him how to weed the flower-beds. His father did not immediately
take his leave, but said that he wished to consult his Honour on a
matter of some importance, if his Honour had time to listen to him.

My father laid down the newspaper and was ready to hear.

“I believe you know, sir, that every body who keeps a cow on the common
is offered a bit of land in exchange for the grazing and fuel?”

“Half an acre each, I understand, Gray.”

“Yes, sir. Half an acre each; and we may have it at the back of our
cottages, or farther on the common, whichever we like.”

“So I hear; and you may sell it to Mr. Malton, on fair terms, if not
inclined to keep it.”

“There is another person too, sir, who has offered me the same price as
Mr. Malton; and I think, being a friend, he should have it if I sell it
at all. My neighbour Norton has a mind to begin upon a farm of his own;
and this, to be sure, is his time, when land may be had cheap.”

“I hope he will take care what he is about,” replied my father. “He is
doing very well now, I believe. Why cannot he be satisfied without
running risks?”

“Why, sir, he has saved money for the first outlay upon the land; and I
suppose he understands his business very well, having practised it so
long on Mr. Malton’s ground. And you know every body likes to be an
owner as soon as he can.”

“Many a proprietor would be glad to be a labourer again, in times like
these,” said my father; “and I wish Norton may not feel that by and by.
However, that is his own concern, and neither you nor I have any
business with it. Do you mean, then, to sell your allotment to him?”

“That is what I wished to consult your Honour about. Harper told me
yesterday that he has settled his bargain already with Mr. Malton, and
that you approved of it, but I hear this morning that you have advised
one or two of my neighbours very differently.”

“I have given different advice where the cases were different, and I
have always mentioned my reasons, so that my neighbours might have the
power of judging for themselves. If you know my reasons, you can easily
guess what I should recommend in your case.”

“I did not hear, sir, why you advised them as you did; and I supposed
that what was good for one would be good for all.”

“By no means, Gray, till all are rich or poor alike, and otherwise
circumstanced in the same way. A shopkeeper, like Harper, may find it
convenient to have a cow, while he is at no expense for it beyond
building a shed and paying a trifle for having her driven home, and at
no trouble but having her milked; but it becomes a very different matter
when he must cultivate a piece of ground to provide food for her. His
time is taken up with his business, and he knows nothing about the
management of land; so that he must employ labourers; and the utmost
profit of a cow would not repay him for this. I think, therefore, that
he and our other shopkeepers have done wisely in selling their land and
their cows.”

“But you think, sir, that Sam Johnson should keep his half-acre?”

“Yes. I think he is in favourable circumstances for making it answer;
and I have advised him to get another cow, if those of his neighbours
who are without will agree to take milk of him. Johnson’s wife knows how
to conduct a dairy; his children are growing strong enough to give him
help in his tillage; and being a labourer, he has many hours at his own
command which a shopkeeper has not. So, if he works hard and manages
cleverly, I think he will make a good profit of his allotment; and so
may you, for the same reasons.”

“Would you have me sell milk, sir?”

“No. I should think one cow and a couple of pigs are enough to have on
your hands, as your children are young, and your wife much occupied with
them. But milk is an article of so much importance in a large family,
and the produce of a cow such a comfortable thing to depend on, that I
am always glad to see a labourer able and inclined to make the most of
it.”

“I have often thought, sir, that there was no telling what would have
become of us if it had not been for our cow.”

“You will find her of much more use to you when she is properly fed. Her
milk will be twice as good and twice as plentiful when her food is
raised from your own land; especially if your wife knows how to manage
her.”

“Pray,” inquired my mother, who had just entered the room, “has your
eldest girl learned to milk and churn?”

“Why no, ma’am; but I think it is time she should. She might help her
mother much that way.”

“Indeed she ought; and if you like to let her come here at milking-time,
our dairy-maid shall teach her to milk. Very few people are aware how
much the value of a cow depends on the skill of the milker.”

Gray bowed, and thankfully accepted the offer.

“I believe, sir,” he said turning to my father, “that I shall keep my
bit of land, or part of it. But I shall want a little money, you know,
to lay out upon it at first; and I have no means of getting that but by
selling a part.”

“It seems a pity to sell,” said my father, “because as your boys grow
up, you will be able to make a profit of the whole, perhaps. I am not
sure, either, that you will want money at all. I will come down to your
cottage and see the condition of the land and of the place altogether,
and give you my opinion upon it.”

When Gray was gone, my father and mother agreed that it was a good
opportunity of trying what could be done for the welfare of a large and
very poor family by clever management on their side, encouraged by
advice and countenance on ours. We hoped to improve their condition,
without either lending or giving them money; and they were industrious
and tolerably prudent, and we ourselves much interested for them. My
father was not a man to forget his promises, or to keep his neighbours
waiting for the performance of them. The same evening we directed our
walk towards Gray’s cottage.

The ground was declared to be of a promising quality, and was
conveniently situated behind the cottage. It was Gray’s intention to
fence it immediately, and turn in his cow to bite off the grass and help
to manure it. But the great difficulty was to feed his cow through the
winter, as his own land would not be ready for many months, and the
small pickings from the lanes and hedges would go but a little way. My
father promised to consider the matter; and went on to examine the state
of every part of Gray’s premises. The cowshed was in bad repair. There
were holes large enough to admit the wind and rain: the floor was wet
and uneven, and not paved, as the floors of all cowsheds ought to be. My
father showed Gray the advantage of having the ground slope a little,
and told him how easily he might manage to pave it with stones (which
are to be had every where), and to mend the thatch with heath and furze
from the common. He advised that a pit should be dug near the shed, and
close by where the future pigstye was to be, to collect the manure; and
that the sweepings from the cottage floors, the collections which the
children might make from the roads, and the wash and boilings of all
sorts, should be thrown into it to increase the stock. Gray seemed
willing to receive and act upon all his advice, especially when he found
there was no need at present to lay out money upon his land. He declared
that he did not grudge labour, nor care how hard he worked, if he could
have a fair prospect of bettering his condition.

“Such a prospect I think you have,” observed my father, “if you really
do not mind hard work. But we have laid out a good deal for you. Here
you have, besides your regular work, to fence your ground, and repair
your shed, in the first place; and I should not wonder if you must pay
for the subsistence of your cow this winter by extra labour.”

“I should be very glad to do so, sir, rather than part with her; and by
this time twelvemonth, perhaps, I may see my way before me better than I
do now.”

“Indeed I hope you will, Gray; and then we shall see you living upon
something better than potatoes. Potatoes are very good food in part; but
I like to see a hard-working man enjoying his bread and beer, and
sometimes a dish of meat. If you manage to keep a pig, this will be in
your power. In the mean time, do not be uneasy about how your cow is to
be fed this winter. She will have the range of the common for two months
to come: and I advise you to get on with your fencing and repairs before
that time is over.”

My father represented to Mr. Malton the difficulty of the cottagers
about keeping their cows through the first winter. The number of these
animals was very small, as most of the villagers had sold theirs to the
neighbouring farmers; and, as the common was to be open for some time,
and a bite of grass was to be had in the lanes, the quantity of turnips
required for the cattle would not be great. It happened too that Mr.
Malton wanted more labourers on his new land than he could easily
obtain; so that the wages were somewhat raised, and he was glad to
employ all who were willing for a greater number of hours in the day. It
was presently settled, to Gray’s great satisfaction, that he should pay
for the feed of his cow by two hours’ extra work per day, as long as Mr.
Malton could so employ him.

                      ----------------------------


                              CHAPTER IV.

                    A CONVERSATION UNDER THE LIMES.


Sergeant Rayne was a happy old man. Every body loved him for his
kindness of heart, and looked up to him with respect for the simplicity
of his character, and for the wisdom he had gained by his travels abroad
and his meditations at home. The labourers of the village were always
ready to stand and chat with him when he had inquiries to make about
their families. The housewives invited him in as he passed their doors,
and wiped down a chair for him. The children brought him nosegays as he
sat beneath the elm; and it was his delight to take one on his knee and
collect the others round him, while he told long stories of his
adventures on land and sea. It was amusing to witness the eagerness of
the little creatures—one holding his face between both her hands lest he
should look away before the tale was ended,—another crowding question
upon question faster than they could be answered—a third uttering an
impatient “hush!” at each interruption. He allowed them to do what they
liked with him; and one little rogue used to creep up behind him on the
bench to peep into the pocket which sometimes contained apples and nuts,
while another amused himself with buttoning and unbuttoning the empty
sleeve which the sergeant was wont to consider his most honourable badge
of service. When my mother and I went to a shop, we often found him
seated beside the counter, reading the news to two or three listeners;
and more frequently, as we passed through the churchyard, he was to be
seen on the bench in the lime walk, with spectacles on nose, intently
reading one of the good books which he valued more than newspapers,
chat, or child’s-play, dearly as he loved them all. When so engaged, no
one interrupted him, and he took notice of nobody but the clergyman, to
whom he never failed to offer his best bow. They usually entered into
conversation on the subject of his reading or on the results of his
meditation; and the clergyman has more than once told me that he owes to
Sergeant Rayne many a topic for a sermon, and many a hint which he
afterwards found valuable in his intercourse with his flock.

On one occasion, he conversed as freely with me as if I had been the
clergyman. His spirit was moved, and it was a relief to him to express
his feelings where he knew he might look for sympathy.

He was sitting in the churchyard, one bright, mild noon of a late autumn
day. He had been reading, but had put down his book with his finger
between the leaves, while he watched the motions of the sexton who was
digging a grave near him. When he heard the rustling of my little dog
among the fallen leaves, he turned and saw me approaching from the
stile. I thought there was a look of invitation in his eye; and when he
brushed a few dead leaves from the bench, I took my seat beside him.

“That grave is for old John Williams, I suppose?” said I.

“It is; and I was just grieving in myself that he who is about to be
laid there should have gone down to the grave in sorrow, after a life of
usefulness and honour.”

“You mean on account of the ill-doing of his son Hal?”

“Yes, miss: and not only that, but of the change in the family
altogether, and of the difference in their prospects from what his were
at their time of life. I remember what a happy family they were fifteen
years ago, when he owned his little farm here in the neighbourhood. His
sons in the field and his daughters in the dairy were as fine a set of
lads and lasses as could be seen. And now to think how some are dead and
others dispersed, and the favourite of all likely to come on the parish
through his own imprudence,—it does make one’s heart ache.”

“And the poor old man himself,” said I, “was supported by the parish
during his time of infirmity.”

“Yes, miss; and that of itself would have brought him to the grave if
his childishness had not saved him that pain. He deserved better from
his favourite son than that he should marry before he could afford it,
and turn over his old father to be maintained by the parish.”

“Did you ever tell the young man so?”

“Why, miss, I thought if his own natural affections and sense of duty
were not enough to guide him, there was little use in my saying any
thing. But this much I did tell him: that I had more pleasure in making
my old mother comfortable with my pay than I could ever have had in
indulging my own wishes; and that I am happier in my old age without
wife or children than I could have been under the thought that she had
died in the workhouse.”

“And what did he say?”

“He smiled and said I had never been in love; but——” the old man sighed
and shook his head.

“I am afraid,” said I, “Hal has not much comfort in his wife; for they
seem to have gone down in the world sadly since they married.”

“True, miss: and the old man knew this before he died; for he became
sensible both of this and of his son Richard’s death. Richard, you know,
miss, was a seaman, and was supposed to be at the other side of the
world at this time; but a week ago, a letter came to say that he was
dead; and it enclosed twelve pounds, which he had saved from his pay and
left to his aged father. I told Williams all about it, and shewed him
the letter and the money; but his memory so failed him, that he did not
know who I was speaking of; and he forgot the whole the next minute. But
O! miss, it all came back upon him at the last; and I shall ever bless
God that I heard him speak rationally once more. He grew weaker every
hour; and there he sat crying and wailing like a child, or talking so
foolishly that one did not know how to answer him. But I have heard him
speak like a man again, as sensibly as ever in his life, and with far
more dignity than his son knew how to face.”

“It is a great consolation,” said I, “when the mind which has been long
clouded becomes clear at the last.”

“A great consolation, miss; and never so much to me as in this case. He
was too weak to be got up, the last morning; and when I went, he was
either asleep or so quiet that we thought him so. I offered to sit by
him till his son came from work; and I was reading in the armchair by
the bedside when he raised his head and said, quite in his natural
voice, ‘Is that you, sergeant?’ I saw at once that he was quite
sensible. He asked who that woman was at the fire; and when I told him
it was his daughter-in-law, Ann, his son Hal’s wife, he repeated the
words to himself, and mused for a while, and then asked for Hal. Hal
came in at the moment, and his father spoke to him as if they had not
met for years. ‘So you are married, Hal,’ said he, ‘and I did not know
it till now. Well, that is no fault of yours. But where’s Richard now?
Has he been to see us, and I did not know that either? O, but surely I
remember something about him. Did not you tell me, sergeant, that he
died? My poor son! But he only went a little while before me.’ And so he
ran on till we told him he had better not exhaust himself with talking,
and I drew the curtain that he might try to sleep again. He lay very
quiet till his son and daughter left the room; and then, opening the
curtain, he beckoned me close to him, and said he was sure I would tell
him the truth, and that he wanted to know whether Hal was not very, very
poor, as he observed that the best furniture was gone and that the room
looked comfortless. I could not deny that they were poor. He went on to
ask how they had supported him; and his look and manner were so earnest,
and he did so insist upon his right to be told the whole, and it was so
clear that he had some notion of the parish allowance, that I could not
keep the fact from him. As soon as he had made out that he had been a
burden on the parish, he turned away and hid his face under the clothes.
I did not, for some time, venture to take any notice; but at last I
said, as gently as I could, that there would never again be such a
necessity, as he was now well supplied with money. He soon recalled the
circumstance of his son Richard’s legacy, and then made me tell him how
many weeks he had received an allowance from the parish. ‘Forty-nine
weeks, at four and sixpence a week; how much is that? More than I can
pay, I am afraid. But I can’t reckon it; will you?—Eleven pounds and
sixpence, is it? Well, I am thankful I have the money; and I beg,
sergeant, you will write a letter from me to the overseers,—now, before
Hal comes in. Sit by me, and I’ll tell you what to say.’ So, miss, he
told me clearly what he wished me to say; and his letter was so proud
and yet so humble! He said he hoped he could submit to be a burden at
the last, if it should be God’s will; but that he had never intended to
be so, and would not while he could raise a shilling by other means; and
so he begged to send back all they had allowed him. Hal looked surprised
and vexed, when he came back, to hear what had been done; and he
whispered to me that I knew very well how long his father had been
superannuated, and that he hoped I should not fling away the money in
any such manner, though it was very well to humour the old man by
pretending to do as he wished. I made no answer, but I have the money
and the letter safe, and they shall go to-night; for my good friend was
as much in his right mind as you or I, miss; and more, I should say,
than his son Hal. ‘There is but little left, Hal,’ said he; ‘but it will
be more than I shall want; for I am just going. I wish I could have left
you something more than my love and thanks for what you have done for
me. I am afraid I have been a sad trouble to you; but good children find
all this trouble turned into pleasure when they look back upon it in
after times.’ He went on speaking for some time; but his speech became
less clear and his countenance altered, till he sunk back and breathed
his last. I have thought of little else, ever since, Miss Lucy; and
between joy to think how he recovered himself after being so long
childish, and sorrow that he will never speak to me again, my heart is
quite full still.”

The sergeant seemed so much affected, that I tried to divert his
attention by inquiring into the beginnings of poor William’s troubles.

“Why, miss, he and I were never agreed about matters of that kind. I
always took a different view of his difficulties from what he did; and I
should have tried a different way to get out of them. As soon as the war
ended, his reverses began; and like all the rest of the farmers, he
complained of the hardships of the agricultural classes, and that they
had not fair play. It was of no use my reminding him that the farmers
made enormous profits during the war, which could not in the nature of
things be kept up for any long time: he was still crying out for higher
duties on the importation of corn, and complaining of the prosperity of
manufactures; just as if the welfare of the one class did not depend on
that of the other. Then Mr. Malton’s taking several farms into his own
hands was a great grievance to him. When I saw what was doing, I advised
him to keep no more land than he had capital to make the most of, and to
send his children into the world, or let them provide for themselves
under Mr. Malton; but he would do no such thing. So, from keeping more
land than he could cultivate properly, his capital was returned in less
and less proportions, and he went down in the world, and his children
with him, till ruin overtook most of them.”

“It seems a hard thing,” said I, “that these large farmers should ruin
their humbler neighbours; and why need it happen now more than
formerly?”

“Changes are always going on in society, Miss Lucy, and there are
usually some who suffer, and many who are benefited by these changes.
Whenever such a change takes place, we hear a cry in favour of old
times, and complaints that we do not go back to the old ways. But, to
say nothing of the good or evil of old ways, is it possible to go back
to them? In the present case, for instance, is it possible to set back
our population, our manufactures, our modes of tilling the ground, to
what they were when small farms were not found fault with? Certainly
not: so the question comes to this:—having a multitude more mouths to
feed, and requiring more and more capital to make the ground yield its
utmost, is it wiser to obtain an increased production by changing our
farming system, or to let the poorer population starve, that a certain
class may continue to be landed proprietors who cannot properly afford
to be so?”

“It is clear,” replied I, “that the general good must be considered
before the indulgence of any particular class. But to whom is this
question referred?”

“That is another point to be considered, miss. All these great questions
are decided by the public interest, (unless some meddling law is
interposed,) and not by individuals. As long as more corn is wanted,
there is no use in railing at large farmers, or at those who buy of
them, or at anybody. The demand cannot be prevented, and the supply will
follow of course. Seeing all this, I could not be discontented with Mr.
Malton for improving his land and trying new methods by which more corn
was brought to market and at a cheaper rate than formerly; though I was
sorry for Williams and others who could not keep up with him. My poor
old friend never could agree with me there; nor could he hear with
patience of the inclosure of our common. He was always afraid of too
much corn being grown, and would never believe that the more food is
raised, the more would be wanted.”

“Did he not see that a multitude in this kingdom have not food enough?”

“That, miss, he could not dispute; but his argument was, that while
farmers are poor, there must be too much corn in the market. I never
could get him to tell me why, if that were the case, Mr. Malton and
others were busy enlarging their farms and taking in waste land.”

“That is what I was going to ask,” said I. “How can Mr. Malton afford to
lay out a great deal of money which the land cannot pay back for years,
if the business of farming is an unprofitable one?”

“He knows very well that whatever may be the changes of prices and the
rise and fall of profits at various times, there will be a lasting
demand for the produce of the soil; and that therefore landed property,
with a sufficiency of capital to lay out upon it, must be a safe and
lasting possession in the long run. For that long run he, as a large
capitalist, can afford to wait.”

“Then it is an advantage to the public whom he supplies, and to the
labourers whom he supports, as well as to himself, that he should carry
on the work he has begun?”

“Certainly. He is preparing to feed many hundred human beings where only
a few lean cattle grazed before. He circulates money now among his poor
neighbours whom he pays for making his inclosures. They are very glad of
their increase of wages, (as you may see if you go among them,) however
much they may mourn over the loss of their common. This winter he will
turn in his large flocks of sheep to bite every blade of grass and
manure the ground. In the spring he will plough up the land, and
afterwards sow it with turnips. Next winter, his sheep will feed off the
turnips and give the land another dressing; and, during all this time,
he is laying out a great deal of money on his fields without any other
return than the scanty feed of his flocks. But, after this time, his
land will begin to pay him back the expense of the purchase, of the
fences, of the use of the teams, of the seed, and of the human labour
which has been employed; and when it is improved to the utmost, he will
probably find, or his children after him, that it is well worth while
thus to employ his capital, and thus to wait for his profits.”

“If, for many years,” said I, “there has been less food in this country
than was wanted, how happens it that so many commons are still
un-inclosed?”

“Because it often answers better to improve land already cultivated than
to spend money on wastes. Of late years, agriculture has been much
studied in this country, and means have been discovered by which lands
that have been under the plough for hundreds of years have been made to
produce more by half than in old times. This is the way that Mr. Malton
grew rich. If there had been nothing more to be done with his fields
than formerly, he would probably have taken in the common some years
ago: but his time and money have been occupied in trying new methods of
cultivation, which have answered very well and enabled him to increase
his capital, notwithstanding the badness of the times, from which he was
no more exempt than other people. Having brought his estate into a high
degree of cultivation, he is now able to add to it.”

“And to fix his capital,” said I, “and wait for returns in a way which
is not practicable for a small capitalist. Poor Williams, if he had been
alive now, must have had his capital reproduced immediately or have been
at a stand.”

The sergeant smiled while he observed that he saw he was not the only
person who had conversed with me on the employment of capital. I told
him how often I had listened to conversations between my father and his
friends on the philosophy of the changes which were taking place in our
village.

“There is another way,” said I, “in which it seems to me easy to prove
that there is the best economy in large farms. If industry is limited by
capital, and if a capital grows faster in proportion to its increase, a
large capital must afford increased employment at a quicker rate than
several small ones. Do you see what I mean?”

“Yes, miss; and I think you perfectly right. Here is a case. Mr. Malton
began, we will say, with a farm of three hundred acres, and three
neighbours with each a farm of one hundred, his capital being just equal
to that of the three together. Mr. Malton would have the advantage, in
the first place, of having his capital better invested. His one set of
farm buildings would require less fixed capital than their three sets,
though his might be treble the size. His fencing and the disposal of his
fields might be managed to better advantage. He might proportion his
stock and instruments more exactly than they could to the work to be
performed—finding, for instance, that five horses could do the work
which it would require a pair of horses on each of the three small farms
to do. The fixed capital thus saved, Mr. Malton could employ at once in
improving his land, and thus preparing for a further increase of
capital; while his neighbours could only go on as they did before. When
these improvements bring in their profits, he has a further sum to lay
out in the employment of labour, and the fruits of that labour enrich
him still more; and all this time, his three neighbours are left further
and further behind, though their smaller capital may be growing in its
due proportion. At the best, at the end of a few years, they can only
make the most of their one or two or three hundred acres, while he
supplies society with the produce of his one or two or three thousand.”

“Do you know,” I asked, “with how much land Mr. Malton began the world,
and how much he has now?”

“I rather think he began upon six or seven hundred acres; and now he has
some thousands under his own eye. One of his tenants holds a farm of
fifteen hundred, and another of twelve hundred acres; and these men
adopt all Mr. Malton’s improvements that their capital will allow, and
have so increased the productiveness of their land as to be truly public
benefactors.”

“Poor Norton will hardly have any chance of improving his little fortune
in such a neighbourhood,” said I.

The sergeant shook his head, and said that he had tried to explain to
Norton that as industry is proportioned to capital, it must answer
better to let the labour of a society like ours to a large capitalist
than to split it into portions which could not yield so full an
aggregate return; but that Norton liked the idea of being a proprietor,
and would listen to no evil bodings.

“If you were to go abroad, again, sergeant,” said I, “what would you do
for want of somebody to advise? I suppose you found no foreigners so
ready to look up to you as we are in your native village?”

“My business abroad was not to teach but to learn,” he replied, smiling.
“Yet there were some who used to ask me questions by the hour together
about the ways of my own country. It was the examination that I was thus
led into that induced me to consider the reasons and rules of our public
and domestic economy in the way which makes my neighbours here come to
me for advice.”

“What sort of people were they who used to question you?” I asked.
“Soldiers do not generally study these matters much.”

“It is a pity they do not,” replied he, “so much opportunity as they
have of observing the ways of different countries. Those that I speak of
were mostly soldiers, however; they were my companions in the hospital
where I lost my arm. I was confined there many weeks, and a prisoner
too; so that I was glad to amuse my thoughts by conversation whenever I
could get it.”

“You could speak Spanish, then?”

“I managed to pick up enough both of French and Spanish to make myself
understood. If I had not, I should have been forlorn indeed, for not an
Englishman was in that hospital but myself. I think I hardly could have
borne to lose my liberty, my limb, and all intercourse with my
countrymen at once, if I had been unable to talk with the people of the
place. As it was, it was sad enough.”

“I have always wished,” said I, with some hesitation, “to hear the
history of that terrible time from yourself; but I never ventured to ask
it.”

The sergeant smiled as he assured me that I need not have scrupled, as
it was a pleasure to him to go back to the remembrance of old times.

“I will begin with telling you, miss, how I got my wound. It was the
first wound I ever had, though I had been often in the very thick of the
fight. It was strange enough that on this particular day——”

Just at this moment the clock struck one. A shade passed over the face
of the old man, and he stopped short. Knowing his passion for
punctuality, I started up with many apologies for having detained him so
long, and promised to call on him one day for his story, which it really
was no little disappointment to me to give up for the present.

Before I left the churchyard, I looked back and saw that, though he was
late for dinner, the sergeant had paused to look once more into his old
friend’s grave.

                      ----------------------------


                               CHAPTER V.

                      PAST, PRESENT, AND TO COME.


A large portion of the newly-inclosed land belonged to Sir Henry
Withers, whose plantations were celebrated in verse, as we have seen, in
company with Mr. Malton’s fields. Sir Henry had had a world of trouble
in laying his plans about these plantations; for, in addition to the
discontents of the people about the common, he had met with opposition
from other quarters. Every arable cultivator grumbled over Malton’s
pastures and Withers’s woods by turns. Every shepherd looked upon every
spot occupied by a tree as so much food taken from his flock. Sir
Henry’s bailiff himself could not bear to see a rood of ground that was
worth any thing for other purposes devoted to planting, and was
continually offering his advice as to how much should be taken in, and
how large a sweep the fences should make. If his master had followed his
advice, his plantations would not only have made a very extraordinary
zig-zag patchwork, but the expense of fencing round so many odd angles
would have exceeded the saving in good land; to say nothing of the
advantage lost to the trees planted in a poor soil by having none of the
protection of more flourishing neighbours. Sir Henry and his forester
laughed together at the idea of having his plantations look like an
assortment of pincushions, and of rearing a mile of fence where half a
mile would do, for the sake of saving a few acres more for the plough.
These two carried their point against all the little world of Brooke;
and the future woods were appointed to sweep round the foot of this
hill, to retire into yonder hollow, to wave on the top of that healthy
slope, and to shelter from the north winds all this expanse of
corn-fields. It was a delight to the imagination to picture what they
would be a hundred years hence, when hanging woods would ornament a
landscape at present bare and barren.

It was partly this pleasure, and partly the activity of the scene, which
made us love to watch the process of planting. The inclosing was the
first work; and we were for some time in dread that stone walls would be
the kind of fence fixed upon, as the soil was too poor for a quickset
hedge, considering the great extent to which it must have been carried;
and fences of furze and larch would have required too much attention in
the neighbourhood of such large flocks of sheep as Mr. Malton’s. Sir
Henry, however, could not tolerate the idea of stone walls any more than
ourselves, and determined to construct an earthen fence which might last
for nine or ten years, by which time the thinnings of the plantations
might provide a substitute. A ditch was dug, sloping outwards but
presenting a straight cut of a foot and a half next the plantation, on
the verge of which was raised a wall of sods, three or four feet high,
round the top of which ran a single bar of paling.

The next operation was to drain those portions of the soil which
required it—a trouble and expense which, though great at first, becomes
less and less burdensome every year; since, if the drains are properly
kept open and scoured, so that the water may remain pure enough to
nourish the trees, it will be gradually absorbed by them, so as to turn
a swampy into a firm soil. The marking out of the road and paths was
done at the same time with the draining, as one ditch served to drain
the road on one side and the plantation on the other. This part of the
work was the most agreeable of all to lookers-on, and to a man of taste
like Sir Henry, who saw how much of the use and beauty of his woods
depended on this part of his plan. He pointed out with delight how air
would be conducted into the recesses of the groves by these pathways;
and how the road, now barely marked out with the spade, would soon
become a dry green sward, where the fellings of the woods would be
hereafter collected, and where their owner might go to and fro to watch
how his forest nurslings throve.

Our next curiosity was to know what trees Sir Henry meant to plant the
most of. There were to be oaks, of course; but a far greater proportion
of larch. “Larch! Ugly, mean-looking larch!” we exclaimed; and went on
to rail against its appearance when planted in small patches, or on the
ridge of a hill, or sloping away from the wind. But Sir Henry told us
that if we had seen forests of larch we should have had a very different
idea of its beauty. He had been in Switzerland; and he described to us
the sublimity of the woods there, where the mountains are clothed with
larch as high as any vegetation can stretch, and where the tender green
of its young shoots in spring is as beautiful as its sober autumn shade
is grand. To comfort us under our complaints that we were never likely
to look upon Swiss mountains, he told us that we need go no farther than
Scotland to see what a forest of larches might be made. He owned,
however, that he had regarded use more than beauty in his choice of the
larch. This tree grows better on exposed and poor soils than in rich and
sheltered situations;—not so fast, certainly; but its timber is of a
better texture, and it is free from blight. The oak and ash, therefore,
were planted on the best parts of Sir Henry’s grounds; and the rest was
given up to the larch, which was expected to grow more rapidly than all
the trees of the forest besides, to furnish wood as tough and durable as
that of the oak, and moreover to improve the quality of the ground as
rapidly and effectually as could be done by any other process. By the
annual casting of its leaves, the larch enriches the soil beneath as
with a regular supply of manure. The coarse heath gradually disappears,
and the finer grasses spring up, till a larch wood becomes, from being a
barren moor, a pasture land carpeted with white clover: a wonderful
change to take place without any assistance from human labour beyond
that of putting larch plants into the ground. The plantation may be used
as pasture without injury to the young trees, after a ten years’ growth;
and hence arise other advantages,—shade to the flock in summer, warmth
in winter, and shelter from the storm. What wonder that Sir Henry
planted many larches!

Few rural employments are more interesting to the by-stander than that
of planting. I have stood for hours with my brothers, watching the
people at their work. First a labourer took off with his spade about a
foot of turf, and laid it aside, while he dug the pit, and broke the
clods, and loosened the soil near. Then his wife, if he had one, or his
boy, placed the plant, just brought from the nursery, in the earth, and
spread the roots abroad in their natural direction, taking especial care
not to twist or bruise the tender fibres which draw nourishment from the
soil. Then the pit was filled up; the earth being first gently sprinkled
over the roots, and afterwards turned in and trodden down. The turf was
next cut in two with the spade and laid upside down on each side of the
plant, so as to meet round its stem. The purpose of reversing the turf
is that the nursling may not be affected by drought, or injured by the
growth of grass or weeds close beside it. We were sure never to be long
at any one spot without seeing either Sir Henry or his forester, who
were always going their rounds among the labourers. They told us that no
one thing is so much to be dreaded in the work of plantation as
slovenliness in putting the plants into the ground; and as it was
impossible to convince the labourers of all the mischief of bruising or
twisting the roots, there was nothing for it but keeping an eye upon
them continually, to see that they did not make more haste than good
speed. For this reason, planting was not in the present case, as in too
many, done by contract; but even here, where the labourers were paid by
the day, they were apt to grow impatient and think it foolish to
fiddle-faddle about the root-fibres of a tree as carefully as about the
tender organs of an infant. They made many attempts, too, in order to
save trouble, to bring more plants at a time from the nursery than they
could set before night: but the forester having once found half-a-dozen
covered over in a ditch during a frost, made such vehement complaints,
that thenceforward the nurslings were removed as they were wanted and in
security.

I began this winter by admiring Sir Henry’s benevolence to future
generations more than I saw reason to do afterwards. I imagined that he
would reap none of the fruits of his present outlay of trouble and
capital, and that all that he did in planting was for the sake of his
children and his country. He did consider both. He was well aware of the
value of an ample supply of timber to a nation like ours, whose naval
resources can never be too plentiful, and whose magnificent works of art
create a perpetual demand for the treasures of the forest. He was
mindful, also, of the vast increase to the value of his estates which he
might provide by planting his inferior lands; but, with all this, he
hoped, as it was fair he should, that his own revenues would be improved
by the same means, perhaps before he had passed the middle of life. I
was present one day when he was pointing out to my father the difference
in his mode of planting two portions of land, and the comparative profit
he expected to receive in a few years.

“These fifty acres, you observe,” said he, “are not for pasturage,
though you see two larches to one oak. Half the larches are to remain
for timber trees; the other half are nurses, and will be thinned out in
five or six years.”

“O dear!” interrupted I, “before they are large enough to be of any
use.”

“I expect they will pay me,” he continued, “for the outlay on all these
fifty acres. They would be worth little if we lived far away from any
population but that of our own estates; but there is demand enough for
bark, for poles, &c., to take off all I shall have to dispose of. The
bark will sell for about half as much as oak bark; I suppose it will
fetch from four to five pounds a ton. The quality of the wood is so
good, that stakes and poles of it are in great request for gates and
palings. The smaller sticks I may want myself; or if not, Mr. Malton or
other farmers will be glad of them for supports for their sheep nets,
when the flocks are eating turnips off the ground. They sell at about a
shilling a dozen.”

“You will pay yourself in six years at farthest,” said my father. “Do
you expect to make more or less of those other fifty acres where you
plant larch only?”

“More in the long run, but nothing for ten years or upwards. I have not
planted so close there, you see; so that there will be no thinning at
the end of five years. The original expense of planting is less, of
course;—about twenty shillings an acre, at the most. Then we must
remember the rent of the soil, which is perhaps a shilling an acre.”

“Then to this thirty shillings an acre,” observed my father, “you must
add the ten years’ interest, and the outlay on inclosing; there are no
other expenses, I think?”

“Not any. There are twelve hundred larches on each acre. I shall remove
one-third in ten years; and it will be strange if the bark and timber of
four hundred do not pay all the expenses we have mentioned, with
compound interest. Then I shall have eight hundred trees on every acre,
the very lowest value of which will be ten pounds; and the ground will
be worth four times what it is at present. It will be pasturage worth
letting by that time.”

“Then,” said my father, “after having paid yourself, these fifty acres,
which were a month ago worth a rental of only fifty shillings, will
bring in ten or twelve pounds a year, and have five hundred pounds’
worth of larches upon them. Upon my word, this is a pretty profit!”

“Consider, too,” said Sir Henry, “that without costing me a farthing
more, the thinnings of the plantation will add to my income at a
continually increasing rate. I shall be able to employ more and more
labourers every year:—not that I need tell you so; but I put in this
observation for your daughter’s sake. She looks quite disappointed in
me—disappointed to find that I look for any profit from the measures
which will benefit my family and society at large. Have I guessed your
thoughts rightly, Miss Lucy?”

So rightly, that I blushed and my father laughed, while he assured Sir
Henry that we none of us doubted his disinterestedness.

“What different ways there are of benefiting one’s country and
posterity, in different parts of the world!” I exclaimed. “In Canada, a
landed proprietor would clear away as many trees as possible, I suppose,
if he wished to do a patriotic thing.”

“It is one of the most interesting employments I know of,” said my
father, “to trace how the same principles lead men to directly opposite
or widely different modes of conduct, according to circumstances; and if
men studied this fact a little more carefully than they do, the world
would be incalculably happier than it seems likely to be for some time
to come. If statesmen and legislators saw that usages and laws must be
varied with lapse of time and change of circumstances, we should be
freed from many useless institutions. If our men of power saw that what
is beneficial to a country in one age may be hurtful in another, we
should have a better economy and a wiser distribution of our wealth. If
our people discerned the same thing, they would leave off complaining of
new measures because they are not old, and railing against their best
friends because the advice they offer would not have suited the
condition of our grandfathers.”

Sir Henry observed that he had heard far more said about what would have
been thought of Mr. Malton’s large farm a century ago, than what ought
to be thought of it now. In the same manner, the wise men who study how
the resources of the nation may be best managed and improved are called
hard-hearted, because the measures they recommend are different from
such as were necessary when our population was less numerous, when there
was less competition in commerce, and a smaller demand for agricultural
produce.

“There can be no surer mark of ignorance and prejudice,” observed my
father. “The king of Persia is prejudiced when he laughs at a king of
England for having only one wife; and every Englishman who thinks the
king of Persia wicked for having twenty, is ignorant. He does not know
that the religion of the monarch allows the custom. Any one of our
labourers would be prejudiced if he blamed an Indian for waste for
burning a whole pine-tree at once; and that Indian would show himself
ignorant if he laughed at Sir Henry for spending so much time, and
labour, and money, in planting trees, of which the Indians have more
than they know what to do with.”

“Any one such instance,” observed Sir Henry, “is enough to silence for
ever all objections to plans because they are new. I would desire no
better instance of the variations introduced by time into the way of
employing labour and capital than the one you have reminded me of, by
your mention of Indian forests. There was a time when this island was as
much overgrown with wood as any part of North America now is.”

“What a different place it must have been then!” said I.

“Different indeed! Vast forests extending over whole districts; the
climate as cold as now in the north of Russia; (for countries in our
latitude become temperate only in proportion as they are cleared;)
wolves abounding in every wilderness, and swamps spreading in all
directions, to the great injury of the health of the savage
inhabitants,—such was Great Britain once.”

“Have swamps any necessary connexion with woods?” I inquired.

“With untended forests, where no care is taken to prevent them. A tree
is blown down across a rivulet, and forms a dam. The water, stopped in
its course, diffuses itself over the neighbouring ground, and loosens
the roots of other trees, and, by becoming stagnant, poisons their
vegetation. These other trees fall, one by one, and form other dams; and
thus the destruction proceeds, till what was once a forest becomes a
bog.”

“This is the reason, then, why trees are found buried in swamps?”

“Certainly; and we know it not only from the fact of trees being so
found, but from there being actual instances of such transformations of
a forest into a swamp at the present time, in Invernesshire, and some
other parts of Scotland. Now, what would a wise landed proprietor do in
such a state of the country as this?”

“The very reverse of what you are now doing,” said my father. “He would
clear as much ground as possible for cultivation, putting the wood out
of the way as fast as it was cut. He would build with it, burn it, and
encourage every body about him to use it for all the purposes of life to
which it could be applied. He would encourage pasturage, because cattle
are scarce in proportion to the scarcity of open ground. These cattle,
continually increasing under the care of man, would wander into the
woods, and, though they could not injure large timber trees, would
prevent the young plants from coming up, and thus prepare for the
decline of the forests.”

“If things proceeded in their natural course, the face of the country
would be wholly changed in a few centuries,—the hills being bleak and
barren, and the vales swampy; the latter having become unfit for the
residence of man, and the former an unsheltered and perilous pasture for
his flocks. What would a wise landed proprietor do now?”

“He would hang woods on the summits of the hills to protect the herds
grazing on their slopes,” replied my father. “He would cut trenches in
the valley, and, as an effectual drain, would plant the hollows the
first moment that their soil would bear the process. Under this
management, the high grounds would become fertile, and the bogs would be
converted into firm, rich, vegetable soil, ready to repay the labours of
the plough.”

“Then if you owned the downs of our southern counties,” said I, “or the
bogs of Ireland, you would plant and drain and plant again?”

“I should, and as much for my own profit as for the general good; for
the price of timber rises, of course, in proportion to its scarcity. Now
you see how different is the application of labour and capital in these
two states of a country. In the one, labour is applied to banish, in the
other to create, woods. In the one, cattle are permitted to destroy the
young timber; while in the other every tender shoot is protected at an
expense of trouble and money. In the one, growing wood is as little
valuable a part of the proprietor’s capital as the stones which encumber
Mr. Malton’s new fields, and of which he can only make the meanest of
his fences; while in the other, it is the resource on which the
proprietor mainly relies for the stability of his fortune, not only for
the income it brings, but for its power of increasing the productiveness
of his pasture and corn lands.”

“And do you believe,” said I, “that there are any so stupid as to oppose
a different application of labour and capital in these two cases?”

“Not in so clear an instance,” replied my father; “but they will not
follow the precedent in cases very like it. Can you fancy a family of
natives, living, some centuries ago, in a wattled hut in a wilderness of
Cumberland, visited every winter’s night by wolves, every spring season
with agues, crying out in dismay at the proceedings of a rich neighbour
to clear the ground? They would exclaim against having their old customs
broken in upon, and would talk of the pleasure of gathering acorns for
supper in the glades at sunset, and of their hunts, and of the freedom
of their wild life. If their neighbour represented to them that acorns
had long been becoming scarce from the disappearance of oaks in the
swamps; that their children had been swept from their side by diseases
belonging to the locality; and that wild beasts were increasing so fast,
that there seemed a probability of the hunters soon becoming the hunted,
these new notions would only increase their discontent. If he offered to
supply them with certain quantities of grain and meat in exchange for
wolves’ heads, they would complain of the degradation of obtaining their
food by rendering service instead of the dignified independence of
picking up acorns or digging roots out of the soil. They would complain
that he had injured them by fencing in ground where the boar used to
stand at bay; and if he attempted to shew them the impossibility of
restoring the forest and the climate and mode of life to what they were
a hundred years before, and the necessity of making some provision for
their altered state, they would, instead of listening, tax him with all
the distresses and inconveniences which had been prepared before he was
born.—Now, Lucy, can you find a parallel case to this?”

“Very easily,” replied I, “Mr. Malton is the rich neighbour, and old
Williams was one of the lovers of the old paths; and if you had told us
of one who retired back farther into the swamp and built his hut on the
sinking trunks of the fallen trees, I should have thought you were
prophesying of Norton.”

“Let us bode him no ill,” said my father, “but rather hope that he will
plant his foot on firm ground, whatever we may think of the position he
has chosen.”

“I can scarcely imagine,” said I, “that any would be found to object to
the second process Sir Henry described. The shepherd, striving in vain
to win his way against the snow storm on the uplands, in search of his
perishing flock, would surely bless the hand that planted woods to
shelter his charge?”

“Even he,” said my father, “would pluck up every sapling if he dared,
for shepherds are well known to grudge every foot of soil on which their
flock cannot browze.”

“Observe the fact,” said Sir Henry. “Are not my pheasants lampooned
before they are hatched? Is not every larch in all these acres looked
upon as a meal taken from a half-starved cow? When the shepherd finds
his flock safe under the shelter of a full-grown wood, he will be
reconciled to the planter; and not till then: and if any one of my
neighbours should live to rest his aged form on his staff in the noonday
sun, and watch his grandchildren, among a hundred labourers, felling
wood on this spot, he may look on my grave as he creeps homewards, and
sigh to think how he once misunderstood my intentions; but I must not
expect this justice in my lifetime.”

“You may,” replied my father; “and if you are spared to a good old age,
you will witness as total a change in the views of our discontented
neighbours as in the aspect of this waste or the condition of our
village.”

Sir Henry pointed to the temporary dwellings which had been erected for
the troop of labourers who had come from a distance to work under his
forester, (there not being an adequate supply of labour at Brooke for
the new demand,) and said,—

“When that row of sheds shall have grown into a village, and when the
axe and mattock shall be heard in the woods throughout the winter’s day;
when the timber-wain shall come jingling down the slope, and the sawyers
and woodmen be seen going and returning early and late, my purposes will
be answered, whether I live to see their fulfilment or not.”

                      ----------------------------


                              CHAPTER VI.

                        SERGEANT RAYNE’S STORY.


I often passed an hour with the sergeant in his neat lodging; and if I
went only to inquire after his health, or to ask some question which
might be answered immediately, I frequently stood chatting till my
brothers came to see what I was about. They, however, were generally my
companions, for they loved, like other people, to hear the entertaining
stories of battles, sieges, and shipwrecks, and the sadder accounts of
the suffering and death attendant upon war, which our friend could
relate. As he was as regular in his habits as when subject to regimental
discipline, we always knew when we should find him at home. At a certain
hour he rose and breakfasted; at a certain hour he took down his hat,
hung it on a block and brushed it, and put it on sideways with a
soldier-like air, and the people at the Arms knew what o’clock it was by
the sergeant’s taking his seat under the elm or beside the fire,
according as the weather might be. Moving with the sun to the churchyard
bench, as regularly as the shade on the dial, he would have been
supposed ill or dead if a labourer returning through the stile to his
dinner had missed him on a fine day. His landlady whispered to us that
he was rather a particular old gentleman, though the most good-natured
in the world when not put out of his way; and, indeed, if anything ever
did make him look sour, it was his dinner not being ready to a moment.
He did not care what was provided for him: he preferred a crust of bread
at one o’clock to a goose at two. He could not have told anybody an hour
after dinner what he had been eating; but if kept waiting five minutes,
he could not recover it till the next morning. His hostess had half a
dozen little children, and he was as kind to them as if he had been
their grandfather, but warned them of his awful displeasure if they
entered his room during his absence. If they came by invitation, well
and good; he would do anything to amuse them. He would sing, tell
stories, show them pictures, and even play at blind man’s buff; though,
as he said, it was not fair play with him as he had only one hand to
catch the rogues with. Not a rough word was ever heard from him. I
remember one of the little ones saying, “Show me how you will be angry
if I meddle with your sword. Will you frown like Bonaparte in the
picture?” “No,” said another “he will stamp and speak loud, as he told
us his captain did when he was in a passion.” The sergeant snatched up
his cane, and made his countenance so fierce in a moment, that the
children did not know what to think of him. They stared at him in terror
till he could not help laughing; and then, I dare say, resolved in their
hearts never to set foot in his parlour without leave.

On the present occasion he exclaimed, as I entered the room with
Frederick and Arthur,

“I can guess, Miss Lucy, what you and the young gentlemen are come for,
and I am happy to see you. You want to hear the little story I promised
you; and you shall be welcome to it.”

“I hope you are not busy?”

“Not at all. You are come just in right time. See, I had finished this
chapter of my book, and I was putting the paper in when I heard your
step in the passage.”

“I want to know,” said Frederick, who was remarkable for always going
straight to the point, “I want to know where you were taken prisoner,
and how you got home again, and how long it was ago. Lucy says you are
going to tell her all about it, and that we may hear it too.”

“To be sure you may, my dear boys; so sit down in the window-seat, and I
will tell you. It was in Spain that I served at that time, you know,
against the French. The armies had been drawing nearer to one another
for a long while, and we all knew that there must be a terrible battle
when they met. From the state of the roads, however, the whole army
could not travel together, and when the van of both forces came in sight
of each other, the rest were some miles in the rear. Both sides seemed
much inclined for a skirmish, and there was pretty sharp fighting for
the whole day before the grand battle. Often as I had been in action, I
had never been wounded; but on this particular day, I felt a sort of
certainty that I should be.”

“Had you never felt this before any other battle?”

“I think not so clearly; but it may only be that what happened made me
take particular notice, and remember very well what my feelings had
been. I mentioned this foreboding to a friend, however, and so I suppose
I was somewhat struck by it.”

“And did he laugh at it, or call you a coward?”

“Neither the one nor the other, master. Very young soldiers, or men of
hardened minds, may make light of the disasters of war, and call it
cowardice to reflect upon them and prepare one’s mind for them; but my
friend was neither giddy nor reckless, and he knew me too well to fancy
me a coward. We had fought side by side in many a battle, and I have
nursed him when badly wounded; so that we were real friends, and not
companions of the camp only. He advised me to ease my mind of all
worldly concerns, and to prepare myself in other ways for whatever might
happen, as he always did before a battle; so I told him where to find
what little money I had, and some letters I had written to my mother and
another person——”

“Who was that other person?” interrupted Frederick.

“Never mind who it was,” said I. “You should not ask such a question as
that.”

“I have no objection, Miss Lucy, to tell you all. That other person was
one to whom I had hoped to be married some time or other; but she was
not bound to me, for I told her there was little prospect of my
returning home; and if I did, I was afraid I should be very poor; and
were getting on in life, and I could not bear the idea of preventing her
being happy; so I begged she would not remain single for my sake. I had
said this to her a long time before; and my letter on this occasion was
to tell her that I still loved her as much as ever; and it was only to
be sent in case of my death.—Well: we were very actively engaged all day
without my taking any harm, while hundreds were falling round me. Late
in the evening, when both parties were tired, and the fire slackened, I
passed my friend as we were hastening forward for one other charge, and
he called out ‘So you are safe, after all!’ ‘Safe after all,’ I replied,
and left him behind. A minute after, a shot struck my right arm while
the enemy was pressing round us. I could not defend myself; I was
separated from my company, and, of course, taken prisoner.”

“In pain and alone, among foreigners and enemies!” I exclaimed. “How
very miserable you must have been!”

“Not so much then as afterwards, Miss Lucy. You, who live in peace and
quietness at home, can have no idea of the excitement of spirits there
is in battle. One’s heart is so full of courage, one’s mind burns so
with indignation at being made prisoner, and one has so much to think
about, that there is no time to be truly miserable. I felt no pain from
my wound at that time. I did not even know that I was wounded, till I
found I could not raise my arm.”

“Is that possible?”

“Very true, my dear, I assure you. I was hurried away, I scarcely know
how, to one of the baggage-waggons, with many of the wounded besides:
but they were all French; not one friendly face did I see. We were laid,
one close upon another, on straw, and jolted away, over bad roads to a
town where an hospital was established. Some of my companions were in
dreadful pain, and their groans made me sick at heart. I now began to
suffer much; but I wished above all things not to be spoken to; so I
remained as quiet as if I were dead, and closed my eyes. If I could have
shut my ears also, I should have escaped many a horrible dream which has
startled me since. Many a night, even now, I hear those groans and
oaths; and the tortured countenances I used to see often in a battle
rise up before me.—Before daybreak we reached the hospital; and I was
really glad of it, though I knew well enough what was before me.”

“Did you feel sure that you must lose your arm?”

“Yes, master; I felt and saw that it was past cure.”

“And were you much afraid about it?”

“I had thought so much and so often about the chances of such an
accident, that I was not taken by surprise; and I was already in so much
pain that I was very willing to suffer more for the sake of being rid of
it. I sat beside a fire, while one after another of my companions was
taken to the surgeons. At last, after waiting an hour and a half, they
were going to carry away the man who lay next beside me; but he was a
coward, it seemed, and begged to be left. They had no time to waste, and
so laid hold of me, and were going to carry me; but I soon showed them
that I had the use of my legs at least, and walked as stoutly as any of
them to where the surgeons were. They made quick work of it, and
scarcely made a show of asking my leave.”

“But I suppose you would have given them leave?”

“I took care to do that. I held out my arm as soon as ever I saw the
instruments.”

“And how did you—how could you bear it?”

“A sturdy spirit will carry one through a great deal, master. I am not
sure that I should have borne it so well in England; but I was
determined no enemy should wring a complaint out of me. So I was as
still as a mouse the whole time; grasping the back of a chair with my
other hand so hard that the blood came out at my finger nails. One of
the surgeons observed this; and I heard him say that I was a sturdy
fellow and fit for a soldier.”

“Then the pain was very, very great?”

“Much greater than anybody can fancy who has not felt it, or indeed than
anybody can fancy at all; for it is not the sort of thing that can be
remembered; and I dare say I have little better notion of it at this
moment than you have. But such as it was, it was soon over, and then I
walked away to bed. There I paid dear for the effort I had made; and I
deserved it, for my bravery was not of the right kind and could not last
long.”

“Why, what happened?”

“When I was left alone, weak from pain, and still thrilling in every
nerve, a tide of most bitter feelings rushed in upon me. Such a tumult
of thoughts I never knew before or since. I hid my face under the
bed-clothes, that nobody might disturb me; and there for an hour or two
I suffered such agony of mind as I can give you no idea of. My pride
gave way, and I felt myself as weak as an infant. In vain I told myself
that this misfortune was only what I had expected,—only what every
soldier is liable to. In vain I called to mind the boasting in which I
had indulged before I left home, and the wish which in my youth I had
felt for the glory of one honourable wound. This recollection awakened
others which subdued me completely.”

“What were they?”

“It happened that the day before I left this place to join the army, the
old clergyman, who lived here then, invited me to the parsonage to say
farewell. After talking cheerfully to me about my profession, he went
out with me as far as the gate: and there he put his hand on my shoulder
and said, ‘Remember, yours is a dangerous profession in more ways than
one. You are not only liable to be sent early to another world, but to
depart with false notions of glory in your head, and with pride and
hatred in your heart.’ He pointed to the graves and went on, ‘See here
what becomes of pride and enmity. There have been some of these whose
hearts beat as high with various passions as yours will in your first
battle. Now, all are humbled and all are still. So it will be a hundred
years hence, with the youngest and the fiercest, with or against whom
you are going to fight. They too will be humbled and stilled.’—The
recollection of this circumstance now came back upon me clearly. I saw
the church with the evening sunshine upon its windows. I saw the light
flickering upon the smooth stems of the limes. I saw the graves, and
also the venerable countenance and gray hair of my kind friend. I heard
his voice and the voices of the children at their play. I could almost
smell the flowers in his garden, and feel the pressure of his hand upon
my shoulder. I lay weeping for many hours, till by thoughts of home, of
my mother, and of other dear friends, my mind was prepared for still
better thoughts. My Bible was in my pocket, (for I took care to have it
always about me,) and there I found a better sort of courage than that
of which I had been so proud.—I was soon glad to take some notice of my
companions in the hospital; and we managed to be very cheerful and to
converse a good deal, as I told you, Miss Lucy.”

“Did the friend you mentioned before know what had become of you? And
what did he do with your money and your letters!”

“As he could learn nothing about me, he supposed that I was a prisoner;
and he sent all that I had left behind me to my mother. It was not very
long before she heard of me, but she had delivered the other letter I
spoke of. I was sorry afterwards that I had ever written it.”

Nobody ventured to ask why; but the sergeant has told me since that the
young woman had supposed that, as he was so long absent, he would never
return and had therefore married. She received his letter soon after she
was settled, and was made very unhappy by it for a little time; but I am
pretty sure (though the sergeant did not say any such thing) that she
had not a very warm heart; or, at any rate, that it had never been very
warm towards him. He came back, he told us, a year or more before his
mother’s death, which was a great comfort to them both.

“I think,” said Arthur, “that you must find the world grown very dull
now, that there is no war anywhere in Europe. I wonder you are still so
fond of the newspapers.”

“Dull, Master Arthur! I wish such a kind of dulness may last for ever.
It is all very well for people who want amusement to run about the
village with news of a victory, and to help to make a bonfire and light
up the houses. But if they happen to have a son or a brother killed or
maimed for life, they may learn by experience what it is that thousands
and millions are suffering. If they could take but one look at a field
of battle, or an army in full retreat, they would wish for no more
victories and illuminations. I hope I have as much of the spirit of a
soldier in me as any man: and perhaps all the more for having suffered
something for my country; but I do say that nations are only half
civilized as long as wars are thought necessary. I say, moreover, that
they who are foremost in war are farthest from heaven; for heaven is a
land of peace.”

                      ----------------------------


                              CHAPTER VII.

                        GREAT CHANGES AT BROOKE.


Brooke looked like a different place at the end of a very few years. In
our own house, nothing remarkable had happened, unless it was the growth
of my brothers, which was pronounced wonderful every time they appeared
from school at Christmas; or that Billy Gray (now called William) had
become quite an accomplished little footman. The improvement of his
family had advanced as rapidly as his own; and one of the pleasantest
changes visible in the place was that which every body observed in the
outward condition of George Gray, his wife, and children.

George was a pattern of industry. Before and after his hours of daily
labour he was seen digging, hoeing, planting, and pruning in his garden,
his boys and sometimes his wife helping him; his eldest girl tending the
cow; and the others mending or knitting stockings, or cleaning the
house. Even the very little ones earned many a shilling by cutting a
particular sort of grass in the lanes for seed for Mr. Malton’s pasture
land. Each with a pair of scissors, they cut the tops off about six
inches long, and filled their sack in a few hours. Mr. Malton’s steward
paid them threepence a bushel for it, measured as hay. Their work was
made easier by this grass being sown in lines along the hedges; and it
was well worth the little trouble this cost to secure a constant supply
of the seed, which was greatly in request; the sheep being very fond of
this pasture.

Gray’s boys had all shoes and stockings now, and the girls were tidily
dressed. The rent was regularly paid, and their fare was improved. How
happened this?—from having ground, and keeping a cow?—Not entirely,
though in some measure. The wages of labour had risen considerably at
Brooke since the common was inclosed, as there was more work to be done,
and the number of hands had not increased in proportion, though the
population was already one-third larger than five years before. Gray
felt the advantage of this rise of wages, and of having his family
employed. He now wondered at his neighbours for letting their children
be wholly idle as much as we once wondered at him. When he saw Hal
Williams’s little boys engaged in mischief, he observed to his wife that
one might earn a trifle in weeding, and another in gathering sticks and
furze for fuel, and sweeping up the dung and dead leaves from the woods
and lanes for manure. But neither Hal nor his boys liked to work when
they could help it, though Hal’s wife set them a better example than her
neighbours once expected of her. Many a mother shows an energy which
never appeared while she was a giddy maiden. So it was with Ann: but it
was a pity that she was ignorant of the ways of turning her industry to
the best account, so that her desire for the comfort of her husband and
children did not do them so much good as she intended.

Hal once observed to Gray that he wondered he could spend so much time
and toil on his bit of ground, such a trifle as it was.

“It is no trifle to me,” said Gray. “The time I spend upon it is not
great; and as for the toil,—a man with eight children must never grudge
labour.”

“Why now, Gray, how much time do you spend on your plot? I see you at
work when I get out of bed every morning; and when I come back from the
Arms in the twilight, I hear your everlasting spade behind the hedge.”

“That is because I have no hours I can call my own but those before and
after work. A couple of hours a day is the most I can spare; and surely
it is worth that to be able to keep my cow.”

“What is her value to you, do you suppose?”

“One time with another, she yields five quarts a day, and that is worth
two days’ wages a week, or perhaps three.”

“Five quarts a day! That never can be. Mine never gave three all the
time I had her.”

“Nor mine while she fed on the common: but you know the keep is
everything with a cow; and it is no more likely that a cow in the lanes
should yield like mine, than that mine should yield thirteen pounds and
a half of butter weekly, four months after calving, like a fine North
Devon cow of Mr. Malton’s that I was admiring the other day. But I call
my cow pretty well kept now, and she is worth the keeping. I manage to
get many a good dish of vegetables for ourselves, too, out of my
garden.”

“But no fruit, I see, neighbour. I like to see fruit-trees in a garden.”

“So do I, where there is ground and money and time enough; but it would
not suit me. My cabbages would not thrive if the ground was shaded; and
I could not raise fruit enough, or of a sufficiently good quality, to
sell to advantage.”

“But it would be a great treat to the children.”

“My children must wait for such a treat till we grow richer. I am
thankful enough to be able to give them bread and sometimes a bit of
meat, instead of the potatoes we used to live on. Apples and
gooseberries will come all in good time. Bread and clothes must be
thought of first.”

“And yet you managed to get a pig.”

“Yes. I knew, if I contrived to buy one, I could easily keep it. So we
made an effort to save in the winter, and in March I got a fine pig of
four months. He was able to graze and eat cabbages and turnip-tops, and
we have plenty of wash for him; so I hope, as he has thriven so far very
well, he will be in fine condition for killing at Christmas.”

“Will you be able to fatten him liberally?”

“I hope so. He shall have as much barley-meal as he can eat, if I can
afford it; if not, pease must do.”

“You will have a houseful of meat at that time. Bacon in plenty,
griskins, chines, cheeks, and I don’t know what besides; and
hog’s-puddings and lard for the children! Why, you will live like an
alderman’s family for weeks. It is a fine thing to keep a pig!”

“It is a great advantage; and considering that, I wonder you don’t try,
neighbour.”

“When I have eight children perhaps I may; but we get on somehow as it
is; and I have quite enough to do, for I don’t pretend to work as hard
as you.”

“No,” thought Gray, “You make your wife do it instead, while you go and
smoke at the Arms.”

Hal’s cow had been sold long ago to pay his debts. It had been done
during one of his wife’s confinements, and it was bad news for her, when
she got about again, that it was actually sold and gone. It was some
comfort that they owed no money; but it was a comfort which could not
last long; for she knew that milk is a dear article to buy, while it is
absolutely necessary where there are young children.—It was grievous to
see in a short time how poorly they lived. One thing after another was
given up. They had long contrived to do without meat; but now they could
not afford beer, except a little on Sundays. Hal did not relish milk as
when it came from his own cow, but took a fancy to have tea,—the least
nourishing and most expensive diet a man can have. To indulge this
fancy, the fire was kept in all day, the whole year round. There was an
everlasting boiling, of the kettle in the morning, the potatoes for
dinner, and the kettle again in the afternoon. Upon this miserable diet
they grew thin and sickly; they ran in debt to the grocer till he
refused their custom; and to Johnson’s wife for milk, till she declared
she could not let them have any more. We were passing Hal’s door one
day, when one of the children entered with an empty pitcher, on seeing
which his mother burst into tears. There was but too much cause for her
grief. Her hungry children must be content with a drink of water with
their crust of bread, for Mrs. Johnson could afford no longer credit. My
mother could not bear to see the cravings of the little ones; and she
promised to go back with the messenger to Mrs. Johnson and persuade her
not to disappoint them for this one day, and to see what could be done
for the future: but she declared that the tea must be left off if the
milk was to be continued. The poor woman said that she was willing to
live in the cheapest way, if the children could but be fed; but that her
husband made such a point of his tea that she had little hope of
persuading him to give it up.

We took the child back to Johnson’s; and there we saw a cheerful sight.
Mrs. Johnson was milking one of her fine cows, while the other two stood
by; and her daughter was measuring out the milk to the various
messengers from the village. There were Miss Black’s maid, and
Wickstead’s boy, and Gregson’s apprentice, and Harper’s servant, and
half a dozen children from the neighbouring cottages, having their
pitchers filled with the warm, fresh, rich milk. My mother smiled as she
observed to me that the division of labour was not fully understood by
our people yet, or they would have devised a better plan than having the
time of a dozen people wasted by coming for the milk, instead of
employing a boy to carry it round. It struck us both at the same moment
that Hal’s eldest boy might earn a share of the milk by saving the
neighbours the trouble of sending for it. He might soon learn, we
thought, to measure the milk and keep the tally.

“I hope we are in time, Mrs. Johnson,” said my mother. “I was afraid
your pails might be emptied before we came. You must fill this child’s
pitcher, if you please, and I will pay to-day.”

“I assure you, ma’am,” replied Mrs. Johnson, “it made me very sorry to
send the boy away; but what can I do? They have not paid me these six
weeks, and I cannot afford them a quart a day at my own expense. I have
often threatened to send them no more, but I never had the heart to
refuse them till to-day.”

“You cannot be expected to lose by them, certainly,” replied my mother;
“but I am very sorry they are such bad customers to you. I am sure such
milk as that is far better for them than the tea they make.”

“Do you know, ma’am,” said the busy Mrs. Johnson, as the milk went on
spurting and fizzing into the pail, “I do believe that tea-drinking
alone is enough to ruin a very poor family. We tried it once, and fond
enough we are of it still; but though we might afford it better than
some people, we now never touch it but on Sundays and particular
occasions. Now, can you wonder that I refuse to give further credit to
my neighbours, when I know they might pay me, if they chose to manage
better, and to give up a luxury which I cannot afford?”

“Certainly not, Mrs. Johnson.—What very fine cows yours are! I suppose
you are glad your husband did not dispose of the first you had, when he
was tempted to do so?”

“Glad indeed, ma’am. I was always fond of a dairy, and desirous of
having one of my own. If you would please to wait a few minutes, I
should like to show you and Miss Lucy my dairy. My husband has been
making it larger and improving it very much, for I find it a profitable
business now, and I believe my neighbours think it answers to get their
milk of me; for I could sell the produce of three more cows if I had
them.”

“Perhaps we shall see you with a dairy of twenty cows one of these days,
if our village flourishes.”

“No, ma’am. Three are as many as I can well manage now, and as many as
we can feed. Our lot of ground is carefully managed; and we brew at home
now, and the grains come in very well for the cows; so that we are at no
loss, so far. But if we were to take in more ground, my husband would
not have time to attend properly to it; and we are particularly anxious
that he should not neglect his work, so good as wages are now.”

When the milking was finished, Mrs. Johnson took us to the dairy. It was
clean, cool, and in beautiful order. A range of cheeses was on a shelf,
and they were to be sent to M—— for sale. The butter she made was sold
to the neighbours. My mother understood the management of this most
delicate part of household economy, and agreed with Mrs. Johnson that
the habits of cleanliness and care which are necessary to the success of
a dairy are most useful to young people, and cannot be more effectually
taught than by making them assist in the management of cows.

“My girl was telling me, ma’am, how a neighbour wondered why her cow’s
milk was not so good as ours; and how, with all the trouble she took,
her husband complained, and the children left half their breakfast in
their basins. The thing was clear enough. She milked her cow into the
first pail that came to hand, and let the milk stand in the heat and
smoke of the kitchen, in pans that had been used for potatoes, or any
thing else they might have had for dinner the day before. My girl told
her she might take a lesson from the cow herself; for no cow will taste
a drop from a vessel that has held grease. The very breath of the cow is
sweet enough to show what care should be taken to keep her milk pure.
There is nothing so disgusting in the way of food as tainted milk; and
nothing to my mind, ma’am, so wholesome as fresh, rich milk, as sweet as
the new-mown grass. Do me the favour to taste some, miss, and I think
you will say so too.”

When we had finished our delicious draught, we took our leave of Mrs.
Johnson, agreeing that it was certainly a good thing for her that her
husband followed my father’s advice about his allotment of land, as she
seemed so happy among her cows that it was difficult to imagine how she
would have lived without one.

                      ----------------------------


                             CHAPTER VIII.

                             SMALL FARMING.


“See the results of the judicious application of capital,” said my
father, one fine spring day, when I rode with him and Mr. Malton round
the thriving property of the latter. After enjoying the view of the
manifold tokens of prosperity which surrounded us, we were struck by the
appearance of a field which looked by far less flourishing than any we
had seen.

“What is the matter here, sir?” said my father. “What have you been
doing to keep back this field while all the rest have been improving?”

“Pray do not take this field for one of mine. It belongs to neighbour
Norton; and I am afraid that, cheap as he has bought it, he will find it
a dear bargain.”

“I feared,” said my father, “that he would not have sufficient capital
to keep his land in good condition.”

“Look here,” said Mr. Malton, “this next field is his too, and there he
is among the labourers. You may know him now, poor fellow, by his shabby
looks. Those labourers are mine, and they appear more creditable, every
one, than he. And there is not one of them that does not live in a
better house than that of his. That is his cottage yonder. What a
tumble-down place for a landed proprietor to live in! Better call
one’s-self a labourer, in my opinion, and have plenty to eat, and a
whole roof over one’s head, than pinch and starve for the sake of owning
a couple of fields.”

“Yes, indeed. But how does it happen that your labourers are at work in
his field?”

“Why, you see the thing is this. He cannot afford a team to plough his
field, and he has not sheep to eat off the crop of turnips, (if he had
one,) and to manure it; so he meant to let the land be fallow. I thought
this a great pity, so I offered to plough and sow it, if my sheep were
allowed to eat off the turnips; by this plan he will have his land
manured, and returned to him in a good state, while I shall have an
equal advantage on account of my sheep.”

“Surely,” said I, “people who cannot afford a team and a flock of sheep
should not attempt to farm?”

“To be sure they should not, Miss Lucy; and much less to have land of
their own. And in these days, when tillage has been so much improved, it
is utterly impossible that a man who has little money at command can
bring his crops to market on the same terms with one who has much. You
have no idea of the great expense of making land as productive as it can
be made.”

“I have heard,” I replied, “that many noblemen and rich gentlemen, who
are fond of agriculture, have lost thousands upon thousands of pounds in
trying new plans upon their lands.”

“Aye, aye; that is in trying experiments, for which we farmers are much
obliged to them, I am sure. We look on while they are making the trial,
and have the benefit of their experience. If they succeed, we adopt
their plans; if they fail, we take warning. If the small farmers would
look on too, they would learn a good lesson; they would see how
impossible it is to make the most of land without money, or labour,
which is money’s worth.”

“In these days,” said my father, “when so much advantage is gained by
the division of labour, no one man, and no one family, can do justice to
a farm, be it ever so small. It is incalculable what is gained by
substituting division of labour for division of land. In former times,
Lucy, the proprietor or occupier of thirty or forty acres was thought a
substantial farmer. He and his family performed all the requisite
labour, even down to making his implements, except, perhaps, the plough.
His rickety harrow was stuck full of wooden teeth; the harness was made
of withy, or of horse-hair, twisted at home. The wicker baskets, the
wooden spoons, the beechen bowls, were made by the men in the winter’s
evenings; while the wife and daughters carded, and spun, and wove the
wool of the flock.”

“But was not the change from those ways to the present very gradual?”

“Yes. The division of labour began in the towns, and farmers found the
advantage of buying their utensils and clothing before they put the
division of labour in practice in their tillage. They knew little yet of
the advantage of providing a succession of employments on their farms,
or of portioning out the work to the best advantage. The work of tillage
all came on at once; two or three teams were required for a short time,
and then the horses were done with, and turned out to graze till
harvest, and the plough was laid up till the following spring, and the
men, after being excessively busy, looked round for something to do. Now
one team suffices for the same quantity of land, as the crops are
successive, and a much smaller amount of labour, continually employed,
achieves more than under the old system of husbandry.”

“But surely this is a division of time, and not of labour.”

“I was going to add, my dear, that the two advantages can be combined on
a large farm, while they cannot on a small one. Norton does what he can
by arranging a succession of labour, but its division is out of his
power, while Mr. Malton practises both.”

“You may see Norton,” said Mr. Malton “one day hedging and ditching,
another time getting lime for manure, and then obliged to look after his
few sheep while the land is wanting him; the ploughing, sowing, cutting,
and threshing, all resting on him: while on my farm such of these things
as ought to be done at the same time, are so done, while yet there is a
constant succession of employments for men and cattle. You may see
lime-burners, drainers, hedgers, shepherds, cowherds, hogherds,
ploughmen, and threshers, all busy, helping on the grand work, and
nothing standing still. We do not leave one piece of land neglected
while we take care of another: every rood is improved; the waste brought
into cultivation; the cultivated enriched, and used for one purpose one
year, and for another the next. This is the way to make farming answer.”

My father observed that it was a proof what could be done by the
vigorous application of capital, when fallows were banished from some
districts. Mr. Malton replied, “Our ancestors would scarcely have been
persuaded that that was possible; and some folks abroad will hardly
believe, at this day, that our best husbandry is found on our poorest
soils. But it is a fact, and a glorious fact, because it shows what
labour, and capital, and skill can do. If the land had been to this time
in the hands of little farmers, this would not, and could not, have been
done. What little farmer would ever have covered his whole farm with
marl, at the rate of a hundred or a hundred and fifty tons an acre? How
should such a man as Norton drain his land at the expense of two or
three pounds an acre? Can he pay a heavy price for the manure of towns,
and convey it thirty or forty miles by land carriage? Can he float his
meadows at the cost of five pounds an acre? It cannot be, you see, that
any very small capitalist can compete with a large one.”

My father observed, that convertible husbandry was quite out of the
question on Norton’s property.

“To be sure,” replied Mr. Malton. “You see, Miss Lucy, it used to be the
way for one man to own a certain extent of corn land, and another of
pasturage; and, in those days, they did not see the advantage (which is
a very important one) of making the corn land into pasture, and growing
grain on the grazing land: and this plan can be pursued only by those
who have large flocks, as well as a good deal of both sorts of land.
Then, again, a farmer must grow a great variety of crops, and maintain
all sorts of animals useful in husbandry, in order to make the most of
every thing that is produced; for soil of different qualities produces
different crops, and these crops feed different flocks and herds; and
they must all change and change about continually.”

“What has been your course here?” inquired my father, pointing to a fine
piece of grass-land.

“A five years’ course. First year, turnips—second, barley, laid down
with clover—third, grass to cut—fourth, grass to feed—fifth, wheat. Next
year, we begin with turnips again.”

“I suppose,” said I, “it costs a great deal to keep your flocks and
herds, independent of their food?”

“More in one year than Norton has to lay out on his whole concern: and
one had need have capital for this part of one’s business; for the
profitable management of live stock is by far the most difficult branch
of farming. But see what capital and skill have done here too! It is a
great thing that improved tillage has doubled the quantity of fodder
raised upon any extent of soil: but it is a yet greater that double the
quantity of animal food can now be sent to market as the produce of the
same quantity of fodder.”

“And is this really the case?”

“It is, indeed; and all owing to the attention paid to the breeding and
rearing of cattle by those who could afford to try new methods.”

“The improvement in the implements of husbandry,” observed my father,
“is not less remarkable; and this we owe to the large farmer.”

“It is at our cost,” said Mr. Malton, “that new and improved implements,
and men to use them, have been sent for from one end of the kingdom to
the other. Some have sent their men into distant counties or abroad, to
learn new methods of tillage. What folly it is to suppose that little
farmers can farm to the same advantage as people who can adopt all these
improvements!”

“If all our farmers were men of little capital,” observed my father, “we
should have much less variety of produce in the market, and should
therefore be liable to famines, as in old times.”

“I have often wondered,” said I, “why we are free from those
apprehensions of famine which disturbed our forefathers so often.”

“It would have been well if they had suffered from nothing worse than
the apprehension, my dear. Our ancestors cultivated little besides
grain; and a bad season cut off all their crops at once: while, at
present, what is fatal to one crop, may not injure another; so that our
supply of food is not only more varied and agreeable, but it is no
longer precarious. We can form no idea in these days of the intense
interest with which harvest weather was watched three centuries ago.”

“We farmers were not ridiculed then for grumbling about weather,” said
Mr. Malton, laughing; “for we had the whole nation grumbling with us in
a wet season or a drought.—There is another consideration which we have
not mentioned. As small capitalists cannot wait for their money, the
supply of corn in the market would be very irregular if it depended upon
them. They must bring their corn to market and sell it at once.”

“Then I suppose,” said I, “that in plentiful years there would be too
much, and in unfavourable seasons too little, if we had no rich steward,
like Joseph, to garner it up, and distribute it as it is wanted?”

“Not only that,” said my father, “but there would be too much every
autumn for the good of the farmers, and too little every spring for the
good of the people. It is always a pretty certain thing that as much of
a good article as can be brought to market will be consumed; but the
price, while it is plentiful, would fall so low as to injure the
producer; while afterwards, when the people are in want, the producer
would have nothing to bring to market. Thus it would be if all were
small capitalists; but now, large capitalists, who can afford to wait
for their returns, keep back their corn in plentiful seasons; for which
those who are compelled to sell are much obliged to them; and the people
are no less obliged to them for regulating the supply.”

Mr. Malton looked pleased at this acknowledgment of the obligation the
community are under to large farmers.

“So you see, Lucy,” said my father, “that if it were not for large
farming, our moors and morasses, and indeed all our inferior soils,
would still have been barren: we should have been liable to frequent
scarcities; our breeds of cattle would not have improved; and we should
have no idea how prolific the soil might be made, or how incalculable a
sum of human life may be sustained by it. If the people who rail against
the owners of large productive capitals could but be convinced of this,
they would soon grow ashamed of their complaints.”

“Perhaps so, father; but surely it is hard upon the small farmer to go
down in the world in spite of all his labour; and it does not seem fair
that he should be driven out of the market by his neighbours because he
begins the world with less capital than they.”

“Begging your pardon, my dear, that is a more foolish remark than I
should have expected from you. When we reason upon subjects of this
kind, it is not our business to take the part of one class against
another, but to discover what is for the general good; which is, in the
long-run, the same as the good of individuals. We are not now taking the
part of the large farmers against the small (though Mr. Malton is riding
beside us), nor of the small against the large (though we are full of
pity for poor Norton); but the question is, how the most regular and
plentiful supply of food can be brought to market? If it be clear that
this is done by cultivation on an extensive scale, we ought not to wish
for the continuance of small landed properties, but rather that their
owners may apply their labour and capital where they will meet with a
better return. We are all sorry for the little farmers, and nobody more
so than Mr. Malton; but the more clearly we see that they suffer through
a mistake, the more anxious we must be that the mistake should be
rectified.”

“I am sure,” said Mr. Malton, “it gives me great concern to see a man
like Norton growing poorer and poorer every year; but I know that it is
partly his own fault, because he must see that his mode of tillage can
never answer. If I had his lot now in my own hands, I would serve him,
not by doing anything to his two fields, but by employing him on good
wages. In the one case the help I should give would be all at an end in
a year or two; in the other, he would soon be in possession of the
comforts of life, and might lay by a provision for his old age; while,
at the same time, he would be serving me and society at large by giving
up his land to be made more productive.”

“I am aware,” said I, “that an industrious labourer is a benefactor to
society.”

“And what more honourable title need a man desire?” exclaimed my father.
“Is it not better to deserve this title, and to possess the comforts of
life, than to starve on the empty name of a landed proprietor?”

“But is it not a hard thing,” I persisted, “for a man who is born to a
few acres to give them up? I do not pretend to justify Norton’s
ambition. He might have been content as he was; but it must cost a man a
severe struggle to part with his fifty or hundred acres when his fathers
tilled them before him.”

“I have no doubt of it, my dear. Such a man should consider what his
plan of life is to be. If he has only himself to care for, and a little
capital in his pocket, let him remain upon his land, keep it up, and
improve it by the saving of his returns if he can. If he has not capital
to do this, his duty to the public requires that he should not let his
property degenerate. If he has a family to provide for, it becomes his
duty to do his best for them—even at the expense of his pride, if need
be.”

“His pride should be,” said Mr. Malton, “to maintain his children in
decency and comfort; this is a pride worth having.”

“After all,” said my father, “it is not so much that a man loses his
rank in these days by becoming a labourer, as that the employment of a
labourer has become more honourable than formerly.”

“There is one question more,” said I, “that I want to ask; and it is,
why there should be a scarcity in a bad season, even if all our farms
were small? If, in other countries, there is more corn grown than is
wanted, why should not we supply ourselves from them? Would not it be a
mutual advantage?”

My father smiled as he replied,

“You have no idea on what a wide subject your question touches. If I
were to tell you all the whys and wherefores on that question, we should
not have done by dinner-time.”

“If you are getting upon the Corn Laws,” said Mr. Malton, “it is time I
was wishing you good morning.”

“Not till I have spoken to you about a little affair in which I want
your advice,” said my father. “I will not detain you five minutes.”

While they were talking, I endeavoured to discover what there was
remarkable in my question. It seemed to me the simplest thing in the
world that if there was too much corn in one country and too little in
another, the want of the one should be supplied from the abundance of
the other. While I was meditating, my father called out,

“Come, Lucy, your horse is in a reverie as well as yourself, and we
shall see you both fall presently, if you do not wake up. Mr. Malton
says, ‘Good day,’ and we must make the best of our way home; so now for
a canter.”

We cantered till we reached the village.

Miss Black’s window looked very gay at this time. She had been to M—— to
see the fashions at the rooms of a milliner who had been to see the
fashions in London. The caps and bonnets were of quite a new make; and
there were smarter ribbons and flowers than I had ever seen at Brooke
before. She had also another apprentice, and had lately enlarged her
show-room.

“I wonder what has happened to Miss Black!” I observed. “She really
makes a grand display now.”

“A very good thing has happened to her, I fancy,” said my father. “She
has more customers, and those customers are richer. Those gay hats and
caps came out of Mr. Malton’s hedges and ditches, if you know what I
mean by that.”

I supposed he meant that some new families had come to settle at Brooke
on account of the demand for labourers; but I should not have thought
they were people who could spend their wages in millinery.

“Nor are they,” said my father, in answer to my doubt; “but they spend
their wages in bread, milk, beer, meat, and groceries; and, at the same
time, cottagers who lived on potatoes formerly are rising in the world,
so as to be able to afford themselves these comforts. Their custom helps
on the butcher, the baker, and the publican; and Harper told me the
other day that he sells twice the quantity of groceries that he did five
years ago. So the wives and daughters of these trades-people can afford
to dress themselves in Miss Black’s fashions; and thus Mr. Malton’s
money comes round to her.”

“I wonder where it will go next!”

“It is well spent, I believe; for Miss Black is a very good woman. I can
tell you that some of her savings are in the hands of a brother at M——
who, by increasing his capital, is able to improve a very promising
manufacture.”

“So she receives the interest, and increases her capital every year, I
suppose, till she will have gained enough to enable her to leave off
business. This money seems to have done good in every stage of its
progress. I am very happy to see Gray’s children, for instance, well
shod and coated. I like to observe the bustle in Harper’s shop, and his
daughters look very well in their better style of dress. It is pleasant
to see Miss Black prospering, especially as it is a sign of the
prosperity of the place. This money is not given away by Mr. Malton
either; it brings him in more than he pays away.”

“All this stir, therefore, my dear,—this prosperity, which strikes you
so much,—is pure gain; and it proceeds from the inclosure of Brooke
common.”

                      ----------------------------


                              CHAPTER IX.

                          GREAT JOY AT BROOKE.


Sir H. Withers’s eldest son had been travelling abroad for the last
three years, and was at this time expected to return to his native
village. What he was as a man, few people knew, as he had scarcely set
foot in Brooke from the time he left school; but as a boy, he had been a
great favourite among his father’s tenants and dependants. He had been
high-spirited, and at the same time good-natured; fond of the country
and its sports, and yet as gentle in his manners and polite in his
deportment as if he had lived in a court. So, at least, the old folks
said who remembered him best; and the younger ones had also a strong
impression of the freedom with which he used to join in their games, or
see that there was fair play in their battles, or beg a pardon for them
when they had offended at home, or trespassed in Sir Henry’s grounds.
There was now a general feeling of wonder as to what he would be like,
after years spent in a foreign country, where he could neither hear the
language nor meet the society of his childhood and youth.

His approach happened at a very good time for the neighbours who met
under the elm. News had been scarce for some weeks. Parliament was not
sitting; the member for M—— was alive and well; nothing extraordinary
was going on in the village. Nobody had died for some time: there was
not a single courtship, except Gregson’s, which had been so long a
settled matter that nothing more could be said upon it till the
furnishing should begin. Miss Black’s spring fashions had ceased to be
new and striking, and Harper’s pretty daughters had been admired or
censured for their finery till the subject was worn out. In a happy
hour, the steward was empowered to proclaim the arrival of Mr. Withers
in England, and the expectation of his family that he would visit Brooke
in a fortnight or three weeks. How many pipes were smoked, how much ale
was drunk at the Arms that evening! Even Gray indulged himself for once.
He put by his spade and enjoyed his draught and his neighbours’
conversation under the elm. All were pleased;—some with the hope of
profit, and others with the prospect of a general rejoicing; and some
with both together. Carey remembered that every man in Brooke would
require an extra shaving that week, and that most of the children would
probably have their hair cut. The butcher had secret hopes that a
bullock would be roasted whole; and the baker, who had lately made some
experiments in confectionary, warned his wife to purchase her sugar and
currants before the price should rise. Wickstead reserved his best tap
for the important day, and Miss Black sent an order to M—— for an
extraordinary supply of ribbons on sale or return. These important
affairs settled at home, each gossip was at liberty to enjoy himself at
the Arms, and many a shout of merriment was heard that evening, even as
far as our white gate.

There was one person in the village who said little on this occasion,
but who perhaps felt more than anybody else. Nobody observed her but
myself, because no one besides suspected what was in her heart. Our
gardener’s daughter, Maria, was a great favourite in our house. She was
a young woman of twenty-two: a good daughter and sister,—industrious and
humble, useful to everybody, liked by everybody, and never seeming to
think about herself. She was not particularly pretty, nor particularly
clever; and her manners were so quiet that no stranger would discover at
a glance why she was so beloved. But those who saw how she kept her
father’s house in order, how she trained her younger sister, how she
attached her little brothers to her, could easily understand why her
father drew up when he spoke of his Maria, why my mother placed
confidence in her, why the young men of Brooke looked up to her with
respect, and their sisters regarded her with affection. When Mr. Withers
went abroad, he took with him, as his servant, Joe Harper, the eldest
son of the grocer. Joe Harper was a steady young man, in whom Sir Henry
could perfectly trust. It was thought a great thing for Joe when the
situation was offered him, and everybody was glad of it but one person,
and that person was Maria. I found this out by accident, and therefore I
never told any one,—not even my mother,—of the discovery I had made. It
happened on the very morning that Mr. Withers, his tutor, and Joe were
to depart, that I went down to the gardener’s cottage to speak about
some plants. I supposed that I should find him at breakfast; but
breakfast was over, and he was gone to his work. As I drew near the
cottage door, Joe ran out, leaped the gate, and hurried down the road. I
saw Maria leaning over the table, her face hid in her apron, and
apparently in an agony of grief. The cause could not be mistaken. I went
back as softly as I could, and I believe she never knew that any one had
witnessed her distress. There was never any other trace of it till the
present time. She was always cheerful in her spirits and active about
her business, and so sober in her manners, that no one set about
guessing whom she would marry, and no reports of the kind were heard
concerning her.

I could not help watching how she would receive the tidings of Mr.
Withers’s approach. I saw her the first evening with a cheek somewhat
flushed, and a manner a little hurried, standing at the white gate,
waiting for one of her brothers whom she had sent after the steward to
make particular inquiries. For some days she was not quite herself. She
forgot two messages which my mother left for her father, at two separate
times: and some trifles went wrong in the cottage in the course of the
week which made my mother go so far as to inquire of Maria whether she
was quite well. Before the end of the three weeks, however, she had
recovered her self-possession, though I could trace an anxiety in her
countenance which made me suppose that the matter was not quite settled
between Joe and herself.

Sir Henry Withers and his family generally spent the spring months in
London, and returned to their country seat in May. This year their
absence had been prolonged, that Mr. Withers might join them in town,
and the whole family arrive together. Monday, the 3d of June, was the
happy day.

Early on that morning the church-bells clanged in the steeple, and the
triumphal arch spanned the road, decked with pictures, garlands, and gay
hangings of all sorts. The band of music which was to animate the
dancers in the evening had already arrived from M——, and was stationed
under the elm ready to strike up, as soon as the approach of the
carriage should be announced. The children were dressed in their holiday
clothes, and the fathers and mothers in their smartest and best. The
bullock was prepared for the roasting, and the bonfire for being kindled
as soon as night should come. Never was such gaiety seen at Brooke,
since the occasion of Sir Henry’s marriage.

The Maltons called for us soon after breakfast, that we might walk
through the village together. Maria was at work beside her open window,
where she could hear the hum from the street, and where I suspected, she
was listening for the music.

“At home, Maria, on such a morning as this!” exclaimed my mother, as
Maria ran to open the gate for us. “Why are you not in the village, like
everybody else?”

“I am going by and by, ma’am; but my father is gone with the children,
and so I thought I would stay behind for an hour or two.”

“Twelve is the time, remember,” said my mother. “You must not miss the
sight, for I do not know when you will see such a rejoicing again.”

I observed a tear in Maria’s eye as she turned into the cottage, and I
thought to myself, “She will not be there.” Nor was she.

When the carriages drew near, Joe Harper was not to be seen. He was not
on the first—nor the second. His anxious father made bold to inquire. He
was on horseback behind, safe and well, was the reply. His father, his
sisters, looked and looked in vain, while the carriages slowly proceeded
past the church and along the street. The music, the shouts, the
ding-dong bell, the waving of hats, and shaking of hands, were all lost
on the Harpers, who were watching for their long-absent son and brother.
At length he came, at full gallop, not along the high-road, but from a
lane which led in a circuit from our house.

“Why, he forgets the way!” exclaimed his sisters.—I knew better, for I
understood where he had been; and I said to myself, “Now Maria is
happy.”

The villagers dined under the trees in the park; and a beautiful sight
it was. We joined Sir Henry’s family in their walk round the tables, and
helped to ascertain that all were served and all were happy. Joe Harper
presided at one of the tables by his master’s desire; and very attentive
he was to all near him. Maria was seated far off at another table with
her father.—When the roast beef and plum-puddings had been dispatched,
the healths of the family drunk, the few speeches made, and “God save
the King” sung in full chorus, a signal was given for clearing the
tables that the dancing might begin. The old men seated themselves with
their pipes under the trees; the elderly women chatted and kept the
children in order, while the young folks tripped it away on the grass.
Everybody danced at first who could not plead age and rheumatism in
excuse. Mr. Withers himself, my brothers and I, and everybody, danced:
but afterwards people were left free to do as they liked; and then I
observed that Joe had disappeared, and that Maria was nowhere to be
found. Joe’s master inquired; Maria’s father looked about, but nobody
could wonder what had become of them in such a crowd; and so it did not
matter. I could have told; for I saw two people stealing away into a
shady walk just before sunset, and leaving the bustle and merriment
behind them;—to enjoy something better, no doubt.

The village rang with the praises of Mr. Henry. He was so hearty, so
kind, so much like what he used to be in all the better parts of his
character, though so many years older in looks and manners. It was
difficult to believe that he had been absent for so many years, for he
had forgotten no person, place, or circumstance. He inquired after the
old magpie, took down his angling rod with pleasure, and told his former
playfellows about what he had seen since he left England. What was
better, he went to visit old nurse Pitman, who was bedridden, and could
not therefore pay her respects to him; and early one morning he was seen
on the dewy grass of the churchyard, reading the tombstones which had
been put up during the last five years.

I admired all this as much as my neighbours; but I liked Joe’s constancy
quite as well; and I thought it equally to the credit of master and man
that, having passed through many changes of country and society, they
had brought home warm and faithful hearts.

                      ----------------------------


                               CHAPTER X.

                      WHAT JOE HARPER SAW ABROAD.


“I have a piece of news for you,” said my father, one day after dinner.

“The news always comes with the dessert,” observed my mother, smiling;
“and a very pleasant dessert it is for people who live in a country
village.”

“When it comes after dinner,” said I, “it is certain it can be nothing
of supreme importance, because if it was, papa could not keep it to
himself till then.”

My father laughed, and said he had a good mind not to tell me at all,
that I might see whether he could not keep a piece of good news to
himself.

“Perhaps I know it already?” said I.

“That is impossible,” replied he; “for I was the very first person to
whom it was told, and that was less than an hour before dinner. But
come; let us hear what you think it is.”

“Nay,” said I, “that would be letting out my secret: but if you will
tell half, perhaps I will declare the rest.”

“Well, then; the gardener tells me his daughter Maria is going to be
married——”

“To Joe Harper,” I instantly added.

“Who told you, Lucy?”

“I have known it these three years.”

“Impossible, my dear. It was settled only this morning.”

“Well; I knew that they were attached three years ago, and that Joe was
constant, and brought back a true heart.” And I told the story.

“I am glad you can keep a secret, my dear. But as to keeping a secret
from you, that I am afraid is impossible.”

“Nay, papa, I could not help seeing what was before my eyes; and I
assure you I did not pry.”

“No; you only laid circumstances together, and fancied a pretty love
story out of them.”

“And as true as it is pretty, papa. But I know nothing more than the
fact of their attachment; so pray tell us all you can:—when they are to
marry and where they are to live, and——”

“And _how_ they are to live,” added my mother; “for that is the most
important question.”

My father told us that Joe had received high wages while abroad; and had
saved a considerable sum. It was not yet settled what he was to do with
it: but he had the choice of two or three occupations, for any of which
he was well fitted. He added that Maria wished to consult my mother
about their plans.

My mother was ready to do anything she could for young people for whom
she had a high respect and regard.

Joe Harper had the offer from his master of a small farm, if he chose to
employ his capital in stocking it; but Joe had seen so much of the
danger and difficulty incurred by beginning to farm without sufficient
capital, that he did not choose to venture. As for borrowing a little to
add to his own and buying a very small property, as his father hinted
that he might, he would not for a moment listen to it. He declared that
he knew small properties to bring nothing but ruin, if they were the
only dependance of the labouring man; and that if he had a legacy
to-morrow of a farm of fifty acres, he would sell it immediately, unless
a very pretty capital in money were left with it. This was said in the
hearing of two or three neighbours who were curious to know what he had
seen abroad that gave him such a horror of small properties.

“I have seen more misery than I could easily give you an idea of: and
that, too, in spite of the most indefatigable industry. In Languedoc, a
province of France, there are mountains which are cultivated to the very
top, by means which no one dreams of here. But those who cultivate them
are miserably poor, because each possesses a piece of ground which can
never, by the best management, be made to maintain a family. I have seen
people carrying earth in baskets on their backs to the top of a mountain
which was of itself too rocky for anything to grow upon it.”

“That puts me in mind,” said the sergeant, “of what I have heard about
China. The people there are too numerous for the produce of the land,
and therefore many are in the lowest depths of poverty. I am told that
it is no uncommon thing there for a man to take possession of a ledge of
rock which cannot be got at but by his companions letting him down by a
rope from the mountain top. They let down baskets of earth to him, which
he spreads to a sufficient thickness, and then sows his seed, and he and
his neighbours share the produce. There he hangs, poor creature, in the
heat of the day, toiling on the burning rock, to raise a quantity of
food which would not be thought worth the trouble of a day’s work in
England.”

“But,” inquired a neighbour, “why do they spend their labour in any such
way? There must be some better means of getting their bread.”

“In such a case as that in Languedoc, of which I was speaking,” said
Joe, “the people are attached to the soil from its being their own. It
is the custom there for families to divide the paternal property; and
hence arises all this poverty. A man with a family may be well off with
a farm of two hundred acres, and his two sons may do well enough on one
hundred each: but when this one hundred is divided among five children,
and then again among their five children, it becomes too small to be
tilled with any advantage. And yet these young folks are deceived by the
notion of having landed property; and they marry when the land is
divided into roods, as readily as if they had a fine estate.”

“Surely, Joe, that cannot be?”

“It is perfectly true, I assure you. I have seen a family as much
attached to half and even a quarter of a rood as if it had been a
hundred acres.”

“But that is downright folly.”

“I can imagine, however, that it is hard to give up a bit of land that
has been in the family for generations.”

“But what happens at last?”

“They are obliged at last to sell, of course, and betake themselves to
other employments. They are wise if they begin to sell soon enough.”

“I have heard,” said the sergeant, “that the reason why we find so many
Swiss in other countries is, that the land is divided and divided again,
in the way you describe, till the people cannot live upon it.”

“In Switzerland,” said Joe, “they do not commonly go on to the last
moment before they sell. When a small farmer leaves his estate among his
children, it is common for the eldest of the richest son to purchase
their slips of land from his brothers and sisters, while they find a
subsistence in other countries as soldiers, valets, tutors, and
governesses.”

“And why not in their own?”

“Because Switzerland is a poor country, and there is not capital enough
in it to employ its population.”

“I have often wondered,” said one, “why we hear so much of Swiss
regiments in the armies of other countries.”

“And Swiss governesses are often met with in France and Germany, and
even in England: and gentlemen travelling abroad are frequently attended
by a Swiss servant.”

“They cannot love their country as other people do, or they would not
leave it so readily.”

“Indeed, you are quite mistaken there,” cried Joe. “There is no nation
upon earth more attached to home and country. Did you never hear of a
certain air of which the Swiss are very fond, and which affects them so
much when they hear it played in foreign lands, that it is dangerous to
indulge them with it?”

“It was forbidden to be played in the hearing of a Swiss regiment,” said
the sergeant, “lest it should make the men desert. When they heard it,
they cast themselves down on the ground, and some seemed half dead with
the violence of their emotion.”

“How beautiful the music must be!”

“Not particularly so to us, any more than our “God save the King” is to
them: but its power lies in the recollections it calls up. It is the air
which sounds along the mountain pastures when the cows wander home in
the evening: so, when the exile hears it, he thinks of the glorious
mountains of his country, glowing in the setting sun. He hears the
lowing of the herds: he sees the pretty cottage in a sheltered nook, and
remembers his brethren and friends; and these recollections are too much
for him.”

“No wonder,” said the sergeant. “But I believe they seldom banish
themselves for life.”

“No: they have a hope of saving enough to support them in their latter
days, in their native province. But it is a very hard case; and a man
will bear much before he will submit to exile, even from his paternal
estate. In one place, in France, I saw several horses with a man
attending each, with pannier-loads of sea ooze which they were carrying
many miles to manure their little fields. In another place, I saw women
cutting grass for their cows by the side of the road, in harvest time:
and this was in a rich country too.”

“It is a pity there was no large farmer in the neighbourhood to employ
them to better purpose.”

“So I thought when I saw a stout, hearty man walking seven miles to sell
two chickens, which would not bring him more than a shilling a piece, as
he told me.”

“Why, they would not pay the wear of his shoes and their own feed—to say
nothing of his time and labour.”

“But I cannot see, Joe,” said his father, “why these people should not
keep their bit of land, and labour for others also. It is what some of
our cottagers do.”

“They are above it, father, sometimes; and in most cases there is no
work for them. It is generally found that those who have been brought up
to a little estate of their own never do labour with heart and good will
for other people. A man would rather dawdle about his own little farm,
fancying that there is something for him to do, than let himself for a
labourer. He will look for a hole in his hedge, he will carry earth in a
basket to the top of a mountain, he will walk ten miles to sell an egg,
and he will be content with twopence a day on his own ground instead of
half-a-crown on another man’s, if he is born to call himself a landed
proprietor. It frequently happens, however, that there is no employment
for him elsewhere: for where these small properties abound, there are
not many large: so that the population is, in those places, far too
great in proportion,—not perhaps to the land,—but to its
productiveness.”

“Do you mean to say that there is this poverty wherever there are small
properties?”

“By no means. In some districts the soil is so fertile that it repays
most amply whatever labour is spent upon it. On the banks of certain
rivers, and sometimes throughout a whole province, the little farmers
are very comfortably off as long as they make their children provide for
themselves by some other way than cutting the land into strips. But I
think I may say that wherever capital is required to improve the soil,
and wherever an estate is liable to be divided into roods, or half and
quarter roods, such a possession is more of a curse than a blessing to
the owner and to society.”

“I suppose, Joe,” said a bystander, “that you are as great an admirer of
the law of primogeniture as any true Englishman should be? Of course you
are, as you say so much against small properties.”

“I do not see how the one follows from the other,” replied Joe. “On the
contrary, I utterly disapprove of the interference of the law in the
disposal of private property.”

“Only contrast France and England,” said the sergeant, “and see what
opposite mischiefs the meddling of the law has caused in both. In
France, there is a law of succession which divides estates in certain
proportions among the children of a family, independently of the will of
the father; and the consequence is, that the land is subdivided to such
an extent as to discourage the improvement of agriculture, and to expose
the nation to many of the ills Joe has been describing, except where the
heirs are prudent enough to prevent the evil by private agreement. In
England, the law of primogeniture has encouraged the accumulation of
property in a few hands to a very mischievous extent. Our noblemen
embellish their parks, and plant woods to a certain distance round their
mansions; but the rest of the property generally suffers for the
enormous sums spent on a part, and is left unimproved. There are far too
many estates in this kingdom too large to be properly managed by the
care of one man, or by the reproduceable capital of one family.”

“The days are past,” said Joe, “when every true Englishman must uphold
the law of primogeniture.”

“Well, then, Joe, letting the _law_ alone,—I suppose you like the
_custom_ of primogeniture?”

“Little better than the law, neighbour.”

“What security would you have then, against such subdivision of property
as you have been groaning over for this hour past?”

“A security as strong as any law that ever was made,—the feelings of a
parent guided by experience. Those feelings have been stifled too long
by a law and a custom which neither principle nor policy can justify;
but let them have fair play, and you will find that a man will be as
unwilling on the one hand to prepare for his great-grandchildren being
impoverished by the division of the land, as, on the other, to turn all
his younger children adrift for the sake of enriching the eldest.”

“What would you do, then, if you could govern in this matter?”

“I should leave parents to dispose of their property as they would,
trusting that if they had a perfect freedom of willing, they would
provide for their estates being kept of a proper size, even if they
could not trust their children’s prudence. There are many ways of doing
this. There might be directions that the land should be sold, and the
purchase-money divided; or a legacy of land left to one of the children
charged with portions or annuities to the rest; or an injunction that
the family should form a sort of joint-stock company, and cultivate
their property by a union of their shares. There are many other
arrangements, some of which have been tried, and some have not,—every
one being more just and politic than the institution of primogeniture.”

“So much for the father, and his feelings and interests,” said the
sergeant. “Now let the children be considered. Is it in the least likely
that they should set their hearts upon making their family property
yield as little as possible? Will they not be anxious to prevent their
property wasting till it melts away before it reaches the third
generation from them?”

“Besides,” said Joe, “it never happens that all the members of a family
have a mind for the same occupation. It would be strange, indeed, if all
the sons, be they soldiers, sailors, professional men, or tradesmen, and
all the daughters besides, should take a fancy to leave their
employments for the sake of cultivating their land themselves; and if
they either sell or let it, it may as well be to a brother as a
stranger. O, depend upon it they have every inducement of interest and
of principle, to keep the family estate entire, and need no law to
oblige them to it.”

“But Joe, the shares of rent or annuities would become so small in time
by subdivision that it would have nearly the same effect as dividing the
land, would it not?”

“They would be sold before they dwindled down so far,” replied Joe: “you
know there is not the same dislike to selling where the legatees do not
live upon their shares as there is where they cultivate them with their
own hands. There are examples enough in France of such family sales
among prudent heirs to convince us that people here would find it their
interest to let the landed capital of the family accumulate up to a
certain point.”

“If the Swiss had ever known what might be done by the accumulation of
capital and by its judicious application,” said a neighbour, “I suppose
they might make their estates worth more than they are.”

“Switzerland will not always be the poor country it is,” said Joe, “for
the people, primitive as they still are in many of their customs, have
learned, and will learn yet more, what may be done by an economy of
labour and a union or capitals. I saw one very pleasant instance of
this. The little farmers keep cows in the pastures among the mountains,
where there are no families near to buy their milk, or butter, or
cheese; so that, some years ago, it cost them much labour and time to
find a market for the produce of their cows. One poor woman, who kept
some cows, six or eight miles from Geneva, carried the milk there every
day for sale.”

“Six miles and back again to sell milk! Why, she had much better have
been dairy-maid to some considerable farmer who would have paid her good
wages.”

“To be sure. But they manage these things better now. There are large
public dairies established, to which the neighbouring cow-keepers bring
their daily stock of milk, which is returned to them in the form of
butter and cheese; a certain quantity being kept back for payment to the
owners of the dairies.”

“That is a very clever plan, and a great convenience to the people, I
dare say.”

“Very great: but they would still be better off, in my opinion, as
labourers in the service of some great proprietor.”

“We shall never make a farmer of you, Joe,” said his father. “You used
to have a great mind for it; but now you seem quite prejudiced against
it.”

“Not so, father, I hope. I think it one of the pleasantest occupations
in the world; and if I had as much money as Mr. Malton, or even a good
deal less, I should like nothing better than to be a farmer. The whole
nation, the whole world is obliged to him who makes corn grow where it
never grew before; and yet more to him who makes two ears ripen where
only one ripened before. The race at large is indebted to the man who
increases the means of subsistence in any way. My objection is to the
imprudence of beginning to farm without a sufficient capital of land or
money: and I do not see how a man that does so is more excusable than
one who commits the same fault in trade.”

“Well, please yourself, son. You have gained your little money honestly,
and it would be hard if you might not do what you like with it: and you
seem to have thought a good deal about prudence, and about different
ways of going through the world honestly and comfortably.”

“I should have travelled to little purpose, father, if I had not.”

                      ----------------------------


                              CHAPTER XI.

                        WHAT MUST COME AT LAST.


My father is a justice of the peace. Every body connected with one who
holds such an office knows what interest arises out of its transactions
to those who care about the joys and sorrows, the rights and liberties
of their neighbours. It was not my father’s custom to allow his family
to form a little court before which a culprit might tremble, or a
nervous witness be abashed. He received the parties who came to him on
business in a hall, where it was not possible for the young people to
peep from a door, or for the servants to listen from the stairs. My
brothers were sometimes present at examinations, that they might take a
lesson in what might at some future day become their duty; and we
generally heard after dinner what had passed; but there was no
gratification allowed to our curiosity in the presence of the parties.

On one occasion mine was very strongly excited, and I did long to gain
admittance to the justice hall. I came in, one fine summer morning, from
the garden, and passed through the hall, not being aware that any one
was there. But there stood Norton with a gloomy brow, and Hal Williams,
evidently in custody, looking the picture of shame and despair. He
turned half round as I entered, to avoid meeting my eye, and pretended
to brush his bare brown hat. My father appearing, I made my retreat, and
was obliged to wait till the afternoon for further satisfaction. If it
had not been too warm a day for walking, I should have learned the event
out of doors, for the whole village rang with it. Hal was committed for
sheep-stealing.

Nobody could be surprised at this, who observed how the unhappy man had
been going on for some time. My father had known him to have been guilty
of poaching to a great extent the winter before; but there was never
evidence enough to justify his being apprehended. The next step to
poaching is sheep-stealing; and this step Hal had taken. The evidence
was so clear, that it was useless to attempt any defence. Norton had
lost a lamb in the night. Search was made in Hal’s house; and three
quarters of lamb, not cut up by a butcher, were found under some straw
in his cottage; and the hide, bearing Norton’s mark, was dug up from
where it had been buried, behind the dwelling.—As soon as Hal went to
prison, his drooping wife, and idle unmanageable boys became chargeable
to the parish.

When Norton had finished the painful task of giving his evidence against
an old neighbour, he proceeded to Mr. Malton’s to do a thing more
painful still. He went to offer his little farm for sale, and to let his
labour where it would obtain a better reward than his two poor fields
could afford. It was a sore necessity; and long was it before he could
bring himself to entertain the thought. Even now, when he was quite
determined, he could with difficulty nerve himself for the interview
with Mr. Malton. He slackened his pace more and more as he drew near
Brooke Farm; and just as he was about to enter the chesnut avenue, he
remembered that he should be more likely to meet Mr. Malton if he went
by the lanes; so he turned back and approached by the path which I have
described as my chosen one. He stopped to watch a frog leaping across
the road till he saw it safe into the opposite ditch. He plucked some
wild flowers for his button-hole, but forgot to put them there, and
pulled them to pieces instead. He lingered to watch the rooks as they
sailed round the old elms: but their “caw, caw” which most people find
rather a soothing sound, made poor Norton fidgety to-day. He was going
to walk away when he heard the pacing of a horse’s feet in the dust of
the lane. He looked round and started to see Mr. Malton.

“Why, Norton, you are in a reverie,” said Mr. Malton, who observed the
start. “I suppose it is a holiday with you that you stand watching the
rooks with your hands in your pockets?”

“It is an odd sort of a——.” Norton choked at the word “holiday.”

Mr. Malton’s face was full of concern instantly. He dismounted and led
his horse by the bridle while Norton walked beside him. Both were silent
for some time.

“Have you anything to say to me?” inquired Mr. Malton at length. “You
trust in me, I hope, Norton, as a friend?”

“If I did not, sir, I should not be here now. If I thought you an enemy
or only indifferent, I would go into the workhouse before I would tell
you a syllable of what is in my mind. I came, sir, to say that I find I
must give up my farm; and I wish to know what you would advise me to do
with it.”

“I am glad it is no worse, Norton. I do not at all doubt that it is a
sad pinch to you to give up a plan from which you once hoped so much;
but you will be repaid for the effort, trust me. If you are steady in
your determination, the worst of your difficulties is over.”

“I don’t think I shall change my mind again, sir. It is a sad thing to
walk through my fields after crossing one of yours. One can scarcely get
a finger in between your wheat-stalks, I find; and mine rise as thin and
straggling as thorns in an ill-grown fence. There is nothing but ruin in
such harvests as mine are likely to be.—I should be glad to sell my
land, sir, and my stock, either to you or some one else, and to have
work under you again, if you have it still to give me.”

“I will take your land and stock on a fair valuation; and as for
employment, make your mind easy about that. One of my largest tenants is
looking out for a bailiff, and I should think the situation would just
suit you, Norton. I can answer for your being fit for it.”

Norton’s face crimsoned at the idea that he should not have to become a
labourer on the ground which he had possessed. He had a good deal of
pride left; and he was more obliged to his rich neighbour for his
tenderness to this weakness than if he had given him capital to carry on
his farm.

“If you obtain this situation,” continued Mr. Malton, who saw what was
in his mind, “your cottage goes with your land; and you will find you
have changed for the better, I assure you. My tenant gives his bailiff a
very comfortable dwelling; and when you find yourself under a whole
roof, with a mind free from dread and care, I think you will not repent
the step you have taken.”

“I believe it, sir; and I hope you will see that your kindness is not
lost upon me. Now I have felt the value of gentle treatment in
misfortune, I think I shall never be hard upon those under me. I am
quite ashamed, sir, to think of the strange things that I fancied I
might have to go through in giving up my farm. It all seems
straightforward enough now, if I can but get this appointment.”

When the mode of valuation, and the time when Mr. Malton should take the
land into his own hands, were settled, the good man mounted his horse
and trotted off with a kind “Good day to you.”

As soon as he was out of sight, Norton stretched himself as vigorously
as if he had been bent double for twenty-four hours. He returned home,
forgetting to quarrel with the rooks or to pull wild flowers to pieces
by the way.

                      ----------------------------


                              CHAPTER XII.

                         PROSPERITY TO BROOKE!


Education came in the train of other good things to bless the people of
Brooke. There was much opposition at first from many who, having got
through life so far without having learned to read, could not see why
their children should not do the same. Regard to the persons concerned,
however, carried the point where the principle was disputed; and when it
was found that, in addition to the school being proposed by my mother
and sanctioned by the clergyman, it was intended that it should be kept
by Joe Harper and his wife, the opposition was in a great measure
quieted. In a few months, it was hushed entirely; for the children, from
seeming a set of little savages, began to look like civilized beings.
They were no longer dirty, noisy, quarrelsome, and generally either
crying or laughing. They could sit still without being sulky, and move
about without being riotous; they could answer a question freely and
respectfully at the same time: they could be industrious and cheerful at
once. They could be trusted among the flowers in Joe’s garden, and
learned to do no harm if admitted into the house.

Everybody was surprised that Joe should expect to raise flowers in his
little court by the school-house, when so many rough children were to be
at play so near: but Joe said in their hearing that he thought, when
they knew how he prized his roses and pinks, they would take care not to
spoil his garden. And so it proves. If the children lose a ball there,
they ask for it instead of climbing the paling; and no one is ever known
to pluck a flower, though a good boy or girl often wears a rose given by
the master or mistress as a reward.

Joe’s house is the admiration of all who know what comfort is. The
parlour has a boarded floor, which is sanded according to the old
fashion. A handsome clock ticks behind the door. The best tea-tray and
caddy stand on the mahogany table opposite the fire-place, and a
footstool which Maria worked when a young girl, is placed under it. Joe
has some books, as becomes a schoolmaster; and they are of a kind so
much above what any scholar of his own rank in the village has ever
seen, that it has long been hinted that Joe is a very learned man. There
is a Latin grammar and dictionary, and a book all in Latin besides; or,
if not Latin, nobody knows what it is. There are two books about the
stars; and a volume full of figures in columns, with a name so odd that
nobody catches it easily. There are besides several volumes of voyages
and travels, and with them a set which, from its title, was supposed to
belong to the same class. It is called the Rambler; but a neighbour, who
took it down from the shelf one day, says there is nothing in it about
foreign countries. There are works of a serious cast, as all would
expect who are acquainted with Joe; and to these Maria has added a few
religious books which were left her by her mother.—The greatest
ornaments of this parlour, however, are some pictures of cities and
other places abroad, which Joe brought home with him. The city of
Florence is perhaps the most beautiful; but the most remarkable is a
view of the bay of Naples, and mount Vesuvius in the distance. Maria is
very proud of this last, as her husband saw with his own eyes the flames
shooting up out of the burning mountain.

I never enjoyed a visit to the school-house more than yesterday, when I
went to beg a holiday for the children on account of Mr. Malton’s
harvest-home. It was a pleasure to see the troop of boys and girls
pouring out of the play-ground, and laughing and talking as they
hastened to the harvest-field, while Maria and I followed to share the
gaiety. Joe so seldom has leisure for books, that he remained behind,
sure, on such a day, of having his hours and his wits to himself. What a
busy scene when we arrived! The reapers stooping to their cheerful
toil,—the elderly folks full of the pleasant recollections of many
harvests; the lads full of gallantry, and the lasses of mirth! How
complacently Mr. Malton surveyed the field, now following the reapers to
build up the shocks, now crumbling a fruitful ear of wheat in his hands,
now flinging a handful from a rich sheaf to some decrepit gleaner, or to
some toddling little one who must have a share in the business of the
day! What an apron-full Gray’s children had gathered presently, and how
kindly their father nodded to them when he stuck his sickle into the
sheaf for a moment to wipe his brows! How witty Carey was cracking his
jokes within earshot of the Maltons and ourselves, observing that he was
not in his right place in a field of wheat,—that as a barber ought to be
where there are most beards, he thought he should adjourn to the oat or
barley field! How Miss Black evidently admired, as I passed her door,
the bunch of wheat-ears the children had stuck into my bonnet while I
left it hanging on the hedge, and sat down in the shade! My mother is
certain, from Miss Black’s satisfactory nod,—as much as to say, “I have
it,”—that artificial wheat-ears will wave in all bonnets next winter.

How goodly looked the last waggon, laden with golden grain, as it turned
out of the field at sunset, leaving a few ears dangling from the sprays
for gleaners as it creaked along the lane! Merry were the sounds from
the train that followed. The songs which should have been kept for the
harvest-supper began to burst forth already, the deep bass of a manly
voice making itself heard above the shrill laughter of the children.
This was truly the music of glad hearts.

We saw the long tables set out for the harvest-feast, and went through
our annual speculations about how so much good cheer was to be consumed.
As we were returning, my mother observed that it would be a fine
moonlight night; and that she hoped the sergeant would come and report
proceedings to us, as he would have such a lamp to light him home,
however late he might be. He left the table with the first sober folks
who rose to depart, and looked in on us as he passed.

“Well, sergeant!” said my father, when he entered; “have you had a merry
harvest feast?”

“Very much so, sir; but I am so hoarse with singing and talking, that I
am afraid I can hardly tell you much about it.”

“We will have a glass of ale,” said my father, ringing the bell; “and
then you shall tell me as much as you like, and leave the rest for Carey
in the morning. We must drink prosperity to Brooke, and many a merry
harvest home.”

“There _is_ prosperity in Brooke,” said the sergeant, as he set down his
glass. “If any of my neighbours pretend to doubt it, and point out one
or two who take parish relief, or two or three who seem to be going down
in the world, I shew them the cottages on the common, well thatched and
clean white-washed, with their gardens behind them. I count numbers, and
prove that our population has increased one-half. I shew them the
school-house and the shops, so much busier than they used to be; and the
new carrier’s cart to M——, and all the improvements in the place.”

“I am heartily glad to see, sergeant, that you relish these changes; for
men at your time of life do not generally like them.”

“It all depends, sir, on what the changes are. I am thankful that I have
lived to see so many poor neighbours gathering their comforts about
them; and I shall be all the more ready to go to my grave if I see a
fine, thriving race of young folks rising up to do more good in the
world than I have done. And if they think of me sometimes, I hope they
will remember,” he continued, addressing my brothers, “that their old
friend looked to them to fulfil his hearty wish of Prosperity to
Brooke.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------


          _Summary of Principles illustrated in this Volume._

We have not advanced to any new principles of the science of Political
Economy in the present volume. We have only exemplified some of the
principles laid down in our last volume by illustrations of certain
truths respecting a few particular modes of accumulating and applying
Capital. These truths may be arranged as follows:

PRODUCTION being the great end in the employment of Labour and Capital,
that application of both which secures the largest production is the
best.

Large capitals well managed, produce in a larger proportion than small.

In its application to land, for instance, a large capital employs new
powers of production,—as in the cultivation of wastes;

.... enables its owner to wait for ample but distant returns,—as in
      planting;

.... facilitates the division of labour;

.... .... the succession of crops, or division of time;

.... .... reproduction, by economizing the investment of fixed capital;

.... .... the economy of convertible husbandry;

.... .... the improvement of soils by manuring, irrigation, &c.;

.... .... the improvement of implements of husbandry;

.... .... the improvement of breeds of live stock.

  Large capitals also provide for the prevention of famine, by
    furnishing a variety of food; and for the regular supply of the
    market, by enabling capitalists to wait for their returns.

Large capitals are therefore preferable to an equal aggregate amount of
small capitals, for two reasons, viz.

    they occasion a large production in proportion; and they promote, by
    means peculiar to themselves, the general safety and convenience.

Capitals may, however, be too large. They are so when they become
disproportioned to the managing power.

The interest of capitalists best determines the extent of capital; and
any interference of the law is therefore unnecessary.

The interference of the law is injurious; as may be seen by the tendency
of the law of Succession in France to divide properties too far, and of
the law of Primogeniture in England to consolidate them too extensively.

The increase of agricultural capital provides a fund for the employment
of manufacturing and commercial, as well as agricultural, labour.

The interests of the manufacturing and agricultural classes are
therefore not opposed to each other, but closely allied.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

                           Transcriber’s Note

There are many instances of absent punctuation. Where there is obviously
room for the missing character in the printed text, we assume that it
was present when printed, and have restored it; likewise, at paragraphs’
end.

  Life in the Wild: Africa. (3.6), two hills. (6.27), Mr. (27.33),
    complain. (32.6), hands. (42.6), signify. (44.31), Mr. Stone (50.8),
    her. Mr. Stone (85.17), end. (87.33, step. (107.20), captain.
    107.22), them. (119.5)

  The Hill and the Valley: Hollins. (21.34), entering. (46.17), Journal.
    (45.22), Mr. Bernard (65.12), friend. (72.29), Mr. Wallace (72.32),
    countenance. (74.19), pig-iron. (80.30), other. (127.25), day.
    (81.24), way. (131.30),

  Brooke and Brooke Farm: him. (40.20), are. (136.30), poor. (45.33)

Other errors deemed most likely to be the printer’s have been corrected,
and are noted here. The references are to the page and line in the
original. Given the independent pagination of the original, these are
divided by volume.

                           Life in the Wilds
  19.28    we shall not see them to-night.[”]             Added.
  22.30    Here, at least, money is not wealth.[”]        Added.
  37.12    and assist, wher[e]ever he could.              Removed.
  45.28    [‘/“]I wonder at the captain,”                 Replaced.
  48.18    sir,[”] said Hill,                             Added.
  49.30    seems to have agreed,[’/”]                     Replaced.
  62.7     “Which is the highest, George[,]”              Added.
  67.25    [‘/“]There would be little use                 Replaced.
  102.9    [‘/“]You shall see presently,”                 Replaced.
  107.3    There wa[s] little fear                        Restored.

                        The Hill and the Valley
  23.9     “In which department.[”?/?”]                   Transposed.
  23.30    I said I was hungry.[’/”]                      Replaced.
  35.31    [“]I must find time                            Added.
  37.33    and envious.[”]                                Removed.
  48.20    By dinner-time sh[e] was ready                 Restored.
  58.29    “We find so much depend[s] on                  Added.
  70.6     suppose the lady like[d] to be treated         Added.
  79.4     [‘/“]Surely,” said Mrs. Wallace,               Replaced.
  107.14   nobody wi[i/l]l be looking                     Replaced.
  112.23   so much for to-morrow[’/”]                     Rplaced.
  116.27   Before the visit[e/o]r had time                Replaced.

                         Brooke and Brooke Farm
  7.26     useful by cu[tl/lt]ivation                     Transposed.
  8.18     [‘/“]As for you                                Replaced.
  11.32    our part to awaken you, sir[./,]               Replaced.
  14.9     of the objective school, sir.[”]               Added.
  17.31    [W/B]illy got up whimpering                    Replaced.
  17.33    [“]Well, Billy,”                               Added.
  18.33    “Will you let me try?[”]                       Added.
  35.2     sell your allotment to him?[”]                 Added.
  45.11    it was his daughter-in[ /-]law                 Inserted.
  51.32    for hundred[s] of years                        Added.
  54.23    in your native village?[’/”]                   Replaced.
  56.6     no little disapp[o]intment to me               Inserted.
  78.12    And w[h]ere were you much afraid               Removed.
  79.12    fit for a soldier.[’’’/”]                      Replaced.
  96.3     said Mr. Malto[n]                              Restored.
  98.10    [‘/“]More in one year                          Replaced.
  119.17   the violence of their emotion[,/.]             Replaced.




*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 70716 ***