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diff --git a/78181-0.txt b/78181-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b2edfae --- /dev/null +++ b/78181-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2542 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78181 *** + + + “_Familiar in their Mouths as HOUSEHOLD WORDS._”—SHAKESPEARE. + + + + + HOUSEHOLD WORDS. + A WEEKLY JOURNAL. + + + CONDUCTED BY CHARLES DICKENS. + + + N^{o.} 16.] SATURDAY, JULY 13, 1850. [PRICE 2_d._ + + + + + A DAY IN A PAUPER PALACE. + + +In some states of English existence Ruin is the road to Fortune. +Falstaff threatened to make a commodity of his wounds; the well attested +disaster of a begging letter writer confers upon him an income; the +misfortune of a thief—that of being captured—occasionally ends in a +colonial estate, and a carriage and pair; both the better assured if he +can tell a good story of misfortunes, and is hypocrite enough to +commence as a Pentonville “model.” In Manchester the high road to +fortune is to be born a pauper; should especially orphanhood, either by +death or desertion, ensue. + +At the easy distance of five miles from the great Cotton Capital, on the +road to the great Cotton Port, through shady lanes and across verdant +meadows, is the village of Swinton. At its entrance, on a pleasing +elevation, stands a building which is generally mistaken for a wealthy +nobleman’s residence. The structure is not only elegant but extensive; +it is in the Tudor style of architecture, with a frontage of four +hundred and fifty feet. It is studded with more than a hundred windows, +each tier so differing in shape and size from the others as to prevent +monotonous uniformity. Two winding flights of steps in the centre lead +to a handsome entrance hall, above which rise two lofty turrets to break +the outline of the extensive roof. The depth of the edifice is great—its +whole proportions massive. Pleasure-gardens and play-grounds surround +it. In front an acre and a half of flower-beds and grass-plots are +intersected by broad gravel-walks and a carriage-drive. Some more of the +land is laid out for vegetables. Beyond is a meadow, and the whole +domain is about twenty-two acres in extent; all in good, some in +picturesque, cultivation. + +The stranger gazing upon the splendid brick edifice, with its +surrounding territory, is surprised when he is told that it is not the +seat of an ancient Dukedom; but that it is a modern palace for pauper +children. He is _not_ surprised when he heard that it cost 60,000_l._ + +The contemplation of sumptuous arrangements of this nature for the +benefit of helpless penury, naturally engenders an argument:—is it quite +fair to the industrious poor that the offspring of paupers should be +placed in a better position than that of his own?—that these should have +better instruction, be better fed, and better clothed?—that a premium +should thus be put upon the neglect of their children by vicious +parents; while, there is no helping hand held out to the industrious and +virtuous for the proper training of _their_ children: so that the care +of their offspring by the latter is, by comparison, a misfortune; while +desertion or neglect by the former is a blessing to theirs, to whom +Garrick’s paradox can be justly applied, that Their Ruin is the Making +of them. + +That is one side of the argument. The other stands thus; ought the +misdeeds of parents to be visited on their innocent children? should +pauper and outcast infants be neglected so as to become pests to +Society, or shall they be so trained as to escape the pauper-spirit, and +make amends to Society for the bad citizenship of their parents, by +their own persevering industry, economy, and prudence in mature life? +Common sense asks, does the State desire good citizens or bad? If good +ones, let her manufacture them; and if she can do so by the agency of +such establishments as that of Swinton, at not too great a cost, let us +not be too critical as to her choice of the raw material. + +In order to see whether the Swinton establishment fulfils this mission +we solicited a gentleman qualified for the task to visit it; and from +his information we have drawn up the following account:— + +Having, he says, passed through the entrance hall, we chatted for a time +with the chaplain, who is at the head of the establishment. From him we +learnt that there are in the institution six hundred and thirty +children, of whom three hundred and five are orphans, and one hundred +and twenty-four deserted by their parents. Besides the chaplain there is +a head master, a medical officer, a Roman Catholic priest, a governor +and matron, six schoolmasters and four schoolmistresses, with a numerous +staff of subordinate officials, male and female, including six nurses, +and teachers of divers trades. The salaries and wages of the various +officers and servants amount to about 1800_l._ a year, exclusive of the +cost of their board which the greater number enjoy also. + +We went into the play-ground of the junior department, where more than a +hundred and fifty children were assembled. Some were enjoying themselves +in the sunshine, some were playing at marbles, others were frisking +cheerfully. These children ranged from four to seven years of age. There +are some as young as a year and a half in the school. The greater number +were congregated at one end of the yard, earnestly watching the +proceedings of the master who was giving fresh water to three starlings +in cages that stood on the ground. One very young bird was enjoying an +airing on the gravel. Two others were perched on a cask. The master +informed us it was a part of his system to instruct his charges in +kindness to animals by example. He found that the interest which the +children took in the animals and in his proceedings towards them, was of +service in impressing lessons of benevolence among them towards each +other. The practical lessons taught by the master’s personal attention +to his feathered favourites, outweighed, he thought, the theoretic +inconsistency of confining birds in cages. + +The play-ground is a training school in another particular. On two sides +grew several currant trees, on which the fruit is allowed to ripen +without any protection. Though some of the scholars are very young, +there do not occur above two or three cases of unlawful plucking per +annum. The appropriate punishment of delinquents is for them to sit and +see the rest of their school-fellows enjoy, on a day appointed, a treat +of fresh ripe fruit, whilst they are debarred from all participation. + +The personal appearance of the pupils was not prepossessing. Close +cropping the hair may be necessary at the first admission of a boy, but +surely is not needed after children have been for some time trained in +the establishment, in habits of cleanliness. The tailors of the +establishment (its elder inmates), are evidently no respecters of +persons. Measuring is utterly repudiated, and the style in vogue is the +comic or incongruous. The backs of the boys seemed to be Dutch-built; +their legs seemed cased after Turkish patterns; while the front view was +of Falstaffian proportions, some of the trousers are too short for the +legs, and some of the legs too short for the trousers. The girls are +better dressed. Amongst them are some of prepossessing faces, +intelligent appearance, and pleasing manners. Here and there may be +discerned, however, vacancy of look, and inaptness to learn. Among the +boys, sometimes, occurs a face not quite clean enough, and a shirt +collar that seems to have suffered too long a divorce from the wash-tub. + +During the time we spent in the play-ground, sundry chubby urchins came +up to the master with small articles which they had found; it being the +practice to impress on each, that nothing found belongs to the finder +unless, after due inquiry, no owner can be discovered. One brought +something looking like liquorice; another produced a halfpenny, which +the master appropriated. Perhaps, the master had dropped the halfpenny +to test the honesty of some of his pupils. One little fellow was made +happy by permission to keep a marble which he had picked up. + +The children obeyed the summons to school with pleasing alacrity. This +is owing partly to the agreeable mode of tuition adopted, and in some +measure to the fact that the lessons are not allowed to become tedious +and oppressive. As soon as any parties give unequivocal signs of +weariness, either there is some playful relaxation introduced, or such +children are sent into the play-ground. On the present occasion, as soon +as the master applied his mouth to a whistle, away trooped the children +in glad groups to an ante-room. Here, arranged in five or six rows, boys +and girls intermixed stood with eyes fixed on the master, awaiting his +signals. At the word of command, each alternate row faced to the right, +the others to the left, and filed off, accompanying their march with a +suitable tune; their young voices blending in cheerful harmony, while +they kept time by clapping their hands, and by an occasional emphatic +stamp of the foot. + +To enliven the routine of school duties, the master’s cur takes part in +them. He is a humorous dog, with an expressive countenance, and a +significant wag of the tail. In the intervals of lessons, his duty—which +is also his pleasure—consists in jumping over the benches or threading +the labyrinths of little legs under them. Now he darts with wild glee +into a spelling class; now he rushes among an alphabet group, and snarls +a playful “r-r-r-r,” as if to teach the true pronunciation of the canine +letter; now he climbs up behind a seated urchin, puts his forepaws on +the favourite’s shoulders, and, with a knowing look towards the master, +recommends his friend for promotion to a monitorship. + +It was surprising to find that the pupils took not the slightest notice +of the antics of the master’s dog. They heeded nothing but their +lessons; but we learned that the dog was a part of the discipline. He +accustomed the children to startling eccentricities and unexpected +sounds: he presented a small, extraneous, but wholesome difficulty in +the pursuit of Knowledge. He, and the currant bush, the pretty +treasure-troves, and other contrivances, were intentional temptations +which the children were trained to resist. We beg very pointedly to +recommend the study of these facts to the attention of the inventors and +advocates of the Pentonville Model system. They involve an important +principle,—and a principle equally applicable to adults as to children. +The morals of the young, or the penitence of the criminal, which result +from a system depriving the pupil of every possible temptation to do +otherwise than right, will assuredly lapse into vice when incentives to +it are presented. Evil exists very plentifully in this world, and it +must be recognised and dealt with; it is not by concealing it from the +young but by teaching him to resist it that we do wise. It must at the +same time be admitted that the principle can be carried too far; and if +the master _did_ intentionally drop the halfpenny, it was exactly there +that he pushed his excellent principle too far. + +The teaching of the juniors is conducted mainly _vivâ voce_; for the +mass of them are under six years of age. The class was opened thus: + +“What day is this?” + +“Monday.” + +“What sort of a day is it?” + +“Very fine.” + +“Why is it a fine day?” + +“Because the sun shines, and it does not rain.” + +“Is rain a bad thing, then?” + +“No.” + +“What is it useful for?” + +“To make the flowers and the fruit grow.” + +“Who sends rain and sunshine?” + +“God.” + +“What ought we to do in return for his goodness?” + +“Praise him!” + +“Let us praise him, then,” added the master. And the children, all +together, repeated and then sung a part of the 149th Psalm.—A lesson on +morals succeeded, which evidently interested the children. It was partly +in the form of a tale told by the master. A gentleman who was kind to +the poor, went to visit in gaol a boy imprisoned for crime. The +restraint of the gaol, and the shame of the boy, were so described, as +to impress the children with strong interest. Then the boy’s crime was +traced to disobedience, and the excellence of obedience to teachers and +parents was shown. The fact that punishment comes out of, and follows +our own actions was enforced by another little story. + +By this time some of the very young children showed symptoms of +lassitude. One fat little mortal had fallen asleep; and this class was +consequently marshalled for dismissal, and as usual marched out singing, +to play for a quarter of an hour. + +A lesson in reading was now administered to a class of older children. +For facilitating this achievement, generally so difficult, the master +has introduced the phonic system, in some degree according to a mode of +his own, by which means even the youngest children make remarkable +progress. We need not discuss it here. + +The scene the schoolroom, during the reading lesson, presented, was +remarkable. Groups of four or five little fellows were gathered in +various parts of the room before a reading-card, one acting as monitor; +who was sometimes a girl. It was a pleasing sight to see half-a-dozen +children seated or kneeling in a circle round the same book, their heads +almost meeting in the centre, in their earnestness to see and hear, +while the monitor pointed quickly with the finger to the word which each +in succession was to pronounce. All seemed alert, and the eyes of the +monitors kindled with intelligence. Meanwhile the master was busied in +passing from one class to another, listening to the manner in which the +pronunciation was caught, or the correctness with which the rapid +combination of letters and syllables was made. Sometimes he stayed a few +minutes with a class to give aid, then proceeded to another; and +occasionally, on finding by a few trials, that a boy was quite familiar +with the work of his class, he would remove him to another more +advanced. These transfers were frequent. + +In an adjoining room were assembled, under the care of the +schoolmaster’s wife, some of the more advanced scholars. One class in +this room was particularly interesting—a class composed of the monitors +who receive extra instruction in order to fit them for their duties. + +After an interval the whole attended a class for general knowledge: in +this the mutual instruction system was adopted. A pupil stood out on a +platform—the observed of all observers—to be questioned and +cross-questioned by his or her schoolfellow, like a witness in a +difficult law case, until supplanted by a pupil who could answer better. +A degree of piquancy was thus imparted to the proceeding, which caused +the attention of the pupils not to flag for a moment. One girl, with red +hair and bright eyes, weathered a storm of questions bravely. A sample +of the queries put by these young inquisitors, will show the range of +subjects necessary to be known about. What are the months of spring? +What animal cuts down a tree, and where does it live? Which are the +Cinque Ports? What planet is nearest the sun? What is the distance from +Manchester to Lancaster? How high is St. Paul’s Cathedral? What are the +names of the common metals? What causes water to rise and become clouds? + +One urchin who could scarcely be seen over the head of another, and who +was evidently of a meteorological turn of mind, bawled out in a +peculiarly sedate and measured manner, + +“What does the wind do?” + +To have answered the question fully would have taken a day, but a single +answer satisfied the querist, and was of a sanitary character. + +“The wind,” replied the female Rufus, “cools us in summer and blows away +the bad air.” An agreeable enough answer as we sat in the middle of the +schoolroom on a hot day, when the thermometer was seventy-one degrees in +the shade, and a pleasant breeze stealing through the open windows +occasionally fanned our warm cheeks. This concluded our visit to the +junior department. + +Meanwhile, the education of the elder children was proceeding in other +parts of the building. The lessons of the senior sections are conducted +in a much quieter manner than those of the junior classes; even in a way +which some persons would consider tame and uninteresting. This quietude +was, however, more than balanced by another department. As we passed to +the elder boys’ court-yard, the chaplain threw open the door of a room, +where a small music class was practising the fife and the drum. The +class consisted of eight youths, who had not learnt long, but performed +the “Troubadour” in creditable style. When they marched out, they headed +about two hundred boys, who were drawn up in line; the music-master +acting as drill-sergeant and commander-in-chief. After passing through +some drill-exercises, they marched off, drums beating and colours +flying, to dinner. + +We need say no more of this pleasing ceremony than that it was heartily +performed. The viands were relished in strong illustration of Dr. +Johnson’s emphatic remark, “Sir, I like to dine.” + +After dinner, we visited the workshops—a very active scene. The living +tableaux were formed chiefly by young tailors and cobblers. A strict +account is kept of all manufactured articles and of their cost; and we +learnt that a boy’s suit of fustian (labour included) costs 4_s._ +10½_d._; a girl’s petticoat 12¾_d._; and that the average weekly cost of +clothing worn by the children was estimated at 3½_d._ per head—making +15_s._ 2_d._ for the wearing apparel of each child per year. This may be +taken as a commentary on the “slop work” prices to which public +attention has been so forcibly drawn of late. + +In all the industrial sections, the children are occupied alternately at +their work and in school—labouring for one afternoon and next morning, +and then attending their classes in school for the next afternoon and +morning. This is a decided improvement on the Mettray system. In that +agricultural colony, the boys only attend school once a week, and work +at handicrafts, or on the farm, during the other five. There is, +however, something defective in the Swinton plan, as applicable to +advanced pupils; perhaps they are not stimulated sufficiently; but it +happens that no pupil-teacher had ever passed a government examination; +although last year the grant of money, by the Committee of Privy Council +for the educational departments of the Swinton school, amounted to +531_l._ Those among the scholars who have gone into other lines of life, +have generally conducted themselves well; and when absorbed into the +masses of society, have become a help and a credit instead of a bane to +it. Indeed, having been brought up at the Pauper Palace appears a safe +certificate with the public, who are eager for the girls of this school +as domestic servants. Both boys and girls, on leaving the institution, +are furnished with two complete sets of clothes, and their subsequent +behaviour is repeatedly inquired into. + +As we descended the steps of the school we scanned the prospect seen +from it. The foreground of the landscape was dotted with rural +dwellings, interspersed with trees. In the distance rose the spires and +tall chimneys of Manchester, brightened by the rays of the evening sun, +while a sea of smoke hung like a pall over the great centre of +manufacturing activity, and shut out the view beyond. It typified the +dark cloud of pauperism which covers so large a portion of the land, and +which it is hoped such institutions as the Swinton Industrial Schools is +destined to dispel. The centre of manufacturing activity is also the +centre of practical and comprehensive education. Why does this activity +continue to revolve so near its centre? Why has it not radiated over the +length and breadth of the land? The Swinton Institution is a practical +illustration of what can be done with even the humblest section of the +community; and if it have a disadvantage, that is precisely because it +succeeds too well. It places the child-pauper above the child of the +industrious. Narrow minds advocate the levelling of the two, by +withdrawing the advantage from the former. Let us, however, hope that no +effort will relax to bring out, in addition to Pauper Palaces, +Educational Palaces for all classes and denominations. + +Thus ended our visit to the “Pauper Palace.” As we issued from the iron +gate into the open road we met a long line of the elder girls, +accompanied by a master, returning from a walk which they had taken, +after school hours and before supper, for the benefit of their health. +The glad smile of recognition, and the cheerful salutation with which +they greeted us as we bade them good evening, were a touch of that +gentle nature which “makes the whole world kin.” It refreshed us like a +parting blessing from well-known friends. + + + + + HOW WE WENT HUNTING IN CANADA. + + +After his disasters in New Ireland, our friend Blungle could not be +prevailed upon to go fishing again.[1] The sport was conducted under +circumstances which deprived it of all attraction to him. He could +understand fishing in the Thames,—sitting all day in a comfortable +arm-chair in a punt, moored off Ditton, with a stock of brandy and water +and mild Havannahs. This was true sport; but digging holes in the ice to +catch fish was neither sportsman-like nor exciting. Under the +circumstances, he was not to be reasoned with; so we only laughed at +him,—Perroque advising him, on his return to St. Pancras, to try his +luck in a parlour fishbowl. This put him on his mettle,—and to show that +he was ready to “rough it” with any man, he challenged us to go hunting +with him. Perroque, who was as great an adept on snow-shoes as on +skates, gave him no time to retract, and a hunt after Moose was at once +determined upon. + +Footnote 1: + + See page 243. + +Our accoutrements consisted of snow-shoes (which, when slung over the +shoulders, looked not unlike a pair of large wings), a rifle, an +“Arkansas toothpick,” and a flask. We started without delay, and on the +afternoon of the second day were once more in the township of Leeds, +which we had fixed upon as the scene of our operations. + +Archibald McQuaigh was an old Highlander who had emigrated from +Strathtoddy, and who prided himself greatly on his ancestry, and on +having been the man who “felled the first tree in Leeds,” in 1817; since +which time the township had made marvellous strides in advancement and +prosperity, and McQuaigh was fond of saying that the crash of the first +victim to the axe was still ringing in his ears. He had pushed his way +boldly into the woods, with nothing but an axe, a set of bagpipes, a +peck of oatmeal, and a bottle of whiskey,—the last two being the remains +of the stock of provisions which he had taken on board with him at +Glasgow. With this scanty outfit he began the hardy life of a +settler,—borrowing flour and pork from his neighbours, the nearest of +whom was fifteen miles off, until the gathering of his first crop, when +he became an independent man. Years, although not without a fight for +it, had produced their effect even on McQuaigh. He had shrunk somewhat +in all his proportions, but his skin and flesh looked like plastic horn, +which seemed to bid defiance to decay. Blungle felt qualmish, when first +presented to him, for he had still a very fiery look, calculated to +affect the nervous,—his hair, which was becoming grey at the tips, now +looking like so many red-hot wires elevated to a white heat at the +points. His manly activity had not yet forsaken him, his frame being +still well knit and compact, and there were few in the township who +would even then venture to wrestle with him. He had been originally a +deer-keeper to the Marquis of Glen-Fuddle, and his early vocation gave +him a taste for the chase which never forsook him, and it was in the +double capacity of an enthusiastic sportsman and a hospitable man, that +we carried letters of introduction to him. + +We were received with true Highland hospitality, after the old style. +After dinner McQuaigh repeated half of “Ossian” in the original to us, +giving us incidentally to understand that the poet belonged to a younger +branch of his family. He spoke English as a convenience, but had great +contempt for it as a language. Indeed, he used to call it, sneeringly, +“a tongue,” and maintained that Gaelic was the only real language on +earth. + +The next morning at breakfast, McQuaigh announced that in five minutes +after that meal was disposed of, we should be on our way for the part of +the forest which was to be the scene of our operations. A Moose deer is +a great prize, which is not often secured, and the appearance of one +makes quite a noise in a neighbourhood. For some days back a rumour had +been rife throughout the township that one had been seen at a point +about three miles distant from McQuaigh’s residence; and it was only on +the evening before our arrival, that that worthy had been himself +informed by a man who had come from a neighbouring settlement that he +had crossed its track on the way. This accounted for a somewhat high +state of fever in which we found him on arrival; and our appearance gave +him great relief, by furnishing him at once with an excuse for a hunt, +and companions in his sport. + +Having plentifully provided ourselves with creature comforts from +McQuaigh’s larder and whiskey-cask, we started in a common farm sleigh, +in which we had all to stand upright, for the point at which we were to +push into the forest. McQuaigh had secured the attendance of a French +Canadian named Jean Baptiste, who was a servant on an adjoining farm, +and who was as expert a Moosehunter as any man in the province. + +Having gained the summit of a steep hill, the gillie was sent back with +the sleigh, and we prepared to diverge into the bush. The snow lay fully +five feet deep around us; and before leaving the beaten track, our first +care was to adjust our snow-shoes, which are indispensable to Canadian +winter sport. Each shoe is about the size of a large kite, which it also +resembles in shape. The outer frame is made of light cedar, bent and +bound together by two slender bars, placed about equidistant from both +ends. The thin spaces contained between the outer frame and the bars, +are filled up with a network composed of a substance resembling cat-gut. +The toe is attached to the snow-shoe close to the front bar, the heel +being left at liberty: so that when it is raised in the act of dragging +the foot forward, the snow-shoe is not raised with it, being dragged +horizontally upon the surface. The object of the snow-shoe is to prevent +the pedestrian from sinking in the soft snow, which it effects by giving +him a far broader basis to rest upon than Nature has provided him. Thus +accoutred, a man will pass rapidly, and in safety over the deepest +deposits—having to take much longer strides than usual, in order that +the snow-shoes may clear one another. The exercise is somewhat +fatiguing, and requires some practice to be perfect in it. Blungle was +not an adept, and before he had proceeded ten paces, he was prostrate on +his face, and fully three feet beneath the surface. His plight in +somewhat resembled that of the boy who had let the inflated +bladders—with the aid of which he attempted to swim—slip down to his +feet, which they elevated to the surface, keeping his head, however, +under water. The only thing discernible for the moment, of our +fellow-companion, was his snow-shoes, which were moving convulsively to +and fro, near the surface. Encumbered by them, he would never have risen +again but for our aid; and it was some time ere he succeeded in getting +his mouth, ears, and nose, emptied of the snow; he was more cautious +afterwards in the management of his feet, although his inexperience +somewhat retarded our progress. + +We were soon in the very depths of the forest, and lonely indeed are +these Canadian woods in the dreary winter time. All under foot was +enveloped in snow, from which as from a white sea, rose like so many +colossal columns, the stately trunks of the trees, through the leafless +boughs of which, as through an extended trellis-work, the blue sky was +discernible over head. The undulations of the surface pleasantly +diversified a scene which would otherwise have been monotonous; and we +made our way merrily over hill and valley, but ever through the unbroken +forest, in the deep dells of which we now and then crossed a streamlet, +whose course had been arrested, and whose voice had been hushed for +months by the relentless frost. + +We had been thus occupied for about three hours, when we at length came +upon the track of the game:—a deep furrow had been made in the snow; +bespeaking the labour which the animal must have had in ploughing his +way through it. We stopped; and McQuaigh, giving vent to a long +expiration, half between a whistle and a sigh, exclaimed, wiping the +perspiration from his horny features, “We have him as sure as a gun, if +nobody else has got scent of him; and you see,” he added, pointing to +the untrodden snow around, “there’s not the track of a living soul after +him.” + +“But what chance have we?” I asked, “seeing that it must be more than +two days at least since the Moose passed this spot?” + +“Give a deer any reasonable start in the winter time,” replied McQuaigh, +“and a man on his snow-shoes will run him down. We have only to follow +his track, and depend on’t we’ll go over more ground than he will in a +day.” So saying, he led off in the direction which our prey had +evidently taken. Blungle did not like the possibility of being for a +week on the track of one deer; but he put the best face on it, and +laboured to keep up with us. + +We had not gone far, ere, like the confluence of a small with a larger +stream, we found the track of an ordinary deer converge upon that of the +Moose. From the point of junction, the follower, as affording him an +easier passage through the snow, had kept to the track of his more +powerful leader. + +“Let’s hurry, and we’ll have the two of them,” said McQuaigh, and he +doubled the length of his strides. Blungle groaned, but laboured on. + +We thus pursued the now double track, until the shades of evening stole +over the forest, and imparted a mysterious solemnity to the lonely +solitudes, which we had invaded. After a hard day’s work, we looked out +for a spot in which to rest for the night. We resolved to bivouac by a +huge elm, whose hollow trunk rose without branch or twig to break its +symmetry, for nearly sixty feet from the ground. We dug a hole in the +snow, more than four feet deep, spreading our blankets on the bottom of +it. On one side we were sheltered by the elm; on the other three by our +snowy circumvallation. Our next care was to light a blazing fire, which +we did in the hollow of the tree; after which we laid ourselves down to +sleep, Jean Baptiste having orders to keep the first watch, and to awake +any of us, whom he might find getting stiff. In five minutes Blungle was +snoring as comfortably as if he were reposing on his own pillow in +Bloomsbury. + +I was about turning the corner of consciousness, when McQuaigh, who was +stretched beside me, and who never seemed to shut more than one eye at a +time, started suddenly to his feet, and seizing the axe which was +resting against the tree, raised it to his shoulder, and stood intently +watching the hollow in which the fire was burning. He was quite a +picture, standing out, as he did, in fine relief from the surrounding +darkness, as the crackling flames threw their ruddy glare on his brawny +frame and furrowed visage. But his sudden movement indisposing me for +the artistic mood, I was at once on my feet beside him, and it was not +till then that I heard sounds proceed from the hollow trunk, which gave +me some clue to what had so suddenly called him into action. I had but +brief time for consideration, for, in a moment or two afterwards, down +came a heavy body into the fire, scattering the faggots about in all +directions. Blungle, who was still asleep, was aroused by one of the +blazing embers grazing his nose, and on jumping up precipitated himself +into the embrace of a shaggy bear, which was about to treat him to a +fatal hug, when McQuaigh’s axe descended with terrific force upon its +skull, which it cleft in twain. The slaughtered brute fell on its side +carrying Blungle along with it, who, when he was removed, was nearly as +insensible as the bear. + +“There’s never two of them in a tree,” said McQuaigh, “so we may go to +sleep now.” We did so, and I slept soundly for two or three hours, Jean +Baptiste kept watch as before, employing himself, until his turn came +for sleeping, in dressing the carcass of the bear, from which, in the +morning, we were supplied with hot chops for breakfast. If we did not +consider them unsavory, it was perhaps because our appetites were too +good to be very discriminating. We could not persuade Blungle to touch +them. He was possessed of an abstract idea that it was unchristian to +eat a bear. At first he positively refused to accompany us any further, +but on McQuaigh expressing a friendly hope that he would get safe out of +the woods if he attempted to return alone, he made up his mind that the +lesser of two evils was to stick to the party. He made a solemn vow, +however, that should he ever live to see the Zoological Gardens again, +he would carefully avoid even a glance at the bears. + +After breakfast, we resumed our course, keeping close to the track as on +the preceding day. We had not gone far when, on descending a steep bank, +we heard a rustling sound proceed from a thicket on the margin of a +tolerably sized stream which lay across our path. + +“It’s but the little one,” said McQuaigh, whose keen eye caught a +momentary sight of a deer, which was immediately lost again to him in +the thicket. “Make ready for action.” + +We were, of course, all excitement, and Blungle obeyed the injunction by +deliberately levelling his rifle at Jean Baptiste, who was a little in +advance of us, with a view to driving the deer from his hiding place. +McQuaigh, observing this movement, with a sudden wave of his arm +elevated the muzzle into the air, just as Blungle drew the trigger, and +the ball went whistling through the trees, cutting off several twigs in +its course. + +“To take a man when there’s venison in the way,” said McQuaigh, who +seemed to impute Blungle’s aim solely to a want of taste, “who ever +heard of such a thing?” Blungle could not have been more frightened, had +he pointed his rifle against himself, and, for some time afterwards, he +apostrophised the adverse character of his fate, in terms not the most +suited for delicate ears. The discharge of the rifle startled the deer, +which bounded at once in full sight from the thicket. A ball from +Perroque wounded him in the flank, McQuaigh’s trigger was drawn in an +instant, but his piece missed fire, much to his annoyance, and as he +said himself, “for the first time in its life.” I fired too—but to this +day I have not the slightest idea what became of the ball—the wounded +animal plunged wildly towards the stream, which he endeavoured to cross. +But it was rapid at that particular point, and the ice which was but +imperfectly formed gave way with him. He struggled hard to keep himself +on the surface, until a ball from McQuaigh’s rifle took effect on his +head, and he was at once dragged under by the impetuous current. A +little further on, the stream plunged down several rocky ledges in +foaming rapids, which bade defiance to the frost. We gained this point +just in time to see the body of the deer emerge from beneath the ice; it +was immediately afterwards carried over a cataract and precipitated +amongst masses of ice, which rose from the chasm like a cluster of +basaltic columns and inverted stalactites. + +As it would have taken too much time to recover it, we left the mangled +body of the deer in the icy crevice into which it had fallen, and +ascending to a point above the rapids, crossed the river, where the ice +was strong. We then recovered the track, which we followed for the rest +of the day, passing several small settlements in the woods, all of which +had been carefully avoided by the Moose. In the evening we bivouacked as +before, but this time in the neighbourhood of a solid tree. Blungle +struck it all round with the axe to assure himself that it was not +hollow, and expressed his satisfaction that it rung sound. Next morning +we plunged deeper and deeper into the forest wilds. About mid-day, +Blungle, whose patience was well nigh exhausted, began to be seriously +offended at the non-appearance of our prey, and confidentially hinted to +Perroque and myself that wild goose rhymed to wild Moose. But, at that +moment, Baptiste who was in advance, was observed to fling his arms into +the air, and then to direct our attention to a point a little to the +right of us, where we caught the first sight of the object of pursuit. +The Moose was at some distance from us, buried to the belly in snow, and +scraping the green bark from a young tree. Being too far off to fire +with effect, we glided silently towards him over the snow, concealing +ourselves as much as possible by going from tree to tree. He was a +full-grown animal, and, for some time, was not aware of our approach; +but, as we came within doubtful shot of him, he looked anxiously around, +exhibiting symptoms of agitation and alarm. + +“Bang at him,” said McQuaigh, “or we may lose our chance.” He had +scarcely uttered the words, when our four rifles were simultaneously +discharged. The Moose gave a tremendous bound and plunged through the +snow, endeavouring to escape us. We made after him at once, reloading +our rifles as we proceeded. When we came up to the spot occupied by him, +it was evident that he had been seriously wounded, from the extent to +which the snow was stained with blood. We soon observed that his efforts +to escape became fainter and fainter, and, as he was staggering and +about to fall, a ball from McQuaigh’s rifle took effect in his heart, +and he sank in the snow. + +The Moose deer’s nose is considered a great dainty by both civilised man +and savage. Blungle, although well provided in that facial department +himself, was almost petrified at its size. “It looked,” he said, “as if +the animal carried a small carpet-bag in front in which to keep his +provender.” Having cut the nose off, we confided it to the care of Jean +Baptiste. + +“Look out for blazes,” said McQuaigh, as we prepared to return. + +“Why, what’s the matter?” asked Blungle, raising his rifle to his +shoulder as if he expected an attack from another bear. But there was +nothing the matter, “blazes” being the term applied to the marks left by +the surveyors on certain trees, to denote the lines of the different +townships, as they are cleared from the woods. By means of these marks +the woodsman can readily direct himself to a settlement—to find which +was now McQuaigh’s object. Dragging the body of the deer after us, we +proceeded for about two hours guided by the blazes, and, at last, came +to a small settlement, where we procured a couple of sleighs, one for +Jean Baptiste and the slaughtered Moose, and the other for ourselves. At +a late hour of the night we gained McQuaigh’s residence, considerably +fatigued after our exertions. + +We spent two days more with our eccentric but warm-hearted host, after +which he let us depart reluctantly. We reached Quebec on the following +day, and soon regaled a party of friends on our valuable trophy, the +Moose deer’s nose. + + + + + THE MODERN SCIENCE OF THIEF-TAKING. + + +If thieving be an Art (and who denies that its more subtle and delicate +branches deserve to be ranked as one of the Fine Arts?), thief-taking is +a Science. All the thief’s ingenuity; all his knowledge of human nature; +all his courage; all his coolness; all his imperturbable powers of face; +all his nice discrimination in reading the countenances of other people; +all his manual and digital dexterity; all his fertility in expedients, +and promptitude in acting upon them; all his Protean cleverness of +disguise and capability of counterfeiting every sort and condition of +distress; together with a great deal more patience, and the additional +qualification, integrity, are demanded for the higher branches of +thief-taking. + +If an urchin picks your pocket, or a bungling “artist” steals your watch +so that you find it out in an instant, it is easy enough for any private +in any of the seventeen divisions of London Police to obey your panting +demand to “Stop thief!” But the tricks and contrivances of those who +wheedle money out of your pocket rather than steal it; who cheat you +with your eyes open; who clear every vestige of plate out of your pantry +while your servant is on the stairs; who set up imposing warehouses, and +ease respectable firms of large parcels of goods; who steal the +acceptances of needy or dissipated young men;—for the detection and +punishment of such impostors a superior order of police is requisite. + +To each division of the Force is attached two officers, who are +denominated “detectives.” The staff, or head-quarters, consists of six +sergeants and two inspectors. Thus the Detective Police, of which we +hear so much, consists of only forty-two individuals, whose duty it is +to wear no uniform, and to perform the most difficult operations of +their craft. They have not only to counteract the machinations of every +sort of rascal whose only means of existence is avowed rascality, but to +clear up family mysteries, the investigation of which demands the utmost +delicacy and tact. + +One instance will show the difference between a regular and a detective +policeman. Your wife discovers on retiring for the night, that her +toilette has been plundered; her drawers are void; except the ornaments +she now wears, her beauty is as unadorned as that of a quakeress: not a +thing is left; all the fond tokens you gave her when her prenuptial +lover, are gone; your own miniature, with its setting of gold and +brilliants; her late mother’s diamonds; the bracelets “dear papa” +presented on her last birth-day; the top of every bottle in the +dressing-case brought from Paris by Uncle John, at the risk of his life, +in February 1848, are off—but the glasses remain. Every valuable is +swept away with the most discriminating villainy; for no other thing in +the chamber has been touched; not a chair has been moved; the costly +pendule on the chimney-piece still ticks; the entire apartment is as +neat and trim as when it had received the last finishing sweep of the +housemaid’s duster. The entire establishment runs frantically up stairs +and down stairs; and finally congregates in my Lady’s Chamber. Nobody +knows anything whatever about it; yet everybody offers a suggestion, +although they have not an idea “who ever did it.” The housemaid bursts +into tears; the cook declares she thinks she is going into hysterics; +and at last you suggest sending for the Police; which is taken as a +suspicion of, and insult on the whole assembled household, and they +descend into the lower regions of the house in the sulks. + +X 49 arrives. His face betrays sheepishness, combined with mystery. He +turns his bull’s-eye into every corner, and upon every countenance +(including that of the cat), on the premises. He examines all the locks, +bolts, and bars, bestowing extra diligence on those which enclosed the +stolen treasures. These he declares have been “Wiolated;” by which he +means that there has been more than one “Rape of the Lock.” He then +mentions about the non-disturbance of other valuables; takes you +solemnly aside, darkens his lantern, and asks if you suspect any of your +servants, in a mysterious whisper, which implies that _he_ does. He then +examines the upper bedrooms, and in that of the female servants he +discovers the least valuable of the rings, and a cast-off silver +toothpick between the mattresses. You have every confidence in your +maids; but what _can_ you think? You suggest their safe custody; but +your wife intercedes, and the policeman would prefer speaking to his +inspector before he locks anybody up. + +Had the whole matter remained in the hands of X 49, it is possible that +your troubles would have lasted you till now. A train of legal +proceedings—actions for defamation of character and suits for +damages—would have followed, which would have cost more than the value +of the jewels, and the entire execration of all your neighbours and +every private friend of your domestics. But, happily, the Inspector +promptly sends a plain, earnest-looking man, who announces himself as +one of the two Detectives of the X division. He settles the whole matter +in ten minutes. His examination is ended in five. As a connoisseur can +determine the painter of a picture at the first glance, or a wine-taster +the precise vintage of a sherry by the merest sip; so the Detective at +once pounces upon the authors of the work of art under consideration, by +the style of performance; if not upon the precise executant, upon the +“school” to which he belongs. Having finished the toilette branch of the +inquiry, he takes a short view of the parapet of your house, and makes +an equally cursory investigation of the attic window fastenings. His +mind is made up, and most likely he will address you in these words:— + +“All right, Sir. This is done by one of ‘The Dancing School!’” + +“Good Heavens!” exclaims your plundered partner. “Impossible, why _our_ +children go to Monsieur Pettitoes, of No. 81, and I assure you he is a +highly respectable professor. As to his pupils, I—” + +The Detective smiles and interrupts. “Dancers,” he tells her, “is a name +given to the sort of burglar by whom she had been robbed; and every +branch of the thieving profession is divided into gangs, which are +termed ‘Schools.’ From No. 82 to the end of the street the houses are +unfinished. The thief made his way to the top of one of these, and +crawled to your garret—” + +“But we are forty houses distant, and why did he not favour one of my +neighbours with his visit?” you ask. + +“Either their uppermost stories are not so practicable, or the ladies +have not such valuable jewels.” + +“But how do they know that?” + +“By watching and inquiry. This affair may have been in action for more +than a month. Your house has been watched; your habits ascertained; they +have found out when you dine—how long you remain in the dining-room. A +day is selected; while you are busy dining, and your servants busy +waiting on you, the thing is done. Previously, many journeys have been +made over the roofs, to find out the best means of entering your house. +The attic is chosen; the robber gets in, and creeps noiselessly, or +‘dances’ into the place to be robbed.” + +“Is there _any_ chance of recovering our property?” you ask anxiously, +seeing the whole matter at a glance. + +“I hope so. I have sent some brother officers to watch the Fences’ +houses.” + +“Fences?” + +“Fences,” explains the Detective, in reply to your innocent wife’s +inquiry, “are purchasers of stolen goods. Your jewels will be forced out +of their settings, and the gold melted.” + +The lady tries, ineffectually, to suppress a slight scream. + +“We shall see, if, at this unusual hour of the night, there is any +bustle in or near any of these places; if any smoke is coming out of any +one of their furnaces, where the melting takes place. _I_ shall go and +seek out the precise ‘garretter’—that’s another name these plunderers +give themselves—whom I suspect. By his trying to ‘sell’ your domestics +by placing the ring and toothpick in their bed, I think I know the man. +It is just in his style.” + +The next morning, you find all these suppositions verified. The +Detective calls, and obliges you at breakfast—after a sleepless +night—with a complete list of the stolen articles, and produces some of +them for identification. In three months, your wife gets nearly every +article back; her damsels’ innocence is fully established; and the thief +is taken from his “school” to spend a long holiday in a penal colony. + +This is a mere common-place transaction, compared with the achievements +of the staff of the little army of Detective policemen at head-quarters. +Sometimes they are called upon to investigate robberies; so executed, +that no human ingenuity appears to ordinary observers capable of finding +the thief. He leaves not a trail or a trace. Every clue seems cut off; +but the experience of a Detective guides him into tracks quite invisible +to other eyes. Not long since, a trunk was rifled at a fashionable +hotel. The theft was so managed, that no suspicion could rest on any +one. The Detective sergeant who had been sent for, fairly owned, after +making a minute examination of the case, that he could afford no hope of +elucidating the mystery. As he was leaving the bed-room, however, in +which the plundered portmanteau stood, he picked up an ordinary +shirt-button from the carpet. He silently compared it with those on the +shirts in the trunk. It did not match them. He said nothing, but hung +about the hotel for the rest of the day. Had he been narrowly watched, +he would have been set down for an eccentric critic of linen. He was +looking out for a shirt-front or wristband without a button. His search +was long and patient; but at length it was rewarded. One of the inmates +of the house showed a deficiency in his dress, which no one but a +Detective would have noticed. He looked as narrowly as he dared at the +pattern of the remaining fasteners. It corresponded with that of the +little tell-tale he had picked up. He went deeper into the subject, got +a trace of some of the stolen property, ascertained a connexion between +it and the suspected person, confronted him with the owner of the trunk, +and finally succeeded in convicting him of the theft.—At another +hotel-robbery, the blade of a knife, broken in the lock of a +portmanteau, formed the clue. The Detective employed in that case was +for some time indefatigable in seeking out knives with broken blades. At +length he found one belonging to an under-waiter, who proved to have +been the thief. + +The swell mob—the London branch of which is said to consist of from one +hundred and fifty to two hundred members—demand the greatest amount of +vigilance to detect. They hold the first place in the “profession.” + +Their cleverness consists in evading the law; the most expert are seldom +taken. One “swell,” named Mo. Clark, had an iniquitous career of a +quarter of a century, and never was captured during that time. He died a +“prosperous gentleman” at Boulogne, whither he had retired to live on +his “savings,” which he had invested in house property. An old hand +named White lived unharmed to the age of eighty; but he had not been +prudent, and existed on the contributions of the “mob,” till his old +acquaintances were taken away, either by transportation or death, and +the new race did not recognise his claims to their bounty. Hence he died +in a workhouse. The average run of liberty which one of this class +counts upon is four years. + +The gains of some of the swell mob are great. They can always command +capital to execute any especial scheme. Their travelling expenses are +large; for their harvests are great public occasions, whether in town or +country. As an example of their profits, the exploits of four of them at +the Liverpool Cattle Show some seven years ago, may be mentioned. The +London Detective Police did not attend, but one of them waylaid the +rogues at the Euston Station. After an attendance of four days, the +gentlemen he was looking for appeared, handsomely attired, the occupants +of first-class carriages. The Detective, in the quietest manner +possible, stopped their luggage; they entreated him to treat them like +“gentlemen.” He did so, and took them into a private room, where they +were so good as to offer him fifty pounds to let them go. He declined, +and over-hauled their booty; it consisted of several gold pins, watches, +(some of great value,) chains and rings, silver snuffboxes, and +bank-notes of the value of one hundred pounds! Eventually, however, as +owners could not be found for some of the property, and some others +would not prosecute, they escaped with a light punishment. + +In order to counteract the plans of the swell mob, two of the sergeants +of the Detective Police make it their business to know every one of them +personally. The consequence is, that the appearance of either of these +officers upon any scene of operations is a bar to anything or anybody +being “done.” This is an excellent characteristic of the Detectives, for +they thus become as well a Preventive Police. We will give an +illustration:— + +You are at the Oxford commemoration. As you descend the broad stairs of +the Roebuck to dine, you overtake on the landing a gentleman of foreign +aspect and elegant attire. The variegated pattern of his vest, the jetty +gloss of his boots, and the exceeding whiteness of his gloves—one of +which he crushes in his somewhat delicate hand—convince you that he is +going to the grand ball, to be given that evening at Merton. The glance +he gives you while passing, is sharp, but comprehensive; and if his eye +does rest upon any one part of your person and its accessories more than +another, it is upon the gold watch which you have just taken out to see +if dinner be “due.” As you step aside to make room for him, he +acknowledges the courtesy with “Par-r-r-don,” in the richest Parisian +_gros parle_, and a smile so full of intelligence and courtesy, that you +hope he speaks English, for you set him down as an agreeable fellow, and +mentally determine that if he dines in the Coffee-room, you will make +his acquaintance. + +On the mat at the stair-foot there stands a man. A plain, honest-looking +fellow, with nothing formidable in his appearance, or dreadful in his +countenance; but the effect his apparition takes on your friend in +perspective, is remarkable. The poor little fellow raises himself on his +toes, as if he had been suddenly overbalanced by a bullet; his cheek +pales, and his lip quivers, as he endeavours ineffectually to suppress +the word “_coquin!_” He knows it is too late to turn back (he evidently +would, if he could), for the man’s eye is upon him. There is no help for +it, and he speaks first; but in a whisper. He takes the new comer aside, +and all you can overhear is spoken by the latter, who says he insists on +Monsieur withdrawing his “School” by the seven o’clock train. + +You imagine him to be some poor wretch of a schoolmaster in +difficulties; captured, alas, by a bailiff. They leave the inn together, +perhaps for a sponging house. So acute is your pity, that you think of +rushing after them, and offering bail. You are, however, very hungry, +and, at this moment, the waiter announces that dinner is on table. + +In the opposite box there are covers for four, but only three convives. +They seem quiet men—not gentlemen, decidedly, but well enough behaved. + +“What has become of Monsieur?” asks one. None of them can divine. + +“Shall we wait any longer for him?” + +“Oh, no—Waiter—Dinner!” + +By their manner, you imagine that the style of the Roebuck is a “cut +above them.” They have not been much used to plate. The silver forks are +so curiously heavy, that one of the guests, in a dallying sort of way, +balances a prong across his fingers, while the chasing of the castors +engages the attention of a second. This is all done while they talk. +When the fish is brought, the third casts a careless glance or two at +the dish cover, and when the waiter has gone for the sauce, he taps it +with his nails, and says enquiringly to his friend across the table, +“Silver?” + +The other shakes his head, and intimates a hint that it is _only_ +plated. The waiter brings the cold punch, and the party begin to enjoy +themselves. They do not drink much, but they mix their drinks rather +injudiciously. They take sherry upon cold punch, and champagne upon +that, dashing in a little port and bottled stout between. They are +getting merry, not to say jolly, but not at all inebriated. The amateur +of silver dish-covers has told a capital story, and his friends are +revelling in the heartiest of laughs, when an apparition appears at the +end of the table. You never saw such a change as his presence causes, +when he places his knuckles on the edge of the table and looks at the +diners _seriatim_; the courtiers of the sleeping beauty suddenly struck +somniferous were nothing to this change. As if by magic, the loud laugh +is turned to silent consternation. You now, most impressively, +understand the meaning of the term “dumbfoundered.” The mysterious +stranger makes some enquiry about “any cash?” + +The answer is “Plenty.” + +“All square with the landlord, then?” asks the same inflexible voice +as—to my astonishment—that which put the Frenchman to the torture. + +“To a penny,” the reply. + +“_Quite_ square?” continues the querist, taking with his busy eye a +rapid inventory of the plate. + +“S’ help me——” + +“Hush!” interrupts the dinner spoiler, holding up his hand in a +cautionary manner. “Have you done anything to-day?” + +“Not a thing.” + +Then there is some more in a low tone; but you again distinguish the +word “school,” and “seven o’clock train.” They are too old to be the +Frenchman’s pupils; perhaps they are his assistants. Surely they are not +all the victims of the same _capias_ and the same officer! + +By this time the landlord, looking very nervous, arrives with his bill: +then comes the head waiter, who clears the table; carefully counting the +forks. The reckoning is paid, and the trio steal out of the room with +the man of mystery behind them,—like sheep driven to the shambles. + +You follow to the Railway station, and there you see the Frenchman, who +complains bitterly of being “sold for noting” by his enemy. The other +three utter a confirmative groan. In spite of the evident omnipotence of +their persevering follower, your curiosity impels you to address him. +You take a turn on the platform together, and he explains the whole +mystery. “The fact is,” he begins, “I am Sergeant Witchem, of the +Detective police.” + +“And your four victims are?”— + +“Members of a crack school of swell mobsmen.” + +“What do you mean by ‘school?’” + +“Gang. There is a variety of gangs—that is to say, of men who ‘work’ +together, who play into one another’s hands. These gentlemen hold the +first rank, both for skill and enterprise, and had they been allowed to +remain would have brought back a considerable booty. Their chief is the +Frenchman.” + +“Why do they obey your orders so passively?” + +“Because they are sure that if I were to take them into custody, which I +could do, knowing what they are, and present them before a magistrate, +they would all be committed to prison for a month, as rogues and +vagabonds.” + +“They prefer then to have lost no inconsiderable capital in dress and +dinner, to being laid up in jail.” + +“Exactly so.” + +The bell rings, and all five go off into the same carriage to London. + +This is a circumstance that actually occurred; and a similar one +happened when the Queen went to Dublin. The mere appearance of one of +the Detective officers before a “school” which had transported itself in +the Royal train, spoilt their speculation; for they all found it more +advantageous to return to England in the same steamer with the officer, +than to remain with the certainty of being put in prison for fourteen or +twenty-eight days as rogues and vagabonds. + +So thoroughly well acquainted with these men are the Detective officers +we speak of, that they frequently tell what they have been about by the +expression of their eyes and their general manner. This process is aptly +termed “reckoning them up.” Some days ago, two skilful officers, whose +personal acquaintance with the swell mob is complete, were walking along +the Strand on other business, when they saw two of the best dressed and +best mannered of the gang enter a jeweller’s shop. They waited till they +came out, and, on scrutinising them, were convinced, by a certain +conscious look which they betrayed, that they had stolen something. They +followed them, and in a few minutes something was passed from one to the +other. The officers were convinced, challenged them with the theft, and +succeeded in eventually convicting them of stealing two gold +eye-glasses, and several jewelled rings. “The eye,” said our informant, +“is the great detector. We can tell in a crowd what a swell-mobsman is +about by the expression of his eye.” + +It is supposed that the number of persons who make a trade of thieving +in London is not more than six thousand; of these, nearly two hundred +are first-class thieves or swell mobsmen; six hundred “macemen,” and +trade swindlers, bill-swindlers, dog-stealers, &c.; About forty +burglars, “dancers,” “garretteers,” and other adepts with the +skeleton-keys. The rest are pickpockets, “gonophs—” mostly young thieves +who sneak into areas, and rob tills—and other pilferers. + +To detect and circumvent this fraternity, is the science of +thief-taking. Here, it is, however, impossible to give even an imperfect +notion of the high amount of skill, intelligence, and knowledge, +concentrated in the character of a clever Detective Policeman. We shall +therefore furnish the sketch in another paper. + + + + + THE BALLAD OF RICHARD BURNELL. + + + From his bed rose Richard Burnell + At the early dawn of day, + Ere the bells of London City + Welcomed in the morn of May. + + Early on that bright May morning + Rose the young man from his bed, + He, the happiest man in London,— + And blithely to himself he said: + + “‘When the men and maids are dancing, + And the folk are mad with glee, + In the Temple’s shady gardens + Let me walk and talk with thee!’ + + “Thus my Alice spake last even, + Thus with trembling lips she spake, + And those blissful words have kept me + Through the live-long night awake. + + “’Tis a joy beyond expression, + When we first, in truth, perceive + That the love we long have cherished + Will not our fond hearts deceive! + + “Never dared I to confess it, + Deeds of homage spoke instead; + True love is its own revealer, + She must know it! oft, I said. + + “All my words, and all my actions, + But one meaning could impart; + Love can love’s least sign interpret, + And she reads my inmost heart. + + “And her good, old merchant father, + —Father he has been to me— + Saw the love growing up between us, + Saw—and was well-pleased to see. + + “Seven years I truly served him, + Now my time is at an end— + Master is he now no longer, + Father will be—has been friend. + + “I was left betimes an orphan, + Heir unto great merchant-wealth, + But the iron rule of kinsfolk + Dimmed my youth, and sapped my health. + + “Death had been my early portion + Had not my good guardian come; + He, the father of my Alice, + And conveyed me to his home. + + “Here began a new existence, + —Then how new the love of friends! + And for all the child’s afflictions, + Each one strove to make amends. + + “Late my spring-time came, but quickly + Youth’s rejoicing currents run, + And my inner life unfolded + Like a flower before the sun. + + “Hopes, and aims, and aspirations, + Grew within the growing boy; + Life had new interpretation; + Manhood brought increase of joy. + + “In and over all was Alice, + Life-infusing, like the spring; + My soul’s soul! even joy without her + Was a poor and barren thing! + + “And she spoke last eve at parting, + ‘When the folk are mad with glee, + In the Temple’s pleasant gardens + Let me walk and talk with thee!’ + + “As she spoke, her sweet voice trembled— + Love such tender tones can teach! + And those words have kept me waking, + And the manner of her speech! + + “For such manner has deep meaning,” + Said young Burnell, blithe and gay;— + And the bells of London City + Pealed a welcome to the May. + + · · · · · + + Whilst the folk were mad with pleasure, + ’Neath the elm-tree’s vernal shade, + In the Temple’s quiet gardens + Walked the young man and the maid. + + On his arm her hand was resting, + And her eyes were on the ground; + She was speaking, he was silent; + Not a word his tongue had found. + + “Friend beloved,” she thus addressed him, + “I have faith, and hope in thee! + Thou canst do what no one else can— + Thou canst be a friend to me! + + “Richard, we have lived together + All these years of happy youth; + Have, as sister and as brother, + Lived in confidence and truth. + + “Thou from me hast hid no feelings, + Thy whole heart to me is known; + I—I only have kept from thee + One dear, little thought alone. + + “Have I wronged thee in so doing, + Then forgive me! but give ear, + ’Tis to bare my heart before thee + That I now am with thee here. + + “Well thou know’st my father loves thee; + ’Tis his wish that we should wed,— + I shame not to speak thus frankly— + Wish, or _will_ more justly said. + + “But this cannot be, my brother, + Cannot be—’twere nature’s wrong!— + I have said so to my father,— + But thou know’st his will is strong.” + + Not a word spake Richard Burnell; + Not a word came to his lips; + Like one tranced he stood and listened; + Life to him was in eclipse. + + In a lower tone she murmured, + Murmured like a brooding dove, + “Know thou,—Leonard Woodvil loves me,— + And—that he has won my love.” + + —Came a pause. The words she uttered + Seemed to turn him into stone, + Pale he stood and mute beside her, + And with blushes she went on. + + “This is known unto my father;— + Leonard is well known to thee, + Thou hast praised him, praised him often— + Oh, how dear such praise to me! + + “But my father, stern and stedfast, + Will not list to Leonard’s prayer;— + And ’tis only thou canst move him,— + Only thou so much canst dare. + + “Tell my father firmly, freely, + That we only love each other— + ’Tis the truth, thou know’st it, Richard, + As a sister and a brother! + + “Tell my father, if we wedded, + Thou and I, it would be guilt!— + Thus it is that thou canst aid us,— + And thou wilt—I know thou wilt! + + “Yes, ’tis thus that thou must aid us, + And thou wilt!—I say no more!— + We’ve been friends, but this will make us + Better friends than heretofore!” + + Yet some moments he was silent; + His good heart was well nigh broke; + She was blinded to his anguish;— + And “I will!” at length he spoke. + + · · · · · + + They were wedded. ’Twas a wedding + That had far and nigh renown, + And from morning until even + Rang the bells of London town. + + Time went on: the good, old merchant + Wore a cloud upon his brow: + “Wherefore this?” his friends addressed him, + “No man should be blithe as thou!” + + “In my old age I am lonely,” + Said the merchant; “she is gone;— + And young Burnell, he I nurtured, + He who was to me a son; + + “He has left me!—I’m deserted— + E’en an old man feels such woe! + ’Twas but natural _she_ should marry, + But _he_ should not have served me so? + + “’Twas not that which I expected!— + He was very dear to me,— + And I thought no London merchant + Would have stood as high as he! + + “He grew very strange and moody, + What the cause I cannot say;— + And he left me when my daughter, + My poor Alice went away! + + “This I felt a sore unkindness;— + Youth thinks little, feels still less!— + Burnell should have stayed beside me, + Stayed to cheer my loneliness! + + “I had been a father to him, + He to me was like a son; + Young folks should have more reflection,— + ’Twas what _I_ could not have done! + + “True, he writes me duteous letters; + Calls me father, tells me all + That in foreign parts are doing:— + But young people write so small, + + “That I’m often forced to leave them, + Pleasant letters though they be, + Until Alice comes from Richmond, + Then she reads them out to me. + + “Alice fain would have me with her; + Leonard well deserves my praise— + But he’s not my Richard Burnell, + Knows not my old wants and ways! + + “No, my friends, I’ll not deny it, + It has cut me to the heart, + That the son of my adoption + Thus has played a cruel part!” + + So the merchant mourned and murmured; + And all foreign charms unheeding, + Dwelt the lonely Richard Burnell, + With his bruiséd heart still bleeding. + + · · · · · + + Time went on, and in the spring-tide, + When the birds begun to build, + And the heart of all creation + With a vast delight was filled. + + Came a letter unto Alice— + Then a babe lay on her breast— + ’Twas the first which Richard Burnell + Unto Alice had addressed. + + Few the words which it contained, + But each word was like a sigh; + “I am sick and very lonely;— + Let me see thee ere I die! + + “In this time of tribulation + Thou wilt be a friend to me: + Therefore in the Temple Gardens + Let me once more speak with thee.” + + Once more in the Temple Gardens + Sat they ’neath the bright blue sky, + With the leafage thick around them, + And the river rolling by. + + Pale and weak was Richard Burnell, + Gone all merely outward grace, + Yet the stamp of meek endurance + Gave sad beauty to his face. + + Silent by his side sat Alice, + Now no word her tongue could speak, + All her soul was steeped in pity, + And large tears were on her cheek. + + Burnell spake; “Within these Gardens + Thy commands on me were laid, + And although my heart was breaking + Yet were those commands obeyed. + + “What I suffered no one knoweth, + Nor shall know, I proudly said, + And, when grew the grief too mighty, + Then—there was no help—I fled. + + “Yes, I loved thee, long had loved thee, + And alone the God above, + He, who at that time sustained me, + Knows the measure of my love! + + “Do not let these words displease thee; + Life’s sore battle will soon cease; + I have fallen amid the conflict, + But within my soul is peace. + + “It has been a fiery trial, + But the fiercest pang is past; + Once more I am come amongst you— + Oh, stand by me at the last! + + “Leonard will at times come to me, + And thy father, I will try + To be cheerful in his presence, + As I was in days gone by. + + “Bitter had it been to leave him, + But in all my heart’s distress, + The great anguish which consumed me, + Seemed to swallow up the less. + + “Let me go! my soul is wearied, + No fond heart of me has need, + Life has no more duties for me;— + I am but a broken reed! + + “Let me go, ere courage faileth, + Gazing, gazing thus on thee!— + But in life’s last awful moment, + Alice! thou wilt stand by me!” + + From her seat rose Alice Woodvil, + And in stedfast tones began, + Like a strong yet mourning angel, + To address the dying man. + + “Not in death alone, my brother, + Would I aid thee in the strife, + I would fain be thy sustainer, + In the fiercer fight of life. + + “With the help of God, thy spirit + Shall not sink an easy prey. + Oh, my friend, prayer is a weapon + Which can turn whole hosts away! + + “God will aid thee! We will hold thee + By our love!—thou shalt not go!— + And from out thy wounded spirit, + We will pluck the thorns of woe. + + “Say not life has no more duties + Which can claim thee! where are then, + All the sinners; the neglected; + All the weeping sons of men? + + “Ah, my friend, hast thou forgotten + All our dreams of early days? + How we would instruct poor children, + How we would the fallen raise! + + “God has not to me permitted, + Such great work of human love, + He has marked me out a lower + Path of duty where to move. + + “But to thee, His chosen servant, + Is this higher lot allowed; + He has brought thee through deep waters, + Through the furnace, through the cloud; + + “He has made of thee, a mourner + Like the Christ, that thou may’st rise, + To a purer height of glory, + Through the pangs of sacrifice! + + “’Tis alone of his appointing, + That thy feet on thorns have trod; + Suffering, woe, renunciation, + Only bring us nearer God. + + “And when nearest Him then largest + The enfranchised heart’s embrace:— + It was Christ, the man rejected, + Who redeemed the human race. + + “Say not then thou hast no duties;— + Friendless outcasts on thee call, + And the sick and the afflicted, + And the children, more than all. + + “Oh, my friend, rise up and follow, + Where the hand of God shall lead; + He has brought thee through affliction, + But to fit thee for his need!” + + —Thus she spoke, and as from midnight, + Springs the opal-tinted morn, + So, within his dreary spirit, + A new day of life was born. + + Strength sublime may rise from weakness, + Groans be turned to songs of praise, + Nor are life’s divinest labours, + Only told by length of days. + + Young he died: but deeds of mercy, + Beautified his life’s short span, + And he left his worldly substance, + To complete what he began. + + + + + A FEW FACTS ABOUT MATRIMONY. + + +Modern science is invading all the old realms of whims and fancies, +charms and witchcrafts, prejudices and superstitions. No kind of +ignorance seems sacred from attack. The wise men of our generation are +evidently bent beyond recall on finding out all things that may by +possibility be discoverable, no matter what pains the search may impose. +Not content with making lightning run messages, chemistry polish boots, +and steam deliver parcels and passengers, the _savants_ are superseding +the astrologers of old days, and the gipsies and wise women of modern +ones, by finding out and revealing the hitherto hidden laws which rule +that charming mystery of mysteries—that lode star of young maidens and +gay bachelors—matrimony. + +In our fourteenth number we gave a description of the facts made out by +the returns of the Registrar-General on the subject of life and death in +London and the Country. The office of that official has some other +duties, however, beyond that of chronicling the business of mortality +and birth in this land of ours. There is a third great heading in his +tables, under which there are long lists of serious looking figures, and +they tell, not in units, or in _fews_, like the back page of a +newspaper, but in tens of thousands, how many marriages take place in +England. And besides the mere number of these interesting events, these +figures reveal what are found to be the laws regulating their frequency +and other circumstances connected with them, such as how many couples +are joined by the costly and unusual mode of special license; how many +by ordinary license; how many (and they are the great majority) by the +old English fashion of “out-asking” by banns; how many by the new +systems introduced for the union of various classes of dissenters, at +Registrars’ offices, in registered places of worship; how many between +Quakers and between Jews; and, beyond all these particulars, how many +young folks, hot of heart and full of courage, take the awful plunge +into matrimony whilst “not of full age;” how many men reject the advice +of Sir Roger de Coverley, and marry widows; and how many widows, like +the wife of Bath, love matrimony so well that when once released from +its bonds they tie themselves up in them again. The history of this +registration of marriages is soon told. This plan of recording the +matrimonial engagements of the country commenced in 1745, when the +marriage act came into operation. Before that date marriages were +performed clandestinely, and by such extraordinary persons that any +correct record of their number was impossible. “Fleet marriages” are +thus noticed by Smollett:—“There was a band of profligate miscreants, +the refuse of the clergy, dead to every sentiment of virtue, abandoned +to all sense of decency and decorum, for the most part prisoners for +debt or delinquency, and indeed the very outcasts of human society, who +hovered about the verge of the Fleet Prison to intercept customers, +plying like porters for employment, and performed the ceremony of +marriage without license or question, in cellars, garrets, or alehouses, +to the scandal of religion, and the disgrace of that order which they +professed. The ease with which this ecclesiastical sanction was +obtained, and the vicious disposition of those wretches open to the +practices of fraud and corruption, were productive of polygamy, +indigence, conjugal infidelity, prostitution, and every curse that could +embitter the married state. A remarkable case of this nature having +fallen under the cognizance of the Peers (in 1753) in an appeal from an +inferior tribunal, that House ordered the judges to prepare a new Bill +for preventing such abuses; and one was accordingly framed, under the +auspices of Lord Hardwick, at that time Lord High Chancellor of +England.” + +“It underwent a great number of alterations and amendments, which were +not effected without violent contest and altercation; at length, +however, it was floated through both houses on the tide of a great +majority, and steered into the safe harbour of royal approbation.” + +For seventy-seven years after the passing of this bill the number of +marriages was collected with tolerable accuracy, and published in the +Parish Register Abstracts. No other country has so valuable an abstract +of tables. Since that time the Registrar-General’s office has made this +branch of our national statistics almost accurate. + +Premising that the documents from which our statements are derived are +the Annual Reports of the Registrar-General, of Births, Deaths, and +Marriages, in England, issued—not for a short term, but during the last +six years—that the observations extend over a still longer period—we may +proceed to cull out what appear to be the economical laws regulating +matrimony, with any peculiarities characterising their operation amongst +us. We would say the _general_ laws—for individual peculiarities will, +of course, influence individual matches. One young lady will secure the +youth of her choice by force of beauty, or by mere weight of purse; +managing mothers will get husbands for their girls, whatever wind may +blow, or however trade or politics may influence the less fortunate or +less clever world. The great beauty, the great talents, and the great +wealth are the exceptions in the lottery of life. In speaking of +matrimonial prospects we, like the Registrar-General, mean the prospects +of the great family of twenty millions of souls that make up the +population of this land we live in. + +About a century ago, the marriages in London were under six thousand a +year—they are now four times as many. In all the country, the increase +has been most remarkable in the Metropolis and in Manchester. In +particular localities the proportion is found to differ. Thus Yorkshire, +the seat of the Woollen manufactures and of prosperous agriculturists, +appears to be the most marrying district of all England; Lancashire and +Cheshire, the Cotton districts, coming next; and London third. +Staffordshire and Worcestershire, Northamptonshire and Huntingdonshire +stand next, followed by other counties more or less blessed by the +presence of Hymen, but descending gradually till we reach the +matrimonial zero which is found in the agricultural parts of Middlesex. +The average annual number of weddings is about one hundred and +twenty-three thousand. It would help a winter night’s amusement to +decide how many pounds weight of Californian produce must be wanted for +the rings? How many garlands of orange blossoms for the hair and bonnets +of the brides? The probabilities of marriage, of course, vary; but the +rule seems to hold, that about one in seventeen unmarried women, between +the ages of fifteen and forty-five, are married in a year throughout the +country. Marriages have their seasons. They are least numerous in +winter, and most numerous after harvest in the December quarter; the +births and deaths, on the contrary, are most numerous in the winter +quarter ending in March, and least numerous in the summer quarter ending +September. War diminishes marriages by taking great numbers of +marriageable men away from their homes; whilst a return of peace +increases marriages, when soldiers and sailors with small pensions are +discharged. Trade and manufactures have also become more active in +England on the cessation of wars, and the employment and wages thus +induced, have contributed still more to add to the numbers of those +entering the married state. The establishment of new, or the extension +of old, employments promotes marriages: the cotton manufactures, the +canals of the last century, the railways of the present day, are +examples. Indeed, an increase of their incomes, is taken by the +generality of the people for the beginning of perennial prosperity, and +is followed by a multitude of marriages. There are only about fifteen +persons married annually, for the first time, out of a thousand living. +There are about five children born in wedlock to every marriage. The +births now exceed the deaths in England, in about the proportion of +three to two—three young subjects present themselves for Queen Victoria, +in place of every two that pass away. “The number of marriages in a +nation,” says the Registrar, “perhaps fluctuates independently of +external causes; but it is a fair deduction from the facts, that the +marriage returns in England point to periods of prosperity, little less +distinctly than the funds measure the hopes and fears of the money +market. If the one is the barometer of credit, the other is the +barometer of prosperity—a prosperity partly in possession, and still +more in hope.” The year 1845 was a great matrimonial year, the +proportion of persons married being more than had been known in England +for ninety years before. It was a season of great speculation, activity, +and temporary prosperity. Three years before, in 1842, on the contrary, +there was a great diminution in the number of weddings. It was a year of +difficulty and high prices. Rather more than ten per cent. of the +persons married in 1845, had been married more than once. When food is +dear, as in 1839, marriages are few; as food becomes cheap, as in 1845, +marriages are many. When a cheap food year indicates a year of “marrying +and giving in marriage,” another sign is generally found; the price of +consols indicates a condition of national affairs much more conducive to +matrimonial arrangements, than young ladies would imagine. In what may +be called the great English matrimonial period, the three per cents. +were about par, instead of being about 88, as they were in the +unfavourable season a short time before. When employment is plenty, +trade active, and money _easy_, Doctors Commons becomes brisk, clergymen +have long lists of banns to declare, and the Registrar’s column of +marriages fills up. + +As an instance of the influence of the price of food and want of +employment upon the number of marriages, let us take an illustration +from the Registrar as to the period from 1792 to 1798. The weather was +bad, the funds low, and bread excessively dear, and upon particular +districts a change of fashion made the burthen fall with still +additional weight. The “Church and King” riots broke out in July, 1791, +in Birmingham; and the mob burnt Dr. Priestley’s library, several +houses, and some dissenting chapels; in May, 1792, they again rose, but +the magistrates this time evinced some vigour, and put a stop to the +outrages. A staple manufacture of Birmingham had been subject to one of +the mutations of fashion, which caused great distress; for it is +recorded, that, on December 21st, 1791, “several respectable +buckle-manufacturers from Birmingham, Walsall, and Wolverhampton, waited +upon His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales, with a petition setting +forth the distressed situation of thousands in the different branches of +the buckle manufacture, from the fashion now, and for some time back, so +prevalent, of wearing shoe-strings instead of buckles. His Royal +Highness graciously promised his utmost assistance by his example and +influence.” After the recovery of George III. from his first illness, in +1789, an immense number of buckles were manufactured about Birmingham; +Walsall among other places invested the greater part of its available +wealth in the speculation. The king unfortunately went in the state +procession to St. Paul’s without buckles: and Walsall was nearly ruined. +Shoe-strings gradually supplied the place of straps. The effect of this +freak of fashion and speculation on the marriages of Birmingham was to +reduce them most seriously; and it had probably more to do with the +licentious Birmingham riots, than the more patent political agitation of +the day. The disuse of wigs, buckles, buttons, and leather breeches at +the close of the eighteenth century, is supposed to have affected the +business of a million of people. In 1765, the peace of London had been +disturbed by the periwig-makers, who went in procession to petition the +young king, “submitting to His Majesty’s goodness and wisdom, whether +his own example was not the only means of rescuing them from their +distress, as far as it was occasioned by so many people wearing their +own hair.” When change of fashions influence unfavourably the employment +of the people, and when, at the same time, influenced or increased by +lack of work, their poverty increases, matrimony is at a discount. It is +not simply the poorer classes, dependent on weekly wages for their +support, who feel the influence of times of business activity, and allow +it to impel them to matrimony. When the workman is busy, the trader +makes profits, the landlord gets his rents, and all sections of the +community feel the beneficial influence of a prosperous season. The +number of those persons entirely removed from such social sympathies is +very few; indeed, as a great rule, when the workmen are prosperous, all +classes above them are thriving too: and when the one section of the +great English family is influenced to matrimony in an unusual degree, +the others feel the influence of the same law. When the reaction, a +period of depression, arrives, the number of marriages declines, but +they have never fallen back to their original numbers. A time of +prosperity lifts up the total in a remarkable manner, and when the happy +time ceases, the number falls—but not equal to the level from which it +sprung. It is to a certain degree a permanent increase. + +As to the mode in which marriages are performed, it appears that nine +out of ten take place according to the rites of the established church. +The marriages by banns are about six times as numerous as those by +license. Upon these weddings, by aid of Doctors Commons, there is, it +seems, a vast sum of money spent; but who are the lucky men receiving +it, does not appear very clearly, and the services they render for the +cash is still more doubtful. There are about eighteen thousand licenses +granted by Doctors Commons and by country surrogates every year. The +usual cost of the license at Doctors Commons is 2_l._ 12_s._ 6_d._ There +is 10_s._ 6_d._ additional for minors; and in the country, surrogates, +it is said, obtain higher fees. At only 2_l._ 12_s._ 6_d._, the tax on +eighteen thousand licenses is 47,250_l._ a year. The stamps on each +license are 12_s._ 6_d._ Deducting this sum, the licenses to marry yield +at least 36,000_l._ a year. The expense of granting licenses in a manner +the most useful and convenient to the public would not be considerable; +and it is not easy to see why the surplus revenue derivable from the +tax, should not go into the public treasury, when a portion of the +expenses of the registration of births, deaths, and marriages, is paid +out of the Consolidated Fund. The aggregate amount of charges for the +General Register Office, at which all the returns of the country are +examined, indexed, and analysed, and the Act is administered, was +13,794_l._ in 1846; and the six hundred and twenty-one superintendent +registrars received 9097_l._ for examining certified copies. After +discharging the expenses of the civil registration, defrayed by the +Consolidated Fund, and the cost of the decennial census, a large surplus +would be left, out of 47,250_l._ for licenses, to go to the public +revenue of the country. And this would not interfere in the slightest +degree with the marriage fees; which would continue to be paid to the +officiating clergy. In the places of worship registered by Dissenters, +there were not quite ten thousand marriages in one year; nearly four +thousand in the same year took place in the Superintendant Registrar’s +offices; one hundred and eighty-four according to the rites of the Jews; +and seventy-four marriages between Quakers. The only fortuneteller who +can henceforth be believed, is the one who answers the question, “When +will the wedding take place?” by saying, “When trade flourishes, and +when bread is cheap.” + + + + + CHIPS. + + FROM MR. THOMAS BOVINGTON. + + + Long Hornets, June, 1850. + + SIR, + +I want to ask you a few questions, Mr. Conductor. In the first +place—What am I to do with my beasts? Those I got back from Smithfield, +after two months’ care and no small expense, have come round again, and +I’ve got a few others ready for market; but _what_ market? Country +markets don’t suit me, for I can’t get my price at them; and, as you +know, I would rather kill the cattle myself than send them to +Smithfield. + +Again,—What is the Royal Commission about? They have reported against +Smithfield, and why don’t Government shut it up? Isn’t there Islington? +Everything is ready there to open a market to-morrow. I can answer for +that, for I was there yesterday and went over it. I inquired +particularly about the drainage, for, if you remember, Brumpton told me +they could not drain it. Well, perhaps they could not very conveniently +when he was last there, but now they tell me that a thousand pounds +would do the entire job. I’ll tell you how:—You see the market stands +about fifty-one feet above the Trinity highwater mark of the Thames. +Well, close by, in the Southgate road, there is a new sewer, that runs +into a regular system of sewers which drain Hoxton, Spitalfields, and +all that part down to London bridge—and the cattle market being eighteen +feet above the level of the Southgate sewer, it will only be requisite +to cut a culvert into it, for the entire space to be drained out and +out. + +Now, my last question is this: Why don’t the people belonging to the +Islington market make the necessary sewer at once? If they did, what +excuse could government have for not shutting up Smithfield, and moving +the cattle market to Islington? + + I am, Sir, + Yours to command, + T. BOVINGTON. + + + + + THE OLD CHURCHYARD TREE. + + A PROSE POEM. + + +There is an old yew tree which stands by the wall in a dark quiet corner +of the churchyard. + +And a child was at play beneath its wide-spreading branches, one fine +day in the early spring. He had his lap full of flowers, which the +fields and lanes had supplied him with, and he was humming a tune to +himself as he wove them into garlands. + +And a little girl at play among the tombstones crept near to listen; but +the boy was so intent upon his garland, that he did not hear the gentle +footsteps, as they trod softly over the fresh green grass. When his work +was finished, and all the flowers that were in his lap were woven +together in one long wreath, he started up to measure its length upon +the ground, and then he saw the little girl, as she stood with her eyes +fixed upon him. He did not move or speak, but thought to himself that +she looked very beautiful as she stood there with her flaxen ringlets +hanging down upon her neck. The little girl was so startled by his +sudden movement, that she let fall all the flowers she had collected in +her apron, and ran away as fast as she could. But the boy was older and +taller than she, and soon caught her, and coaxed her to come back and +play with him, and help him to make more garlands; and from that time +they saw each other nearly every day, and became great friends. + +Twenty years passed away. Again, he was seated beneath the old yew tree +in the churchyard. + +It was summer now; bright, beautiful summer, with the birds singing, and +the flowers covering the ground, and scenting the air with their +perfume. + +But he was not alone now, nor did the little girl steal near on tiptoe, +fearful of being heard. She was seated by his side, and his arm was +round her, and she looked up into his face, and smiled as she whispered: +“The first evening of our lives we were ever together was passed here: +we will spend the first evening of our wedded life in the same quiet, +happy place.” And he drew her closer to him as she spoke. + +The summer is gone; and the autumn; and twenty more summers and autumns +have passed away since that evening, in the old churchyard. + +A young man, on a bright moonlight night, comes reeling through the +little white gate, and stumbling over the graves. He shouts and he +sings, and is presently followed by others like unto himself, or worse. +So, they all laugh at the dark solemn head of the yew tree, and throw +stones up at the place where the moon has silvered the boughs. + +Those same boughs are again silvered by the moon, and they droop over +his mother’s grave. There is a little stone which bears this +inscription:- + + “HER HEART BRAKE IN SILENCE.” + +But the silence of the churchyard is now broken by a voice—not of the +youth—nor a voice of laughter and ribaldry. + +“My son!—dost thou see this grave? and dost thou read the record in +anguish, whereof may come repentance?” + +“Of what should I repent?” answers the son; “and why should my young +ambition for fame relax in its strength because my mother was old and +weak?” + +“Is this indeed our son?” says the father, bending in agony over the +grave of his beloved. + +“I can well believe I am not;” exclaimeth the youth. “It is well that +you have brought me here to say so. Our natures are unlike; our courses +must be opposite. Your way lieth here—mine yonder!” + +So the son left the father kneeling by the grave. + +Again a few years are passed. It is winter, with a roaring wind and a +thick grey fog. The graves in the Churchyard are covered with snow, and +there are great icicles in the Church-porch. The wind now carries a +swathe of snow along the tops of the graves, as though the “sheeted +dead” were at some melancholy play; and hark! the icicles fall with a +crash and jingle, like a solemn mockery of the echo of the unseemly +mirth of one who is now coming to his final rest. + +There are two graves near the old yew tree; and the grass has overgrown +them. A third is close by; and the dark earth at each side has just been +thrown up. The bearers come; with a heavy pace they move along; the +coffin heaveth up and down, as they step over the intervening graves. + +Grief and old age had seized upon the father, and worn out his life; and +premature decay soon seized upon the son, and gnawed away his vain +ambition, and his useless strength, till he prayed to be borne, not the +way yonder that was most opposite to his father and his mother, but even +the same way they had gone—the way which leads to the Old Churchyard +Tree. + + + + + SABBATH PARIAHS. + + +We are overwhelmed with “Chips” from letter-writers, letter-senders, +letter-receivers, letter-sorters, and post-office clerks. Our own office +has become a post-office. It would seem as if all the letters that ought +to have been written for delivery on several previous Sundays in the +ordinary course, and by the agency of the great establishment in St. +Martin’s-le-Grand, have only not been indited in order that we might be +the sufferers. Doubtless, the other channels of public information have +equally received in the course of each week the surplus of what would +have been, but for the Plumptre and Ashley obstruction, Sunday letters. +The public are in arms, and every arm has a pen at the end; every pen is +dipped in the blackest ink of indignation, or is tinged with the milder +tint of remonstrance. + +Our most desperate remonstrants are provincial post-office clerks; for +it would appear that Lord Ashley’s outcasts from Sunday society have a +worse chance of being received into it now than ever. Their labours are +in many cases so heavy on Saturday nights, that they are obliged to lie +in bed during the whole of church time on Sunday, to recover from their +fatigues. + +We select one from the heap, for publication. The writer gives a clear +account of the hardships of a provincial post-office clerk before he was +relieved from Sunday duty by the Royal mandate. + + “Sir, + + “For three years I was what you are pleased to call in your article on + the ‘Sunday Screw’ a Post-Office Pariah, at an office in a most + ‘corresponding’ town; my Sunday duties were as follows:—at four I + rose, sorted my letters and newspapers, delivered them to the + messengers, sorted and stamped (both sides) the letters for the + cross-country mails, swept out and dusted the place, then I went to my + room again, had a nap, rose, washed, and dressed in my best; I came + down to breakfast at eight, took a walk, till Church time, and amused + myself till five in the afternoon, when I attended at the office and + received letters till half-past six. + + “I usually attended divine service; at eight I sorted and stamped the + letters and dispatched the mails; at nine I had done my work; all this + I did myself and never dreamed of being assisted. The rush of business + is now, I understand, so great on the arrival of the Saturday + afternoon mails, that every assistant and Post-Office clerk will wish + Lord Ashley safely imprisoned in the Whited Sepulchres. + + “Your, very obediently, + “EX-PARIAH.” + +Judging from the tone in which the earnest remonstrances from all kinds +of people that pile our tables are couched, we fear that, during the +last few Sundays, the bulk of the disappointed public in the provinces +has benefited very little by the change in a moral point of view. +Vexation has, we fear, taken the place of that religious, calm, and +beneficent state of mind in which the Sabbath ought to be passed. The +object, therefore, of the promoters of the measure—increased veneration +for the first day of the week—has failed; for of course their whole and +sole object in the affair has been the furtherance of the cause of +religion, and not a desire to get quits with Mr. Rowland Hill for the +calm, manly, triumphant manner in which he caused truth to vanquish them +in the recent agitation on the same question. + + + + + DUST; + OR UGLINESS REDEEMED. + + +On a murky morning in November, wind north-east, a poor old woman with a +wooden leg was seen struggling against the fitful gusts of the bitter +breeze, along a stony zigzag road full of deep and irregular cart-ruts. +Her ragged petticoat was blue, and so was her wretched nose. A stick was +in her left hand, which assisted her to dig and hobble her way along; +and in her other hand, supported also beneath her withered arm, was a +large rusty iron sieve. Dust and fine ashes filled up all the wrinkles +in her face; and of these there were a prodigious number, for she was +eighty-three years old. Her name was Peg Dotting. + +About a quarter of a mile distant, having a long ditch and a broken-down +fence as a foreground, there rose against the muddled-grey sky, a huge +Dust-heap of a dirty black colour,—being, in fact, one of those immense +mounds of cinders, ashes, and other emptyings from dust-holes and bins, +which have conferred celebrity on certain suburban neighbourhoods of a +great city. Towards this dusky mountain old Peg Dotting was now making +her way. + +Advancing towards the Dust-heap by an opposite path, very narrow and +just reclaimed from the mud by a thick layer of freshly broken flints, +there came at the same time Gaffer Doubleyear, with his bone-bag slung +over his shoulder. The rags of his coat fluttered in the east-wind, +which also whistled keenly round his almost rimless hat, and troubled +his one eye. The other eye, having met with an accident last week, he +had covered neatly with an oyster-shell, which was kept in its place by +a string at each side, fastened through a hole. He used no staff to help +him along, though his body was nearly bent double, so that his face was +constantly turned to the earth, like that of a four-footed creature. He +was ninety-seven years of age. + +As these two patriarchal labourers approached the great Dust-heap, a +discordant voice hallooed to them from the top of a broken wall. It was +meant as a greeting of the morning, and proceeded from little Jem +Clinker, a poor deformed lad whose back had been broken when a child. +His nose and chin were much too large for the rest of his face, and he +had lost nearly all his teeth from premature decay. But he had an eye +gleaming with intelligence and life, and an expression at once patient +and hopeful. He had balanced his misshapen frame on the top of the old +wall, over which one shrivelled leg dangled, as if by the weight of a +hob-nailed boot that covered a foot large enough for a ploughman. + +In addition to his first morning’s salutation of his two aged friends, +he now shouted out in a tone of triumph and self-gratulation, in which +he felt assured of their sympathy—“Two white skins, and a tor’shell-un.” + +It may be requisite to state that little Jem Clinker belonged to the +dead-cat department of the Dust-heap, and now announced that a prize of +three skins, in superior condition, had rewarded him for being first in +the field. He was enjoying a seat on the wall in order to recover +himself from the excitement of his good fortune. + +At the base of the great Dust-heap the two old people now met their +young friend—a sort of great-grandson by mutual adoption—and they at +once joined the party who had by this time assembled as usual, and were +already busy at their several occupations. + +But besides all these, another individual, belonging to a very different +class, formed a part of the scene, though appearing only on its +outskirts. A canal ran along at the rear of the Dust-heap, and on the +banks of its opposite side, slowly wandered by—with hands clasped and +hanging down in front of him, and eyes bent vacantly upon his hands—the +forlorn figure of a man in a very shabby great-coat, which had evidently +once belonged to one in the position of a gentleman. And to a gentleman +it still belonged—but in _what_ a position? A scholar, a man of wit, of +high sentiment, of refinement, and a good fortune withal—now by a sudden +“turn of law” bereft of the last only, and finding that none of the +rest, for which (having his fortune) he had been so much admired, +enabled him to gain a livelihood. His title-deeds had been lost or +stolen, and so he was bereft of everything he possessed. He had talents, +and such as would have been profitably available had he known how to use +them for this new purpose; but he did not; he was misdirected; he made +fruitless efforts, in his want of experience; and he was now starving. +As he passed the great Dust-heap, he gave one vague, melancholy gaze +that way, and then looked wistfully into the canal. And he continued to +look into the canal as he slowly moved along, till he was out of sight. + +A Dust-heap of this kind is often worth thousands of pounds. The present +one was very large and very valuable. It was in fact a large hill, and +being in the vicinity of small suburb cottages, it rose above them like +a great black mountain. Thistles, groundsel, and rank grass grew in +knots on small parts which had remained for a long time undisturbed; +crows often alighted on its top, and seemed to put on their spectacles +and become very busy and serious; flocks of sparrows often made +predatory descents upon it; an old goose and gander might sometimes be +seen following each other up its side, nearly midway; pigs routed round +its base,—and, now and then, one bolder than the rest would venture some +way up, attracted by the mixed odours of some hidden marrow-bone +enveloped in a decayed cabbage-leaf—a rare event, both of these articles +being unusual oversights of the Searchers below. + +The principal ingredient of all these Dust-heaps is fine cinders and +ashes; but as they are accumulated from the contents of all the +dust-holes and bins of the vicinity, and as many more as possible, the +fresh arrivals in their original state present very heterogeneous +materials. We cannot better describe them, than by presenting a brief +sketch of the different departments of the Searchers and Sorters, who +are assembled below to busy themselves upon the mass of original matters +which are shot out from the carts of the dustmen. + +The bits of coal, the pretty numerous results of accident and servants’ +carelessness, are picked out, to be sold forthwith; the largest and best +of the cinders are also selected, by another party, who sell them to +laundresses, or to braziers (for whose purposes coke would not do so +well); and the next sort of cinders, called the _breeze_, because it is +left after the wind has blown the finer cinders through an upright +sieve, is sold to the brickmakers. + +Two other departments, called the “software” and the “hard-ware,” are +very important. The former includes all vegetable and animal +matters—everything that will decompose. These are selected and bagged at +once, and carried off as soon as possible, to be sold as manure for +ploughed land, wheat, barley, &c. Under this head, also, the dead cats +are comprised. They are, generally, the perquisites of the women +searchers. Dealers come to the wharf, or dust-field, every evening; they +give sixpence for a white cat, fourpence for a coloured cat, and for a +black one according to her quality. The “hard-ware” includes all broken +pottery,—pans, crockery, earthenware, oyster-shells, &c., which are sold +to make new roads. + +“The bones” are selected with care, and sold to the soap-boiler. He +boils out the fat and marrow first, for special use, and the bones are +then crushed and sold for manure. + +Of “rags,” the woollen rags are bagged and sent off for hop-manure; the +white linen rags are washed, and sold to make paper, &c. + +The “tin things” are collected and put into an oven with a grating at +the bottom, so that the solder which unites the parts melts, and runs +through into a receiver. This is sold separately; the detached pieces of +tin are then sold to be melted up with old iron, &c. + +Bits of old brass, lead, &c., are sold to be melted up separately, or in +the mixture of ores. + +All broken glass vessels, as cruets, mustard-pots, tumblers, +wine-glasses, bottles, &c., are sold to the old-glass shops. + +As for any articles of jewellery,—silver spoons, forks, thimbles, or +other plate and valuables, they are pocketed off-hand by the first +finder. Coins of gold and silver are often found, and many “coppers.” + +Meantime, everybody is hard at work near the base of the great +Dust-heap. A certain number of cart-loads having been raked and searched +for all the different things just described, the whole of it now +undergoes the process of sifting. The men throw up the stuff, and the +women sift it. + +“When I was a young girl,” said Peg Dotting— + +“That’s a long while ago, Peggy,” interrupted one of the sifters: but +Peg did not hear her. + +“When I was quite a young thing,” continued she, addressing old John +Doubleyear, who threw up the dust into her sieve, “it was the fashion to +wear pink roses in the shoes, as bright as that morsel of ribbon Sally +has just picked out of the dust; yes, and sometimes in the hair, too, on +one side of the head, to set off the white powder and salve-stuff. I +never wore one of these head-dresses myself—don’t throw up the dust so +high, John—but I lived only a few doors lower down from those as _did_. +Don’t throw up the dust so high, I tell ’ee—the wind takes it into my +face.” + +“Ah! There! What’s that?” suddenly exclaimed little Jem, running, as +fast as his poor withered legs would allow him, towards a fresh heap, +which had just been shot down on the wharf from a dustman’s cart. He +made a dive and a search—then another—then one deeper still. “I’m _sure_ +I saw it!” cried he, and again made a dash with both hands into a fresh +place, and began to distribute the ashes and dust and rubbish on every +side, to the great merriment of all the rest. + +“What did you see, Jemmy?” asked old Doubleyear, in a compassionate +tone. + +“Oh, I don’t know,” said the boy, “only it was like a bit of something +made of real gold!” + +A fresh burst of laughter from the company assembled followed this +somewhat vague declaration, to which the dustmen added one or two +elegant epithets, expressive of their contempt of the notion that _they_ +could have overlooked a bit of anything valuable in the process of +emptying sundry dust-holes, and carting them away. + +“Ah,” said one of the sifters, “poor Jem’s always a-fancying something +or other good—but it never comes.” + +“Didn’t I find three cats this morning!” cried Jem, “two on ’em white +’uns! How you go on!” + +“I meant something quite different from the like o’ that,” said the +other; “I was a-thinking of the rare sights all you three there have +had, one time and another.” + +The wind having changed and the day become bright, the party at work all +seemed disposed to be more merry than usual. The foregoing remark +excited the curiosity of several of the sifters, who had recently joined +the “company,” the parties alluded to were requested to favour them with +the recital; and though the request was made with only a half-concealed +irony, still it was all in good-natured pleasantry, and was immediately +complied with. Old Doubleyear spoke first. + +“I had a bad night of it with the rats some years ago—they run’d all +over the floor, and over the bed, and one on ’em come’d and guv a squeak +close into my ear—so I couldn’t sleep comfortable. I wouldn’t ha’ minded +a trifle of it; but this was too much of a good thing. So, I got up +before sun-rise, and went out for a walk; and thinking I might as well +be near our work-place, I slowly come’d down this way. I worked in a +brickfield at that time, near the canal yonder. The sun was just arising +up behind the Dust-heap as I got in sight of it; and soon it rose above, +and was very bright; and though I had two eyes then, I was obligated to +shut them both. When I opened them again, the sun was higher up; but in +his haste to get over the Dust-heap, he had dropped something. You may +laugh. I say he had dropped something. Well—I can’t say what it was, in +course—a bit of his-self, I suppose. It was just like him—a bit on him, +I mean—quite as bright—just the same—only not so big. And not up in the +sky, but a-lying and sparkling all on fire upon the Dust-heap. Thinks +I—I was a younger man then by some years than I am now—I’ll go and have +a nearer look. Though you be a bit o’ the sun, maybe you won’t hurt a +poor man. So, I walked towards the Dust-heap, and up I went, keeping the +piece of sparkling fire in sight all the while. But before I got up to +it, the sun went behind a cloud—and as he went out-like, so the young +’un he had dropped, went out arter him. And I had my climb up the heap +for nothing, though I had marked the place vere it lay very percizely. +But there was no signs at all on him, and no morsel left of the light as +had been there. I searched all about; but found nothing ’cept a bit o’ +broken glass as had got stuck in the heel of an old shoe. And that’s my +story. But if ever a man saw anything at all, I saw a bit o’ the sun; +and I thank God for it. It was a blessed sight for a poor ragged old man +of three score and ten, which was my age at that time.” + +“Now, Peggy!” cried several voices, “tell us what you saw. Peg saw a bit +o’ the moon.” + +“No,” said Mrs. Dotting, rather indignantly; “I’m no moon-raker. Not a +sign of the moon was there, nor a spark of a star—the time I speak on.” + +“Well—go on, Peggy—go on.” + +“I don’t know as I will,” said Peggy. + +But being pacified by a few good-tempered, though somewhat humorous, +compliments, she thus favoured them with her little adventure. + +“There was no moon, nor stars, nor comet, in the ’versal heavens, nor +lamp nor lantern along the road, when I walked home one winter’s night +from the cottage of Widow Pin, where I had been to tea, with her and +Mrs. Dry, as lived in the almshouses. They wanted Davy, the son of Bill +Davy the milkman, to see me home with the lantern, but I wouldn’t let +him ’cause of his sore throat. Throat!—no, it wasn’t his throat as was +rare sore—it was—no, it wasn’t—yes, it was—it was his toe as was sore. +His big toe. A nail out of his boot had got into it. I _told_ him he’d +be sure to have a bad toe, if he didn’t go to church more regular, but +he wouldn’t listen; and so my words come’d true. But, as I was a-saying, +I wouldn’t let him light me with the lantern by reason of his sore +throat—_toe_, I mean—and as I went along, the night seemed to grow +darker and darker. A straight road, though, and I was so used to it by +day-time, it didn’t matter for the darkness. Hows’ever, when I come’d +near the bottom of the Dust-heap as I had to pass, the great dark heap +was so zackly the same as the night, you couldn’t tell one from t’other. +So, thinks I to myself—_what_ was I thinking of at this moment?—for the +life o’ me I can’t call it to mind; but that’s neither here nor there, +only for this,—it was a something that led me to remember the story of +how the devil goes about like a roaring lion. And while I was a-hoping +he might not be out a roaring that night, what should I see rise out of +one side of the Dust-heap, but a beautiful shining star of a violet +colour. I stood as still—as stock-still as any I don’t-know-what! There +it lay, as beautiful as a new-born babe, all a-shining in the dust! By +degrees I got courage to go a little nearer—and then a little nearer +still—for, says I to myself, I’m a sinful woman, I know, but I have +repented, and do repent constantly of all the sins of my youth, and the +backslidings of my age—which have been numerous; and once I had a very +heavy back-sliding—but that’s neither here nor there. So, as I was +a-saying, having collected all my sinfulness of life, and humbleness +before heaven, into a goodish bit of courage, forward I steps—a little +furder—and a leetle furder more—_un_-til I come’d just up to the +beautiful shining star lying upon the dust. Well, it was a long time I +stood a-looking down at it, before I ventured to do, what I arterwards +did. But _at_ last I did stoop down with both hands slowly—in case it +might burn, or bite—and gathering up a good scoop of ashes as my hands +went along, I took it up, and began a-carrying it home, all shining +before me, and with a soft blue mist rising up round about it. Heaven +forgive me!—I was punished for meddling with what Providence had sent +for some better purpose than to be carried home by an old woman like me, +whom it has pleased heaven to afflict with the loss of one leg, and the +pain, expanse, and inconvenience of a wooden one. Well—I _was_ punished; +covetousness had its reward; for, presently, the violet light got very +pale, and then went out; and when I reached home, still holding in both +hands all I had gathered up, and when I took it to the candle, it had +turned into the red shell of a lobsky’s head, and its two black eyes +poked up at me with a long stare,—and I may say, a strong smell, +too,—enough to knock a poor body down.” + +Great applause, and no little laughter, followed the conclusion of old +Peggy’s story, but she did not join in the merriment. She said it was +all very well for young folks to laugh, but at her age she had enough to +do to pray; and she had never said so many prayers, nor with so much +fervency, as she had done since she received the blessed sight of the +blue star on the Dust-heap, and the chastising rod of the lobster’s head +at home. + +Little Jem’s turn now came; the poor lad was, however, so excited by the +recollection of what his companions called “Jem’s Ghost,” that he was +unable to describe it in any coherent language. To his imagination it +had been a lovely vision,—the one “bright consummate flower” of his +life, which he treasured up as the most sacred image in his heart. He +endeavoured, in wild and hasty words, to set forth, how that he had been +bred a chimney-sweep; that one Sunday afternoon he had left a set of +companions, most on ’em sweeps, who were all playing at marbles in the +churchyard, and he had wandered to the Dust-heap, where he had fallen +asleep; that he was awoke by a sweet voice in the air, which said +something about some one having lost her way!—that he, being now wide +awake, looked up, and saw with his own eyes a young Angel, with fair +hair and rosy cheeks, and large white wings at her shoulders, floating +about like bright clouds, rise out of the Dust! She had on a garment of +shining crimson, which changed as he looked upon her to shining gold, +then to purple and gold. She then exclaimed, with a joyful smile, “I see +the right way!” and the next moment the Angel was gone! + +As the sun was just now very bright and warm for the time of year, and +shining full upon the Dust-heap in its setting, one of the men +endeavoured to raise a laugh at the deformed lad, by asking him if he +didn’t expect to see just such another angel at this minute, who had +lost her way in the field on the other side of the heap; but his jest +failed. The earnestness and devout emotion of the boy to the vision of +reality which his imagination, aided by the hues of sunset, had thus +exalted, were too much for the gross spirit of banter, and the speaker +shrunk back into his dust-shovel, and affected to be very assiduous in +his work as the day was drawing to a close. + +Before the day’s work was ended, however, little Jem again had a glimpse +of the prize which had escaped him on the previous occasion. He +instantly darted, hands and head foremost into the mass of cinders and +rubbish, and brought up a black mash of half-burnt parchment, entwined +with vegetable refuse, from which he speedily disengaged an oval frame +of gold, containing a miniature, still protected by its glass, but half +covered with mildew from the damp. He was in ecstasies at the prize. +Even the white cat-skins paled before it. In all probability some of the +men would have taken it from him “to try and find the owner,” but for +the presence and interference of his friends Peg Dotting and old +Doubleyear, whose great age, even among the present company, gave them a +certain position of respect and consideration. So all the rest now went +their way, leaving the three to examine and speculate on the prize. + +These Dust-heaps are a wonderful compound of things. A banker’s cheque +for a considerable sum was found in one of them. It was on Herries and +Farquhar, in 1847. But banker’s cheques, or gold and silver articles, +are the least valuable of their ingredients. Among other things, a +variety of useful chemicals are extracted. Their chief value, however, +is for the making of bricks. The fine cinder-dust and ashes are used in +the clay of the bricks, both for the red and grey stacks. Ashes are also +used as fuel between the layers of the clump of bricks, which could not +be burned in that position without them. The ashes burn away, and keep +the bricks open. Enormous quantities are used. In the brickfields at +Uxbridge, near the Drayton Station, one of the brickmakers alone will +frequently contract for fifteen or sixteen thousand chaldron of this +cinder-dust, in one order. Fine coke or coke-dust, affects the market at +times as a rival; but fine coal, or coal-dust, never, because it would +spoil the bricks. + +As one of the heroes of our tale had been originally—before his +promotion—a chimney-sweeper, it may be only appropriate to offer a +passing word on the genial subject of soot. Without speculating on its +origin and parentage, whether derived from the cooking of a Christmas +dinner, or the production of the beautiful colours and odours of exotic +plants in a conservatory, it can briefly be shown to possess many +qualities both useful and ornamental. + +When soot is first collected, it is called “rough soot,” which, being +sifted, is then called “fine soot,” and is sold to farmers for manuring +and preserving wheat and turnips. This is more especially used in +Herefordshire, Bedfordshire, Essex, &c. It is rather a costly article, +being fivepence per bushel. One contractor sells annually as much as +three thousand bushels; and he gives it as his opinion, that there must +be at least one hundred and fifty times this quantity (four hundred and +fifty thousand bushels per annum) sold in London. Farmer Smutwise, of +Bradford, distinctly asserts that the price of the soot he uses on his +land is returned to him in the straw, with improvement also to the +grain. And we believe him. Lime is used to dilute soot when employed as +a manure. Using it pure will keep off snails, slugs, and caterpillars, +from peas and various other vegetables, as also from dahlias just +shooting up, and other flowers; but we regret to add that we have +sometimes known it kill, or burn up, the things it was intended to +preserve from unlawful eating. In short, it is by no means so safe to +use for any purpose of garden manure, as fine cinders and wood-ashes, +which are good for almost any kind of produce, whether turnips or roses. +Indeed, we should like to have one fourth or fifth part of our +garden-beds composed of excellent stuff of this kind. From all that has +been said, it will have become very intelligible why these Dust-heaps +are so valuable. Their worth, however, varies not only with their +magnitude (the quality of all of them is much the same), but with the +demand. About the year 1820, the Marylebone Dust-heap produced between +four thousand and five thousand pounds. In 1832, St. George’s paid Mr. +Stapleton five hundred pounds a year, not to leave the Heap standing, +but to carry it away. Of course he was only too glad to be paid highly +for selling his Dust. + +But to return. The three friends having settled to their satisfaction +the amount of money they should probably obtain by the sale of the +golden miniature-frame, and finished the castles which they had built +with it in the air, the frame was again enfolded in the sound part of +the parchment, the rags and rottenness of the law were cast away, and up +they rose to bend their steps homeward to the little hovel where Peggy +lived, she having invited the others to tea that they might talk yet +more fully over the wonderful good luck that had befallen them. + +“Why, if there isn’t a man’s head in the canal!” suddenly cried little +Jem. “Looky there!—isn’t that a man’s head?—Yes; it’s a drowndedd man?” + +“A drowndedd man, as I live!” ejaculated old Doubleyear. + +“Let’s get him out, and see!” cried Peggy. “Perhaps the poor soul’s not +quite gone.” + +Little Jem scuttled off to the edge of the canal, followed by the two +old people. As soon as the body had floated nearer, Jem got down into +the water, and stood breast-high, vainly measuring his distance with one +arm out, to see if he could reach some part of the body as it was +passing. As the attempt was evidently without a chance, old Doubleyear +managed to get down into the water behind him, and holding him by one +hand, the boy was thus enabled to make a plunge forward as the body was +floating by. He succeeded in reaching it; but the jerk was too much for +the weakness of his aged companion, who was pulled forwards into the +canal. A loud cry burst from both of them, which was yet more loudly +echoed by Peggy on the bank. Doubleyear and the boy were now struggling +almost in the middle of the canal with the body of the man swirling +about between them. They would inevitably have been drowned, had not old +Peggy caught up a long dust-rake that was close at hand—scrambled down +up to her knees in the canal—clawed hold of the struggling group with +the teeth of the rake, and fairly brought the whole to land. Jem was +first up the bank, and helped up his two heroic companions; after which, +with no small difficulty, they contrived to haul the body of the +stranger out of the water. Jem at once recognised in him the forlorn +figure of the man who had passed by in the morning, looking so sadly +into the canal, as he walked along. + +It is a fact well known to those who work in the vicinity of these great +Dust-heaps, that when the ashes have been warmed by the sun, cats and +kittens that have been taken out of the canal and buried a few inches +beneath the surface, have usually revived; and the same has often +occurred in the case of men. Accordingly the three, without a moment’s +hesitation, dragged the body along to the Dust-heap, where they made a +deep trench, in which they placed it, covering it all over up to the +neck. + +“There now,” ejaculated Peggy, sitting down with a long puff to recover +her breath, “he’ll lie very comfortable, whether or no.” + +“Couldn’t lie better,” said old Doubleyear, “even if he knew it.” + +The three now seated themselves close by, to await the result. + +“I thought I’d a lost him,” said Jem, “and myself too; and when I pulled +Daddy in arter me, I guv us all three up for this world.” + +“Yes,” said Doubleyear, “it must have gone queer with us if Peggy had +not come in with the rake. How d’ yee feel, old girl; for you’ve had a +narrow escape too. I wonder we were not too heavy for you, and so pulled +you in to go with us.” + +“The Lord be praised!” fervently ejaculated Peggy, pointing towards the +pallid face that lay surrounded with ashes. A convulsive twitching +passed over the features, the lips trembled, the ashes over the breast +heaved, and a low moaning sound, which might have come from the bottom +of the canal, was heard. Again the moaning sound, and then the eyes +opened, but closed almost immediately. “Poor dear soul!” whispered +Peggy, “how he suffers in surviving. Lift him up a little. Softly. Don’t +be afeared. We’re only your good angels, like—only poor +cinder-sifters—don’tee be afeared.” + +By various kindly attentions and manœuvres such as these poor people had +been accustomed to practise on those who were taken out of the canal, +the unfortunate gentleman was gradually brought to his senses. He gazed +about him, as well he might—now looking in the anxious, though begrimed, +faces of the three strange objects, all in their “weeds” and dust—and +then up at the huge Dust-heap, over which the moon was now slowly +rising. + +“Land of quiet Death!” murmured he, faintly, “or land of Life, as dark +and still—I have passed from one into the other; but which of ye I am +now in, seems doubtful to my senses.” + +“Here we are, poor gentleman,” cried Peggy, “here we are, all friends +about you. How did ’ee tumble into the canal?” + +“The Earth, then, once more!” said the stranger, with a deep sigh. “I +know where I am, now. I remember this great dark hill of ashes—like +Death’s kingdom, full of all sorts of strange things, and put to many +uses.” + +“Where do you live?” asked Old Doubleyear; “shall we try and take you +home, Sir?” + +The stranger shook his head mournfully. All this time, little Jem had +been assiduously employed in rubbing his feet and then his hands; in +doing which the piece of dirty parchment, with the miniature-frame, +dropped out of his breast-pocket. A good thought instantly struck Peggy. + +“Run, Jemmy dear—run with that golden thing to Mr. Spikechin, the +pawnbroker’s—get something upon it directly, and buy some nice +brandy—and some Godfrey’s cordial—and a blanket, Jemmy—and call a coach, +and get up outside on it, and make the coachee drive back here as fast +as you can.” + +But before Jemmy could attend to this, Mr. Waterhouse, the stranger +whose life they had preserved, raised himself on one elbow, and extended +his hand to the miniature-frame. Directly he looked at it, he raised +himself higher up—turned it about once or twice—then caught up the piece +of parchment, and uttering an ejaculation, which no one could have +distinguished either as of joy or of pain, sank back fainting. + +In brief, this parchment was a portion of the title-deeds he had lost; +and though it did not prove sufficient to enable him to recover his +fortune, it brought his opponent to a composition, which gave him an +annuity for life. Small as this was, he determined that these poor +people, who had so generously saved his life at the risk of their own, +should be sharers in it. Finding that what they most desired was to have +a cottage in the neighbourhood of the Dust-heap, built large enough for +all three to live together, and keep a cow, Mr. Waterhouse paid a visit +to Manchester Square, where the owner of the property resided. He told +his story, as far as was needful, and proposed to purchase the field in +question. + +The great Dust-Contractor was much amused, and his daughter—a very +accomplished young lady—was extremely interested. So the matter was +speedily arranged to the satisfaction and pleasure of all parties. The +acquaintance, however, did not end here. Mr. Waterhouse renewed his +visits very frequently, and finally made proposals for the young lady’s +hand, she having already expressed her hopes of a propitious answer from +her father. + +“Well, Sir,” said the latter, “you wish to marry my daughter, and she +wishes to marry you. You are a gentleman and a scholar, but you have no +money. My daughter is what you see, and she has no money. But I have; +and therefore, as she likes you, and I like you, I’ll make you both an +offer. I will give my daughter twenty thousand pounds,—or you shall have +the Dust-heap. Choose!” + +Mr. Waterhouse was puzzled and amused, and referred the matter entirely +to the young lady. But she was for having the money, and no trouble. She +said the Dust-heap might be worth much, but they did not understand the +business. “Very well,” said her father, laughing, “then, there’s the +money.” + +This was the identical Dust-heap, as we know from authentic information, +which was subsequently sold for forty thousand pounds, and was exported +to Russia to rebuild Moscow. + + * * * * * + + 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 past month, was + issued with the Magazines._ + + * * * * * + + Published at the Office, No 16, Wellington Street North, Strand. + Printed by BRADBURY & EVANS, Whitefriars, London. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES + + + ● Fixed typos; non-standard spelling and dialect retained. + ● Renumbered footnotes. + ● 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 78181 *** |