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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/78174-0.txt b/78174-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f08758f --- /dev/null +++ b/78174-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2441 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78174 *** + + + “_Familiar in their Mouths as HOUSEHOLD WORDS._”—SHAKESPEARE. + + + + + HOUSEHOLD WORDS. + A WEEKLY JOURNAL. + + + CONDUCTED BY CHARLES DICKENS. + + N^{o. 9.}] SATURDAY, MAY 25, 1850. [Price 2_d._ + + + + + THE SICKNESS AND HEALTH OF THE PEOPLE OF BLEABURN. + + + IN THREE PARTS.—CHAPTER I. + +It was not often that anything happened to enliven the village of +Bleaburn, in Yorkshire: but there was a day in the summer of 1811, when +the inhabitants were roused from their apathy, and hardly knew +themselves. A stranger was once heard to say, after some accident had +compelled him to pass through Bleaburn, that he saw nothing there but a +blacksmith asleep, and a couple of rabbits hung up by the heels. That +the blacksmith was wholly asleep at midday might indicate that there was +a public house in the place; but, even there, in that liveliest and most +intellectual spot in a country village of those days,—the ale-house +kitchen—the people sat half asleep. Sodden with beer, and almost without +ideas and interests, the men of the place let indolence creep over them; +and there they sat, as quiet a set of customers as ever landlord had to +deal with. For one thing, they were almost all old or elderly men. The +boys were out after the rabbits on the neighbouring moor; and the young +men were far away. A recruiting party had met with unusual success, for +two successive years—(now some time since)—in inducing the men of +Bleaburn to enter the king’s service. In a place where nobody was very +wise, and everybody was very dull, the drum and fife, the soldierly +march, the scarlet coats, the gay ribbons, the drink and the pay, had +charms which can hardly be conceived of by dwellers in towns, to whose +eyes and ears something new is presented every day. Several men went +from Bleaburn to be soldiers, and Bleaburn was declared to be a loyal +place; and many who had never before heard of its existence, spoke of it +now as a bright example of attachment and devotion to the throne in a +most disloyal age. While, throughout the manufacturing districts, the +people were breaking machinery—while on these very Yorkshire hills they +were drilling their armed forces—while the moneyed men were grumbling at +the taxes, and at the war in Spain, whence, for a long time, they had +heard of many disasters and no victories; and while the hungry labourers +in town and country were asking how they were to buy bread when wheat +was selling at 95_s._ the quarter, and while there were grave +apprehensions of night-burnings of the corn magazines, the village of +Bleaburn, which could not be seen without being expressly sought, was +sending up strong men out of its cleft of the hills, to fight the +battles of their country. + +Perhaps the chief reason of the loyalty, as well as the quietness of +Bleaburn, was its lying in a cleft of the hills; in a fissure so deep +and narrow, that a traveller in a chaise might easily pass near it +without perceiving that there was any settlement at all, unless it was +in the morning when the people were lighting their fires, or on the +night of such a day as that on which our story opens. In the one case, +the smoke issuing from the cleft might hint of habitations: in the +other, the noise and ruddy light would leave no doubt of there being +somebody there. There was, at last, a victory in Spain. The news of the +battle of Albuera had arrived; and it spread abroad over the kingdom, +lighting up bonfires in the streets, and millions of candles in windows, +before people had time to learn at what cost this victory was obtained, +and how very nearly it had been a fatal defeat, or anything about it, in +short. If they had known the fact that while our allies, the Spaniards, +Portuguese, and Germans, suffered but moderately, the British were +slaughtered as horribly as they could have been under defeat: so that, +out of six thousand men who went up the hill, only fifteen hundred were +left standing at the top, the people might have let their bonfires burn +out as soon as they would, and might have put out their candles that +mourners might weep in darkness. But they burst into rejoicing first, +and learned details afterwards. + +Every boy in Bleaburn forgot the rabbits that day. All were busy getting +in wood for the bonfire. Not a swinging shutter, not a loose pale, not a +bit of plank, or ricketty gate, or shaking footbridge escaped their +clutches. Where they hid their stock during the day, nobody knew; but +there was a mighty pile at dusk. It was then that poor Widow Slaney, +stealing out to close her shutter, because she could not bear the sound +of rejoicing, nor the sight of her neighbours abroad in the ruddy light, +found that her shutter was gone. All day, she had been in the loft, lest +she should see anybody; for the clergyman had been to tell her that her +son Harry had been shot as a deserter. She had refused to believe it at +first; but Mr. Finch had explained to her that the soldiers in Spain had +suffered so cruelly from hunger, and want of shoes and of every comfort, +that hundreds of them had gone into the towns to avoid starvation; and +then, when the towns were taken by the allies, such British soldiers as +were found, and were declared to have no business there, were treated as +deserters, for an example. It was some comfort that Mr. Finch did not +think that Harry had done any thing very wicked; but Mrs. Slaney could +not meet any one, nor bear the flaring light on her ceiling; so she went +up to the loft again, and cried all night in the dark. Farmer Neale was +the wonder of the place this evening. He was more gracious than anybody, +though there was nobody who was not, at all times, afraid of him. When +he was seen striding down the steep narrow street, the little boys hid +themselves. They had not been able to resist altogether the temptation +of dry thorns in his fences, and of the chips which had still lain about +where his winter felling had been done, and they concluded he was come +now to give them a rough handling: but they found themselves mistaken. +He was in high good-humour, sending such boys as he could catch with +orders upon his people at home for a tar-barrel and a whole load of +faggots. + +“’Tis hardly natural, though, is it?” said Mrs. Billiter to Ann +Warrender. “It does not seem natural for any father to rejoice in a +victory when his own son has lost his best leg there.” + +“Has Jack Neale lost his leg? O! what a thing!” exclaimed Ann Warrender. +She was going on, but she perceived that the farmer had heard her. + +“Yes,” said he, without any sound of heart-pain in his voice. “Jack has +lost his right leg, Mr. Finch tells me. And I tell Mr. Finch, it is +almost a pity the other did not go after it. He deserved no more good of +either of them when he had let them do such a thing as carry him off +from his home and his duty.” + +“How _can_ you, Mr. Neale?” burst out both the women. + +“How can I do what, my dears? One thing I can do; and that is, see when +an undutiful son is properly punished. He must live on his pension, +however: he can be of no use to me, now; and I can’t be burdened with a +cripple at home.” + +“I don’t think he will ask you,” Mrs. Billiter said. “He was none so +happy there before as to want to come again.” + +Ann Warrender told this speech to her father afterwards as the severest +she had ever heard from Mrs. Billiter; and they agreed that it was very +bold, considering that Billiter was one of Farmer Neale’s labourers. But +they also agreed that it was enough to stir up flesh and blood to see a +man made hearty and good-humoured by misfortune having befallen a son +who had offended him. After all, poor Jack Neale had run away only +because he could not bear his father’s tyranny. Two more of the Bleaburn +recruits had suffered—had been killed outright; one a widower, who, in +his first grief, had left his babes with their grandmother, and gone to +the wars; and the other, an ignorant lout, who had been entrapped +because he was tall and strong; had been fuddled with beer, flattered +with talk of finery, and carried off before he could recover his slow +wits. He was gone, and would soon be forgotten. + +“I say, Jem,” said Farmer Neale, when he met the village idiot, Jem +Johnson, shuffling along the street, staring at the lights: “you’re the +wise man, after all: you’re the best off, my man.” + +Widow Johnson, who was just behind, put her arm in poor Jem’s, and tried +to make him move on. She was a stern woman; but she was as much +disgusted at Farmer Neale’s hardness as her tender-hearted daughter, +Mrs. Billiter, or anyone else. + +“Good day, Mrs. Johnson,” said Neale. “You are better off for a son than +I am, after all. Yours is not such a fool as to go and get his leg shot +off, like my precious son.” + +Mrs. Johnson looked him hard in the face, as she would a madman or a +drunken man whom she meant to intimidate; and compelled her son to pass +on. In truth, Farmer Neale was drunk with evil passions; in such high +spirits, that, when he found that the women—mothers of sons—would have +nothing to say to him to-day, he went to the public house, where he was +pretty sure of being humoured by the men who depended on his employment +for bread, and on his temper for much of the peace of their lives. + +On his way he met the clergyman, and proposed to him to make a merry +evening of it. “If you will just step in at the Plough and Harrow, Sir,” +said he, “and tell us all you have heard about the victory, it will be +the finest thing—just what the men want. And we will drink your health, +and the King’s, and Marshal Beresford’s, who won the victory. It is a +fine occasion, Sir; an occasion to confirm the loyalty of the people. +You will come with me, Sir?” + +“No,” replied Mr. Finch, “I have to go among another sort of people, +Neale. If you have spirits to make merry to-night, I own to you I have +not. Victories that cost so much, do not make me very merry.” + +“Oh, fie, Mr. Finch! How are we to keep up our character for loyalty, if +you fail us—if you put on a black face in the hour of rejoicing?” + +“Just come with me,” said Mr. Finch, “and I can show you cause enough +for heaviness of heart. In our small village, there is mourning in many +houses. Three of our late neighbours are dead, and one of them in such a +way as will break his mother’s heart.” + +“And another has lost a leg, you are thinking. Out with it, Sir, and +don’t be afraid of my feelings about it. Well, it is certain that +Bleaburn has suffered more than is the fair share of one place; but we +must be loyal.” + +“And so,” said Mr. Finch, “you are going to prepare more of your +neighbours to enlist, the next time a recruiting party comes this way. +Oh, I don’t say that men are not to be encouraged to serve their king +and country: but it seems to me that our place has done its duty well +enough for the present. I wonder that you, as a farmer, do not consider +the rates, and dread the consequences of having the women and children +on our hands, if our able men get killed and maimed in the wars. I +should have thought that the price of bread—” + +“There, now, don’t let us talk about that!” said Neale; “You know that +is a subject that we never agree about. We will let alone the price of +bread for to-day.” + +Neale might easily forget this sore subject, and every other that was +disagreeable to other people, in the jollity at the Plough and Harrow, +where there was an uproar of tipsy mirth for the greater part of the +night. But Mr. Finch found little mirth among the people left at home in +the cottages. The poor women, who lived hardly, knitting for eighteen +hours out of the twenty-four, and finding themselves less and less able +to overtake the advancing prices of the necessaries of life, had no +great store of spirits to spend in rejoicing over victories, or anything +else; and among them there was one who loved Jack Neale, and was beloved +by him; and others, who respected Widow Slaney, and could not +countenance noisy mirth while she was sunk in horror and grief. They +were hungry enough, too, to look upon young Slaney’s death as something +of an outrage. If hunger and nakedness had driven him into the shelter +of a town, to avoid dying by the roadside, it seemed to them that being +shot was a hard punishment for the offence. Mr. Finch endeavoured to +show, in hackneyed language, what the dereliction of duty really was, +and how intolerable during warfare; but the end of it was that the +neighbours pitied the poor young man the more, the more they dwelt upon +his fate. + +As it turned out, Bleaburn made more sacrifices to the war than those of +the Battle of Albuera, even before drum or fife was again heard coming +over the moor. The place had not been healthy before; and illness set in +somewhat seriously after the excitements of the bonfire night. The cold +and wet spring had discouraged the whole kingdom about the harvest; and +in Bleaburn it had done something more. Where there are stone houses, +high winds aggravate the damage of wet weather. The driven rain had been +sucked in by the stone; and more wet was absorbed from the foundations, +when the swollen stream had rushed down the hollow, and overflowed into +the houses, and the pigstyes, and every empty place into which it could +run. Where there were glass windows and fires in the rooms, the panes +were dewy, and the walls shiny with trickling drops; and in the cottages +where there were no fires, the inhabitants were so chilly, that they +stuffed up every broken window-pane, and closed all chinks by which air +might enter, in hopes of keeping themselves warm; but the floors were +never really dry that summer, and even the beds had a chilly feel. The +best shoes showed mould between one Sunday and another; and the meal in +the bin (of those who were so fortunate as to have a meal-bin) did not +keep well. Mr. Finch had talked a great deal about what was to be +expected from summer weather and the harvest; but as the weeks went on, +there were graver doubts about the harvest than there had been even +while people were complaining at Easter, and shaking their heads at +Whitsuntide; and when a few days of hot weather came at last, the people +of Bleaburn did not know how to bear them at all. The dead rats and +decaying matter which had been deposited by the spring overflow, made +such a stench that people shut their windows closer than ever. Their +choice now was between being broiled in the heat which was reflected +from the sides of the cleft in which they lived, and being shut into +houses where the walls, floors, and windows were reeking with steam. The +women, who sat still all day, knitting, had little chance for health in +such abodes; and still less had such of the men as, already weakened by +low diet, had surfeited themselves with beer on the night of the +rejoicing, and broiled themselves in the heat of the bonfire, and +fevered mind and body with shouting, and singing, and brawling, and been +brought home to be laid upon musty straw, under a somewhat damp blanket. +This excess was hardly more pernicious to some than depression was to +others. Those of the people at Bleaburn that had received heart-wounds +from the Battle of Albuera, thought they could never care again for any +personal troubles or privations; but they were not long in learning that +they now suffered more than before from low diet and every sort of +discomfort. They blamed themselves for being selfish; but this +self-blame again made the matter worse. They had lost a hope which had +kept them up. They were not only in grief, but thoroughly discouraged. +Their gloom was increased by seeing that a change had come over Mr. +Finch. On Sundays he looked so anxious, that it was enough to lower +people’s spirits to go to church. His very voice was dismal, as he read +the service; his sermon grew shorter almost every Sunday: and it was +about everything that the people cared least about He gave them +discussions of doctrine, or dry moral essays, which were as stones to +them when they wanted the bread of consolation and the wine of hope. +Here and there, women said it really was too much for their spirits to +go to church, and they staid away; and the boys and girls took the +opportunity to go spying upon the rabbits. It was such boys and girls +that gave news of Mr. Finch during the week. Every morning, he was so +busy over his books in his study, that it was no easy matter to get a +sight of him; and every fine afternoon he went quietly, by a bye-path, +to a certain spot on the moor, where an ostler from the Cross Keys at +O—— was awaiting him with the horse on which he took long rides over the +hills. Mr. Finch was taking care of his health. + + + CHAPTER II. + +“Can I have a chaise?” inquired a young lady, on being set down by the +coach at the Cross Keys, at O——. + +“Yes, ma’am, certainly,” replied the neat landlady. + +“How far do you call it to Bleaburn?” + +“To Bleaburn, ma’am! It is six miles. But, ma’am, you are not going to +Bleaburn, surely.” + +“Indeed I am. Why not?” + +“Because of the fever, ma’am. There never was anything heard of like it. +You cannot go there, I assure you, ma’am, and I could not think of +sending a chaise there. Neither of my post-boys would go.” + +“One of them shall take me as near as is safe, then. I dare say we shall +find somebody who will take care of my little trunk till I can send for +it.” + +“The cordon would take care of your trunk, if that were all, but—” + +“The what?” interrupted the young lady. + +“The cordon, they call it, ma’am. To preserve ourselves, we have set +people to watch on the moor above, to prevent anybody from Bleaburn +coming among us, to spread the fever. Ma’am, it is worse than anything +you ever heard of.” + +“Not worse than the plague,” thought Mary Pickard, in whose mind now +rose up all she had read and heard of the horrors of the great plague, +and all the longing she had felt when a child to have been a clergyman +at such a time, or at least, a physician, to give comfort to numbers in +their extremity. + +“Indeed, ma’am,” resumed the landlady, “you cannot go there. By what I +hear, there are very few now that are not dead, or down in the fever.” + +“Then they will want me the more,” said Mary Pickard. “I must go and see +my aunt. I wrote to her that I should go; and she may want me more than +I thought.” + +“Have you an aunt living at Bleaburn?” asked the landlady, in some +surprise. “I did not know that there was any lady living at Bleaburn. I +thought they had been all poor people there.” + +“I believe my aunt is poor,” said Mary. “I have heard nothing of her for +several years, except merely that she was living at Bleaburn. She had +the education of a gentlewoman; but I believe her husband became a +common labourer before he died. I am from America, and my name is Mary +Pickard, and my aunt’s name is Johnson; and I shall be glad if you can +tell me anything about her, if this fever is really raging as you say. I +must see her before I go home to America.” + +“You see, ma’am, if you go,” said the landlady, contemplating the little +trunk, “you will not be able to come away again while the fever lasts.” + +“And you think I shall not have clothes enough,” said Mary, smiling. “I +packed my box for a week only, but I dare say I can manage. If everybody +was ill, I could wash my clothes myself. I have done such a thing with +less reason. Or, I could send to London for more. I suppose one can get +at a post-office.” + +“Through the cordon, I dare say you might, ma’am. But, really, I don’t +know that there is anybody at Bleaburn that can write a letter, except +the clergyman and the doctor and one or two more.” + +“My aunt can,” said Mary, “and it is because she does not answer our +letters, that I am so anxious to see her. You did not tell me whether +you know her name,—Johnson.” + +“A widow, I think you said, ma’am.” And the landlady called to the +ostler to ask him if he knew anything of a Widow Johnson, who lived at +Bleaburn. Will Ostler said there was a woman of that name who was the +mother of Silly Jem. “Might that be she?” Mary had never heard of Silly +Jem; but when she found that Widow Johnson had a daughter, some years +married, that she had white hair, and strong black eyes, and a strong +face altogether, and that she seldom spoke, she had little doubt that +one so like certain of her relations was her aunt. The end of it was +that Mary went to Bleaburn. She ordered the chaise herself, leaving it +to the landlady to direct the post-boy where to set her down; she +appealed to the woman’s good feelings to aid her if she should find that +wine, linen or other comforts were necessary at Bleaburn, and she could +not be allowed to come and buy them: explained that she was far from +rich, and told the exact sum which she at present believed she should be +justified in spending on behalf of the sick; and gave a reference to a +commercial house in London. She did not tell—and indeed she gave only a +momentary thought to it herself—that the sum of money she had mentioned +was that which she had saved up to take her to Scotland, to see some +friends of her family, and travel through the Highlands. As she was +driven off from the gateway of the Cross Keys, nodding and smiling from +the chaise window in turning the corner, the landlady ceased from +commanding the post-boy on no account to go beyond the brow, and said to +herself that this Miss Pickard was the most wilful young lady she had +ever known, but that she could not help liking her, too. She did not +seem to value her life any more than a pin; and yet she appeared +altogether cheerful and sensible. If the good woman had been able to see +into Mary’s heart, she would have discovered that she had the best +reason in the world for valuing life very much indeed: but she had been +so accustomed, all her life, to help everybody that needed it, that she +naturally went straight forward into the business, without looking at +difficulties or dangers, on the right hand or the left. + +Mary never, while she lived, forgot this drive. Her tone of mind was, no +doubt, high, though she was unconscious of it. It was a splendid August +evening, and she had never before seen moorland. In America, she had +travelled among noble inland forests, and a hard granite region near the +coasts of New England: but the wide-spreading brown and green moorland, +with its pools of clear brown water glittering in the evening sunshine, +and its black cocks popping out of the heather, and running into the +hollows, was quite new to her. She looked down, two or three times, into +a wooded dell where grey cottages were scattered among the coppices, and +a little church tower rose above them; but the swelling ridges of the +moor, with the tarns between, immediately attracted her eye again. + +“Surely,” thought she, “the cordon will let me walk on the moor in the +afternoons, if I go where I cannot infect any body. With a walk in such +places as these every day, I am sure I could go through any thing.” + +This seemed very rational beforehand. It never entered Mary’s head that +for a long while to come, she should never once have leisure for a walk. + +“Yon’s the cordon,” said the post-boy, at last, pointing with his whip. + +“What do you understand by a cordon?” + +“Them people that you may see there. I don’t know why they call them so; +for I don’t hear that they do anything with a cord.” + +“Perhaps it is because there is a French word—_cordon_—that means any +thing that encloses any other thing. They would call your hat band a +cordon, and an officer’s sash, and a belt of trees round a park. So, I +suppose these people surround poor Bleaburn and let nobody out.” + +“May be so,” said the man, “but I don’t see why we should go to the +French for our words or anything else, when we have everything better of +our own. For my part, I shall be beholden to the French for no word, now +I know of it. I shall call them people the watch, or something of that +like.” + +“I think I will call them messengers,” said Mary: “and that will sound +least terrible to the people below. They do go on errands, do not +they,—and take and send parcels and messages?” + +“They are paid to do it, Miss: but they put it upon one another, or get +out of the way, if they can,—they are so afraid of the fever, you +see.——I think we must stop here, please, Miss. I could go a little +nearer, only, you see—.” + +“I see that you are afraid of the fever too,” said Mary, with a smile, +as she jumped out upon the grass. One of the sentinels was within hail. +Glad of the relief from the dulness of his watch, he came with alacrity, +took charge of the little trunk, and offered to show the lady, from the +brow, the way down the hollow to the village. + +The post-boy stood, with his money in his hand, watching the retreating +lady, till, under a sudden impulse, he hailed her. Looking round, she +saw him running towards her, casting a momentary glance back at his +horses. He wanted to try once more to persuade her to return to O——. He +should be so happy to drive her back, out of the way of danger. His +employer would be so glad to see her again! When he perceived that it +was no use talking, he went on touching his hat, while he begged her to +take back the shilling she had just given him. It would make his mind +easier, he said, not to take money for bringing any lady to such a +place. Mary saw that this was true; and she took back the shilling, +promising that it should be spent in the service of some poor sick +person. + +As Mary descended into the hollow, she was struck with the quiet beauty +of the scene. The last sun-blaze rushed level along the upper part of +the cleft, while the lower part lay in deep shadow. While she was +descending a steep slope, with sometimes grass, and sometimes grey rock, +by the roadside, the opposite height rose precipitous; and from chinks +in its brow, little drips of water fell or oozed down, calling into life +ferns, and grass, and ivy, in every moist crevice. Near the top, there +were rows of swallow-holes; and the birds were at this moment all at +play in the last glow of the summer day, now dipping into the shaded +dell, down to the very surface of the water, and then sprinkling the +grey precipice with their darting shadows. Below, when Mary reached the +bridge, she thought all looked shadowy in more senses than one. The +first people she saw were some children, excessively dirty, who were +paddling about in a shallow pool, which was now none of the sweetest, +having been filled by the spring overflow, and gradually drying up ever +since. Mary called to these children from the bridge, to ask where Widow +Johnson lived. She could learn nothing more than that she must proceed; +for, if the creatures had not been almost too boorish to speak, she +could have made nothing of the Yorkshire dialect, on the first +encounter. In the narrow street, every window seemed closed, and even +the shutters of some. She could see nobody in the first two or three +shops that she passed; but, at the baker’s, a woman was sitting at work. +On the entrance of a stranger, she looked up in surprise; and, when at +the door, to point out the turn down to Widow Johnson’s, she remained +there, with her work on her arm, to watch the lady up the street. The +doctor, quickening his pace, came up, saying, + +“Who was that you were speaking to?—A lady wanting Widow Johnson! What a +very extraordinary thing! Did you tell her the fever had got there?” + +“Yes, Sir.” + +“What did she say?” + +“She said she must go and nurse them.” + +“Do you mean that she is going to stay here?” + +“I suppose so, by her talking of nursing them. She says Widow Johnson is +her aunt.” + +“O! that’s it! I have heard that Mrs. Johnson came of a good family. But +what a good creature this must be—that is, if she knows what she is +about. If she is off before morning, I shall think it was a vision, +dropped down out of the clouds. Eh?” + +“She is not handsome enough to be an angel, or anything of that kind,” +said the baker’s wife. + +“O! isn’t she? I did not see her face. But it is all the better, if she +is not very like an angel. She is all the more likely to stay and nurse +the Johnsons. Upon my word, they are lucky people if she does. I must go +and pay my respects to her presently.—Do look now—at the doors all along +the street, on both sides the way! I have not seen so many people at +once for weeks past;—for, you know, I have no time to go to church in +these days.” + +“You would not see many people, if you went. See! some of the children +are following her! It is long since they have seen a young lady, in a +white gown, and with a smile on her face, in our street. There she goes, +past the corner; she has taken the right turn.” + +“I will just let her get the meeting over, and settle herself a little,” +said the doctor; “and then I will go and pay my respects to her.” + +The little rabble of dirty children followed Mary round the corner, +keeping in the middle of the lane, and at some distance behind. When she +turned to speak to them, they started and fled, as they might have done, +if she had been a ghost. But when she laughed, they returned cautiously; +and all their brown forefingers pointed the same way at once, when she +made her final inquiry about which was the cottage she wanted. Two +little boys were pushed forward by the rest; and it transpired that +these were grandchildren of Widow Johnson. + +“Is she your granny?” said Mary. “Then, I am your cousin. Come with me; +and if granny is very much surprised to see me, you must tell her that I +am your cousin Mary.” + +The boys, however, had no notion of entering the cottage. They slipped +away, and hid themselves behind it; and Mary had to introduce herself. + +After knocking in vain for some time, she opened the door, and looked +in. No one was in the room but a man, whom she at once recognised for +Silly Jem. He was half-standing, half-sitting, against the table by the +wall, rolling his head from side to side. By no mode of questioning +could Mary obtain a word from him. The only thing he did was to throw a +great log of wood on the fire, when she observed what a large fire he +had. She tried to take it off again; but this he would not permit. The +room was insufferably hot and close. The only window was beside the +door; so that there was no way of bringing a current of fresh air +through the room. Mary tried to open the window; but it was not made to +open, except that a small pane at the top, three inches square, went +upon hinges. As soon as Mary had opened it, however, poor Jem went and +shut it. Within this kitchen, was a sort of closet for stores; and this +was the whole of the lower floor. Mary opened one other door, and found +within it a steep, narrow stair, down which came a sickening puff of +hot, foul air. She went up softly, and Jem slammed the door behind her. +It seemed as if it was the business of his life to shut everything. + +Groping her way, Mary came to a small chamber, which she surveyed for an +instant from the stair, before showing herself within. There was no +ceiling; and long cobwebs hung from the rafters. A small window, two +feet from the floor, and curtained with a yellow and tattered piece of +muslin, was the only break in the wall. On the deal table stood a phial +or two, and a green bottle, which was presently found to contain rum. A +turn-up bedstead, raised only a foot from the floor, was in a corner; +and on it lay some one who was very restless, feebly throwing off the +rug, which was immediately replaced by a sleepy woman who dozed between +times in a chair that boasted a patchwork cushion. Mary doubted whether +the large black eyes which stared forth from the pillow had any sense in +them. She went to see. + +“Aunty,” said she, going to the bed, and gently taking one of the wasted +hands that lay outside. “I am come to nurse you.” + +The poor patient made a strong effort to collect herself, and to speak. +She did not want anybody. She should do very well. This was no place for +strangers. She was too ill to see strangers, and so on; but, from time +to time, a few wandering words about her knowing best how to choose a +husband for herself—her having a right to marry as she pleased—or of +insisting that her relations would go their own way in the world, and +leave her hers—showed Mary that she was recognised, and what feelings +she had to deal with. + +“She knows where I came from; but she takes me for my mother or my +grandmother,” thought she. “If she grows clear in mind, we shall be +friends on our own account. If she remains delirious, she will become +used to the sight of me. I must take matters into my own hands at once.” + +The first step was difficult. Coolness and fresh air were wanted above +everything. But there was no chimney; the window would not open; poor +Jem would not let any door remain open for a moment; and the sleepy +neighbour was one of those who insist upon warm bedclothes, large fires, +and hot spirit-and-water, in fever cases. She was got rid of by being +paid to find somebody who would go for Mary’s trunk, and bring it here +before dark. She did her best to administer another dose of rum before +she tied on her bonnet; but as the patient turned away her head with +disgust, Mary interposed her hand. The dram was offered to her, and, as +she would not have it, the neighbour showed the only courtesy then +possible, by drinking Mary’s health, and welcome to Bleaburn. The woman +had some sharpness. She could see that if she took Jem with her, and put +the trunk on his shoulder, she should get the porter’s fee herself, +instead of giving it to some rude boy; and, as Mary observed, would be +doing a kindness to Jem in taking him for a pleasant evening walk. Thus +the coast was cleared. In little more than half-an-hour they would be +back. Mary made the most of her time. + +She set the doors below wide open, and lowered the fire. She would fain +have put on some water to boil, for it appeared to her that everybody +and everything wanted washing extremely. But she could find no water, +but some which seemed to have been used—which was, at all events, not +fit for use now. For water she must wait till somebody came. About air, +she did one thing more—a daring thing. She had a little diamond ring on +her finger. With this, without noise and quickly, she cut so much of two +small panes of the chamber-window as to be able to take them clean out; +and then she rubbed the neighbouring panes bright enough to hide, as she +hoped, an act which would be thought mad. When she looked round again at +Aunty, she could fancy that there was a somewhat clearer look about the +worn face, and a little less dulness in the eye. But this might be +because she herself felt less sick now that fresh air was breathing up +the stairs. + +There was something else upon the stairs—the tread of some one coming +up. It was the doctor. He said he came to pay his respects to the lady +before him, as well as to visit his patient. It was no season for losing +time, and doctor and nurse found in a minute that they should agree very +well about the treatment of the patient. Animated by finding that he +should no longer be wholly alone in his terrible wrestle with disease +and death, the doctor did things which he could not have believed he +should have courage for. He even emptied out the rum-bottle, and hurled +it away into the bed of the stream. The last thing he did was to turn up +his cuffs, and actually bring in two pails of water with his own hands. +He promised (and kept his promise) to send his boy with a supply of +vinegar, and a message to the neighbour that she was wanted elsewhere, +that Mary might have liberty to refresh the patient, without being +subject to the charge of murdering her. “A charge, however,” said he, +“which I fully expect will be brought against any one of us who knows +how to nurse. I confess they have cowed me. In sheer despair, I have let +them take their own way pretty much. But now we must see what can be +done.” + +“Yes,” said Mary. “It is fairly our turn now. We must try how we can cow +the fever.” + + + + + SPRING-TIME IN THE COURT. + + + They say the Spring has come again! + There is no Spring-time here; + In this dark, reeking court, there seems + No change throughout the year: + Except, sometimes, ’tis bitter cold, + Or else ’tis hot and foul; + How hard it is, in such a place, + To feel one has a soul! + + They say the Spring has come again! + I scarce believe ’tis so; + For where’s the sun, and gentle breeze, + That make the primrose blow? + Oh, would that I could lead my child + Over the meadows green, + And see him playing with the flowers + _His_ eyes have never seen! + + His toys are but an oyster-shell, + Or piece of broken delf; + His playground is the gulley’s side, + With outcasts like himself! + _I_ used to play on sunny banks, + Or else by pleasant streams; + How oft—oh, God be thanked! how oft— + I see them in my dreams. + + I used to throw my casement wide, + To breathe the morning’s breath; + But now I keep the window close— + The air smells so like death! + Once only, on my window-sill + I placed a little flower, + Something to tell me of the fields— + It withered in an hour. + + Why are we housed like filthy swine? + Swine! they have better care; + For we are pent up with the plague, + Shut out from light and air. + We work and wear our lives away, + To heap this city’s wealth; + But labour God decreed for us— + ’Tis man denies us health! + + They say the Spring has come again + To wake the sleeping seed, + Whether it be the tended flower, + Or poor, neglected weed! + Then Harvest comes. Think you our wrongs + For ever, too, will sleep? + The misery which man has sown, + Man will as surely reap! + + + + + THE PLANET-WATCHERS OF GREENWICH. + + +There is a morsel of Greenwich Park, which has, for now nearly two +centuries, been held sacred from intrusion. It is the portion inclosed +by the walls of the Observatory. Certainly a hundred thousand visitors +must ramble over the surrounding lawns, and look with curious eye upon +the towers and outer boundaries of that little citadel of science, for +one who finds admission to the interior of the building. Its brick +towers, with flanking turrets and picturesque roofs, perched on the side +of the gravelly hill, and sheltered round about by groups of fine old +trees, are as well known as Greenwich Hospital itself. But what work +goes on inside its carefully preserved boundary and under those +moveable, black-domed roofs, is a popular mystery. Many a +holiday-maker’s wonder has been excited by the fall, at one o’clock, of +the huge black ball, high up there, by the weather vane on the topmost +point of the eastern turret. He knows, or is told if he asks a loitering +pensioner, that the descent of the ball tells the time as truly as the +sun; and that all the ships in the river watch it to set their +chronometers by, before they sail; and that all the railway clocks, and +all the railway trains over the kingdom are arranged punctually by its +indications. But how the heavens are watched to secure this punctual +definition of the flight of time, and what other curious labours are +going on inside the Observatory, is a sealed book. The public have +always been, of necessity, excluded from the Observatory walls, for the +place is devoted to the prosecution of a science whose operations are +inconsistent with the bustle, the interruptions, the talk, and the +anxieties of popular curiosity and examination. + +But when public information and instruction are the objects, the doors +are widely opened, and the press and its _attachés_ find a way into +this, as into many other sacred and forbidden spots. Only last week one +of ‘our own contributors’ was seen in a carriage on the Greenwich +railway, poring over the paper in the last Edinburgh Review that +describes our national astronomical establishment, and was known +afterwards to have climbed the Observatory hill, and to have rung and +gained admission at the little black mysterious gate in the Observatory +wall. Let us see what is told in his report of what he saw within that +sacred portal. + +In the park on a fine day all seems life and gaiety—once within the +Observatory boundary, the first feeling is that of isolation. There is a +curious stillness about the place, and the footsteps of the old +pensioner, who closes the gate upon a visitor, echoes again on the +pavement as he goes away to wake up from his astronomical or +meteorological trance one of the officers of this sanctum. Soon, under +the guidance of the good genius so invoked, the secrets of the place +begin to reveal themselves. + +The part of the Observatory so conspicuous from without is the portion +least used within. When it was designed by Christopher Wren, the general +belief was that such buildings should be lofty, that the observer might +be raised towards the heavenly bodies whose motions he was to watch. +More modern science has taught its disciples better; and in +Greenwich,—which is an eminently practical Observatory,—the working part +of the building is found crouching behind the loftier towers. These are +now occupied as subsidiary to the modern practical building. The ground +floor is used as a residence by the chief astronomer; above is the large +hall originally built to contain huge moveable telescopes and +quadrants—such as are not now employed. Now-a-days, this hall +occasionally becomes a sort of scientific counting-house—irreverent but +descriptive term—in which, from time to time, a band of scientific +clerks are congregated to post up the books, in which the daily business +of the planets has been jotted down by the astronomers who watch those +marvellous bodies. Another portion is a kind of museum of astronomical +curiosities. Flamstead and Halley, and their immediate successors, +worked in these towers, and here still rest some of the old, rude tools +with which their discoveries were completed, and their reputation, and +the reputation of Greenwich, were established. As time has gone on, +astronomers and opticians have invented new and more perfect and more +luxurious instruments. Greater accuracy is thus obtainable, at a less +expenditure of human patience and labour; and so the old tools are cast +aside. One of them belonged to Halley, and was put up by him a hundred +and thirty years ago; another is an old brazen quadrant, with which many +valuable observations were made in by-gone times; and another, an old +iron quadrant, still fixed in the stone pier to which it was first +attached. Some of the huge telescopes that once found place in this old +Observatory, have been sent away. One went to the Cape of Good Hope, and +has been useful there. Another of the unsatisfactory, and now unused, +instruments had a tube twenty-five feet long, whose cool and dark +interior was so pleasant to the spiders that, do what they would, the +astronomers could not altogether banish the persevering insects from it. +Spin they would; and, spite of dusting and cleaning, and spider-killing, +spin they did; and, at length, the savans got more instruments and less +patience, and the spiders were left in quiet possession. This has been +pleasantly spoken of as an instance of poetical justice. It is but fair +that spiders should, at times, have the best of astronomers, for +astronomers rob spiders for the completion of their choicest +instruments. No fabric of human construction is fine enough to strain +across the eye-piece of an important telescope, and opticians preserve a +particular race of spiders, that their webs may be taken for that +purpose. The spider lines are strained across the best instruments at +Greenwich and elsewhere; and when the spinners of these beautifully fine +threads disturbed the accuracy of the tube in the western wing of the +old Observatory, it was said to be but fair retaliation for the +robberies the industrious insects had endured. + +A narrow stair leads from the unused rooms of the old Observatory to its +leaded roof, whence a magnificent view is obtained; the park, the +hospital, the town of Greenwich, and the windings of the Thames, and, +gazing further, London itself comes grandly into the prospect. The most +inveterate astronomer could scarcely fail to turn for a moment from the +wonders of the heavens to admire these glories of the earth. From the +leads, two turrets are reached, where the first constantly active +operations in this portion of the building, are in progress. + +At the present time, indeed, these turrets are the most useful portions +of the old building. In one is placed the well-known contrivance for +registering, hour after hour, and day after day, the force and direction +of the wind. To keep such a watch by human vigilance, and to make such a +register by human labour, would be a tedious, expensive, and irksome +task; and human ingenuity taxed itself to make a machine for perfecting +such work. The wind turns a weather-cock, and, by aid of cog-wheels the +motion is transferred to a lead pencil fixed over a sheet of paper, and +thus the wind is made to write down the direction which itself is +blowing. Not far distant is a piece of metal, the flat side of which is +ever turned by the weather-cock to meet the full force of the wind, +which, blowing upon it, drives it back against a spring. To this spring +is affixed a chain passing over pullies towards another pencil, fixed +above a sheet of paper, and moving faithfully, more or less, as the wind +blows harder or softer. And thus the ‘gentle zephyr’ and the fresh +breeze, and the heavy gale, and, when it comes, the furious hurricane, +are made to note down their character and force. The sheets of paper on +which the uncertain element, the wind, is bearing witness against +itself, is fixed upon a frame moved by clockwork. Steady as the progress +of time, this ingenious mechanism draws the paper under the suspended +pencils. Thus each minute and each hour has its written record, without +human help or inspection. Once a day only, an assistant comes to put a +new blank sheet in the place of that which has been covered by the +moving pencils, and the latter is taken away to be bound up in a volume. +The book might with truth be lettered ‘The History of the Wind; written +by Itself,’—an Æolian autobiography. + +Close by is another contrivance for registering in decimals of an inch +the quantity of rain that falls. The drops are caught, and passing down +a tube, a permanent mark is made by which the quantity is determined. + +The eastern turret is devoted to the Time Ball and its mechanism. Far +out at sea—away from all sources of information but those to be asked of +the planets, his compass, his quadrant, his chronometer, and his +almanack, the mariner feels the value of _time_ in a way which the +landsman can scarcely conceive. If his chronometer is right, he may feel +safe; let him have reason to doubt its accuracy, and he knows how the +perils surrounding him are increased. An error of a few seconds in his +time may place him in danger—an error of a few minutes may lead him to +steer blindly to his certain wreck. Hence his desire when he is leaving +port to have his time-pieces right to a second; and hence the +expenditure of thought, and labour, and money, at the Greenwich +Observatory, to afford the shipping of the great port of London, and the +English navy, the exact time—true to the tenth of a second, or six +hundredth of a minute—and to afford them also a book, the Nautical +Almanack, containing a mass of astronomical facts, on which they may +base their calculations, with full reliance as to their accuracy. Every +day for the last seventeen years, at five minutes before one o’clock, +the black ball five feet across and stuffed with cork, is raised halfway +up its shaft above the eastern turret of the Observatory;—at +two-and-a-half minutes before that hour, it rises to the top. Telescopes +from many a point, both up and down the river, are now pointed to this +dark spot above the Greenwich trees, and many an anxious mariner has his +time-pieces beside him, that their indications may be made true. Watch +the Ball as you stand in the Park. It is now just raised. You must wait +two minutes and a half, and as you do so, you feel what a minute may be. +It seems a long, palpable, appreciable time, indeed. In the turret +below, stands a clock telling the true time, gained by a laborious +watching of the _clock-stars_; and beside the clock, is a man with a +practised hand upon a trigger, and a practised eye upon the face of the +dial. One minute—two minutes pass. Thirty seconds more, and the trigger +has released the Ball. As it leaves the top of the shaft, it is one +o’clock to the tenth of a second. By the time it has reached the bottom +it is some five seconds later. + +Leaving the Ball Turret, and the old building which it surmounts, the +new Observatory, where the chief work of the establishment is done, +claims our notice. This attention would scarcely be given to its outward +appearance for it is a long low building, scarcely seen beyond its own +boundaries. The Greenwich Observatory is not a _show_ place, but an +eminently practical establishment. St. Petersburg and other cities have +much more gorgeous buildings devoted to astronomical purposes, and +Russia and other countries spend much more money on astronomy than +England does, yet the Greenwich Tables have a world-wide reputation, and +some of them are used as the groundwork for calculations in all +Observatories at home and abroad. The astronomer does not want marble +halls or grand saloons for his work. Galileo used a bell-tower at +Venice, and Kepler stood on the bridge at Prague to watch the stars. The +men, not the buildings, do the work. No disappointment need be felt, +then, to find the modern Observatory a range of unadorned buildings +running east and west, with slits in the roof, and in some of the walls. +Within these simple buildings are the instruments now used, displaying +almost the perfection of mechanical skill in their construction and +finish—beautifully adapted to the object they have to fulfil, and in +perfect order. They are fixed on solid piers of masonry, deeply imbedded +in the earth, to secure freedom from vibration—a quality better obtained +when the foundations are on sand or gravel than when on rock. + +To describe the instruments by their technical names, and to go into any +particulars of the instruments they have superseded, would take space, +only to do the work of a scientific treatise. Enough, therefore, to say +that there are the telescopes best adapted to the chief duty of the +place, which is, watching the moon whenever she is visible; watching the +_clock-stars_, by which the true time is calculated more exactly than it +could be from observations of the sun alone; and watching other +planetary bodies as they pass the meridian. Eclipses, occultations, and +other phenomena, of course, have their share of attention, and add to +the burden of the observer’s duties. + +The staff of the Observatory includes a chief astronomer, Mr. Airy, with +a salary of 800_l._ a year; and six assistants who are paid, 470_l._, +290_l._, 240_l._, 150_l._, 130_l._, and 130_l._, respectively. This does +not include the officers of the Meteorological branch of the +establishment, to be spoken of hereafter; and which consists of Mr. +Glaisher, with 240_l._ a year, one assistant at 120_l._, and two +additional computers. At times, when these scientific labourers have +collected more observations than they are able to work out; additional +help is summoned, in shape of the body of scientific clerks before +spoken of; who, seated at desks, cast up the accounts the planetary +bodies, including such regular old friends as the moon and fixed stars, +but not forgetting those wandering celestial existences that rush, from +time to time, over the meridian, and may be fairly called the chance +customers of the astronomer. + +Though the interior of the Observatory seems so still, the life of those +employed there has its excitements. Looking through telescopes forms a +small part only of their duty—and that duty cannot be done when the +weather is unfavourable. On cloudy days the observer is idle; in bright +weather he is busy; and a long continuance of clear days and nights +gives him more employment than he can well complete. Summer, therefore, +is his time of labour; winter his time of rest. It appears that in our +climate the nights, on the whole, are clearer than the days, and +evenings less cloudy than mornings. Every assistant takes his turn as an +observer, and a chain of duty is kept up night and day; at other +periods, the busiest portion of the twenty-four hours at the +Observatory, is between nine in the morning and two in the afternoon. +During this time they work in silence, the task being to complete the +records of the observations made, by filling in the requisite columns of +figures upon printed forms, and then adding and subtracting them as the +case requires. Whilst thus engaged, the assistant who has charge of an +instrument looks, from time to time, at his star-regulated clock, and +when it warns him that his expected planet is nearly due, he leaves his +companions, and quietly repairs to the room where the telescope is +ready. The adjustment of this has previously been arranged with the +greatest nicety. The shutter is moved from the slit in the roof, the +astronomer sits upon an easy chair with a moveable back. If the object +he seeks is high in the heavens, this chair-back is lowered till its +occupant almost lies down; if the star is lower, the chair-back is +raised in proportion. He has his note-book and metallic pencil in hand. +Across the eye-piece of the telescope are stretched seven lines of +spider-web, dividing the field of view. If his seat requires change, the +least motion arranges it to his satisfaction, for it rests upon a +railway of its own. Beside him is one of the star-clocks, and as the +moment approaches for the appearance of the planet, the excitement of +the moment increases. ‘The tremble of impatience for the entrance of the +star on the field of view,’ says an Edinburgh Reviewer, ‘is like that of +a sportsman whose dog has just made a full point, and who awaits the +rising of the game. When a star appears, the observer, in technical +language, _takes a second from the clock face_; that is, he reads the +second with his eye, and counts on by the ear the succeeding beats of +the clock, naming the seconds mentally. As the star passes each wire of +the transit, he marks down in his jotting-book with a metallic pencil +the second, _and the second only_, of his observation, with such a +fraction of a second as corresponds, in his judgment, to the interval of +time between the passage of the star, and the beat of the clock which +preceded such passage.’ + +An experienced observer will never commit an error in this mental +calculation, exceeding the tenth of a second, or six hundredth of a +minute. When the star has been thus watched over the seven cobweb lines +(or wires), the observer jots down the hour and minute, in addition to +the second, and the task is done. Stars, not very near the sun, may be +seen in broad daylight, but, at night, it is requisite to direct a ray +of light from a lamp, so far to enlighten the field of the telescope, as +to permit the spider lines to be seen running across the brighter ground +on which the expected star is to be visible. + +The adjustment of the instruments is a task of great nicety. If they are +out of trim only a shadow of a shade of a hair’s-breadth, the desired +accuracy is interfered with, and they have to be re-adjusted. +Temperature is of course an important element in their condition, and a +slight sensibility may do mischief. The warmth of the observer’s body, +when approaching the instruments, has been known to affect their +accuracy; and to avoid such sources of error, instruments have at times +been cased in flannel, that the non-conducting powers of that homely +fabric might screen the too-sensitive metal. + +Sunday is a comparative holiday at the Observatory, for then, except +when any extraordinary phenomena are expected, the only duty done is to +drop the Time Ball, and observe the moon’s place. The moon is never +neglected, and her motions have been here watched, during the last +hundred and seventy years, with the most pertinacious care,—to the great +service of astronomy, and the great benefit of navigation. + +The library should not pass unnoticed. It is small; but being devoted to +works upon astronomy, and the kindred sciences, there is ample room for +all that has hitherto been written on the subject, or that can, for many +generations, be produced. The observations of a lifetime spent in +watching the stars may be printed in marvellously few pages. A glance +through the Greenwich Astronomical Library gives a rough general idea of +what the world has done and is doing for the promotion of this science. +Russia contributes large, imperial-looking tomes, that tell of extended +observations made under the munificent patronage of a despot; Germany +sends from different points a variety of smaller, cheaper-looking, yet +valuable contributions; France gives proofs of her genius and her +discoveries; but _her_ forte is not in observation. The French are bad +observers. They have no such proofs of unremitting, patient toil in +search of facts, as those afforded in the records of the Greenwich +Tables of the Moon. Indeed, Greenwich, as we have already said, is a +working Observatory; and those who go into its library, and its +fire-proof manuscript-room, and see how its volumes of observations have +been growing from the small beginnings of the days of Flamstead and +Halley, to those of our later and more liberal times, will have good +reason to acknowledge that the money devoted to this establishment has +been well employed. + +One other spot must be noticed as amongst the notable things in this +astronomical sanctum. It is the Chronometer-room, to which, during the +first three Mondays in the year, the chief watchmakers of London send in +their choicest instruments for examination and trial. The watches remain +for a good portion of a year; their rates being noted, day by day, by +two persons; and then the makers of the best receive prizes, and their +instruments are purchased for the navy. Other competitors obtain +certificates of excellence, which bring customers from the merchant +service; whilst others pass unrewarded. To enter the room where these +admirable instruments are kept, suggests the idea of going into a +Brobdingnag Watch-factory. Round the place are ranged shelves, on which +the large watches are placed, all ticking in the most distinct and +formidable way one against another. When they first arrive, in January, +they are left to the ordinary atmospheric temperature for some months. +Their rates being taken under these circumstances, a large stove in the +centre of the apartment is lighted, and heat got up to a sort of +artificial East India or Gold Coast point. Tried under these influences, +they are placed in an iron tray over the stove, like so many watch-pies +in a baker’s dish, and the fire being encouraged, they are literally +kept baking, to see how their metal will stand that style of treatment. +Whilst thus hot, their rates are once more taken; and then, after this +fiery ordeal, such of them as their owners like to trust to an opposite +test, are put into freezing mixtures! Yet, so beautifully made are these +triumphs of human ingenuity—so well is their mechanism ‘corrected’ for +compensating the expansion caused by the heat, and the contraction +induced by the cold—that an even rate of going is established, so +nearly, that its variation under opposite circumstances becomes a matter +of close and certain estimate. + +The rates of chronometers on trial for purchase by the Board of +Admiralty, at the Observatory, are posted up and printed in an official +form. Upon looking to the document for last year, we find a statement of +their performances during six months of 1849, with memoranda of the +exact weeks during which the chronometers were exposed to the open air +at a north window; the weeks the Chronometer-room was heated by a stove, +the chronometers being dispersed on the surrounding shelves; and the +weeks during which they were placed in the tray above the stove. The +rate given during the first week of trial is in every case omitted; like +newly entered schoolboys their early vagaries are not taken into +account; but after that, every merit and every fault is watched with +jealous care, and, when the day of judgment comes, the order of the +arrangement of the chronometers in the list is determined solely by +consideration of their irregularities of rate as expressed in the +columns, ‘Difference between greatest and least,’ and, ‘Greatest +difference between one week and the next.’ + +The Royal Observatory, according to a superstition not wholly extinct, +is the headquarters, not only of Astronomy, but of Astrology. The +structure is awfully regarded, by a small section of the community which +ignorance has still left amongst us, as a manufactory of horoscopes, and +a repository for magic mirrors and divining-rods. Not long ago a +well-dressed woman called at the Observatory gate to request a hint as +to the means of recovering a lost sum of money; and recently, somebody +at Brighton dispatched the liberal sum of five shillings in a +post-office order to the same place, with a request to have his nativity +cast in return! Another, only last year, wrote as follows:—‘I have been +informed that there are persons at the Observatory who will, by my +enclosing a remittance and the hour of my birth, give me to understand +_who is to be my wife_? An early answer, stating all particulars, will +oblige,’ &c. + +This sketch descriptive of its real duties and uses are not necessary to +relieve the Greenwich Observatory from the charge of being an abode of +sorcerers and astrologers. A few only of the most ignorant can yet +entertain such notions of its character; but they are not wholly +unfounded. Magicians, whose symbols are the Arabic numerals, and whose +_arcana_ are mathematical computations, daily foretell events in that +building with unerring certainty. They pre-discover the future of the +stars down to their minutest evolution and eccentricity. From data +furnished from the Royal Observatory, is compiled an extraordinary +prophetic Almanack from which all other almanacs are copied. It +foretells to a second when and where each of the planets may be seen in +the heavens at any minute for the next three years. The current number +of the Nautical Almanack is for the Year of Grace 1853. + +In this quiet sanctuary, then, the winds are made to register their own +course and force, and the rain to gauge its own quantity as it falls; +the planets are watched to help the mariner to steer more safely over +the seas; and the heavens themselves are investigated for materials from +which their future as well as their past history may be written. + + + + + SWEDISH FOLK-SONGS. + + + THE DOVE ON THE LILY. + There sits a pure dove on a lily so white, + On midsummer morning:— + She sang of Christ Jesus from morning to night, + In Heaven there is great joy, O! + + She sang, and she sang, ’twas a joy to hear, + Expecting a maiden in Heaven that year. + + “And should I reach Heaven ere twelvemonths are o’er, + Sickness and pain I should know never more.” + + To her father’s hall the maiden she went, + And through her left side a sharp pain was sent. + + “Oh! make my bed, mother, in haste, mother dear, + I shall in the fields no more wander this year.” + + “And speak such words, daughter, dear daughter, no more; + Thou shalt wed with a king ere twelvemonths are o’er.” + + “Oh! better that I be in Heaven a bride, + Than remain on the earth amid kingly pride. + + “And father, dear father, go fetch me a priest, + For I know that, ere long, death will be my guest. + + “And brother, dear brother, go get me a bier; + And sister, dear sister, do thou dress my hair.” + + The maiden, she died, and was laid on her bier, + And all her hand-maidens they plaited her hair. + + They carried her out from her father’s hall door; + And the angels of God with lights went before. + + They carried the corpse to the churchyard along, + And the angels of God went before with a song. + + They buried the maiden beneath the dark sod, + On midsummer morning:— + And her coming was even well pleasing to God; + In Heaven there is great joy, O! + + + + + A WALK IN A WORKHOUSE. + + +A few Sundays ago, I formed one of the congregation assembled in the +chapel of a large metropolitan Workhouse. With the exception of the +clergyman and clerk, and a very few officials, there were none but +paupers present. The children sat in the galleries; the women in the +body of the chapel, and in one of the side aisles; the men in the +remaining aisle. The service was decorously performed, though the sermon +might have been much better adapted to the comprehension and to the +circumstances of the hearers. The usual supplications were offered, with +more than the usual significancy in such a place, for the fatherless +children and widows, for all sick persons and young children, for all +that were desolate and oppressed, for the comforting and helping of the +weak-hearted, for the raising-up of them that had fallen; for all that +were in danger, necessity, and tribulation. The prayers of the +congregation were desired “for several persons in the various wards, +dangerously ill;” and others who were recovering returned their thanks +to Heaven. + +Among this congregation, were some evil-looking young women, and +beetle-browed young men; but not many—perhaps that kind of characters +kept away. Generally, the faces (those of the children excepted) were +depressed and subdued, and wanted colour. Aged people were there, in +every variety. Mumbling, blear-eyed, spectacled, stupid, deaf, lame; +vacantly winking in the gleams of sun that now and then crept in through +the open doors, from the paved yard; shading their listening ears, or +blinking eyes, with their withered hands; poring over their books, +leering at nothing, going to sleep, crouching and drooping in corners. +There were weird old women, all skeleton within, all bonnet and cloak +without, continually wiping their eyes with dirty dusters of +pocket-handkerchiefs; and there were ugly old crones, both male and +female, with a ghastly kind of contentment upon them which was not at +all comforting to see. Upon the whole, it was the dragon, Pauperism, in +a very weak and impotent condition; toothless, fangless, drawing his +breath heavily enough, and hardly worth chaining up. + +When the service was over, I walked with the humane and conscientious +gentleman whose duty it was to take that walk, that Sunday morning, +through the little world of poverty enclosed within the workhouse walls. +It was inhabited by a population of some fifteen hundred or two thousand +paupers, ranging from the infant newly born or not yet come into the +pauper world, to the old man dying on his bed. + +In a room opening from a squalid yard, where a number of listless women +were lounging to and fro, trying to get warm in the ineffectual sunshine +of the tardy May morning—in the “Itch-Ward,” not to compromise the +truth—a woman such as HOGARTH has often drawn, was hurriedly getting on +her gown, before a dusty fire. She was the nurse, or wardswoman, of that +insalubrious department—herself a pauper—flabby, raw-boned, +untidy—unpromising and coarse of aspect as need be. But, on being spoken +to about the patients whom she had in charge, she turned round, with her +shabby gown half on, half off, and fell a crying with all her might. Not +for show, not querulously, not in any mawkish sentiment, but in the deep +grief and affliction of her heart; turning away her dishevelled head: +sobbing most bitterly, wringing her hands, and letting fall abundance of +great tears, that choked her utterance. What was the matter with the +nurse of the itch-ward? Oh, “the dropped child” was dead! Oh, the child +that was found in the street, and she had brought up ever since, had +died an hour ago, and see where the little creature lay, beneath this +cloth! The dear, the pretty dear! + +The dropped child seemed too small and poor a thing for Death to be in +earnest with, but Death had taken it; and already its diminutive form +was neatly washed, composed, and stretched as if in sleep upon a box. I +thought I heard a voice from Heaven saying, It shall be well for thee, O +nurse of the itch-ward, when some less gentle pauper does those offices +to thy cold form, that such as the dropped child are the angels who +behold my Father’s face! + +In another room, were several ugly old women crouching, witch-like, +round a hearth, and chattering and nodding, after the manner of the +monkies. “All well here? And enough to eat?” A general chattering and +chuckling; at last an answer from a volunteer. “Oh yes gentleman! Bless +you gentleman! Lord bless the parish of St. So-and-So! It feed the +hungry, Sir, and give drink to the thirsty, and it warm them which is +cold, so it do, and good luck to the parish of St. So-and-So, and +thankee gentleman!” Elsewhere, a party of pauper nurses were at dinner. +“How do _you_ get on?” “Oh pretty well Sir! We works hard, and we lives +hard—like the sodgers!” + +In another room, a kind of purgatory or place of transition, six or +eight noisy mad-women were gathered together, under the superintendence +of one sane attendant. Among them was a girl of two or three and twenty, +very prettily dressed, of most respectable appearance, and good manners, +who had been brought in from the house where she had lived as domestic +servant (having, I suppose, no friends), on account of being subject to +epileptic fits, and requiring to be removed under the influence of a +very bad one. She was by no means of the same stuff, or the same +breeding, or the same experience, or in the same state of mind, as those +by whom she was surrounded; and she pathetically complained that the +daily association and the nightly noise made her worse, and was driving +her mad—which was perfectly evident. The case was noted for enquiry and +redress, but she said she had already been there for some weeks. + +If this girl had stolen her mistress’s watch, I do not hesitate to say +she would, in all probability, have been infinitely better off. Bearing +in mind, in the present brief description of this walk, not only the +facts already stated in this Journal, in reference to the Model Prison +at Pentonville, but the general treatment of convicted prisoners under +the associated silent system too, it must be once more distinctly set +before the reader, that we have come to this absurd, this dangerous, +this monstrous pass, that the dishonest felon is, in respect of +cleanliness, order, diet, and accommodation, better provided for, and +taken care of, than the honest pauper. + +And this conveys no special imputation on the workhouse of the parish of +St. So-and-So, where, on the contrary, I saw many things to commend. It +was very agreeable, recollecting that most infamous and atrocious +enormity committed at Tooting—an enormity which, a hundred years hence, +will still be vividly remembered in the bye-ways of English life, and +which has done more to engender a gloomy discontent and suspicion among +many thousands of the people than all the Chartist leaders could have +done in all their lives—to find the pauper children in this workhouse +looking robust and well, and apparently the objects of very great care. +In the Infant School—a large, light, airy room at the top of the +building—the little creatures, being at dinner, and eating their +potatoes heartily, were not cowed by the presence of strange visitors, +but stretched out their small hands to be shaken, with a very pleasant +confidence. And it was comfortable to see two mangey pauper +rocking-horses rampant in a corner. In the girls’ school, where the +dinner was also in progress, everything bore a cheerful and healthy +aspect. The meal was over, in the boys’ school, by the time of our +arrival there and the room was not yet quite re-arranged; but the boys +were roaming unrestrained about a large and airy yard, as any other +schoolboys might have done. Some of them had been drawing large ships +upon the schoolroom wall; and if they had a mast with shrouds and stays +set up for practice (as they have in the Middlesex House of Correction), +it would be so much the better. At present, if a boy should feel a +strong impulse upon him to learn the art of going aloft, he could only +gratify it, I presume, as the men and women paupers gratify their +aspirations after better board and lodging, by smashing as many +workhouse windows as possible, and being promoted to prison. + +In one place, the Newgate of the Workhouse, a company of boys and youths +were locked up in a yard alone; their day-room being a kind of kennel +where the casual poor used formerly to be littered down at night. Divers +of them had been there some long time. “Are they never going away?” was +the natural enquiry. “Most of them are crippled, in some form or other,” +said the Wardsman, “and not fit for anything.” They slunk about, like +dispirited wolves or hyænas; and made a pounce at their food when it was +served out, much as those animals do. The big-headed idiot shuffling his +feet along the pavement, in the sunlight outside, was a more agreeable +object everyway. + +Groves of babies in arms; groves of mothers and other sick women in bed; +groves of lunatics; jungles of men in stone-paved down-stairs day-rooms, +waiting for their dinners; longer and longer groves of old people, in +upstairs Infirmary wards, wearing out life, God knows how—this was the +scenery through which the walk lay, for two hours. In some of these +latter chambers, there were pictures stuck against the wall, and a neat +display of crockery and pewter on a kind of sideboard; now and then it +was a treat to see a plant or two; in almost every ward, there was a +cat. + +In all of these Long Walks of aged and infirm, some old people were +bed-ridden, and had been for a long time; some were sitting on their +beds half-naked; some dying in their beds; some out of bed, and sitting +at a table near the fire. A sullen or lethargic indifference to what was +asked, a blunted sensibility to everything but warmth and food, a moody +absence of complaint as being of no use, a dogged silence and resentful +desire to be left alone again, I thought were generally apparent. On our +walking into the midst of one of these dreary perspectives of old men, +nearly the following little dialogue took place, the nurse not being +immediately at hand: + +“All well here?” + +No answer. An old man in a Scotch cap sitting among others on a form at +the table, eating out of a tin porringer, pushes back his cap a little +to look at us, claps it down on his forehead again, with the palm of his +hand, and goes on eating. + +“All well here?” (repeated.) + +No answer. Another old man sitting on his bed, paralytically peeling a +boiled potato, lifts his head, and stares. + +“Enough to eat?” + +No answer. Another old man, in bed, turns himself and coughs. + +“How are _you_ to-day?” To the last old man. + +That old man says nothing; but another old man, a tall old man of a very +good address, speaking with perfect correctness, comes forward from +somewhere, and volunteers an answer. The reply almost always proceeds +from a volunteer, and not from the person looked at or spoken to. + +“We are very old, Sir,” in a mild, distinct voice. “We can’t expect to +be well, most of us.” + +“Are you comfortable?” + +“I have no complaint to make, Sir.” With a half shake of his head, a +half shrug of his shoulders, and a kind of apologetic smile. + +“Enough to eat?” + +“Why, Sir, I have but a poor appetite,” with the same air as before; +“and yet I get through my allowance very easily.” + +“But,” showing a porringer with a Sunday dinner in it; “here is a +portion of mutton, and three potatoes. You can’t starve on that?” + +“Oh dear no, Sir,” with the same apologetic air. “Not starve.” + +“What do you want?” + +“We have very little bread, Sir. It’s an exceedingly small quantity of +bread.” + +The nurse, who is now rubbing her hands at the questioner’s elbow, +interferes with, “It ain’t much raly, Sir. You see they’ve only six +ounces a day, and when they’ve took their breakfast, there _can_ only be +a little left for night, Sir.” + +Another old man, hitherto invisible, rises out of his bedclothes, as out +of a grave, and looks on. + +“You have tea at night?” The questioner is still addressing the +well-spoken old man. + +“Yes, Sir, we have tea at night.” + +“And you save what bread you can from the morning, to eat with it?” + +“Yes, Sir—if we can save any.” + +“And you want more to eat with it?” + +“Yes, Sir.” With a very anxious face. + +The questioner, in the kindness of his heart, appears a little +discomposed, and changes the subject. + +“What has become of the old man who used to lie in that bed in the +corner?” + +The nurse don’t remember what old man is referred to. There has been +such a many old men. The well-spoken old man is doubtful. The spectral +old man who has come to life in bed, says, “Billy Stevens.” Another old +man who has previously had his head in the fireplace, pipes out, + +“Charley Walters.” + +Something like a feeble interest is awakened. I suppose Charley Walters +had conversation in him. + +“He’s dead!” says the piping old man. + +Another old man, with one eye screwed up, hastily displaces the piping +old man, and says: + +“Yes! Charley Walters died in that bed, and—and—” + +“Billy Stevens,” persists the spectral old man. + +“No, no! and Johnny Rogers died in that bed, and—and—they’re both on ’em +dead—and Sam’l Bowyer;” this seems very extraordinary to him; “he went +out!” + +With this he subsides, and all the old men (having had quite enough of +it) subside, and the spectral old man goes into his grave again, and +takes the shade of Billy Stevens with him. + +As we turn to go out at the door, another previously invisible old man, +a hoarse old man in a flannel gown, is standing there, as if he had just +come up through the floor. + +“I beg your pardon, Sir, could I take the liberty of saving a word?” + +“Yes; what is it?” + +“I am greatly better in my health, Sir; but what I want, to get me quite +round,” with his hand on his throat, “is a little fresh air, Sir. It has +always done my complaint so much good, Sir. The regular leave for going +out, comes round so seldom, that if the gentlemen, next Friday, would +give me leave to go out walking, now and then—for only an hour or so, +Sir!—” + +Who could wonder, looking through those weary vistas of bed and +infirmity, that it should do him good to meet with some other scenes, +and assure himself that there was something else on earth? Who could +help wondering why the old men lived on as they did; what grasp they had +on life; what crumbs of interest or occupation they could pick up from +its bare board; whether Charley Walters had ever described to them the +days when he kept company with some old pauper woman in the bud, or +Billy Stevens ever told them of the time when he was a dweller in the +far-off foreign land called Home! + +The morsel of burnt child, lying in another room, so patiently, in bed, +wrapped in lint, and looking stedfastly at us with his bright quiet eyes +when we spoke to him kindly, looked as if the knowledge of these things, +and of all the tender things there are to think about, might have been +in his mind—as if he thought, with us, that there was a fellow-feeling +in the pauper nurses which appeared to make them more kind to their +charges than the race of common nurses in the hospitals—as if he mused +upon the Future of some older children lying around him in the same +place, and thought it best, perhaps, all things considered, that he +should die—as if he knew, without fear, of those many coffins, made and +unmade, piled up in the store below—and of his unknown friend, “the +dropped child,” calm upon the box-lid covered with a cloth. But there +was something wistful and appealing, too, in his tiny face, as if, in +the midst of all the hard necessities and incongruities he pondered on, +he pleaded, in behalf of the helpless and the aged poor, for a little +more liberty—and a little more bread. + + + + + THE “IRISH DIFFICULTY” SOLVED BY CON Mc Nale. + + +Con Mc Nale would have been summarily repudiated as an Irishman by our +farce-writers and slashing novelists. He neither drank, fought, nor +swore; did not make many blunders; and never addressed a friend either +as his ‘honey’ or his ‘jewel.’ His _cotamore_ was of stout frieze, and +though Con had long attained his full height, the tailor had left him +room to grow. The _caubeen_ was not his head-dress, for Con had arrived +at the dignity of a silk hat, which had been manufactured, as the mark +in the crown declared, by the Saxons in the Borough of Southwark, which +locality Con believed to be in the n_a_ighbourhood of England. The +brogues were also absent, but were favourably represented by shoes of +native manufacture laced with stout thongs. In fact, Mr. Mc Nale was a +fine specimen of the finest _pisantry_ in the world—without the rags. + +People have gone to the Highlands and to Switzerland, and perhaps seen +many places not much more grand and picturesque than the district where +Con Mc Nale had made a patch of the desert to smile. A long range of +blue mountains rising irregularly above each other, looked down on an +extensive plain, that lay along the shore of a mighty lake, to the banks +of which thick plantations crowded so near that the old Irish called the +water _Lough-glas_, which signifies waters of green. The districts where +a short but thick and sweet herbage sprung up among the rocks, were +certainly put to the use of feeding cattle, and it was while employed +there as a herd-boy, that Con Mc Nale determined to become a farmer. His +mind was made up. His earnings were hardly enough to keep life in him, +and if he had tried to save the price of a spade out of them to begin +business with, the chances are that he would have died prematurely for +want of food. But that didn’t matter much; he was determined to be a +farmer. This determination was then as likely of fulfilment as that of +Oliver Cromwell to become Protector of the Realm, while tending the vats +at Huntingdon; or that of Aladdin to become a prince, when he was a +ragged boy in the streets of Bagdad. To show, however, what perseverance +will do, when I made acquaintance with Mr. Con Mc Nale he had actually +got possession of a spade, and was making good use of it in a ditch—his +own ditch, on his own land. As he went on, now digging, now resting on +the handle, he told me all about his gradual promotion from a herd-boy +to a country jontleman. + +“My father,” said he, “lived under ould Squire Kilkelly, an’ for awhile +tinded his cattle: but the Squire’s gone out iv this part iv the +counthry, to Australia or some furrin part, an’ the mentioned house +(mansion house) an’ the fine propperty was sould, so it was, for little +or nothin’, for the fightin’ was over in furrin parts; Boney was put +down, an’ there was no price for corn or cattle, an’ a jontleman from +Scotland came an’ bought the istate. We were warned by the new man to +go, for he tuk in his own hand all the in-land about the domain, bein’ a +grate farmer. He put nobody in our little place, but pulled it down, an’ +he guv father a five guinea note, but my father was ould an’ not able to +face the world agin, an’ he went to the town an’ tuk a room—a poor, +dirty, choky place it was for him, myself, and sisther to live in. The +naighbours were very kind an’ good, though. Sister Bridget got a place +wid a farmer hereabouts, and I tuk the world on my own showlders. I had +nothin’ at all but the rags I stud up in, an’ they were bad enuf. Poor +Biddy got a shillin’ advanced iv her wages that her masther was to giv +her. She guv it me, for I was bent on goin’ towards Belfast to look for +work. All along the road I axed at every place; they could giv it me but +to no good, except when I axed, they’d giv me a bowl iv broth, or a +piece iv bacon, or an oaten bannock, so that I had my shillin’ to the +fore when I got to Belfast. + +“Here the heart was near lavin’ me all out intirely. I went wandtherin’ +down to the quay among the ships, and what should there be but a ship +goin’ to Scotland that very night, wid pigs. In throth it was fun to see +the sailors at cross-purposes wid ’em, for they didn’t know the natur iv +the bastes. I did. I knew how to coax ’em. I set to an’ I deludhered an’ +coaxed the pigs, an’, by pullin’ them by the tail, knowing that if they +took a fancy I wished to pull ’em back out of the ship, they’d run might +and main into her, and so they did. Well, the sailors were mightily +divarted, an’ when the pigs was aboord, I wint down to the place—an’ the +short iv it is that in three days I was in Glasgow town, an’ the captain +an’ the sailors subschribed up tin-shillins an’ guv it into my hand. +Well, I bought a raping hook, an’ away I trudged till I got quite an’ +clane into the counthry, an’ the corn was, here and there, fit to cut. +At last I goes an’ ax a farmer for work. He thought I was too wake to be +paid by the day, but one field havin’ one corner fit to cut, an’ the +next not ready, ‘Paddy,’ says he, ‘you may begin in that corner, an’ +I’ll pay yees by the work yees do,’ an’ he guv me my breakfast an’ a +pint of beer. Well, I never quit that masther the whole harvest, an’ +when the raping was over I had four goolden guineas to carry home, +besides that I was as sthrong as a lion. Yees would wonder how glad the +sailors was to see me back agin, an’ ne’er a farthin’ would they take +back iv their money, but tuk me over agin to Belfast, givin’ me the +hoighth of good thratemint of all kinds. I did not stay an hour in +Belfast, but tuk to the road to look afther the ould man an’ little +Biddy. Well, sorrows the tidins’ I got. The ould man had died, an’ the +grief an’ disthress of poor little Biddy had even touched her head a +little. The dacent people where she was, may the Lord reward ’em, though +they found little use in her, kep her, hoping I would be able to come +home an’ keep her myself, an’ so I was. I brought her away wid me, an’ +the sight iv me put new life in her. I was set upon not being idle, an’ +I’ll tell yees what I did next. + +“When I was little _bouchaleen_ iv a boy I used to be a head on the +mountain face, an’ ’twas often I sheltered myself behind them gray rocks +that’s at the gable iv my house, an’ somehow it came into my head that +the new Squire, being a grate man for improvin’, might let me try to +brake in a bit iv land there, an’ so I goes off to him, an’ one iv the +sarvints bein’ a sort iv cousin iv mine, I got to spake to the Squire, +an’ behould yees he guv me lave at onst. Well, there’s no time like the +prisint, an’ as I passed out iv the back yard of the mentioned (mansion) +house, I sees the sawyers cutting some Norway firs that had been blown +down by the storm, an’ I tells the sawyers that I had got lave to brake +in a bit iv land in the mountains, an’ what would some pieces iv fir +cost. They says they must see what kind of pieces they was that I wished +for, an’ no sooner had I set about looking ’em through than the Squire +himself comes ridin’ out of the stable-yard, an’ says he at onst, +Mc Nale, says he, you may have a load iv cuttins to build your cabin, or +two if you need it. ‘The Heavens be your honour’s bed,’ says I, an’ I +wint off to the room where I an’ Biddy lived, not knowin’ if I was on my +head or my heels. Next day, before sunrise, I was up here five miles up +the face of Slieve-dan, with a spade in my fist, an’ I looked roun’ for +the most shiltered spot I could sit my eyes an. Here I saw, where the +house an’ yard are stan’in, a plot iv about an acre to the south iv that +tall ridge of rocks, well sheltered from the blast from the north an’ +from the aste, an’ it was about sunrise an’ a fine morning in October +that I tuk up the first spadeful. There was a spring then drippin’ down +the face iv the rocks, the same you see gushin’ through the crockery +pipe in the farm-yard; an’ I saw at once that it would make the cabin +completely damp, an’ the land about mighty sour an’ water-_slain_; so I +determined to do what I saw done in Scotland. I sunk a deep drain right +under the rock to run all along the back iv the cabin, an’ workin’ that +day all alone by myself, I did a grate dale iv it. At night, it was +close upon dark when I started to go home, so I hid my spade in the +heath an’ trudged off. The next mornin’ I bargined with a farmer to +bring me up a load iv fir cuttins from the Squire’s, an’ by the evenin’ +they were thrown down within a quarter iv a mile iv my place,—for there +was no road to it then, an’ I had to carry ’em myself for the remainder +of the way. This occupied me till near nightfall; but I remained that +night till I placed two upright posts of fir, one at each corner iv the +front iv the cabin. + +“I was detarmined to get the cabin finished as quickly as possible, that +I might be able to live upon the spot, for much time was lost in goin’ +and comin’. The next day I was up betimes, an’ finding a track iv stiff +blue clay, I cut a multitude of thick square sods iv it, an’ having set +up two more posts at the remainin’ two corners iv the cabin, I laid four +rows iv one gable, rising it about three feet high. Havin’ laid the +rows, I sharpind three or four straight pine branches, an’ druv them +down through the sods into the earth, to pin the wall in its place. Next +day I had a whole gable up, each three rows iv sods pinned through to +the three benathe. In about eight days I had put up the four walls, +makin’ a door an’ two windows; an’ now my outlay began, for I had to pay +a thatcher to put on the sthraw an’ to assist me in risin’ the rafthers. +In another week it was covered in, an’ it was a pride to see it with the +new thatch, an’ a wicker chimbley daubed with clay, like a pallis +undernathe the rock. I now got some turf that those who had cut ’em had +not removed, an’ they sould ’em for a thrifle, an’ I made a grate fire +an’ slept on the flure of my own house that night. Next day I got +another load iv fir brought, to make the partitions in the winter, an’ +in a day or two after I had got the inside so dhry that I was able to +bring poor Biddy to live there for good and all. The Heavens be praised, +there was not a shower iv rain fell from the time I began the cabin till +I ended it, an’ when the rain did fall, not a drop came through,—all was +carried off by my dhrain into the little river before yees. The moment I +was settled in the house I comminced dhraining about an acre iv bog in +front, an’ the very first winter I sowed a shillin’s worth of cabbidge +seed, an’ sold in the spring a pound’s worth of little cabbidge plants +for the gardins in the town below. When spring came—noticin’ how the +early planted praties did the best, I planted my cabbidge ground with +praties, an’ I had a noble crap, while the ground was next year fit for +the corn. In the mane time, every winther I tuk in more and more ground, +an’ in summer I cut my turf for fewel; where the cuttins could answer, +in winther, for a dhrain; an’ findin’ how good the turf were, I got a +little powney an’ carried ’em to the town to sell, when I was able to +buy lime in exchange, an’ put it on my bog, so as to make it produce +double. As things went on, I got assistance, an’ when I marrid, my wife +had two cows that guv me a grate lift. + +“I was always thought to be a handy boy; an’ I could do a turn of +mason-work with any man not riglarly bred to it; so I took one of my +loads of lime, an’ instead of puttin’ it on the land, I made it into +morthar—and indeed the stones being no ways scarce, I set to an’ built a +little kiln, like as I had seen down the counthry. I could then burn my +own lime, an’ the limestone were near to my hand, too many iv ’em. While +all this was goin’ on, I had riz an’ sould a good dale iv oats and +praties, an’ every summer I found ready sale for my turf in the town +from one jontleman that I always charged at an even rate, year by year. +I got the help of a stout boy, a cousin iv my own, who was glad iv a +shilter; an’ when the childher were ould enough, I got some young cattle +that could graze upon the mountain in places where no other use could be +made iv the land, and set the gossoons to herd ’em. + +“There was one bit iv ground nigh han’ to the cabin, that puzzled me +intirely. It was very poor and sandy, an’ little better than a rabbit +burrow; an’ telling the Squire’s Scotch steward iv it, he bade me thry +some flax, an’ sure enuf, so I did, an’ a fine crap iv flax I had, as +you might wish to see; an’ the stame-mills being beginnin’ in the +counthry at that time, I sould my flax for a very good price—my wife +having dhried it, beetled it, an’ scutched it with her own two hands. I +should have said before, that the Squire himself came up here with a lot +iv fine ladies and jontlemen to see what I had done; an’ you never in +your life seed a man so well plased as he was, an’ a Mimber of Parlimint +from Scotland was with him, an’ he tould me I was a credit to ould +Ireland; and sure, didn’t Father Connor read upon the papers, how he +tould the whole story in the Parlimint House before all the lords an’ +quality: but faix, he didn’t forgit me; for a month or two after he was +here, an’ it coming on the winter, comes word for me an’ the powney to +go down to the mentioned (mansion) house, for the steward wanted me; so +away I wint, an’ there, shure enuf, was an illigant Scotch plough, every +inch of iron, an’ a lot of young Norroway pines—the same you see +shiltering the house an’ yard—an’ all was a free prisint for me from the +Scotch jontleman that was the Mimber of Parliment. ’Twas that plough +that did the meracles iv work hereabouts; for I often lint it to any +that I knew to be a careful hand; an’ it was the manes iv havin’ the +farmers all round send an’ buy ’em. At last I was able to build a brave +snug house; and praised be Providence, I have never had an hour’s ill +health, nor a moment’s grief, but when poor Biddy, the cratur, died from +us. It is thirty years since that morning that I tuk up the first +spadeful from the wild mountain side; an’ twelve acres are good labour +land, an’ fifteen drained, an’ good grazin’. I have been payin’ rint +twinty years, an’ am still, thank God, able to take my own part iv any +day’s work,—plough, spade, or flail.” + +“Have you got a lease?” said I. + +“No, indeed; not a schrape of a pin; nor I never axed it. Have I not my +_tinnant-rite_?” + +From that subject, Mr. Mc Nale diverged slightly into politics, touching +on the state of the _counthry_, and untwisting some entanglements of the +‘Irish difficulty’ that might be usefully made known in the +neighbourhood of Westminster. + +“Troth, Sir,” said Con, “you English are mighty grand in all your +doings. You dale wholesale in all sorts iv things; good luck to you—in +charity as well as in pigs, praties, an’ sich like. Well you want to +improve Ireland by wholesale; you set up illigant schames for puttin’ us +all to rights by the million; for clanin’ an’ dranin’ a whole province +at onst; for giving labour to everybody; an’ all mighty purty on paper, +with figures all as round an’ nate as copybooks, with long rigiments of +O’s, after ’em. I’ve heard iv whole stacks of papers piled up an’ +handsomely ticketed in tidy big offices—all ‘rules and riglations’ for +labourers, which the boys can’t follow, and the inspectors can’t force. +Why not,” continued Mr. Con, giving his spade a thrust into the ground +that sent it up to the maker’s name, “Why not tache the boys to do as I +have done?” + +“But all are not so persevering, so knowing, and so fond of work as +you.” + +Whether Mr. Mc Nale was impressed by his own modesty, or by the force of +my suggestion, I know not. But he was silent. + + + + + WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. + + +William Wordsworth was born on the 7th of April, 1770; he died on the +23d of April, 1850. His life was prolonged for ten years beyond the +space attributed to man by the inspired Psalmist. He lived in an age +unprecedented for its social and civil revolutions; for its discoveries +in science, and their practical application. He was fourteen years of +age when the new North American Republic was finally recognised as one +of the brotherhood of nations; he witnessed the French Revolution; the +subjection of every monarchy in Europe, except England and Russia, to +the absolute will of a French emperor; the instalment and evaporation of +the Holy Alliance; the European war of twenty years, and the European +peace of thirty-two years; one Pope carried into exile by a foreign +conqueror, another driven into exile by his own subjects: and at home, +the trials of Hardy and Thelwall; the Bank Restriction Act; the +origination of the Bell and Lancaster systems of Education; the visit of +the allied monarchs to London; the passing of Peel’s Bill; the +introduction of Palmer’s mail-coaches and M‘Adam’s roads; the invention +of steam navigation; the pausing of the Reform Bill; the development of +the Railway system, and the Electric telegraph. He was the contemporary +of Davey, Herschell, Bentham, Godwin, Malthus and Ricardo, Byron, Scott, +Wilkie, Chantrey, Fox, Pitt, Canning and Brougham. + +Wordsworth’s age was one of stirring events and great changes. The +character of his poetry is in startling contrast to that age. It is +passionless, a record of the poet’s own mind; simple and austere, +emanating from his own independent thoughts and fancies; receiving +little of its form and colour from external events, or the feelings and +opinions of men. For eighty long years, Wordsworth would almost appear +to have lived ‘_among_ men, not _of_ them;’ sympathising as little with +the ephemeral pursuits of his contemporaries as the colossal Memnon does +with the Copts, Turks, and Arabs who now tenant the banks of the Nile. + +William Wordsworth was born in the little county town of Cockermouth; +his father was an attorney—not a wealthy man, but in circumstances that +enabled him to give his family a fair education. One son entered the +merchant service, rose to command a vessel, and perished at sea. Another +has acquired a name as master of Harrow, and the author of a delightful +book on Greece, full of delicate beauty and fine classical feeling. The +allusions by William to his favourite sister are among the most touching +passages in his poems; and one or two little pieces of verse, and some +extracts from her journals, which he has published, show that she was +every way deserving of his love. The poetical dedication of the River +Duddon to Dr. Wordsworth, is full of delightful allusions to the boyhood +of the brothers, and conveys a pleasing impression of their family +relations. + +Our poet received the rudiments of his education at the grammar school +of Hawkeshead, in Westmoreland, conducted in his time by a master of +more than ordinary attainments. In 1787, he matriculated at St. John’s +College, Cambridge. Even in his boyhood it was obvious that he possessed +superior abilities, but they were not of the showy and ambitious kind +which achieve school or college distinction. He was partial to solitary +rambles; fond of reading and reciting verses; a boy whom elder men +‘singled out for his grave looks,’ as he has said in the Excursion, and +liked to converse with. + +It was intended that he should enter the Church, the family +circumstances rendering it necessary that he should adopt a profession. +But, independently of his wish to devote himself exclusively to literary +pursuits, he had caught the prevalent spirit of the time—the aversion to +conventional forms and opinions. A moderate income, settled upon him by +Raisley Calvert, the victim of a premature decline, enabled him to +follow his inclinations. This benefit the poet has gratefully +acknowledged:— + + ‘Calvert, it must not be unheard by them + Who may respect my name, that I to thee + Owed many years of early liberty. + This care was thine, when sickness did condemn + Thy youth to hopeless wasting, root and stem; + That I, if frugal and severe, might stray + Where’er I liked; and finally array + My temples with the Muse’s diadem.’ + +After leaving College he made extensive tours on foot, in Scotland and +on the Continent with a youthful friend. In 1793 he for the first time +ventured into print. Two small volumes appeared in that year: +“Descriptive Sketches, in verse, taken during a Pedestrian Tour among +the Alps;” and “An Evening Walk, an Epistle in Verse, addressed to a +young Lady from the Lakes in the North of England.” In these poems we +find no traces of the poetical theory which he subsequently adopted. But +they are characterised by the same, almost exclusive, preference for +lakes, cataracts and mountains, the elementary beauty of external +nature, human passions and incidents, and they contain many passages of +glaring imagination powerfully expressed. + +In 1796 he took up his abode with his sister at Allfaxden, at the foot +of the Quantock Hills, in Somersetshire. This was an important era in +the development of his intellect and imagination. During his residence +at Allfaxden he was in constant and unreserved communication with +Coleridge. Totally dissimilar as the two men were in character, they had +many sympathies. Upon both, the classical tastes and ecclesiastical +opinions inculcated at English schools and colleges, had, without their +being aware of it, made a deep and indelible impression. Both had been +animated by the vague but ardent longings after an undefined liberty, +and perfection of human nature, then prevalent. They were isolated from +general sympathy without knowing it; from the revolutionary party by +their literary tastes and strong attachment to traditional English +morals; from the Church and State party by their freedom from sectarian +narrowness. The resolute independence of thought of the young poets is +worthy of all admiration; their frank and cordial communication of all +their thoughts, equally so. A pleasing though brief sketch of them at +that time has been given by Hazlitt, in an essay, entitled, ‘My first +Acquaintance with Poets;’ a more petulant and shallow account, which yet +contains some valuable information, by Cottle. + +The result of this literary alliance was the first volume of the +“Lyrical Ballads.” The quiet but perfect melody of Wordsworth’s +versification and the depth of the human sentiment in his reflections, +the more swelling tone of Coleridge’s verse and his wild unearthly +imaginings, might have secured a more favourable reception for his work, +had it not been announced as the result of a new theory of poetry. That +theory was misapprehended by the critics of the day, and was indeed +inadequately expressed by its authors themselves. Coleridge subsequently +developed it in more precise and unexceptionable language in his +Biographia Literaria. The effect of its premature announcement was, that +the Lyrical Ballads were judged, not by their own intrinsic merits, but +by the theory upon which they were said to have been constructed. + +The insurmountable indolence of Coleridge—always planning works too +great for human accomplishment, and resting satisfied with projects—left +Wordsworth to pursue his path alone. This he did with characteristic +pertinacity of purpose; if criticism had any influence on him at all, it +was only to confirm him in his foregone conclusions. After an excursion +to Germany, in which he was accompanied by his sister and Coleridge, he +returned to his native country, ‘with the hope,’ as he has told us in +his Preface to the Excursion, ‘of being enabled to construct a literary +work that might live.’ + +In 1803, Wordsworth married his cousin, Miss Mary Hutchinson, and +settled at Grasmere. He removed in a few years to Rydal Mount, where he +continued to reside till his death. Subsequently to this time his life +is utterly devoid of personal incident, and may be briefly recapitulated +before proceeding to chronicle his poetical productions, which are +indeed his life. By his wife, who survives him, he had one daughter, who +died before him, and two sons, one of whom holds a vicarage in +Cumberland, the other is a distributor of stamps. In 1814, Wordsworth, +by the patronage of the Earl of Lonsdale, was appointed distributor of +stamps for Cumberland and Westmoreland—a recognition of the claims of +genius to public support only second in eccentricity to the making of +Burns an exciseman. After holding this office for twenty-eight years, he +was allowed to relinquish it to his eldest son, and retire upon a +pension of 300_l._ a year. In 1843, he succeeded Southey in the limited +emoluments and questionable dignity of the Laureateship. His slender +inheritance, the beneficence of Raisley Calvert, his office under +Government, his retiring pension, and his emoluments as Laureate, +sufficed, with his simple tastes, to enable him to wait the slow +pecuniary returns of his literary labours. + +While the critical storm awakened by the Preface to the Lyrical Ballads +was still raging, he composed his Peter Bell and his Waggoner, which +were not, however, published till many years later. They are full of +fine and deep-felt poetry. Their language is genuine racy English, and +their versification unsurpassed for sweetness. It cannot, however, be +denied that they are marked by a self-willed, exaggerated adherence to +the theory of poetry he had promulgated, the effect of something that is +very like a spirit of contradiction. In a playful adaptation of Milton’s +sonnet, Tetrachordon, Wordsworth defends his choice of subjects by the +admiration felt or professed for Tam o’ Shanter. He overlooks the utter +difference between the mode in which Burns conceived and executed that +poem, and himself his Benjamin the Waggoner. Burns was for the time the +hero himself. In Tam o’ Shanter, and still more in the Jolly Beggars, he +expresses the very passions of the characters he presents to us. +Wordsworth, constitutionally incapable of the emotions of a boon +companion, merely describes and moralises on the waywardness of his +Benjamin. We sympathise with the common humanity of Burns’s genial +reprobates; we feel the cold shadow of Wordsworth’s Benjamin to be a +hideous intruder among the fine poetical imagery and thought with which +he is mixed up. + +In 1807, Wordsworth published two volumes, containing his own +contributions to the Lyrical Ballads, with many additional poems. Minute +detached criticism is not the object of this sketch. Suffice it to say +that many pieces in these volumes are unsurpassed in English poetry, or +in the poetry of any language. The Song at the feast of Brougham Castle +has a rich lyrical exuberance of feeling; the Laodamia is as severely +beautiful as a Greek statue; Hartleap Well is full of mellow humanity; +Rob Roy’s Grave, the Highland Girl, ‘She was a phantom of +delight,’—every piece, in short, is replete with delightful sentiment +and graphic pictures of rural nature. The objects of some of these poems +obviously originate in a mistaken apprehension of the scope and purpose +of poetry. Wordsworth was a curious observer of the workings of the +human mind, and he sometimes confounded the pleasure derived from such +metaphysical scrutiny with the pleasure derived from the presentation of +poetical imaginings. Hence, what is questionable in his Idiot Boy, his +Harry Gill, and some others. + +The Excursion, the most ambitious, and, with all its defects, the +greatest of his works, was published in 1814. Here the poet was in his +true element. Wordsworth’s genius was essentially moralising and +reflective. Incidents and adventure had no charm for him. He arrived at +his knowledge of character by an inductive process, not like +Shakespeare, by the intuition of sympathy and imagination. He had no +power of perceiving those light and graceful peculiarities of men and +society, generally designated manners, vivid presentations of which +constitute the charm of so many poets; but he was tremulously alive to +the charms of inanimate nature. + + ‘——The sounding cataract + Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock, + The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, + Their colours and their forms, were there to me + An appetite; a feeling and a love, + That had no need of a remoter charm, + By thought supplied, or any interest + Unborrowed from the eye.’ + +His soul was full of lofty and imaginative conceptions of moral truths. +He, therefore, after severe examination of his own poems, resolved to +rest his claims to immortality on his composition of ‘a philosophical +poem, containing views of Man, Nature, and Society; and to be entitled +The Recluse, as having for its principal subject the sensations and +opinions of a poet living in retirement.’ + +How far this projected work has been advanced to completion, we have no +means of knowing. A preliminary work, descriptive of the growth of his +own powers, is, he has informed us, finished. The Recluse was to consist +of three parts, the first and third containing chiefly meditations in +the author’s own person; the intermediate introducing characters in a +semi-dramatic form. It is to be regretted that his second part has alone +been published, for Wordsworth’s genius was essentially undramatic. But +notwithstanding the disadvantages under which the poet laboured from the +selection of an uncongenial form, and his imperfect mastery of blank +verse (a measure of which, perhaps. Milton alone among our English poets +has developed the full measure, and varied power of modulation), the +Excursion is, undoubtedly, a poem in the highest and truest sense of the +word. The philosophical musings with which it abounds, are alike +profound and elevating. And nothing can surpass the deep pathos of the +episodes of Margaret and Ellen. + +The subsequent publications of Wordsworth may be briefly enumerated. +Peter Bell and the Waggoner appeared within two years after the +Excursion; and the White Doe of Rylstone soon followed them. A +miscellaneous volume, of which the River Duddon was the most prominent, +was published in 1820, and Yarrow Revisited, in 1835. Of all these +works, it may suffice to say that they are highly characteristic of the +author, and contain many beauties. + +Wordsworth’s poetry had long to contend against the conventional +prepossessions of the literary world. From the beginning, however, his +genius was felt by superior minds, and by a few young unprejudiced +enthusiasts. His first admirers were literally a sect, and their +admiration was, like the devotion of all sectarians, ardent and +indiscriminating. They have, however, served as interpreters between him +and the reading public, and thus his merits have come to be generally +acknowledged. His writings lent a tone to the works of some who, like +Shelley, dissented from his theory; and some who, like Byron, +systematically scoffed at them. The public taste was thus insensibly +approximated to them. Even yet, however, Wordsworth is probably more +praised than liked. But the process will go on, and in time what is +really valuable in his poems will take the place that is due to it in +the land’s literature. + +Of the first writings of Wordsworth little need be said. Though they +contain valuable thoughts, they are lumbering and sufficiently +unreadable. The once furious controversy about his literary creed as +heresy, need not be resuscitated; there were great errors on both sides. +If his merits were individually depreciated, there was much in his +seemingly supercilious re-assertion, rather than defence and explanation +of his views, to extenuate the petulance with which he was often +treated. As for his wanderings in the fields of politics and polemics, +he is no exception to the general truth, that the warmest admirers of +poets must regret their deviations into such uncongenial by-ways. + +The man was like his poetry; simple and therefore conservative in his +tastes: self-reliant and sometimes repulsive from his austerity, yet +with a rich fund of benevolence beneath the hard exterior. His frame was +strong and sinewy from his habits of exercise; his look heavy, and, at +first sight, unimpressive; but there was an inexpressible charm in his +smile. He was the antithesis of the materialist and practical activity +of the time. He did not understand, and therefore could not appreciate, +the ennobling tendencies of the social and scientific career on which +this age has entered—an age into which he had lingered, rather than to +which he belonged. He looked out upon the world from his egotistic +isolation rather as a critical spectator, than as a sympathiser. His +views of it were rusted over with the conservative prejudices of the +past. Railways he hated, and against them waged a sonneteering war. +Although they were rapidly increasing the commerce, comforts, +intercourse, affluence, and happiness of the whole community, they +invaded the selfish solitude of the one man; and single-handed he did +battle against the armies of invading tourists, who came to share with +him the heathful pleasures of the mountain and the lake, in which he +would have almost preserved a patent right for the few. + +This anti-natural spirit, however, did not always lead him astray from +the right path. In the Excursion, were promulgated, for the first time, +these views respecting the embruting tendency of the unintermitting toil +of our factory labourers, the necessity of universal education by the +State, and the vocation of the English race to colonise the earth, which +have been so many zealous missionaries. We cannot better conclude these +desultory remarks,—an imperfect prelude to the lip of a truly good and +great man—than by quoting part of his weighty words in the Excursion, +respecting National Education:— + + ‘Oh! for the coming of that glorious time + When, prizing Knowledge as her noblest wealth + And best protection, this Imperial Realm, + While she exacts allegiance, shall admit + An obligation, on her part, to _teach_ + Them who are born to serve her and obey; + Binding herself by statute to secure + To all her children whom her soil maintains, + The rudiments of Letters, and to inform + The mind with moral and religious truth, + Both understood and practised—so that none, + However destitute, be left to droop + By timely culture unsustained; or run + Into a wild disorder; or be forced + To drudge through weary life without the aid + Of intellectual implements and tools; + A savage horde among the civilised, + A servile band among the lordly free! + + · · · · · + + ‘The discipline of slavery is unknown + Amongst us—hence the more do we require + The discipline of virtue; order else + Cannot subsist, nor confidence, nor peace. + Thus duties rising out of good possess’d, + And prudent caution, needful to avert + Impending evil, do alike require + That permanent provision should be made + For the whole people to be taught and trained. + So shall licentiousness and black resolve + Be rooted out, and virtuous habits take + Their place; and genuine piety descend, + Like an inheritance, from age to age.’ + +These are indeed worthy to become Household words. + + + + + FATHER AND SON. + + +One evening in the month of March, 1798,—that dark time in Ireland’s +annals whose memory (overlooking all minor subsequent _émeutes_) is +still preserved among us, as ‘the year of the rebellion’—a lady and +gentleman were seated near a blazing fire in the old-fashioned +dining-room of a large lonely mansion. They had just dined; wine and +fruit were on the table, both untouched, while Mr. Hewson and his wife +sat silently gazing at the fire, watching its flickering light becoming +gradually more vivid as the short Spring twilight faded into darkness. + +At length the husband poured out a glass of wine, drank it off, and then +broke silence, by saying— + +“Well, well, Charlotte, these are awful times; there were ten men taken +up to-day for burning Cotter’s house at Knockane; and Tom Dycer says +that every magistrate in the country is a marked man.” + +Mrs. Hewson cast a frightened glance towards the windows, which opened +nearly to the ground, and gave a view of a wide tree-besprinkled lawn, +through whose centre a long straight avenue led to the high-road. There +was also a footpath at either side of the house, branching off through +close thickets of trees, and reaching the road by a circuitous route. + +“Listen, James!” she said, after a pause; “what noise is that?” + +“Nothing but the sighing of the wind among the trees. Come, wife, you +must not give way to imaginary fears.” + +“But really I heard something like footsteps on the gravel, round the +gable-end—I wish”— + +A knock at the parlour door interrupted her. + +“Come in.” + +The door opened, and Tim Gahan, Mr. Hewson’s confidential steward and +right-hand man, entered, followed by a fair-haired delicate-looking boy +of six years’ old, dressed in deep mourning. + +“Well, Gahan, what do you want?” + +“I ask your Honour’s pardon for disturbing you and the mistress; but I +thought it right to come tell you the bad news I heard.” + +“Something about the rebels, I suppose?” + +“Yes, Sir; I got a whisper just now that there’s going to be a great +rising intirely, to-morrow; thousands are to gather before daybreak at +Kilcrean bog, where I’m told they’ve a power of pikes hiding; and then +they’re to march on and sack every house in the country. I’ll engage, +when I heard it, I didn’t let grass grow under my feet, but came off +straight to your Honour, thinking maybe you’d like to walk over this +fine evening to Mr. Warren’s, and settle with him what’s best to be +done.” + +“Oh, James! I beseech you, don’t think of going.” + +“Make your mind easy, Charlotte; I don’t intend it: not that I suppose +there would be much risk; but, all things considered, I think I’m just +as comfortable at home.” + +The steward’s brow darkened, as he glanced nervously towards the end +window, which jutting out in the gable, formed a deep angle in the outer +wall. + +“Of course ’tis just as your Honour pleases, but I’ll warrant you there +would be no harm in going. Come, Billy,” he added, addressing the child, +who by this time was standing close to Mrs. Hewson, “make your bow, and +bid good night to master and mistress.” + +The boy did not stir, and Mrs. Hewson taking his little hand in hers, +said— + +“You need not go home for half-an-hour, Gahan; stay and have a chat with +the servants in the kitchen, and leave little Billy with me—and with the +apples and nuts”—she added, smiling as she filled the child’s hands with +fruit. + +“Thank you, Ma’am,” said the steward hastily. “I can’t stop—I’m in a +hurry home, where I wanted to leave this brat to-night; but he _would_ +follow me. Come, Billy; come this minute, you young rogue.” + +Still the child looked reluctant, and Mr. Hewson said peremptorily— + +“Don’t go yet, Gahan; I want to speak to you by and by; and you know the +mistress always likes to pet little Billy.” + +Without replying, the steward left the room; and the next moment his +hasty footsteps resounded through the long flagged passage that led to +the offices. + +“There’s something strange about Gahan, since his wife died,” remarked +Mrs. Hewson. “I suppose ’tis grief for her that makes him look so +darkly, and seem almost jealous when any one speaks to his child. Poor +little Billy! your mother was a sore loss to you.” + +The child’s blue eyes filled with tears, and pressing closer to the +lady’s side, he said:— + +“Old Peggy doesn’t wash and dress me as nicely as mammy used.” + +“But your father is good to you?” + +“Oh, yes, Ma’am, but he’s out all day busy, and I’ve no one to talk to +me as mammy used; for Peggy is quite deaf, and besides she’s always busy +with the pigs and chickens.” + +“I wish I had you, Billy, to take care of and to teach, for your poor +mother’s sake.” + +“And so you may, Charlotte,” said her husband. “I’m sure Gahan, with all +his odd ways, is too sensible a fellow not to know how much it would be +for his child’s benefit to be brought up and educated by us, and the boy +would be an amusement to us in this lonely house. I’ll speak to him +about it before he goes home. Billy, my fine fellow, come here,” he +continued, “jump up on my knee, and tell me if you’d like to live here +always and learn to read and write.” + +“I would, Sir, if I could be with father too.” + +“So you shall;—and what about old Peggy?” + +The child paused— + +“I’d like to give her a pen’north of snuff and a piece of tobacco every +week, for she said the other day that _that_ would make her quite +happy.” + +Mr. Hewson laughed, and Billy prattled on, still seated on his knee; +when a noise of footsteps on the ground, mingled with low suppressed +talking was heard outside. + +“James, listen! there’s the noise again.” + +It was now nearly dark, but Mr. Hewson, still holding the boy in his +arms, walked towards the window and looked out. + +“I can see nothing,” he said,—“stay—there are figures moving off among +the trees, and a man running round to the back of the house—very like +Gahan he is too!” + +Seizing the bell-rope, he rang it loudly, and said to the servant who +answered his summons:— + +“Fasten the shutters and put up the bars, Connell; and then tell Gahan I +want to see him.” + +The man obeyed; candles were brought, and Gahan entered the room. + +Mr. Hewson remarked that, though his cheeks were flushed, his lips were +very white, and his bold dark eyes were cast on the ground. + +“What took you round the house just now, Tim?” asked his master, in a +careless manner. + +“What took me round the house, is it? Why, then, nothing in life, Sir, +but that just as I went outside the kitchen door to take a smoke, I saw +the pigs, that Shaneen forgot to put up in their stye, making right for +the mistress’s flower-garden; so I just put my _dudheen_, lighting as it +was, into my pocket, and ran after them. I caught them on the grand walk +under the end window, and indeed, Ma’am, I had my own share of work +turning them back to their proper spear.” + +Gahan spoke with unusual volubility, but without raising his eyes from +the ground. + +“Who were the people,” asked his master, “whom I saw moving through the +western grove?” + +“People! your Honour—not a sign of any people moving there, I’ll be +bound, barring the pigs.” + +“Then,” said Mr. Hewson, smiling, to his wife, “the miracle of Circe +must have been reversed, and swine turned into men; for, undoubtedly, +the dark figures I saw were human beings.” + +“Come, Billy,” said Gahan, anxious to turn the conversation, “will you +come home with me now? I am sure ’twas very good of the mistress to give +you all them fine apples.” + +Mrs. Hewson was going to propose Billy’s remaining, but her husband +whispered:—“Wait till to-morrow.” So Gahan and his child were allowed to +depart. + +Next morning the magistrates of the district were on the alert, and +several suspicious looking men found lurking about, were taken up. A hat +which fitted one of them was picked up in Mr. Hewson’s grove; the gravel +under the end window bore many signs of trampling feet; and there were +marks on the wall as if guns had rested against it. Gahan’s information +touching the intended meeting at Kilcrean bog proved to be totally +without foundation; and after a careful search not a single pike or +weapon of any description could be found there. All these circumstances +combined certainly looked suspicious; but, after a prolonged +investigation, as no guilt could be actually brought home to Gahan, he +was dismissed. One of his examiners, however, said privately, “I advise +you take care of that fellow, Hewson. If I were in your place, I’d just +trust him as far as I could throw him, and not an inch beyond.” + +An indolent hospitable Irish country gentleman, such as Mr. Hewson, is +never without an always shrewd and often roguish prime minister, who +saves his master the trouble of looking after his own affairs, and +manages everything that is to be done in both the home and foreign +departments,—from putting a new door on the pig-stye, to letting a farm +of an hundred acres on lease. Now in this, or rather these capacities, +Gahan had long served Mr. Hewson; and some seven years previous to the +evening on which our story commences, he had strengthened the tie and +increased his influence considerably by marrying Mrs. Hewson’s favourite +and faithful maid. One child was the result of this union; and Mrs. +Hewson, who had no family of her own, took much interest in little +Billy,—more especially after the death of his mother, who, poor thing! +the neighbours said, was not very happy, and would gladly, if she dared, +have exchanged her lonely cottage for the easy service of her former +mistress. + +Thus, though for a time Mr. and Mrs. Hewson regarded Gahan with some +doubt, the feeling gradually wore away, and the steward regained his +former influence. + +After the lapse of a few stormy months the rebellion was quelled: all +the prisoners taken up were severally disposed of by hanging, +transportation or acquittal, according to the nature and amount of the +evidence brought against them; and the country became as peaceful as it +is in the volcanic nature of our Irish soil ever to be. + +The Hewsons’ kindness towards Gahan’s child was steady and unchanged. +They took him into their house, and gave him a plain but solid +education; so that William, while yet a boy, was enabled to be of some +use to his patron, and daily enjoyed more and more of his confidence. + + * * * * * + +Another Evening, the twentieth anniversary of that with which this +narrative commenced, came round. Mr. and Mrs. Hewson were still hale and +active, dwelling in their hospitable home. About eight o’clock at night, +Tim Gahan, now a stooping, grey-haired man, entered Mr. Hewson’s +kitchen, and took his seat on the corner of the settle next the fire. + +The cook, directing a silent significant glance of compassion towards +her fellow-servants, said: + +“Would you like a drink of cider, Tim, or will you wait and take a cup +of tay with myself and Kitty?” + +The old man’s eyes were fixed on the fire, and a wrinkled hand was +planted firmly on each knee, as if to check their involuntary trembling. +“I’ll not drink anything this night, thank you kindly, Nelly,” he said, +in a slow musing manner, dwelling long on each word. + +“Where’s Billy?” he asked, after a pause, in a quick hurried tone, +looking up suddenly at the cook, with an expression in his eyes, which, +as she afterwards said, ‘took away her breath.’ + +“Oh, never heed Billy! I suppose he’s busy with the master.” + +“Where’s the use, Nelly,” said the coachman, “in hiding it from him? +Sure, sooner or later he must know it. Tim,” he continued, “God knows +’tis sorrow to my heart this blessed night to make yours sore,—but the +truth is, that William has done what he oughtn’t to do to the man that +was all one as a father to him.” + +“What has he done? what will you _dar_ say again my boy?” + +“Taken money, then,” replied the coachman, “that the master had marked +and put by in his desk; for he suspected this some time past that gold +was missing. This morning ’twas gone; a search was made, and the marked +guineas were found with your son William.” + +The old man covered his face with his hands, and rocked himself to and +fro. + +“Where is he now?” at length he asked, in a hoarse voice. + +“Locked up safe in the inner store-room; the master intends sending him +to gaol early to-morrow morning.” + +“He will not,” said Gahan slowly. “Kill the boy that saved his life!—no, +no.” + +“Poor fellow! the grief is setting his mind astray—and sure no wonder!” +said the cook, compassionately. + +“I’m not astray!” cried the old man, fiercely. “Where’s the master?—take +me to him.” + +“Come with me,” said the butler, “and I’ll ask him will he see you?” + +With faltering steps the father complied; and when they reached the +parlour, he trembled exceedingly, and leant against the wall for +support, while the butler opened the door, and said: + +“Gahan is here, Sir, and wants to know will you let him speak to you for +a minute?” + +“Tell him to come in,” said Mr. Hewson, in a solemn tone of sorrow, very +different from his ordinary cheerful voice. + +“Sir,” said the steward, advancing, “they tell me you are going to send +my boy to prison,—is it true?” + +“Too true, indeed, Gahan. The lad who was reared in my house, whom my +wife watched over in health, and nursed in sickness—whom we loved almost +as if he were our own, has _robbed_ us, and that not once or twice, but +many times. He is silent and sullen, too, and refuses to tell why he +stole the money, which was never withheld from him when he wanted it. I +can make nothing of him, and must only give him up to justice in the +morning.” + +“No, Sir, no. The boy saved your life; you can’t take his.” + +“You’re raving, Gahan.” + +“Listen to me, Sir, and you won’t say so. You remember this night twenty +years? I came here with my motherless child, and yourself and the +mistress pitied us, and spoke loving words to him. Well for us all you +did so! That night—little you thought it!—I was banded with them that +were sworn to take your life. They were watching you outside the window, +and I was sent to inveigle you out, that they might shoot you. A faint +heart I had for the bloody business, for you were ever and always a good +master to me; but I was under an oath to them that I darn’t break, +supposing they ordered me to shoot my own mother. Well! the hand of God +was over you, and you wouldn’t come with me. I ran out to them, and I +said—‘Boys, if you want to shoot him, you must do it through the +window,’ thinking they’d be afeard of that; but they weren’t—they were +daring fellows, and one of them, sheltered by the angle of the window, +took deadly aim at you. That very moment you took Billy on your knee, +and I saw his fair head in a line with the musket. I don’t know exactly +then what I said or did, but I remember I caught the man’s hand, threw +it up, and pointed to the child. Knowing I was a determined man, I +believe they didn’t wish to provoke me; so they watched you for a while, +and when you didn’t put him down they got daunted, hearing the sound of +soldiers riding by the road, and they stole away through the grove. Most +of that gang swung on the gallows, but the last of them died this +morning quietly in his bed. Up to yesterday he used to make me give him +money,—sums of money to buy his silence—and it was for that I made my +boy a thief. It was wearing out his very life. Often he went down on his +knees to me, and said: ‘Father, I’d die myself sooner than rob my +master, but I can’t see _you_ disgraced. Oh, let us fly the country!’ +Now, Sir, I have told you all—do what you like with me—send me to gaol, +I deserve it—but spare my poor deluded innocent boy!” + +It would be difficult to describe Mr. Hewson’s feelings, but his wife’s +first impulse was to hasten to liberate the prisoner. With a few +incoherent words of explanation she led him into the presence of his +master, who, looking at him sorrowfully but kindly, said: + +“William, you have erred deeply, but not so deeply as I supposed. Your +father has told me everything. I forgive him freely and you also.” + +The young man covered his face with his hands, and wept tears more +bitter and abundant than he had ever shed since the day when he followed +his mother to the grave. He could say little, but he knelt on the +ground, and clasping the kind hand of her who had supplied to him that +mother’s place, he murmured; + +“Will _you_ tell him I would rather die than sin again.” + +Old Gahan died two years afterwards, truly penitent, invoking blessings +on his son and on his benefactors; and the young man’s conduct, now no +longer under evil influence, was so steady and so upright, that his +adopted parents felt that their pious work was rewarded, and that, in +William Gahan, they had indeed a son. + + * * * * * + + Monthly Supplement of ‘HOUSEHOLD WORDS,’ + Conducted + BY CHARLES DICKENS. + _Price 2d., Stamped 3d._, + + THE HOUSEHOLD NARRATIVE + OF + CURRENT EVENTS. + + + _The Number, containing a history of the present month, will be issued + with the Magazines._ + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES + + + ● Fixed typos; non-standard spelling and dialect retained. + ● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_. + ● The caret (^) is used to indicate superscript, whether applied to a + single character (as in 2^d) or to an entire expression (as in + 1^{st}). + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78174 *** diff --git a/78174-h/78174-h.htm b/78174-h/78174-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f080ea3 --- /dev/null +++ b/78174-h/78174-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,3673 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html lang="en"> + <head> + <meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width, initial-scale=1"> + <meta charset="UTF-8"> + <title>Household Words, No. 9, May 25, 1850 | Project Gutenberg</title> + <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> + <style> + body { margin-left: 8%; 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page-break-inside: avoid; + clear: both; } + div.titlepage {text-align: center; page-break-before: always; + page-break-after: always; } + div.titlepage p {text-align: center; text-indent: 0em; font-weight: bold; + line-height: 1.5; margin-top: 3em; } + .ph2 { text-indent: 0em; font-weight: bold; font-size: x-large; margin: .75em auto; + page-break-before: always; } + .double {border-style: double;border-width: 4px; padding: 1em; clear: both; } + .x-ebookmaker p.dropcap:first-letter { float: left; } + </style> + </head> + <body> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78174 ***</div> + +<div class='tnotes covernote'> + +<p class='c000'><strong>Transcriber’s Note:</strong></p> + +<p class='c000'>New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.</p> + +</div> + +<div class='double titlepage'> + +<div class='nf-center-c0'> +<div class='nf-center c001'> + <div>“<i>Familiar in their Mouths as HOUSEHOLD WORDS.</i>”—<span class='sc'>Shakespeare.</span></div> + </div> +</div> + +<div> + <span class='pageno' id='Page_193'>193</span> + <h1 class='c002'>HOUSEHOLD WORDS.<br> <span class='xlarge'>A WEEKLY JOURNAL.</span></h1> +</div> + +<div class='nf-center-c0'> +<div class='nf-center c001'> + <div><span class='large'>CONDUCTED BY CHARLES DICKENS.</span></div> + <div class='c003'>N<sup>o. 9.</sup>]      SATURDAY, MAY 25, 1850.      [Price 2<i>d.</i></div> + </div> +</div> + +</div> + +<div class='chapter'> + <h2 class='c004'>THE SICKNESS AND HEALTH OF THE PEOPLE OF BLEABURN.</h2> +</div> +<h3 class='c005'>IN THREE PARTS.—CHAPTER I.</h3> + +<p class='c006'>It was not often that anything happened to +enliven the village of Bleaburn, in Yorkshire: +but there was a day in the summer of 1811, +when the inhabitants were roused from their +apathy, and hardly knew themselves. A +stranger was once heard to say, after some +accident had compelled him to pass through +Bleaburn, that he saw nothing there but a +blacksmith asleep, and a couple of rabbits +hung up by the heels. That the blacksmith was +wholly asleep at midday might indicate that +there was a public house in the place; but, +even there, in that liveliest and most intellectual +spot in a country village of those days,—the +ale-house kitchen—the people sat half +asleep. Sodden with beer, and almost without +ideas and interests, the men of the place +let indolence creep over them; and there +they sat, as quiet a set of customers as ever +landlord had to deal with. For one thing, +they were almost all old or elderly men. The +boys were out after the rabbits on the neighbouring +moor; and the young men were far +away. A recruiting party had met with unusual +success, for two successive years—(now some +time since)—in inducing the men of Bleaburn +to enter the king’s service. In a place where +nobody was very wise, and everybody was +very dull, the drum and fife, the soldierly +march, the scarlet coats, the gay ribbons, the +drink and the pay, had charms which can +hardly be conceived of by dwellers in towns, +to whose eyes and ears something new is presented +every day. Several men went from +Bleaburn to be soldiers, and Bleaburn was +declared to be a loyal place; and many who +had never before heard of its existence, spoke +of it now as a bright example of attachment +and devotion to the throne in a most disloyal +age. While, throughout the manufacturing +districts, the people were breaking machinery—while +on these very Yorkshire hills they +were drilling their armed forces—while the +moneyed men were grumbling at the taxes, +and at the war in Spain, whence, for a long +time, they had heard of many disasters and +no victories; and while the hungry labourers +in town and country were asking how they +were to buy bread when wheat was selling +at 95<i>s.</i> the quarter, and while there were +grave apprehensions of night-burnings of the +corn magazines, the village of Bleaburn, which +could not be seen without being expressly +sought, was sending up strong men out of its +cleft of the hills, to fight the battles of their +country.</p> + +<p class='c007'>Perhaps the chief reason of the loyalty, as +well as the quietness of Bleaburn, was its lying +in a cleft of the hills; in a fissure so deep and +narrow, that a traveller in a chaise might +easily pass near it without perceiving that +there was any settlement at all, unless it was +in the morning when the people were lighting +their fires, or on the night of such a day as +that on which our story opens. In the one +case, the smoke issuing from the cleft might +hint of habitations: in the other, the noise +and ruddy light would leave no doubt of +there being somebody there. There was, at +last, a victory in Spain. The news of the +battle of Albuera had arrived; and it spread +abroad over the kingdom, lighting up bonfires +in the streets, and millions of candles in +windows, before people had time to learn at +what cost this victory was obtained, and how +very nearly it had been a fatal defeat, or anything +about it, in short. If they had known +the fact that while our allies, the Spaniards, +Portuguese, and Germans, suffered but moderately, +the British were slaughtered as +horribly as they could have been under +defeat: so that, out of six thousand men +who went up the hill, only fifteen hundred +were left standing at the top, the people +might have let their bonfires burn out as +soon as they would, and might have put out +their candles that mourners might weep in +darkness. But they burst into rejoicing first, +and learned details afterwards.</p> + +<p class='c007'>Every boy in Bleaburn forgot the rabbits +that day. All were busy getting in wood for the +bonfire. Not a swinging shutter, not a loose +pale, not a bit of plank, or ricketty gate, or +shaking footbridge escaped their clutches. +Where they hid their stock during the day, +nobody knew; but there was a mighty pile +at dusk. It was then that poor Widow +Slaney, stealing out to close her shutter, +because she could not bear the sound of +rejoicing, nor the sight of her neighbours +abroad in the ruddy light, found that her +shutter was gone. All day, she had been in +<span class='pageno' id='Page_194'>194</span>the loft, lest she should see anybody; for the +clergyman had been to tell her that her son +Harry had been shot as a deserter. She had +refused to believe it at first; but Mr. Finch +had explained to her that the soldiers in +Spain had suffered so cruelly from hunger, +and want of shoes and of every comfort, that +hundreds of them had gone into the towns to +avoid starvation; and then, when the towns +were taken by the allies, such British soldiers +as were found, and were declared to have no +business there, were treated as deserters, for +an example. It was some comfort that Mr. +Finch did not think that Harry had done +any thing very wicked; but Mrs. Slaney +could not meet any one, nor bear the flaring +light on her ceiling; so she went up to the +loft again, and cried all night in the dark. +Farmer Neale was the wonder of the place +this evening. He was more gracious than +anybody, though there was nobody who was +not, at all times, afraid of him. When he was +seen striding down the steep narrow street, the +little boys hid themselves. They had not +been able to resist altogether the temptation +of dry thorns in his fences, and of the chips +which had still lain about where his winter +felling had been done, and they concluded he +was come now to give them a rough handling: +but they found themselves mistaken. He +was in high good-humour, sending such boys +as he could catch with orders upon his people +at home for a tar-barrel and a whole load of +faggots.</p> + +<p class='c007'>“’Tis hardly natural, though, is it?” said +Mrs. Billiter to Ann Warrender. “It does +not seem natural for any father to rejoice in +a victory when his own son has lost his best +leg there.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“Has Jack Neale lost his leg? O! what a +thing!” exclaimed Ann Warrender. She was +going on, but she perceived that the farmer +had heard her.</p> + +<p class='c007'>“Yes,” said he, without any sound of heart-pain +in his voice. “Jack has lost his right +leg, Mr. Finch tells me. And I tell Mr. +Finch, it is almost a pity the other did not +go after it. He deserved no more good of +either of them when he had let them do such +a thing as carry him off from his home and +his duty.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“How <i>can</i> you, Mr. Neale?” burst out both +the women.</p> + +<p class='c007'>“How can I do what, my dears? One +thing I can do; and that is, see when an +undutiful son is properly punished. He must +live on his pension, however: he can be of no +use to me, now; and I can’t be burdened with +a cripple at home.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“I don’t think he will ask you,” Mrs. Billiter +said. “He was none so happy there before as +to want to come again.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>Ann Warrender told this speech to her +father afterwards as the severest she had ever +heard from Mrs. Billiter; and they agreed +that it was very bold, considering that +Billiter was one of Farmer Neale’s labourers. +But they also agreed that it was enough to +stir up flesh and blood to see a man made +hearty and good-humoured by misfortune +having befallen a son who had offended him. +After all, poor Jack Neale had run away only +because he could not bear his father’s tyranny. +Two more of the Bleaburn recruits had suffered—had +been killed outright; one a widower, +who, in his first grief, had left his babes with +their grandmother, and gone to the wars; +and the other, an ignorant lout, who had +been entrapped because he was tall and +strong; had been fuddled with beer, flattered +with talk of finery, and carried off before he +could recover his slow wits. He was gone, +and would soon be forgotten.</p> + +<p class='c007'>“I say, Jem,” said Farmer Neale, when he +met the village idiot, Jem Johnson, shuffling +along the street, staring at the lights: “you’re +the wise man, after all: you’re the best off, +my man.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>Widow Johnson, who was just behind, put +her arm in poor Jem’s, and tried to make +him move on. She was a stern woman; but +she was as much disgusted at Farmer Neale’s +hardness as her tender-hearted daughter, +Mrs. Billiter, or anyone else.</p> + +<p class='c007'>“Good day, Mrs. Johnson,” said Neale. +“You are better off for a son than I am, +after all. Yours is not such a fool as to go +and get his leg shot off, like my precious son.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>Mrs. Johnson looked him hard in the face, +as she would a madman or a drunken man +whom she meant to intimidate; and compelled +her son to pass on. In truth, Farmer +Neale was drunk with evil passions; in such +high spirits, that, when he found that the +women—mothers of sons—would have nothing +to say to him to-day, he went to the public house, +where he was pretty sure of being +humoured by the men who depended on his +employment for bread, and on his temper for +much of the peace of their lives.</p> + +<p class='c007'>On his way he met the clergyman, and proposed +to him to make a merry evening of it. +“If you will just step in at the Plough and +Harrow, Sir,” said he, “and tell us all you +have heard about the victory, it will be the +finest thing—just what the men want. And +we will drink your health, and the King’s, +and Marshal Beresford’s, who won the victory. +It is a fine occasion, Sir; an occasion to confirm +the loyalty of the people. You will come +with me, Sir?”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“No,” replied Mr. Finch, “I have to go +among another sort of people, Neale. If you +have spirits to make merry to-night, I own to +you I have not. Victories that cost so much, +do not make me very merry.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“Oh, fie, Mr. Finch! How are we to keep +up our character for loyalty, if you fail us—if +you put on a black face in the hour of +rejoicing?”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“Just come with me,” said Mr. Finch, “and +I can show you cause enough for heaviness of +heart. In our small village, there is mourning +in many houses. Three of our late neighbours +<span class='pageno' id='Page_195'>195</span>are dead, and one of them in such a way as +will break his mother’s heart.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“And another has lost a leg, you are +thinking. Out with it, Sir, and don’t be +afraid of my feelings about it. Well, it is +certain that Bleaburn has suffered more than +is the fair share of one place; but we must be +loyal.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“And so,” said Mr. Finch, “you are going to +prepare more of your neighbours to enlist, the +next time a recruiting party comes this way. +Oh, I don’t say that men are not to be +encouraged to serve their king and country: +but it seems to me that our place has done its +duty well enough for the present. I wonder +that you, as a farmer, do not consider the +rates, and dread the consequences of having +the women and children on our hands, if our +able men get killed and maimed in the wars. +I should have thought that the price of +bread—”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“There, now, don’t let us talk about that!” +said Neale; “You know that is a subject that +we never agree about. We will let alone the +price of bread for to-day.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>Neale might easily forget this sore subject, +and every other that was disagreeable to +other people, in the jollity at the Plough and +Harrow, where there was an uproar of tipsy +mirth for the greater part of the night. But +Mr. Finch found little mirth among the +people left at home in the cottages. The poor +women, who lived hardly, knitting for eighteen +hours out of the twenty-four, and finding +themselves less and less able to overtake the +advancing prices of the necessaries of life, had +no great store of spirits to spend in rejoicing +over victories, or anything else; and among +them there was one who loved Jack Neale, +and was beloved by him; and others, who +respected Widow Slaney, and could not countenance +noisy mirth while she was sunk in +horror and grief. They were hungry enough, +too, to look upon young Slaney’s death as +something of an outrage. If hunger and +nakedness had driven him into the shelter of +a town, to avoid dying by the roadside, it +seemed to them that being shot was a hard +punishment for the offence. Mr. Finch endeavoured +to show, in hackneyed language, +what the dereliction of duty really was, and +how intolerable during warfare; but the end +of it was that the neighbours pitied the poor +young man the more, the more they dwelt +upon his fate.</p> + +<p class='c007'>As it turned out, Bleaburn made more sacrifices +to the war than those of the Battle of +Albuera, even before drum or fife was again +heard coming over the moor. The place had +not been healthy before; and illness set in +somewhat seriously after the excitements of +the bonfire night. The cold and wet spring +had discouraged the whole kingdom about the +harvest; and in Bleaburn it had done something +more. Where there are stone houses, high +winds aggravate the damage of wet weather. +The driven rain had been sucked in by the +stone; and more wet was absorbed from the +foundations, when the swollen stream had +rushed down the hollow, and overflowed into +the houses, and the pigstyes, and every empty +place into which it could run. Where there +were glass windows and fires in the rooms, +the panes were dewy, and the walls shiny +with trickling drops; and in the cottages +where there were no fires, the inhabitants +were so chilly, that they stuffed up every +broken window-pane, and closed all chinks by +which air might enter, in hopes of keeping +themselves warm; but the floors were never +really dry that summer, and even the beds +had a chilly feel. The best shoes showed +mould between one Sunday and another; and +the meal in the bin (of those who were so +fortunate as to have a meal-bin) did not keep +well. Mr. Finch had talked a great deal +about what was to be expected from summer +weather and the harvest; but as the weeks +went on, there were graver doubts about the +harvest than there had been even while +people were complaining at Easter, and +shaking their heads at Whitsuntide; and +when a few days of hot weather came at last, +the people of Bleaburn did not know how to +bear them at all. The dead rats and decaying +matter which had been deposited by the +spring overflow, made such a stench that +people shut their windows closer than ever. +Their choice now was between being broiled +in the heat which was reflected from the sides +of the cleft in which they lived, and being +shut into houses where the walls, floors, and +windows were reeking with steam. The +women, who sat still all day, knitting, had +little chance for health in such abodes; and +still less had such of the men as, already +weakened by low diet, had surfeited themselves +with beer on the night of the rejoicing, +and broiled themselves in the heat of the +bonfire, and fevered mind and body with +shouting, and singing, and brawling, and been +brought home to be laid upon musty straw, +under a somewhat damp blanket. This +excess was hardly more pernicious to some +than depression was to others. Those of the +people at Bleaburn that had received heart-wounds +from the Battle of Albuera, thought +they could never care again for any personal +troubles or privations; but they were not +long in learning that they now suffered more +than before from low diet and every sort +of discomfort. They blamed themselves for +being selfish; but this self-blame again made +the matter worse. They had lost a hope +which had kept them up. They were not +only in grief, but thoroughly discouraged. +Their gloom was increased by seeing that a +change had come over Mr. Finch. On +Sundays he looked so anxious, that it was +enough to lower people’s spirits to go to +church. His very voice was dismal, as he +read the service; his sermon grew shorter +almost every Sunday: and it was about +everything that the people cared least about +<span class='pageno' id='Page_196'>196</span>He gave them discussions of doctrine, or dry +moral essays, which were as stones to them +when they wanted the bread of consolation +and the wine of hope. Here and there, +women said it really was too much for their +spirits to go to church, and they staid away; +and the boys and girls took the opportunity +to go spying upon the rabbits. It was such +boys and girls that gave news of Mr. Finch +during the week. Every morning, he was so +busy over his books in his study, that it was +no easy matter to get a sight of him; and +every fine afternoon he went quietly, by a bye-path, +to a certain spot on the moor, where an +ostler from the Cross Keys at O—— was awaiting +him with the horse on which he took long +rides over the hills. Mr. Finch was taking care +of his health.</p> + +<h3 class='c008'>CHAPTER II.</h3> + +<p class='c006'>“Can I have a chaise?” inquired a young +lady, on being set down by the coach at the +Cross Keys, at O——.</p> + +<p class='c007'>“Yes, ma’am, certainly,” replied the neat +landlady.</p> + +<p class='c007'>“How far do you call it to Bleaburn?”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“To Bleaburn, ma’am! It is six miles. +But, ma’am, you are not going to Bleaburn, +surely.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“Indeed I am. Why not?”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“Because of the fever, ma’am. There never +was anything heard of like it. You cannot +go there, I assure you, ma’am, and I could +not think of sending a chaise there. Neither +of my post-boys would go.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“One of them shall take me as near as is +safe, then. I dare say we shall find somebody +who will take care of my little trunk till I +can send for it.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“The cordon would take care of your trunk, +if that were all, but—”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“The what?” interrupted the young lady.</p> + +<p class='c007'>“The cordon, they call it, ma’am. To +preserve ourselves, we have set people to +watch on the moor above, to prevent anybody +from Bleaburn coming among us, to spread +the fever. Ma’am, it is worse than anything +you ever heard of.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“Not worse than the plague,” thought Mary +Pickard, in whose mind now rose up all she +had read and heard of the horrors of the great +plague, and all the longing she had felt when +a child to have been a clergyman at such a +time, or at least, a physician, to give comfort +to numbers in their extremity.</p> + +<p class='c007'>“Indeed, ma’am,” resumed the landlady, +“you cannot go there. By what I hear, there +are very few now that are not dead, or down +in the fever.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“Then they will want me the more,” said +Mary Pickard. “I must go and see my aunt. +I wrote to her that I should go; and she may +want me more than I thought.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“Have you an aunt living at Bleaburn?” +asked the landlady, in some surprise. “I did +not know that there was any lady living at +Bleaburn. I thought they had been all poor +people there.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“I believe my aunt is poor,” said Mary. “I +have heard nothing of her for several years, except +merely that she was living at Bleaburn. +She had the education of a gentlewoman; but +I believe her husband became a common +labourer before he died. I am from America, +and my name is Mary Pickard, and my aunt’s +name is Johnson; and I shall be glad if you +can tell me anything about her, if this fever +is really raging as you say. I must see her +before I go home to America.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“You see, ma’am, if you go,” said the landlady, +contemplating the little trunk, “you will +not be able to come away again while the +fever lasts.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“And you think I shall not have clothes +enough,” said Mary, smiling. “I packed my +box for a week only, but I dare say I can +manage. If everybody was ill, I could wash +my clothes myself. I have done such a thing +with less reason. Or, I could send to London +for more. I suppose one can get at a post-office.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“Through the cordon, I dare say you might, +ma’am. But, really, I don’t know that there is +anybody at Bleaburn that can write a letter, +except the clergyman and the doctor and one +or two more.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“My aunt can,” said Mary, “and it is +because she does not answer our letters, that +I am so anxious to see her. You did not tell +me whether you know her name,—Johnson.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“A widow, I think you said, ma’am.” And +the landlady called to the ostler to ask him if +he knew anything of a Widow Johnson, who +lived at Bleaburn. Will Ostler said there was +a woman of that name who was the mother of +Silly Jem. “Might that be she?” Mary had +never heard of Silly Jem; but when she +found that Widow Johnson had a daughter, +some years married, that she had white hair, +and strong black eyes, and a strong face +altogether, and that she seldom spoke, she +had little doubt that one so like certain of her +relations was her aunt. The end of it was +that Mary went to Bleaburn. She ordered +the chaise herself, leaving it to the landlady to +direct the post-boy where to set her down; +she appealed to the woman’s good feelings to +aid her if she should find that wine, linen or +other comforts were necessary at Bleaburn, +and she could not be allowed to come and buy +them: explained that she was far from rich, +and told the exact sum which she at present +believed she should be justified in spending +on behalf of the sick; and gave a reference to +a commercial house in London. She did not +tell—and indeed she gave only a momentary +thought to it herself—that the sum of money +she had mentioned was that which she had +saved up to take her to Scotland, to see +some friends of her family, and travel through +the Highlands. As she was driven off from +the gateway of the Cross Keys, nodding and +smiling from the chaise window in turning +the corner, the landlady ceased from commanding +the post-boy on no account to go +<span class='pageno' id='Page_197'>197</span>beyond the brow, and said to herself that this +Miss Pickard was the most wilful young lady +she had ever known, but that she could not +help liking her, too. She did not seem to +value her life any more than a pin; and yet +she appeared altogether cheerful and sensible. +If the good woman had been able to see into +Mary’s heart, she would have discovered that +she had the best reason in the world for +valuing life very much indeed: but she had +been so accustomed, all her life, to help everybody +that needed it, that she naturally went +straight forward into the business, without +looking at difficulties or dangers, on the right +hand or the left.</p> + +<p class='c007'>Mary never, while she lived, forgot this +drive. Her tone of mind was, no doubt, high, +though she was unconscious of it. It was a +splendid August evening, and she had never +before seen moorland. In America, she had +travelled among noble inland forests, and a +hard granite region near the coasts of New +England: but the wide-spreading brown and +green moorland, with its pools of clear brown +water glittering in the evening sunshine, and +its black cocks popping out of the heather, +and running into the hollows, was quite new +to her. She looked down, two or three times, +into a wooded dell where grey cottages were +scattered among the coppices, and a little +church tower rose above them; but the +swelling ridges of the moor, with the tarns +between, immediately attracted her eye again.</p> + +<p class='c007'>“Surely,” thought she, “the cordon will let +me walk on the moor in the afternoons, if I +go where I cannot infect any body. With a +walk in such places as these every day, I am +sure I could go through any thing.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>This seemed very rational beforehand. It +never entered Mary’s head that for a long +while to come, she should never once have +leisure for a walk.</p> + +<p class='c007'>“Yon’s the cordon,” said the post-boy, at +last, pointing with his whip.</p> + +<p class='c007'>“What do you understand by a cordon?”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“Them people that you may see there. I +don’t know why they call them so; for I +don’t hear that they do anything with a cord.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“Perhaps it is because there is a French +word—<i>cordon</i>—that means any thing that +encloses any other thing. They would call +your hat band a cordon, and an officer’s sash, +and a belt of trees round a park. So, I suppose +these people surround poor Bleaburn +and let nobody out.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“May be so,” said the man, “but I don’t see +why we should go to the French for our +words or anything else, when we have everything +better of our own. For my part, I +shall be beholden to the French for no word, +now I know of it. I shall call them people +the watch, or something of that like.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“I think I will call them messengers,” said +Mary: “and that will sound least terrible to +the people below. They do go on errands, do +not they,—and take and send parcels and +messages?”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“They are paid to do it, Miss: but they +put it upon one another, or get out of the +way, if they can,—they are so afraid of the +fever, you see.——I think we must stop here, +please, Miss. I could go a little nearer, only, +you see—.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“I see that you are afraid of the fever too,” +said Mary, with a smile, as she jumped out +upon the grass. One of the sentinels was +within hail. Glad of the relief from the +dulness of his watch, he came with alacrity, +took charge of the little trunk, and offered to +show the lady, from the brow, the way down +the hollow to the village.</p> + +<p class='c007'>The post-boy stood, with his money in his +hand, watching the retreating lady, till, under +a sudden impulse, he hailed her. Looking +round, she saw him running towards her, +casting a momentary glance back at his horses. +He wanted to try once more to persuade her +to return to O——. He should be so happy +to drive her back, out of the way of danger. +His employer would be so glad to see her +again! When he perceived that it was no +use talking, he went on touching his hat, while +he begged her to take back the shilling she +had just given him. It would make his mind +easier, he said, not to take money for bringing +any lady to such a place. Mary saw that this +was true; and she took back the shilling, promising +that it should be spent in the service +of some poor sick person.</p> + +<p class='c007'>As Mary descended into the hollow, she +was struck with the quiet beauty of the scene. +The last sun-blaze rushed level along the upper +part of the cleft, while the lower part lay in +deep shadow. While she was descending a +steep slope, with sometimes grass, and sometimes +grey rock, by the roadside, the opposite +height rose precipitous; and from chinks in +its brow, little drips of water fell or oozed +down, calling into life ferns, and grass, and +ivy, in every moist crevice. Near the top, +there were rows of swallow-holes; and the +birds were at this moment all at play in the +last glow of the summer day, now dipping +into the shaded dell, down to the very surface +of the water, and then sprinkling the +grey precipice with their darting shadows. +Below, when Mary reached the bridge, she +thought all looked shadowy in more senses +than one. The first people she saw were some +children, excessively dirty, who were paddling +about in a shallow pool, which was now none +of the sweetest, having been filled by the +spring overflow, and gradually drying up ever +since. Mary called to these children from +the bridge, to ask where Widow Johnson lived. +She could learn nothing more than that she +must proceed; for, if the creatures had not +been almost too boorish to speak, she could +have made nothing of the Yorkshire dialect, +on the first encounter. In the narrow street, +every window seemed closed, and even the +shutters of some. She could see nobody in +the first two or three shops that she passed; +but, at the baker’s, a woman was sitting at +<span class='pageno' id='Page_198'>198</span>work. On the entrance of a stranger, she +looked up in surprise; and, when at the +door, to point out the turn down to Widow +Johnson’s, she remained there, with her work +on her arm, to watch the lady up the street. +The doctor, quickening his pace, came up, +saying,</p> + +<p class='c007'>“Who was that you were speaking to?—A +lady wanting Widow Johnson! What a +very extraordinary thing! Did you tell her +the fever had got there?”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“Yes, Sir.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“What did she say?”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“She said she must go and nurse them.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“Do you mean that she is going to stay +here?”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“I suppose so, by her talking of nursing +them. She says Widow Johnson is her aunt.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“O! that’s it! I have heard that Mrs. +Johnson came of a good family. But what a +good creature this must be—that is, if she +knows what she is about. If she is off before +morning, I shall think it was a vision, dropped +down out of the clouds. Eh?”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“She is not handsome enough to be an angel, +or anything of that kind,” said the baker’s wife.</p> + +<p class='c007'>“O! isn’t she? I did not see her face. But +it is all the better, if she is not very like an +angel. She is all the more likely to stay and +nurse the Johnsons. Upon my word, they +are lucky people if she does. I must go and +pay my respects to her presently.—Do look +now—at the doors all along the street, on both +sides the way! I have not seen so many people +at once for weeks past;—for, you know, I +have no time to go to church in these days.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“You would not see many people, if you +went. See! some of the children are following +her! It is long since they have seen a young +lady, in a white gown, and with a smile on +her face, in our street. There she goes, past +the corner; she has taken the right turn.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“I will just let her get the meeting over, +and settle herself a little,” said the doctor; +“and then I will go and pay my respects to +her.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>The little rabble of dirty children followed +Mary round the corner, keeping in the middle +of the lane, and at some distance behind. +When she turned to speak to them, they +started and fled, as they might have done, if +she had been a ghost. But when she laughed, +they returned cautiously; and all their brown +forefingers pointed the same way at once, +when she made her final inquiry about which +was the cottage she wanted. Two little boys +were pushed forward by the rest; and it +transpired that these were grandchildren of +Widow Johnson.</p> + +<p class='c007'>“Is she your granny?” said Mary. “Then, +I am your cousin. Come with me; and if +granny is very much surprised to see me, you +must tell her that I am your cousin Mary.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>The boys, however, had no notion of entering +the cottage. They slipped away, and hid +themselves behind it; and Mary had to introduce +herself.</p> + +<p class='c007'>After knocking in vain for some time, she +opened the door, and looked in. No one was +in the room but a man, whom she at once +recognised for Silly Jem. He was half-standing, +half-sitting, against the table by the wall, +rolling his head from side to side. By no +mode of questioning could Mary obtain a word +from him. The only thing he did was to +throw a great log of wood on the fire, when +she observed what a large fire he had. She +tried to take it off again; but this he would +not permit. The room was insufferably hot +and close. The only window was beside the +door; so that there was no way of bringing a +current of fresh air through the room. Mary +tried to open the window; but it was not +made to open, except that a small pane at the +top, three inches square, went upon hinges. +As soon as Mary had opened it, however, +poor Jem went and shut it. Within this +kitchen, was a sort of closet for stores; and +this was the whole of the lower floor. Mary +opened one other door, and found within it a +steep, narrow stair, down which came a sickening +puff of hot, foul air. She went up softly, +and Jem slammed the door behind her. It +seemed as if it was the business of his life to +shut everything.</p> + +<p class='c007'>Groping her way, Mary came to a small +chamber, which she surveyed for an instant +from the stair, before showing herself within. +There was no ceiling; and long cobwebs +hung from the rafters. A small window, two +feet from the floor, and curtained with a +yellow and tattered piece of muslin, was the +only break in the wall. On the deal table +stood a phial or two, and a green bottle, which +was presently found to contain rum. A +turn-up bedstead, raised only a foot from the +floor, was in a corner; and on it lay some +one who was very restless, feebly throwing off +the rug, which was immediately replaced by +a sleepy woman who dozed between times in +a chair that boasted a patchwork cushion. +Mary doubted whether the large black eyes +which stared forth from the pillow had any +sense in them. She went to see.</p> + +<p class='c007'>“Aunty,” said she, going to the bed, and +gently taking one of the wasted hands that +lay outside. “I am come to nurse you.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>The poor patient made a strong effort to +collect herself, and to speak. She did not +want anybody. She should do very well. +This was no place for strangers. She was +too ill to see strangers, and so on; but, from +time to time, a few wandering words about +her knowing best how to choose a husband +for herself—her having a right to marry as +she pleased—or of insisting that her relations +would go their own way in the world, and +leave her hers—showed Mary that she was +recognised, and what feelings she had to deal +with.</p> + +<p class='c007'>“She knows where I came from; but she +takes me for my mother or my grandmother,” +thought she. “If she grows clear in mind, we +shall be friends on our own account. If she +<span class='pageno' id='Page_199'>199</span>remains delirious, she will become used to the +sight of me. I must take matters into my +own hands at once.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>The first step was difficult. Coolness and +fresh air were wanted above everything. But +there was no chimney; the window would +not open; poor Jem would not let any door +remain open for a moment; and the sleepy +neighbour was one of those who insist upon +warm bedclothes, large fires, and hot spirit-and-water, +in fever cases. She was got rid of +by being paid to find somebody who would go +for Mary’s trunk, and bring it here before +dark. She did her best to administer another +dose of rum before she tied on her bonnet; but +as the patient turned away her head with +disgust, Mary interposed her hand. The +dram was offered to her, and, as she would +not have it, the neighbour showed the only +courtesy then possible, by drinking Mary’s +health, and welcome to Bleaburn. The woman +had some sharpness. She could see that if she +took Jem with her, and put the trunk on his +shoulder, she should get the porter’s fee herself, +instead of giving it to some rude boy; +and, as Mary observed, would be doing a +kindness to Jem in taking him for a pleasant +evening walk. Thus the coast was cleared. +In little more than half-an-hour they would +be back. Mary made the most of her time.</p> + +<p class='c007'>She set the doors below wide open, and +lowered the fire. She would fain have put on +some water to boil, for it appeared to her that +everybody and everything wanted washing +extremely. But she could find no water, but +some which seemed to have been used—which +was, at all events, not fit for use now. For +water she must wait till somebody came. +About air, she did one thing more—a daring +thing. She had a little diamond ring on her +finger. With this, without noise and quickly, +she cut so much of two small panes of the +chamber-window as to be able to take them +clean out; and then she rubbed the neighbouring +panes bright enough to hide, as she +hoped, an act which would be thought mad. +When she looked round again at Aunty, she +could fancy that there was a somewhat clearer +look about the worn face, and a little less +dulness in the eye. But this might be because +she herself felt less sick now that fresh air +was breathing up the stairs.</p> + +<p class='c007'>There was something else upon the stairs—the +tread of some one coming up. It was +the doctor. He said he came to pay his +respects to the lady before him, as well as to +visit his patient. It was no season for losing +time, and doctor and nurse found in a minute +that they should agree very well about the +treatment of the patient. Animated by finding +that he should no longer be wholly alone in his +terrible wrestle with disease and death, the +doctor did things which he could not have +believed he should have courage for. He even +emptied out the rum-bottle, and hurled it +away into the bed of the stream. The last +thing he did was to turn up his cuffs, and +actually bring in two pails of water with his +own hands. He promised (and kept his +promise) to send his boy with a supply of +vinegar, and a message to the neighbour that +she was wanted elsewhere, that Mary might +have liberty to refresh the patient, without +being subject to the charge of murdering her. +“A charge, however,” said he, “which I fully +expect will be brought against any one of us +who knows how to nurse. I confess they +have cowed me. In sheer despair, I have let +them take their own way pretty much. But +now we must see what can be done.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“Yes,” said Mary. “It is fairly our turn +now. We must try how we can cow the fever.”</p> + +<div class='chapter'> + <h2 class='c004'>SPRING-TIME IN THE COURT.</h2> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-b c009'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>They say the Spring has come again!</div> + <div class='line in2'>There is no Spring-time here;</div> + <div class='line'>In this dark, reeking court, there seems</div> + <div class='line in2'>No change throughout the year:</div> + <div class='line'>Except, sometimes, ’tis bitter cold,</div> + <div class='line in2'>Or else ’tis hot and foul;</div> + <div class='line'>How hard it is, in such a place,</div> + <div class='line in2'>To feel one has a soul!</div> + </div> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>They say the Spring has come again!</div> + <div class='line in2'>I scarce believe ’tis so;</div> + <div class='line'>For where’s the sun, and gentle breeze,</div> + <div class='line in2'>That make the primrose blow?</div> + <div class='line'>Oh, would that I could lead my child</div> + <div class='line in2'>Over the meadows green,</div> + <div class='line'>And see him playing with the flowers</div> + <div class='line in2'><i>His</i> eyes have never seen!</div> + </div> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>His toys are but an oyster-shell,</div> + <div class='line in2'>Or piece of broken delf;</div> + <div class='line'>His playground is the gulley’s side,</div> + <div class='line in2'>With outcasts like himself!</div> + <div class='line'><i>I</i> used to play on sunny banks,</div> + <div class='line in2'>Or else by pleasant streams;</div> + <div class='line'>How oft—oh, God be thanked! how oft—</div> + <div class='line in2'>I see them in my dreams.</div> + </div> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>I used to throw my casement wide,</div> + <div class='line in2'>To breathe the morning’s breath;</div> + <div class='line'>But now I keep the window close—</div> + <div class='line in2'>The air smells so like death!</div> + <div class='line'>Once only, on my window-sill</div> + <div class='line in2'>I placed a little flower,</div> + <div class='line'>Something to tell me of the fields—</div> + <div class='line in2'>It withered in an hour.</div> + </div> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Why are we housed like filthy swine?</div> + <div class='line in2'>Swine! they have better care;</div> + <div class='line'>For we are pent up with the plague,</div> + <div class='line in2'>Shut out from light and air.</div> + <div class='line'>We work and wear our lives away,</div> + <div class='line in2'>To heap this city’s wealth;</div> + <div class='line'>But labour God decreed for us—</div> + <div class='line in2'>’Tis man denies us health!</div> + </div> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>They say the Spring has come again</div> + <div class='line in2'>To wake the sleeping seed,</div> + <div class='line'>Whether it be the tended flower,</div> + <div class='line in2'>Or poor, neglected weed!</div> + <div class='line'>Then Harvest comes. Think you our wrongs</div> + <div class='line in2'>For ever, too, will sleep?</div> + <div class='line'>The misery which man has sown,</div> + <div class='line in2'>Man will as surely reap!</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='chapter'> + <span class='pageno' id='Page_200'>200</span> + <h2 class='c004'>THE PLANET-WATCHERS OF GREENWICH.</h2> +</div> + +<p class='c010'>There is a morsel of Greenwich Park, +which has, for now nearly two centuries, been +held sacred from intrusion. It is the portion +inclosed by the walls of the Observatory. +Certainly a hundred thousand visitors must +ramble over the surrounding lawns, and look +with curious eye upon the towers and outer +boundaries of that little citadel of science, for +one who finds admission to the interior of the +building. Its brick towers, with flanking +turrets and picturesque roofs, perched on the +side of the gravelly hill, and sheltered round +about by groups of fine old trees, are as well +known as Greenwich Hospital itself. But what +work goes on inside its carefully preserved +boundary and under those moveable, black-domed +roofs, is a popular mystery. Many a +holiday-maker’s wonder has been excited by +the fall, at one o’clock, of the huge black ball, +high up there, by the weather vane on the +topmost point of the eastern turret. He knows, +or is told if he asks a loitering pensioner, that +the descent of the ball tells the time as truly +as the sun; and that all the ships in the river +watch it to set their chronometers by, before +they sail; and that all the railway clocks, and +all the railway trains over the kingdom are +arranged punctually by its indications. But +how the heavens are watched to secure this +punctual definition of the flight of time, and +what other curious labours are going on inside +the Observatory, is a sealed book. The +public have always been, of necessity, excluded +from the Observatory walls, for the +place is devoted to the prosecution of a +science whose operations are inconsistent +with the bustle, the interruptions, the talk, +and the anxieties of popular curiosity and +examination.</p> + +<p class='c007'>But when public information and instruction +are the objects, the doors are widely +opened, and the press and its <i>attachés</i> find a way +into this, as into many other sacred and forbidden +spots. Only last week one of ‘our own +contributors’ was seen in a carriage on the +Greenwich railway, poring over the paper in +the last Edinburgh Review that describes our +national astronomical establishment, and was +known afterwards to have climbed the Observatory +hill, and to have rung and gained +admission at the little black mysterious gate +in the Observatory wall. Let us see what is +told in his report of what he saw within that +sacred portal.</p> + +<p class='c007'>In the park on a fine day all seems life and +gaiety—once within the Observatory boundary, +the first feeling is that of isolation. +There is a curious stillness about the place, +and the footsteps of the old pensioner, who +closes the gate upon a visitor, echoes again +on the pavement as he goes away to wake up +from his astronomical or meteorological trance +one of the officers of this sanctum. Soon, +under the guidance of the good genius so +invoked, the secrets of the place begin to +reveal themselves.</p> + +<p class='c007'>The part of the Observatory so conspicuous +from without is the portion least used within. +When it was designed by Christopher Wren, +the general belief was that such buildings +should be lofty, that the observer might be +raised towards the heavenly bodies whose +motions he was to watch. More modern +science has taught its disciples better; and in +Greenwich,—which is an eminently practical +Observatory,—the working part of the building +is found crouching behind the loftier towers. +These are now occupied as subsidiary to the +modern practical building. The ground floor +is used as a residence by the chief astronomer; +above is the large hall originally built to +contain huge moveable telescopes and quadrants—such +as are not now employed. Now-a-days, +this hall occasionally becomes a sort of +scientific counting-house—irreverent but descriptive +term—in which, from time to time, a +band of scientific clerks are congregated to +post up the books, in which the daily business +of the planets has been jotted down by the +astronomers who watch those marvellous +bodies. Another portion is a kind of museum +of astronomical curiosities. Flamstead and +Halley, and their immediate successors, worked +in these towers, and here still rest some of +the old, rude tools with which their discoveries +were completed, and their reputation, +and the reputation of Greenwich, were established. +As time has gone on, astronomers +and opticians have invented new and more +perfect and more luxurious instruments. +Greater accuracy is thus obtainable, at a less +expenditure of human patience and labour; +and so the old tools are cast aside. One of them +belonged to Halley, and was put up by him a +hundred and thirty years ago; another is an +old brazen quadrant, with which many valuable +observations were made in by-gone times; +and another, an old iron quadrant, still fixed +in the stone pier to which it was first attached. +Some of the huge telescopes that +once found place in this old Observatory, +have been sent away. One went to the Cape +of Good Hope, and has been useful there. +Another of the unsatisfactory, and now unused, +instruments had a tube twenty-five +feet long, whose cool and dark interior was +so pleasant to the spiders that, do what they +would, the astronomers could not altogether +banish the persevering insects from it. Spin +they would; and, spite of dusting and cleaning, +and spider-killing, spin they did; and, at length, +the savans got more instruments and less patience, +and the spiders were left in quiet possession. +This has been pleasantly spoken of as an +instance of poetical justice. It is but fair that +spiders should, at times, have the best of +astronomers, for astronomers rob spiders for +the completion of their choicest instruments. +No fabric of human construction is fine +enough to strain across the eye-piece of an +important telescope, and opticians preserve a +<span class='pageno' id='Page_201'>201</span>particular race of spiders, that their webs may +be taken for that purpose. The spider lines +are strained across the best instruments at +Greenwich and elsewhere; and when the spinners +of these beautifully fine threads disturbed +the accuracy of the tube in the western wing +of the old Observatory, it was said to be but +fair retaliation for the robberies the industrious +insects had endured.</p> + +<p class='c007'>A narrow stair leads from the unused +rooms of the old Observatory to its leaded roof, +whence a magnificent view is obtained; the +park, the hospital, the town of Greenwich, and +the windings of the Thames, and, gazing +further, London itself comes grandly into the +prospect. The most inveterate astronomer +could scarcely fail to turn for a moment from +the wonders of the heavens to admire these +glories of the earth. From the leads, two +turrets are reached, where the first constantly +active operations in this portion of the building, +are in progress.</p> + +<p class='c007'>At the present time, indeed, these turrets +are the most useful portions of the old building. +In one is placed the well-known contrivance +for registering, hour after hour, and +day after day, the force and direction of the +wind. To keep such a watch by human +vigilance, and to make such a register by +human labour, would be a tedious, expensive, +and irksome task; and human ingenuity +taxed itself to make a machine for perfecting +such work. The wind turns a weather-cock, +and, by aid of cog-wheels the motion is transferred +to a lead pencil fixed over a sheet of +paper, and thus the wind is made to write +down the direction which itself is blowing. +Not far distant is a piece of metal, the flat side +of which is ever turned by the weather-cock to +meet the full force of the wind, which, blowing +upon it, drives it back against a spring. To this +spring is affixed a chain passing over pullies +towards another pencil, fixed above a sheet of +paper, and moving faithfully, more or less, as +the wind blows harder or softer. And thus +the ‘gentle zephyr’ and the fresh breeze, and +the heavy gale, and, when it comes, the furious +hurricane, are made to note down their +character and force. The sheets of paper on +which the uncertain element, the wind, is +bearing witness against itself, is fixed upon a +frame moved by clockwork. Steady as the +progress of time, this ingenious mechanism +draws the paper under the suspended pencils. +Thus each minute and each hour has its +written record, without human help or inspection. +Once a day only, an assistant +comes to put a new blank sheet in the place +of that which has been covered by the +moving pencils, and the latter is taken away +to be bound up in a volume. The book +might with truth be lettered ‘The History +of the Wind; written by Itself,’—an Æolian +autobiography.</p> + +<p class='c007'>Close by is another contrivance for registering +in decimals of an inch the quantity of rain +that falls. The drops are caught, and passing +down a tube, a permanent mark is made by +which the quantity is determined.</p> + +<p class='c007'>The eastern turret is devoted to the Time +Ball and its mechanism. Far out at sea—away +from all sources of information but those to +be asked of the planets, his compass, his +quadrant, his chronometer, and his almanack, +the mariner feels the value of <i>time</i> in a way +which the landsman can scarcely conceive. +If his chronometer is right, he may feel safe; +let him have reason to doubt its accuracy, and +he knows how the perils surrounding him +are increased. An error of a few seconds in +his time may place him in danger—an error +of a few minutes may lead him to steer +blindly to his certain wreck. Hence his +desire when he is leaving port to have his +time-pieces right to a second; and hence the +expenditure of thought, and labour, and +money, at the Greenwich Observatory, to +afford the shipping of the great port of +London, and the English navy, the exact time—true +to the tenth of a second, or six hundredth +of a minute—and to afford them also +a book, the Nautical Almanack, containing a +mass of astronomical facts, on which they may +base their calculations, with full reliance as to +their accuracy. Every day for the last seventeen +years, at five minutes before one o’clock, the +black ball five feet across and stuffed with cork, +is raised halfway up its shaft above the eastern +turret of the Observatory;—at two-and-a-half +minutes before that hour, it rises to the top. +Telescopes from many a point, both up and +down the river, are now pointed to this +dark spot above the Greenwich trees, and many +an anxious mariner has his time-pieces beside +him, that their indications may be made true. +Watch the Ball as you stand in the Park. It +is now just raised. You must wait two +minutes and a half, and as you do so, you +feel what a minute may be. It seems a long, +palpable, appreciable time, indeed. In the +turret below, stands a clock telling the true +time, gained by a laborious watching of the +<i>clock-stars</i>; and beside the clock, is a man with +a practised hand upon a trigger, and a practised +eye upon the face of the dial. One +minute—two minutes pass. Thirty seconds +more, and the trigger has released the Ball. +As it leaves the top of the shaft, it is one +o’clock to the tenth of a second. By the +time it has reached the bottom it is some +five seconds later.</p> + +<p class='c007'>Leaving the Ball Turret, and the old building +which it surmounts, the new Observatory, +where the chief work of the establishment is +done, claims our notice. This attention would +scarcely be given to its outward appearance +for it is a long low building, scarcely seen +beyond its own boundaries. The Greenwich +Observatory is not a <i>show</i> place, but an eminently +practical establishment. St. Petersburg +and other cities have much more gorgeous +buildings devoted to astronomical purposes, +and Russia and other countries spend much +more money on astronomy than England does, +<span class='pageno' id='Page_202'>202</span>yet the Greenwich Tables have a world-wide +reputation, and some of them are used as the +groundwork for calculations in all Observatories +at home and abroad. The astronomer +does not want marble halls or grand saloons +for his work. Galileo used a bell-tower at +Venice, and Kepler stood on the bridge at +Prague to watch the stars. The men, not the +buildings, do the work. No disappointment +need be felt, then, to find the modern Observatory +a range of unadorned buildings +running east and west, with slits in the roof, +and in some of the walls. Within these simple +buildings are the instruments now used, displaying +almost the perfection of mechanical +skill in their construction and finish—beautifully +adapted to the object they have to fulfil, +and in perfect order. They are fixed on solid +piers of masonry, deeply imbedded in the +earth, to secure freedom from vibration—a +quality better obtained when the foundations +are on sand or gravel than when on rock.</p> + +<p class='c007'>To describe the instruments by their technical +names, and to go into any particulars of +the instruments they have superseded, would +take space, only to do the work of a scientific +treatise. Enough, therefore, to say that there +are the telescopes best adapted to the chief +duty of the place, which is, watching the moon +whenever she is visible; watching the <i>clock-stars</i>, +by which the true time is calculated +more exactly than it could be from observations +of the sun alone; and watching other +planetary bodies as they pass the meridian. +Eclipses, occultations, and other phenomena, +of course, have their share of attention, and +add to the burden of the observer’s duties.</p> + +<p class='c007'>The staff of the Observatory includes a chief +astronomer, Mr. Airy, with a salary of 800<i>l.</i> a +year; and six assistants who are paid, 470<i>l.</i>, +290<i>l.</i>, 240<i>l.</i>, 150<i>l.</i>, 130<i>l.</i>, and 130<i>l.</i>, respectively. +This does not include the officers of the Meteorological +branch of the establishment, to be +spoken of hereafter; and which consists of Mr. +Glaisher, with 240<i>l.</i> a year, one assistant at +120<i>l.</i>, and two additional computers. At times, +when these scientific labourers have collected +more observations than they are able to work +out; additional help is summoned, in shape +of the body of scientific clerks before spoken +of; who, seated at desks, cast up the accounts +the planetary bodies, including such regular +old friends as the moon and fixed stars, but +not forgetting those wandering celestial existences +that rush, from time to time, over the +meridian, and may be fairly called the chance +customers of the astronomer.</p> + +<p class='c007'>Though the interior of the Observatory +seems so still, the life of those employed +there has its excitements. Looking through +telescopes forms a small part only of +their duty—and that duty cannot be done +when the weather is unfavourable. On +cloudy days the observer is idle; in bright +weather he is busy; and a long continuance +of clear days and nights gives him more +employment than he can well complete. +Summer, therefore, is his time of labour; +winter his time of rest. It appears that in +our climate the nights, on the whole, are +clearer than the days, and evenings less +cloudy than mornings. Every assistant takes +his turn as an observer, and a chain of duty +is kept up night and day; at other periods, +the busiest portion of the twenty-four hours +at the Observatory, is between nine in the +morning and two in the afternoon. During +this time they work in silence, the task +being to complete the records of the observations +made, by filling in the requisite columns +of figures upon printed forms, and then adding +and subtracting them as the case requires. +Whilst thus engaged, the assistant who has +charge of an instrument looks, from time to +time, at his star-regulated clock, and when +it warns him that his expected planet is nearly +due, he leaves his companions, and quietly +repairs to the room where the telescope is +ready. The adjustment of this has previously +been arranged with the greatest nicety. The +shutter is moved from the slit in the roof, the +astronomer sits upon an easy chair with a +moveable back. If the object he seeks is high +in the heavens, this chair-back is lowered till +its occupant almost lies down; if the star is +lower, the chair-back is raised in proportion. +He has his note-book and metallic pencil in +hand. Across the eye-piece of the telescope +are stretched seven lines of spider-web, dividing +the field of view. If his seat requires change, +the least motion arranges it to his satisfaction, +for it rests upon a railway of its own. Beside +him is one of the star-clocks, and as the +moment approaches for the appearance of the +planet, the excitement of the moment increases. +‘The tremble of impatience for the entrance +of the star on the field of view,’ says an +Edinburgh Reviewer, ‘is like that of a sportsman +whose dog has just made a full point, and +who awaits the rising of the game. When a +star appears, the observer, in technical language, +<i>takes a second from the clock face</i>; that +is, he reads the second with his eye, and counts +on by the ear the succeeding beats of the clock, +naming the seconds mentally. As the star +passes each wire of the transit, he marks down +in his jotting-book with a metallic pencil the +second, <i>and the second only</i>, of his observation, +with such a fraction of a second as corresponds, +in his judgment, to the interval of time +between the passage of the star, and the beat +of the clock which preceded such passage.’</p> + +<p class='c007'>An experienced observer will never commit +an error in this mental calculation, exceeding +the tenth of a second, or six hundredth +of a minute. When the star has been +thus watched over the seven cobweb lines (or +wires), the observer jots down the hour and +minute, in addition to the second, and the task +is done. Stars, not very near the sun, may be +seen in broad daylight, but, at night, it is +requisite to direct a ray of light from a lamp, +so far to enlighten the field of the telescope, +as to permit the spider lines to be seen running +<span class='pageno' id='Page_203'>203</span>across the brighter ground on which the +expected star is to be visible.</p> + +<p class='c007'>The adjustment of the instruments is a task +of great nicety. If they are out of trim only +a shadow of a shade of a hair’s-breadth, the +desired accuracy is interfered with, and they +have to be re-adjusted. Temperature is of +course an important element in their condition, +and a slight sensibility may do mischief. +The warmth of the observer’s body, +when approaching the instruments, has been +known to affect their accuracy; and to avoid +such sources of error, instruments have at +times been cased in flannel, that the non-conducting +powers of that homely fabric might +screen the too-sensitive metal.</p> + +<p class='c007'>Sunday is a comparative holiday at the +Observatory, for then, except when any extraordinary +phenomena are expected, the only +duty done is to drop the Time Ball, and observe +the moon’s place. The moon is never neglected, +and her motions have been here watched, +during the last hundred and seventy years, +with the most pertinacious care,—to the great +service of astronomy, and the great benefit of +navigation.</p> + +<p class='c007'>The library should not pass unnoticed. It +is small; but being devoted to works upon +astronomy, and the kindred sciences, there is +ample room for all that has hitherto been +written on the subject, or that can, for many +generations, be produced. The observations +of a lifetime spent in watching the stars may +be printed in marvellously few pages. A +glance through the Greenwich Astronomical +Library gives a rough general idea of what +the world has done and is doing for the promotion +of this science. Russia contributes +large, imperial-looking tomes, that tell of +extended observations made under the munificent +patronage of a despot; Germany sends +from different points a variety of smaller, +cheaper-looking, yet valuable contributions; +France gives proofs of her genius and her +discoveries; but <i>her</i> forte is not in observation. +The French are bad observers. They +have no such proofs of unremitting, patient +toil in search of facts, as those afforded in +the records of the Greenwich Tables of the +Moon. Indeed, Greenwich, as we have already +said, is a working Observatory; and +those who go into its library, and its fire-proof +manuscript-room, and see how its volumes +of observations have been growing from the +small beginnings of the days of Flamstead +and Halley, to those of our later and more +liberal times, will have good reason to acknowledge +that the money devoted to this +establishment has been well employed.</p> + +<p class='c007'>One other spot must be noticed as amongst +the notable things in this astronomical sanctum. +It is the Chronometer-room, to which, +during the first three Mondays in the year, the +chief watchmakers of London send in their +choicest instruments for examination and trial. +The watches remain for a good portion of a +year; their rates being noted, day by day, by +two persons; and then the makers of the best +receive prizes, and their instruments are purchased +for the navy. Other competitors obtain +certificates of excellence, which bring customers +from the merchant service; whilst +others pass unrewarded. To enter the room +where these admirable instruments are kept, +suggests the idea of going into a Brobdingnag +Watch-factory. Round the place are ranged +shelves, on which the large watches are placed, +all ticking in the most distinct and formidable +way one against another. When they first +arrive, in January, they are left to the ordinary +atmospheric temperature for some +months. Their rates being taken under these +circumstances, a large stove in the centre of +the apartment is lighted, and heat got up to +a sort of artificial East India or Gold Coast +point. Tried under these influences, they are +placed in an iron tray over the stove, like so +many watch-pies in a baker’s dish, and the +fire being encouraged, they are literally kept +baking, to see how their metal will stand that +style of treatment. Whilst thus hot, their +rates are once more taken; and then, after +this fiery ordeal, such of them as their owners +like to trust to an opposite test, are put into +freezing mixtures! Yet, so beautifully made +are these triumphs of human ingenuity—so +well is their mechanism ‘corrected’ for compensating +the expansion caused by the heat, +and the contraction induced by the cold—that +an even rate of going is established, so +nearly, that its variation under opposite circumstances +becomes a matter of close and +certain estimate.</p> + +<p class='c007'>The rates of chronometers on trial for +purchase by the Board of Admiralty, at the +Observatory, are posted up and printed in an +official form. Upon looking to the document +for last year, we find a statement of their +performances during six months of 1849, with +memoranda of the exact weeks during which +the chronometers were exposed to the open +air at a north window; the weeks the Chronometer-room +was heated by a stove, the +chronometers being dispersed on the surrounding +shelves; and the weeks during +which they were placed in the tray above +the stove. The rate given during the first +week of trial is in every case omitted; +like newly entered schoolboys their early +vagaries are not taken into account; but +after that, every merit and every fault is +watched with jealous care, and, when the +day of judgment comes, the order of the +arrangement of the chronometers in the list +is determined solely by consideration of their +irregularities of rate as expressed in the +columns, ‘Difference between greatest and +least,’ and, ‘Greatest difference between one +week and the next.’</p> + +<p class='c007'>The Royal Observatory, according to a +superstition not wholly extinct, is the headquarters, +not only of Astronomy, but of Astrology. +The structure is awfully regarded, by +a small section of the community which ignorance +<span class='pageno' id='Page_204'>204</span>has still left amongst us, as a manufactory +of horoscopes, and a repository for +magic mirrors and divining-rods. Not long +ago a well-dressed woman called at the +Observatory gate to request a hint as to the +means of recovering a lost sum of money; and +recently, somebody at Brighton dispatched +the liberal sum of five shillings in a post-office +order to the same place, with a request to have +his nativity cast in return! Another, only last +year, wrote as follows:—‘I have been informed +that there are persons at the Observatory who +will, by my enclosing a remittance and the hour +of my birth, give me to understand <i>who is to be +my wife</i>? An early answer, stating all particulars, +will oblige,’ &c.</p> + +<p class='c007'>This sketch descriptive of its real duties +and uses are not necessary to relieve the +Greenwich Observatory from the charge of +being an abode of sorcerers and astrologers. +A few only of the most ignorant can yet entertain +such notions of its character; but +they are not wholly unfounded. Magicians, +whose symbols are the Arabic numerals, and +whose <i>arcana</i> are mathematical computations, +daily foretell events in that building with unerring +certainty. They pre-discover the future +of the stars down to their minutest evolution +and eccentricity. From data furnished from +the Royal Observatory, is compiled an extraordinary +prophetic Almanack from which all +other almanacs are copied. It foretells to a +second when and where each of the planets +may be seen in the heavens at any minute +for the next three years. The current number +of the Nautical Almanack is for the Year of +Grace 1853.</p> + +<p class='c007'>In this quiet sanctuary, then, the winds are +made to register their own course and force, +and the rain to gauge its own quantity as it +falls; the planets are watched to help the +mariner to steer more safely over the seas; and +the heavens themselves are investigated for +materials from which their future as well as +their past history may be written.</p> + +<div class='chapter'> + <h2 class='c004'>SWEDISH FOLK-SONGS.</h2> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-b c009'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line in8'>THE DOVE ON THE LILY.</div> + <div class='line'>There sits a pure dove on a lily so white,</div> + <div class='line in2'>On midsummer morning:—</div> + <div class='line'>She sang of Christ Jesus from morning to night,</div> + <div class='line in2'>In Heaven there is great joy, O!</div> + </div> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>She sang, and she sang, ’twas a joy to hear,</div> + <div class='line'>Expecting a maiden in Heaven that year.</div> + </div> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>“And should I reach Heaven ere twelvemonths are o’er,</div> + <div class='line'>Sickness and pain I should know never more.”</div> + </div> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>To her father’s hall the maiden she went,</div> + <div class='line'>And through her left side a sharp pain was sent.</div> + </div> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>“Oh! make my bed, mother, in haste, mother dear,</div> + <div class='line'>I shall in the fields no more wander this year.”</div> + </div> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>“And speak such words, daughter, dear daughter, no more;</div> + <div class='line'>Thou shalt wed with a king ere twelvemonths are o’er.”</div> + </div> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>“Oh! better that I be in Heaven a bride,</div> + <div class='line'>Than remain on the earth amid kingly pride.</div> + </div> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>“And father, dear father, go fetch me a priest,</div> + <div class='line'>For I know that, ere long, death will be my guest.</div> + </div> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>“And brother, dear brother, go get me a bier;</div> + <div class='line'>And sister, dear sister, do thou dress my hair.”</div> + </div> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>The maiden, she died, and was laid on her bier,</div> + <div class='line'>And all her hand-maidens they plaited her hair.</div> + </div> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>They carried her out from her father’s hall door;</div> + <div class='line'>And the angels of God with lights went before.</div> + </div> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>They carried the corpse to the churchyard along,</div> + <div class='line'>And the angels of God went before with a song.</div> + </div> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>They buried the maiden beneath the dark sod,</div> + <div class='line in2'>On midsummer morning:—</div> + <div class='line'>And her coming was even well pleasing to God;</div> + <div class='line in2'>In Heaven there is great joy, O!</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='chapter'> + <h2 class='c004'>A WALK IN A WORKHOUSE.</h2> +</div> + +<p class='c010'>A few Sundays ago, I formed one of the +congregation assembled in the chapel of a +large metropolitan Workhouse. With the exception +of the clergyman and clerk, and a very +few officials, there were none but paupers +present. The children sat in the galleries; +the women in the body of the chapel, and in +one of the side aisles; the men in the remaining +aisle. The service was decorously +performed, though the sermon might have +been much better adapted to the comprehension +and to the circumstances of the hearers. +The usual supplications were offered, with +more than the usual significancy in such a +place, for the fatherless children and widows, +for all sick persons and young children, for all +that were desolate and oppressed, for the +comforting and helping of the weak-hearted, +for the raising-up of them that had fallen; +for all that were in danger, necessity, and +tribulation. The prayers of the congregation +were desired “for several persons in the +various wards, dangerously ill;” and others +who were recovering returned their thanks +to Heaven.</p> + +<p class='c007'>Among this congregation, were some evil-looking +young women, and beetle-browed +young men; but not many—perhaps that +kind of characters kept away. Generally, +the faces (those of the children excepted) +were depressed and subdued, and wanted +colour. Aged people were there, in every +variety. Mumbling, blear-eyed, spectacled, +stupid, deaf, lame; vacantly winking in the +gleams of sun that now and then crept in +through the open doors, from the paved yard; +shading their listening ears, or blinking eyes, +with their withered hands; poring over their +books, leering at nothing, going to sleep, +crouching and drooping in corners. There +were weird old women, all skeleton within, +all bonnet and cloak without, continually +wiping their eyes with dirty dusters of pocket-handkerchiefs; +and there were ugly old +crones, both male and female, with a ghastly +kind of contentment upon them which was +<span class='pageno' id='Page_205'>205</span>not at all comforting to see. Upon the whole, +it was the dragon, Pauperism, in a very weak +and impotent condition; toothless, fangless, +drawing his breath heavily enough, and hardly +worth chaining up.</p> + +<p class='c007'>When the service was over, I walked with +the humane and conscientious gentleman +whose duty it was to take that walk, that +Sunday morning, through the little world of +poverty enclosed within the workhouse walls. +It was inhabited by a population of some fifteen +hundred or two thousand paupers, ranging +from the infant newly born or not yet come +into the pauper world, to the old man dying +on his bed.</p> + +<p class='c007'>In a room opening from a squalid yard, +where a number of listless women were +lounging to and fro, trying to get warm in the +ineffectual sunshine of the tardy May morning—in +the “Itch-Ward,” not to compromise +the truth—a woman such as <span class='sc'>Hogarth</span> has +often drawn, was hurriedly getting on her +gown, before a dusty fire. She was the nurse, +or wardswoman, of that insalubrious department—herself +a pauper—flabby, raw-boned, +untidy—unpromising and coarse of aspect +as need be. But, on being spoken to about +the patients whom she had in charge, she +turned round, with her shabby gown half on, +half off, and fell a crying with all her might. Not +for show, not querulously, not in any mawkish +sentiment, but in the deep grief and affliction +of her heart; turning away her dishevelled +head: sobbing most bitterly, wringing her +hands, and letting fall abundance of great +tears, that choked her utterance. What was +the matter with the nurse of the itch-ward? +Oh, “the dropped child” was dead! Oh, the +child that was found in the street, and she +had brought up ever since, had died an +hour ago, and see where the little creature +lay, beneath this cloth! The dear, the pretty +dear!</p> + +<p class='c007'>The dropped child seemed too small and poor +a thing for Death to be in earnest with, but +Death had taken it; and already its diminutive +form was neatly washed, composed, and +stretched as if in sleep upon a box. I thought +I heard a voice from Heaven saying, It shall +be well for thee, O nurse of the itch-ward, +when some less gentle pauper does those offices +to thy cold form, that such as the dropped +child are the angels who behold my Father’s +face!</p> + +<p class='c007'>In another room, were several ugly old +women crouching, witch-like, round a hearth, +and chattering and nodding, after the manner +of the monkies. “All well here? And +enough to eat?” A general chattering and +chuckling; at last an answer from a volunteer. +“Oh yes gentleman! Bless you gentleman! +Lord bless the parish of St. So-and-So! It +feed the hungry, Sir, and give drink to the +thirsty, and it warm them which is cold, so +it do, and good luck to the parish of St. +So-and-So, and thankee gentleman!” Elsewhere, +a party of pauper nurses were at dinner. +“How do <i>you</i> get on?” “Oh pretty well +Sir! We works hard, and we lives hard—like +the sodgers!”</p> + +<p class='c007'>In another room, a kind of purgatory or +place of transition, six or eight noisy mad-women +were gathered together, under the +superintendence of one sane attendant. Among +them was a girl of two or three and twenty, +very prettily dressed, of most respectable +appearance, and good manners, who had been +brought in from the house where she had +lived as domestic servant (having, I suppose, +no friends), on account of being subject to +epileptic fits, and requiring to be removed +under the influence of a very bad one. She +was by no means of the same stuff, or the +same breeding, or the same experience, or in +the same state of mind, as those by whom +she was surrounded; and she pathetically +complained that the daily association and the +nightly noise made her worse, and was +driving her mad—which was perfectly evident. +The case was noted for enquiry and +redress, but she said she had already been +there for some weeks.</p> + +<p class='c007'>If this girl had stolen her mistress’s watch, +I do not hesitate to say she would, in all +probability, have been infinitely better off. +Bearing in mind, in the present brief description +of this walk, not only the facts already +stated in this Journal, in reference to the +Model Prison at Pentonville, but the general +treatment of convicted prisoners under the +associated silent system too, it must be +once more distinctly set before the reader, +that we have come to this absurd, this dangerous, +this monstrous pass, that the dishonest +felon is, in respect of cleanliness, order, diet, +and accommodation, better provided for, and +taken care of, than the honest pauper.</p> + +<p class='c007'>And this conveys no special imputation on +the workhouse of the parish of St. So-and-So, +where, on the contrary, I saw many things to +commend. It was very agreeable, recollecting +that most infamous and atrocious enormity +committed at Tooting—an enormity which, a +hundred years hence, will still be vividly +remembered in the bye-ways of English life, +and which has done more to engender a +gloomy discontent and suspicion among +many thousands of the people than all the +Chartist leaders could have done in all their +lives—to find the pauper children in this +workhouse looking robust and well, and apparently +the objects of very great care. In the +Infant School—a large, light, airy room at the +top of the building—the little creatures, being +at dinner, and eating their potatoes heartily, +were not cowed by the presence of strange +visitors, but stretched out their small hands +to be shaken, with a very pleasant confidence. +And it was comfortable to see two mangey +pauper rocking-horses rampant in a corner. +In the girls’ school, where the dinner was also +in progress, everything bore a cheerful and +healthy aspect. The meal was over, in the +boys’ school, by the time of our arrival there +<span class='pageno' id='Page_206'>206</span>and the room was not yet quite re-arranged; +but the boys were roaming unrestrained about +a large and airy yard, as any other schoolboys +might have done. Some of them had +been drawing large ships upon the schoolroom +wall; and if they had a mast with shrouds +and stays set up for practice (as they have in +the Middlesex House of Correction), it would +be so much the better. At present, if a boy +should feel a strong impulse upon him to +learn the art of going aloft, he could only +gratify it, I presume, as the men and women +paupers gratify their aspirations after better +board and lodging, by smashing as many +workhouse windows as possible, and being +promoted to prison.</p> + +<p class='c007'>In one place, the Newgate of the Workhouse, +a company of boys and youths were +locked up in a yard alone; their day-room +being a kind of kennel where the casual poor +used formerly to be littered down at night. +Divers of them had been there some long +time. “Are they never going away?” was the +natural enquiry. “Most of them are crippled, +in some form or other,” said the Wardsman, +“and not fit for anything.” They slunk about, +like dispirited wolves or hyænas; and made +a pounce at their food when it was served out, +much as those animals do. The big-headed +idiot shuffling his feet along the pavement, in +the sunlight outside, was a more agreeable +object everyway.</p> + +<p class='c007'>Groves of babies in arms; groves of mothers +and other sick women in bed; groves of +lunatics; jungles of men in stone-paved +down-stairs day-rooms, waiting for their +dinners; longer and longer groves of old +people, in upstairs Infirmary wards, wearing +out life, God knows how—this was the +scenery through which the walk lay, for two +hours. In some of these latter chambers, +there were pictures stuck against the wall, +and a neat display of crockery and pewter on +a kind of sideboard; now and then it was a +treat to see a plant or two; in almost every +ward, there was a cat.</p> + +<p class='c007'>In all of these Long Walks of aged and +infirm, some old people were bed-ridden, and +had been for a long time; some were sitting +on their beds half-naked; some dying in their +beds; some out of bed, and sitting at a table +near the fire. A sullen or lethargic indifference +to what was asked, a blunted sensibility +to everything but warmth and food, a +moody absence of complaint as being of no +use, a dogged silence and resentful desire to +be left alone again, I thought were generally +apparent. On our walking into the midst +of one of these dreary perspectives of old +men, nearly the following little dialogue +took place, the nurse not being immediately +at hand:</p> + +<p class='c007'>“All well here?”</p> + +<p class='c007'>No answer. An old man in a Scotch cap +sitting among others on a form at the table, +eating out of a tin porringer, pushes back his +cap a little to look at us, claps it down on his +forehead again, with the palm of his hand, and +goes on eating.</p> + +<p class='c007'>“All well here?” (repeated.)</p> + +<p class='c007'>No answer. Another old man sitting on +his bed, paralytically peeling a boiled potato, +lifts his head, and stares.</p> + +<p class='c007'>“Enough to eat?”</p> + +<p class='c007'>No answer. Another old man, in bed, +turns himself and coughs.</p> + +<p class='c007'>“How are <i>you</i> to-day?” To the last old +man.</p> + +<p class='c007'>That old man says nothing; but another +old man, a tall old man of a very good address, +speaking with perfect correctness, comes +forward from somewhere, and volunteers an +answer. The reply almost always proceeds +from a volunteer, and not from the person +looked at or spoken to.</p> + +<p class='c007'>“We are very old, Sir,” in a mild, distinct +voice. “We can’t expect to be well, most +of us.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“Are you comfortable?”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“I have no complaint to make, Sir.” With +a half shake of his head, a half shrug of his +shoulders, and a kind of apologetic smile.</p> + +<p class='c007'>“Enough to eat?”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“Why, Sir, I have but a poor appetite,” with +the same air as before; “and yet I get through +my allowance very easily.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“But,” showing a porringer with a Sunday +dinner in it; “here is a portion of mutton, and +three potatoes. You can’t starve on that?”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“Oh dear no, Sir,” with the same apologetic +air. “Not starve.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“What do you want?”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“We have very little bread, Sir. It’s an +exceedingly small quantity of bread.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>The nurse, who is now rubbing her hands +at the questioner’s elbow, interferes with, “It +ain’t much raly, Sir. You see they’ve only +six ounces a day, and when they’ve took their +breakfast, there <i>can</i> only be a little left for +night, Sir.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>Another old man, hitherto invisible, rises +out of his bedclothes, as out of a grave, and +looks on.</p> + +<p class='c007'>“You have tea at night?” The questioner +is still addressing the well-spoken old +man.</p> + +<p class='c007'>“Yes, Sir, we have tea at night.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“And you save what bread you can from +the morning, to eat with it?”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“Yes, Sir—if we can save any.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“And you want more to eat with it?”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“Yes, Sir.” With a very anxious face.</p> + +<p class='c007'>The questioner, in the kindness of his heart, +appears a little discomposed, and changes the +subject.</p> + +<p class='c007'>“What has become of the old man who +used to lie in that bed in the corner?”</p> + +<p class='c007'>The nurse don’t remember what old man is +referred to. There has been such a many old +men. The well-spoken old man is doubtful. +The spectral old man who has come to life in +bed, says, “Billy Stevens.” Another old man +who has previously had his head in the fireplace, +pipes out,</p> + +<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_207'>207</span>“Charley Walters.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>Something like a feeble interest is awakened. +I suppose Charley Walters had conversation +in him.</p> + +<p class='c007'>“He’s dead!” says the piping old man.</p> + +<p class='c007'>Another old man, with one eye screwed +up, hastily displaces the piping old man, and +says:</p> + +<p class='c007'>“Yes! Charley Walters died in that bed, +and—and—”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“Billy Stevens,” persists the spectral old +man.</p> + +<p class='c007'>“No, no! and Johnny Rogers died in that +bed, and—and—they’re both on ’em dead—and +Sam’l Bowyer;” this seems very extraordinary +to him; “he went out!”</p> + +<p class='c007'>With this he subsides, and all the old men +(having had quite enough of it) subside, and +the spectral old man goes into his grave again, +and takes the shade of Billy Stevens with +him.</p> + +<p class='c007'>As we turn to go out at the door, another +previously invisible old man, a hoarse old man +in a flannel gown, is standing there, as if he +had just come up through the floor.</p> + +<p class='c007'>“I beg your pardon, Sir, could I take the +liberty of saving a word?”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“Yes; what is it?”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“I am greatly better in my health, Sir; +but what I want, to get me quite round,” with +his hand on his throat, “is a little fresh air, +Sir. It has always done my complaint so +much good, Sir. The regular leave for going +out, comes round so seldom, that if the gentlemen, +next Friday, would give me leave to +go out walking, now and then—for only an +hour or so, Sir!—”</p> + +<p class='c007'>Who could wonder, looking through those +weary vistas of bed and infirmity, that it +should do him good to meet with some other +scenes, and assure himself that there was +something else on earth? Who could help +wondering why the old men lived on as they +did; what grasp they had on life; what crumbs +of interest or occupation they could pick up +from its bare board; whether Charley Walters +had ever described to them the days when he +kept company with some old pauper woman +in the bud, or Billy Stevens ever told them of +the time when he was a dweller in the far-off +foreign land called Home!</p> + +<p class='c007'>The morsel of burnt child, lying in another +room, so patiently, in bed, wrapped in lint, +and looking stedfastly at us with his bright +quiet eyes when we spoke to him kindly, +looked as if the knowledge of these things, and +of all the tender things there are to think +about, might have been in his mind—as if he +thought, with us, that there was a fellow-feeling +in the pauper nurses which appeared to +make them more kind to their charges than the +race of common nurses in the hospitals—as if +he mused upon the Future of some older +children lying around him in the same place, +and thought it best, perhaps, all things considered, +that he should die—as if he knew, +without fear, of those many coffins, made and +unmade, piled up in the store below—and of +his unknown friend, “the dropped child,” +calm upon the box-lid covered with a cloth. +But there was something wistful and appealing, +too, in his tiny face, as if, in the midst of +all the hard necessities and incongruities he +pondered on, he pleaded, in behalf of the helpless +and the aged poor, for a little more liberty—and +a little more bread.</p> + +<div class='chapter'> + <h2 class='c004'>THE “IRISH DIFFICULTY” SOLVED BY CON Mc Nale.</h2> +</div> + +<p class='c010'>Con Mc Nale would have been summarily +repudiated as an Irishman by our farce-writers +and slashing novelists. He neither +drank, fought, nor swore; did not make many +blunders; and never addressed a friend either +as his ‘honey’ or his ‘jewel.’ His <i>cotamore</i> +was of stout frieze, and though Con had long +attained his full height, the tailor had left +him room to grow. The <i>caubeen</i> was not his +head-dress, for Con had arrived at the dignity +of a silk hat, which had been manufactured, +as the mark in the crown declared, by the +Saxons in the Borough of Southwark, which +locality Con believed to be in the n<i>a</i>ighbourhood +of England. The brogues were also +absent, but were favourably represented by +shoes of native manufacture laced with stout +thongs. In fact, Mr. Mc Nale was a fine +specimen of the finest <i>pisantry</i> in the world—without +the rags.</p> + +<p class='c007'>People have gone to the Highlands and +to Switzerland, and perhaps seen many +places not much more grand and picturesque +than the district where Con Mc Nale had +made a patch of the desert to smile. A +long range of blue mountains rising irregularly +above each other, looked down on an extensive +plain, that lay along the shore of a +mighty lake, to the banks of which thick +plantations crowded so near that the old Irish +called the water <i>Lough-glas</i>, which signifies +waters of green. The districts where a short +but thick and sweet herbage sprung up among +the rocks, were certainly put to the use of feeding +cattle, and it was while employed there as a +herd-boy, that Con Mc Nale determined to +become a farmer. His mind was made up. +His earnings were hardly enough to keep life +in him, and if he had tried to save the price +of a spade out of them to begin business with, +the chances are that he would have died +prematurely for want of food. But that didn’t +matter much; he was determined to be a +farmer. This determination was then as +likely of fulfilment as that of Oliver Cromwell +to become Protector of the Realm, while +tending the vats at Huntingdon; or that +of Aladdin to become a prince, when he was +a ragged boy in the streets of Bagdad. To +show, however, what perseverance will do, +when I made acquaintance with Mr. Con Mc Nale +he had actually got possession of a spade, +and was making good use of it in a ditch—his +own ditch, on his own land. As he went on, +<span class='pageno' id='Page_208'>208</span>now digging, now resting on the handle, he +told me all about his gradual promotion from +a herd-boy to a country jontleman.</p> + +<p class='c007'>“My father,” said he, “lived under ould +Squire Kilkelly, an’ for awhile tinded his +cattle: but the Squire’s gone out iv this part iv +the counthry, to Australia or some furrin part, +an’ the mentioned house (mansion house) an’ +the fine propperty was sould, so it was, for little +or nothin’, for the fightin’ was over in furrin +parts; Boney was put down, an’ there was +no price for corn or cattle, an’ a jontleman +from Scotland came an’ bought the istate. +We were warned by the new man to go, for +he tuk in his own hand all the in-land about +the domain, bein’ a grate farmer. He put +nobody in our little place, but pulled it +down, an’ he guv father a five guinea note, +but my father was ould an’ not able to face +the world agin, an’ he went to the town +an’ tuk a room—a poor, dirty, choky place +it was for him, myself, and sisther to live +in. The naighbours were very kind an’ +good, though. Sister Bridget got a place wid +a farmer hereabouts, and I tuk the world on +my own showlders. I had nothin’ at all but the +rags I stud up in, an’ they were bad enuf. +Poor Biddy got a shillin’ advanced iv her +wages that her masther was to giv her. She +guv it me, for I was bent on goin’ towards +Belfast to look for work. All along the road +I axed at every place; they could giv it me +but to no good, except when I axed, they’d +giv me a bowl iv broth, or a piece iv bacon, +or an oaten bannock, so that I had my shillin’ +to the fore when I got to Belfast.</p> + +<p class='c007'>“Here the heart was near lavin’ me all out +intirely. I went wandtherin’ down to the +quay among the ships, and what should there +be but a ship goin’ to Scotland that very night, +wid pigs. In throth it was fun to see the sailors +at cross-purposes wid ’em, for they didn’t know +the natur iv the bastes. I did. I knew how +to coax ’em. I set to an’ I deludhered an’ +coaxed the pigs, an’, by pullin’ them by +the tail, knowing that if they took a fancy +I wished to pull ’em back out of the ship, +they’d run might and main into her, and so +they did. Well, the sailors were mightily +divarted, an’ when the pigs was aboord, I +wint down to the place—an’ the short iv it is +that in three days I was in Glasgow town, an’ +the captain an’ the sailors subschribed up tin-shillins +an’ guv it into my hand. Well, I +bought a raping hook, an’ away I trudged +till I got quite an’ clane into the counthry, an’ +the corn was, here and there, fit to cut. At +last I goes an’ ax a farmer for work. He +thought I was too wake to be paid by the day, +but one field havin’ one corner fit to cut, an’ +the next not ready, ‘Paddy,’ says he, ‘you may +begin in that corner, an’ I’ll pay yees by the +work yees do,’ an’ he guv me my breakfast +an’ a pint of beer. Well, I never quit that +masther the whole harvest, an’ when the +raping was over I had four goolden guineas to +carry home, besides that I was as sthrong as a +lion. Yees would wonder how glad the sailors +was to see me back agin, an’ ne’er a farthin’ +would they take back iv their money, +but tuk me over agin to Belfast, givin’ me the +hoighth of good thratemint of all kinds. I +did not stay an hour in Belfast, but tuk to the +road to look afther the ould man an’ little +Biddy. Well, sorrows the tidins’ I got. The +ould man had died, an’ the grief an’ +disthress of poor little Biddy had even +touched her head a little. The dacent people +where she was, may the Lord reward ’em, +though they found little use in her, kep her, +hoping I would be able to come home an’ keep +her myself, an’ so I was. I brought her away +wid me, an’ the sight iv me put new life in +her. I was set upon not being idle, an’ I’ll +tell yees what I did next.</p> + +<p class='c007'>“When I was little <i>bouchaleen</i> iv a boy I +used to be a head on the mountain face, an’ +’twas often I sheltered myself behind them +gray rocks that’s at the gable iv my house, an’ +somehow it came into my head that the new +Squire, being a grate man for improvin’, +might let me try to brake in a bit iv land +there, an’ so I goes off to him, an’ one iv the +sarvints bein’ a sort iv cousin iv mine, I got +to spake to the Squire, an’ behould yees he guv +me lave at onst. Well, there’s no time like +the prisint, an’ as I passed out iv the back +yard of the mentioned (mansion) house, I sees +the sawyers cutting some Norway firs that had +been blown down by the storm, an’ I tells +the sawyers that I had got lave to brake in +a bit iv land in the mountains, an’ what +would some pieces iv fir cost. They says they +must see what kind of pieces they was that +I wished for, an’ no sooner had I set about +looking ’em through than the Squire himself +comes ridin’ out of the stable-yard, an’ says he +at onst, Mc Nale, says he, you may have a load +iv cuttins to build your cabin, or two if you +need it. ‘The Heavens be your honour’s bed,’ +says I, an’ I wint off to the room where +I an’ Biddy lived, not knowin’ if I was +on my head or my heels. Next day, before +sunrise, I was up here five miles up the face +of Slieve-dan, with a spade in my fist, an’ I +looked roun’ for the most shiltered spot I +could sit my eyes an. Here I saw, where the +house an’ yard are stan’in, a plot iv about +an acre to the south iv that tall ridge of rocks, +well sheltered from the blast from the north +an’ from the aste, an’ it was about sunrise +an’ a fine morning in October that I tuk up the +first spadeful. There was a spring then drippin’ +down the face iv the rocks, the same you +see gushin’ through the crockery pipe in the +farm-yard; an’ I saw at once that it would +make the cabin completely damp, an’ the land +about mighty sour an’ water-<i>slain</i>; so I determined +to do what I saw done in Scotland. +I sunk a deep drain right under the rock to +run all along the back iv the cabin, an’ workin’ +that day all alone by myself, I did a grate +dale iv it. At night, it was close upon dark +when I started to go home, so I hid my spade +<span class='pageno' id='Page_209'>209</span>in the heath an’ trudged off. The next mornin’ +I bargined with a farmer to bring me up +a load iv fir cuttins from the Squire’s, an’ by +the evenin’ they were thrown down within a +quarter iv a mile iv my place,—for there was +no road to it then, an’ I had to carry ’em +myself for the remainder of the way. This +occupied me till near nightfall; but I remained +that night till I placed two upright posts of +fir, one at each corner iv the front iv the +cabin.</p> + +<p class='c007'>“I was detarmined to get the cabin finished +as quickly as possible, that I might be able to +live upon the spot, for much time was lost in +goin’ and comin’. The next day I was up +betimes, an’ finding a track iv stiff blue clay, +I cut a multitude of thick square sods iv it, +an’ having set up two more posts at the +remainin’ two corners iv the cabin, I laid four +rows iv one gable, rising it about three feet +high. Havin’ laid the rows, I sharpind +three or four straight pine branches, an’ +druv them down through the sods into the +earth, to pin the wall in its place. Next day +I had a whole gable up, each three rows iv +sods pinned through to the three benathe. In +about eight days I had put up the four walls, +makin’ a door an’ two windows; an’ now my +outlay began, for I had to pay a thatcher to +put on the sthraw an’ to assist me in risin’ the +rafthers. In another week it was covered in, +an’ it was a pride to see it with the new +thatch, an’ a wicker chimbley daubed with +clay, like a pallis undernathe the rock. I +now got some turf that those who had cut +’em had not removed, an’ they sould ’em +for a thrifle, an’ I made a grate fire an’ slept +on the flure of my own house that night. +Next day I got another load iv fir brought, to +make the partitions in the winter, an’ in a +day or two after I had got the inside so +dhry that I was able to bring poor Biddy to +live there for good and all. The Heavens be +praised, there was not a shower iv rain fell +from the time I began the cabin till I ended +it, an’ when the rain did fall, not a drop +came through,—all was carried off by my +dhrain into the little river before yees. The +moment I was settled in the house I comminced +dhraining about an acre iv bog in front, +an’ the very first winter I sowed a shillin’s +worth of cabbidge seed, an’ sold in the spring +a pound’s worth of little cabbidge plants for +the gardins in the town below. When spring +came—noticin’ how the early planted praties +did the best, I planted my cabbidge ground +with praties, an’ I had a noble crap, while +the ground was next year fit for the corn. In +the mane time, every winther I tuk in more and +more ground, an’ in summer I cut my turf +for fewel; where the cuttins could answer, in +winther, for a dhrain; an’ findin’ how good the +turf were, I got a little powney an’ carried +’em to the town to sell, when I was able to +buy lime in exchange, an’ put it on my bog, +so as to make it produce double. As things +went on, I got assistance, an’ when I marrid, +my wife had two cows that guv me a grate +lift.</p> + +<p class='c007'>“I was always thought to be a handy boy; +an’ I could do a turn of mason-work with +any man not riglarly bred to it; so I took +one of my loads of lime, an’ instead of puttin’ +it on the land, I made it into morthar—and +indeed the stones being no ways scarce, I set +to an’ built a little kiln, like as I had seen +down the counthry. I could then burn my +own lime, an’ the limestone were near to my +hand, too many iv ’em. While all this was +goin’ on, I had riz an’ sould a good dale iv +oats and praties, an’ every summer I found +ready sale for my turf in the town from one +jontleman that I always charged at an even +rate, year by year. I got the help of a stout +boy, a cousin iv my own, who was glad iv a +shilter; an’ when the childher were ould +enough, I got some young cattle that could +graze upon the mountain in places where no +other use could be made iv the land, and set +the gossoons to herd ’em.</p> + +<p class='c007'>“There was one bit iv ground nigh han’ to +the cabin, that puzzled me intirely. It was +very poor and sandy, an’ little better than +a rabbit burrow; an’ telling the Squire’s +Scotch steward iv it, he bade me thry some +flax, an’ sure enuf, so I did, an’ a fine crap +iv flax I had, as you might wish to see; an’ +the stame-mills being beginnin’ in the counthry +at that time, I sould my flax for a very +good price—my wife having dhried it, beetled +it, an’ scutched it with her own two hands. I +should have said before, that the Squire himself +came up here with a lot iv fine ladies and +jontlemen to see what I had done; an’ you +never in your life seed a man so well plased +as he was, an’ a Mimber of Parlimint from +Scotland was with him, an’ he tould me I was a +credit to ould Ireland; and sure, didn’t Father +Connor read upon the papers, how he tould +the whole story in the Parlimint House +before all the lords an’ quality: but faix, he +didn’t forgit me; for a month or two after he +was here, an’ it coming on the winter, comes +word for me an’ the powney to go down to +the mentioned (mansion) house, for the steward +wanted me; so away I wint, an’ there, shure +enuf, was an illigant Scotch plough, every +inch of iron, an’ a lot of young Norroway +pines—the same you see shiltering the house +an’ yard—an’ all was a free prisint for me +from the Scotch jontleman that was the +Mimber of Parliment. ’Twas that plough +that did the meracles iv work hereabouts; +for I often lint it to any that I knew to be a +careful hand; an’ it was the manes iv havin’ +the farmers all round send an’ buy ’em. At +last I was able to build a brave snug house; +and praised be Providence, I have never had +an hour’s ill health, nor a moment’s grief, but +when poor Biddy, the cratur, died from us. +It is thirty years since that morning that I +tuk up the first spadeful from the wild +mountain side; an’ twelve acres are good +labour land, an’ fifteen drained, an’ good +<span class='pageno' id='Page_210'>210</span>grazin’. I have been payin’ rint twinty +years, an’ am still, thank God, able to take +my own part iv any day’s work,—plough, +spade, or flail.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“Have you got a lease?” said I.</p> + +<p class='c007'>“No, indeed; not a schrape of a pin; nor +I never axed it. Have I not my <i>tinnant-rite</i>?”</p> + +<p class='c007'>From that subject, Mr. Mc Nale diverged +slightly into politics, touching on the state of +the <i>counthry</i>, and untwisting some entanglements +of the ‘Irish difficulty’ that might be +usefully made known in the neighbourhood +of Westminster.</p> + +<p class='c007'>“Troth, Sir,” said Con, “you English are +mighty grand in all your doings. You dale +wholesale in all sorts iv things; good luck to +you—in charity as well as in pigs, praties, +an’ sich like. Well you want to improve +Ireland by wholesale; you set up illigant +schames for puttin’ us all to rights by the +million; for clanin’ an’ dranin’ a whole +province at onst; for giving labour to everybody; +an’ all mighty purty on paper, with +figures all as round an’ nate as copybooks, +with long rigiments of O’s, after ’em. I’ve +heard iv whole stacks of papers piled up an’ +handsomely ticketed in tidy big offices—all +‘rules and riglations’ for labourers, which +the boys can’t follow, and the inspectors +can’t force. Why not,” continued Mr. Con, +giving his spade a thrust into the ground +that sent it up to the maker’s name, “Why +not tache the boys to do as I have done?”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“But all are not so persevering, so knowing, +and so fond of work as you.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>Whether Mr. Mc Nale was impressed by +his own modesty, or by the force of my suggestion, +I know not. But he was silent.</p> + +<div class='chapter'> + <h2 class='c004'>WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.</h2> +</div> + +<p class='c010'>William Wordsworth was born on the +7th of April, 1770; he died on the 23d of +April, 1850. His life was prolonged for ten +years beyond the space attributed to man by +the inspired Psalmist. He lived in an age +unprecedented for its social and civil revolutions; +for its discoveries in science, and their +practical application. He was fourteen years +of age when the new North American Republic +was finally recognised as one of the +brotherhood of nations; he witnessed the +French Revolution; the subjection of every +monarchy in Europe, except England and +Russia, to the absolute will of a French +emperor; the instalment and evaporation of +the Holy Alliance; the European war of +twenty years, and the European peace of +thirty-two years; one Pope carried into +exile by a foreign conqueror, another driven +into exile by his own subjects: and at home, +the trials of Hardy and Thelwall; the Bank +Restriction Act; the origination of the Bell +and Lancaster systems of Education; the visit +of the allied monarchs to London; the passing +of Peel’s Bill; the introduction of Palmer’s +mail-coaches and M‘Adam’s roads; the invention +of steam navigation; the pausing of the +Reform Bill; the development of the Railway +system, and the Electric telegraph. He was +the contemporary of Davey, Herschell, Bentham, +Godwin, Malthus and Ricardo, Byron, +Scott, Wilkie, Chantrey, Fox, Pitt, Canning +and Brougham.</p> + +<p class='c007'>Wordsworth’s age was one of stirring +events and great changes. The character of +his poetry is in startling contrast to that age. +It is passionless, a record of the poet’s own +mind; simple and austere, emanating from +his own independent thoughts and fancies; +receiving little of its form and colour from +external events, or the feelings and opinions +of men. For eighty long years, Wordsworth +would almost appear to have lived ‘<i>among</i> +men, not <i>of</i> them;’ sympathising as little with +the ephemeral pursuits of his contemporaries +as the colossal Memnon does with the Copts, +Turks, and Arabs who now tenant the banks +of the Nile.</p> + +<p class='c007'>William Wordsworth was born in the +little county town of Cockermouth; his +father was an attorney—not a wealthy man, +but in circumstances that enabled him to give +his family a fair education. One son entered +the merchant service, rose to command a +vessel, and perished at sea. Another has +acquired a name as master of Harrow, and +the author of a delightful book on Greece, +full of delicate beauty and fine classical +feeling. The allusions by William to his +favourite sister are among the most touching +passages in his poems; and one or two little +pieces of verse, and some extracts from her +journals, which he has published, show that +she was every way deserving of his love. +The poetical dedication of the River Duddon +to Dr. Wordsworth, is full of delightful allusions +to the boyhood of the brothers, and +conveys a pleasing impression of their family +relations.</p> + +<p class='c007'>Our poet received the rudiments of his +education at the grammar school of Hawkeshead, +in Westmoreland, conducted in his time +by a master of more than ordinary attainments. +In 1787, he matriculated at St. John’s +College, Cambridge. Even in his boyhood it +was obvious that he possessed superior +abilities, but they were not of the showy and +ambitious kind which achieve school or college +distinction. He was partial to solitary +rambles; fond of reading and reciting verses; +a boy whom elder men ‘singled out for his +grave looks,’ as he has said in the Excursion, +and liked to converse with.</p> + +<p class='c007'>It was intended that he should enter the +Church, the family circumstances rendering it +necessary that he should adopt a profession. +But, independently of his wish to devote +himself exclusively to literary pursuits, he had +caught the prevalent spirit of the time—the +aversion to conventional forms and opinions. +A moderate income, settled upon him by +Raisley Calvert, the victim of a premature +<span class='pageno' id='Page_211'>211</span>decline, enabled him to follow his inclinations. +This benefit the poet has gratefully acknowledged:—</p> + +<div class='lg-container-b c011'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>‘Calvert, it must not be unheard by them</div> + <div class='line'>Who may respect my name, that I to thee</div> + <div class='line'>Owed many years of early liberty.</div> + <div class='line'>This care was thine, when sickness did condemn</div> + <div class='line'>Thy youth to hopeless wasting, root and stem;</div> + <div class='line'>That I, if frugal and severe, might stray</div> + <div class='line'>Where’er I liked; and finally array</div> + <div class='line'>My temples with the Muse’s diadem.’</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c007'>After leaving College he made extensive +tours on foot, in Scotland and on the Continent +with a youthful friend. In 1793 he +for the first time ventured into print. Two +small volumes appeared in that year: “Descriptive +Sketches, in verse, taken during a +Pedestrian Tour among the Alps;” and “An +Evening Walk, an Epistle in Verse, addressed +to a young Lady from the Lakes in the North +of England.” In these poems we find no +traces of the poetical theory which he subsequently +adopted. But they are characterised +by the same, almost exclusive, preference for +lakes, cataracts and mountains, the elementary +beauty of external nature, human passions +and incidents, and they contain many passages +of glaring imagination powerfully +expressed.</p> + +<p class='c007'>In 1796 he took up his abode with his +sister at Allfaxden, at the foot of the Quantock +Hills, in Somersetshire. This was an +important era in the development of his intellect +and imagination. During his residence +at Allfaxden he was in constant and unreserved +communication with Coleridge. +Totally dissimilar as the two men were in +character, they had many sympathies. Upon +both, the classical tastes and ecclesiastical +opinions inculcated at English schools and +colleges, had, without their being aware of +it, made a deep and indelible impression. Both +had been animated by the vague but ardent +longings after an undefined liberty, and perfection +of human nature, then prevalent. +They were isolated from general sympathy +without knowing it; from the revolutionary +party by their literary tastes and strong +attachment to traditional English morals; +from the Church and State party by their +freedom from sectarian narrowness. The +resolute independence of thought of the +young poets is worthy of all admiration; +their frank and cordial communication of +all their thoughts, equally so. A pleasing +though brief sketch of them at that time +has been given by Hazlitt, in an essay, entitled, +‘My first Acquaintance with Poets;’ +a more petulant and shallow account, which +yet contains some valuable information, by +Cottle.</p> + +<p class='c007'>The result of this literary alliance was the +first volume of the “Lyrical Ballads.” The +quiet but perfect melody of Wordsworth’s +versification and the depth of the human +sentiment in his reflections, the more swelling +tone of Coleridge’s verse and his wild +unearthly imaginings, might have secured +a more favourable reception for his work, +had it not been announced as the result of +a new theory of poetry. That theory was +misapprehended by the critics of the day, +and was indeed inadequately expressed by +its authors themselves. Coleridge subsequently +developed it in more precise and +unexceptionable language in his Biographia +Literaria. The effect of its premature announcement +was, that the Lyrical Ballads +were judged, not by their own intrinsic merits, +but by the theory upon which they were said +to have been constructed.</p> + +<p class='c007'>The insurmountable indolence of Coleridge—always +planning works too great for human +accomplishment, and resting satisfied with +projects—left Wordsworth to pursue his path +alone. This he did with characteristic pertinacity +of purpose; if criticism had any influence +on him at all, it was only to confirm +him in his foregone conclusions. After an +excursion to Germany, in which he was +accompanied by his sister and Coleridge, he +returned to his native country, ‘with the +hope,’ as he has told us in his Preface to the +Excursion, ‘of being enabled to construct a +literary work that might live.’</p> + +<p class='c007'>In 1803, Wordsworth married his cousin, +Miss Mary Hutchinson, and settled at Grasmere. +He removed in a few years to Rydal +Mount, where he continued to reside till his +death. Subsequently to this time his life is +utterly devoid of personal incident, and may +be briefly recapitulated before proceeding to +chronicle his poetical productions, which are +indeed his life. By his wife, who survives +him, he had one daughter, who died before +him, and two sons, one of whom holds a +vicarage in Cumberland, the other is a distributor +of stamps. In 1814, Wordsworth, +by the patronage of the Earl of Lonsdale, +was appointed distributor of stamps for Cumberland +and Westmoreland—a recognition of +the claims of genius to public support only +second in eccentricity to the making of Burns +an exciseman. After holding this office for +twenty-eight years, he was allowed to relinquish +it to his eldest son, and retire upon a +pension of 300<i>l.</i> a year. In 1843, he succeeded +Southey in the limited emoluments +and questionable dignity of the Laureateship. +His slender inheritance, the beneficence of +Raisley Calvert, his office under Government, +his retiring pension, and his emoluments as +Laureate, sufficed, with his simple tastes, to +enable him to wait the slow pecuniary returns +of his literary labours.</p> + +<p class='c007'>While the critical storm awakened by the +Preface to the Lyrical Ballads was still +raging, he composed his Peter Bell and his +Waggoner, which were not, however, published +till many years later. They are full of fine +and deep-felt poetry. Their language is +genuine racy English, and their versification +unsurpassed for sweetness. It cannot, however, +<span class='pageno' id='Page_212'>212</span>be denied that they are marked by a self-willed, +exaggerated adherence to the theory of +poetry he had promulgated, the effect of something +that is very like a spirit of contradiction. +In a playful adaptation of Milton’s sonnet, +Tetrachordon, Wordsworth defends his choice +of subjects by the admiration felt or professed +for Tam o’ Shanter. He overlooks the utter +difference between the mode in which Burns +conceived and executed that poem, and himself +his Benjamin the Waggoner. Burns was +for the time the hero himself. In Tam o’ +Shanter, and still more in the Jolly Beggars, +he expresses the very passions of the characters +he presents to us. Wordsworth, constitutionally +incapable of the emotions of a boon companion, +merely describes and moralises on the +waywardness of his Benjamin. We sympathise +with the common humanity of Burns’s genial +reprobates; we feel the cold shadow of Wordsworth’s +Benjamin to be a hideous intruder +among the fine poetical imagery and thought +with which he is mixed up.</p> + +<p class='c007'>In 1807, Wordsworth published two volumes, +containing his own contributions to the Lyrical +Ballads, with many additional poems. Minute +detached criticism is not the object of this +sketch. Suffice it to say that many pieces in +these volumes are unsurpassed in English +poetry, or in the poetry of any language. The +Song at the feast of Brougham Castle has a +rich lyrical exuberance of feeling; the Laodamia +is as severely beautiful as a Greek +statue; Hartleap Well is full of mellow +humanity; Rob Roy’s Grave, the Highland +Girl, ‘She was a phantom of delight,’—every +piece, in short, is replete with delightful sentiment +and graphic pictures of rural nature. +The objects of some of these poems obviously +originate in a mistaken apprehension of the +scope and purpose of poetry. Wordsworth +was a curious observer of the workings of the +human mind, and he sometimes confounded +the pleasure derived from such metaphysical +scrutiny with the pleasure derived from the +presentation of poetical imaginings. Hence, +what is questionable in his Idiot Boy, his +Harry Gill, and some others.</p> + +<p class='c007'>The Excursion, the most ambitious, and, +with all its defects, the greatest of his works, +was published in 1814. Here the poet was in +his true element. Wordsworth’s genius was essentially +moralising and reflective. Incidents +and adventure had no charm for him. He +arrived at his knowledge of character by an +inductive process, not like Shakespeare, by the +intuition of sympathy and imagination. He +had no power of perceiving those light and +graceful peculiarities of men and society, generally +designated manners, vivid presentations +of which constitute the charm of so many +poets; but he was tremulously alive to the +charms of inanimate nature.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-b c011'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line in12'>‘——The sounding cataract</div> + <div class='line'>Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock,</div> + <div class='line'>The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,</div> + <div class='line'>Their colours and their forms, were there to me</div> + <div class='line'>An appetite; a feeling and a love,</div> + <div class='line'>That had no need of a remoter charm,</div> + <div class='line'>By thought supplied, or any interest</div> + <div class='line'>Unborrowed from the eye.’</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c007'>His soul was full of lofty and imaginative +conceptions of moral truths. He, therefore, +after severe examination of his own poems, resolved +to rest his claims to immortality on +his composition of ‘a philosophical poem, +containing views of Man, Nature, and Society; +and to be entitled The Recluse, as +having for its principal subject the sensations +and opinions of a poet living in retirement.’</p> + +<p class='c007'>How far this projected work has been advanced +to completion, we have no means of +knowing. A preliminary work, descriptive of +the growth of his own powers, is, he has informed +us, finished. The Recluse was to consist +of three parts, the first and third containing +chiefly meditations in the author’s own person; +the intermediate introducing characters in a +semi-dramatic form. It is to be regretted +that his second part has alone been published, +for Wordsworth’s genius was essentially undramatic. +But notwithstanding the disadvantages +under which the poet laboured from the +selection of an uncongenial form, and his +imperfect mastery of blank verse (a measure +of which, perhaps. Milton alone among our +English poets has developed the full measure, +and varied power of modulation), the Excursion +is, undoubtedly, a poem in the highest +and truest sense of the word. The philosophical +musings with which it abounds, are +alike profound and elevating. And nothing +can surpass the deep pathos of the episodes +of Margaret and Ellen.</p> + +<p class='c007'>The subsequent publications of Wordsworth +may be briefly enumerated. Peter Bell and +the Waggoner appeared within two years +after the Excursion; and the White Doe of +Rylstone soon followed them. A miscellaneous +volume, of which the River Duddon +was the most prominent, was published in +1820, and Yarrow Revisited, in 1835. Of all +these works, it may suffice to say that they +are highly characteristic of the author, and +contain many beauties.</p> + +<p class='c007'>Wordsworth’s poetry had long to contend +against the conventional prepossessions of the +literary world. From the beginning, however, +his genius was felt by superior minds, +and by a few young unprejudiced enthusiasts. +His first admirers were literally a sect, and +their admiration was, like the devotion of all +sectarians, ardent and indiscriminating. They +have, however, served as interpreters between +him and the reading public, and thus his +merits have come to be generally acknowledged. +His writings lent a tone to the +works of some who, like Shelley, dissented +from his theory; and some who, like Byron, +systematically scoffed at them. The public +taste was thus insensibly approximated to +them. Even yet, however, Wordsworth is +probably more praised than liked. But the +<span class='pageno' id='Page_213'>213</span>process will go on, and in time what is really +valuable in his poems will take the place that +is due to it in the land’s literature.</p> + +<p class='c007'>Of the first writings of Wordsworth little +need be said. Though they contain valuable +thoughts, they are lumbering and sufficiently +unreadable. The once furious controversy +about his literary creed as heresy, need not +be resuscitated; there were great errors on +both sides. If his merits were individually +depreciated, there was much in his seemingly +supercilious re-assertion, rather than defence +and explanation of his views, to extenuate +the petulance with which he was often treated. +As for his wanderings in the fields of politics +and polemics, he is no exception to the +general truth, that the warmest admirers of +poets must regret their deviations into such +uncongenial by-ways.</p> + +<p class='c007'>The man was like his poetry; simple and +therefore conservative in his tastes: self-reliant +and sometimes repulsive from his austerity, +yet with a rich fund of benevolence beneath +the hard exterior. His frame was strong +and sinewy from his habits of exercise; his +look heavy, and, at first sight, unimpressive; +but there was an inexpressible charm in his +smile. He was the antithesis of the materialist +and practical activity of the time. He did +not understand, and therefore could not appreciate, +the ennobling tendencies of the social +and scientific career on which this age has +entered—an age into which he had lingered, +rather than to which he belonged. He looked +out upon the world from his egotistic isolation +rather as a critical spectator, than as a sympathiser. +His views of it were rusted over +with the conservative prejudices of the past. +Railways he hated, and against them waged +a sonneteering war. Although they were +rapidly increasing the commerce, comforts, +intercourse, affluence, and happiness of the +whole community, they invaded the selfish +solitude of the one man; and single-handed +he did battle against the armies of invading +tourists, who came to share with him the +heathful pleasures of the mountain and the +lake, in which he would have almost preserved +a patent right for the few.</p> + +<p class='c007'>This anti-natural spirit, however, did not +always lead him astray from the right path. In +the Excursion, were promulgated, for the first +time, these views respecting the embruting +tendency of the unintermitting toil of our +factory labourers, the necessity of universal +education by the State, and the vocation of the +English race to colonise the earth, which have +been so many zealous missionaries. We cannot +better conclude these desultory remarks,—an +imperfect prelude to the lip of a truly +good and great man—than by quoting part +of his weighty words in the Excursion, respecting +National Education:—</p> + +<div class='lg-container-b c011'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>‘Oh! for the coming of that glorious time</div> + <div class='line'>When, prizing Knowledge as her noblest wealth</div> + <div class='line'>And best protection, this Imperial Realm,</div> + <div class='line'>While she exacts allegiance, shall admit</div> + <div class='line'>An obligation, on her part, to <i>teach</i></div> + <div class='line'>Them who are born to serve her and obey;</div> + <div class='line'>Binding herself by statute to secure</div> + <div class='line'>To all her children whom her soil maintains,</div> + <div class='line'>The rudiments of Letters, and to inform</div> + <div class='line'>The mind with moral and religious truth,</div> + <div class='line'>Both understood and practised—so that none,</div> + <div class='line'>However destitute, be left to droop</div> + <div class='line'>By timely culture unsustained; or run</div> + <div class='line'>Into a wild disorder; or be forced</div> + <div class='line'>To drudge through weary life without the aid</div> + <div class='line'>Of intellectual implements and tools;</div> + <div class='line'>A savage horde among the civilised,</div> + <div class='line'>A servile band among the lordly free!</div> + </div> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'> · · · · ·</div> + </div> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>‘The discipline of slavery is unknown</div> + <div class='line'>Amongst us—hence the more do we require</div> + <div class='line'>The discipline of virtue; order else</div> + <div class='line'>Cannot subsist, nor confidence, nor peace.</div> + <div class='line'>Thus duties rising out of good possess’d,</div> + <div class='line'>And prudent caution, needful to avert</div> + <div class='line'>Impending evil, do alike require</div> + <div class='line'>That permanent provision should be made</div> + <div class='line'>For the whole people to be taught and trained.</div> + <div class='line'>So shall licentiousness and black resolve</div> + <div class='line'>Be rooted out, and virtuous habits take</div> + <div class='line'>Their place; and genuine piety descend,</div> + <div class='line'>Like an inheritance, from age to age.’</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c007'>These are indeed worthy to become Household +words.</p> + +<div class='chapter'> + <h2 class='c004'>FATHER AND SON.</h2> +</div> + +<p class='c010'>One evening in the month of March, 1798,—that +dark time in Ireland’s annals whose +memory (overlooking all minor subsequent +<i>émeutes</i>) is still preserved among us, as ‘the +year of the rebellion’—a lady and gentleman +were seated near a blazing fire in the old-fashioned +dining-room of a large lonely mansion. +They had just dined; wine and fruit +were on the table, both untouched, while Mr. +Hewson and his wife sat silently gazing at +the fire, watching its flickering light becoming +gradually more vivid as the short Spring +twilight faded into darkness.</p> + +<p class='c007'>At length the husband poured out a glass +of wine, drank it off, and then broke silence, +by saying—</p> + +<p class='c007'>“Well, well, Charlotte, these are awful +times; there were ten men taken up to-day +for burning Cotter’s house at Knockane; and +Tom Dycer says that every magistrate in the +country is a marked man.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>Mrs. Hewson cast a frightened glance towards +the windows, which opened nearly to +the ground, and gave a view of a wide tree-besprinkled +lawn, through whose centre a +long straight avenue led to the high-road. +There was also a footpath at either side of +the house, branching off through close thickets +of trees, and reaching the road by a circuitous +route.</p> + +<p class='c007'>“Listen, James!” she said, after a pause; +“what noise is that?”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“Nothing but the sighing of the wind +among the trees. Come, wife, you must not +give way to imaginary fears.”</p> + +<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_214'>214</span>“But really I heard something like footsteps +on the gravel, round the gable-end—I +wish”—</p> + +<p class='c007'>A knock at the parlour door interrupted +her.</p> + +<p class='c007'>“Come in.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>The door opened, and Tim Gahan, Mr. +Hewson’s confidential steward and right-hand +man, entered, followed by a fair-haired delicate-looking +boy of six years’ old, dressed in +deep mourning.</p> + +<p class='c007'>“Well, Gahan, what do you want?”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“I ask your Honour’s pardon for disturbing +you and the mistress; but I thought +it right to come tell you the bad news I +heard.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“Something about the rebels, I suppose?”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“Yes, Sir; I got a whisper just now that +there’s going to be a great rising intirely, +to-morrow; thousands are to gather before +daybreak at Kilcrean bog, where I’m told +they’ve a power of pikes hiding; and then +they’re to march on and sack every house in +the country. I’ll engage, when I heard it, +I didn’t let grass grow under my feet, but +came off straight to your Honour, thinking +maybe you’d like to walk over this fine evening +to Mr. Warren’s, and settle with him +what’s best to be done.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“Oh, James! I beseech you, don’t think of +going.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“Make your mind easy, Charlotte; I don’t +intend it: not that I suppose there would be +much risk; but, all things considered, I think +I’m just as comfortable at home.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>The steward’s brow darkened, as he glanced +nervously towards the end window, which +jutting out in the gable, formed a deep angle +in the outer wall.</p> + +<p class='c007'>“Of course ’tis just as your Honour pleases, +but I’ll warrant you there would be no harm +in going. Come, Billy,” he added, addressing +the child, who by this time was standing +close to Mrs. Hewson, “make your bow, and +bid good night to master and mistress.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>The boy did not stir, and Mrs. Hewson +taking his little hand in hers, said—</p> + +<p class='c007'>“You need not go home for half-an-hour, +Gahan; stay and have a chat with the +servants in the kitchen, and leave little Billy +with me—and with the apples and nuts”—she +added, smiling as she filled the child’s hands +with fruit.</p> + +<p class='c007'>“Thank you, Ma’am,” said the steward +hastily. “I can’t stop—I’m in a hurry +home, where I wanted to leave this brat to-night; +but he <i>would</i> follow me. Come, Billy; +come this minute, you young rogue.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>Still the child looked reluctant, and Mr. +Hewson said peremptorily—</p> + +<p class='c007'>“Don’t go yet, Gahan; I want to speak to +you by and by; and you know the mistress +always likes to pet little Billy.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>Without replying, the steward left the +room; and the next moment his hasty footsteps +resounded through the long flagged +passage that led to the offices.</p> + +<p class='c007'>“There’s something strange about Gahan, +since his wife died,” remarked Mrs. Hewson. +“I suppose ’tis grief for her that makes him +look so darkly, and seem almost jealous when +any one speaks to his child. Poor little +Billy! your mother was a sore loss to you.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>The child’s blue eyes filled with tears, and +pressing closer to the lady’s side, he said:—</p> + +<p class='c007'>“Old Peggy doesn’t wash and dress me as +nicely as mammy used.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“But your father is good to you?”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“Oh, yes, Ma’am, but he’s out all day busy, +and I’ve no one to talk to me as mammy +used; for Peggy is quite deaf, and besides +she’s always busy with the pigs and chickens.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“I wish I had you, Billy, to take care of +and to teach, for your poor mother’s sake.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“And so you may, Charlotte,” said her +husband. “I’m sure Gahan, with all his odd +ways, is too sensible a fellow not to know +how much it would be for his child’s benefit +to be brought up and educated by us, and the +boy would be an amusement to us in this +lonely house. I’ll speak to him about it +before he goes home. Billy, my fine fellow, +come here,” he continued, “jump up on my +knee, and tell me if you’d like to live here +always and learn to read and write.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“I would, Sir, if I could be with father +too.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“So you shall;—and what about old +Peggy?”</p> + +<p class='c007'>The child paused—</p> + +<p class='c007'>“I’d like to give her a pen’north of snuff +and a piece of tobacco every week, for she said +the other day that <i>that</i> would make her quite +happy.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>Mr. Hewson laughed, and Billy prattled on, +still seated on his knee; when a noise of footsteps +on the ground, mingled with low suppressed +talking was heard outside.</p> + +<p class='c007'>“James, listen! there’s the noise again.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>It was now nearly dark, but Mr. Hewson, +still holding the boy in his arms, walked +towards the window and looked out.</p> + +<p class='c007'>“I can see nothing,” he said,—“stay—there +are figures moving off among the trees, and a +man running round to the back of the house—very +like Gahan he is too!”</p> + +<p class='c007'>Seizing the bell-rope, he rang it loudly, +and said to the servant who answered his +summons:—</p> + +<p class='c007'>“Fasten the shutters and put up the bars, +Connell; and then tell Gahan I want to see +him.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>The man obeyed; candles were brought, +and Gahan entered the room.</p> + +<p class='c007'>Mr. Hewson remarked that, though his +cheeks were flushed, his lips were very white, +and his bold dark eyes were cast on the +ground.</p> + +<p class='c007'>“What took you round the house just +now, Tim?” asked his master, in a careless +manner.</p> + +<p class='c007'>“What took me round the house, is it? +Why, then, nothing in life, Sir, but that just +as I went outside the kitchen door to take a +<span class='pageno' id='Page_215'>215</span>smoke, I saw the pigs, that Shaneen forgot to +put up in their stye, making right for the +mistress’s flower-garden; so I just put my +<i>dudheen</i>, lighting as it was, into my pocket, +and ran after them. I caught them on the +grand walk under the end window, and +indeed, Ma’am, I had my own share of work +turning them back to their proper spear.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>Gahan spoke with unusual volubility, but +without raising his eyes from the ground.</p> + +<p class='c007'>“Who were the people,” asked his master, +“whom I saw moving through the western +grove?”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“People! your Honour—not a sign of any +people moving there, I’ll be bound, barring +the pigs.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“Then,” said Mr. Hewson, smiling, to his +wife, “the miracle of Circe must have been +reversed, and swine turned into men; for, +undoubtedly, the dark figures I saw were +human beings.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“Come, Billy,” said Gahan, anxious to turn +the conversation, “will you come home with +me now? I am sure ’twas very good of the +mistress to give you all them fine apples.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>Mrs. Hewson was going to propose Billy’s +remaining, but her husband whispered:—“Wait +till to-morrow.” So Gahan and his +child were allowed to depart.</p> + +<p class='c007'>Next morning the magistrates of the +district were on the alert, and several suspicious +looking men found lurking about, +were taken up. A hat which fitted one of +them was picked up in Mr. Hewson’s grove; +the gravel under the end window bore many +signs of trampling feet; and there were +marks on the wall as if guns had rested +against it. Gahan’s information touching the +intended meeting at Kilcrean bog proved to +be totally without foundation; and after a +careful search not a single pike or weapon of +any description could be found there. All +these circumstances combined certainly looked +suspicious; but, after a prolonged investigation, +as no guilt could be actually brought +home to Gahan, he was dismissed. One of +his examiners, however, said privately, “I +advise you take care of that fellow, Hewson. If +I were in your place, I’d just trust him as far +as I could throw him, and not an inch beyond.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>An indolent hospitable Irish country gentleman, +such as Mr. Hewson, is never without +an always shrewd and often roguish prime +minister, who saves his master the trouble of +looking after his own affairs, and manages +everything that is to be done in both the +home and foreign departments,—from putting +a new door on the pig-stye, to letting a farm +of an hundred acres on lease. Now in this, or +rather these capacities, Gahan had long served +Mr. Hewson; and some seven years previous +to the evening on which our story commences, +he had strengthened the tie and increased his +influence considerably by marrying Mrs. Hewson’s +favourite and faithful maid. One child +was the result of this union; and Mrs. Hewson, +who had no family of her own, took much interest +in little Billy,—more especially after the +death of his mother, who, poor thing! the +neighbours said, was not very happy, and +would gladly, if she dared, have exchanged +her lonely cottage for the easy service of her +former mistress.</p> + +<p class='c007'>Thus, though for a time Mr. and Mrs. +Hewson regarded Gahan with some doubt, the +feeling gradually wore away, and the steward +regained his former influence.</p> + +<p class='c007'>After the lapse of a few stormy months the +rebellion was quelled: all the prisoners taken +up were severally disposed of by hanging, +transportation or acquittal, according to the +nature and amount of the evidence brought +against them; and the country became as +peaceful as it is in the volcanic nature of our +Irish soil ever to be.</p> + +<p class='c007'>The Hewsons’ kindness towards Gahan’s +child was steady and unchanged. They took +him into their house, and gave him a plain but +solid education; so that William, while yet a +boy, was enabled to be of some use to his +patron, and daily enjoyed more and more of +his confidence.</p> + +<hr class='c012'> + +<p class='c007'>Another Evening, the twentieth anniversary +of that with which this narrative commenced, +came round. Mr. and Mrs. Hewson +were still hale and active, dwelling in their +hospitable home. About eight o’clock at +night, Tim Gahan, now a stooping, grey-haired +man, entered Mr. Hewson’s kitchen, and took +his seat on the corner of the settle next the fire.</p> + +<p class='c007'>The cook, directing a silent significant +glance of compassion towards her fellow-servants, +said:</p> + +<p class='c007'>“Would you like a drink of cider, Tim, or +will you wait and take a cup of tay with +myself and Kitty?”</p> + +<p class='c007'>The old man’s eyes were fixed on the fire, +and a wrinkled hand was planted firmly on +each knee, as if to check their involuntary +trembling. “I’ll not drink anything this +night, thank you kindly, Nelly,” he said, in a +slow musing manner, dwelling long on each +word.</p> + +<p class='c007'>“Where’s Billy?” he asked, after a pause, +in a quick hurried tone, looking up suddenly +at the cook, with an expression in his eyes, +which, as she afterwards said, ‘took away her +breath.’</p> + +<p class='c007'>“Oh, never heed Billy! I suppose he’s +busy with the master.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“Where’s the use, Nelly,” said the coachman, +“in hiding it from him? Sure, sooner or +later he must know it. Tim,” he continued, +“God knows ’tis sorrow to my heart this +blessed night to make yours sore,—but the +truth is, that William has done what he +oughtn’t to do to the man that was all one +as a father to him.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“What has he done? what will you <i>dar</i> say +again my boy?”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“Taken money, then,” replied the coachman, +“that the master had marked and put by in +his desk; for he suspected this some time +<span class='pageno' id='Page_216'>216</span>past that gold was missing. This morning +’twas gone; a search was made, and the +marked guineas were found with your son +William.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>The old man covered his face with his hands, +and rocked himself to and fro.</p> + +<p class='c007'>“Where is he now?” at length he asked, in +a hoarse voice.</p> + +<p class='c007'>“Locked up safe in the inner store-room; +the master intends sending him to gaol early +to-morrow morning.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“He will not,” said Gahan slowly. “Kill the +boy that saved his life!—no, no.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“Poor fellow! the grief is setting his mind +astray—and sure no wonder!” said the cook, +compassionately.</p> + +<p class='c007'>“I’m not astray!” cried the old man, +fiercely. “Where’s the master?—take me to +him.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“Come with me,” said the butler, “and I’ll +ask him will he see you?”</p> + +<p class='c007'>With faltering steps the father complied; +and when they reached the parlour, he +trembled exceedingly, and leant against the +wall for support, while the butler opened the +door, and said:</p> + +<p class='c007'>“Gahan is here, Sir, and wants to know will +you let him speak to you for a minute?”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“Tell him to come in,” said Mr. Hewson, in +a solemn tone of sorrow, very different from +his ordinary cheerful voice.</p> + +<p class='c007'>“Sir,” said the steward, advancing, “they +tell me you are going to send my boy to +prison,—is it true?”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“Too true, indeed, Gahan. The lad who +was reared in my house, whom my wife +watched over in health, and nursed in sickness—whom +we loved almost as if he were +our own, has <i>robbed</i> us, and that not once or +twice, but many times. He is silent and +sullen, too, and refuses to tell why he stole the +money, which was never withheld from him +when he wanted it. I can make nothing of +him, and must only give him up to justice in +the morning.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“No, Sir, no. The boy saved your life; +you can’t take his.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“You’re raving, Gahan.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>“Listen to me, Sir, and you won’t say so. +You remember this night twenty years? I +came here with my motherless child, and +yourself and the mistress pitied us, and spoke +loving words to him. Well for us all you did +so! That night—little you thought it!—I was +banded with them that were sworn to take +your life. They were watching you outside +the window, and I was sent to inveigle you +out, that they might shoot you. A faint +heart I had for the bloody business, for you +were ever and always a good master to me; +but I was under an oath to them that I +darn’t break, supposing they ordered me to +shoot my own mother. Well! the hand of +God was over you, and you wouldn’t come +with me. I ran out to them, and I said—‘Boys, +if you want to shoot him, you must +do it through the window,’ thinking they’d +be afeard of that; but they weren’t—they +were daring fellows, and one of them, sheltered +by the angle of the window, took deadly aim +at you. That very moment you took Billy on +your knee, and I saw his fair head in a line +with the musket. I don’t know exactly then +what I said or did, but I remember I caught +the man’s hand, threw it up, and pointed to +the child. Knowing I was a determined +man, I believe they didn’t wish to provoke +me; so they watched you for a while, and +when you didn’t put him down they got +daunted, hearing the sound of soldiers riding +by the road, and they stole away through the +grove. Most of that gang swung on the +gallows, but the last of them died this +morning quietly in his bed. Up to yesterday +he used to make me give him money,—sums +of money to buy his silence—and it +was for that I made my boy a thief. It was +wearing out his very life. Often he went +down on his knees to me, and said: ‘Father, +I’d die myself sooner than rob my master, +but I can’t see <i>you</i> disgraced. Oh, let us fly +the country!’ Now, Sir, I have told you all—do +what you like with me—send me to +gaol, I deserve it—but spare my poor deluded +innocent boy!”</p> + +<p class='c007'>It would be difficult to describe Mr. Hewson’s +feelings, but his wife’s first impulse was +to hasten to liberate the prisoner. With a +few incoherent words of explanation she led +him into the presence of his master, who, +looking at him sorrowfully but kindly, said:</p> + +<p class='c007'>“William, you have erred deeply, but not +so deeply as I supposed. Your father has +told me everything. I forgive him freely and +you also.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>The young man covered his face with his +hands, and wept tears more bitter and +abundant than he had ever shed since the +day when he followed his mother to the +grave. He could say little, but he knelt on +the ground, and clasping the kind hand of +her who had supplied to him that mother’s +place, he murmured;</p> + +<p class='c007'>“Will <i>you</i> tell him I would rather die +than sin again.”</p> + +<p class='c007'>Old Gahan died two years afterwards, truly +penitent, invoking blessings on his son and on +his benefactors; and the young man’s conduct, +now no longer under evil influence, was so +steady and so upright, that his adopted +parents felt that their pious work was rewarded, +and that, in William Gahan, they +had indeed a son.</p> + +<hr class='c012'> + +<div class='nf-center-c0'> + <div class='nf-center'> + <div>Monthly Supplement of ‘HOUSEHOLD WORDS,’</div> + <div><span class='small'>Conducted</span></div> + <div><span class='sc'>By</span> CHARLES DICKENS.</div> + <div><i>Price 2d., Stamped 3d.</i>,</div> + <div class='c003'><span class='large'>THE HOUSEHOLD NARRATIVE</span></div> + <div><span class='small'>OF</span></div> + <div>CURRENT EVENTS.</div> + <div class='c001'><i>The Number, containing a history of the present month, will be issued with the Magazines.</i></div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='pbb'> + <hr class='pb c003'> +</div> +<div class='tnotes x-ebookmaker'> + +<div class='chapter ph2'> + +<div class='nf-center-c0'> +<div class='nf-center c013'> + <div>TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES</div> + </div> +</div> + +</div> + + <ul class='ul_1 c001'> + <li>Fixed typos; non-standard spelling and dialect retained. + </li> + </ul> + +</div> + +<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78174 ***</div> + </body> + <!-- created with ppgen.py 3.57i (with regex) on 2026-02-03 00:55:36 GMT --> +</html> diff --git a/78174-h/images/cover.jpg b/78174-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..d99a6f9 --- /dev/null +++ b/78174-h/images/cover.jpg diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6c72794 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This book, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. 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