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     “_Familiar in their Mouths as HOUSEHOLD WORDS._”—SHAKESPEARE.




                            HOUSEHOLD WORDS.
                           A WEEKLY JOURNAL.


                     CONDUCTED BY CHARLES DICKENS.


       N^{o.} 8.]      SATURDAY, MAY 18, 1850.      [PRICE 2_d._




                       THE BEGGING-LETTER WRITER.


He is a ‘Household Word.’ We all know something of him. The amount of
money he annually diverts from wholesome and useful purposes in the
United Kingdom, would be a set-off against the Window Tax. He is one of
the most shameless frauds and impositions of this time. In his idleness,
his mendacity, and the immeasurable harm he does to the
deserving,—dirtying the stream of true benevolence, and muddling the
brains of foolish justices, with inability to distinguish between the
base coin of distress, and the true currency we have always among us,—he
is more worthy of Norfolk Island than three-fourths of the worst
characters who are sent there. Under any rational system, he would have
been sent there long ago.

I, the writer of this paper, have been, for some time, a chosen receiver
of Begging-Letters. For fourteen years, my house has been made as
regular a Receiving House for such communications as any one of the
great branch Post-Offices is for general correspondence. I ought to know
something of the Begging-Letter Writer. He has besieged my door, at all
hours of the day and night; he has fought my servant; he has lain in
ambush for me, going out and coming in; he has followed me out of town
into the country; he has appeared at provincial hotels, where I have
been staying for only a few hours; he has written to me from immense
distances, when I have been out of England. He has fallen sick; he has
died, and been buried; he has come to life again, and again departed
from this transitory scene; he has been his own son, his own mother, his
own baby, his idiot brother, his uncle, his aunt, his aged grandfather.
He has wanted a great coat, to go to India in; a pound, to set him up in
life for ever; a pair of boots, to take him to the coast of China; a
hat, to get him into a permanent situation under Government. He has
frequently been exactly seven-and-sixpence short of independence. He has
had such openings at Liverpool—posts of great trust and confidence in
merchants’ houses, which nothing but seven-and-sixpence was wanting to
him to secure—that I wonder he is not Mayor of that flourishing town at
the present moment.

The natural phenomena of which he has been the victim, are of a most
astounding nature. He has had two children, who have never grown up; who
have never had anything to cover them at night; who have been
continually driving him mad, by asking in vain for food; who have never
come out of fevers and measles (which, I suppose, has accounted for his
fuming his letters with tobacco smoke, as a disinfectant); who have
never changed in the least degree, through fourteen long revolving
years. As to his wife, what that suffering woman has undergone, nobody
knows. She has always been in an interesting situation through the same
long period, and has never been confined yet. His devotion to her has
been unceasing. He has never cared for himself; _he_ could have
perished—he would rather, in short—but was it not his Christian duty as
a man, a husband, and a father, to write begging-letters when he looked
at her? (He has usually remarked that he would call in the evening for
an answer to this question.)

He has been the sport of the strangest misfortunes. What his brother has
done to him would have broken anybody else’s heart. His brother went
into business with him, and ran away with the money; his brother got him
to be security for an immense sum, and left him to pay it; his brother
would have given him employment to the tune of hundreds a year, if he
would have consented to write letters on a Sunday; his brother
enunciated principles incompatible with his religious views, and he
could not (in consequence) permit his brother to provide for him. His
landlord has never shown a spark of human feeling. When he put in that
execution I don’t know, but he has never taken it out. The broker’s man
has grown grey in possession. They will have to bury him some day.

He has been attached to every conceivable pursuit. He has been in the
army, in the navy, in the church, in the law; connected with the press,
the fine arts, public institutions, every description and grade of
business. He has been brought up as a gentleman; he has been at every
college in Oxford and Cambridge; he can quote Latin in his letters (but
generally mis-spells some minor English word); he can tell you what
Shakespeare says about begging, better than you know it. It is to be
observed, that in the midst of his afflictions he always reads the
newspapers; and rounds off his appeals with some allusion, that may be
supposed to be in my way, to the popular subject of the hour.

His life presents a series of inconsistencies. Sometimes he has never
written such a letter before. He blushes with shame. That is the first
time; that shall be the last. Don’t answer it, and let it be understood
that, then, he will kill himself quietly. Sometimes (and more
frequently) he _has_ written a few such letters. Then he encloses the
answers, with an intimation that they are of inestimable value to him,
and a request that they may be carefully returned. He is fond of
enclosing something—verses, letters, pawnbrokers’ duplicates, anything
to necessitate an answer. He is very severe upon ‘the pampered minion of
fortune,’ who refused him the half-sovereign referred to in the
enclosure number two—but he knows me better.

He writes in a variety of styles; sometimes in low spirits; sometimes
quite jocosely. When he is in low spirits, he writes down-hill, and
repeats words—these little indications being expressive of the
perturbation of his mind. When he is more vivacious, he is frank with
me; he is quite the agreeable rattle. I know what human nature is,—who
better? Well! He had a little money once, and he ran through it—as many
men have done before him. He finds his old friends turn away from him
now—many men have done that before him, too! Shall he tell me why he
writes to me? Because he has no kind of claim upon me. He puts it on
that ground, plainly; and begs to ask for the loan (as I know human
nature) of two sovereigns, to be repaid next Tuesday six weeks, before
twelve at noon.

Sometimes, when he is sure that I have found him out, and that there is
no chance of money, he writes to inform me that I have got rid of him at
last. He has enlisted into the Company’s service, and is off
directly—but he wants a cheese. He is informed by the serjeant that it
is essential to his prospects in the regiment that he should take out a
single-Gloucester cheese, weighing from twelve to fifteen pounds. Eight
or nine shillings would buy it. He does not ask for money, after what
has passed; but if he calls at nine to-morrow morning, may he hope to
find a cheese? And is there anything he can do to show his gratitude in
Bengal?

Once, he wrote me rather a special letter proposing relief in kind. He
had got into a little trouble by leaving parcels of mud done up in brown
paper, at people’s houses, on pretence of being a Railway-Porter, in
which character he received carriage money. This sportive fancy he
expiated in the House of Correction. Not long after his release, and on
a Sunday morning, he called with a letter (having first dusted himself
all over), in which he gave me to understand that, being resolved to
earn an honest livelihood, he had been travelling about the country with
a cart of crockery. That he had been doing pretty well, until the day
before, when his horse had dropped down dead near Chatham, in Kent. That
this had reduced him to the unpleasant necessity of getting into the
shafts himself, and drawing the cart of crockery to London—a somewhat
exhausting pull of thirty miles. That he did not venture to ask again
for money; but that if I would have the goodness _to leave him out a
donkey_, he would call for the animal before breakfast!

At another time, my friend (I am describing actual experiences)
introduced himself as a literary gentleman in the last extremity of
distress. He had had a play accepted at a certain Theatre—which was
really open; its representation was delayed by the indisposition of a
leading actor—who was really ill; and he and his were in a state of
absolute starvation. If he made his necessities known to the Manager of
the Theatre, he put it to me to say what kind of treatment he might
expect? Well! we got over that difficulty to our mutual satisfaction. A
little while afterwards he was in some other strait—I think Mrs.
Southcote, his wife, was in extremity—and we adjusted that point too. A
little while afterwards, he had taken a new house, and was going
headlong to ruin for want of a water-butt. I had my misgivings about the
water-butt, and did not reply to that epistle. But, a little while
afterwards, I had reason to feel penitent for my neglect. He wrote me a
few broken-hearted lines, informing me that the dear partner of his
sorrows died in his arms last night at nine o’clock!

I dispatched a trusty messenger to comfort the bereaved mourner and his
poor children: but the messenger went so soon, that the play was not
ready to be played out; my friend was not at home, and his wife was in a
most delightful state of health. He was taken up by the Mendicity
Society (informally it afterwards appeared), and I presented myself at a
London Police-Office with my testimony against him. The Magistrate was
wonderfully struck by his educational acquirements, deeply impressed by
the excellence of his letters, exceedingly sorry to see a man of his
attainments there, complimented him highly on his powers of composition,
and was quite charmed to have the agreeable duty of discharging him. A
collection was made for the ‘poor fellow,’ as he was called in the
reports, and I left the court with a comfortable sense of being
universally regarded as a sort of monster. Next day, comes to me a
friend of mine, the governor of a large prison, ‘Why did you ever go to
the Police-Office against that man,’ says he, ‘without coming to me
first? I know all about him and his frauds. He lodged in the house of
one of my warders, at the very time when he first wrote to you; and then
he was eating spring-lamb at eighteenpence a pound, and early asparagus
at I don’t know how much a bundle!’ On that very same day, and in that
very same hour, my injured gentleman wrote a solemn address to me,
demanding to know what compensation I proposed to make him for his
having passed the night in a ‘loathsome dungeon.’ And next morning, an
Irish gentleman, a member of the same fraternity, who had read the case,
and was very well persuaded I should be chary of going to that
Police-Office again, positively refused to leave my door for less than a
sovereign, and, resolved to besiege me into compliance, literally ‘sat
down’ before it for ten mortal hours. The garrison being well
provisioned, I remained within the walls; and he raised the siege at
midnight, with a prodigious alarum on the bell.

The Begging-Letter Writer often has an extensive circle of acquaintance.
Whole pages of the Court Guide are ready to be references for him.
Noblemen and gentlemen write to say there never was such a man for
probity and virtue. They have known him, time out of mind, and there is
nothing they wouldn’t do for him. Somehow, they don’t give him that one
pound ten he stands in need of; but perhaps it is not enough—they want
to do more, and his modesty will not allow it. It is to be remarked of
his trade that it is a very fascinating one. He never leaves it; and
those who are near to him become smitten with a love of it, too, and
sooner or later set up for themselves. He employs a messenger—man,
woman, or child. That messenger is certain ultimately to become an
independent Begging-Letter Writer. His sons and daughters succeed to his
calling, and write begging-letters when he is no more. He throws off the
infection of begging-letter writing, like the contagion of disease. What
Sydney Smith so happily called ‘the dangerous luxury of dishonesty’ is
more tempting, and more catching, it would seem, in this instance than
in any other.

He always belongs to a Corresponding-Society of Begging-Letter Writers.
Any one who will, may ascertain this fact. Give money to-day, in
recognition of a begging-letter,—no matter how unlike a common
begging-letter,—and for the next fortnight you will have a rush of such
communications. Steadily refuse to give; and the begging-letters become
Angels’ visits, until the Society is from some cause or other in a dull
way of business, and may as well try you as anybody else. It is of
little use enquiring into the Begging-Letter Writer’s circumstances. He
may be sometimes accidentally found out, as in the case already
mentioned (though that was not the first enquiry made); but apparent
misery is always a part of his trade, and real misery very often is, in
the intervals of spring-lamb and early asparagus. It is naturally an
incident of his dissipated and dishonest life.

That the calling is a successful one, and that large sums of money are
gained by it, must be evident to anybody who reads the Police Reports of
such cases. But, prosecutions are of rare occurrence, relatively to the
extent to which the trade is carried on. The cause of this, is to be
found (as no one knows better than the Begging-Letter Writer, for it is
a part of his speculation) in the aversion people feel to exhibit
themselves as having been imposed upon, or as having weakly gratified
their consciences with a lazy, flimsy substitute for the noblest of all
virtues. There is a man at large, at the moment when this paper is
preparing for the press (on the 29th of April), and never once taken up
yet, who, within these twelvemonths, has been probably the most
audacious and the most successful swindler that even this trade has ever
known. There has been something singularly base in this fellow’s
proceedings: it has been his business to write to all sorts and
conditions of people, in the names of persons of high reputation and
unblemished honor, professing to be in distress—the general admiration
and respect for whom, has ensured a ready and generous reply.

Now, in the hope that the results of the real experience of a real
person may do something more to induce reflection on this subject than
any abstract treatise—and with a personal knowledge of the extent to
which the Begging-Letter Trade has been carried on for some time, and
has been for some time constantly increasing—the writer of this paper
entreats the attention of his readers to a few concluding words. His
experience is a type of the experience of many; some on a smaller; some
on an infinitely larger scale. All may judge of the soundness or
unsoundness of his conclusions from it.

Long doubtful of the efficacy of such assistance in any case whatever,
and able to recal but one, within his whole individual knowledge, in
which he had the least after-reason to suppose that any good was done by
it, he was led, last autumn, into some serious considerations. The
begging-letters flying about by every post, made it perfectly manifest,
That a set of lazy vagabonds were interposed between the general desire
to do something to relieve the sickness and misery under which the poor
were suffering; and the suffering poor themselves. That many who sought
to do some little to repair the social wrongs, inflicted in the way of
preventible sickness and death upon the poor, were strengthening those
wrongs, however innocently, by wasting money on pestilent knaves
cumbering society. That imagination,—soberly following one of these
knaves into his life of punishment in jail, and comparing it with the
life of one of these poor in a cholera-stricken alley, or one of the
children of one of these poor, soothed in its dying hour by the late
lamented Mr. Drouet,—contemplated a grim farce, impossible to be
presented very much longer before God or man. That the crowning miracle
of all the miracles summed up in the New Testament, after the miracle of
the blind seeing, and the lame walking, and the restoration of the dead
to life, was the miracle that the poor had the Gospel preached to them.
That while the poor were unnaturally and unnecessarily cut off by the
thousand, in the prematurity of their age, or in the rottenness of their
youth—for of flower or blossom such youth has none—the Gospel was NOT
preached to them, saving in hollow and unmeaning voices. That of all
wrongs, this was the first mighty wrong the Pestilence warned us to set
right. And that no Post-Office Order to any amount, given to a
Begging-Letter Writer for the quieting of an uneasy breast, would be
presentable on the Last Great Day as anything towards it.

The poor never write these letters. Nothing could be more unlike their
habits. The writers are public robbers; and we who support them are
parties to their depredations. They trade upon every circumstance within
their knowledge that affects us, public or private, joyful or sorrowful;
they pervert the lessons of our lives; they change what ought to be our
strength and virtue, into weakness, and encouragement of vice. There is
a plain remedy, and it is in our own hands. We must resolve, at any
sacrifice of feeling, to be deaf to such appeals, and crush the trade.

There are degrees in murder. Life must be held sacred among us in more
ways than one—sacred, not merely from the murderous weapon, or the
subtle poison, or the cruel blow, but sacred from preventible diseases,
distortions, and pains. That is the first great end we have to set
against this miserable imposition. Physical life respected, moral life
comes next. What will not content a Begging-Letter Writer for a week,
would educate a score of children for a year. Let us give all we can;
let us give more than ever. Let us do all we can; let us do more than
ever. But let us give, and do, with a high purpose; not to endow the
scum of the earth, to its own greater corruption, with the offals of our
duty.




                    THE GREAT CAT AND DOG QUESTION.


Between the rivers Kistnah and Beehma in the Deckhan, surrounded by wild
rocky hills, lies the town of Shorapoor, capital of a state of that
name, inhabited by a people who have generally been considered lawless,
superstitious, and quarrelsome. Of late years they have been more
industrious and peaceable, and though still an excitable race, may be
said to be advancing in the arts of peace.

It was during a more remote period, when few strangers ever ventured to
penetrate the country, that a weary-looking traveller, covered with
dust, entered one of the gates, and sat down for awhile at the side of a
well. He then proceeded to take off his waistband and turban, washed his
head and his feet, drank of the cool refreshing water, combed his beard
and moustachios, and spreading a small carpet on which he laid his
trusty sword, drew from his wallet a neat little muslin skullcap; then
seated himself cross-legged, lighted his pipe, and began to look very
comfortable indeed.

In the mean time there were not wanting many idle and curious people,
who having first at a distance observed the movements of the stranger,
approached him nearer and nearer. But he seemed to take little notice of
the crowd, and appeared absorbed in a sense of his own enjoyment, taking
long whiffs of his pipe, and looking as if he had made a considerable
progress towards the third heaven.

At length a respectable looking man, who had come up, drew nearer than
the rest, and asked him from whence he had travelled, and whither he was
going? What he was seeking in Shorapoor, and whether he was a merchant,
or merely came to look about him? But the questions ended in smoke,
being answered only by _whiffs_.

Then came another still bolder man, and said, ‘Sir, the heat is great;
be pleased to come with me to my house, and repose yourself there, and I
will give you a nice cool place in which you may sleep.’

Upon this the stranger drew his pipe from his mouth, and replied, ‘You
are extremely kind, good Sir, and I am really grateful to you for your
proffered hospitality; but the fact is, I don’t believe you would wish
to have me in your house, did you know what I really am!’

And thus saying, he rolled his eyes about, twisted up his moustachios,
stroked his beard, and assumed such a mysterious air, that an
indescribable terror seized the bystanders; so much so, that in falling
hastily back, some of them tumbled down, and others tumbled over them in
a very ridiculous manner.

‘He’s a thief,’ whispered one. ‘Or a Thug,’ said another. ‘Or an evil
spirit in the form of a man,’ observed a fourth. ‘At all events, doesn’t
he look like one who had _killed another_?’

In short the alarm became general, and several deemed it prudent, first
to sneak off, and then take to their heels. A few, however, of the
bolder spirits kept their ground; and seeing that the stranger did
nothing but take long whiffs from his pipe, sending the smoke peacefully
curling over his beard and moustachios out of both his nostrils, they
regained their confidence, and began to think that after all he might be
some important personage;—who could tell? So after a little pushing and
elbowing among themselves, a man was thrust forward, under an idea that
something might come of it; but no, the stranger appeared as unmoved as
ever.

Then another, who had screwed up his courage to that point, boldly
advanced, and thus spoke—

‘Do pray, Sir, tell us who upon earth you may be?’—No answer.

Then the man who had offered a sleeping place in his house chimed in,
and said, ‘Aye, Sir, do let us know who or what you may be? I assure you
we are none of us at all afraid of you!’ And with these words he twisted
up his moustachios, and tried to look as fierce and bold as possible,
while his knees were knocking together, and his heart fluttering all the
while. On a repetition of these questions, however, by both these men,
the stranger, with infinite gravity, took the pipe from his mouth, and
thus spoke:—

‘Are you not too much frightened to hear?’

The runaways, however, had departed, and those left behind seemed
determined not to follow them; more especially as the stranger had made
no sign as if he would draw his sword; neither did they think he looked
at all so horrible now. They therefore one and all called out, ‘No! we
are not a bit afraid, let us hear!’

‘Well then,’ exclaimed the stranger, taking a long puff at his pipe,
‘strange as it may appear to you all, my name is MISCHIEF-MAKER! And
what is very extraordinary, whatever I do, wherever I go, wherever I am,
I _always_ create mischief, I always _have_ created mischief, and shall
continue to do so to the very end of my life!’ And upon this he rolled
his eyes, and puffed away at his pipe harder than ever.

‘Oh, is this all,’ cried the party, ‘is this all?’

‘For the matter of _that_,’ said an active little man with twinkling
eyes, ‘you need be under no uneasiness whatever. I defy you to invent
more mischief here than we have already, for we are all more or less at
enmity with our neighbours; and as our fathers and grandfathers were the
same, we conclude it must be owing to something that can’t be changed;
for instance, the air or water of our town; so set your heart at rest,
and come along with us, and we’ll take care of you.’

‘Well,’ rejoined the stranger, ‘I am very glad indeed to hear what you
say of your own town; for to be candid with you, it’s exactly what I
heard of you all as I came along, and this made me think that in a place
where all were mischief-makers and busybodies already, I could have
nothing to do but (for once in my life) live in peace. However, don’t
trust me—that’s all I have to say—and if any evil arises from my visit,
turn me out, and I’ll seek a home elsewhere.’

An old Brahmin had come up in time to hear this avowal. ‘’Tis very
strange,’ said the wise man. ‘This fellow is surely a magician, and may
set all the rocks of Shorapoor dancing and tumbling about our ears, some
day. Turn him instantly away, or it may be the worse for us all.’

‘No, no,’ shouted the multitude. ‘That would be inhospitable. Let him
remain, and we shall soon see what he can do.’

The little active man now came forward again, and said slyly, ‘Sir, if
you really _are_ such a mischief-maker as you describe yourself to be,
suppose you were to give us a little specimen of your power,—just some
trifling matter to judge by.’

‘What, _now_?’ said the stranger.

‘Aye, _now_!’ exclaimed all; ‘and the sooner the better.’

‘Well, be it so,’ said he; ‘let me put up my things and come along!’ And
with this he arose, packed up, girded on his sword, and strode
majestically forward, followed by a crowd continually increasing as they
advanced further into the town.

‘Now don’t push or press upon me so much,’ said the stranger; ‘but
observe what I do, and watch the consequences.’ So they let him proceed,
and as he advanced, they soon perceived that he was forming some deep
plan, particularly as he paused every now and then, with his forefinger
between his teeth, and nodded, and wagged his head, as much as to say,
‘I have it!’ Upon which he made straight for a shop kept by a man who
sold flour and such like things, and accosting the dealer, inquired with
great civility, whether he had any _honey_? ‘That I have, Sir,’ replied
the shop-keeper, ‘plenty fresh from the comb; only taste it, and I’m
sure you’ll buy. Here, Sir; look at this beautiful jar, full of the
finest honey that was ever seen in Shorapoor.’

‘It looks well,’ replied the stranger, dipping his hand in; ‘and does
not taste amiss:’ saying which he gave his finger a careless kind of
shake; but he knew right well what he was about, as a little lump stuck
upon the outer wall.

‘It really _is_ good,’ said the Mischief-Maker. ‘Give me a small pot of
it, that I may take it home to my children.’

While the shop-keeper was filling a small new pot, over which he tied a
fresh green leaf, the people who had been following, came up, and said,
‘Sir, you are only making game of us; you are giving us no proof of what
you said. What mischief is there in buying a little pot of honey?’

‘Be quiet, my good people, and content yourselves for a couple of
minutes, while I get my change, and put my purchase in a safe place, and
you will soon see something—wait here, and I’ll be back to you
directly.’ The Mischief-Maker vanished in an instant!

Now it happened that this shop was a mere shed of a place, projecting
into the street, from the wall on which the honey had been thrown; nor
had the tempting bait been long there, before it was smelt out by a
large hungry fly, which had been spending many fruitless hours buzzing
about the dealer’s jar, so carefully was it always covered. Here was a
glorious opportunity for a fine supper, and down he came upon it with
eager appetite—without looking about him as he ought—for over his head,
under the cover of the wall, among old chinks and cobwebs, there dwelt a
wily, dust-coloured lizard, who enjoyed a fly beyond everything else in
the world, and had been particularly unsuccessful in fly-catching all
day. Watching, therefore, till the fly had buried his mining apparatus
pretty deep in the honey, he crept down quietly, looking as like a bit
of old plaster as possible, but for those bright eyes of his, which in
his eagerness for the capture, were intently fixed upon the fly. Unlucky
wight! Little did he think that those very eyes had attracted the
attention of a fine tabby cat, who but a few minutes before, with
blinking eyes, presented a perfect picture of contentment, but now
roused by a sudden temptation, was crouching stealthily down as she
beheld the lizard, for whom she had so often watched in vain. Down stole
the lizard—on stole the cat; so that here at the same moment were three
creatures so bent upon indulgence, that they never even thought of
looking about them! But were these three all the parties to be engaged?
Alas! no. There was a sworn enemy of the cat’s approaching also (under
cover of a large basket), in the shape of a mischievous white dog, kept
by a very quarrelsome man on the other side of the street. This dog was
the terror of all the cats in the neighbourhood, and most of all, of the
flour-dealer’s; so often had he chased her, and so often experienced the
bitter disappointment of seeing her climbing up the posts of the shop,
and then spitting at him from the top of the shed.

Infatuated lizard! Wretched fly! Betrayed pussy! _She_ heeded not the
sly creep of the dog, so intent was she upon the successful issue of her
spring upon the lizard. The fly was gorging himself with honey. He alone
partook not of the intense anxiety of the lizard, the cat, and the dog.
He partook only of—_honey_!

The crisis at length arrived. The lizard made its nimble pounce at the
fly. The cat sprang at the lizard. The lizard missed its footing in
consequence, and would have been the cat’s portion—fly, honey, and
all—but for the dog’s sudden attack upon puss. Here was a scene! The
lizard falling to the ground, was at once involved in the consequences
of the quarrel between the dog and cat. What were fly or honey to him at
the moment, when in a state between life and death he crept back sore
and wounded to his chinks and cobwebs! The fly might or might not have
escaped. Not so the cat, now sorely worried by the dog, in spite of all
her outcries and all she could do in the way of biting and clawing; for
it was an old score the dog was paying her off, and that might soon have
cost her her life, if her master had not rushed out of his shop with a
broomstick, with which he began to belabour the dog.

Now the owner of the dog had been as long at enmity with the man of
flour and honey, as the dog had been at enmity with the cat, and
probably longer. Of course, therefore, when he heard his animal’s cries,
and saw the punishment inflicting, he armed himself with a broomstick
also; and rushing across the street, gave the flour-dealer such a crack
upon his head, as knocked him down as flat as a pancake.

‘Take that you villain,’ said he, ‘for it’s a debt I’ve long owed you!’

‘Have you?’ said the flour-dealer’s son, as he rushed out with a cudgel
in his hand. ‘Then tell me how you like _that_’—giving him such a hearty
whack across the shoulders, that he was fain to drop his broomstick.

Yet the blow had hardly been given, before a friend of the dog’s master
ran up with a drawn sword, and would have made mincemeat of the
flour-dealer’s son, but for a soldier who cried out, ‘Shame, thou
coward, and son of a coward, who would attack a youth with only a stick
in his hand, and you armed with a sword! Shame on you! It’s just like
you rascally Hindoo fellows, who pretend to be soldiers, and are as much
like soldiers as that poor cat. Why don’t you try me?’

‘Why not?’ replied the man. ‘Do you think I’m afraid of such a bully as
you? Come on, you scoundrel, and I’ll show you what difference there is
between a cat and a Hindoo!’

Upon this the soldier drew his sword, and both began to cut at each
other in good earnest.

On this all the people cried out, ‘Murder! Murder!’ and a great many
soldiers running to the spot, were soon engaged, always attacking the
Hindoos, who were on the dog’s side, and the Hindoos the Mussulmans, who
were on the side of the cat; and wherever a Hindoo and a Mussulman were
fighting, the Hindoos aided the Hindoo, and the Mussulmans the
Mussulman; and the consequence was the death of many on each side, and
the wounding of most of the foolish quarrelsome people engaged.

Of course such a hubbub as this could not be continued long without its
being reported to the Rajah, who forthwith hastened from his palace with
his body-guard and some horsemen, and soon put a stop to this terrible
fray; and all the ringleaders were forthwith seized and tied together,
and marched off to prison, there to be kept closely confined till the
sad business should be fully enquired into, and the cause of so dreadful
a riot ascertained, and fixed upon the guilty.

All that night, therefore, were the magistrates and police-officers hard
at work listening to evidence, but they did not advance a single step in
the business; no, nor for several days after, notwithstanding the great
impatience of the Rajah, to whom they could only report from time to
time the hearing of nothing but the words, ‘Cat, Dog,’—‘Cat and
Dog,’—‘Dog and Cat,’—‘Dog’—‘Cat.’

A very similar feeling, also, was entertained by the lawyers who were
called in, and who, after intense application, declared themselves
doubtful, _very_ doubtful,—so much was advanced and really to be said
and supported by various precedents, both on the side of the cat and of
the dog, and, consequently, of the owner of the cat, as well as the
owner of the dog, and the partisans of the owners of the dog and
cat,—insomuch, that the whole city was split into most determined cat
and dog factions, and all strangers that entered the gates were
instantly absorbed in the dog and cat vortex, and whirled actually round
and round in this terrible fray, which every now and then broke out with
fresh fury, notwithstanding all the vigilance of the Rajah’s guards. And
yet even these valiant heroes were in some degree infected, giving sly
cuts at dog or cat men, just as they themselves inclined to support the
cat and dog question.

And so matters might have remained, either to the day of the final
depopulation of Shorapoor, or Doomsday itself, but for the wise old
Brahmin who had given such timely warning to turn out the stranger.

He had in reality been quietly chuckling a little, as many are wont to
do who have lived to see their prophecies first despised and then
fulfilled; but his heart relenting, he hastened to the palace, and
prostrating himself before the Rajah with hands joined together, he thus
spoke:—

‘May I be your sacrifice, O thou eater of mountains and drinker of
rivers! I have a petition to make in this matter of the cat and dog!’

‘It shall be heard,’ replied the Rajah. ‘Thou art a wise man; what dost
thou say?—dog—cat—dog and cat, or cat and dog? For my own part, I still
reserve my decision, though somewhat inclining to the opinion that the
cat caused all the mischief, and for this reason,—because if the dog had
not seen the cat, he very probably would not have chased her—“out of
sight out of mind” being one of our oldest as well as truest proverbs.’

‘Alas! that I should differ with your Highness—Brave Falcon, terrible in
War—the most valiant of the State—the Tiger of the Country,’ replied the
Prime Minister. ‘How could the cat help being worried by the dog?—and
did not nature give her a right to go where she pleased?’

So the whole Court took at once different sides, and matters might have
come to a serious explosion, even within the sacred walls of the palace
itself, but for the Brahmin, who again lifted up his voice and said:—

‘May it please your Highness! Let me declare to you that it was neither
the dog nor the cat that caused all this misery, but the _Fly_ and the
Honey!’

‘The fly and the honey! The fly and the honey!’ exclaimed the astonished
Rajah. ‘What honey, and what fly?’

And, as this was a perfectly new idea, the assembly listened with
profound attention while the holy man unfolded the true history of the
case. His having seen the stranger, and warned the people against him.
How accurately he had observed the drop of honey dabbed against the
wall. Then the approach of the fly, the sly gliding of the lizard, the
wily creeping of the cat, and the stealthy vindictive movements of the
dog—involving all these creatures in much pain and difficulty, and which
afterwards overspread the city.

‘Hold, learned man,’ cried the Rajah, ‘thou hast well said; my eyes are
opened!’ and he desired search to be made for the man who had too well
earned the title of Mischief-Maker. But he was no where to be either
found or heard of; and the poor flour-dealer, who stood among the
prisoners with a bandaged head, declared that the villain had not even
paid for the honey that had caused the whole tumult.

‘Well,’ exclaimed the Rajah, after a profound pause; ‘here now may most
plainly be seen a proof—if any such were required—that my subjects only
want a pretext, no matter what, to quarrel, and they are sure to go to
loggerheads.

‘I now throw no blame upon either the cat or the dog; for each animal
followed its own peculiar instinct. The blame and the punishment too,
must light upon the owners of the dog and cat for fighting, and thus
inducing others to espouse so ridiculous a quarrel.’

And forthwith he ordered all the principal rioters into confinement,
saying also to the rest of the people:—

‘Go home now, fools that ye are, and try whether you cannot make up your
minds to live at peace with one another. I cannot prevent your keeping
cats and dogs, because were I to do so, we should be devoured by vermin
or exposed to robbery. But this I tell you, you shall not turn
yourselves into cats and dogs for the future with impunity—DEPART!’ So
they all sneaked off; and the active little man whose head somebody had
broken, scratched it and said:—

‘Only think how well that strange fellow knew us all!’




                        A CARD FROM MR. BOOLEY.


MR. BOOLEY (the great traveller) presents his compliments to the
conductor of Household Words, and begs to call his attention to an
omission in the account given in that delightful journal, of MR.
BOOLEY’S remarks, in addressing the Social Oysters.

MR. BOOLEY, in proposing the health of MR. THOMAS GRIEVE, in connexion
with the beautiful diorama of the route of the Overland Mail to India,
expressly added (amid much cheering from the Oysters) the names of MR.
TELBIN his distinguished coadjutor; MR. ABSOLON, who painted the
figures; and MR. HERRING, who painted the animals. Although MR. BOOLEY’S
tribute of praise can be of little importance to those gentlemen, he is
uneasy in finding them left out of the delightful Journal referred to.

MR. BOOLEY has taken the liberty of endeavouring to give this
communication an air of novelty, by omitting the words ‘Now, Sir,’ which
are generally supposed to be essential to all letters written to Editors
for publication. It may be interesting to add, in fact, that the Social
Oysters considered it impossible that MR. BOOLEY could, by any means,
throw off the present communication, without availing himself of that
established form of address.

_Highbury Barn, Monday Evening._




                          LAW AT A LOW PRICE.


Low, narrow, dark, and frowning are the thresholds of our Inns of Court.
If there is one of these entrances of which I have more dread than
another, it is that leading out of Holborn to Gray’s Inn. I never
remember to have met a cheerful face at it, until the other morning,
when I encountered Mr. Ficker, attorney-at-law. In a few minutes we
found ourselves arm in arm, and straining our voices to the utmost amid
the noise of passing vehicles. Mr. Ficker stretched himself on tiptoe in
a frantic effort to inform me that he was going to a County Court. ‘But
perhaps you have not heard of these places?’

I assured Mr. Ficker that the parliamentary discussions concerning them
had made me very anxious to see how justice was administered in these
establishments for low-priced Law. ‘I am going to one now,’ but he
impressively added, ‘you must understand, that professionally I do not
approve of their working. There can be no doubt that they seriously
prejudice the regular course of law. Comparing the three quarters
preceding with three quarters subsequent to the establishment of these
Courts, there was a decrease of nearly 10,000 writs issued by the Court
of Queen’s Bench alone, or of nearly 12,500 on the year.’

We soon arrived at the County Court. It is a plain, substantial-looking
building, wholly without pretension, but at the same time not devoid of
some little architectural elegance of exterior. We entered, by a gateway
far less austere than that of Gray’s Inn, a long, well-lighted passage,
on either side of which were offices connected with the Court. One of
these was the Summons Office, and I observed on the wall a ‘Table of
Fees,’ and as I saw Mr. Ficker consulting it with a view to his own
business, I asked him his opinion of the charges.

‘Why,’ said he, ‘the scale of fees is too large for the client and too
small for the lawyer. But suitors object less to the amount than to the
intricacies and perplexities of the Table. In some districts the expense
of recovering a sum of money is one-third more than it is in others;
though in both the same scale of fees is in operation. This arises from
the variety of interpretations which different judges and officers put
upon the charges.’

Passing out of the Summons Office, we entered a large hall, placarded
with lists of trials for the ensuing week. There were more than one
hundred of them set down for trial on nearly every day.

‘I am glad,’ I said, ‘to think that this is not all additional
litigation. I presume these are the thousands of causes a year withdrawn
from the superior Courts?’

‘The skeletons of them,’ said Mr. Ficker, with a sigh. ‘There were some
pickings out of the old processes; but I am afraid that there is nothing
but the bone here.’

‘I see here,’ said I, pointing to one of the lists, ‘a single plaintiff
entered, as proceeding against six-and-twenty defendants in succession.’

‘Ah,’ said Mr. Ficker, rubbing his hands, ‘a knowing fellow that; quite
awake to the business of these Courts. A cheap and easy way, Sir, of
recovering old debts. I don’t know who the fellow is—a tailor very
likely—but no doubt you will find his name in the list in this way once
every half year. If his Midsummer and Christmas bills are not punctually
paid, it is far cheaper to come here and get a summons served, than to
send all over London to collect the accounts, with the chance of not
finding the customer at home. And this is one way, you see, in which we
solicitors are defrauded. No doubt, this fellow formerly employed an
attorney to write letters for him, requesting payment of the amount of
his bill, and 6_s_. 8_d_. for the cost of the application. Now, instead
of going to an attorney, he comes here and gets the summons served for
2_s_. A knowing hand that,—a knowing hand.’

‘But,’ I said, ‘surely no respectable tradesman——’

_‘Respectable_,’ said Mr. Ficker, ‘I said nothing, about respectability.
This sort of thing is very common among a certain class of tradespeople,
especially puffing tailors and bootmakers. Such people rely less on
regular than on chance custom, and therefore they care less about
proceeding against those who deal with them.’

‘But,’ said I, ‘this is a decided abuse of the power of the Court. Such
fellows ought to be exposed.’

‘Phoo, phoo,’ said Mr. Ficker; ‘they are, probably, soon known here, and
then, if the judge does his duty, they get bare justice, and nothing
more. I am not sure, indeed, that sometimes their appearance here may
not injure rather than be of advantage to them; for the barrister may
fix a distant date for payment of a debt which the tradesman, by a
little civility, might have obtained from his customer a good deal
sooner.’

‘The Court’ I found to be a lofty room, somewhat larger and handsomer
than the apartment in which the Hogarths are hung up in the National
Gallery. One half was separated from the other by a low partition, on
the outer side of which stood a miscellaneous crowd of persons who
appeared to be waiting their turn to be called forward. Though the
appearance of the Court was new and handsome, everything was plain and
simple.

I was much struck by the appearance and manner of the Judge. He was
comparatively a young man; but I fancied that he displayed the
characteristics of experience. His attention to the proceedings was
unwearied; his discrimination appeared admirable; and there was a calm
self-possession about him that bordered upon dignity.

The suitors who attended were of every class and character. There were
professional men, tradesmen, costermongers, and a peer. Among the
plaintiffs, there were specimens of the considerate plaintiff, the angry
plaintiff, the cautious plaintiff, the bold-swearing plaintiff, the
energetic plaintiff, the practised plaintiff, the shrewish (female)
plaintiff, the nervous plaintiff, and the revengeful plaintiff. Each
plaintiff was allowed to state his or her case in his or her own way,
and to call witnesses, if there were any. When the debt appeared to be
_primâ facie_ proved, the Barrister turned to the defendant, and perhaps
asked him if he disputed it?

The characteristics of the defendants were quite as different as the
characteristics of the plaintiffs. There was the factious defendant, and
the defendant upon principle—the stormy defendant, and the defendant who
was timid—the impertinent defendant, and the defendant who left his case
entirely to the Court—the defendant who would never pay, and the
defendant who would if he could. The causes of action I found to be as
multifarious as the parties were diverse. Besides suits by tradespeople
for every description of goods supplied, there were claims for every
sort and kind of service that can belong to humanity, from the claim of
a monthly nurse, to the claim of the undertaker’s assistant.

In proving these claims the Judge was strict in insisting that a proper
account should have been delivered; and that the best evidence should be
produced as to the correctness of the items. No one could come to the
court and receive a sum of money merely by swearing that ‘Mr. So-and-so
owes me so much.’

With regard to defendants, the worst thing they could do, was to remain
away when summoned to attend. It has often been observed that those
persons about whose dignity there is any doubt, are the most rigorous in
enforcing its observance. It is with Courts as it is with men; and as
Small Debt Courts are sometimes apt to be held in some contempt, I found
the Judge here very prompt in his decision, whenever a defendant did not
appear by self or agent. Take a case in point:—


_Barrister_ (_to the Clerk of the Court_). Make an order in favour of
the plaintiff.

_Plaintiff’s Attorney._ Your honour will give us speedy recovery?

_Barrister._ Will a month do, Mr. Docket?

_Plaintiff’s Attorney._ The defendant is not here to assign any reason
for delay, your honour.

_Barrister._ Very well: then let him pay in a fortnight.


I was much struck, in some of the cases, by a friendly sort of
confidence which characterised some of the proceedings. Here again the
effect in a great measure was attributable to the Barrister. He seemed
to act,—as indeed he is—rather as an authorised arbitrator than as a
Judge. He advised rather than ordered; ‘I really think,’ he said to one
defendant, ‘I really think, Sir, you have made yourself liable.’ ‘Do
you, Sir?’ said the man, pulling out his purse without more ado, ‘then,
Sir, I am sure I will pay.’

It struck me, too, as remarkable, that though some of the cases were
hotly contested, none of the defeated parties complained of the
decision. In several instances, the parties even appeared to acquiesce
in the propriety of the verdict.

A Scotch shoeing-smith summoned a man who, from his appearance, I judged
to be a hard, keen-dealing Yorkshire horse-jobber; he claimed a sum of
money for putting shoes upon six-and-thirty horses. His claim was just,
but there was an error in his particulars of demand which vitiated it.
The Barrister took some trouble to point out that in consequence of this
error, even if he gave a decision in his favour, he should be doing him
an injury. The case was a hard one, and I could not help regretting that
the poor plaintiff should be non-suited. Did _he_ complain? Neither by
word or action. Folding up his papers, he said sorrowfully, ‘Well, Sir,
I assure you I would not have come here, if it had not been a just
claim.’ The Barrister evidently believed him, for he advised a
compromise, and adjourned the case that the parties might try to come to
terms. But the defendant would not arrange, and the plaintiff was driven
to elect a non-suit.

The mode of dealing with documentary evidence afforded me considerable
satisfaction. Private letters—such as the tender effusions of faithless
love—are not, as in the higher Courts, thrust, one after the other, into
the dirty face of a grubby-looking witness who was called to prove the
handwriting, sent the round of the twelve jurymen in the box, and
finally passed to the reporters that they might copy certain flowery
sentences and a few stanzas from ‘Childe Harold,’ which the shorthand
writers ‘could not catch,’ but are handed up seriatim to the Judge, who
looks through them carefully and then passes them over without
observation for the re-perusal of the defendant. Not a word transpires,
except such extracts as require comment.

There was a claim against a gentleman for a butcher’s bill. He had the
best of all defences, for he had paid ready money for every item as it
was delivered. The plaintiff was the younger partner of a butchering
firm which had broken up, leaving him in possession of the books and his
partner in possession of the credit. The proprietor of the book-debts
proved the order and delivery of certain joints prior to a certain date,
and swore they had not been paid for. To show his title to recover the
value of them, he somewhat unnecessarily thrust before the Barrister the
deed which constituted him a partner. The Judge instantly compared the
deed with the bill. ‘Why,’ he said, turning to the butcher, ‘all the
items you have sworn to were purchased anterior to the date of your
entering into partnership. If any one is entitled to recover, it is your
partner, whom the defendant alleges he has paid.’ In one, as they are
called, of the ‘Superior Courts,’ I very much doubt whether either Judge
or Jury would have discovered for themselves this important discrepancy.

The documentary evidence was not confined to deeds and writings, stamped
or unstamped. Even during the short time I was present, I saw some
curious records produced before the Barrister—records as primitive in
their way as those the Chancellor of the Exchequer used to keep in the
Tally-Office, before the comparatively recent introduction of
book-keeping into the department of our national accountant.

Among other things received in evidence, were a milkwoman’s score, and a
baker’s notches. Mr. Ficker appeared inclined to think that no weight
ought to be attached to such evidence as this. But when I recollect that
there have occasionally been such things as tombstones produced in
evidence before Lord Volatile in his own particular Court, the House of
Lords, (‘the highest jurisdiction,’ as they call it, ‘in the realm,’) I
see no good reason why Mrs. Chalk, the milkwoman, should not be
permitted to produce her tallies in a County Court. For every practical
purpose the score upon the one seems just as good a document as the
epitaph upon the other.

I was vastly pleased by the great consideration which appeared to be
displayed towards misfortune and adversity. These Courts are
emphatically Courts for the _recovery_ of debts; and inasmuch as they
afford great facilities to plaintiffs, it is therefore the more
incumbent that defendants should be protected against hardship and
oppression. A man was summoned to show why he had not paid a debt
pursuant to a previous order of the Court. The plaintiff attended to
press the case against him, and displayed some rancour.

‘Why have you not paid, Sir?’ demanded the Judge, sternly.

‘Your honour,’ said the man, ‘I have been out of employment six months,
and within the last fortnight everything I have in the world has been
seized in execution.’

In the Superior Courts this would have been no excuse. The man would
probably have gone to prison, leaving his wife and family upon the
parish. But here that novel sentiment in law proceedings—sympathy—peeped
forth.

‘I believe this man would pay,’ said the barrister, ‘if possible. But he
has lost everything in the world. At present I shall make no order.’

It did not appear to me that the plaintiffs generally in this Court were
anxious to press very hardly upon defendants. Indeed it would be bad
policy to do so. Give a man time, and he can often meet demands that it
would be impossible for him to defray if pressed at once.

‘Immediate execution’ in this Court, seemed to be payment within a
fortnight. An order to pay in weekly instalments is a common mode of
arranging a case, and as it is usually made by agreement between the
parties, both of them are satisfied. In fact the rule of the Court
seemed not dissimilar from that of tradespeople who want to do a quick
business, and who proceed upon the principle that ‘No reasonable offer
is refused.’

I had been in the Court sufficiently long to make these and other
observations, when Mr. Ficker introduced me to the clerk. On leaving the
Court by a side door, we repaired to Mr. Nottit’s room, where we found
that gentleman, (an old attorney,) prepared to do the honours of ‘a
glass of sherry and a biscuit.’ Of course the conversation turned upon
‘the County Court.’

‘Doing a pretty good business here?’ said Mr. Ficker.

‘Business—we’re at it all day,’ replied Mr. Nottit. ‘I’ll show you. This
is an account of the business of the County Courts in England and Wales
in the year 1848; the account for 1849 is not yet made up.’

‘Takes six months, I suppose, to make it,’ said Mr. Ficker, rather
ill-naturedly.

‘Total “Number of Plaints or Causes entered,”’ read the clerk,
‘427,611.’

‘Total amount of money sought to be recovered by the plaintiffs,’
continued Mr. Nottit, ‘1,346,802_l._’

‘Good Gracious!’ exclaimed Ficker, his face expressing envy and
indignation; ‘what a benefit would have been conferred upon society, if
all this property had been got into the legitimate Law Courts. What a
benefit to the possessors of all this wealth. I have no doubt whatever
that during the past year the suitors who have recovered this million
and a quarter have spent the whole of it, squandered it upon what they
called “necessaries of life.” Look at the difference if it had only been
locked up for them—say in Chancery. It would have been preserved with
the greatest possible safety; accounted for—every fraction of it—in the
books of the Accountant-General; and we, Sir, we—the respectable
practitioners in the profession—should have gone down three or four
times every year to the Master’s offices to see that it was all right,
and to have had a little consultation as to the best means of holding it
safely for our client, until his suit was properly and equitably
disposed of.’

‘But, perhaps, Ficker,’ I suggested, ‘these poor clients make better use
of their own money, after all, than the Courts of Law and Equity could
make of it for them.’

‘Then the costs,’ said Mr. Ficker, with an attorney’s ready eye to
business, ‘let us hear about them.’

‘The total amount of costs adjudged to be paid by defendants on the
amount (752,500_l._) for which judgment was obtained, was 199,980_l._;’
was the answer; ‘being an addition of 26.5 per cent. on the amount
ordered to be paid.’

‘Well,’ said Mr. Ficker, ‘that’s not so very bad. Twenty-five per
cent.,’ turning to me; ‘is a small amount undoubtedly for the costs of
an action duly brought to trial; but, as the greater part of these costs
are costs of Court, twenty-five per cent. cannot be considered
inadequate.’

‘It seems to me a great deal too much,’ said I. ‘Justice ought to be
much cheaper.’

‘All the fees to counsel and attorneys are included in the amount,’
remarked the clerk, ‘and so are allowances to witnesses. The fees on
causes, amounted to very nearly 300,000_l._ Of this sum, the Officers’
fees were, in 1848, 234,274_l._, and the General Fund fees 51,784_l._’

‘Not so bad!’ said Mr. Ficker, smiling.

‘The Judges’ fees amounted to nearly 90,000_l._ This would have given
them all 1500_l._ each; but the Treasury has fixed their salaries at a
uniform sum of 1000_l._, so that the sixty Judges only draw 60,000_l._
of the 90,000_l._’

‘Where does the remainder go?’ I enquired.

The County Court Clerk shook his head.

‘But you don’t mean,’ said I, ‘that the suitors are made to pay
90,000_l._ a year for what only costs 60,000_l._?’

‘I am afraid it is so,’ said Mr. Nottit.

‘Dear me!’ said Mr. Ficker. ‘I never heard of such a thing in all my
professional experience. I am sure the Lord Chancellor would never
sanction that in his Court. You ought to apply to the Courts above, Mr.
Nottit. You ought, indeed.’

‘And yet,’ said I, ‘I think I have heard something about a Suitors’ Fee
Fund in those Courts above—eh, Ficker?’

‘Ah—hem—yes,’ said Mr. Ficker. ‘Certainly—but the cases are not at all
analogous. By the way, how are the other fees distributed?’

‘The Clerks,’ said Mr. Nottit, ‘received 87,283_l._; nearly as much as
the Judges. As there are 491 clerks, the average would be 180_l._ a year
to each. But as the Clerks’ fees accumulate in each Court according to
the business transacted, of course the division is very unequal. In one
Court in Wales the Clerk only got 8_l._ 10_s._ in fees; in another
Court, in Yorkshire, his receipts only amounted to 9_l._ 4_s._ 3_d._ But
some of my colleagues made a good thing of it. The Clerks’ fees in some
of the principal Courts, are very ‘Comfortable.’

             The Clerk of Westminster netted in 1848 £2731
                          Clerkenwell                 2227
                          Southwark                   1710

Bristol, Sheffield, Bloomsbury, Birmingham, Shoreditch, Leeds,
Marylebone, received 1000_l._ a year and upwards.’

‘But,’ continued our friend, ‘three-fourths of the Clerks get less than
100_l._ a year.’

‘Now,’ said Mr. Ficker, ‘tell us what you do for all this money?’

‘Altogether,’ said the clerk, ‘the Courts sat in 1848, 8,386 days, or an
average for each Judge of 140 days. The greatest number of sittings was
in Westminster, where the Judge sat 246 days. At Liverpool, there were
sittings on 225 days. The number of trials, as I have before mentioned,
was 259,118, or an average of about 4320 to each Judge, and 528 to each
Court. In some of the Courts, however, as many as 20,000 cases are tried
in a year.’

‘Why,’ said Mr. Ficker, ‘they can’t give five minutes to each case! Is
this “administration of justice?”’

‘When,’ said the Clerk, ‘a case is undefended, a plaintiff appears,
swears to his debt, and obtains an order for its payment, which takes
scarcely two minutes.’

‘How long does a defended case take?’

‘On the average, I should say, a quarter of an hour: that is, provided
counsel are not employed.’

‘Jury cases occupy much longer.’

‘Undoubtedly.’

‘Are the jury cases frequent?’ I enquired, some feeling of respect for
‘our time-honoured institution’ coming across me as I spoke.

‘Nothing,’ said our friend, ‘is more remarkable in the history of the
County Courts than the very limited resort which suitors have to juries.
It is within the power of either party to cause a jury to be summoned in
any case where the plaint is upwards of 5_l._ The total number of cases
tried in 1848, was 259,118. Of these, upwards of 50,000 were cases in
which juries might have been summoned. But there were only 884 jury
cases in all the Courts, or one jury for about every 270 trials! The
party requiring the jury obtained a verdict in 446 out of the 884 cases,
or exactly one half.’

‘At any rate, then, there is no imputation on the juries,’ said Mr.
Ficker.

‘The power of resorting to them is very valuable,’ said our friend.
‘There is a strong disposition among the public to rely upon the
decision of the Barrister, and that reliance is not without good
foundation, for certainly justice in these Courts has been well
administered. But there may be occasions when it would be very desirable
that a jury should be interposed between a party to a cause and the
presiding Judge; and certainly if the jurisdiction of these Courts is
extended, it will be most desirable that suitors should be able to
satisfy themselves that every opportunity is open to them of obtaining
justice.’

‘For my own part,’ said I, ‘I would as soon have the decision of one
honest man as of twelve honest men, and perhaps I would prefer it. If
the Judge is a liberal-minded and enlightened man I would rather take
his judgment than submit my case to a dozen selected by chance, and
among whom there would most probably be at least a couple of dolts. By
the way, why should not the same option be given to suitors in
Westminster Hall as is given in the County Courts?’

‘What!’ exclaimed Mr. Ficker; ‘abolish trial by Jury! the palladium of
British liberty! Have you _no_ respect for antiquity?’

‘We must adapt ourselves to the altered state of society, Ficker.
Observe the great proportion of cases _tried_ in these Courts; more than
sixty per cent. of the entire number of plaints entered. This is vastly
greater than the number in the Superior Courts, where there is said to
be scarcely one cause tried for fifty writs issued. Why is this? Simply
because the cost deters parties from continuing the actions. They settle
rather than go to a jury.’

‘And a great advantage, too,’ said Mr. Ficker.

‘Under the new bill,’ said our friend, the Clerk, ‘Ficker’s clients will
all be coming to us. They will be able to recover 50_l._ in these Courts
without paying Ficker a single 6_s._ 8_d._, unless they have a peculiar
taste for law expenses.’

‘And a hideous amount of rascality and perjury will be the consequence,’
said Mr. Ficker; ‘you will make these Courts mere Plaintiffs’ Courts,
Sir; Courts to which every rogue will be dragging the first man who he
thinks can pay him 50_l._, if he only swears hard enough that it is due
to him. I foresee the greatest danger from this extension of litigation,
under the pretence of providing cheap law.’

‘Fifty pounds,’ said I, ‘is, to a large proportion of the people, a sum
of money of very considerable importance. I must say, I think it would
be quite right that inferior courts should not have the power of dealing
with so much of a man’s property, without giving him a power of appeal,
at least under restrictions. But at the same time, looking at the
satisfactory way in which this great experiment has worked,—seeing how
many righteous claims have been established and just defences
maintained, which would have been denied under any other system—I cannot
but hope to see the day when, attended by proper safeguards for the due
administration of justice, these Courts will be open to even a more
numerous class of suitors than at present. It is proposed that small
Charitable Trust cases shall be submitted to the Judges of these Courts;
why not also refer to them cases in which local magistrates cannot now
act without suspicion of partisanship?—cases, for example, under the
Game Laws, or the Turnpike Laws, and, more than all, offences against
the Truck Act, which essentially embody matters of account. Why not,’
said I, preparing for a burst of eloquence, ‘why not—’

‘Overthrow at once the Seat of Justice, the letter of the Law, and our
glorious constitution in Church and State!’

It was Mr. Ficker who spoke, and he had rushed frantically from the room
’ere I could reply.

Having no one to argue the point further with, I made my bow to Mr.
Nottit and retired also.




                          SWEDISH FOLK-SONGS.


                             FAIR CARIN.

                 The fair Carin—a maiden,
                   Within a young king’s hall,
                 Like to a star in beauty
                   Among the handmaids all.

                 Like to a star in beauty,
                   Among the maidens there;
                 And thus the king addressed him
                   Unto Carin the Fair.

                 ‘And fair Carin, now hearken,
                   Wilt thou be only mine,
                 The grey horse, golden-saddled,
                   It shall this day be thine.’

                 ‘The grey horse, golden-saddled,
                   Is all unmeet for me;
                 Give them unto thy fair young queen,
                   And let the poor maid be.’

                 ‘And fair Carin, now hearken,
                   Wilt thou this day be mine,
                 My crown, made of the red, red gold,
                   It shall alone be thine.’

                 ‘Thy crown, made of the red, red gold,
                   Is all unmeet for me;
                 Give it unto thy good young queen,
                   And let the poor maid be.’

                 ‘And fair Carin, now hearken,
                   Wilt thou this day be mine,
                 The half of all my kingdom,
                   It shall alone be thine.’

                 ‘The half of all thy kingdom
                   It is unmeet for me;
                 Give it unto thy gentle queen,
                   And let the poor maid be.’

                 ‘And fair Carin, now hearken,
                   If thee I may not win,
                 A cask, all spiked with iron,
                   Shalt thou be set within.’

                 ‘And though that thou shouldst set me
                   The spikéd cask within,
                 They would behold, God’s angels,
                   That I am free from sin.’

                 They closed Carin, the maiden,
                   Within that cruel space,
                 And the young king’s hired servants
                   They rolled her round the place.

                 With that from heaven descended
                   Two doves as bright as day;
                 They took Carin, the maiden,
                   And there were three straightway.




                 A VISIT TO THE ARCTIC DISCOVERY SHIPS.


By aid of the North Kent Railway an hour is more than enough for the
journey from London to the dockyard at Woolwich. On a bright morning in
April, we crossed the paved court of the dockyard in search of the four
ships that were being made ready to go in search of the lost Sir John
Franklin and his companions—now four years unheard of, and believed to
be frozen up in the regions of thick-ribbed ice at the North Pole. Two
of the Arctic ships were put in dry dock, and two afloat in the river.
The names of the ships as put together by an old sailor in our hearing,
express their mission. The ‘Resolute,’ ‘Intrepid,’ ‘Pioneer,’ goes with
‘Assistance’ to Sir John Franklin and his frozen-up pack.

We had followed the workman with the artificial memory, and by this time
stood beside the dry dock in which one of the vessels, the ‘Pioneer,’ a
steamer, was fixed upright and out of water. There she stood in a fine
massive granite basin, the sides of which were fashioned into steps.
Down there we went, and then walked round and under her from stem to
stern, and in doing so, could see what preparation had been made to fit
her for the duty she had to do. This steamer had been in the foreign
cattle trade, and had brought, it seems, many a drove from the fields of
Flanders, and from the hills of Spain, to make fatal acquaintance with
the abominations of Smithfield. Bought out of that unsavoury service as
a strong capable steamship, she had been placed in this granite cradle,
and been swathed outside with tarred felt, upon the top of which
additional planking was then fixed. Upon her bows where the shock of the
ice would be most severe, another layer of felt was then applied, and
over this was riveted tough sheets of iron. With this metal casing her
stem was complete. At her stern, as she stood thus out of water, we had
an excellent opportunity of inspecting the screw by which she was to be
impelled. This was of a brazen compound metal prepared with a view to
great strength and toughness; but as its blows upon the stray floating
ice might injure it, another screw of iron was on board to replace it
should it be broken when out of reach of dockyard help. Having passed
round the vessel, and looked up at her huge bulging sides, we ascended
the stone steps, and walking along a plank from the dock side, boarded
the ‘Pioneer,’ to see—after such outside preparations—what care had been
taken with the inside of the ship. It was soon evident that the felting
and planking of the exterior had been matched by a similar felting and
planking of the interior; with this difference, that inside the felt was
untarred. These additions to the thickness of her sides to make her firm
and warm, had been followed by another contrivance, to give her still
further ability to withstand any crushing weight she might have to
endure. Strong beams had been placed aslant, from her keel and her
decks, outwards and upwards towards her sides; and lastly, her decks had
been doubled; so that, thus secured, she became almost as capable of
resisting outward pressure as a solid block of oak. Having thus
strengthened this floating fortress against the fierce assaults of the
Giant Frost, we turned to look how they had stored it to withstand the
beleaguering siege of—it may be—a two or three years’ Arctic winter.
Here we found an ample field for wonder and admiration. Surely human
ingenuity and ships’ stowage were never better displayed. Every inch of
space had been made the most of. In the centre of the vessel were her
engines, cased round with iron, so that outside them could be stowed
away no less than 85 tons of patent compressed fuel to feed the fires.
Thus surrounded, the engines were literally bedded in a small coal-mine,
for their own consumption.

The danger to be apprehended from the close contiguity of so much
combustible material to the engine-fire is obviated, in case of
accident, by eight pumps on the decks and two patent pumps below,
besides others in the engine-rooms. There are fourteen pumps altogether,
which can be handled in case of fire or leakage. Some of these are
worked by the engine, some are placed in warm berths below, so that the
men may have exercise at them without exposure on deck. Nearly all these
pumps work independently of each other, so that if one is deranged, it
does not hurt the rest.

The question as to how the ship is to be kept warm?—was answered by our
being conducted deep down into the hold; there we found a patent stove,
so constructed that pure air was admitted by pipes to its neighbourhood,
and being heated there was passed through other pipes through all parts
of the ship, until having lost much of its heat and more of its purity,
it was allowed to escape, and was replaced by another stream of pure air
to be warmed, and used and replaced again; so on from day to day while
the ships remained in the ice. This warming apparatus, the 85 tons of
fuel, the four years’ provisions, and the Bolton and Watt’s engines
occupied, in spite of the most perfect stowage, so much room, that it
was puzzle to know where the water was stowed.

It was, however, explained that 85 tons of coal round the engine is not
all that must go. The ship will take 200 tons of coal altogether, but
won’t want much water room, for along with the engine is a contrivance
for melting ice for use whilst the ships are locked in.

The salt sea there is a surface of ice that comes direct from Heaven.
The snow is not salted, and the fires will melt the snow-made-ice for
the ship’s use.

Having learned all these particulars as to the essentials of warm air,
and good water, and having heard an account of the four years’
provisions, with a certainty that there was a still further supply near
the Copper Mine River in case of need: and having learned also that the
doctors had got ample supplies of lime-juice and lemon-juice to keep off
the scurvy, and that they had mixed it with alcohol to render it less
liable to freeze; having seen, too, that the purser, thoughtful man, had
not forgotten to order in some sound-looking casks of pale sherry, and
some cases that had an agreeable champagney French look, and these
sights having strengthened the hope that the brave men who were to take
these ships on their perilous duty would have their hearts warmed by a
glass of generous wine when they drank to absent friends next Christmas
Day—we had time to glance over what may be called the miscellaneous
stores for the voyage. These made a picture, indeed. Everything of every
possible kind seemed to be there, and to have been multiplied by two.
Thus there were two screw propellers, and two rudders, and two funnels.
And then there were certainly twice two dozen ice-saws (with teeth an
inch long and handles eight feet wide), and ice-hatchets enough
apparently to slay any number of Polar bears who might feel inclined to
call upon this ‘Pioneer’ during his visit to their neighbourhood.
Between decks the place looked like a mingled establishment made up of a
rope-walk, a sailmaker’s, a currier’s, a brushmaker’s, a dreadnought
clothier’s, a cooper’s, and a very extensive oil and colour warehouse.
There were certainly goods enough pertaining to all these various trades
to set up one man of each with an abundant stock in any street in
Bermondsey he might select. Over head, there was a ceiling of oars and
spare spars, and handspikes, and capstan-bars; at the sides, rows of
blocks, and lanthorns, and cans, and paint-brushes; and under-foot, bars
of iron cased with neatly-sewed leather. This last peculiarity, indeed,
was observable in many parts of the ship. Wherever there was any iron it
was neatly cased over with leather, to secure those who might have to
handle it in the Polar seas from the well-known consequences of touching
naked iron in those latitudes,—for cold iron there, like red-hot iron
elsewhere, damages the fingers of those rash enough to touch it.

This abundance to overflow of stores extended itself even to the
commander’s cabin, for every inch of space was important. That spot,
however, showed no confusion or cramming, though he had near him two of
the most dangerous commodities in his ship,—underneath his _sanctum_ was
a store of ardent spirits, and astern of it a small magazine of
gunpowder.

The engines of the ‘Pioneer’ are 60-horse power, and as she now is she
will not run very fast without her sails, but with wind and steam she
will make eleven knots an hour. The two steamers—the ‘Pioneer’ and the
‘Intrepid’—are to go as tenders to the sailing ships, and to tow them in
the still waters at the Pole, for there when there is no wind there are
no waves.

We left the ‘Pioneer’ to look over her companion ships. The ‘Intrepid’
was being arranged on the same system; the others, the ‘Assistance’ and
the ‘Resolute,’ were afloat at the dock side, and, being sailing ships,
had of course none of their space filled by engines, and, therefore,
seemed rather more roomy. Yet, having seen one Arctic ship, we had seen
the whole. We heard of gutta-percha sledges to be used on the ice, and
of small pilot balloons to be inflated and sent over the frozen regions
of the Pole, and which, as they float in the air, are to drop printed
slips—words of hope and news of succour—in anticipation that some of
these paper messages may reach the frozen-in, lost, mariners, Sir John
Franklin and his crew. We heard, also, that the sailing ships would each
have a crew of about sixty-five men, and the steamers each about
twenty-five, including others. But every one was so busy on board these
sailing ships, and their work was so holy in its intent, that we were
unwilling to disturb either officer or man with many questions; and so
made our way again London-wards.

The last thing we noticed on board these Arctic ships was an inscription
that glittered in the sunshine of that April afternoon, for the words
were carved in letters of brass on the steersman’s wheel that is to
guide the vessels on their perilous way. And our last feeling was that
the hope contained in the words would be realised. The words so written
are:—ENGLAND EXPECTS EVERY MAN TO DO HIS DUTY.




               THE MINER’S DAUGHTERS.—A TALE OF THE PEAK.

                           IN THREE CHAPTERS.


                              CHAPTER III.
                    THE COURTSHIP AND ANOTHER SHIP.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They said ‘Yes.’

‘I’ve a good spanking horse, you seen,’ said James Cheshire. ‘I shall
get over th’ ground rayther faster nor you done a-foot, eh? My word,
though, it must be nation cold on these bleak hills i’ winter.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Well, if ever!’ cried smart little Hannah Bowyer.

‘Nay, then, what next?’ said Tetty Wilton, a tall, thin girl of very
good looks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Quite enough,’ said Jane.

‘And are _you_ afraid of talk?’ said the farmer to Nancy.

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

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

He jumped down and helped them out.

‘If you will drive on first,’ said Jane, ‘we will walk on after, and we
are greatly obliged to you.’

‘Nay,’ said the young man, ‘I shall turn again here.’

‘But you’ve business.’

‘Oh! my business was to drive you here—that’s all.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nancy smiled.

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

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

‘Not a bit of it,’ said James.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘For America!’ exclaimed Jane. ‘Surely you cannot be in earnest.’

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

There was a deep silence.

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

‘What says Nancy?’ asked James.

‘It is a serious proposal,’ said Nancy, ‘but it is good. I feel it so.’

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

‘Think of it,’ said Jane earnestly,—‘think well of it.’

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

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




               LETTER FROM A HIGHLY RESPECTABLE OLD LADY.


Gracious, Mr. Conductor (which is like an omnibus) what a nice new
journal you have got! And ‘Household Words’ too; _that’s_ what I like!
I’ve often thought that if the world could hear _my_ household words,
some people would be wiser for them. Sir, if you are not above receiving
advice and information from an old woman, I will give you some. I will
just chatter to you as I do to the boys and girls down in my part of the
country here, without any ceremony. I have bought two pens and a quire
of paper, and I’ll write down a few things; but my spectacles are bad,
and my pen is not over steady.

I may observe, in limmony, that you will soon discover me to be a well
edicated woman. I have lived a long life, and have always picked up
knowledge fast, taking four meals of it a day. Especially, you will find
that my medical attainments are considerable. I’m not one of your women
who go costing their husbands a whole till-full of money every year for
doctor’s bills. As a mother of a family—and—though you wouldn’t believe
it, Mr. Editor, if you was to look at me—I’ve had as many as eighteen,—I
felt it my duty, as the mother of a family, to acquire the knowledge
that was necessary for the preservation of my children’s lives. I have
bought or borrowed a large number of medical books, and studied them so
well, that if the dear children had been spared me long enough,—whereas
thirteen died young, and one an infant, which was quite owing to the
nurse having forgot to give it its Godfrey three nights running,—if they
had all lived, I should have been surrounded by a very healthy family,
and they would have owed to me, every one of them, their blooming looks.
Of the five that survive, Edward is delicate, and Tom is rather daft,
but the other three are in strong health, and prove what a blessing it
was their mother took such care of them.

Some one of you gentlemen has been a writing about Lucifer-matches.
Lucifers, indeed! Is that your improvement of the people? Yah! If folks
were wise they would send Lucifer his matches back, and not be indebted
to him any longer for them. None of us ever lost our jawbones over a
tinder-box in my young days. But you must have improvements. Don’t you
know that you pay for civilisation with health. Look at me. I am
eighty-two; but we used flint and steel when I was young. Turn to the
British and Foreign Medical Review of a few years ago, there you will
see what I mean. There’s an account in it, of the new disease begotten
by lucifer-matches; by the phosphorus. It’s this: a worker in the
manufactory has a hollow tooth, it generally begins there, resembles
tooth-ache; then there is inflammation about it; the periosteum of the
lower jaw becomes inflamed; the bone dies: a man is recorded to have
picked his lower jawbone out of his chin as we pulled winkles out of
their shells, when winkles were eaten, in the good old times. It’s true
that forewarned is forearmed. Great care is taken in lucifer factories
on a large scale; those who work over the phosphorus have their mouths
shielded, I believe, and so on: but then, what a thing it is! Here’s
your march of improvement! A new luxury, a new disease.

You have been looking over Water-works; isn’t beer good enough for the
folks now-a-days? To be sure one cannot wash in beer, but it’s not much
need one has for washing. I saw a little boy the other day, bothering
about a cabstand; he wanted a bucket of water, but the tap was
locked—and could be unlocked only for the horses. He said there was no
water in his alley, and he looked as if there were no water in the
world. I gave him twopence to go and buy a pint of beer, and went on,
feeling that I had done a charitable action. Water indeed! Don’t you
think, Mr. Conductor, that some of you reformers carry the thing a
little bit too far? I wrote the other day to a grandson of mine, he sets
up for a sanitary reformer, and because I was angry at a little
rapscallion who stole three pounds of Wiltshire bacon (a nice lean
piece) from my kitchen dresser, what does he write and say? I know what
I wrote and said in answer very well. _He_ never darkens my doors again,
and it’s 2000_l._ he will be out of pocket one of these days. I’ll just
copy his impudence. He says—

‘Let it be supposed, grandmother, that you were born in one of the
thousand London alleys; that you were nursed with milk and opiates by a
mother able or willing to pay small attention to your wants. Your first
recollection is of having ‘scalled head,’ a disgusting skin disease,
begotten among dirt, with which poor ragged children are infested. Then
you remember the death of a brother who was your baby playmate. He died
of a fever. You remember other deaths, and how you pondered much in a
child’s way, while playing with a pool of filth, upon this fever, what
it was. You remember the pool in your undrained alley, when it was not
quite so bad as it is now. You remember how you laboured three times a
week, when water was turned on for two hours at the common tap, how you
laboured for your mother to supply her want of it, and came with your
bucket into competition with the tenants of the other houses, all eager
to lay in a stock. You remember how you enjoyed a wash when you could
get it; how you saw your mother strive to wash a tub full of linen in a
pipkin full of water, and the precious juice then could not be thrown
away until you had aided her attempt to scrub the floors with it. You
remember how your father died of a fever, and you slept so near his
corpse that when you were restless in the night once, you were awakened
by your hand touching upon its cold face. You remember how your mother
moaned by day, and how you heard her sob in the night season. So much,
that now and then you went to kiss her. You remember when your elder
sister drowned herself, nobody ever told you why;—you think you know
why. How your mother went out, when she could, for a day’s work, but was
too ragged and too dirty to find many patrons. How she took to
gin-drinking, lost her old love for you, and her old memories. How you
wished that you could find employment, but could find none for the
ragged little wretch. How you begged some pence, and bought some
oranges, and prayed to God that you might be honest in a trade however
small. How you were taken by a policeman before a magistrate, who said
that he must put you down. How you were sent to prison, and came out
shaking your little fists against Society, who made you be the dirty
thief you are.’

There! I can’t copy any more for rage. There’s a fellow, to address a
woman of my years! But he’ll live to repent it, Sir, when I am dead and
gone. My hand shakes so after copying this insolence, that I can’t hold
my pen any more to-day; besides, it has got bad, and there is nobody now
here to mend it. I should like my letter to be put first in your next
number; let it have large print and a great many capitals.




                      A SAMPLE OF THE OLD SCHOOL.

                             BY AN OLD BOY.


All the particulars of the ensuing narration are strictly matters of
fact, except the proper names of places and persons, as we used to say
at Rood Priory, better known, in its time, as Roberts’s, better still as
Old Bob’s; the Establishment for Young Gentlemen—much as Old Bob would
have been enraged to hear it called so—which I am about to describe.

Rood Priory was so called from standing near the site of that monastery.
Though really a private school, it was conducted after the manner of a
public one. Situated in the same Cathedral Town with the College of St.
Joseph, it maintained, indeed, a sort of rivalry with that foundation. I
was sent to Rood Priory—or Old Bob’s—about twenty-four years ago. The
school had then been kept by Old Bob for, I suppose, half a century, and
had existed long before. Old Bob’s was one of those genuine specimens of
the good old school, in which scarcely anything whatever was taught
except the Latin and Greek languages; and they were inculcated
principally by the rod. Its scholars, when first I became one of them,
mustered nearly a hundred; their number had been greater still. The
youngest of us were not more than five or six years old; some of the
eldest were verging upon twenty, and might have shaved without
affectation. We were divided into six classes, or as we called them,
Parts: of which the sixth was the lowest. Our range of study extended
from the rudiments of Latin, in the last Part, to Virgil, Horace,
Homer’s Odyssey and Iliad, Terence, and Greek Tragedy, in the second and
first. The first was also called the senior Part. It was allowed various
peculiar privileges, and its members, the senior boys, were never
flogged, except for high crimes and misdemeanors. They were a sort of
monitors, and had to keep order in the school and dining-hall; duties
which devolved on them by turns. In fact, Old Bob made them act as his
police. The first four Parts did Latin verses, to the composition of
which the greater portion of two days in each week was devoted. The
general impression at Rood Priory was that Latin versification was the
highest possible achievement of the human intellect. Annually, the
senior boys competed for a prize in Latin Hexameters. The successful
performances were recited at our Public Speaking, which took place at
the close of the Midsummer half year. Their Latinity was perfect for the
best of reasons; they were arrangements of phrases which had been really
penned by Ovid and Virgil.

The native Muse was cultivated a little, too. We were required to commit
portions of the ‘Elegant Extracts’ to memory: and the senior boys also
wrote English prize-poems, which were clever imitations of the
mannerisms (only) of Pope and Dryden.

The ‘usual branches of a solid English education’ were certainly in a
rather stunted condition at Old Bob’s. Arithmetic was taught ostensibly;
we had to write out a given number of sums weekly, done by what means no
matter, in a book. One boy, I recollect, by the particular request of
his parents, learned mathematics; that is to say, getting Euclid’s
propositions by rote. Geography was sometimes mentioned among us—in
connexion with the Argonautic Expedition for instance, or the Garden of
the Hesperides. English History we read in classes during the fortnight
before the vacations, Old Bob probably conceiving it expedient that his
scholars should, if questioned by their friends on the subject, appear
to know that there was some difference between William the Conqueror and
Oliver Cromwell. Sometimes Milton’s Paradise Lost was substituted for
our historical reading, namely, for Goldsmith’s Abridgment. We received
rather less instruction in Astronomy than may be presumed to have fallen
to the share of Galileo’s judges, and we utterly ignored the use of any
globes except those in use at football and cricket. Some few, at their
friends’ express stipulation, learned French, Drawing, and Dancing, on
sufferance, and grievously against the grain of Old Bob, who considered
that modern languages and accomplishments could be acquired during the
holidays, or picked up in after-life anyhow; and who suspected that at
Rood Priory they were mere pretexts for shirking severer lessons.
Certainly these studies involved no whipping, and were interspersed with
considerable amusement, at the expense of the French teacher at least,
and his countryman the dancing-master.

Our school-house was a large detached building of red brick,
slate-roofed, lighted by tall round-arched windows, and entered by a
porch, in which vestibule to our Temple of Learning inert or peccant
neophytes were castigated. The hall, or refectory, was also detached. We
slept, some at Old Bob’s private residence, others in adjoining or
adjacent buildings connected with it. The schoolroom, for about a fourth
of its height, was wainscoted with dark oak, richly carved with names,
each letter of which had been engraven at the risk of a flagellation.
The desks, similarly adorned, extended on either side along the wall at
right angles with it, interrupted, on that to the left of the entrance,
by the two fire-places, senior and junior. Everything among us was thus
distinguished; we had a senior and junior field, or playground; a senior
and junior fives-court; and a senior, secundus, and junior bridge on the
river in which we used to bathe. The boys of every particular Part sat
together; each had his own private compartment of the desk, termed his
‘scob.’ A list of the names of the occupants of each desk, in the order
of their rank, was pasted on the wall over it. The junior, that is the
lowest, had the care of the lighting materials, and was thence styled
the ‘Candle-custos.’ There were three seats for the masters; one at the
top of the school, another at the bottom, and a third at the side,
between the two fire-places. They resembled Professors’ chairs, and
during lessons we were stationed in front of them. A large time-piece
above the middle chair regulated our operations. Down the whole length
of the school, in front of either series of desks, ran a form, the two
forms enabling us to be marshalled along them, on occasion, in a couple
of lines, leaving an open space in the middle wherein Old Bob could walk
to and fro with his cane.

The order of things thus constituted was governed supremely by the
Reverend James Roberts, M.A., Senior, otherwise Old Bob; secondarily, by
his son, the Rev. James Roberts, M.A., Junior, behind his back called
James. In subordination to them we had three other classical masters,
and an English master, as he was termed. The business of the latter was
to teach writing and arithmetic, to call us of a morning, to distribute
among us our ‘battlings,’ or pocket-money, and to summon us at the end
of play-hours into school. His hair was light and woolly, he cleared his
throat with a bleating noise before he spoke, he had a grave sleepy
expression, and prominent teeth; and, of course, we called him ‘Sheep.’
He was a very honest, worthy fellow, but he talked fine; he could not
sound the letter h, nor utter a Greek or Latin word without, if
possible, making a false quantity; his duties (being English) were
looked upon as rather menial, and the science which he professed was
accounted mercantile and vulgar; wherefore, on the whole, our somewhat
aristocratic community despised this excellent gentleman very much.

Old Bob, in the face, was rather like Socrates: in form, save as to the
shoulders, he strongly resembled Punch. His similitude, however, to the
sage, was merely physiognomical, unless the ability to have disputed
with him in his own vernacular may be added to it. He was intimately
versed in what are termed the liberal sciences, though I doubt if, in
his case, they had the mollifying effect ascribed to them in the Eton
Latin Grammar. With no other kind of science was he acquainted, except
that of managing his own affairs. In this, truly, he was a tolerable
proficient, and had made money by his school. But if his acquirements
were limited, they were sound; and his intellect, though not
comprehensive, was strong. He would sometimes say to a clever but
eccentric boy—for he used to thee-and-thou us like a Quaker—‘Thou hast
every sense, my boy, but common sense.’ Of this faculty, in a practical
acceptation, he possessed a fair share himself. Old Bob had a fine sense
of justice, too, in his way, and he administered his flogging system
reasonably and equitably—as far as rationality or equity were consistent
with such a system. There was also not a little benevolence in Old Bob’s
composition. It is true that his eyes could not help twinkling when he
caught a boy in any mischief, and contrived, to hit him, neatly, on a
tense and sensitive part. But I do not think that he flogged
principally, or in very great measure, for the love of flogging. He had
a traditional belief in the virtues of the rod. He looked upon birch as
a necessary stimulant, not knowing that stimulants, whether in the
mental or animal economy, are not ordinarily necessary. Then, on the
other hand, he was very attentive to the health and comfort of his boys.
He took especial care that our meat and other provisions should be of
the very best kind; and if his scholars were well flogged, they were
also well fed and well cared for.

Old Bob, when first I knew him, was nearly eighty years of age, but hale
and robust still. Divers legends were extant respecting the strong man
whom he had knocked down in his youth. He dressed the character of the
old schoolmaster, from the shovel-hat and powdered bald head to the
gaiters, as correctly as if he had proposed to act it in a farce. His
voice, I may here remark, was much like Mr. Farren’s in Sir Peter
Teazle; only it was slower, deeper, more powerful, and abounded in
strong and prolonged emphasis. He was very fond of spouting—in an
academical way—and I think I see him now teaching us to gesticulate, by
putting himself in an attitude, and giving us an idea of Cicero.

In general, Old Bob was good-tempered, patient, and forbearing, not
punishing without fair warning, and then with deliberate dignity. But on
peculiar provocation, as by anything like the exhibition of a mutinous
spirit, especially on the part of a big boy, he lost all control of
himself. His face grew pale, his eyes twinkled ominously, he would puff
his cheeks out, and his whole form appeared actually to swell. Then,
pulling up his nether garments—a habit with him when in a rage—and his
voice shaking with passion, he would exclaim, ‘Take care, Sir. Let me
not hear thee say that again. If thou dost, I’ll whip thee. I’d whip
thee if thou wast as high as the house! I’d whip thee if thou wast as
big as Goliath!! I’d whip thee if thou wast an angel from Heaven!!!’ And
it was generally understood among us that he would have done it in
either case.

A flogging at the hands of Old Bob was ordinarily the consequence of a
series of offences or shortcomings. Sometimes a pupil, often within a
brief period, had been guilty of a false concord or quantity. Sometimes
he had been caught out of bounds, or had in some other way infringed Old
Bob’s ordinances. Sometimes he was denounced for misconduct or idleness
by one of the masters. A very common case of punishment would occur
thus: Old Bob would suddenly call for the ‘Classicus’ of a part which
was under a junior master. The ‘Classicus’ was a register of our
respective performances in learning. The eye of Old Bob would light on a
succession of bad marks standing opposite the name of some unlucky
fellow. He then gradually raised his eyebrows, and began to whiff and
whistle. Presently he repeated the delinquent’s name aloud, and
proceeded, whistling and whiffing still at each word, to read out the
adjoined record, ‘Bradshaw!’ he would cry; ‘Bradshaw!—Hi! hi!
hi!—_Malè—malè—malè—mediocriter—malè—quam pessimè—quam pessimè—quam
pessimè_——I’ll whip thee!’ And he put down the book, and pushed his
spectacles up on his forehead. ‘Bring me the rod!—Bradshaw!—Come here to
me, my worthy, good Sir. I’ll _whip_ thee. _I_ will! Go into the porch!’
So saying, he gave the culprit a shove at the nape of the neck, which
almost sent him sprawling headlong. ‘Rod—boy—the rod! Jones—you—Brown
you—go in.’ These boys were to keep the porch doors. ‘Robinson—go too.’
The fourth boy was wanted to sustain the drapery of the victim. ‘And
here—you, Sir—Smith!—you—go in as well.’ This last was some youth who
had been misbehaving himself lately, and whom Old Bob compelled to
witness the infliction, that he might profit by it in the way of
example. They all went into the porch, and Old Bob, hitching up his
smallclothes, followed. ‘My poor boy,’ Old Bob would say, when he had
got the criminal ‘hoisted,’ ‘I am sorry for thee. I told thee how it
would be. I said I would whip thee if thou didst not behave better,
and—_I will_.’ Swish!

The chastisement generally lasted about five minutes. Old Bob never
inflicted more than half-a-dozen stripes, but he waited a considerable
time between them, partly that each might have its full effect, partly
that he might improve the occasion for the edification of the other
delinquent. ‘You’ll be the next, Sir,’ he would tell the latter: ‘You’ll
be the next!’ A prediction usually soon fulfilled.

Old Bob had a very high idea of the force of example. Incredible as it
may appear, it is a fact that he would send a troublesome pupil to see
an execution. I once witnessed his doing this. The boy in question, was
incorrigibly mischievous, and given to roguish pranks. Addressing him by
name, Old Bob said, ‘There is a man to be hanged this morning. Go and
see him, my boy. Thou art a bad boy, and it will do thee good.
You,’—turning to an elder boy,—‘you go with him and take charge of him.’
Truly this was carrying out the principle of the ‘good old school.’

For high crimes and misdemeanours the penalty was flogging in public.
Swearing and profanity were the chief of these. At prayers we used to
kneel along the two forms in the middle of the school. The
‘candle-custodes’ alone remained at their desks during evening-prayer
time. One of these young gentlemen, once upon a night, got a copper cap,
and employed his devotional leisure in fixing it on the head of a nail.
The moment the final ‘Amen’ was uttered, before we could rise, he
exploded the cap. The report was terrific in the silence of the large
schoolroom. Old Bob insisted on the name of the transgressor being
surrendered, and flogged him instantly on the spot. His rage on this
occasion was extreme, and was mingled with a strange agitation. The next
day this was explained. ‘What was it thou didst let off last night?’
demanded Old Bob of the irreverent youth, who was one of his
particularly bad boys. ‘A percussion cap,’ was the answer.
‘Per-per-what?’ ‘Percussion cap, Sir.’ ‘Hum!’ said Old Bob, musingly, ‘I
won’t expel thee _this_ time, Sir,—I won’t _expel_ thee.’ He evidently
did not know what a percussion cap was, whilst, dimly understanding that
it was not exactly a firearm, he seemed relieved from the suspicion that
his scholar had attempted his life.

Such implicit confidence had Old Bob in birch, that he imagined he could
absolutely whip us up Parnassus, and he very often flogged a boy for not
being able to do his verses. ‘I’ll make thee a poet, my boy,’ he used to
say, ‘or the rod shall.’ Flagellation formed so essential a part of his
system, that he had a large quantity of birch-broom kept constantly at
hand in an old cabinet, which may have belonged to the Monastery of Rood
itself. The rod-boy—one of the scholars appointed to the office—not only
‘hoisted’ the sufferer, and had the custody of the birch, but also
manufactured the rods: and soundly was he drubbed by us, if he did not
carefully knock the buds out of them. I think James—who shared the power
of the scourge—insisted that his rods should not be tampered with. At
any rate, the skin upon which he operated looked afterwards as if it had
received a charge of small shot. Such correction, it is obvious, might
be repeated a little too often; and it was a rule of Old Bob’s that no
boy should be flogged more than once a week. Some, however, were flogged
regularly as the week came round. I recollect one boy with whom this was
the case for a long time: owing, I believe, to his sheer inability to
construe Virgil. I heard of him in after-life; oh, Heaven! such a stupid
man!

A minor species of correction was inflicted with the cane, generally on
the hands. Old Bob confined himself to two ‘spats’ on the tips of the
fingers; or, as he called them, ‘summits of the digits.’ In spite of the
sufferer’s attempts to dodge him, he generally hit these sensitive
points exactly, to his manifest delight. James struck from four to six
blows across the palm with all his strength. I have seen a little boy
cast himself on the floor and writhe in the agony of this torture.

James, at the time to which I am referring, appeared to be upwards of
fifty. Perhaps he looked older than he was, through powdering his hair.
He was much more hasty and irascible than his father. He punished
violently and promptly. Old Bob, on the other hand, would sometimes say,
‘I won’t whip thee now, my boy; but I _will_ whip thee. Not now—no. I’ll
let it hang over thy head.’ And so he did, occasionally, for some weeks;
and whipped him at last. James was rather a better scholar, and somewhat
worse informed in other respects than Old Bob. He had small regard for a
plodding student, and great partiality for anyone who could make neat
verses. It being a tenet with him that not a moment should ever be
wasted, he insisted on our taking books into the hall to read during
meals. In conformity with this principle, it was said that, having a
benefice in the neighbourhood at which he preached weekly, he used to
drive there, reading Horace, with his whip stuck upright in his vehicle.
These itinerary studies ended, as might have been foreseen, in a serious
accident; his horse running at its own sweet will over a cow in the
road, and spilling him. He had a preposterous antipathy to the least
noise, and his appearance in the school produced an awful silence
immediately. James’s greatest defect was the absolute dependence which
he placed on the word of the inferior masters. In answer to a complaint
from one of them, unlike Old Bob, he would never hear a boy speak, but
punished him instantly. Yet he was naturally of a kind disposition; and
his alacrity in flogging, arose partly from impatience and
irritability—partly from his having been brought up in that faith.

The severities practised in Old Bob’s little kingdom, were not
unattended with the effects which they sometimes have in larger
monarchies. We had an under-master, whom I will call Bateson; a
north-countryman, with a disgusting brogue, only less repulsive than his
unwholesome looks and malicious temper. He was continually—as though
from a savage delight—procuring some boy or other to be punished. Not
long before my time, his conduct had created a regular rebellion. A
conspiracy, headed by the senior boys, was formed against him. An
opportunity was taken one evening when he was alone in the school. By an
arrangement preconcerted with the ‘candle-custodes,’ most of the lights
were extinguished. Books, ink-bottles, missiles of all kinds, were flung
at his head. The larger boys set upon him and gave him a severe beating.
Had not the school-door, which they had premeditatedly fastened, been
forced upon, there is no knowing to what extent they would have
maltreated him. As it was, he was shockingly bruised and disfigured. The
expulsion of some of the ringleaders, and the flogging of several of the
other rioters, was the issue of this transaction. Bateson, untaught by
what he had suffered, continued to be as spiteful as ever. His delight
was to give us tasks beyond our ability, that we might be chastised for
not doing them; and he stimulated our exertions by menaces and abuse.
Often did we vow to thrash this dull spiteful pedant, if we caught him
anywhere after we should leave school; and some of us, I think, had left
it a pretty long time before the resolution thus formed, was abandoned.

Consistently enough with his notions about the rod and the gallows, Old
Bob not only allowed, but encouraged his boys to settle their disputes
by fighting. After the battle he usually enquired who was the aggressor;
and if Right had triumphed, he often gave the victor a shilling. Two
boys who, for talking in the hall at breakfast, had been made to stand
on the form together, contrived to quarrel while thus exalted, and came
to blows. Old Bob being present with his cane (misdoers were commonly
‘given up’ to be ‘spatted’ at breakfast-time), rushed instantly from his
table to the scene of action. But instead of using the instrument of
correction to visit this aggravated breach of discipline, he actually
employed it in keeping order during the combat, forgetting the offence
in the delight which it afforded him. Our fistic encounters were managed
strictly in accordance with the laws of the ‘noble art of self-defence.’
They had the regular accessories of seconds, and a ring, added to the
superintendence of ‘Sheep,’ and sometimes, too, the paternal countenance
of Old Bob himself! They were divided into rounds, they lasted as long
as real prize-fights, and issued, mostly, in similar results to the
combatants, who generally pummelled each other so severely that they
were forced to retire afterwards to the sick-room. There, strangely
enough, they often became great friends. I recollect one desperate
contest occurring between the son of a celebrated comic actor and a boy
whose family resided in the neighbourhood. The spectators from the
public road which skirted the field—they were mostly farmers on
horseback, it being market-day—discovered who were the combatants, and
exhorted them by name to ‘go it.’ The heroes, I think, fought for
upwards of an hour. Both were severely punished—of course I do not mean
by Old Bob. On another occasion I was present when a boy in fighting was
knocked down. His leg, as he fell, bent under him and was broken. I
heard the bone snap.

It will be inquired whether Old Bob’s arrangements included anything
that could counteract, or modify, at least, the not very humanising
influences of his general system. There was plenty of what is termed
religious instruction—mingled always with infusion of birch. We had
prayers morning and evening, and a collect in the middle of the day read
by one of the senior boys; and as stripes would have been the penalty of
a smile, if discovered, our devotions were characterised by great
decorum. Before and after dinner we had a Latin grace, pronounced by a
young gentleman standing on a form, but a senior boy was liable to be
called upon to say it at his bodily peril. The essential difference
between the two graces lay in the words ‘_sumus sumpturi_,’ ‘we are
about to receive,’ and ‘_accepimus_,’ ‘we have received.’ As not all who
could repeat these words attended precisely to their meaning, the
distinction was occasionally disregarded, with what consequences may be
imagined. Two boys, morning and evening, each elevated on a desk, read a
chapter in the New Testament a-piece, as loud as they were able, whilst
Old Bob generally kept bidding them to speak louder and slower. The rest
had to follow them—the higher Parts, in the Latin and Greek
Testament—and take up the text when called on, under the usual
liability. It was sometimes a fearful thing to have to read from the
desk. St. Paul, in the Second Epistle to Timothy, alludes to one
Alexander the Coppersmith. There was a ragamuffin who used to hang about
the field-palings, on whom we had conferred this appellation, which,
consequently, to our mind had a most ludicrous association. When the
fatal name was pronounced, every breath in the school was held to stifle
a laugh. Imagine the agony of the unlucky boy obliged to read it in all
gravity, deliberately, and, as Old Bob required, ‘loud and slow.’

The loud and slow style of delivery was especially insisted upon in our
elocution. Old Bob made all his boys recite. He caused the speaker to
mount a table at one end of the schoolroom, he, Old Bob, sitting at the
other. The orator had first to perform a gymnastic feat, consisting in
putting himself in the first position, and stooping till his fingers’
ends nearly touched his instep—this was the Rood Priory regulation-bow.
He then made his speech, lifting his arms up and down alternately,
which, if he failed to do with vigour, Old Bob bellowed for ‘Action!
Action!’ The mounting on the table was intended to cure us of
bashfulness. On my first appearance on that conspicuous altitude, my
brain reeled, and I was near falling off for very giddiness.

All this training was a preparation for the public speaking already
mentioned. We spoke from a stage erected at the upper end of the school.
Our auditors at this exhibition were our friends and the gentry of the
neighbourhood. We recited verses, such as ‘Hohenlinden,’ and ‘The Burial
of Sir John Moore,’ ‘Edward and Warwick,’ ‘Brutus and Cassius,’ and
divers scenes from other poets and dramatists, ancient and modern.
Whatever was the character, the speaker appeared in full dress. Once,
the part of ‘Mawworm’ was assigned to me. I enacted it with my hair
frizzled, in an olive coat, black waistcoat, white trousers, silk
stockings, and pumps.

The great attention paid by Old Bob to our acting, seems to indicate
that he supposed we were, for the most part, intended for the church,
the bar, or political life. What opinion then, of his system, are we to
form, judged of by its results? Did it contribute to the formation of
any great minds or distinguished characters? At this moment I know of
but three persons of any eminence, pupils of his, who have reflected
credit upon their master. One of these was a celebrated statesman, now
deceased, who, however, completed his education at Eton. Another was a
Greek scholar of some repute, whether as yet surviving or not, I am
ignorant. The third is a living ornament to his College. This last had a
natural aptitude for learning, and inasmuch as he never needed the
stimulus of the rod, he cannot be considered indebted for his
attainments to that element in Old Bob’s method of tuition. Not one
single stupid or even idle boy, within my experience, did Old Bob with
all his flogging improve in the least; and his severities, I am sure,
disgusted some, possessed of good abilities, with study. For my own
part, I never was flogged; but the fear of being so kept me continually
in misery: and as long as I was subject to it, hindered my advancement,
prevented me from learning anything with pleasure, and caused me to look
upon my tasks as impositions, and to perform them with ill will, in a
sulky, perfunctory manner. I shall never forget the torment I suffered
in cramming long lessons in Greek Grammar, under terror of the rod.
Exert myself as I would, I could not get anything dry well by rote;
whereas, poetry, or whatever else interested me, I remembered without an
effort. This was lucky for me; my good performances were a set-off
against my bad. I knew then, as well as I know now, how worse than
foolish and idiotic was the notion of whipping a boy into
parrot-learning. I perceived then as clearly as I see at this present
time, that memory is no single power of the mind; that there is as much
of feeling in it as of intellect; that we best remember the ideas which
we delight to dwell upon; and that the proper way of imparting knowledge
is to render it as pleasant as possible, or if this cannot be done, to
instil it by degrees: to administer the medicine whose flavour you
cannot disguise, in minute doses. I say, I knew all this: judge then
with what different sentiments from those presented in the catechism, I,
a boy, looked upon my pastors and masters, who knew it not.

But I can speak positively as well as negatively as to the efficacy of
the flogging system. I was fast sinking into despair of my capacity, and
arming myself with dogged obstinacy against the consequences, when Old
Bob gave up the school. His former pupil, the Statesman, during his
brief tenure of office, had secured him a prebendal stall. Rood Priory
then came under the sole management of James, assisted by one of his
brothers. On his retirement, Old Bob wisely dismissed Bateson, with whom
he would not trust James. As wisely, he engaged as second master a
teacher in every respect Bateson’s opposite. This gentleman made our
work as easy to us as he could; his manner towards us was kind and
affectionate; he endeavoured to interest us in our studies; and he urged
us to exertion by recommending proficiency for reward, instead of giving
up dulness for punishment. Under this management, I, previously
considered a dunce, rose rapidly to the first Part of the school; and my
career terminated in my writing the English Prize Poem, a pretty good
burlesque—though I intended it seriously—on the more moody portions of
the writings of Lord Byron.

James did not preside over the concerns of Rood Priory for more than a
year-and-a-half. At the end of that time he abdicated in favour of his
brother. But the latter was quite incompetent to wield the rod of Old
Bob. He permitted a degree of license among his subjects which soon
demoralised his empire. He then abruptly attempted to restore
discipline. The result was a rebellion. His scholars combined against
him in a regular ‘barring out.’ The mutiny was quelled, and the
principal insurgents were flogged. But the affair became public, and
fatally damaged the school; which instantly fell off, and, as certain
writers phrase it, after a few convulsive struggles, ceased to exist.
And so there was an end of Rood Priory; one of the last, I am happy to
believe, of the genuine ‘good old schools.’

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                          TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES


 ● Fixed typos; non-standard spelling and dialect retained.
 ● Renumbered footnotes.
 ● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78173 ***