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CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 GIFT OF 
 I'^r^. Harry >-. St ration 
 
•ORNEU UNIVERSITY LIBRARY 
 
 3 1924 079 708 347 
 
The original of tliis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924079708347 
 
PEAEL-FISHOG, 
 
 CHOKE STOaiES, 
 
 FEOM 
 
 iidteits' '§sn^t\sU MaxtiS, 
 
 SECOND SEKIES. 
 
 AUBURN: 
 
 ALDEN, BEARDSLEY & CO. 
 
 ROCHEST ER: 
 
 WANZEK, BEARDSLEY & CO. 
 
 1864. 
 
Entered, Dccording to Act of Congress, in the yejr 1854, by 
 ALDEN, BEAEDSLEY & CO., 
 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the 
 Northern District of New Yorls. 
 
 'y^f//^ 
 
 THOMAS B. SMITH, 
 
 STEBEOTYPER AND ELEOTEOTYPEB, 
 
 216 William Street, N. Y. 
 
rpHE large demand for the Mrsi Series of this puhli- 
 -*- cation, has confirmed the publishers in their opin- 
 ion of its worth and its adaptability to meet the wants 
 and tastes of the reading public, and induced them to 
 issue, in rapid succession, the present volume, which 
 will be found not less interesting and worthy of at- 
 tention. 
 
 The publishers also announce their intention of con- 
 tinuing this series, which has been received with so 
 much public favor. 
 
 June, 1854. 
 
€sutnt$. 
 
 Paqe 
 I. — Tile Youno Ajjvocate T 
 
 n. — The Last of a LoNft Line 33 
 
 III. — The Gentleman BEaaAB lOT 
 
 IV. — Evil is 'Wiiouoht by want of TnonGHT . . 130 
 
 v.— Bed 167 
 
 VI. — The Hoiie of ■Woodktjffe the Gaedenek . . 184 
 
 VII.— The Watee-Deops 2S1 
 
 VIII. — An Excellent Oppobtdottt 325 
 
ANTOINE DE CHAULIEU was tlie son of a 
 poor gentleman of Normandy, witlx a long 
 genealogy^ a short rent-roll, and a large family. 
 Jacques Eollet was the son of a brewer, wlio did 
 not know who his grandfather was ; but he had a 
 long purse and only two childxen. As these 
 youths flourished in the early days of liberty, 
 equality, and fraternity, and were near neighbors, 
 they naturally hated each other. Their enmity 
 commenced at school, where the delicate and re- 
 fined De Chaulieu being the only gentilhomme 
 among the scholars, was the favorite of the mas- 
 ter (who was a bit of an aristocrat in his heart) al- 
 though he was about the worst dressed boy in the 
 
8 Pearl-Fishing. 
 
 establishment, and never had a sou to spend ; while 
 Jacques EoUet, sturdy and rough, with smart 
 clothes and plenty of money, got flogged six days 
 in the week, ostensibly for being stupid and not 
 learning his lessons — which, indeed, he did not — 
 but, in reality, for constantly quarrelling with and 
 insulting De Chaulieu, who had not strength to 
 cope with him. TVhen they left the academy, the 
 feud continued in all its vigor, and was fostered by 
 a thousand little circumstances arising out of the 
 state of the times, till a separation ensued in con- 
 sequence of an aunt of Antoine de Chaulieu's un- 
 dertaking the expense of sending him to Paris to 
 study the law, and of maintaining him there during 
 the necessary period. 
 
 With the progress of events came some degree 
 of reaction in favor of birth and nobility, and then 
 Antoine, who had passed for the bar, began to hold 
 up his head and endeavored to push his fortunes ; 
 but fate seemed against him. He felt certain that 
 if he possessed any gift in the world it was that of 
 eloquence, but he could get no cause to plead ; and 
 
The Young Advocate. 9 
 
 his aunt dying inopportunely, first Ms resources 
 failed, and tlien Ms healtli. He had no sooner re- 
 turned to Ms home, than, to complicate his difficul- 
 ties completely, he fell in love with Mademoiselle 
 Natalie de Bellefonds, who had just returned from 
 Paris, where she had been completing her educa- 
 tion. To expiate on the perfections of Mademoi- 
 selle ISTatalie, would be a waste of ink and paper ; 
 it is sufficient to say that she really was a very 
 charming girl, with a fortune which, though not 
 large, would have been a most desirable acquisition 
 to De Chaulleu, who had nothing. Neither was 
 the fair ISTatalie indisposed to listen to his addresses ; 
 but her father could not be expected to countenance 
 the suit of a gentleman, however well-born, who 
 had not a ten-sous piece in the world, and whose 
 prospects were a blank. 
 
 While the ambitious and love-sick young barris- 
 ter was thus pining in unwelcome obscurity, his 
 old acquaintance, Jacques EoUet, had been acquir- 
 ing an undesirable notoriety. There was nothing 
 really bad in Jacques' disposition, but having been 
 
10 Peael-Fishing, 
 
 bred up a democrat, witli a hatred of the nobility, 
 lie could not easily accommodate Ms rough humor 
 to treat them with civihty when it was no longer 
 safe to insult them. The liberties he allowed him- 
 self whenever circumstances brought him into con- 
 tact with the higher classes of society, had led him 
 into many scrapes, out-of which his father's money 
 had one way or another released him; but that 
 source of safety had now failed. Old EoUet having 
 been too busy with the affairs of the nation to at- 
 tend to his business, had died insolvent, leaving 
 his son with nothing but his own wits to help him 
 out of future difliculties, and it was not long before 
 their exercise was called for. Claudine Eollet, his 
 sister, who was a very pretty girl, had attracted the 
 attention of Mademoiselle de Bellefonds' brother, 
 Alphonso ; and as he paid her more attention than 
 from such a quarter was agreeable to Jacques, the 
 young men had more than one quarrel on the sub- 
 ject, on which occasions they had each, characteris- 
 tically, given vent to their enmity, the one in con- 
 temptuous monosyllables, and the other in a volley 
 
The Youira Advocate. 11 
 
 of insulting words. But Claudine had another 
 lover more nearly of her own condition of life; 
 this was Claperon, the deputy-governor of the 
 Eouen jail, with whom she made acquaintance 
 during one or two compulsory visits paid hy her 
 brother to that functionary; but Claudine, who 
 was a bit of a coquette, though she did not alto- 
 gether reject his suit, gave him little encouagement, 
 so that betwixt hopes, and fears, and doubts, and 
 jealousies, poor Claperon led a very imeasy Mnd 
 of life. 
 
 Affairs had been for some time in this position, 
 when, one»fine morning, Alphonse de Bellefonds 
 was not to be found in his chamber when his ser- 
 vant went to call him ; neither had his bed been 
 slept in. He had been observed to go out rather 
 late on the preceding evening, but whether or not 
 he had returned, nobody could teU. He had not. 
 appeared at supper, but that was too ordinary an 
 event to awaken suspicion ; and little alarm was 
 excited tiU several hours had elapsed, when inqui- 
 ries were instituted and a search commenced, which 
 
12 Peael-Pishing. 
 
 terminated in the discovery of Ids body, a good 
 deal mangled, lying at the bottom of a pond wbieb. 
 had belonged to the old brewery, Before any in- 
 vestigations had been made, every person had 
 jumped to the conclusion that the young man had 
 been murdered, and that Jacques EoUet was the 
 assassin. There was a strong presumption in favor 
 of that opinion, which further perquisitions tended 
 to confirm. Only the day before, Jacques had been 
 heard to threaten M. de Bellefonds -with speedy ven- 
 geance. On the fatal evening, Alphonse and Clau- 
 dine had been seen together in the neighborhood 
 of the now dismantled brewery; and as Jacques, 
 betwixt poverty and democracy, was in bad odor 
 with the prudent and respectable part of society, it 
 was not easy for him to bring witnesses to charac- 
 ter, or prove an unexceptionable ahbi. As for the 
 Bellefonds and De Chaulieus, and the aristocracy 
 in general, they entertained no doubt of his guilt ; 
 and finally, the magistrates coming to the same 
 opinion, Jacques Eollet was committed for trial, 
 and as a testimony of good will Antoine "de Ohau- 
 
The Yotjkg Advocate. 13 
 
 lieu was selected by the injured family to conduct 
 the prosecution. 
 
 Here, at last, was the opportunity he had sighed 
 for! So interesting a case, too, furnishing such 
 ample occasion for passion, pathos, indignation! 
 And how eminently fortunate that the speech 
 which he set himself with ardor to prepare, would 
 be delivered in the presence of the father and 
 brother of his mistress, and perhaps of the lady 
 herself! The evidence against Jacques, it is true, 
 was altogether presumptive; there was no proof 
 whatever that he had committed the crime; and 
 for his own part he stoutly denied it. But Antoiae 
 de Chaulieu entertained no doubt of his guilt, and 
 his speech was certainly well calculated to caiTy 
 conviction into the bosom of others. It was of the 
 highest importance to his own reputation that he 
 should procure a verdict, and he confidently as- 
 sured the afflicted and enraged family of the victim 
 that their vengeance should be satisfied. Under 
 these circumstances could anything be more unwel- 
 come than a piece of intelligence that was privatelyi 
 
14 Peael-Fishing. 
 
 conveyed to him late on the evening before the 
 trial -was to come on, which tended strongly to ex- 
 culpate the prisoner, without indicating any other 
 person as the criminal. Here was an opportunity 
 lost. The first step of the ladder on which he was 
 to rise to fame, fortune, and a wife, was sHpping 
 from under his feet ! 
 
 Of course, so interesting a trial was anticipated 
 with great eagerness by the pubHc, and the court 
 was crowded with aU the beauty and fashion of 
 Eouen. Though Jacques EoUet persisted in as- 
 serting his innocence, founding his defence chiefly 
 on circumstances which were strongly corroborated 
 by the information that had reached De Chaulieu 
 the preceding evening, — ^he was convicted. 
 
 In spite of the very strong doubts he privately 
 entertained respecting the justice of the verdict, 
 even De Ohauheu himself, in the first flush of suc- 
 cess, amid a crowd of congratulating friends, and 
 the approving smiles of his mistress, felt gratified 
 and happy; his speech had, for the time being, 
 not only convinced others, but himself; warmed 
 
The Young Advocate. 15 
 
 with liis own eloquence, he believed what he said. 
 But when the glow was over, and he found him- 
 self alone, he did not feel so comfortable. A latent 
 doubt of EoUet's guilt now burnt strongly in his 
 mind, and he felt that the blood of the innocent 
 would be on his head. It is true there was yet 
 time to save the life of the prisoner, but to admit 
 Jacques innocent, was ip take the glory out of his 
 own speech, and turn thfe sting of his argument 
 against himself Besides, if he produced the wit- 
 ness who had secretly given him the information, 
 he should be self-condemned, for he could not con- 
 ceal that he had been aware of the circumstance 
 before the trial. 
 
 Matters having gone so far, therefore, it was 
 necessary that Jacques EoUet should die ; so the 
 affair took its course ; and early one morning the 
 guillotine was erected in the court-yard of the jail, 
 three criminals ascended the scaffold, and three 
 heads fell into the basket, which were presently 
 afterwards, with the trunks that had been attached 
 to them, buried in a corner of the cemetery. 
 
16 Peael-Fishing. 
 
 Antoine de ChaulieTi was now fairly started in 
 Ms career, and his success was as rapid as tlie first 
 step towards it had been tardy. He took a pretty 
 apartment in the Hotel de Marboeuf, Eue Grange- 
 Batelicire, and in a short time was looked upon as 
 one of the most rising young advocates in Paris. 
 His success in one line brought him success in an- 
 other; he was soon a favorite in society, and an 
 object of interest to speculating mothers ; but his 
 affections still adhered to his old love Natalie de 
 Bellefonds, whose family now gave their assent to 
 the match — at least, prospectively — a circumstance 
 which furnished such an additional incentive to his 
 exertions, that in about two years from the date of 
 his first brilhant speech, he was in a sufficiently 
 flourishing condition to offer the young lady a suit- 
 able home. In anticipation of the happy event, he 
 engaged and furnished a suite of apartments in the 
 Eue du Helder ; and as it was necessary that the 
 bride should come to Paris to provide her trous- 
 seau, it was agreed that the wedding should take 
 place there, instead of at Bellefonds, as had been 
 
The Young Advocate. 17 
 
 first projected ; an arrangement the more desiraMe, 
 ttat a press of business rendered M. de Ohaulieu's 
 absence from Paris inconvenient. 
 
 Brides and bridegrooms in France, except of tlie 
 very Mgli classes, are not mucL. in tTie habit of 
 making those honeymoon excursions so universal 
 in this country. A day spent in visiting Ver- 
 sailles, or St. Oloud, or even the public places of 
 the city, is generally all that precedes the settling 
 down into the habits of daily hfe. In the present 
 instance St. Denis was selected, from the circum- 
 stance of Natahe having a younger sister at school 
 there; and also because she had a; particular desire 
 to see the Abbey. 
 
 The wedding was to take place on a Thursday ; 
 
 and on the Wednesday evening, having spent some 
 
 hours most agreeably with Natalie, Antoine de 
 
 Ohaulieu returned to spend his last night in his 
 
 bachelor apartments. His wardrobe and other 
 
 small possessions, had already been packed up and 
 
 sent to his future home; and there was nothing 
 
 left in his room now, but his new wedding suit, 
 
 2 
 
18 PEARli-PlSHING. 
 
 ■wMcli lie inspected witli considerable satisfaction 
 before he undressed and lay down to sleep. Sleep, 
 however, was somewhat slow to visit him ; and the 
 clock had struck one before he closed his eyes. 
 When he opened them agaia, it was broad day- 
 light ; and his first thought was, had he overslept 
 himself? He sat up in bed to look at the clock 
 which was exactly opposite, and as he did so, in 
 the large mirror over the fire-place, he perceived a 
 figure standing behind him. As the dilated eyes 
 met his own, he saw it was the face of Jacques 
 Eollet. Overcome with horror he sunt back on 
 his pillow, and it was some minutes before he ven- 
 tured to look agaia in that direction ; when he did 
 so, the figure had disappeared. 
 
 The sudden revulsion of feeling such a vision 
 was calculated to occasion in a man elate with joy, 
 may be conceived ! For some time after the death 
 of his former foe, he had been visited by not un- 
 frequent twinges of conscience ; but of late, borne 
 along by success, and the hurry of Parisian life, 
 these unpleasant remembrances had grown rarer, 
 
The Young Advocate. 19 
 
 till at length ttey liad faded away altogether. 
 ISTothing had been further from his thoughts than 
 Jacques EoUet, when he closed his eyes on the pre- 
 ceding night, nor when he opened them to that sun 
 which was to shine on what he expected to he 
 the happiest day of his life I "Where were the 
 high-strung nerves now ! The elastic frame ! The 
 bounding heart ! 
 
 Heavily and slowly he arose from his bed, for it 
 was time to do so ; and with a trembling hand and 
 quivering knees, he went through the processes of 
 the toilet, gashing his cheek with the razor, and 
 spilling the water over his well-polished boots. 
 When he was dressed, scarcely venturing to cast a 
 glance in the mirror as he passed it, he quitted the 
 room and descended the stairs, taking the key of 
 the door with him for the p^iriDose of leaving it 
 with the porter ; the man, however, being absent, 
 he laid it on the table in his lodge, and with a re- 
 laxed and languid step proceeded on his way to the 
 church, where presently arrived the fair NataUe 
 and her friends. How difficult it was now to look 
 
20 Peael-Fishing. 
 
 happy witli that pallid face and extinguished 
 eye! 
 
 " How paJe you are ! Has anything happened ? 
 You are surely ill?" were the exclamations that 
 met him on all sides. He tried to carry it off as 
 well as he could, but felt that the movements he 
 would have wished to appear alert were only con- 
 vulsive; and that the smiles with which he at- 
 tempted to relax his features, were but distorted 
 grimaces. However, the church was not the place 
 for further inquiries; and while Natalie gently 
 pressed his hand in token of sympathy, they ad- 
 vanced to the altar, and the ceremony was per- 
 formed ; after which they stepped into the carriages 
 waiting at the door, and drove to the apartments 
 of Madame de Bellefonds, where an elegant dejeuner 
 was prepared. 
 
 "What ails you, my dear husband?" inquired 
 Natahe, as soon as they were alone. 
 
 " Nothing, love," he replied ; " nothing, I assure 
 you, but a restless night and a little overwork, in 
 
The Young Advocate. 21 
 
 order that I might have to-day free to enjoy my 
 happiness !" 
 
 " Are you quite sure? Is there nothing else ?" 
 
 "Nothing, indeed; and pray don't take notice 
 of it, it only makes me worse !" 
 
 Natalie was not deceived, but she saw that what 
 he said was true ; notice made him worse ; so she 
 contented herself with observing him quietly, and 
 saying nothing ; but, as he felt she was observing 
 him, she might almost better have spoken ; words 
 are often less embarrassing things than too curious 
 eyes. 
 
 "When they reached Madame de Bellefonds' he 
 had the same sort of questioning and scrutiny to 
 undergo, till he grew quite impatient under it, and 
 betrayed a degree of temper altogether unusual 
 with him. Then everybody looked astonished; 
 some whispered their remarks, and others ex- 
 pressed them by their wondering eyes, till his brow 
 knit, and his pallid cheeks became flushed with 
 anger. Neither could he divert attention by eat- 
 ing; his parched mouth would not allow him to 
 
22 Peael-Fishing. 
 
 swallow anytHng but liquids, of which, however, 
 he indulged in copious libations; and it was an 
 exceeding relief to him when the carriage, which 
 was to convey them to St. Denis, being announced, 
 furnished an excuse for hastily leaving the table. 
 Looking at his watch, he declarctl it was late ; and 
 Natalie, who saw how eager ho was to be gone, 
 threw her shawl over her shoulders, and bidding 
 her friends good morning, they hurried away. 
 
 It was a fine sunny day in June ; and as they 
 drove along the crowded boulevards, and through 
 the Porte St. Denis, the young bride and biide- 
 groom, to avoid each others eyes, affected to be 
 gazing out of the windows ; but when they reached 
 that part of the road where there was nothing but 
 trees on each side, they felt it necessary to draw in 
 their heads, and make an attempt at conversation, 
 De Chaulieu put his arm round his wife's waist. 
 and tried to rouse himself from his depression; 
 but it had by this time so reacted upon her, that 
 she could not respond to his efforts, and thus the 
 conversation languished, till both felt glad when 
 
The Young Advocate. 23 
 
 they readied, their destination, whicli ■would, at all 
 events, furnish them something to talk about. 
 
 Having quitted the carriage, and ordered a din- 
 ner at the Hotel de I'Abbaye, the young couple 
 proceeded to visit Mademoiselle Hortense de Belle- 
 fonds, "who was overjoyed to see her sister and! new 
 brother-in-law, and doubly so when she found that 
 they had obtained permission to take her out to 
 spend the afternoon with them. As there is little 
 to be seen at St. Denis but the Abbey, on quitting 
 that part of it devoted to education, they proceeded 
 to visit the church, with its various objects of in- 
 terest; and as De Chaulieu's thoughts were now 
 forced into another direction, his cheerfulness be- 
 gan insensibly to return. Natalie looked so beau- 
 tiful, too, and the affection betwixt the two young 
 sisters' was so pleasant to behold ! And they spent 
 a couple of hours wandering about with Hortense, 
 who was almost as well informed as the Suisse, till 
 the brazen doors were open which admitted them 
 to the Eoyal vault. Satisfied, at length, with what 
 they had seen, they began to think of returning to 
 
24: Peael-Fishing. 
 
 the inn, tlie more especially as De Chaulieu, who 
 had not eaten a morsel of food since the previous 
 evening, owned to being hungry ; so they directed 
 their steps to the door, Imgering here and there as 
 they went, to inspect a monument or a painting, 
 when, happening to turn his head aside to see if 
 his wife, who had stopt to take a last look at the 
 tomb of King Dagobert, was following, he beheld 
 with, horror the face of Jacques EoUet appearing 
 from behind a column ! At the same instant his 
 wife joined him, and took his arm, inquiring if he 
 was not very much dehghted with what he had 
 seen. He attempted to say yes, but the word 
 would not be forced out; and staggering out of 
 the door, he alleged that a sudden faintness had 
 overcome him. 
 
 They conducted him to the Hotel, but Natalie 
 now became seriously alarmed ; and well she might. 
 His complexion looked ghastly, his limbs shook, 
 and his features bore an expression of indescriba- 
 ble horror and anguish. What could be the mean- 
 ing of so extraordinary a change in the gay, witty. 
 
The Young Advocate. 25 
 
 prosperous De ChaTilieu, wlio, till that morning, 
 seemed not to have a care in the world? For, 
 plead illness as he might, she felt certain, from the 
 expression of his features, that his sufferings were 
 not of the body but of the mind ; and, unable to 
 imagine any reason for such extraordinary mani- 
 festations, of which she had never before seen a 
 symptom, but a sudden aversion to herself, aud re- 
 gret for the step he had taken, her pride took the 
 alarm, and, concealing the distress she really felt, 
 she began to assume a haughty and reserved man- 
 ner towards him, which he naturally interpreted 
 into an evidence of anger and contempt. The din- 
 ner was placed upon the table, but De Chaulieu's 
 appetite, of which he had lately boasted, was quite 
 gone, nor was his wife better able to eat. The 
 young sister alone did justice to the repast ; but al- 
 though the bridegroom could not eat, he could 
 swallow champagne in such copious draughts, that 
 ere long the terror and remorse that the apparition 
 of Jacques EoUet had awakened in his breast were 
 drowned in intoxication. Amazed and indignant, 
 
26 Pearl-Fishing. 
 
 poor Natalie sat silently observing this elect of her 
 heart, till overcome with disappointment and grief, 
 she quitted the room with her sister, and retired to 
 another apartment, where she gave free vent to her 
 feelings in tears. 
 
 After passing a couple of hours in confidences 
 and lamentations, they recollected that the hours 
 of liberty granted, as an especial favor, to Made- 
 moiselle Hortense, had expired; but ashamed to 
 exhibit her husband in his present condition to the 
 eyes of strangers, Natalie prepared to re-conduct 
 her to the Maison Eoyale herself. Looking into 
 the dining-room as they passed, they saw De Chau- 
 lieu lying on a sofa fast asleep, in which state he 
 continued when his wife returned. At length, 
 however, the driver of their cariiage begged to 
 know if Monsieur and Madame were ready to re- 
 turn to Paris, and it became necessary to arouse 
 him. The transitory effects of the champagne had 
 now subsided ; but when De Chaulieu recollected 
 what had happened, nothing could exceed his 
 shame and mortification. So engrossing indeed 
 
The Young Advocate. 27 
 
 ■were these sensations that they quite overpowered 
 Lis previous one, and, in his present vexation, he, 
 for the moment, forgot his fears. He knelt at his 
 wife's feet, begged her pardon a thousand times, 
 swore that he adored her, and declared that the ill- 
 ness and the effect of the "wine had been purely 
 the consequences of fasting and over- wort. It -was 
 not the easiest thing in the world to re-assure a 
 woman whose pride, affection, and taste, had been 
 so severely wounded ; but ISTatalie tried to believe, 
 or to appear to do so, and a sort of reconciliation 
 ensued, not quite sincere on the part of the wife, 
 and very humbling on the part of the husband. 
 Under these circumstances it was impossible that 
 he should recover his spirits or facility of manner ; 
 his gaiety was forced, his tenderness constrained ; 
 his heart was heavy within him; and ever and 
 anon the source whence all this disappointment 
 and ATo had sprung would recur to his perplexed 
 and tortured mind. 
 
 Thus mutually pained and distrustful, they re- 
 turned to Paris, which "they reached about nine 
 
28 Peael-Fishing. 
 
 o'clock. In spite of lier depressioa, Natalie, w'ao 
 had not seen lier new apartments, felt some curi- 
 osity about them, whilst Oe Chanlieu anticipated a 
 triumph in exhibiting the elegant home he had 
 prepared for her. With some alacrity, therefore, 
 they stepped out of the carriage, the gates, of the 
 Hotel were thrown open, the concierge rang the bell 
 which announced to the servants that their master 
 and mistress had arrived, and whilst these domes- 
 tics appeared above, holding hghts over the balus- 
 trades, Natalie, followed by her husband, ascended 
 the stairs. Bat when they reached the landing- 
 place of the first flight, they saw the figure of a 
 man standing in a corner as if to make way for 
 them ; the flash from above fell upon his face, and 
 again Antoine de Chaulieu recognized the features 
 of Jacques Eollet ! 
 
 From the circumstance of his wife's preceding 
 him, the figure- was not observed by De Chaulieu 
 till he was lifting his foot to place it on the top 
 stair : the sudden shock caused him to miss the 
 step, and, without uttering a sound, he fell back, 
 
The Young Advocate. 29 
 
 and never stopped till lie reached tlie stones at the 
 bottom. The screams of Natalie brought the con- 
 cierge from below and the maids from above, and 
 an attempt was made to raise the iinfortunate man 
 from the ground ; but with cries of anguish he be- 
 sought them to desist. 
 
 " Let me," he said, "die here ! ' What a fearful 
 vengeance is thine I Oh, Natalie, Natalie !" he ex- 
 claimed to his wife, who was kneeling beside him, 
 " to win fame, and fortune, and yourself, I commit- 
 ted a dreadful crime ! With lying words I argued 
 away the life of a fellow-creature, whom, whilst I 
 uttered them, I half believed to be innocent ; and 
 now, when I have attained all I desired, and 
 reached the summit of my hopes, the Almighty 
 has sent him back upon the^earth to blast me with 
 the sight. Three times this day — three times this 
 day ! Again! again!" — and as he spoke, his wild 
 and dilated eyes fixed themselves on one of the in- 
 dividuals that surrounded him. 
 
 " He is delirious," said they. 
 
 " No," said the strangef I " What he says is 
 
30 Peael-Fishing. 
 
 true enougli, — at least in part ;" and bending over 
 tlie expiring man, he added, " May Heaven forgive 
 you, Antoine de Chaulleul I was not executed; 
 one "who well knew my Innocence saved my liTe. 
 I may name him, for he is beyond the reach of the 
 law now, — it was Clapcron, tlie jrilor, who loved 
 Claudine,'and had himself killed Alphonse de Bel- 
 Icfonds from jealousy. An unfortunate • wretch 
 had been several years in the jail for a murder 
 committed during the frenzy of a fit of insanity. 
 Long confinement had reduced him to idiocy. To 
 save my life Olaperon substituted the senseless 
 being for me, on the scaffold, and he was executed 
 in my stead. He has quitted the country, and I 
 have been a vagabond on the face of the earth ever 
 since that time. At length I obtained, through the 
 assistance of my sister, the situation of concierge in 
 the Hotel Marboeuf, in the Eue Grange-Bateli^re. 
 I entered on my new place yesterday evening, and 
 was desired to awaken the gentleman on- the third 
 floor at seven o'clock. When I entered the room 
 to do so, you were asleep, but before I had time to 
 
The Young Advocate. 81 
 
 speak you awoke, and I racognized your features 
 in tlie glass. Knowing that I could not vindicate 
 my innocence if you chose to seize me, I fled, and 
 seeing an omnibus starting for St. Donis, I got on 
 it with a vague idea of getting on to Calais, and 
 crossing the Channel' to England. But having 
 only a franc or two in my pocket, or indeed in the 
 world, I did not know how to procure the means 
 of going forward ; and whilst I was lounging about 
 the place, forming first one plan and then another, 
 I saw you in the church, and concluding you were 
 in pursuit of me, I thought the best way of eluding 
 your vigUance was to make my way back to Paris 
 as fast as I could ; so I set off instantly, and walked 
 all the way; but having no money to pay my 
 night's lodging, I came here to borrow a couple of 
 livres of my sister Claudine, who lives in the fifth, 
 atory." 
 
 " Thank Heaven !" exclaimed the dying man ; 
 " that sin is off my soul I Natalie, dear wife, fare- 
 well I Forgive ! forgive all !" 
 
 These were the last words he uttered ; the priest, 
 
32 Pearl-Fishing. 
 
 wlio liad been summoned in haste, held up the 
 cross before his failing sight ; a few strong convul- 
 sions shook the poor bruised and mangled frame ; 
 and then aU was still. 
 
 And thus ended the Young Advocate's "Wed- 
 ding Day. 
 
II. 
 
 %\i lot 0f a IMQ fin^ 
 
 n IE EOGEE EOCKVILLE of Eockville was tte 
 ^ last of a very long line. It extended from 
 ttie ISTorman Conquest to the present century. His 
 first known ancestor came over with. William, and 
 must have been a man of some mark, either of 
 bone and sinew, or of brain, for he obtained what 
 the Americans would call a prime location. As 
 his name does not occur in the EoU of Battle Ab- 
 bey, he was, of course, not of a very high Norman 
 extraction ; but he had done enough, it seems, in 
 the way of knocking down Saxons, to place him- 
 self on a considerable eminence in this kingdom. 
 The centre of his domains was conspicuous far over 
 
 the country, throiigh a high range of rock over- 
 3 
 
34 Peael-Fishing. 
 
 hanging one of tlie sweetest rivers in England. 
 On one hand lay a vast tract of ricli marsli land, 
 capable, as society advanced, of being converted 
 into meadows; and on tlie other, as extensive 
 moorlands, finely undulating, and abounding with 
 woods and deer. 
 
 Here the original Sir Eoger built his castle on 
 the summit of the range of rock, with huts for his 
 followers ; and became known directly all over the 
 country of Sir Eoger de Eockville, or Sir Eoger of 
 the hamlet on the Eock. Sir Eoger, no doubt, was 
 a mighty hunter before the lord of the feudal dis- 
 trict : it is certain that his descendants were. For 
 generations they led a jolly life at Eockville, and 
 were always ready to exchange the excitement of 
 the chase for a bit of the civil war. Without that 
 the country would have grown dull, and ale and 
 venison lost their flavor. There was no gay Lon- 
 don in those days, and a good brisk skirmish with 
 their neighbors in helm and hauberk was the way 
 of spending their season. It was their parhament- 
 ary debate, and was necessary to stir their blood. 
 
The Last of a Long Line. 35 
 
 Protection and Fre^ Trade were as mucli tlie great 
 topics of interest as they are now, only ttey did 
 not trouble themselves so much about Corn-bills. 
 Their bills were of good steel, and their protective 
 measures were arrows a cloth-yard. long. Protec- 
 tion meant a good suit of mail ; and a castle with 
 its duly prescribed moats, bastions, portcullises, 
 and donjon keep. Free Trade was a lively inroad 
 into the neighboring baron's lands, and the import- 
 ation thence of goodly herds and flocks. Foreign 
 cattle for home consumption was as striking an ar- 
 ticle in their markets as in ours, only the blows 
 v/ere expended on one another's heads, instead of 
 the heads of foreign bullocks — that is, bullocks 
 from over the Welch or Scotch Marches, as from 
 beyond the next brook. 
 
 Thus lived the Eockvilles for ages. In all the 
 iron combats of those iron times they took care to 
 have their quota. "Whether it was Stephen against 
 Matilda, or Eichard against his father, or John 
 ngaint the barons ; whether it were York or Lan- 
 caster, or Tudor or Stuart. The Eockvilles were 
 
36 Peael-Fishing. 
 
 to be found in tlie meUe, and winning power and 
 lands. So long as it required only stalwart frames 
 and stout Hows, no family cut a more conspicuous 
 ficrure. The Eockvilles were at Boswortli Field. 
 The Eockvilles fought in Ireland under Elizabeth. 
 The Eockvilles were staunch defenders of the cause 
 in the war of Charles I. with his Parliament. The 
 Eockvilles even fought for James II. at the Boyne, 
 when three-fourths of the most loyal of the Eng- 
 lish nobility and gentry had deserted him in dis- 
 gust and indignation. But from that hour they 
 had been less conspicuous. 
 
 The opposition to the successful party, that of 
 "William of Orange, of course brought them into 
 disgrace ; and though they were never molested on 
 that account, they retired to their estate, and found 
 it convenient to be as unobtrusive as possible. 
 Thenceforward you heard no more of the Eock- 
 villes in the national annals. They became only 
 of consequence in their own district. They acted 
 as magistrates. They served as high sheriffs. 
 They were a substantial county family, and no- 
 
The Last of a Long Line. 87 
 
 thing more. Education and civilization advanced ; 
 a wider and very different iield of action and am- 
 bition opened upon the aristocracy of England. 
 Our fleets and armies abroad, our legislature at 
 home, law and the church, presented brilliant paths 
 to the ambition of those thirsting for distinction, 
 and the good things that follow it. But somehow 
 the Rockvilles did not expand with this expansion. 
 So long as it required only a figure of six feet 
 high, broad shoulders, and a strong arm, they were 
 a great and conspicuous race. But when the head 
 became the member most in request, they ceased 
 to go ahead. Younger sons, it is true, served in 
 army and in navy, and filled the family pulpit, but 
 they produced no generals, no admirals, no arch- 
 bishops. The Rockvilles of Rockville were very 
 conservative, very exclusive, and very stereotype. 
 Other families grew poor, and enriched themselves 
 again by marrying plebeian heiresses. New fami- 
 lies grew up out of plebeian blood into greatness, 
 and intermingled the vigor of their fresh earth 
 with the attenuated aristocratic soil. Men of fam- 
 
88 Peael-Fishing. 
 
 ily became great lawyers, great statesmen, great 
 prelates, and even great poets and ptilosopliers. 
 The Eockvilles remained higli, proud, bigoted, 
 and borne. 
 
 Tlie Eoclxvilles married Eockvilles, or their first 
 cousins, the Craigvilles, simply to prevent property 
 going out of the family. They kept the property 
 together. They did not lose an acre, and they 
 were a fine, tall, solemn race — and nothing more. 
 What ailed them ? 
 
 If you saw Sir Eoger Eockville, — for there was 
 an eternal Sir Eoger— filling his office of high 
 sheriff, — ^he had a very fine carriage, and a very 
 fine retinue in the most aj)provcd and splendid of 
 antique costumes ; — if you saw him sitting on the 
 bench at quarter sessions, he was a tall, stately, and 
 solemn man. If you saw Lady Eockville shop- 
 ping, in her handsome carriage, with very hand- 
 somely attired servants ; saw her at the county ball, 
 or on the race-stand, she was a tall, aristocratic, 
 and stately lady. That was in the last generation 
 — the present could boast of no Lady Eockville. 
 
The Last of a Long Line. 39 
 
 Great outward respect was sliown to the Eock- 
 villes on account of tlie lengtli of tlreir descent, 
 and the breadth of their acres. They were al- 
 ways, when any stranger asked about them, de- 
 clared, with a serious and important air, to be a 
 very ancient, honorable, and substantial family. 
 "Oh! a great family are the Eockvilles, a very 
 great family." 
 
 But if you came to close quarters with the mem- 
 bers of this great and highly distinguished femily, 
 you soon found yourself fundamentally astonished ; 
 you had a sensation come over you, as if you were 
 trying, like Moses, to draw water from a rock with- 
 out his delegated power. There was a goodly out- 
 side of things before you., but nothing came of it. 
 You talked, hoping to get talking in return, but 
 you got little more than "noes" and "yeses," and 
 "oh! indeeds!" and "reallys," and sometimes not 
 even that, but a certain look of aristocratic dignity 
 or digniflcation, that was meant to serve for all an- 
 swers. There was a sort of resting on aristocratic, 
 oars or "sculls," that were not to be too vulgarly 
 
40 PEARL-FlSHINGf. 
 
 handled. There was a feeling impressed on you, 
 that eight hundred years of descent and ten thou- 
 sand a-year in landed income did not trouble them- 
 selves with the trifling things that gave distinction 
 to lesser people— such as literature, fine arts, poli- 
 tics, and general knowledge. These were very 
 well for those who had nothing else to pride them- 
 selves on, but for the EockvUles — oh! certainly 
 they were by no means requisite. 
 
 In fact, you found yourself, with a little varia- 
 tion, in the predicament of Cowper's people, 
 
 •who spent Iteir lives 
 
 In dropping buckets into empty -wells, 
 And growing tired of drawing nothing up. 
 
 Who hasn't often come across these " dry wells" 
 of society; solemn gulfs out of which you can 
 pump nothing up ? You know them ; they are at 
 your elbow every day in large and brilhant compa- 
 nies, and defy the best sucking bucket ever in- 
 vented to extract anything from them. But the 
 Eiockvilles were each and all of this adust descrip- 
 
The Last of a Long Line. 41 
 
 tion. It was a family feature, and they seemed, if 
 either, rather proud of it. They must be so ; for 
 proud they were, amazing proud; and they had 
 nothing "besides to be proud of, except their acres, 
 and their ancestors. 
 
 But the fact was, they could not help it. It was 
 become organic. They had acted the justice of 
 peace, maintained the constitution against upstarts 
 and manufacturers, signed warrants, supported the 
 church and the house of correction, committed 
 poachers, and then rested on the dignity of their 
 ancestors for so many generations, that their skulls, 
 brains, constitutions, and nervous systems, were all 
 so completely moulded into that shape and baked 
 into that mould, that a Eockville would be a Eock- 
 ville to the end of time, if Grod and Nature would 
 have allo«-ed it. But such things wear otit. The 
 American Indians and the Australian nations wear 
 out ; they are not progressive, and as Nature ab- 
 hors a vacuum, she does not forget the vacuum 
 wherever it may be, whether in a hot desert, or in 
 a cold and stately Eockville ; — a very ancient, hon- 
 
42 Peael-Pishing. 
 
 orable, ^nd substantial familjr, that lies fallow till 
 the thinking faculty literally dies out. 
 
 For several generations there had been symptoms 
 of decay about the EockviUe family. Not in its 
 property, that was as large as ever; not in their 
 personal stature and physical aspect. The Eock- 
 villes continued, as they always had been, a tall 
 and not bad-looking family. But they grew grad- 
 ually less prolific. For a hundred and fifty years 
 past there had seldom been more than two, or at 
 most three, children. There had generally been an 
 heir to the estate, and another to the family pulpit, 
 and sometimes a daughter married to some neigh- 
 boring squke. But Sir Eoger's father had been 
 an only child, and Sir Eoger himself was an only 
 child. The danger of extinction to the family, ap- 
 parent as it was, had never induced Sir Eoger to 
 marry. At the time that we are turning our atten- 
 tion upon him, he had reached the mature age of 
 sixty. ISTobody beheved that Sir Eoger now would 
 marry ; he was the last, and likely to be, of his hue. 
 
 It is worth while here to take a glance at Sir 
 
The Last of a Long Line. 43 
 
 Eoger and his estate. They bore a strange con- 
 trast. The one bore all the signs of progress, the 
 other of a stereotyped feudality. The estate which 
 in the days of the first Sir Eoger de Eockville had 
 been half morass and half "wilderness, was now cul- 
 tivated to the pitch of British agricultural science. 
 The marshlands beyond the river were one splen- 
 did expanse of richest meadows, yielding a rental 
 of four solid pounds per acre. Over hill and dale 
 on this side for miles, where formerly ran wild deer, 
 and grew wild woodlands or furze-bushes, now lay 
 excellent farms and hamlets, and along the ridge of 
 the ancient cliffs rose the most magnificent woods. 
 Woods, too, clothed the steep-hill sides, and swept 
 down to the noble river, their very boughs hang- 
 ing far out over its clear and rapid waters. In the 
 midst of these fine woods stood Eockville Hall, the 
 family seat of the Eockvilles. It reared its old 
 brick walls above the towering mass of elms, and 
 travellers at a distance recognized it for what it was, 
 the mansion of an ancient and wealthy family. 
 The progress of England in arts, science, com- 
 
44 Pearl-Pishing. 
 
 merce, and manufacture, had carried Sir Roger's 
 estate along -witli it. It was full of active and mo- 
 neyed farmers, and ilourished under modern influ- 
 ences. How lucky it would have been for tlie 
 Eockville family had it done the same. 
 
 But amid this estate there was Sir Eoger soli- 
 tary, and the last of the line. He had grown well 
 enough — there was nothing stunted about him, so 
 far as you could see on the surface. In stature, he 
 exceeded six feet. His colossal elms could not 
 boast of a properer relative growth. He was as 
 large a landlord, and as tall a justice of the peace, 
 as you could desire; but, unfortunately, he was, 
 after all, only the shell of a man. Like many of 
 his veteran elms, there was a very fine stem, only 
 it was hollow. There was a man, just with the 
 rather awkward deficiency of a soul. 
 
 And it were no difficult task to explain, either, 
 how this had come about. The Rockvilles saw 
 plainly enough the necessity of manuring their 
 lands, but they scorned the very idea of manuring 
 their family. What! that most ancient, honor- 
 
The Last of a Lojstg Line. 45 
 
 able, and sulDstantial family, suffer any of the com- 
 mon eartli of humanity to gather about its roots ! 
 The Eockvilles were so careful of their good blood, 
 that they never allied it to any but blood as pure 
 and inane as their own. Their elms flourished in 
 the rotten earth of plebeian accumulations, and 
 their acres produced large crops of corn from the 
 sewage of towns and fat sinks, but the Eockvilles 
 themselves took especial care that no vulgar vigor 
 from the rich heap of ordinary human nature 
 should infuse a new force of intellect into their 
 race. The Eockvilles needed nothing; they had 
 all that an ancient, honorable, and substantial fam- 
 ily could need. The Eockvilles had no need to 
 study at school — why should they ? They did not 
 want to get on. The Eockvilles did not asjoire to 
 distinction for talent in the world — ^why should 
 they ? They had a large estate. So the Eockville 
 soul, unused from generation to generation, grew — 
 
 Fine by degrees and spiritually less, 
 
 till it tapered off into nothing. 
 
46 Peael-Fishing. 
 
 Look at the last of a long line in tlie midst of 
 Lis fine estate. Tall lie was, witli a stoop in liis 
 shoulders, and a bowing of his head on one side, 
 as if he had been accustomed to stand under the 
 low boughs of his woods, and peer after intrtiders. 
 And that was precisely the fact. His features were 
 thin and sharp ; his nose prominent and keen in its 
 character ; his eyes small, black, and peering like a 
 mole's, or a hungry swine's. Sir Eoger was still 
 oracular on the bench, after consulting his clerk, a 
 good lawyer, — and looked up to by the neighbor- 
 ing squires in election matters, for he was an un- 
 swerving tory. You never heard of a rational 
 thing that he had said in the whole course of his 
 life ; but that mattered little, he was a gentleman 
 of solemn aspect, of stately gait, and of a very an- 
 cient family. 
 
 With ten thousand a-year, and his rental rising, 
 he was still, however, a man of overwhelming 
 cares. "What mattered a fine estate if all the world 
 was against him ? And Sir Eoger firmly believed 
 that he stood in that predicament. He had grown 
 
The Last op a Long Line. 47 
 
 Tip to regard tlie world as full of little besides up- 
 starts, radicals, manufacturers, and poacliers. All 
 ■VTcre banded, in bis belief, against tbe landed in- 
 terest. It demanded all tbe energy of bis very 
 small faculties to defend bimself and tbe world 
 against tbem. 
 
 Unfortunately for bis peace, a large manufactur- 
 ing town bad sprung up witbin a couple of miles 
 of bim. He could see its red-brick walls, and its 
 red-tiled roofs, and its tall smoke-vomiting cbim- 
 neys, growing and extending over tbe slopes be- 
 yond tbo river. It was to bim tbe most irritating 
 sigbt in tbe world ; for wbat were all tbose swarm- 
 ing weavers and spinners but arrant radicals, up- 
 starts, sworn foes of tbe ancient institutions and 
 tbe landed interests of England ? Sir Eoger bad 
 passed tbrougb many a desperate conflict witb 
 tbem for tbe return of members to parliament. 
 Tbey brougbt forward men tbat were utter worm- 
 wood to all bis feelings, and tbey paid no more re- 
 spect to bim and bis friends on sucb occasions tban 
 tbey did to tbe meanest creature bving. Eever- 
 
48 Pearl-Fishing. 
 
 ence for ancient blood did not exist in tliat pie 
 beian and rapidly multiplying tribe. There were 
 master manufacturers tliere actually that looked 
 and talked as big as himself, and entre nous, a vast 
 deal more cleverly. The people talked of rights 
 and franchises, and freedom of speech and of con- 
 science, in a way that was really frightful. Then 
 they were given most inveterately to running out 
 in whole and everlasting crowds on Sundays and 
 holidays into the fields and woods ; and as there 
 was no part of the neighborhood half so pleasant 
 as the groves and river banks of Eockville, they 
 came swarming up there in crowds that were 
 enough to drive any man of acres frantic. 
 
 Unluckily, there were roads all about Eockville ; 
 foot roads, and high roads, and bridle roads. 
 There was a road up the river side, all the way to 
 llockville woods, and when it reached them, it di- 
 vided like a fork, and one prong or footpath led 
 straight up a magnificent grove of a mile long, end- 
 ing close to the hall ; and another ran all along the 
 river side, under the hills and branches of the wood. 
 
The Last of a Long Line. 49- 
 
 Oh, delicious were these woods! In the river 
 there were islands, which were covered in summer 
 with the greenest grass, and the freshest of wil- 
 lows, and the clear waters rushed around them in 
 the most inviting manner imaginable. And there 
 were numbers of people extremely ready to accept 
 this delectable invitation of these waters. There 
 they came in fine weather, and as these islands 
 were only separated from the main-land by a little 
 and very shallow stream, it was delightful for lov- 
 ers to get across — with laughter, and treading on 
 stepping stones, and slipping off the stepping-stones 
 up to the ankles into the cool brook, and pretty 
 screams, and fresh laughter, and then landing on 
 those sunny, and to them really enchanted, islands. 
 And then came fishermen, solitary fishermen, and 
 fishermen in rows ; fishermen lying in the flowery 
 grass, with fragrant meadow-sweet and honey- 
 breathing clover all about their ears ; and fisher- 
 men standing in file, as if they were determined to 
 clear all the river of fish in one day. And there 
 
 were other lovers, and troops of loiterers, and 
 
 5 
 
50 Pearl-Fishing. 
 
 shouting roysterers, going along under tlie touglia 
 of tlie wood, and following the turns of that most 
 companionable of rivers. And there were boats 
 going up and down ; boats full of young people, 
 all holiday finery and mirth, and boats with duck- 
 hunters and other, to Sir Eoger, detestable marau- 
 ders, with guns and dogs, and great bottles of beer. 
 In the fine grove, on summer days, there might be 
 found hundreds of people. There were pic-nic 
 parties, fathers and mothers with whole families of 
 children, and a grand promenade of the delighted 
 artisans and their wives or sweethearts. 
 
 In the times prior to the sudden growth of the 
 neighboring town, Great Stockington, and to the 
 simultaneous development of the love-of-nature 
 principle in the Stockingtonians, nothing had been 
 thought of all these roads. The roads were well 
 enough tUl they led to these inroads. Then Sir 
 Roger aroused himself. This must be changed. 
 The roads must be stopped. Nothing was easier 
 to his fancy. His fellow-justices. Sir Benjamin 
 Bullockshed and Squire Sheepshank, had asked 
 
The Last of a Long Line. 51 
 
 Lis aid to stop the like nuisances, and it had been 
 done at once. So Sir Eoger put up notices all 
 about, that the roads were to be stopped by an 
 Order of Session, and these notices were signed, as 
 required by law, by their worships of BuUockshed 
 and Sheepshank. But Sir Eoger soon found that 
 it was one thing to stop a road leading from One- 
 man-Town to Lonely Lodge, and another to at- 
 tempt to stop those from Great Stockington to 
 Eockville. 
 
 On the 'Very iirst Sunday after the exhibition of 
 those notice-boards, there was a ferment in the 
 grove of Eockville, as if all the bees in the county 
 were swarming there, with all the wasps and Hor- 
 nets to boot. Great crowds were collected before 
 each of these obnoxious placards, and the amount 
 of curses vomited forth against them was really 
 shocking for any day, but more especially for a 
 Sunday. Presently there was a rush at them; 
 they were torn down, and simultaneously pitched 
 into the river. There were great crowds swarming 
 all about Eockville all that day, and with looks so 
 
52 Peael-Fishing. 
 
 defiant that Sir Roger more tLan once contem- 
 plated sending off for ttie Yeoman Cavalry to de- 
 fend his house, whicli he seriously thought in 
 danger. 
 
 But so far from being intimidated from proceed- 
 ing, this demonstration only made Sir Roger the 
 more determined. To have so desperate and irrev- 
 erent a population coming about his house and 
 woods, now presented itself in a much more for- 
 midable aspect than ever. So, next day, not only 
 were the placards once more hoisted, but rewards 
 offered for the discovery of the offenders, attended 
 with all the maledictions of the insulted majesty 
 of the law. No notice was taken of this, but the 
 Vfhole of Great Stockington was in a buzz and an 
 agitation. There were posters plastered all over 
 the walls of the town, four times as large as Sir 
 Roger's notices, in this style : — 
 
 " Englishmen! your dearest rights are menaced ! 
 The Woods of Rockville, your ancient, rightful, 
 and enchanting resorts, are to be closed to you, 
 Stockingtonians ! the eyes of the world are upon 
 
The Last of a Long Line. 53 
 
 you. ' Awake ! arise ! or be forever fallen !' Eng- 
 land expects every man to do Ms dutyl And 
 your duty is to resist and defy the grasping soil- 
 lords, to seize on your ancient Patrimony!" 
 
 "Patrimony! Ancient and riglitful resort of 
 Eockville !" Sir Eoger was astounded at tlie auda- 
 city of this upstart, plebeian race. What! they 
 actually claimed Eockville, the heritage of a. hun- 
 dred successive Eockvilles, as their own. Sir 
 Eoger determined to carry it to the Sessions ; and 
 at the Sessions was a magnificent muster of all his 
 friends. There was Sir Eoger himself in the chair; 
 and on either hand, a prodigious row of county 
 squirearchy. There was Sir Benjamin Bullock- 
 shed, and Sir Thomas Tenterhook, and all the 
 squires, — Sheepshank, Eamsbottom, Turnbull, Ot- 
 terbrook, and Swagsides. The Clerk of the Ses- 
 sion read the notice for the closing of all the foot- 
 paths through the woods of Eockville, and declared 
 that this notice had been duly, and for the required 
 period publicly posted. The-Stocking-tonians pro- 
 tested by their able lawyer Darcdeville, against 
 
54 Peabl-Fishing. 
 
 any order for tbe closing of these ancient woods — 
 the inestimable property of the public. 
 
 "Property of the public!" exclaimed Sir Eoger. 
 " Property of the public !" echoed the multitudi- 
 nous Toices of indignant BuUocksheds, Tenter- 
 hooks, and Eamsbottoms. "Why, Sir, do yon 
 dispute the right of Sir Roger Eockville to his own 
 estate?" 
 
 "By no means ;" replied the undaunted Daredev- 
 ille ; " the estate of Eockville is unquestionably 
 the property of the honorable baronet, Sir Eoger 
 Eockville ; but the roads through it are the as un- 
 questionable property of the public." 
 
 The whole bench looked at itself; that is, at 
 each other, in wrathful astonishment. The swell- 
 ing in the diaphragms of the squu'es Otterbrook, 
 Turnbull, and Swagsides, and all the rest of the 
 worshipful row, was too big to admit of utterance. 
 Only Sir Eoger himself burst forth with an ab- 
 rupt— 
 
 " Impudent fellows ! But I'll see them 
 
 first!" 
 
The Last of a Long Line. 55 
 
 *' Grant tlie order !" said Sir Benjamin Bullock- 
 slied ; and the whole bench nodded assent. The 
 able lawyer Daredeville retired with a pleasant 
 smile. He saw an agreeable prospect of plenty of 
 grist to his mill. Sir Eoger was rich, and so was 
 Great Stockington. He rubbed his hands, not in 
 the least like a man defeated, and thought to him- 
 self, "Let them go at it — all right." 
 
 The next day the placards on the Eockville 
 estate were changed for others bearing " Stopped 
 BY Order of Sessions !" and alongside of them 
 were huge carefully painted boards, denouncing 
 on all trespassers prosecutions according to law. 
 The same evening came a prodigious invasion of 
 Stockingtonians — tore all the boards and placards 
 down, and carried them on their shoulders to Great 
 Stockington, singing as they went, " See, the Con- 
 quering Heroes come !" They set them up in the 
 centre of the Stockington market-place, and burnt 
 them, along with an efl&gy of Sir Eoger Eockville. 
 
 That was grist at once to the mill of the able 
 lawyer Daredeville. He looked on, and rubbed 
 
56 Pearl-PisAing. 
 
 Ms hands. "Warrants were speedily issued by tlie 
 Baronets of BnllocksTaed and Tenterhook, for the 
 apprehension of the individuals who had been seen 
 carrying off the notice-boards, for larceny, and 
 against a number of others for trespass. There 
 was plenty of work for Daredeville and his breth- 
 ren of the robe; but it all ended, after the flying 
 about of sundry mandamuses and assize trials, in 
 Sir Eoger finding that though Eockville was his, 
 the roads through it were the public's. 
 
 As Sir Eoger drove homeward from the assize, 
 which finally settled the question of these foot- 
 paths, he heard the bells in all the steeples- of Great 
 Stockington burst forth with a grand peal of tri- 
 umph. He closed fast the windows of his fine old 
 carriage, and sunk into a corner ; but he could not 
 drown the intolerable sound. "But," said he, "I'U 
 stop their pic-nic-ing. I'll stop their fishing. I'll 
 have hold of them for trespassing and poaching !" 
 There was war henceforth between Eockville and 
 Great Stockington. 
 
 On the very next Sunday there came literally 
 
The Last of a Long Line. 57 
 
 thousands of the jubilant Stockingtonians to Eock- 
 ville. Thej had brought baskets, and were for 
 dining, and drinking success to all footpaths. But 
 in the great grove there were keepers, and watch- 
 ers, who warned them to keep the path, that nar- 
 row well-worn line up the middle of the grove. 
 "What! were they not to sit on the grass?" — 
 "No!" — "What! were they not to pic-nic?"' — ■ 
 "No! not there!" 
 
 The Stockingtonians felt a sudden damp on 
 their spirits. But the river bank 1 The cry was, 
 " To the river bank ! There they would pic-nic." 
 The crowd rushed away down the wood, but on 
 the river bank they found a whole regiment of 
 watchers, who pointed again to the narrow line of 
 footpath, and told them not to trespass beyond it. 
 But the islands 1 they went over to the islands. 
 But there too were Sir Eoger's forces, who warned 
 them back ! There was no road there— all found 
 there would be trespassers, and be duly punished." 
 
 The Stockingtonians discovered that their tri- 
 umph was not quite so complete as they had flat- 
 
58 Peael-Fishing. 
 
 tered themselves. The footpaths were theirs, but 
 that was all. Their ancient license was at an end. 
 If they came there, there was no more fishing ; if 
 they came in crowds, there was no more pic-nic- 
 ing ; if they walked through the woods in num- 
 bers, they must keep to Indian file, or they were 
 summoned before the county magistrates for tres- 
 pass, and were soundly fined; and not even the 
 able Daredeville would undertake to defend them. 
 The Stockingtonians were chop-fallen, but they 
 were angry and dogged ; and they thronged up to 
 the village and the front of the hall. They filled 
 the little inn in the hamlet — they went by scores, 
 and roving all over the churchyard, read epitaphs 
 
 That teach the rustic moralists to die, 
 
 but don't teach them to give up their old indul- 
 gences very good-humoredly. They went and sat 
 in rows on the old churchyard wall, opposite to 
 the very Avindows of the irate Sir Eoger. They 
 felt themselves beaten, and Sir Eoger felt himself 
 beaten. True, he could coerce them to the keep- 
 
The Last of a Long Line. 59 
 
 ing of the footpatlis — ^but, then, they had the foot- 
 paths! True, thought the Stockingtonians, we 
 have the footpaths, but then the pic-nic-ing, and 
 the fishing, and the islands ! The Stockingtonians 
 were full of sullen wrath, and Sir Eoger was — oh, 
 most expressive old Saxon phrase — haiesoee ! 
 Yes, he was one universal wound of vexation and 
 jealousy of his rights. Every hair in hia body 
 was like a pin sticking into him. Come within a 
 dozen yards of him; nay, at the most, blow on 
 him, and he was excruciated — ^you rubbed his sen- 
 sitive hairs at a furlong's distance. 
 
 The next Sunday the people found the church- 
 yard locked up, except during service, when bea- 
 dles walked there, and desired them not to loiter 
 and disturb the congregation, closing the gates, 
 and showing them out like a flock of sheep the 
 moment the service was over. This was fuel to 
 the already boiling blood of Stockington. The 
 week following, what was their astonishment to 
 find the much frequented inn gone ! it was actually 
 gone ! not a trace of it ; but the spot where it had 
 
60 Peael-Fishing. 
 
 stood for ages, turfed, planted witli young spruce 
 trees, and fenced off witli post and rail ! The ex- 
 asperated people now launched forth an immensity 
 of fulminations against the churl Sir Eoger, and a 
 certain number of them resolved to come and seat 
 themselves in the street of the hamlet and there 
 dine; but a terrific, thunderstorm, which seemed in 
 league with Sir Eoger, soon routed them, drenched 
 them through, and on attempting to seek shelter 
 in the cottages, the poor people said- they were 
 very sorry, but it was as much as their holdings 
 were worth, and they dare not admit them. 
 
 Sir Eoger had triumphed ! It was all over with 
 the old delightful days at Eockville. There -^Aas 
 an end of pic-nic-ing, of fishing, and of roving in 
 the islands. One sturdy disciple of Izaak Walton, 
 indeed, dared to fling a line from the banks of 
 Eockville grove, but Sir Eoger came iipon him 
 and endeavored to seize him. The man coolly 
 walked into the middle of the river, and, without 
 a word, continued his fishing. 
 
 " Get out there 1" exclaimed Sir Eoger, " that is 
 
The Last of a Long Line. 61 
 
 still on my property." The man walked tbrougL. 
 tlie river to tte other bank, where lie knew, that 
 the land ^A-as rented by a farmer. " Give over," 
 sho;itcd Sir Eogor, " I tell you the water is mine." 
 
 " Then," said the felloAv, " bottle it up, and bo 
 hanged to you ! Don't you see it is running away 
 to Stockington?" 
 
 There was bad blood between Eockville and 
 Stockington forever. Stockington was incensed, 
 and Sir Eoger was hairsore. 
 
 A new nuisance sprung up. The people of 
 Stockington looked on the cottagers of Eockville 
 as sunk in deepest darkness under such a man as 
 Sir Eoger and his cousin the vicar. They could 
 not picnic, but they thought they could hold a 
 camp-meeting; they could not fish for roach, but 
 they thought they might for souls. Accordingly 
 there assembled crowds of Stockingtonians on the 
 green of Eockville, with a chair and a table, and a 
 preacher with his head bound in a red handker- 
 chief; and soon there was a sound of hymns, and 
 a zealous call to come out of the darkness of the 
 
62 Peael-Fishing. 
 
 spiritual Babylon. But this was more than Sir 
 Roger could tear; he rushed forth with all his 
 servants, keepers, and cottagers, overthrew the 
 tahle, and routing the assembly, chased them to 
 the boundary of his estate. 
 
 The discomfited Stockingtonians now fulminated 
 awful judgments on the unhappy Sir Roger, as a 
 persecutor and a malignant. They dared not enter 
 again on his parish, but they came to the very 
 verge of it, and held weekly meetings on the high- 
 way, in which they sang and declaimed as loudly 
 as possible, that the winds might bear their voices 
 to Sir Roger's ears. 
 
 To such a position was now reduced the last of 
 the long line of Rockville. Ths spirit of a police- 
 man had taken possession of him. He had keep- 
 ers and watchers out on all sides, but that did not 
 satisfy him. He was perpetually haunted with the 
 idea that poachers were after his game, that tres- 
 passers were in his woods. His whole life was 
 now spent in stealing to and fro in his fields and 
 plantations, and prowling along his river side. He 
 
The Last of a Long Line. 63 
 
 hirked under hedges, and -watclied for long liours 
 under the forest trees. If any one had a curiosity 
 to see Sir Eoger, they had only to enter his fields 
 by the wood side, and wander a few yards from 
 the path, and he was almost sure to spring out over 
 the hedge, and in angry tones demand their name 
 and address. The descendant of the chivalrous 
 and steel-clad De Eockvilles was sunk into a rest- 
 less spy on his own ample property. There was 
 but one idea in .his mind — 'encroachment. It was 
 destitute of all other furniture but the musty tech- 
 nicalities of warrants and commitments. There 
 was a stealthy and skulking manner in everything 
 that he did. He went to church on Sundays, but 
 it was no longer by the grand iron gate opposite 
 to his house, that stood generally with a large spi- 
 der's web woven over the lock, and several others 
 in different comers of the fine iron tracery, bearing 
 evidence of the long period since it had been 
 opened. How different to the time when the Sir 
 Eoger and Lady of Eockville had had these gates 
 thrown wide on a Sunday morning, and, with all 
 
64 Pearl-Fishing. 
 
 their train of houseliold servants at tTieir back, 
 ■with, true antique dignity, marched with much 
 proud humility into the house of God. Now, Sir 
 Eoger — the solitary, suspicious, undignified Sir 
 Eoger, the keeper and policeman of his own prop- 
 erty — stole in at a little side gate from his paddock, 
 and back the same way, wondering all the time 
 whether there was not somebody in his pheasant 
 preserves, or Sunday trespassers in his grove. 
 
 If you entered his house, it gave you as cheer- 
 less a feeling as its owner. There was the conser- 
 vatory, so splendid with rich plants and flowers in 
 his mother's time — now a dusty receptacle of ham- 
 pers, broken hand-glasses, and garden tools. These 
 tools could never be used, for the gardens were 
 grown wild. Tall grass grew in the walks, and 
 the huge unpruned shrubs disputed the- passage 
 with you. In the wood above the gardens, reached 
 by several flights of fine, but now moss-grown, 
 steps, there stood a pavilion, once clearly very 
 beautiful. It was now damp and ruinous — its 
 walls covered with greenness and crawling insects. 
 
The Last of a Long Line. 65 
 
 It was a great lurking-place of Sir Eoger when on 
 the watcli for poachers. 
 
 The line of the Rockvilles was evidently run- 
 ning fast out. It had reached the extremity of 
 imbecility and contempt — it must soon reach its 
 close. 
 
 Sir Eoger used to make his regular annual visit 
 to town ; but of late, when there, he had wandered 
 restlessly about the streets, peeping into the shop- 
 windows ; and if it rained, standing under entries 
 for hours together, till it was gone over. The habit 
 of lurking and peering about, was upon him ; and 
 his feet bore him instinctively into those narrow 
 and crowded alleys where swarm the poachers of 
 the city — ^the trespassers and anglers in the game 
 preserves and streams of humanity. He had lost 
 all pleasures in his club ; the most exciting themes 
 of political life retained no piquancy for him. His 
 old friends ceased to find any pleasure in him. He 
 was become the driest of all dry wells. Poachers, 
 and anglers, and Methodists, haunted the wretched 
 
 purlieus of his fast fading-out naind, and he re- 
 
 5 
 
66 Peael-Fishing. 
 
 solved to go to town no more. His whole nature 
 was centred in his woods. He was forever on the 
 watch ; and when at EockviEe again, if he heard 
 a door clap when in bed, he thought it a gun in 
 his woods, and started up, and was out with his 
 keepers. 
 
 Of what value was that magnificent estate to 
 him? — those superb woods; those finely-hanging 
 cliEfs ; that clear and riant river coming travelling 
 on, and taking a noble sweep below his windows, 
 — that glorious expanse of neat verdant meadows 
 stretching almost to StockingtoUj and enlivened by- 
 numerous herds of the most beautiful cattle — those 
 old farms and shady lanes overhung with hazel 
 and wild rose ; the glittering brook, and the songs 
 of woodland birds — what were they to that worn- 
 out old man, that victim of the delusive doc- 
 trine of blood, of the man-trap of an hereditary 
 name? 
 
 There the poet could come, and feel the presence 
 of divinity in that noble scene, and hear sublime 
 whispers in the trees, and create new heavens and 
 
The Last of a Long Line. 67 
 
 earths from the glorious chaos of nature around 
 him, and in one short hour live an empyrean of 
 celestial life and love. There could come the very 
 humblest children of the plebeian town, and feel a 
 throb of exquisite delight pervade their bosoms at 
 the sight of the very flowers on the sod, and see 
 heaven in the infinite blue above them. And poor 
 Sir Eoger, the holder, but not the possessor of all, 
 walked only in a region of sterility, with no 
 sublimer ideas than poachers and trespassers — no 
 more rational enjoyment than the brute indulgence 
 of hunting like a ferret, and seizing his fellow-men 
 like a bull-dog. He was a specimen of human na- 
 ture degenerated, retrograded from the divine to 
 the bestial, through the long-operating influences 
 of false notions and institutions, continued beyond 
 their time. He had only the soul of a keeper. Had 
 he been only a keeper, he had been a much hap- 
 pier man. 
 
 His time was at hand. The severity which he 
 had long dealt out towards all sorts of offenders 
 made him the object of the deepest vengeance. In 
 
68 Peael-Pishing. 
 
 a lonely hoUow of his woods, watcMng at midnight 
 with two of his men, there came a sturdy knot of 
 poachers. An affray ensued. The men perceived 
 that their old enemy. Sir Eoger, was there; and 
 the blow of a hedge-stake stretched him on the 
 earth. His keepers fled — and thus ignominiously 
 terminated the long line of the Eockvilles. Sir 
 Eoger was the last of his line, but not of his class. 
 There is a feudal art of sinking, which requires no 
 study; and the Eockvilles are but one famUy 
 among thousands who have perished in its prac- 
 tice. 
 
 In Great Stockington there lived a race of pau- 
 pers. From the year of the 42d of Elizabeth, or 
 1601, down to the present generation, this race 
 maintained an uninterrupted descent. They were 
 a steady and unbroken line of paupers, as the 
 parish books testify. From generation to genera- 
 tion their demands on the parish funds stand re- 
 
The Last of a Long Line. 69 
 
 corded. There were no lacunoe in tlieir career; 
 there never failed an heir to these families ; fed on 
 the bread of idleness and legal provision, these 
 people flourished, increased, and multiplied. Some- 
 times compelled to work for the weekly dole which 
 they received, they never acquired a taste for la- 
 bor, or lost the taste for the bread for which they 
 did not labor. These paupers regarded this main- 
 tenance by no means as a disgrace. They claimed 
 it as a right, — as their patrimony. They con- 
 tended that one-third of the property of the Church 
 had been given by benevolent individuals for the 
 support -of the poor, and that what the Eeforma- 
 tion wrongfully deprived them of, the great enact- 
 ment of Elizabeth rightfully — and only rightfully 
 — restored. 
 
 Those who imagine that all paupers merely 
 claimed parish relief because the law ordained it, 
 commit a great error. There were numbers who 
 were hereditary paupers, and that on a tradition 
 carefully handed down, that they were only man- 
 fully claiming their own. They traced their claims 
 
70 Peael-Fishing. 
 
 from the most ancient feudal times, when the lord 
 was as much bound to maintain his villein in 
 gross, as the villein was to work for the lord. 
 These paupers were, in fact, or cl'aimed to be, the 
 sriginal adscrijpti glebce, and to have as much a claim 
 to parish support as the landed proprietor had to 
 his land. For this reason, in the old Catholic times, 
 after they had escaped from villenage by running 
 away and remaining absent from their hundred for 
 a year and a day, dwelling for that period in a 
 walled town, these people were among the most 
 dihgent attendants at the Abbey doors, and when 
 the Abbeys were dissolved, were, no doubt, among 
 the most daring of these thiev.es, vagabonds, and 
 sturdy rogues, who, after the Eobin Hood fashion, 
 beset the highways and solitary farms of England, 
 and claimed their black mail in a very unceremo- 
 nious style. It was out of this class that Henry 
 VIII. hanged his seventy-two thousand during his 
 reign, and, as it is said, without appearing materi- 
 ally to diminish their number. 
 That they continued to- " increase, multiply, and 
 
The Last of a Long Line. 71 
 
 replenish the earth," oveiflowing all bounds, over- 
 powering by mere populousness aE the severe laws 
 against them of whipping, burning in the hand, in 
 the forehead or the breast, and hanging, and filling 
 the whole country with alarm, is evident by the 
 very act itself of Elizabeth. 
 
 Among these hereditary paupers who, as we 
 have said, were found in Stockington, there was a 
 family of the name of Deg. This family had 
 never failed to demand and enjoy what it held to 
 be its share of its ancient inheritance. It appeared 
 from the parish records, that they had practised in 
 different periods the crafts of shoe-making, tailor- 
 ing, and chimney-sweeping; but since the inven- 
 tion of the stocking frame, they had, one and ail 
 of them, followed the profession of stocking-weav- 
 ers, or as they were there called, stockingers. This 
 was a trade which required no extreme exertion 
 of the physical or intellectual powers. To sit in a 
 frame, and throw the arms to and fro, was a thing 
 that might either be carried to a degree of extreme 
 diligence, or be let down into a mere apology for 
 
72 Pearl-Fishing. 
 
 idleness. An "idle stockinger" was there no very 
 uncommon plirase, and tlie Degs were always classed 
 under that head. Nothing could be more admira- 
 bly adapted than this trade for building a plan of 
 parish relief upon. The I>egs did not pretend to 
 be absolutely without work, or the parish authori- 
 ties would soon have set them to some real labor, 
 — a thing that they particularly recoiled from, 
 having a very old adage in the family, that "hard 
 work was enough to kill a man." The Degs were 
 seldom, therefore, out of Avork, but they did not 
 get enough to meet and tie. They had but little 
 work if times were bad, and if they were good, 
 they had large families and sickly wives or chil- 
 dren. Be times what they would, therefore, the 
 Degs were due and successful attendants at the 
 parish pay-table. Nay, so much was this a matter 
 of course, that they came at length not even to 
 trouble themselves to receive their pay, but sent 
 their young children for it ; and it was duly paid. 
 Did any parish officer, indeed, turn restive, and 
 decline to pay a Deg, he soon found himself sum- 
 
The Last of a Long Like. 78 
 
 moned before a magistrate, and such pleas of sick- 
 ness, "want of work, and poor earnings brougtit up, 
 tliat he most likely got a sharp rebuke from the 
 benevolent but uninquiring magistrate, and ac- 
 quired a character for hard-heartedness that stuck 
 to him. 
 
 So parish overseers learned to let the Degs alone ; 
 and their children regularly brought up to receive 
 the parish money for their parents, were impatient 
 as they grew up to receive it for themselves. Mar- 
 riages in the Leg family were consequently very 
 early, and there were plenty of instances of mar- 
 ried Degs claiming parish relief under the age of 
 twenty, on the plea of being the parent of two 
 children. One such precocious individual being 
 asked by a rather verdant officer why he had mar- 
 ried before he was able to maintain a family, re- 
 plied, in much astonishment, that he had married 
 in order to maintain himself by parish assistance. 
 That he never had been able to maintain himself 
 by his labor, nor ever expected to do it; his only 
 hope, therefore, lay in marrying and becoming the 
 
74 Peael-Fishing. 
 
 fether of two cliildren, to -wliicli patriarclial rank 
 lie liad now attained, and demanded Ms "pay." 
 
 Thus had lived and flourished the Degs on their 
 ancient patrimony, the parish, for upwards of two 
 hundred years. Nay, we have no doubt whatever 
 that, if it could have been traced, they had enjoyed 
 an ancestry of paupers as long as the pedigree of 
 Sir Eoger Rockville himself In the days of the 
 most perfect villenage, they had, doubtless, eaten 
 the bread of idleness, and claimed it as a right. 
 They were numerous, improvident, ragged in dress, 
 and fond of an ale-house and of gossip. Like the 
 blood of Sir Roger, their blood had become pecu- 
 liar through a long persistence of the same circum- 
 stances. It was become pure pauper blood. The 
 Degs married, if not entirely among Degs, yet 
 among the same class. None but a pauper would 
 dream of marrying a Deg. The Degs, therefore, 
 were in constitution, in mind, in habit, and in in- 
 clination, paupers. But a pure and unmixed class 
 of this kind does not die out like an aristocratic 
 stereotype. It increases and multiplies. The lower 
 
The Last or a Long Line. 75 
 
 the grade, the more prolific, as is sometimes seen 
 on a large and even national scale. The Degs 
 threatened, therefore, to become a most formidable 
 clan in the lower purlieus of Stockington, but, 
 luckily there is so much virtue even in evils, that 
 one, not rarely cures another. War, the great evil, 
 cleared the town of Degs. 
 
 Fond of idleness, of indulgence, of money easily 
 got, and as easily spent, the Degs were rapidly 
 drained off by recruiting parties during the last 
 war. The young men enlisted, and were marched 
 away; the young women married soldiers that 
 were quartered in the town from time to time, and 
 marched away with them. There were, eventually, 
 none of the once numerous Degs left except a few 
 old people, whom death was sure to draft off at no 
 distant period with his regiment of the line which 
 has no end. Parish overseers, magistrates, and 
 master manufacturers, felicitated themselves at this 
 unhoped-for deliverance from the ancient family 
 of the Degs. 
 
 But one cold, clear winter evening, the east wind 
 
76 Peael-Fishing. 
 
 piping its sharp sibilant ditty in the bare-shorn 
 hedges, and poking his feharp fingers into the sides 
 of well broad-clothed men by way of passing jest, 
 Mr. Spires, a great manufacturer of Stockington, 
 driving in his gig some seven miles from the town, 
 passed a poor woman with a stout child on her 
 back. The large ruddy -looking man in the prime 
 of life, and in the great-coat and thick-worsted 
 gloves of a wealthy traveller, cast a glance at the 
 wretched creature trudging heavily on, expecting 
 a pitiful appeal to his sensibilities, and thinking it 
 a bore to have to pull off a glove and dive into his 
 pocket for a copper ; but to his surprise there was 
 no demand, only a low curtsey, and the glimpse 
 of a face of singular honesty of expression, and of 
 excessive weariness. 
 
 Spires was a man of warm feelings ; he looked 
 earnestly at the woman, and thought he had never 
 seen such a picture of fatigue in his life. He pulled 
 up and said, 
 
 " You seem very tired, my good woman." . 
 
 " Awfully tired, sir." 
 
The Last of a Long Line. 77 
 
 "And are you going far to-niglit?" 
 
 "To Great Stockington, sir, if God give me 
 strength." , 
 
 "To Stockington !" exclaimed Mr. Spires. " Why 
 you seem ready to drop. You'll never reach it. 
 You'd better stop at the next village." 
 
 "Ay, sir, it's easy stopping for those that have 
 money." 
 
 "And you've none, eh?" 
 
 "As God lives, sir, I've a sixpence, and that's 
 all." 
 
 Mr. Spires put his hand in his pocket, and held 
 out to her the next instant half-a-crown. 
 
 " There stop, poor thing — make yourself com- 
 fortable — it's quite out of the question to reach 
 Stockington. But stay — are your friends living in 
 Stockington — what are you?" 
 
 " A poor soldier's widow, sir. And may God 
 Almighty bless you !" said the poor woman, taking 
 the money, the tears standing in her large brown 
 eyes as she curtsied very low. 
 
 " A soldier's widow," said Mr. Spires. She had 
 
78 Peael-Fishing. 
 
 toTiclied the softest place in the manufacturer's 
 heart, for he "was a very loyal man, and vehement 
 chanJpion of his country's honor in the war. " So 
 young," said he, "how did you lose your hus- 
 band?" 
 
 "He fell, sir," said the poor woman; but she 
 could get no further ; she suddenly caught up the 
 corner of her gray cloak, covered her face with it, 
 and burst into an excess of grief. 
 
 The manufacturer felt as if he had hit the woman 
 a blow by his careless question ; he sat watching 
 her for a moment in silence, and then said, " Come, 
 get into the gig, my poor woman ; come, I must 
 see you to Stockington." 
 
 The poor woman dried her tears, and heavily 
 climbed into the gig, expressing her gratitude in a 
 very touching and modest manner. Spires but- 
 toned the apron over her, and taking a look at the 
 child, said in a cheerful tone to comfort her, 
 "Bless me, but that is a fine thumping fellow, 
 though. I don't wonder you are tired, carrying 
 such a load." 
 
The Last of a Lokg Line. 79 
 
 The poor woman pressed the stout child, appa- 
 vently two years old, to her breast, as if she felt it 
 ft great blessing and no load : the gig drove rap- 
 Idly on. 
 
 Presently Mr. Spires resumed his conversa- 
 tion. 
 
 " So you are from Stockington?" 
 
 "No, sir; my husband was." 
 
 " So : what was his name?" 
 
 " John Deg, sir." 
 
 "Deg?" said Mr. Spires. "Deg, did you say?" 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 The manufacturer seemed to hitch himself off 
 towards his own side of the gig, gave another look 
 at her, and was silent. The poor woman was 
 somewhat astonished at his look and movement, 
 and was silent too. 
 
 After awhile Mr. Spires said again, "And do 
 you hope to find friends in Stockington? Had 
 you none where you came from ?" 
 
 "None, sir, none in the world!" said the poor 
 woman, and again her feelings seemed too strong 
 
80 Pearl-Fishing. 
 
 for her. At length she added, "I was in service, 
 sir, at Poole, in Dorsetshire, when I married ; my 
 mother only was living, and whUe I was away 
 with my husband, she died. When — when the 
 news came from abroad — that — when I was a wid- 
 ow, sir, I went back to my native place, and the 
 parish officers said I must go to my husband's 
 parish, lest I and my child should become trouble- 
 some." 
 
 "You asked relief of them?" 
 
 " Never ; oh, God knows, never 1 My family 
 have never asked a penny of a parish. They 
 would die first, and so would I, sir ; but they said 
 I might do it, and I had better go to my hus- 
 band's parish at once — and they offered me money 
 to go." 
 
 " And you took it, of course?" 
 
 "No, sir; I had a little money, which I had 
 earned by washing and laundering, and I sold most 
 of my things, as I could not carry them, and came 
 off. I felt hurt, sir; my heart rose against the 
 treatment of the parish, and I thought I should be 
 
The Last of a Long Line. 81 
 
 better among my husband's friends — and my oldld 
 would, if anything happened to me; I had no 
 friends of my own." 
 
 Mr. Spires looked at the woman in silence. 
 "Did your husband tell you anything of his 
 friends ? What sort of a man was he ?" 
 
 "Oh, he was a gay young fellow, rather, sir; 
 but not bad to me. He always said his friends 
 were well off in Stockington." 
 
 "He did!" said the manufacturer, with a great 
 stare, and as if bolting the words from his heart in 
 a large gust of wonder. 
 
 The poor woman again looked at him with a 
 strange look. The manufacturer whistled to him- 
 self, and giving his horse a smart cut with the 
 whip, drove on faster than ever. The night. was 
 fast settliag down ; it was numbing cold ; a gray 
 fog rose from the river as they thundered over the 
 old bridge; and tall engine chimneys, and black 
 smoky houses loomed through the dusk before 
 them. They were at Stockington. 
 
 As they slackened their pace up a hill at the en- 
 6 
 
82 Pearl-Fishing. 
 
 trance of tte town, Mr. Spires again opened hi.<* 
 moutli. 
 
 " I should be sorry to hurt -your feelings, Mrs. 
 Deg," he said, " but I hare my fears that you are 
 coming to this place with false expectations. I 
 fear your husband did not give you the truest pos- 
 sible^ account of his famOy here." 
 
 "Oh, Sir! What — what is it ?'^ exclaimed the 
 poor woman; "in God's name, tell me!" 
 
 " Why, nothing more than this," said the manu- 
 facturer, " that there are very few of the Degs left 
 here. They are old, and on the parish, and can do 
 nothing for you." 
 
 The poor woman gave a deep sigh, and was 
 silent. 
 
 "But don't be cast down," said Mr. Spires. He 
 would not tell her what a pauper family it really 
 was, for he saw that she was a very feeling woman, 
 and he thought she would learn that soon enough. 
 He felt that her husband had from vanity given 
 her a false account of his connections j and he was 
 really sorry for her. 
 
The Last of a Long Line. 83 
 
 " Don't be cast down," he went on, " you can 
 wash and iron, you say; you are young and 
 strong ; those are your friends. Depend on them, 
 and they'll he better friends to you than any 
 other." 
 
 The poor woman was silent, leaning her head 
 down on her slumbering child, and crying to her- 
 self; and thus they drove on, through many long 
 and narrow streets, with gas flaring from the shops, 
 but with few people in the streets, and these hur- 
 rying shivering along the payment, so intense was 
 the cold. Anon they stopped at a large pair of 
 gates; the manufacturer rung a bell, which he 
 could reach from his gig, and the gates presently 
 were flung open, and they drove into a spacious 
 yard, with a large handsome house, having a 
 bright lamp burning before it, on one side of the 
 yard, and tall warehouses on the other. 
 
 " Show this poor woman and her child to Mrs. 
 Craddock's, James/' said Mr. Spires, " and tell Mrs. 
 Craddock to make them very comfortable ; and if 
 you will come to my warehouse to-morrow," added 
 
84 Peael-Fishing. 
 
 he, addressing tlie poor womaB, '.' perhaps I can be 
 of some use to you." 
 
 The poor woman poured out her heartfelt 
 thanks, and following the old man servant, soon 
 disappeared, hobbling over the pebbly pavement 
 with her living load, stiffened almost to stone by 
 her fatigue and her cold ride. 
 
 We must not pursue too minutely our narrative. 
 Mrs. Deg was engaged to do the washing and get- 
 ting up of Mr. Spire's linen, and the manner in 
 which she executed her task insured her recom- 
 mendations to all their friends. Mrs. Deg was at 
 once in full employ. She occupied a neat house 
 in a yard near the meadows below the town, and 
 in those meadows she might be seen spreading out 
 her clothes to whiten on the grass, attended by her 
 stout little boy. In the same yard lived a shoe- 
 maker, who had two or three children of about tha 
 same age as Mrs. Deg's child. The children, aa 
 time went on, became play -fellows. Little Simon 
 might be said to have the free run of the shoe- 
 maker's house, and he was the more attracted 
 
The Last of a Long Line. 85 
 
 tliither by the shoemaker's birds, and by his flute, 
 on which he often played after his work was done. 
 Mrs. Deg took a great friendship for this shoe- 
 maker ; and he and his wife, a quiet, kind-hearted 
 woman, were almost all the acquaintances that she 
 cultivated. She had found out her husband's pa- 
 rents, but they were not of a description that at all 
 pleased her. They were old and infirm, but they 
 were of the true pauper breed, a sort of person, 
 whom Mrs. Deg had been taught to avoid and to 
 despise. They looked on her as a sort of secbnd 
 parish, and insisted that she should come and live 
 with them, and help to maintain them out of her 
 earnings. But Mrs. Deg would rather her little 
 boy had died than have been famiharized with the 
 spirit and habits of those old people. Despise 
 them she struggled hard not to do, and she agreed 
 to. allow them sufficient to maintain them on con- 
 dition that they desisted from any further appli- 
 cation to the parish. It would be a long and 
 disgusting story to recount all the troubles, annoy- 
 ance, and querulous complaints, and even bitter 
 
86 Pearl-Fishing. 
 
 accusations that she received from these connec- 
 tions, whom she could never satisfy; but she 
 considered it one of her crosses in her life, and 
 patiently bore it, seeing that they suffered no real 
 want, so long as they lived, which was for years ; 
 but she would never" allow her little Simon to be 
 with them alone. 
 
 The shoemaker neighbor was a stout protection 
 to her against the greedy demands of these old 
 people, and of others of the old Degs, and also 
 against another class of inconvenient visitors, 
 namely, suitors, who saw in Mrs. Deg a neat and 
 comely young woman with a flourishing business, 
 and a neat and soon well-furnished house, a very 
 desirable acquisition. But Mrs. Deg had resolved 
 never again to marry, but to live for her boy, and 
 she kept her resolve in firmness and gentleness. 
 
 The shoemaker often took walks in the exten- 
 sive town meadows to gather groundsell and plan- 
 tain for his canaries and gorse-linnets, and little 
 Simon Deg delighted to accompany him with his 
 own children. There William Watson, the shoe- 
 
The Last of a Long Line. 87 
 
 maker, used to point out to the children the beauty 
 of the flowers, the insects, and other objects of na- 
 ture ; and while he sate on a stile and read in a 
 little old book of poetry, as he often used to do, 
 the children sate on the summer grass, and enjoyed 
 themselves in a variety of plays. 
 
 The effect of these walks, and the shoemaker's 
 conversation on little Simon Deg was such as never 
 wore out of him through his whole life, and soon 
 led him to astonish the shoemaker by his extraor- 
 dinary conduct. He manifested the utmost uneasi- 
 ness at their treading on the flowers in the grass ; 
 he would burst with tears if they persisted in it ; 
 and when asked why, he said they were so beauti- 
 ful, and that they must enjoy the sunshine, and be 
 very unhappy to die. The shoemaker was amazed, 
 but indulged the lad's fancy. One day he thought 
 to give him a great treat, and when they were out 
 in the meadows, he drew fi-om under his coat a 
 bow and arrow, and shot the arrow high up in the 
 air. He expected to see him in an ecstacy of de- 
 light; his own children clapped their hands ift 
 
88 Pearl-Fishing. 
 
 transport, but Simon stood silent, and as if awe- 
 struck. "Shall I send up another?" asked the 
 shoemaker. 
 
 "No, no," exclaimed the child, imploringly. 
 "You say God lives up there, and he mayn't like 
 it." 
 
 The shoemaker laughed, but presently he said, 
 as if to himself, " There is too much imagination 
 there. There ■will be a poet, if we don't take care." 
 
 The shoemaker offered to teach Simon to read, 
 and to solidify his mind, as he termed it, by arith- 
 metic, and then to teach him to work at his trade. 
 His mother was very glad ; and thought shoemak- 
 ing would be a good trade for the boy ; and that 
 with Mr. "Watson she should have him always near 
 her. He was growing now a great lad, and was 
 especially strong, and of a frank and daring habit. 
 He was especially indignant at any act of oppres- 
 sion of the weak by the strong, and not seldom got 
 into trouble by his championship of the injured in. 
 such cases amongst the boys of the neighborhood. 
 
 He was now about twelve years of age ; when, 
 
The Last of a Long Line. 89 
 
 going one day witli a basket of clothes on his head 
 to Mr. Spires's for his mother, he was noticed by 
 Mr. Spires himself from his counting-house window. 
 The great war was raging; there was much dis- 
 tress amongst the manufacturers ; and the people 
 were suffering and exasperated against their mas- 
 ters. Mr. Spires, as a staunch tory, and supporter 
 of the war, was particularly obnoxious to the work- 
 people, who uttered violent threats against him. 
 For this reason his premises were strictly guarded, 
 and at the entrance of his yard, just within the 
 gates, was chained a huge and fierce mastiff, his 
 chain allowing him to approach near enough to in- 
 timidate any stranger, though not to reach him. 
 The dog knew the people who came regularly 
 about, and seemed not to notice them, but on the 
 entrance of a stranger, he rose up, barked fiercely, 
 and came to the length of his chain. This always 
 drew the attention of the porter, if he were away 
 from his box, and few persons dared to pass till he 
 came. 
 Simon Deg was advancing with the basket of 
 
90 Peael-Fishinq. 
 
 clean linen on his head, when the dog rushed out, 
 and barking londly, came exactly opposite to him, 
 within a few feet. The boy, a good deal startled 
 at first, reared himself with his back against the 
 wall, but at a glance perceiving that the dog was 
 at the length of his tether, he seemed to enjoy hia 
 situation, and stood smiling at the furious animal, 
 and lifting his basket, with both hands above his 
 head, nodded to him, as if to say, " Well, old boy, 
 you'd like to eat me, wouldn't you ?" 
 
 Mr. Spires, who sate near his counting-house 
 window at his books, was struck with the bold 
 and handsome bearing of the boy, and said to a 
 clerk, " What boy is that?" 
 
 " It is Jenny Deg's," was the answer. 
 
 " Ha ! that boy ! Zounds ! how boys do grow ! 
 What that's the child that Jenny Deg was carrying 
 when she came to Stockington ; and what a strong, 
 handsome, bright-looking fellow he is now 1" 
 
 As the boy was returning, Mr. Spires call him 
 to the counting-house door, and put some questions 
 to him as to what he was doing and learning, and 
 
The Last of a Long Line. 91 
 
 so on. Simon, taking off Ms cap with mucTi re- 
 spect, answered in sucli a clear and modest way, 
 and witli a voice that had so much feeling and 
 natural music in it, that the worthy manufacturer 
 was greatly taken with him. 
 
 " That's no Deg," said he, when he again entered 
 the counting-house, " not a bit of it. He's all Good- 
 rick, or whatever his mother's name was, every 
 inch of him." 
 
 The consequences of that interview was, that 
 Simon Deg was very soon after perched on a stool 
 in Mr. Spires' counting-house, where he continued 
 till he was twenty-two. Mr. Spires had no son, 
 only a single daughter; and such were Simon 
 Deg's talents, attention to business, and genial dis- 
 position, that at that age Mr. Spires gave him a 
 share in the concern. He was himself now getting 
 less fond of exertion than he had been, and placed 
 the most implicit reliance on Simon's judgment 
 and general management. Yet no two men could 
 be more unlike in their opinions beyond the circle 
 of trade. Mr. Spires was a staunch tory of the 
 
92 Pearl-Pishing. 
 
 staunch old school. He was for Church and King, 
 and for things remaining forever as they had been. 
 Simon, on the other hand, had liberal and reform- 
 ing notions. He was for the improvement of the 
 people, and their admission to many privileges. 
 Mr. Spires was, therefore, liked by the leading men 
 of the place, and disliked by the people. Simon's 
 estimation was precisely in the opposite direction. 
 But this did not disturb their friendship; it re- 
 qxiired another disturbing cause — and that came. 
 
 Simon Deg and the daughter of Mr. Spires, grew 
 attached to each other; and, as the father had 
 thought Simon worthy of becomtag a partner in 
 the business, neither of the young people deemed, 
 that he would object to a partnership of a more 
 domestic description. But here they made a tre- 
 mendous mistake. No sooner was such a proposal 
 hinted it, than Mr. Spires burst forth with the fury 
 of all the winds from the bag of Ulysses. 
 
 "Whatl a Deg aspire to the hand of the sole 
 heiress of the enormously opulent Spires?" 
 
 The very thought almost cut the proud manu- 
 
The Last of A Long Line. 93 
 
 laottuer off witH an apoplexy. The ghosts of a 
 thousand paupers rose up before him, and he was 
 black in the face. It was only by a prompt and 
 bold application of leeches and lancet, that the life 
 of the great man was saved. But there was an 
 end of all further friendship between himself and 
 the expectant Simon. He insisted that he. should 
 withdraw from the concern, and it was done. Si- 
 mon, who felt his own dignity deeply wounded 
 too, for dignity he had, though the last of a long 
 line of paupers — his own dignity, not his ancestors' 
 — took silently, yet not unrespectfully, his share — 
 a good, round sum, and entered another house of 
 business. 
 
 For several years there appeared to be a feud 
 and a bitterness between the former friends ; yet it 
 showed itself in no other manner than by a careful 
 avoidance of each other. The continental war 
 came to an end; the manufacturing distress in- 
 creased exceedingly. There came troublous times, 
 and a fierce warfare of politics. Great Stocking- 
 ton was torn asunder by rival parties. On one, 
 
94 Peael-Fishing. 
 
 side stood pre-eminent, Mr. Spires; on the otter 
 towered conspicuously, Simon Deg. Simon -was 
 grown rich, and extremely popular. He was on 
 all occasions tlie advocate of tlie people. He said 
 that he had sprung from, and was one of them. 
 He had bought a large tract of land on one side of 
 the town ; and intensely fond of the country and 
 flowers himself, he had divided this into gardens, 
 built little summer-houses in them, and let them to 
 the artisans. In his factory he had introduced 
 order, cleanliness, and ventilation. He had set up 
 a school for the children in the evenings, with a 
 reading-room and conversation-room for the work- 
 people, and encouraged them to bring their fami- 
 lies there, and enjoy music, books, and lectures. 
 Accordingly, he was the idol of the people, and 
 the horror of the old school of the manufacturers. 
 
 " A pretty upstart and demagogue I've nurtured," 
 said Mr. Spires often to his wife and daughter, who 
 only sighed and were silent. 
 
 Then came a furious election. The town, for a 
 fortnight, more resembled the worst corner of Tar- 
 
The Last of a Long Line. 95 
 
 tarus than a Christian borough. Drunkenness, riot, 
 pumping on one another, spencering one another, 
 all sorts of violence and abuse ruled and raged till 
 the blood of all Stockington "was at boiling heat. 
 In the midst of the tempest were everywhere seen, 
 ranged on the opposite sides, Mr. Spires, now old 
 and immensely corpulent, and Simon Deg, active, 
 buoyant, zealous, and popular beyond measure. 
 But popular though he still was, the other and old 
 tory side triumphed. The people were exasperated 
 to madness ; and when the chairing of the success- 
 ful candidate commenced, there was a terrific at- 
 tack made on the procession by the defeated party. 
 Down went the chair, and the new member, glad 
 to escape into an inn, saw his friends mercilessly 
 assailed by the populace. There was a tremendous 
 tempest of sticks, brick-bats, paving-stones, and rot- 
 ten eggs. In the midst of this, Simon Deg, and a 
 number of his friends, standing at the upper win- 
 dow of a hotel, saw Mr. Spires knocked down, and 
 trampled on by the crowd. In an instant, and, be- 
 fore his friends had missed him from among them, 
 
96 Pearl-Pishing. 
 
 Simon Deg was then darting througli the raging 
 mass, cleaving his way with a surprising vigor, and 
 gesticulating, and no doubt shouting vehemently to 
 the rioters, though his voice was lost in the din. 
 In the next moment his hat was knocked off, and 
 himself appeared in imminent danger ; but, another 
 moment,, and there was a pause, and a group of 
 people were bearing somebody from the frantic 
 mob into a neighboring shop. It was Simon Deg, 
 assisting in the rescue of his old friend and bene- 
 factor, Mr. Spires. 
 
 Mr. Spires was a good deal bruised, and wonder- 
 fully confounded and bewildered by his fall. His 
 clothes were one mass of mud, and his face was 
 bleeding copiously ; but when he had. had a good 
 draught of water, and his face washed, and had 
 time to recover himself, it was found that he had 
 received no serious injury. 
 
 " They had like to have done for me though," 
 said he. 
 
 "Yes, and who saved you?" asked a gentle- 
 man. 
 
The Last of a Long Line. 97 
 
 "Ay, -wlio -was it? who was it?" asked the re- 
 ally warm-hearted manufacturer; "let me know? 
 I owe him my life." 
 
 " There he is !" said several gentlemen, at the 
 same instant pushing forward Simon Deg. 
 
 " What, Simon 1" said Mr. Spires, startiag to his 
 feet. "Was it thee, my hoy?" He did more, he 
 stretched out his hand ; the young man clasped it 
 eagerly, and the two stood silent, and with a heart- 
 felt emotion, which blended all the past into for- 
 getfulness, and the future into a union more sacred 
 than esteem. 
 
 A week hence and Simon Deg was the son-in- 
 law of Mr. Spires. Though Mr. Spires had misun- 
 derstood Simon, and Simon had borne the aspect 
 of opposition to his old friend in defence of con- 
 scientious principle, the wife and daughter of the 
 manufacturer had always understood him, and se- 
 cretly looked forward to some day of recognition 
 and re-union. 
 
 Simon Deg was now the richest man in Stock- 
 
 ington. His mother was stUl Kving to enjoy his 
 
 1 
 
98 Peael-Fishing. 
 
 elevation. She liad been Ms excellent and wise 
 liOTise-keeper, and she continued to occupy that 
 post still. 
 
 Twenty-five years afterwards, when the worthy 
 old Spires was dead, and Simon Deg had himself 
 two sons attained to manhood ; when he had five 
 times been mayor of Stockington, and had been 
 knighted on the presentation of a loyal address ; 
 still his mother was living to see it ; and "Wilham 
 Watson, the shoe-maker, was acting as the sort of 
 orderly at Sir Simon's chief manufactory. He oc- 
 cupied the Lodge, and walked about, and saw that 
 all was safe, and moving on as it should do. 
 
 It was amazing how the most plebeian name of 
 Simon Peg had slid, under the hands of the Her- 
 alds, into the really aristocratical one of Sir Simon 
 Degge. They had traced him up a collateral kin- 
 ship, spite of his own consciousness, to a baronet 
 of the same name of the county of Stafford, and 
 had given him a coat of arnas that was really as- 
 tonishing. 
 
 It was some years before this that Sir Eoger 
 
The Last of a Long Line. 99 
 
 Eockville breatted his last. His title and estate 
 had fallen into litigation. Owing to two genera- 
 tions having passed without any issue of the Eock- 
 ville family except the one son and heir, the 
 claims, though numerous, were so mingled with 
 obscuring circumstances, and so equally balanced, 
 that the lawyers raised quibbles and difficulties 
 enough to keep the property in Chancery, till they 
 had not only consumed all the ready money and 
 rental, but had made frightful inroads into the es- 
 tate itself. To save the remnant, the contending 
 parties came to a compromise. A neighboring 
 squire, whose grandfather had married a Eockville, 
 was allowed to secure the title, on condition that 
 the rest carried off the residuum of the estate. 
 The woods and lands of Eockville were announced 
 for sale ! 
 
 It was at this juncture that old William Watson 
 reminded!" Sir Simon Degge of a conversation in 
 the great grove of Eockville, which they had held 
 at the time that Sir Eoger was endeavoring tc 
 drive the people thence. " What a divine pleasure 
 
100 Peael-Fishing. 
 
 miglit ttis man enjoy," said Simon Deg to Ms 
 humble friend, "if lie had a heart capable of let- 
 ting others enjoy themselves." 
 
 "But -we talk without the estate," said "WiUiam 
 Watson, "what might we do if we were tried with 
 it?" 
 
 Sir Simon was silent for a moment ; then observed 
 that there was sound philosophy in William Wat- 
 son's remark. He said no more, but went away ; 
 and the next day announced to the astonished old 
 man that he had purchased the groves and the 
 whole ancient estate of Eockville ! 
 
 Sir Simon Degge, the last of a long line of pau- 
 pers, was become the possessor of the noble estate 
 of Sir Roger Eockville of Eockville, the last of a 
 long line of aristocrats ! 
 
 The following summer, when the hay was lying 
 in fragrant cocks in the great meadows of Eock- 
 ville, and on the little islands in the river, Sir Si- 
 mon Degge, Baronet of Eockville,^ — for such was 
 now his title — through the suggestion of a great 
 lawyer, formerly recorder of the borough of Stock- 
 
The Last of a Long Line. 101 
 
 ington to tTie crown — lield a grand fdte on the oc- 
 casion of his coming to reside at Eockville Hall, 
 henceforth the family seat of the Degges. His 
 house and gardens had been restored to the most 
 consummate order. For years Sir Simon had been 
 a great purchaser of works of art and literature, 
 paintings, statuary, books, and articles of antiquity, 
 including rich armor and precious works in ivory 
 and gold. 
 
 First and foremost he gave a great banquet to 
 his wealthy friends, and no man with a million 
 and a half is without them — and in abundance. 
 In the second place, he gave a substantial dinner to 
 aU his tenantry, from the wealthy farmer of five 
 hundred acres to the tenant of a cottage. On this 
 occasion he said, " Game is a great subject of heart- 
 burning, and of great injustice to the country. It 
 was the bane of my predecessor ; let us take care 
 it is not ours. Let every man kill the game on the 
 land that he rents — then he wiU not destroy it ut- 
 terly, nor allow it to grow into a nuisance. I am 
 fond of a gun myself, but I trust to find enough 
 
102 Pearl-Fishing. 
 
 for my propensity to the chase in my own fields 
 and woods — if I occasionally extend my pursuit 
 across the lands of my tenants, it shall not be to 
 carry off the first-fruits of their feeding, and I 
 shall stUl hold the enjoyment as a favor." 
 
 "We need not say that this speech was applauded 
 most Tociferously. Thirdly, and lastly, he gave a 
 grand entertainment to all his work-people, both of 
 the town and the country. His house and gardens 
 were thrown open to the inspection of the whole 
 assembled company. The delighted crowd ad- 
 mired immensely the pictures and the pleasant 
 gardens. On the lawn, lying between the great 
 grove and the hall, an enormous tent was pitched, 
 or rather a vast canvas canopy erected, open on all 
 sides, in which was laid a charming banquet; a 
 military band from Stockington barracks playing 
 during the time. Here Sir Simon made a speech 
 as rapturously received as that to the farmers. It 
 was to the effect, that all the old privileges of wan- 
 dering in the grove, and angling, and boating on 
 the river, were restored. The inn was already re- 
 
The Last of a Long Line. 103 
 
 built in a handsoilie Elizabetlian style, larger than 
 before, and to prevent it ever becoming a fane of 
 intemperance, lie had there posted as landlord, he 
 hoped for many years to come, his old friend and 
 benefactor, William Watson. William Watson 
 should protect the inn from riot, and they them- 
 selves the groves and river banks from injury. 
 
 Long and loud were the applauses which this an- 
 nouncement occasioned. The young people turned 
 out upon the green for a dance, and in the evening, 
 after an excellent tea — ^the whole company de- 
 scended the river to Stocldngton in boats and 
 barges decorated with boughs and flowers, and 
 singing a song made by William Watson for the 
 occasion, called "The Health of Sir Simon, last 
 and first of his Line." 
 
 Years have rolled on. The groves and river 
 banks and islands of EockviUe are still greatly fre- 
 quented, but are never known to be injured: 
 poachers are never known there, for four reasons. 
 First, nobody would like to annoy the good Sir 
 Simon; secondly, game is not very numerous 
 
104 Peael-Fishing. 
 
 there ; thirdly, there is no fun in killing it where 
 there is no resistance; and fourthly, it is vastly 
 more abundant in other proprietors' demesnes, and 
 it is fua to kill it there, where it is jealously 
 watched, and there is a chance of a good spree 
 with the keepers. 
 
 And with what different feelings does the good 
 Sir Simon look down from his lofty eyrie, over the 
 princely expanse of meadows, and over-the glitter- 
 ing river, and over the stately woods to where 
 Great Stockington still stretches farther and far- 
 ther its red brick walls, its red-tiled roofs, and its 
 taU smoke- vomiting chimneys. There he sees no 
 haunts of crowded enemies to himself or any man. 
 No upstarts, nor envious opponents, but a vast 
 family of human beings, all toiling for the good of 
 their families and their country. All advancing, 
 some faster, some slower, to a better education, a 
 better social condition, a better conception of the 
 principles of art and commerce, and a clearer rec- 
 ognition of their rights and their duties, and a more 
 cheering faith in the upward tendency of humanity. 
 
The Last of a Long Line. 105 
 
 Looking on tMs interesting scene from Ms dis- 
 tant and quiet home, Sir Simon sees wliat blessings 
 flow — and how deeply he feels them in his own 
 case — ^from a free circulation, not only of trade, 
 but of human relations. How this corrects the 
 mischiefs, moral and physical, of false systems and 
 rusty prejudices ; — and he ponders on schemes of 
 no ordinary beauty and beneficence yet to reach 
 his beloved town through them. He sees lecture 
 halls and academies, means of sanitary purification, 
 and dehcious recreation, in which baths, wash- 
 houses, and airy homes figure largely ; while pub- 
 he walks extend all round the great industrial 
 hive, including wood, hills, meadow, and river in 
 their circuit of many miles. There he lived and. 
 labored ; there live and labor his sons ; and there 
 he trusts his family will continue to live and labor 
 to all future generations ; never retiring to the fatal 
 indolence of wealth, but aiding onwards its active 
 and ever-expanding beneficence. 
 
 Long may the good Sir Simon live and labor to 
 realize these views. But already in a green corner 
 
106 Pearl-Fishing. 
 
 of the pleasant clmrcliyard of Rockville may be 
 read tHs inscription on a marUe headstone: — 
 " Sacred to the Memory of Jane Deg, the mother 
 of Sir Simon Degge, Bart., of Eockville. This 
 stone is erected in honor of the best of Mothers by 
 the most grateful of sons." 
 
III. 
 
 AK attorney's STOEY. 
 
 f\ ISTE morning, about five years ago, I called by 
 ^ appointment on Mr. Jobn Balance, tbe fash- 
 ionable pawnbroker, to accompany Mm to Liver- 
 pool, in pursuit for a Levanting customer, — ^for 
 Balance, in addition to pawning, does a little busi- 
 ness in tlie sixty per cent. Hne. It rained in tor- 
 rents wben tbe cab stopped at the passage wMcli 
 leads past tlie pawning boxes to his private door. 
 The cabman rang twice, and at length Balance ap- 
 peared, looming through the mist and rain in the 
 entry, illuminated by his perpetual cigar. As I 
 eyed him rather impatiently, remembering that 
 trains wait for no man, something like a hairy 
 
108 Pearl-Eishing. 
 
 dog, or a bundle of rags, rose tip at his feet, and 
 barred his passage for a moment. Then Balance 
 cried out with an exclamation, in answer apparent- 
 ly to a something I could not hear, " What, man 
 alive ! — ^slept in the passage ! — ^there, take that, and 
 get some breakfast for Heaven's sake 1" So say- 
 ing, he jumped into the " Hansom," and we bowled 
 away at ten miles an hour, just catching the Ex- 
 press as the doors of the station were closiag. My 
 curiosity was full set, — for although Balance can 
 be' free with his money, it is not exactly to beggars 
 that his generosity is usually displayed ; so when 
 comfortably ensconced in a coupe, I finished with — 
 
 " You are liberal with your money this morn- 
 ing ; pray, how often do you give silver to street 
 cadgers? — because I shall know now what walk 
 to take when flats and sharps leave off buying 
 law." 
 
 Balance, who would have made an excellent 
 parson if he had not been bred to a case-hardening 
 trade, and has still a soft bit left in his heart that 
 is always fighting with his hard head, did not 
 
The Gtentleman Beggar. 109 
 
 smile at all, but looked as grim as if squeezing a 
 lemon into bis Saturday nigbt's puncb. He an- 
 swered slowly, " A cadger — ^yes ; a beggar — a mis- 
 erable wretcb, be is now ; but let me tell you, 
 Master David, tbat tbat miserable bundle of rag's 
 was born and bred a gentleman ; tbe son of a no- 
 bleman, tbe busband of an beiress, and bas sat and 
 dined at tables wbere you and I, Master David, 
 are only allowed to view the plate by favor of tbe 
 butler. I bave lent bim tbousands, and been well 
 paid. Tbe last tbing I bad from bim was bis 
 court suit ; and I bold now bis bill for one hun- 
 dred pounds that will be paid, I expect, when be 
 dies." 
 
 ""Why, what nonsense you are talking! you 
 must be dreaming this morning. However, we 
 are alone, I'll light a weed, in defiance of Eailway 
 law, you shall spin tbat yarn ; for, true or untrue, 
 it will fill up the time to Liverpool." 
 
 "As for yarn," replied Balance, "the whole 
 story is short enough ; and as for truth, that you 
 may easily find out if you like to take tbe trouble. 
 
110 Pearl-Fishing. 
 
 I thouglit tlie poor ■wretcli was dead, and I own it 
 put me out meeting Mm tMs morning, for I had a 
 curious dream last night." 
 
 " Oh, hang your dreams I Tell us about this 
 gentleman beggar that bleeds you of half-crowns — 
 that melts the heart even of a pawnbroker !" 
 
 " Well, then, that beggar is the illegitimate son 
 of the late Marquis of Hoopborough by a Spanish 
 lady of rank. He received a first-rate education, 
 and was brought up in his father's house. At a 
 very early age he obtained an appointment in a 
 public of&ce, was presented by the marquis at 
 court, and received into the first society, where his 
 handsome person and agreeable manners made him 
 a great favorite. Soon after coming of age, he 
 married the daughter of Sir E. Bumper, who 
 brought him a very handsome fortune, which was 
 strictly settled on herself They lived in splendid 
 style, kept several carriages, a house in town, and 
 a place in the country. For some reason or other, 
 idleness, or to plead his lady's pride he said, he re- 
 signed his appointment. His father died, and left 
 
The Gentleman Beggar. Ill 
 
 him nothing ; indeed, he seemed at that time very 
 handsomely provided for. 
 
 "Very soon Mr. and Mrs. Molinos Fitz-Eoy 
 began to disagree. She was cold, correct — ^he was 
 hot and random. He was quite dependent on her, 
 and she made him feel it. "When he began to get 
 into debt, he came to me. At length some shock- 
 ing quarrel occurred; some case of jealousy on the 
 wife's side, not without reason, I believe ; and the 
 end of it was Mr. Fitz-Eoy was turned out of doors. 
 The house was his wife's, the furniture was his wife's, 
 and the fortune was his wife's — he -was, in fact, her 
 pensioner. He left with a few hundred pounds 
 ready money, and some personal jewellery, and 
 went to a hotel. On these and credit he lived. 
 Being illegitimate, he had no relations ; being a- 
 fool, when he spent his money he lost his friends. 
 The world took his wife's part, when they found 
 she had the fortune, and the only parties who in- 
 terfered were her relatives, who did their best to 
 make the quarrel incurable. To crown all, one 
 night he was run over by a cab, was carried to a 
 
112 Pearl-Fishing. 
 
 tospital, and lay there for months, and was during 
 several weeks of the time unconscious. A message 
 to the wife, by the hands of one of his debauched 
 companions, sent by a humane surgeon, obtained 
 an intimation that ' if he died, Mr. Croak, the un- 
 dertaker to the family, had orders to see to the 
 funeral,' and that Mrs. Molinos was on the point 
 of starting for the Continent, not to return for 
 some years. When Fitz-Eoy was discharged, he 
 came to me limping on two sticks, to pawn his 
 court suit, and told me his story. I was really 
 sorry for the fellow, such a handsome, thorough- 
 bred-looking man. He was going then into the 
 west somewhere, to try to hunt out a friend. 
 ' What to do. Balance,' he said, ' I don't know. I 
 can't dig, and unless somebody will make me their 
 gamekeeper, I must starve or beg, as my Jezebel 
 bade me when we parted I' 
 
 "I lost sight of Molinos for a long time, and 
 when I next came upon him it was in the Eookery 
 of Westminster, in a low lodging-house, where I 
 was searching with an of&cer for stolen goods. 
 
The Q-entleman Beggar. 113 
 
 He -was pointed out to me as tlie ' gentleman cad- 
 ger,' because he -was so free witli his money when, 
 'in luck.' He recognized me, but turned away- 
 then. I have since seen him, and relieved him 
 more than once, although he never asks for any- 
 thing. How he lives, Heaven knows. "Without 
 money, without friends, without useful education 
 of any kind, he tramps th^ country, as you saw 
 him, perhaps doing a little hop-picking or hay- 
 making, in season, only happy when he obtains 
 the means to get drunk. I have heard through 
 the kitchen whispers that you know come to me, 
 that he is entitled to some property; and I expect 
 if he were to die his wife would pay the hundred 
 pound bUl I hold ; at any rate, what I have told 
 you I know to be true, and the bundle of rags I 
 relieved just now is known in every thieves' lodg- 
 ing in England as the ' gentleman cadger.' " 
 
 This story produced an impression on me, — I 
 am fond of speculation, and like the excitement of 
 a legal hunt as much as some do a fox-chase. A 
 
 gentleman a beggar, a wife rolling in wealth, ru- 
 
 8 
 
114 Peael-Fishing. 
 
 mors of unknown property due to tlie hustand ; it 
 seemed as if tliere were pickings for me amidst this 
 carrion of pauperism. 
 
 Before returning from Liverpool, I had pui- 
 chased the gentleman beggar's acceptance from 
 Balance. I then inserted in the " Times" the fol- 
 lowing advertisement : " Horatio Mblinos Fitz-Boy. 
 • — If this gentleman will apply to David Discount, 
 Esq., Solicitor, St. James's, he will hear of some- 
 thing to his advantage. Any person furnishing 
 Mr. F.'s correct address, shall receive IZ. Is. reward. 
 He was last seen," &c. Within twenty-four hours 
 I had ample proof of the wide circulation of the 
 " Times." My of&ce was besieged with beggars of 
 every degree, men and women, lame and blind, 
 Irish, Scotch, and English, some on crutches, some 
 in bowls, some in go-carts. They all knew him as 
 " the gentleman," and I must do the regular frater- 
 nity of tramps the justice to say that not one would 
 answer a question until he made certain that I 
 meant the " gentleman" no harm. 
 
 One evening, about three weeks after the ap- 
 
The Gentleman Beggar. 115 
 
 pearance of the advertisement, my clerk announced 
 " another beggar." There came in an old man 
 leaning upon a staff, clad in a soldier's great coat 
 aU patched and torn, ■with a battered hat, from 
 under which a mass of tangled hair fell over his 
 shoulders and half concealed his face. The beg- 
 gar, in a weak, wheezy, hesitating tone, said, " You 
 have advertised for Mohnos Fitz-Eoy. I hope you 
 don't mean him any harm ; he is sunk, I think, too 
 low for enmity now; and surely no one would 
 sport with such misery as his." These last words 
 were uttered in a sort of piteous whisper. • 
 
 I answered quickly, " Heaven forbid I should 
 sport with misery; I mean and hope to do him 
 good, as well as myself." 
 
 " Then, Sir, I am Molinos Fitz-Eoy !" 
 While we were conversing candles had been 
 brought in. I have not very tender nerves — ^my 
 head would not agree with them — ^but I own I 
 started and shuddered when I saw and knew that, 
 the wretched creature before me was under thirty 
 years of age and once a gentleman. Sharp, aqui- 
 
116 Peael-Fishing. 
 
 line features, reduced to literal skin and bone, 
 were begrimed and covered witli dry fair hair; 
 the wMte teeth of the half-open mouth chattered 
 with eagerness, and made more hideous the foul 
 pallor of the rest of the countenance. As he stood 
 leaning on a staff half bent, his long, yellow bony 
 fingers clasped over the crutch-head of his stick, 
 he was indeed a picture of misery, famine, squalor, 
 and premature age, too horrible to dwell upon. I 
 made him sit down, sent for some refreshment, 
 which he devoured like a ghoul, and set to work 
 to unravel his story. It was difficult to keep him 
 to the point ; but with pains I learned what con- 
 vinced me that he was entitled to some property, 
 whether great or small there was no evidence. Ou 
 parting, I said "Now Mr. F., you must stay in 
 town whUe I make proper inquiries. What allow- 
 ance will be enough to keep you comfortably ?" 
 
 " He answered humbly after much pressing, 
 " "Would you think ten shillings too much !" 
 
 I don't hke, if I do those things at aU, to do 
 them shabbily, so I said, "Gome every Saturday 
 
The Gentleman Beggae. 117 
 
 and you shall have a pound." He was profuse in 
 thanks of course, as all sucli men are as long as 
 distress lasts. 
 
 I had previously learned that my ragged client's 
 "wife "was in England, living in a splendid house in 
 Hyde Park Gardens, under her maiden name. On 
 the follo"wing day the Earl of Owing called upon 
 me, "wanting five thousand pounds by five o'clock 
 the same evening. It "was a case of life or death 
 ■with him, so I made my terms and took advantage 
 of his pressure to execute a coup de main. I pro- 
 posed that he should drive me home to receive the 
 money, calling at Mrs. Molinos in Hyde Park Gar- 
 dens, on our "way. I kne"w that the coronet and 
 liveries of his father, the Marquis, "would ensure 
 me an audience "with Mrs. Mohnos Fitz-Eoy. 
 
 My scheme ans-wered. I was introduced into 
 the lady's presence. She "was, and probably is, a 
 very stately, handsome "woman, "with a pale com- 
 plexion, high solid forehead, regular features, thin, 
 pinched, self-satisfied mouth. My intervie"w "was 
 very short. I plunged into the middle of the af- 
 
118 PEAEL-FlSHINa. 
 
 fair, but had. scarcely mentioned tlae word husband, 
 when she interrupted me with "I presume you 
 have lent this profligate person money, and want 
 me to pay you." She paused, and then said, " He 
 shall not have a farthiag." As she spoke, her 
 white face became scarlet. 
 
 " But, Madam, the man is starving. I have 
 strong reasons for believing he is entitled to prop- 
 erty, and if you refuse any assistance, I must take 
 other measures." She rang the bell, wrote some- 
 thiag rapidly on a card ; and, as the footman ap- 
 peared, pushed it towards me across the table, with 
 the air of touching a toad, saying, " There, Sir, is 
 the address of my solicitors ; apply to them if you 
 think you have any claim. Eobert, show the per- 
 son out, and take care he is not admitted again." 
 
 So far I had effected nothing ; and, to tell the 
 truth, felt rather crest-fallen under the influence of 
 that grand manner peculiar to certain great ladies 
 and to all great actresses. 
 
 My next visit was to the attorneys Messrs; Leas- 
 em and Fashun, of Lincoln's Inn Square, and there 
 
The GtEntleman Beggar. 119 
 
 I was at home. I liad had dealings with the firm 
 before. They are agents for half the aristocracy, 
 who always run in crowds hke sheep after the 
 same wine-merchants, the same architects, the same 
 horse-dealers, and the same law-agents. It may be 
 doubted whether the quality of law and land man- 
 agement they get on this principle is quite equal 
 to their wine and horses. At any rate, my friends 
 of Lincoln's Inn, like others of the same class, are 
 distinguished by their courteous manners, deliber- 
 ate proceedings, innocence of legal technicalities, 
 long credit and heavy charges. Leasem, the elder 
 partner, wears powder and a huge bunch of seals, 
 lives in Queen Square, drives a brougham, gives 
 the dinners and does the cordial department. He 
 is so strict in performing the latter duty, that he 
 once addressed a poacher who had shot a Duke's 
 keeper, as " my dear creature," although he after- 
 wards hung him, 
 
 Fashun has chambers in St. James Street, drives 
 a cab, wears a tip, and does the grand haha style. 
 
 My business lay with Leasem, The interviews 
 
120 Peael-Fishikg. 
 
 and letters passing- were numerous. However, it 
 came at last to the following dialogue : — 
 
 " Well, my dear Mr. Discount," began Mr. Leas- 
 em, wlio liates me like poison. " I'm really very 
 sorry for tliat poor dear Molinos — ^knew Ms father 
 well ; a great man, a perfect gentleman ; but you 
 know wbat women are, eb, Mr. Discount? My 
 client won't advance a shilling, she knows it would 
 only be wasted in low dissipation. Now don't 
 you think (this was said very insinuatingly) — don't 
 you think he had better be sent to the work-house } 
 very comfortable accommodation there, I can as- 
 sure you — meat twice a week, and excellent soup ; 
 and then, Mr. D., we might consider about allow- 
 ing you something for that bill." 
 
 " Mr. Leasem, can you reconcile it to your con- 
 science to make such an arrangement. Here's a 
 wife rolliDg in luxury, and a husband starving !" 
 
 "No, Mr. Discount, not starving; there is the 
 work-house, as I observed before; besides, allow 
 me to suggest that these appeals to feeling are quite 
 unprofessional — quite unprofessional." 
 
The Gentleman Beggae. 121 
 
 " But, Mr. Lease?Ti, toucMng this property wMcli 
 tlie poor man is entitled to." 
 
 "Whj, tliere again, Mr. D,, you must excuse 
 me ; you really must. I don't say he is, I don't 
 say he is not. If you know he is entitled to prop- 
 erty, I am sure you know how to proceed; the 
 law is open to you, Mr. Discount — ^the law is 
 open ; and a man of your talent will know how to 
 use it." 
 
 " Then, Mr. Leasem, you mean that I must in 
 order to right this starving man, file a Bill of Dis- 
 covery to extract from you the particulars of his 
 rights. You have the Marriage Settlement, and 
 all the information, and you decline to allow a 
 pension, or afford any information ; the man is to 
 starve, or go to the work-house ?" 
 
 "Why, Mr. D., you are so quick and violent, it 
 really is not professional; but you see (here a sub- 
 dued smile of triumph), it has been decided that a 
 solicitor is not bound to afford such information as 
 you ask, to the injury of his client." 
 
 " Then you mean that this poor Molinos may rot 
 
122 Peael-Fishiitg. 
 
 and starve, wiiile you keep secret from him, at his 
 wife's request, Ms title to an income, and that 
 the Court of Chancery -Vfill back you in this ini- 
 quity ?" 
 
 I kept repeating the "word "starve," because 
 I saw it made my respectable opponent wince. 
 " Well, then, just listen to me. I know that in 
 the happy state of our equity law, Chancery can't 
 help my client ; but I have another plan ; I shall 
 go hence to my office, issue a writ, and take your 
 client's husband in execution — as soon as he is 
 lodged in jail, I shall file his schedule in the Insol- 
 vent Court, and when he comes up for his dis- 
 charge, I shall put you in the witness-box, and ex- 
 amine you on oath, 'touching any property of 
 which you know the insolvent to be possessed,' 
 and where will be your privileged communications 
 then?" 
 
 The respectable Leasem's face lengthened in a 
 twiakling, his comfortable confident air vanished, 
 he ceased twiddling his gold chain, and at length 
 he muttered, "Suppose we pay the debt?" 
 
The Gentleman Beggar. 123 
 
 "Why, then, I'll arrest Mm the day after for 
 another." 
 
 "But, my dear Mr. Discount, surely such con- 
 duct would not be quite respectable?" 
 
 "That's my business; my client has been 
 wronged, I am determined to right him, and when 
 the aristocratic firm of Leasem and Fashun takes 
 refuge, according to the custom of respectable repu- 
 diators, in the cool arbors of the Court of Chan- 
 cery, why, a mere bill-discounting attorney, like 
 David Discount, need not hesitate about cutting a 
 bludgeon out of the Insolvent Court." 
 
 • " Well, well, Mr. D., you are so warm — so fiery; 
 we must deliberate, we must consult. You will 
 give me until the day after to-morrow, and then 
 we'll write you our final determination; in the 
 meantime send us copy of your authority to act for 
 Mr. Molinos Fitz-Eoy." 
 
 Of course I lost no time in getting the gentle- 
 man beggar to sign a proper letter. 
 
 On the appointed day came a communication 
 
124 Peael-Fishing. 
 
 witli the L. and F. seal, "wMcli I opened not witli- 
 out improfessional eagerness. It was as follows : 
 
 "iw re Molinos Fitz-Roy and Another. 
 
 " Sir, — In answer to your application on behalf 
 of Mr. Molinos Fitz-Koy, we beg to inform you 
 that under the administration of a paternal aunt 
 who died intestate, your client is entitled to two 
 thousand five hundred pounds eight shillings and 
 sixpence. Three per Cents; one thousand five 
 hundred pounds nineteen shillings and fourpence, 
 Three per Cents Eeduced ; one thousand pounds, 
 Long Annuities; five hundred pounds. Bank 
 Stock ; three thousand five hundred pounds, India 
 Stock, besides other securities, making up about 
 ten thousand pounds, which we are prepared to 
 transfer over to Mr. Molinos Fitz-Eoy's direction 
 forthwith." 
 
 Here was a windfall ! It quite took away my 
 breath. 
 
 At dusk came my gentleman beggar, and what 
 
The Q-entleman Beggar. 125 
 
 puzzled me was how to break tlia news to Mm. 
 Being very mncK overwiielmed with business that 
 day, I had not much time for consideration. He 
 came in rather better dressed than when I first 
 saw him, with only a week's beard on his chin ; 
 but, as usual, not. quite sober. Six weeks had 
 elapsed since our first interview. He was still the 
 humble, trembling, low-voiced creature, I first 
 knew him. 
 
 After a prelude, I said, " I find, Mr. F., you are 
 entitled to something ; pray, what do you mean to 
 give me ta addition to my bill for obtaining it?" 
 He answered rapidly, "Oh, take half; if there is 
 one hundred pounds, take half; if there is five 
 hundred pounds, take half" 
 
 "No, Ho, Mr. P., I don't do business in that 
 way, I shall be satisfied with ten per cent." 
 
 It was so settled. I then led him out into the 
 street, impelled to tell the news, yet dreading the 
 effect; not daring to make the revelation in my 
 ofS.ce for fear of a scene. 
 
 I began hesitatingly, " Mr, Fitz-Eoy, I am hap- 
 
126 Peael-Fishing. 
 
 py to say that I find you are entitled to ... . ten 
 tlionsand pounds !" 
 
 "Ten thousand pounds!" he echoed. "Ten 
 thousand pounds!" he shrieked. "Ten thousand 
 pounds!" he yelled, seizing my arm violently. 
 
 " You are a hrick, Here, cab ! cab !" Several 
 
 drove up — ^the shout might have been heard a mile 
 off. He jumped in the first. 
 
 "Where to?" said the driver. 
 
 " To a tailor's, you rascal 1" 
 
 " Ten thousand pounds ! ha, ha, ha.l" he repeated 
 hysterically, when in the cab ; and every moment 
 grasping my arm. Presently he subsided, looked 
 me straight in the face, and muttered with agoniz- 
 ing fervor, " What a joUy brick you are !" 
 
 The tailor, the hosier, the bootmaker, the hair- 
 dresser, were in turn visited by this poor pagan of 
 externals. As by degrees under their hands he 
 emerged from the beggar to the geiitleman, his 
 spirits rose ; his eyes brightened ; he walked erect, 
 but always nervously grasping my arm ; fearing, 
 apparently, to lose sight of me for a moment, lest 
 
The Gentleman Beggae. 127 
 
 liis fortune should vanisli with me. The impatient 
 pride with which he gave his order to the aston- 
 ished tradesman for the finest and best of every- 
 thing, and the amazed air of the fashionable hair- 
 dresser when he presented his matted locks and 
 stubble chin to be " cut and shaved," may be acted 
 — ^it cannot be described. 
 
 By the time the external transformation was 
 complete, and I sat down in a cafe in the Hay- 
 market opposite a haggard but handsome thorough- 
 bred-looking man, whose air, with the exception 
 of the wild eyes and deeply-browned face, did not 
 differ from the stereotyped men about town sitting 
 around us, Mr. Molinos Fitz-Eoy had already al- 
 most forgotten the past ; he bullied the waiter, and 
 criticized the wine, as if he had done nothing else 
 but dine and drink and scold there all the days of 
 his life. 
 
 Once he wished to drink my health, and would 
 have proclaimed his whole story to the coffee-room 
 assembly in a raving style. "When I left he almost 
 wept in terror at the idea of losing sight of me. 
 
128 Peael-Fishing. 
 
 But, allowing for these ebullitions — the natural re- 
 sult of such a -wlitrl of events — ^he was wonderfully 
 calm and self-possessed. 
 
 The next day his first care was to distribute fifty 
 pounds among his friends the cadgers, at a house 
 of call in Westminster, and formally to dissolve 
 his connection with them; those present under- 
 taking for the "fraternity," that for the future he 
 should never be noticed by them in pubhc or 
 private. 
 
 I cannot follow his career much farther. Ad- 
 versity had taught him nothing. He was soon 
 again surrounded by the well-bred vampires who 
 had forgotten him when penniless ; but they amused 
 him, and that was enough. The ten thousand 
 pounds were rapidly melting when he invited me 
 to a grand dinner at Eichmond, which included a 
 dozen of the most agreeable, good-looking, well- 
 dressed dandies of London, interspersed with a dis- 
 play of pretty butterfly bonnets. "We dined deli- 
 ciously, and drank as men do of iced wines in the 
 dog-days — ^looking down from Eichmond HiQ. 
 
The GrENTLEMAN Beggar. 129 
 
 One of tlie pink bonnets crowned Fitz-Eoy with. 
 a wreath of flowers ; lie looked — less the intellect 
 — as handsome as Alcibiades. Intensely excited 
 and flushed, he rose with a champagne glass in his 
 hand to propose my health. 
 
 The oratorical powers of his father had not de- 
 scended on him. Jerking out sentences by spasms, 
 at length he said, " I was a beggar — I am a gentle- 
 man — thanks to this " 
 
 Here he leaned on my shoulder heavily a mo- 
 ment, and then Mil back. We raised him, Iqosened 
 his neckcloth — 
 
 " Fainted 1" said the ladies — 
 
 "Drunk!" said the gentlemen — 
 
 He was dead! 
 
IV. 
 
 " TT must come some day; and come when it 
 -*- will, it will be hard to do, so we had best go 
 at once, Sally. I shall have more trouble with 
 Miss Isabel than you will with Miss Laura ; for I 
 am twice the favorite you are." 
 
 So said Fanny to her cousin, who had just 
 turned to descend the staircase of Aldington Hall, 
 where they had both lived since they were almost 
 children, in attendance on the two daughters of the 
 old baronet, who were near their own ages, and 
 had always treated them with great kindness. 
 
 " I am not sure of that," replied Sally, "for Miss 
 Laura is so seldom put out, that when once she is 
 vexed, she will be hard to comfort: and I am sure, 
 
Evils of Thoughtlessness. 131 
 
 Fanny, she loves me every bit as well as Miss Isa- 
 bel does you, tliougli it is lier way to be so quiet 
 I dare say sbe will cry wben I say I must go ; but 
 then Jobn would be like to cry too, if I put him 
 off longer." 
 
 This consideration restored Sally's courage, and 
 she proceeded with Fanny to the gallery into 
 which the rooms of their young mistresses opened; 
 but here Fanny's heart failed her; and, stopping 
 short, she said, 
 
 " Suppose we teU them to wait awhile longer, as 
 the young ladies are going to travel. We might 
 as well see the world first, and marry in a year or 
 two. But still," added she, after a pause, "I could 
 not find it in my heart to say so to Thomas ; and 
 I promised him to speak to-day." 
 
 Each cousin then knocked at the door of her 
 mistress. Laura was not in her room, and Sally 
 went to seek her below stairs ; but Isabel called to 
 Fanny to go in. 
 
 Fanny obeyed, and walking forward a few steps, 
 faltered out, with many blushes, that as young 
 
132 Peael-Fishing. 
 
 Thomas had kept company with her for nearly a 
 twelvemonthj and had taken and furnished a little 
 cottage, and Legged hard to take her home to it ; 
 she was sorry to say, that if Miss Isabel would 
 give her leave, she wished to give warning and to 
 go from her service in a month. 
 
 Fanny's most sanguine wishes or fears, must 
 have been surpassed by the burst of surprise and 
 grief that followed her modest statement. Isabel 
 reproached her ; refused to take her warning ; de- 
 clared she would never see her again if she left the 
 Hall, and that rather than be served by any but 
 her dear Fanny, she would wait upon herself all 
 her life. Fanny expostulated, and told her mis- 
 tress that, foreseeing her unwillingness to lose her, 
 she had already put Thomas off several months ; 
 and that at last, to gain further delay, she had run 
 the risk of appearing selfish, by refusing to marry 
 him tiU he had furnished a whole cottage for her. 
 This, she said he had — by working late and early 
 — accomplished in a surprisingly short time, and 
 had the day before claimed the reward of his in- 
 
Evils of Thoughtlessness. 133 
 
 dustry. " And now, Miss," added slie, " lie gets 
 quite pale, and begins to believe I do not love him, 
 and yet I do, better tlian all tlie world, and could 
 not find it in my heart to vex Mm, and make him 
 look sad again. Yesterday he seemed so happy, 
 when I promised to be his wife in a month." Here 
 Fanny burst into tears. Her sobs softened Isabel, 
 who consented to let her go ; and after talking over 
 her plans, became as enthusiastic, in promoting, as 
 she had at first been, in opposing them. Thomas 
 was to take Fanny over to see the cottage, that 
 evening, and Isabel, in the warmth of her heart, 
 promised to accompany them. Fanny thanked 
 her with a curtesy, and thought how pleased she 
 ought to be at such condescension in her young 
 mistress, but could not help fearing that her sweet- 
 heart would not half appreciate the favor. 
 
 After receiving many promises of friendship and 
 assistance, Fanny hastened to report to Sally the 
 success of her negotiation. Sally was sitting in 
 their little bedroom, thoughtful, and almost sad. 
 
 She listened to Fanny's account; and replied in 
 9* 
 
134 Peael-Fishing. 
 
 answer to her questions concerning Miss Laura's 
 way of taking her warning, " I am afraid, Fanny, 
 you were right in thinking yourself the greatest 
 favorite, for Miss Laura seenaed almost pleased at 
 my news ; she took me by the hand, and said, ' I 
 am very glad to hear you are to marry such a 
 good young man as every one acknowledges John 
 Maythorn to be, and you may depend upon my 
 being always ready to help you, if you want assist- 
 ance.' She then said a deal about my having lived 
 with her six years, and not having once displeased 
 her, and told me that toaster had promised my 
 mother and yours too, that his young ladies should 
 see after us all oux lives. This was very kind, to 
 be sure ; but then Miss Isabel promised you pres- 
 ents whether you wanted assistance or not, and is 
 to give you a silk gown and a white ribbon for the 
 wedding, and is to go over to the cottage with you; 
 now Miss Laura did not say a word of any such 
 thing." 
 
 Fanny tried to comfort her cousin by saying it 
 was Miss Laura's quiet way, but she could not 
 
Evils of Thottghtlessh-ess. 185 
 
 Ijelp secretly rejoicing that her own mistress was 
 30 generous and affectionate. 
 
 In the evening the two sweethearts came to lead 
 their future wives to the cottages, which were near 
 each other, and at about a mile from the HalL 
 John had a happy walk. He learned from Sally 
 that he was to "take her home" in a month, and 
 was so pleased at the news, that he could scarcely 
 be happier when she bustled about, exclaiming at 
 every new sight in the pretty bright little cottage. 
 The tea-caddy, the cupboard of china, and a large 
 cat, each called forth a fresh burst of joy. Sally 
 thought everything ■"the prettiest she had ever 
 seen ;" and when John made her sit in the arm- 
 chair and put her feet on the fender, as if she were 
 already mistress of the cottage, she burst into sobs 
 of joy. We will not pause to tell how her sobs 
 were stopped, nor what promises of unchanging 
 kindness, were made in that bright little kitchen ; 
 but we may safely affirm that Sally and John were 
 happier than they had ever been in their hves, and 
 that old Mrs. Maythorn, who was keeping the cot- 
 
136 Peakl-Fishing. 
 
 tage for Sally, felt aU her fondest wislies were fdl- 
 filled as slie saw tlie Ifwo lovers depart. 
 
 Fanny and Thomas, who had left them at the 
 ■cottage door, walked on to their own fatnre home, 
 quite overwhelmed by the honor Miss Isabel was 
 conferring on them by walking at their side. 
 
 " You see, Miss," said Thomas, as he turned the 
 key of his cottage-door, " there is nothing to speak 
 of here, only such things as are necessary, and all 
 of the plainest ; but it will do well enough for us 
 poor folks;" and as he threw open the door, he 
 found to his surprise that what had seemed to him 
 yesterday so pretty and neat,, now looked indeed 
 " all of the plainest." The very carpet, and metal 
 teapot, which he had intended as surprises for 
 Fanny, he was now ashamed of pointing out to 
 her, and he apologized to Isabel for the coarse 
 quality of the former, telling her it was only to 
 serve tiU he could get a better. 
 
 "Yes," answered she, "this is not half good 
 enough for my little Fanny, she must have a real 
 Brussels carpet. I will send her one. I will make 
 
Evils of Thoughtlessness. 137 
 
 your cottage so pretty, Fanny, you shall liave a 
 nice china tea set, not these common little things, 
 and I will give you some curtains for the window." 
 Thomas blushed as this deficiency was pointed out. 
 "Why, Miss," said he, "I meant to have trained 
 the rose tree over the window, I thought that 
 would be shady, and sweet in the summer, and in 
 the winter, why, we should want all the day-light ; 
 but then to be sure, curtains will be much bet- 
 ter." 
 
 "Yes, Thomas," replied the young lady, "and 
 warm in the winter; you could not be comfort- 
 able with a few bare rose stalks before your win- 
 dow, when the snow was on the ground." This 
 had not occurred to Thomas, who now said faintly, 
 " Oh, no. Miss," and felt that curtains were indis- 
 pensable to comfort. 
 
 Similar deficiencies or short-comings were dis- 
 covered everywhere, So that even Fanny, who 
 would at first be pleased with all she saw, in spite 
 of the numerous defects that seemed to exist every- 
 where, gradually grew sUent and ashamed of her 
 
138 Peael-Fishing. 
 
 cottage. She did lier utmost to conceal from 
 Thomas how entirely she agreed with her mis- 
 tress, and as this generous young lady finished 
 every remark, by saying " I will get you one,'' or 
 "I will send you another," she felt that all would 
 be right before long. 
 
 As Thomas closed the door, he wondered how 
 in his wish to please Fanny he could have de- 
 ceived himself so completely as to the merits of 
 his cottage and furniture; but he too comforted 
 himself by remembering how his kind patroness 
 was to remedy all the defects ; " though," thought 
 he, " I should have liked better to have done it all 
 well myself" 
 
 The lady and the two lovers walked homewards, 
 almost without speaking, till they overtook John 
 and Sally, who were whispering and laughing, 
 talking of their cottage, Mrs. May thorn's joy at 
 seeing them happy, their future plans for them- 
 selves and her, and all in so confused a way, that 
 though twenty new subjects were started and dis- 
 cussed, none came to and conclusion, but that 
 
Evils op Thoughtlessness. 139 
 
 John and Sally loved each other and were very, 
 very happy. 
 
 "What ails you, Thomas?" said John. "Has 
 any one robbed your house ? I told you it was 
 not safe to leave it," but seeing Miss Isabel, he 
 touched his hat and fell back to where Fanny was 
 talking to her Qousin. Isabel, however, left them 
 that she might take a short cut through the park, 
 while they went round by the road. 
 
 At the end of the walk, Sally was half inclined 
 to be dissatisfied with her furniture, so much had 
 Fanny boasted of the improvements that were to 
 be made in her own, but she could not get rid of 
 the first impression it had made on her, and in a 
 few days she quite forgot the want of curtains and 
 carpet, and could only remember the happy time 
 when she sat in the arm-chair with her foot on the 
 fender. 
 
 As the month drew to a close, the two sisters 
 made presents to their maids. Laura gave Sally a 
 merino dress, a large piece of linen, a cellar full of 
 coals, and a five pound note. Isabel gave Fanny 
 
140 Peabl-Fishing. 
 
 a silk gown that cost three guineas, a beautiful 
 white bonnet ribbon, a small chimney glass (for 
 which she kindly went into debt), three left-off 
 muslin dresses, a painting done by her own hand, 
 in a handsome gilt frame, and a beautiful knitted 
 purse. Besides all this, she told Fanny it was still 
 her intention to get the other things she had prom- 
 ised for the cottage, as soon as she had paid for the 
 chimney glass. "I am very sorry," she said, "that 
 just now I am so poor, for unfortunately, as you 
 know, I have had to pay for those large music vol- 
 umes I ordered when I was in London, and which 
 after all I never used. It always happens that I 
 am poor when I want to make presents." 
 
 Fanny stopped her mistress with abundant 
 thanks for the beautiful things she had already 
 given her. "I am sure, Miss," said she, "I shall 
 scarcely dare wear these dresses, they look so lady- 
 like and fine ; Sally will seem quite strange by me. 
 And this purse too. Miss; I never saw anything 
 so smart." 
 
 Isabel was quite satisfied that she had eclipsed 
 
Evils of Thoughtlessness. 141 
 
 her sister in the number and value of her gifts, but 
 she still assured Fanny she had but made a begin- 
 ning. Large and generous indeed, were this young 
 lady's intentions. 
 
 On the wedding morning Isabel rose early and 
 dressed herself without assistance, then crossing to 
 the room of the two cousins, she entered without 
 knocking. Sally was gone, and Fanny lay sleep- 
 ing alone. 
 
 "How pretty she is!" said Isabel to herself. 
 " She ought to be dressed hke a lady to-day. I 
 will see to it ;" then glancing proudly at the silk 
 gown, which was laid out with all the other arti- 
 cles of dress, ready for the coming ceremony, her 
 heart swelled with consciousness of her own gen- 
 erosity. " I have done nothing yet," continued 
 she ; " she has been with me nearly six years, and 
 always pleased me entirely, then papa promised 
 her mother that he should befriend her as long as 
 we both lived, and he has charged us both to do 
 our utmost for our brides. Laura has bought Sally 
 a shawl, I ought to give one too — ^what is this com- 
 
142 Peael-Fishing, 
 
 moil thing? Fanny 1 Fanny! wake up. I am 
 come to be your maid to-day, for you stall be mis- 
 tress on your wedding morning and have a lady to 
 dress you. What is this shawl ? It will not do 
 with a silk dress, wait a minute," and off she 
 darted, leaving Fanny sitting up and rubbing her 
 eyes trying to remembfer what her young mistress 
 had said. Before she was quite conscious, Isabel 
 returned with a Norfolk shawl of fine texture and 
 design, but somewhat soiled. " There," said she, 
 throwing it across the silk gown, " those go much 
 better together. I will give it you, Fanny." 
 
 " Thank you. Miss," said Fanny, in a tone of 
 hesitation; "but — but suppose, Miss, I was to 
 wear Thomas' shawl just to-day, as he gave it me 
 for the wedding, and John got Sally one like it— I 
 think. Miss — don't you think, Miss, it might seem 
 unkind to wear any other just to-day ?" 
 
 "Why, it is just to-day I want to make you look 
 like a lady, Fanny ; no, no, you must not put on 
 that white cotton-looking shawl with a silk dress, 
 and this ribbon," said Isabel, taking up the bonnet, 
 
Etils of Thoughtlessness. 143 
 
 proudly. Fanny looked sad, but tHe young mis- 
 tress did not see this, for slie was examining tlie 
 wMte silk gloves tliat lay beside the bonnet. 
 " These," thought she, " are not quite right, they 
 look servantish, but my kid gloves would not fit 
 her, besides, I have none clean, and it is well, per- 
 haps, that she should have a few things to mark 
 her rank. Yes, they will do." 
 
 There was so much confusion between the lady's 
 offering help, and the maid's modestly refusing it, 
 that the toilette was long in completing. At last, 
 however, Isabel was in ecstasies. "Look," said 
 she, " how the bonnet becomes you ! and the N'or- 
 folk shawl, too, no one would think you were 
 only a lady's-maid, Fanny. Stop, I will get a rib- 
 bon for your throat." Off she flew, and was back 
 again in five minutes. "But what is that for, 
 Fanny? Are you afraid it will rain this bright 
 morning ?" 
 
 Fanny had, in Isabel's absence, folded Thomas' 
 shawl, and hung it across her arm. "I thought. 
 Miss," answered she, blushing, " that I might just 
 
144 Peael-Fishing. 
 
 carry it to show Thomas that I did not forget hia 
 present, or think it too homely to go to church 
 with me." 
 
 "Impossible," said Isabel, who, to do her justice, 
 we must state, was far too much excited to suspect 
 that she was making Fanny uncomfortable; "you 
 will spoil aU. There, put the shawl away, — ^that's 
 right, you look perfect. Go down to your bride- 
 groom, I hear his voice in the hall, I will not come 
 too, though I should like above all things to see 
 his surprise, but I should spoU your meeting, and 
 I am the last person in the world to do anything so 
 selfish. One thing more, Fanny : I shaU give you 
 two guineas, that you may spend three or four 
 
 days at L , by the sea-side ; no one goes home 
 
 directly, you would find it very dull to settle down 
 at once in your cottage ; tell Thomas so." Isabel 
 then retired to her room, wishing heartily that she 
 could part with half her prettiest things, that she 
 might heap more favors on the interesting little 
 bride. 
 
 Laura's first thought that morning had also been 
 
Evils of Thoughtlessness. 145 
 
 of tlie little orphan, wlio had served her so long 
 and faithfully, and whom her father had commend- 
 ed to her special care. She, too, had risen early, 
 but "without dressing herself, she went across to 
 Sally. Sally was asleep, with the traces of tears on 
 her cheeks ; Laura looked at her for a few moments, 
 and remembered how, when both were too young 
 to understand the distinction of rank, they had 
 been almost play-mates ; she wiped from her own 
 eyes a little moisture that dimmed them, then put- 
 ting her hand gently on Sally's shoulder, she said, 
 " Wake, SaUy, I call you early that you may have 
 plenty of time to dress me first and yourself after- 
 wards. I know you would not like to miss wait- 
 ing on me, or to do it hurriedly for the last time. 
 You have been crying, Sally, do not color about 
 it, I should think ill of you if you were not sorry 
 to leave us, you cannot feel the parting more than 
 I do. I dare say I shall have hard work to keepi 
 dry eyes all day, but we must do our best, SaUy, 
 for it wHl not for John to think I grudge you to 
 
 Mm, or that you like me better than you do him." 
 10 
 
146 Peabl-Fishins. 
 
 " Oil, no, Miss !" replied Sally, who felt at that 
 moment that she could scarcely love any one better 
 than her kind mistress. "Still John will not be 
 hard upon me for a few tears," added she, putting 
 the sheet to her eyes. 
 
 " Come, come, Sally, this will not do, jump up 
 and dress yourself quickly, that you may be ready 
 to brush my hair when I return from the dressing- 
 room ; you must do it well to day, for you know I 
 am not yet suited with a maid, and do it myself 
 to-morrow." 
 
 This roused Sally, who dressed in great haste 
 and was soon at her post. Laura asked her many 
 questions about her plans for the future, and found 
 with pleasure that most things had been well con- 
 sidered and arranged. " There is only one thing, 
 Miss," said Sally, in conclusion, " that we are sorry 
 for, and it is that we cannot offer old Mrs. May- 
 thorn a home. She has no child but John, and 
 will sadly feel his leaving her." 
 
 " But why cannot she live with you and work as 
 she does now, so as to pay you for what she costs?" 
 
Evils of Thoughtlessness. 147 
 
 " Why, Miss, where she is she works about the 
 house for her board, and does a trifle outdoors be- 
 sides, that gets her clothing. John says it mates 
 him feel quite cowardly, as it were, to see his old 
 mother working at scrubbing and scouring, making 
 her poor back ache, when he is so young and 
 strong; yet we scarcely know if we could under- 
 take for her altogether. I wish we could." 
 
 " How much would it cost you?" 
 
 " A matter of four shillings a week ; besides, we 
 must get a bed and bedding. That we could put 
 up in the kitchen, if we bought itto shut up in the 
 day-time, and, as John says, Mrs. May thorn would 
 help us nicely when we get some little ones. But 
 it would cost a deal of money to. begin and go on 
 with."' 
 
 " I will think of this for you, Sally. It would 
 be easy for me to give you four shillings a week 
 now, but I may not always be able to do it. I 
 may marry a poor man, or one who will not allow 
 me to spend my money as I please, and were Mrs. 
 Maythorn to give up her present employments, she 
 
148 Peael-Pishing. 
 
 would not be able to get tbem back again three 
 or four years hence, nor would she, at her age, be 
 able to meet with others ; and if you would find it 
 difficult to keep her now, you would much more 
 when you have a little family; so we must do 
 nothing hastily. I will consult papa ; he will teU 
 me directly whether I shall be right in promising 
 you the four shillings a week. If I do promise it, 
 you may depend on always having it." 
 
 " Oh, thank you, thank you, Miss, for the thought : 
 I will tell John directly I see him ; the very hope 
 will fill him with joy." 
 
 " No," said Laura, " do not tell him yet, Sally, 
 for you would be sorry to disappoint him after- 
 wards, if I could not undertake it. "Wait a day or 
 two, and I will give you an answer ; or, if possi- 
 ble, it shall be sooner. Now, thank you for the 
 nice brushing : I wiU put up my hair while you 
 go and dress ; it is getting late. If you require 
 assistance, and Fanny is not in your room, tap at 
 my door, for I shall be pleased to help you to- 
 day." 
 
Evils of Thoughtlessness. 149 
 
 Laura was not called in ; but when she thouglit 
 the toilette must be nearly completed, went to Sally 
 with the shawl which she had bought for her the 
 day before. As she entered, Sally was folding the 
 white one John had given her. " I have brought 
 you a shawl," said Laura, " which I want you to 
 wear to-day ; it is much handsomer than that you 
 are folding. See, do ycrti like it ?" 
 
 " Yes, Miss," said Sally, " it is a very good one, 
 I see," and she began to re-fold the other; but 
 Laura noticed the expression of disappointment 
 with which she made the change, and taking up 
 the plain shawl, said, " I do not know whether this 
 does not suit your neat muslin dress better than 
 mine. Did you buy it yourself, Sally ?" 
 
 " No, Miss, it was John's present ; but I wUl put 
 on yours this morning, if you please. Miss, and I 
 can wear John's any day." 
 
 "No, no," replied Laura, "you must put on 
 John's to-day. It matters but little to me when 
 you wear mine, so long as it does you good service ; 
 but John will feel hurt if you cast his present 
 
150 PeaeL-Pishing. 
 
 aside on your wedding-day, because some one else 
 lias given you a shawl wortli a few shillings more." 
 So Laura put the white shawl on the shoulders of 
 Sally, who valued it more than the finest Cashmere 
 in the world. 
 
 As Sally went down stairs, she saw Fanny in 
 tears on the landing. "I cannot think how it is," 
 answered she, in reply to Sally's questioning, " but 
 just on this day, when I thought to feel so happy, 
 I am quite low. Miss Isabel has been so kind, she 
 has dressed me, and quite flustered me with her at- 
 tentions. See what nice things she has given me 
 — ^this shawl — ^though for that matter, I'd rather 
 have worn Thomas's. Oh, how nice you look. 
 Dear, so neat and becoming your station, and with 
 John's shawl, too, but then Miss Laura has made 
 you no present." 
 
 " Yes, a good shawl and a promise besides, but 
 I well tell you about that another time. Let us go 
 in now, they must be waiting for us." 
 
 Fanny felt so awkward in her fine clothes, that 
 she could scarcely be prevailed on to encounter 
 
Evils of Thoughtlessness. 151 
 
 tiie gaze of the servants; but her good-natured 
 cousin promising to explain that all her dress was 
 given and chosen by her mistress, she at last went 
 into the hall. Sally's explanation was only heard 
 by a few of the party, and as Fanny, in trying to 
 conceal herself from the gaze of the astonished 
 villagers, slunk behind old Mrs. Maythorn, she had 
 the mortification of hearing her say to John, in the 
 loud whisper peculiar to deaf people, "I am so 
 glad, John, the neat one is yours ; I should be quite 
 frightened to see you take such a fine lady as Fan- 
 ny to the altar ; it makes me sorry for Thomas to 
 see her begin so smart." 
 
 When the ceremony was over, the party returned 
 to the Hall, where a hospitable meal had been pro- 
 vided for all the villagers of good character who 
 chose to partake of it. It was a merry party, for 
 even Fanny, when every one had seen her finery 
 long enough to forget it, forgot it herself. Thomas 
 was very good-natured about the shawl, and de- 
 lighted at the prospect of spending a few days at 
 L , He and Fannv talked of the boat-excur- 
 
152 Pearl-Fishing. 
 
 sions they wotild have, the shells they ■would gather 
 for a grotto in their garden, and the long rambles 
 they woiild take by the sea-side, till they -won- 
 dered how ever they could have been contented 
 with the prospect of going to their cottage at 
 once. 
 
 As the pony-chaise which the good baronet had 
 lent for the day, drove up to take the bridal party 
 
 to L , for John and Sally were also to spend 
 
 one day there, the two young ladies came to take 
 leave of their protegees. Laura said, " Good-bye, 
 Sally, I have consulted papa, and will undertake 
 to allow you four slulhngs a week as long as Mrs. 
 Maythom lives. Here is a sovereign towards ex- 
 penses; you will not, I am sure, mind changing 
 your five pound note for the rest." 
 
 Isabel said, " Good-bye, Fanny. I am very, very 
 
 sorry to disappoint you of your treat at L , but 
 
 I intended to have borrowed the two pounds of 
 Miss Laura, and I find she cannot lend them to me. 
 Never mind, I am sure you will be happy enough 
 in your little cottage. I never saw such a sweet 
 
Evils of Thoughtlessness. 153 
 
 little place as it is." So the bridal party drove 
 away. 
 
 In less than a week tlie cousins were establislied 
 in tteir new abode. Sally settled and happy ; but 
 Fanny, unsettled, always expected the new carpet, 
 the china tea-set, and the various other alterations 
 that Isabel had suggested and promised to make. 
 The young lady, however, was unfortunate with 
 her money. At one time she lost a bank-note ; at 
 another, just as she was counting out money for 
 the Brussels carpet, the new maid entered to teU 
 her that sundry articles of dress were " past mend- 
 ing," and must be immediately replaced. One thing 
 after another nipped her generous intentions in the 
 bud, and at last she was obliged to set out for her 
 long-expected journey to France without having 
 done more towards the fulfilment of her promises 
 than call frequently on Fanny, to remind her that 
 all her present arrangements were temporary, and 
 that she should shortly have almost everything- 
 new. 
 
 "Good-bye, Fanny," said she at parting; "I 
 
154 Peael-Fishing. 
 
 shall often -write to you, and send you money. I 
 will not make any distinct promise, for I dare say I 
 shall be able to do more than I should like to say 
 now." 
 
 Laura had given Sally a great many useful 
 things for her cottage, but made no promise at 
 parting. She said, " Be sure you write to me, 
 Sally, from time to time, to say how you are going 
 on, and tell me if you want help." 
 
 "When Isabel was gone, Fanny saw that she must 
 accustom herself to her cottage as it was, and ban- 
 ish from her mind the idea of the long-anticipated 
 improvements. It was, however, no easy task. 
 The window once regarded as bare and comfort- 
 less still seemed so, in spite of Fanny's reasoning 
 that it was no worse than Sally's, which always 
 looked cheerful and pretty. To be sure, John, 
 who did not think of getting curtains, had trained 
 a honeysuckle over it, still that made but little 
 show at present. The carpet, too, so long regarded 
 as a coarse temporary thing, never regained the 
 beauty it first had to the eye of Thomas, as he laid 
 
Evils of Thoughtlessness. 155 
 
 it down the evening before lie took Fanny to the 
 cottage ; and Fanny could never forget, as she ar- 
 ranged her tea-things, that Miss Isabel had called 
 them " common little things ;" so of all the other 
 pieces of furniture that the young lady had re- 
 marked upon. Sally's house was, in reality, more 
 homely than her cousin's, yet as she had never en- 
 tertained a wish that it should be better, and as 
 Laura had been pleased with all its arrangements, 
 she bustled about it with perfect satisfaction ; and 
 even to Fanny it seemed replete with the comfort 
 her own had always wanted. 
 
 At the end of three months Isabel enclosed an 
 order for three pounds to Fanny, desiring her to 
 get a Brussels carpet, and if there was a sufficient 
 remainder, to replace the tea seat. 
 
 " I would rather," said Fanny to her cousin, 
 "put up with the old carpet and china, and get a 
 roll of fine flannel, some coals, an extra blanket or 
 two, and a cradle for the little one that's coming, 
 for it -will be cold weather when I am put to bed ; 
 
156 Pearl-Fishing. 
 
 but I suppose as Miss Isabel lias set lier mind on 
 tlie carpet and cMna, I must get them." 
 
 A week or two after Jolm was invited, witli his 
 wife and mother, to drink tea from Fanny's new 
 china. It was very pretty, so was the carpet, and 
 so was Fanny making tea, elated with showing her 
 new wealth. 
 
 "Is not Miss Isabel generous?" asked she, as 
 she held the milk-pot to be admired. 
 
 "I sometimes wish Miss Laura had as much 
 money to spare," replied Sally ; " for she lets me 
 lay it out as I please, and I could get a number of 
 things for three guineas." 
 
 " Fie, Sally," said her husband ; " are not three 
 shillings to spend as one pleases, better than three 
 guineas laid out to please some one else ?" 
 
 " Nonsense, John," said Fanny, pettishly ; " how 
 can a carpet for my kitchen be bought to please 
 any one but me ?" 
 
 " John isn't far wrong either," answered her hus- 
 band ; " but the carpet is very handsome, and does 
 please you and me too, now it is here." 
 
Evils of Thoughtlessness. 157 
 
 Time passed on, and Fanny gave birtli to a little 
 girl. Isabel stood sponsor for her by proxy, send- 
 ing her an embroidered cloak and lace cap, and 
 desiring that she should be called by her own 
 name. Little Bella was very sickly, and as her 
 mother had not been able to procure her good 
 warm clothing, or lay in a large stock of firing, 
 she suffered greatly from cold during the severe 
 winter that followed her birth. The spring and 
 summer did not bring her better health; and as 
 Fanny always attributed her dehcacy to the want 
 of proper warmth in her infancy, she took a great 
 dislike to the Brussels carpet, which now lay in a 
 roll behind a large chest, having been long ago 
 taken up as a piece of inconvenient luxury in a 
 kitchen. " I wish you could find a corner for it 
 in your cottage, Sally," said she, " for I never catch 
 a sight of it without worrying myself to think how 
 much flannels and coals I might have bought with 
 the money it cost." 
 
 Laura frequently sent Sally small presents of 
 money, but Isabel, though not so regular as her 
 
158 Peael-Fishing. 
 
 sister, surprised every one by tlie splendor of ter 
 presents, when they did come. As Bella entered 
 lier second year she received from her godmother 
 a iDeautiful little carriage, -which Thomas said mnst 
 have " spoilt a five-pound note." This was Isabel's 
 last gift, for it was at about this time that she ac- 
 cepted an offer from a French count, and became 
 so absorbed in her own affairs, that she forgot 
 Fanny and Bella too. Poor Bella grew more and 
 more sickly every month ; the apothecary ordered 
 her beef tea, arrowroot, and other strengthening 
 diet, but work was slack with Thomas, and it was 
 with difficulty that he could procure her the com- 
 monest food. "I am sure," said Fanny to her 
 cousin, as little Bella was whining on her knee, 
 " that if only Miss Isabel were here, she would set 
 us all right. She never could bear to see even a 
 stranger in distress." 
 
 " I wish," said Thomas, "that great folks would 
 think a little of what they don't see. I'll lay any- 
 thing Miss Isabel gives away a deal of money, 
 more than enough to save our little one, to a set 
 
Evils op Thoughtlessness. 159 
 
 of Frencli impostors tliat cry after her in the street, 
 and yet, when she knows our child is ill, she never 
 cares, because she can't see it grow thin, or hear it 
 cry." 
 
 " For shame, Thomas," said his wife, " do not 
 speak so rudely of the young lady. Have you 
 forgotten the pretty carriage she sent Bella, and 
 how pleased we were when it came?" 
 
 "I don't mean any harm," answered her hus- 
 band; "only it strikes me that Miss was pleased 
 to buy the carriage because it was pretty, and 
 seemed a great thing to send us, and that she 
 wouldn't have cared a straw to give us a little 
 cash, that would have served us every bit as well." 
 
 " I never heard you so ungrateful, Thomas. Of 
 course she wouldn't, because she wished to please 
 us." 
 
 " Or herself, as John said ; but maybe I am 
 wrong ; only it goes to my heart to see the child 
 want food while there is a filagree carriage in the 
 yard that cost more than would keep her for six 
 months." 
 
160 Peael-Fishing. 
 
 " "Well, cheer up," said Sally ; " Miss Laura wiU 
 be coining home soon, and I'll lay anything she 
 won't let Bella die of -want." 
 
 "I'm afraid she won't think of giving to me, 
 SaUy," said Fanny desponduigly ; "I was never 
 her maid, you know." 
 
 "You wouldn't fear, if you knew Miss Laura as 
 I do, Fanny; she never cares who she helps so 
 long as the person is deserving, and in want. She 
 has no pride of that sort." 
 
 Isabel's marriage was put off, and Laura's return, 
 consequently, postponed. As Bella grew worse 
 every day, and yet no help came,, the unselfish 
 Sally wrote to her patroness, telling her of poor 
 Fanny's distress, and begging her either to send 
 her help, or speak on her behalf to her sister. 
 
 Isabel was dressing for a party when Laura 
 showed her Sally's letter. "Poor Fanny," said 
 she, " I wish I had known it before I bought this 
 wreath. I have, absolutely, not a half-franc in the 
 world. WUl you buy the wreath of me at half- 
 price, it has not even been taken from its box." 
 
Evils of Thoughtlessness. 161 
 
 " I do not -want it," said Laura, " but I will lend 
 you some money." 
 
 " No, I cannot borrow more," said her sister de- 
 spondingly. " I owe you already for tlie flowers, 
 tlie brooch, the bill you paid yesterday, and I 
 know not what else besides ; but I will tell Eugene 
 there is a poor Englishwoman in distress, I am 
 sure he will send her something." 
 
 Eugene gave her a five-franc piece. 
 
 It was late one frosty evening when Sally ran 
 across to her cousin's cottage, dehghted to be the 
 bearer of the long hoped-for letter. Fanny was 
 sitting on the fender before a small fire, hugging 
 her darling to her breast, and breathing on its lit- 
 tle face to make the air warmer. "I'm afraid," 
 said she, ia answer to Sally's inquiries, " that the 
 child won't be here long ;" and she wiped away a 
 few hot tears that had forced their way as she sat 
 listening to the low moans of the little sufferer. 
 
 " But I have good news for you," said her cousin, 
 
 cheerfully. " Here is a letter from Miss Isabel at 
 
 last. I would not teU you before, but I wrote to 
 11 
 
162 Peael-Fishing. 
 
 Miss Laura, saying tow you were expecting every 
 week to be put to bed again, and how Bella was 
 wasting away, and see, I was riglit about lier, she 
 has sent you a sovereign, and her sister's letter, no^ 
 doubt, contains a pretty sum." 
 
 Fanny started up, and could scarcely breathe as 
 she broke the seal. What was her disappointment 
 on seeing an order for five shillings ! 
 
 "I am very sorry, my good Fanny," said Isabel, 
 "that just now I have no money. A charitable 
 gentleman sends you five shillings, and as soon as 
 I possibly can, I will let you have a large sum. I 
 have not yet paid for the carriage I sent you, and 
 as the bni has been given me several times, I must 
 discharge it before I send away more money. I 
 hope that by this time, httle Bella is better." 
 
 Fanny laid her child upon the bed, and putting 
 her fece by its side, shed bitter tears. Sally did 
 not speak, and so both remained tUl Thomas came 
 in from his work. Fanny would have hidden the 
 letter fcom him, but he saw and seized it in a mo- 
 ment. 
 
Evils of Thoughtlessness. 163 
 
 " Five guineas for a carriage, and five shillings 
 for a cMld's life," said he with a sneer, as he laid 
 it down. " Do not look for the large sum, Fanny, 
 you won't get it ; but I will work hard, and bury 
 the child decently." 
 
 Fanny felt no inclination to defend her mistress. 
 For the first time, it occurred to her that Thomas 
 and John might be right in their judgment of her. 
 She raised Bella, as Thomas, who had been twist- 
 ing up the money order, was about to throw it in 
 the fire. He caught a sight of the child's wan face, 
 and, advancing to the bed, said, in a softened tone, 
 "Do you know father, pretty one?" and as Bella 
 smiled faintly, he added, " I will do anything for 
 your sake. Here, Fanny, take the money, and get 
 the child something nourishing." 
 
 Bella seemed to revive from getting better food ; 
 and the apothecary held out great hope of her ul- 
 timate recovery, if the improved diet could be 
 continued ; but expenses fell heavily on Thomas, 
 Fanny was put to bed with a fine strong little boy, 
 and, although Sally and Mrs. Maythorn devoted 
 
164 Peael-Pishing. 
 
 themselves to her and Bella, the anxiety she suf- 
 fered from being separated from her invalid child, 
 added to her former constant uneasiness, and "want 
 of proper food, brought on a fever that threatened 
 her life. In a few days she became quite delirious. 
 During this time Isabel was married, and Laura, 
 returned to England. 
 
 When Fanny regained her consciousness she 
 was in the dark, but she could see some one stand- 
 ing by the window. On her speaking the person 
 advanced to her side. "Do not be startled to find 
 me here," said a sweet soft voice. " Sally has 
 watched by your side for three nights, and when I 
 came this evening she looked so ill that I insisted 
 on her going to bed; then, as we could find no 
 one on whose care and watchfalness we could de- 
 pend, I took her place. You have been in a sound 
 sleep. Dr. Hart said you would wake up much 
 better. Are you better?" 
 
 "Yes, ma'am, a deal better; but where am I, 
 and who is it with me ?" 
 
 " You are in your own pretty cottage, and Miss 
 
Evils op Thoughtlessness. 165 
 
 Laura is -vvitli you. You expected me home, did 
 you not ?" 
 
 "Oil, thank Grod; who sent you, dear Mis3 
 Laura? How is — but may-be I had best not 
 ask just while I am so weak: Is the dear boy 
 well?" 
 
 "Yes, quite well; and Bella is much better. I 
 
 have sent her for a few days to L , with Mrs. 
 
 Maythorn ; the sea air will do her good." 
 
 " Oh, thank you — thank you — dear young lady, 
 for the thought. I seem so bound up in that dear 
 child, that nothing could comfort me for her loss. 
 How good and kind you are. Miss — ^you do all so 
 well and so quietly !" 
 
 " Yes, Fanny, dear," said Thomas, coming from 
 behind the curtaia and stooping to kiss his wife. 
 " Miss Laura has saved you and Bella, and me, too, 
 for I couldn't have lived if you had died ; and has 
 found me work ; and all without making one great 
 present, or doing anything one could speak about. 
 I'U tell you what it is, wife, dear. Miss Isabel does 
 aU for the best, but it is just as she feels at the mo- 
 
166 Pearl-Fishing. 
 
 ment. Now Miss Laura — if I may be so bold to 
 speak, Miss — Miss Laura does not give to please 
 her own feelings, but to do good. I can't say it 
 well, but do you say it for me, Miss ; I want Fan- 
 ny to know tbe rigbt words, to teack tke little ones 
 by and-by. You know what I wish to say. Miss 
 Laura." 
 
 " Yes, Thomas," said Laura, blushing, " but I do 
 not say you are right. You mean, I think, that 
 my sister acts from impulse, and I from principle. 
 Is that it?" 
 
 "I suppose that's it, Miss," said Thomas, consid- 
 ering, and apparently not quite satisfied. 
 
 " You have no harder meaning, I am sure," said 
 Laura, quietly, "because I love my sister very 
 much." 
 
 " Certainly not, Miss," returned Thomas. " But, 
 myself, if I may take the hberty of gratefully say- 
 ing so, I prefer to be acted to on principle, and 
 think it a good deal better than impulse." 
 
" Oh, Sleep 1 it is a gentle tiling, 
 Beloved from pole to pole 1" 
 
 TTTAS the heart's cry of the Ancient Mariner at 
 ' ' the recollection of the blessed moment when 
 the fearful curse of life in death fell off him, and 
 the heavenly sleep first ' ' slid into his soiil." ' ' Bless- 
 ings on sleep 1" said honest Sancho Panza: "it 
 wraps one all around like a mantle 1" — a mantle for 
 the weary human frame, lined softly, as with the 
 down of the eider-duck, and redolent of the sooth- 
 ing odors of the poppy. The fabled cave of Sleep 
 was in the land of Darkness. ISTo ray of the sun, 
 or moon, or stars, ever broke upon that night with- 
 out a dawn. The breath of somniferous flowers 
 
168 Pearl-Fishing. 
 
 floated in on tlie still air from tlie grotto's mouth. 
 Black ctirtains hung round tlie ever-sleeping god ; 
 the Dreams stood around his couch ; SUence kept 
 watch at the portals. Take the winged Dreams 
 from the picture, and what is left? The sleep of 
 matter. 
 
 The dreams that come floating through our sleep, 
 and fill the dormitory with visions. of love or ter- 
 ror — ^what are they ? Eandom freaks of the fan- 
 cy ? Or is sleep but one long dream, of which we 
 see only fragments, and remember stiU less ? Who 
 shall explain the mystery of that loosening of the 
 soul and body, of which night after night whispers 
 to us, but which day after day is unthought of? 
 Reverie, sleep, trance — such are the stages between 
 the world of man and the world of spirits. Dream- 
 ing but deepens as we advance. Eeverie deepens 
 into the dreams of sleep' — sleep into trance — ^trance 
 borders on death. As the soul retires from the 
 outer senses, as it escapes from the trammels of the 
 flesh, it lives with increased power within. Spirit 
 grows more spirit-like as matter slumbers. "We 
 
Bed. 169 
 
 can follow, tlie development up to the last stage. 
 What is beyond ? 
 
 "And in that sleep of death, -what dreams may come I" 
 
 says Hamlet — pausing on the brink of eternity, 
 and vainly striving to scan the inscrutable. Trance 
 is an awful counterpart of sleep and death — ^myste- 
 rious in itself, appalling in its hazards. Day after 
 day noise has been hi;shed in the dormitory — ^month 
 after month it has seen a human frame grow weaker 
 and weaker, wanner, more deathlike, till the hues 
 of the grave colored the face of the living. And 
 now he hes, motionless, pulseless, breathless. It is 
 not sleep — ^is it death ? 
 
 Leigh Hunt is said to have perpetrated a very 
 bad pun connected with the dormitory, and which 
 made Charles Lamb laugh immoderately. Going 
 home together late one night, the latter repeated 
 the well-known proverb, " A home's a home, how- 
 ever homely." "Ay," added Hunt, "and a bed'Si 
 a bed, however hedlyP It is a strange thing, a bed. 
 Somebody has called it a bundle of paradoxes ; we 
 
170 Peael-Fishing. 
 
 go to it reluctantly, and leave it with regret. Once 
 within the downy precincts of the fonr posts, how 
 loth we are to make our exodus into the wilderness 
 of life. "We are as enamored of our curtained 
 dwelling as if it were the land of Goshen or the 
 cave of Circe. And how many fervent vows have 
 those dumb posts heard broken ! every fresh per* 
 jury rising to joia its cloud of hovering f^Uows, 
 each morning weighing heavier and heavier on our 
 sluggard eyelids. A caustic proverb says, — we are 
 all " good risers at night ;" but woe's me for our 
 agility in the morning. It is a failing of our spe- 
 cies, ever ready to break out in all of us, and in 
 some only vanquished after a struggle painful as 
 the sundering of bone and marrow. The Great 
 Frederic of Prussia found it easier, in after life, to 
 rout the French and Austrians, than in youth to 
 resist the seductions of sleep. After many single- 
 handed attempts at reformation, he had at last to 
 call to his assistance an old domestic, whom he 
 charged, on pain of dismissal, to pull him out of 
 bed every morning at two o'clock. The plan sue- 
 
Bed. 171 
 
 ceeded, as it deserved to succeed. All men of 
 action are impressed witb. the importance of early 
 rising. " Wlien you begin to turn in bed, its time 
 to turn out," says the old Duke ; and we believe, 
 bis practice has been in accordance with his pre- 
 cept. Literary men — among whom, as Bulwer 
 says, a certain indolence seems almost constitu- 
 tional^are not so clear upon this point : they are 
 divided between Night and Morning, though the 
 best authorities seem in favor of the latter. Early 
 rising is the best elixir vitce : it is the only length- 
 ener of life that man has ever devised. By its aid 
 the great Buffon was able to spend half a century 
 — an ordinary lifetime — at his desk ; and yet had 
 time to be the most modish of all the philoso- 
 phers who then graced the gay metropolis of 
 France. 
 
 Sleep is a treasure and a pleasure ; and, as you 
 love it, guard it warily. Over-indulgence is ever 
 suicidal, and destroys the pleasure it means to grat- 
 ify. The natural times for our lying down and 
 rising up are plain enough, Nature teaches us, 
 
172 Peael-Pishing. 
 
 and TinsopHsticated mankind followed her. Sing- 
 ing birds and opening flo-wers tail tlie sunrise, and 
 the husli of groves and the closed eyelids of the 
 parterre mark his setting. But " man hath sought 
 out many inventions." "We prolong our days into 
 the depths of night, and our nights into the splen- 
 dor of day. It is a strange result of civilization ! 
 It is not merely occasioned by that thirst for varied 
 amusement which characterizes an advanced stage 
 of society — it is not that theatres, balls, dancing, 
 masquerades, require an artificial hght, for all these 
 are or have been equally enjoyed elsewhere be- 
 neath the eye of day. What is the cause, we re- 
 ally are not philosopher enough to say ; but the 
 prevalence of the habit must have given no little 
 pungency to honest Benjamin Franklin's joke, 
 when, one summer, he announced to the Parisians 
 as a great discovery — ^that the sun rose each morn- 
 ing at four o'clock ; and that, whereas, they burnt 
 no end of candles by sitting up at night, they might 
 rise in the morning and have hght for njotting. 
 Franklin's " discovery," we dare say, produced a 
 
Bed. 173 
 
 laugh at tTie time, and things went on as before. 
 Indeed, so universal is ttis artificial division of 
 day and niglit, and so interwoven witli it are the 
 social habits, that we shudder at the very idea of 
 returning to the natural order of things. A 
 Robespierre could not carry through so stupendous 
 a revolution. Nothing less than an avatar of Siva 
 the destroyer — Siva with his hundred arms, turn- 
 ing off as many gas-pipes, and replenishing his 
 necklace of human skulls by decapitating the lead- 
 ing conservatives — could have any chance of suc- 
 cess ; and, ten to one, with our gassy splendors, and 
 seducing glitter, we should convert that pagan 
 devil ere half his work was done. 
 
 But of all the inventions which perverse inge- 
 nuity has sought out, the most incongruous, the 
 most heretical against both nature and art, is read- 
 ing in bed. Turning rest into labor, learning into 
 ridicule. A man had better be up. He is spoil- 
 ing two most excellent things by attempting to join 
 them. Study and sleep — ^how incongruous ! It is 
 an idle coupling of opposites, and shocks a sensi- 
 
174 Peael-Fishing. 
 
 Me man as mucli as if lie were to meet in the 
 woods the apparition of a winged elephant. Only 
 fancy an elderly or middle-aged man (for youth is 
 generally orthodox on this point), sitting up in bed, 
 spectacles on his nose, a Kilmarnock on his head, 
 and his flannel jacket round his shivering shoul- 
 ders, — doing what? Reading? It may be so — 
 but he winks so often, possibly from the glare of 
 the candle, and the glasses now and then slip so far 
 down on his nose, and his hand now and then 
 holds the volume so unsteadily, that if he himself 
 didn't assure us to the contrary, we should suppose 
 him half asleep. "We are sui-e it must be a great 
 relief to him when the neglected book at last tum- 
 bles out of bed to such a distance that he cannot 
 recover it. 
 
 Nevertheless, we have heard this extraordinary 
 custom excused on the no less extraordinary 
 ground of its being a soporific. For those who 
 require such things, Marryat gives a much simpler 
 recipe — ^namely, to mentally repeat any scraps of 
 poetry you can recollect; if your own, so much 
 
Bed. 175 
 
 tlie better. The monks of old, in a similar einer- 
 gency, used to repeat tlie seven Penitential Psalms. 
 Either of these plans, we doubt not, will be found 
 equally ef&cacious, if one is able to use them — if 
 anxiety of mind does not divert him from his tast, 
 or the lassitude of illness disable him for attempt- 
 ing it. Sleep, alas! is at times ficlde and coy; 
 and, like most sublunary friends, forsakes us when 
 most wanted. Eeading in that repertory of many 
 curious things, the " Book of the Farm," we one 
 day met with the statement that "a pillow of hops 
 will ensure sleep to a patient in a delirious fever 
 when every other expedient fails." We made a 
 note of it. Heaven forbid that the recipe should 
 ever be needed for us or ours! but the words 
 struck a chord of sympathy in our heart with such 
 poor sufferers, and we saddened with the dread of 
 that awfal visitation. The fever of delirium ! 
 when incoherent words wander on the lips of genius ; 
 when the sufferer stares strangely and vacantly 
 on his ministering Mends, or starts with freezing 
 horror from the arms of familiar love ! Ah ! what 
 
176 Peael-Fishing. 
 
 a dread tenant lias the dormitory then. No food 
 taken for the body, no sleep for the brain ! a hu- 
 man being surging with diabolic strength against 
 his keepers — a human frame gifted with superhu- 
 man vigor only the more rapidly to destroy itself! 
 Less fearful to the eye, but more harrowing to the 
 soul, is the dormitory whose walls enclose the 
 sleepless victim of Eemorse. No poppies or man- 
 dragora for him ! His malady ends only with the 
 fever of life. Ends? Grief, anxiety, "the thou- 
 sand several Uls that flesh is heir to," pass away 
 before the lapse of time or the soothings of love, 
 and sleep once more folds -its dove-like wings 
 above the couch. 
 
 "If there be a regal sohtude," says Charles 
 Lamb, "it is a bed. How the patient lords it 
 there; what caprices he acts without control! 
 How king-like he sways his pillow, — tumbling and 
 tossing, and shifting, and lowering, and thumping, 
 and flatting, and moulding it to the ever-varying 
 requisitions of his throbbing temples. He changes 
 'Sides oftener than a politician. Now he lies full- 
 
Bed. 177 
 
 length, then half-length, obliquely, transver|fly, 
 head and feet quite across the bed ; and none ac- 
 cuses him of tergiversation. Within the four cur- 
 tains he is absolute. They are his Mare Clausum, 
 How sickness enlarges the dimensions of a man'a 
 self to himself ! He is his own exclusive object 
 Supreme selfishness is inculcated on him as his 
 only duty. 'Tis the two Tables of the Law to 
 him. He has nothing to think of but how to get 
 well. What passes out of doors or within them, 
 so he hear not the jarriag of them, affects him 
 not." 
 
 In this climate a sight of the sun is prized ; but 
 we love to see it most &om bed. A dormitory 
 fronting the east, therefore, so that the early sun- 
 beams may rouse us to the dewy beauties of morn- 
 ing, we love. Let there also be festooned roses 
 without the window, that on opening it the per- 
 fume may pervade the realms of bed. Our night- 
 bower should be simple — neat as a fairy's cell, and 
 ever perfumed with the sweet air of heaven. It is 
 not a place for showy things, or costly. As fire is 
 
178 Pearl-Fishing. 
 
 tli9» presiding geni^is in other rooms, so let ■water, 
 symbol of purity, be in tlie ascendant here ', water, 
 fresh and unturbid as the thoughts that here make 
 their home — ^water, to wash away the dust and 
 sweat of a weary world. Let no fracas disturb the 
 quiet of the dormitory. We go there for repose. 
 Our tasks and our cares are left outside, only to be 
 put on again with our hat and shoes in the morn- 
 ing. It is an asylum &om the bustle of life — ^it is 
 the inner shrine of our household gods — and should 
 be respected accordingly. "We never entered dur- 
 ing the ordinary process of bed-making — ^pUlows 
 tossed here, blankets and sheets pitched hither and 
 thither in wildest confusion, chairs and pitchers in 
 the middle of the floor, feathers and dust every- 
 where — without a jarring sense that sacrilege was 
 going on, and that the genius loci had departed. 
 Eude hands were profaning the home of our slum- 
 bers 1 
 
 A sense of security pervades the dormitory. A 
 healthy man in bed is free from everything but 
 dreams, and once in a life-time, or after adjudging 
 
Bed. 179 
 
 the Cheese Premmm at an Agrictiltuxal Show — the 
 nightmare. "We once heard a worthy gentleman, 
 blessed with a very large family of daughters, de- 
 clare he had no peace in his house except in bed. 
 There we feel as if in a city of refuge, secure alike 
 from the brawls of earth and the storms of heaven. 
 Lightning, say old ladies, won't come through, 
 blankets. Even tigers, says Humboldt, " will not 
 attack a man in his hammock." Hitting a man 
 when he's down is stigmatized as villanous all the 
 world over ; and Hons will rather sit with an empty 
 stomach for hours than touch a man before he 
 awakes. Tricks upon a sleeper ! Oh, villanous ! 
 Every perpetrator of such unutterable treachery 
 should be put beyond the pale of society. The 
 First of April should have no place in the calendar 
 of the dormitory. We would have the maxim, 
 "Let sleeping dogs lie," extended to the human 
 race. And an angry dog, certainly, is a man roused 
 needlessly from his slumbers. What an outcry we 
 Northmen raised against the introduction of Green- 
 wich time, which defrauded us of fifteen minutes' 
 
180 Peael-Fishing. 
 
 sleep in tlie morning ; and how indiscriminate tlie 
 objurgations lavished npon printers' devils! Of 
 all sinners against the nocturnal comfort of literary 
 men, these imps are the foremost ; and possihly it 
 was from their malpractices in such matters that 
 they first acquired their diabolic cognomen. 
 
 The nightcap is not an elegant head-dress, but 
 its comfort is undeniable. It is a diadem of night ; 
 and what tranquillity follows our self-coronation ! 
 It is priceless as the invisible cap of Fortunatus ; 
 and, viewless beneath its folds, our cares cannot 
 find us out. It is graceless. Well ; what then? 
 It is not meant for the garish eye of day, nor for 
 the quizzing glass of our fellow-men, or of the 
 ridiculing race of women ; neither does it outrage 
 any taste for the beautiful in the happy sleeper 
 himself. We speak as bachelors, to whom the 
 pleasures of a manifold existence are unknown. 
 Possibly the aesthetics of night are not uncared for 
 when a man has another self to please, and when a 
 pair of lovely eyes are fiixed admiringly on his up- 
 per story; but such is the selfishness of human 
 
Bed. 181 
 
 nature, that we suspect this abnegation of comfort 
 will not long survive the honeymoon. The French, 
 ever enamored of effect, and who, we verily be- 
 lieve, even sleep, "pose,'^ sometimes substitute the 
 many-colored silken handkerchief for the graceless 
 " bonnet-de-nuity But all such substitutes are less 
 comfortable and more troublesome ; and of all irri- 
 tating things, the most irritable is a complex oper- 
 ation in undressing. Esthetics at night, and for 
 the weary ! No, no. The weary man frets at 
 every extra button or superfluous knot, he counts 
 impatiently every second that keeps him from his 
 couch, and flies to the arms of sleep as to those of 
 his mistress. Nevertheless, French novelette writ- 
 ers make a great outcry against nightcaps. We 
 remember an instance. A husband — rather good- 
 looking fellow — suspects that his wife is beginning 
 to have too tender thoughts towards a glossy -ring- 
 letted Lothario who is then staying with them.' So, 
 having accidentally discovered that Lothario slept 
 in a huge peeked nightcowl, and knowing that ridi- 
 cule would prove the most effectual disenchanter, 
 
182 Pearl-Fishing. 
 
 he fastened a string to his guest's bell, and passed 
 it into his own room. 
 
 At the dead of night, -when all were fast asleep, 
 suddenly Lothario's bell rang furiously. Upstarted 
 the lady — " their guest must be ill ;" — -and, accom- 
 panied by her husband, elegantly coiffed in a tur- 
 baned silk handkerchief, she entered the room 
 whence the alarum had sounded. They find Lo- 
 thario sitting up in bed — ^his cowl rising pyramid- 
 fashion, a fool's cap all but the beUs — ^bewildered 
 and in ludicrous consternation at being surprised 
 thus by the fair AngeHca ; and, unable to conceal 
 his chagrin, he completes his discomfiture by burst- 
 ing out in wrathful abuse of his laughing host for 
 so betraying his weakness for nightcaps. 
 
 The Poetry of the Dormitory ! It is an inviting 
 but too delicate a subject for our rough hands. Do 
 not the very words call up a vision ? By the light 
 of the stars we see a lovely head resting on a 
 downy pillow ; the bloom of the rose is on that 
 young cheek, and the half-parted lips murmur as 
 in a dream: "Edward!" Love is lying light at 
 
Bed. 183 
 
 her heart, and its fairy Avand is showing her vis- 
 ions. May her dreams be happy! " Edward 1'* 
 Was it a sigh that followed that gentle invocation ? 
 What wonld the youth give to hear that murmur, 
 — to gaze like yonder stars on his slumhering love. 
 Hush! are the morning-stars singing together — a 
 lullaby to soothe the dreamer? A low dulcet strain 
 floats in through the window ] and soon, mingling 
 with the breathings of the lute, the voice of youtk, 
 The harmony penetrates through the slumbering 
 senses to the dreamer's heart ; and ere the golden 
 curls are hfted from the pillow, she is conscious of all. 
 The serenade begins anew. What does she hear ? 
 
 "Stars of tlie summer night 1 
 Far in yon azure deeps, 
 Hide, hide your golden light J 
 
 She sleeps 1 
 My lady sleeps 1 
 
 Dreams of the summer night! 
 
 Tell her her lover keeps 
 Watch I while in slumbers light 
 
 She sleeps 
 My lady sleeps I 
 
 Sleeps!" 
 
VI. 
 
 " TTOW pleased the boy looks, to be sure 1" ob- 
 '■-^ served Woodruffe to his wife, as his son 
 AQan caught up little Moss (as Maurice had chosen 
 to call himself before he could speak plain) and 
 made him jump from the top of the drawers upon 
 the chair, and then from the chair to the ground. 
 "He is making all that racket just because he is so 
 pleased he does not know what to do with him- 
 8elf." 
 
 " I suppose he will forgive Meming now for car- 
 ryiag off Abby," said the mother. " I say, AUan, 
 what do you think now of Abby marrying away 
 &omus?" 
 
The Home of Woodeuffe. 185 
 
 " Why, I think it's a very good thing. You 
 know she never told me that we should go and 
 live where she lived, and in such a pretty place, 
 too, where I may have a garden of my own, and 
 see what I can make of it — all fresh from the be- 
 ginning, as father says." 
 
 "You are to try your hand at the business, I 
 know," replied the mother, "but I never heard 
 your father, nor any one else, say that the place 
 was a pretty one. I did not think new railway 
 stations had been pretty places at all." 
 
 "It sounds so to him, naturally," interposed 
 Woodrufife. " He hears of a south aspect, and a 
 slope to the north for shelter, and the town seen 
 far off ; and that sounds all very pleasant. And 
 then, there is the thought of the journey, and the 
 change, and the fun of getting the ground all into 
 nice order, and, best of all, the seeing his sister so 
 soon again. Youth is the time for hope and joy, 
 you know, love." 
 
 And Woodruffe began to whistle, and stepped 
 forward to take his turn at jumping Moss, whom 
 
186 Peael-FisAing. 
 
 lie carried in one fligM from tke top of the draw 
 ers to the floor. Mrs. Woodruffe smiled, aa she 
 thought that youth was not the only season, with 
 some people, for hope and joy. 
 
 Her husband, always disposed to look on the 
 bright side, was particularly happy this evening. 
 The lease of his market-garden ground was just 
 expiring. He had prospered on it; and would 
 have desired nothing better than to live by it as 
 long as he lived at all. He desired this so much 
 that he would not beheve a word of what people 
 had been saying for two years past, that his ground 
 would be wanted by his landlord on the expiration 
 of the lease, and that it would not be let again. 
 His wife had long foreseen this ; but not tiU the 
 last moment would he do what she thought should 
 have been done long before — offer to buy the 
 ground. At the ordinary price of land, he could 
 accomplish the purchase of it ; but when he found 
 his landlord unwilling to sell, he bid higher and 
 higher, till his wife was so alarmed at the rashness, 
 that she was glad when a prospect of entire re- 
 
The Home or Woodkupfe. 187 
 
 moval opened. Woodruffe was sure that lie could 
 have paid off all he offered at the end of a few 
 years ; but his partner thought it would have been 
 a heavy burden on their minds, and a sad waste 
 of money; and she was therefore, in her heart, 
 obhged to the landlord for persisting in his refusal 
 to seU. 
 
 "When that was settled, Woodruffe became sud- 
 denly sure that he coiild pick up an acre or two 
 of land somewhere not far off. But he was mis- 
 taken ; and, if he had not been mistaken, market- 
 gardening was no longer the profitable business it 
 had been, when it enabled him to lay by something 
 every year. By the opening of a railway, the 
 townspeople, a few miles off, got themselves better 
 supplied with vegetables from another quarter. It 
 was this which put it into the son-in-law's head to 
 propose the removal of the family into Stafford- 
 shire, where he held a. small appointment on a rail- 
 way. Land might be had at a low rent near the 
 little country station where his business lay ; and 
 the railway brought within twenty minutes' dis- 
 
188 ^EAEL-FlSHING. 
 
 tance a town wliere there must be a considerable 
 demand for garden produce. The place was in a 
 raw state at present ; and there were so few houses, 
 that, if there had been a choice of time, the Flem- 
 ings would rather have put off the coming of the 
 family till some of the cottages already planned 
 had been built ; but the Woodruffes must remove 
 in September, and all parties agreed that they 
 should not mind a little crowding for a few 
 months. Fleming's cottage was to hold them all 
 till some chance of more accommodation should 
 offer. 
 
 "I'll tell you what," said "Woodruffe, after stand- 
 ing for some time, half whistling and thinking, 
 with that expression on his face which his wiie 
 had long learned to be afraid of, "I'll write to- 
 morrow — ^let's see — I may as well do it to-night ;" 
 and he looked round for paper and ink. " I'll 
 write to Fleming, and get him to buy the land for 
 me at once." 
 
 "Before you see it?" said his wife, looking up 
 from her stocking mending. 
 
The Home of WooDRtrFFE. 189 
 
 " Yes. I know all about it, as mucli as if I were 
 standing on it this moment ; and I am sick of this 
 work — of being turned out just wben I bad made 
 the most of a place, and got attached to it. I'll 
 make a sure thing of it this time, and not have 
 such a pull at my heart-strings again. And the 
 land will be cheaper now than later ; and we shall 
 go to work upon it with such heart, if it is our 
 own! Eh?" 
 
 "Certainly, if we find, after seeing it, that we 
 like it as well as we expect. I would just wait 
 tm then." 
 
 "As well as we expect! Why, bless my soul! 
 don't we know all about it ? It is not any land- 
 agent or interested person, that has described it to 
 us ; but our own daughter and her husband ; and 
 do not they know what we want ? The quantity 
 at my own choice ; the aspect capital ; plenty of 
 water (only too much, indeed) ; the soil anything 
 but poor, and sand and marl within reach to re- 
 duce the stifihess ; and manure at command, all 
 along the raUway, from half-a-dozen towns; and 
 
190 Pearl-Fishing. 
 
 osier'beds at hand (within my own bounds if I 
 like) giving all manner of convenience for fencing, 
 and binding, and covering! "Why, what would 
 you have ?" 
 
 " It sounds very pleasant, certainly." 
 
 " Then, how can you make objections ? I can't 
 think where you look, to find any objections?" 
 
 "I see none now, and I only want to be sure 
 that we shall find none when we arrive." 
 
 " "Well ! I do call that unreasonable I To expect 
 to find any place on earth altogether unobjection- 
 able ! I wonder what objection could be so great 
 as being turned out of one after another, just as we 
 have got them into order. Here comes our girl. 
 Well, Becky, I see how you like the news 1 Now, 
 would not you like it better stni if we were going 
 to a place of our own, where we should not be 
 under any landlord's whims ? We should have to 
 work, you know, one and all. But we would get 
 the land properly manured, and have a cottage of 
 our own in time ; would not we ? WiH you un» 
 dertake the pigs, Becky ?" 
 
The Home of Woodeuffe. 191 
 
 " Yes, father ; and there are many tMngs I can 
 do in the garden too. I am old and strong, now ; 
 and I can do much more than I have ever done here." 
 
 "Aye; if the land was our own," said Wood- 
 ruffe, with a glance at his wife. She said no more, 
 but was presently up stairs putting Moss to bed. 
 She knew, from long experience, how matters 
 would go. After a restless night, "Woodruffe spoke 
 no more of buying the land without seeing it ; and 
 he twice said, in a meditative, rather than a com- 
 municative way, that he believed it would take as 
 much capital as he had to remove his family, and 
 get his new land into fit condition for spring crops. 
 
 II. 
 
 " You may look out now for the place. Look 
 out for our new garden. We are just there now," 
 said Woodruffe to the children as the whistle 
 sounded, and the train was approaching the sta- 
 tion. It had been a glorious autumn day from the 
 
192 Peael-Fishing. 
 
 beginning; and for tlie last" hour, wliile the beauty 
 of the light on fields and trees and water had been 
 growing more striking, the children, tired with the 
 novelty of all that they had seen since morning, 
 had been dropping asleep. They roused up sud- 
 denly enough at the news that they were reaching 
 their new home; and thrust their heads to the 
 windows, eagerly asking on which side they were 
 to look for their garden. It was on the south, the 
 left-hand side ; but it might have been anywhere, 
 for what they could see of it. Below the embank- 
 ment was something like a sheet of gray water, 
 spreading far away. 
 
 "It is going to be ar foggy night," observed 
 Woodruffe. The children looked into the air for 
 the fog, which had always, in their experience, 
 arrived by that way from the sea. The sky was 
 aU a clear blue, except where a pale green and a 
 faint blush of pink streaked the west. A large 
 planet beamed clear and bright ; and the air was 
 so transparent that the very leaves on the trees 
 might almost be counted. Yet could nothing be 
 
The Home of TfooDEUPFE. 193 
 
 seen below for the gray mist whicli was rising, 
 from moment to moment. 
 
 Fleming met them as they alighted; but he 
 could not stay till he had seen to the other passen- 
 gers. His wife was there. She had been a merry- 
 hearted girl ; and now, stUl so young, as to look 
 as girlish as ever, she seemed even merrier than 
 ever. She did not look strong, but she had hardly 
 thrown off what she called " a little touch of the 
 ague ;" and she declared herself perfectly well 
 when the wind was anywhere but in the wrong 
 quarter. Allan wondered how the wind could go 
 wrong. He had never heard of such a thing be- 
 fore. He had known the wind too high, when it 
 did mischief among his father's fruit trees ; but it 
 had never occurred to him that it was not free to 
 come and go whence and whither it would, with- 
 out blame or objection. 
 
 " Come — come home," exclaimed Mrs. Fleming, 
 " Never mind about your bags and boxes 1 My 
 husband will take care of them. Let me show you 
 the way home." 
 
 18 
 
194 Peabl-Fishikg. 
 
 She let go the hands of the young brothers, and 
 loaded them, and then herself, with parcels, that 
 they might not think they were going to lose 
 everything, as she said; and then tripped on be- 
 fore to show the way. The way was down steps, 
 from the highest of which two or three chimney- 
 tops might be seen piercing the mist which hid 
 everything else. Down, down, down went the 
 party, by so many steps that little Moss began to 
 totter under his bundle. 
 
 " How low this place lies !" observed the mother. 
 
 " Why, yes ;" replied Mrs. Fleming. " And yet 
 I don't know. I believe it is rather that the rail- 
 way runs high." 
 
 " Yes, yes ; that is it," said Woodrufife. " What 
 an embankment this is I If this is to shelter my 
 garden to the north — " 
 
 "Yes, yes, it is. I knew you would like it," 
 exclaimed Mrs. Fleming. "I said you would be 
 djhghted. I only wish you could see your ground 
 at oQce ; but it seems rather foggy, and I suppose we 
 must wait till the morning. Here we are at home." 
 
The Home of Woodeuffe. 195 
 
 The travellers were ratter surprised to see how 
 very small a house this "home" was. Though 
 called a cottage, it had not the look of one. It 
 was of a red brick, dingy, though evidently new ; 
 and, to all appearance, it consisted of merely a 
 room below, and one above. On walking round 
 it, however, a sloping roof in two directions gave 
 a hint of farther accommodation. 
 
 When the whole party had entered, and Mrs. 
 Fleming had kissed them all round, her glance at 
 her mother asked, as plainly as any words, " Is not 
 this a pleasant room ?" 
 
 "A pretty room, indeed, my dear," was the 
 mother's reply, " and as nicely furnished as one 
 could wish." 
 
 She did not say anything of the rust which her 
 quick eye perceived on the fire-irons and the door- 
 key, or of the damp which stained the walls just 
 above the skirting-board. There was nothing 
 amiss with the ceiling, or the higher parts of the 
 wall, — so it might be an accident. 
 
 " But, my dear," asked the mother, seeing how 
 
196 Peael-Fishing. 
 
 sleepy Moss looked, " "Where are you going to put 
 us all ? If we crowd you out of all comfort, I sliall 
 be sorry we came so soon." 
 
 As Mrs. Fleming led the way upstairs, she re- 
 minded her family of their agreement not to mind 
 a little crowding for a time. K her mother thought 
 there was not room for all the newly arrived in 
 this chamber, they could fit out a corner for Allan 
 in the place where she and her husband were to 
 sleep. 
 
 " All of us in this room ?" exclaimed Becky. 
 
 "Yes, Becky; why not? Here, you see, is a 
 curtain between your bed and the large one ; and 
 your bed is large eiiough to let little Moss sleep 
 with you. And here is a morsel of a bed for Al- 
 lan in the other corner; and I have another curtain 
 ready to shut it in." 
 
 "But," said Becky, who was going on to object. 
 Her mother stopped her by a sign. 
 
 " Or," continued Mrs. Fleming, " if you like to 
 let Allan and his bed and curtain come down to 
 our place, you will have plenty of room here; 
 
The Home of Woodruffe. 197 
 
 mucli more than my neighbors have, for the most 
 part. How it will be when the new cottages are 
 built, I don't know. "We think them too small for 
 new houses; but, meantime, there are the Brookes 
 sleeping seven in a room no bigger than this, and 
 the Vines six in one much smaller." 
 
 " How do they manage, now ?" asked the moth- 
 er. "In case of illness, say; and how do they 
 wash and dress ?" 
 
 " Ah ! that is the worst part of it. I don't think 
 the boys wash themselves — what we should call 
 washing — for weeks together ; or at least only on 
 Saturday nights. So they slip their clothes on in 
 two minutes; and then their mother and sisters 
 can get up. But there is the pump below for Al- 
 lan, and he can wash as much as he pleases." 
 
 It was not till the next day that Mrs. Woodruffe 
 knew — and then it was Allan who told her — that 
 the pump was actually in the very place where the 
 Flemings slept, — close by their bed. The Flem- 
 ings were, in truth, sleeping in an outhouse, where 
 the floor was of brick, the swill-tub stood in one 
 
198 Peabl-Fishing. 
 
 corner, the coals were heaped in another, and the 
 light came in from a square hole high up, which 
 had never tiU now been glazed. Plenty of air 
 rushed in under the door, and yet some more be- 
 tween the tiles, — there being no plaster beneath 
 them. As soon as Mrs. Woodruffe had been in- 
 formed of this, and had stepped in, while her 
 daughter's back was turned, to make her own ob- 
 servations, she went out by herself for a walk, — so 
 long a walk, that it was several hours before she 
 reappeared, heated and somewhat depressed. She 
 had roamed the country round, in search of lodg- 
 ings ; and finding none, — finding no occupier who 
 really could possibly spare a room on any terms, — 
 she had returned convinced that, serious as the ex- 
 pense would be, she and her family ought to settle 
 themselves in the nearest town, — her husband go- 
 ing to his business daily by the third-class train, 
 till a dwelling could be provided for them on the 
 spot. 
 
 When she returned, the children were on the 
 watch for her ; and little Moss had strong hopes 
 
The Home of WooDKiTrFE. 199 
 
 that she would not know him. He had a great 
 cap of rushes on his head, with a heavy bulrush 
 for a featheT", he was stuck all over with water- 
 flags and bulrushes, and carried a long osier wand, 
 wherewith to flog all those who did not admire 
 him enough in his new style of dress. The chil- 
 dren were clamorous for their mother to come 
 down, and see the nice places where they got these 
 new playthings ; and she would have gone, but 
 that their father came up, and decreed it otherwise. 
 She was heated and tired, he said ; and he would 
 EKkt have her go till she was easy and comfortable 
 enough to see things in the best light. 
 
 Her impression was that her husband was, more 
 or kss (and she did not know why), disappointed ; 
 but he did not say so. He would not hear of go- 
 ing off to the town, being sure that some place 
 would turn up soon, — some place where they 
 miglit put their heads at night ; and the Flemings 
 should be no losers by having their company by 
 day. Their boarding all together, if the sleeping 
 coidd but be managed, would be a help to the 
 
200 Pearl-Fishino. 
 
 youag people, — a help wliich it was pleasant to 
 him, as a father, to he able to give them. He said 
 nothing about the land that was -not in praise of it. 
 Its quality was excellent ; or would be when it 
 had good treatment. It would take some time and 
 trouble to get it in order, — so much that it would 
 never do to live at a distance from it. Besides, no 
 trains that would suit him ran at the proper hoiirs ; 
 so there was an end of it. They must all rough it 
 a little for a time, and expect their reward after- 
 wards. 
 
 There was nothing that Woodruffe was so hard 
 to please in as the time when he should take his 
 wife to see the ground. It was close at hand ; yet 
 he hindered her going in the morning, and again 
 after their early dinner. He was anxious that she 
 should not be prejudiced, or take a dislike at first ; 
 and in the morning, the fog was so thick that 
 everything looked dank and dreary; and in the 
 middle of the day, when a warm autumn sun had 
 dissolved the mists, there certainly was a most dis- 
 agreeable smell hanging about. It was not gon*' 
 
The Home of "Woodrupfe. 201 
 
 at sunset ; but by that time Mrs. "Woodruffe was 
 impatient, and slie appeared — ^Allan showing her 
 the way — just when her husband was scraping his 
 feet upon his spade, after a hard day of digging. 
 
 "There, now!" said he, good-humoredly, strik- 
 ing his spade into the ground, " Fleming said you 
 would be down before we were ready for you; 
 and here you are ! — Yes, ready for you. There 
 are some planks coming, to keep your feet out of 
 the wet among all this clay." 
 
 "And yours, too, I hope," said the wife. "I 
 don't mind such wet, after rain, as you have been 
 accustomed to ; but to stand in a puddle like this 
 is a very different thing." 
 
 " Yes — so. 'tis. But we'll have the planks ; and 
 they will serve for running the wheelbarrow, too. 
 It is too much for Allan, or any boy, to run the 
 barrow in such a soil as this. We'll have the 
 planks first ; and then we'll drain, and drain, and 
 get rare spring crops." 
 
 " What have they given you this artificial pond 
 for," asked the wife, "if you must drain so much?" 
 
202 Peael-Fishing. 
 
 " That is BO pond. All tte way along here, on 
 hoth sides the railway, there is the mischief of 
 these pits. They dig out the clay for bricks, and 
 then leave the places — ^pits like this, some of them 
 six feet deep. The railways have done a deal of 
 good for the poor man, and will do a great deal 
 more yet ; but, at present, this one has left those 
 pits." 
 
 " I hope Moss will not fall into one. They are 
 very dangerous," declared the mother, looking 
 about for the child. 
 
 "He is safe enough there, among the osiers," 
 said the father. " He has lost his heart outright to 
 the osiers. However, I mean to drain and fill up 
 this pit, when I find a good out-fall ; and then we 
 will have all high and dry, and safe for the chil- 
 dren. I don't care so much for the pit as for the 
 ditches there. Don't you notice the bad smell?" 
 
 " Yes, indeed, that struck me the first night." 
 
 " I have been inquiring to-day, and I find there 
 is one acre in twenty hereabouts occupied with 
 foul ditches like that. And then the overflow 
 
The Home op Woodruefe. 203 
 
 from them and tlie pits, spoils many an acre more. 
 There is a stretch of water-flags and bulrushes, 
 and nasty coarse grass and rushes, nothing but a 
 swamp, where the ground is naturally as good as 
 this; and, look here! Fleming was rather out, I 
 tell him, when he wrote that I might graze a pony 
 on the pasture below, whenever I have a market- 
 cart. I ask him if he expects me to water it here." 
 So saying, Woodruffe led the way to one of the 
 ditches which, instead of fences, bounded his 
 land ; and, moving the mass of weed with a stick, 
 showed the water beneath, covered with a whitish 
 bubbling scum, the smell of which was insuffer- 
 able. 
 
 " There is plenty of manure there," said "Wood- 
 ruffe; "that is the only thing that can be said for it. 
 We'll make manure of it, and sweep out the ditch, 
 and deepen it, and narrow it, and not use up so 
 many feet of good ground for a ditch that does 
 nothing but poison us. A fence is better than a 
 ditch any day. I'll have a fence, and still save ten 
 feet of ground, the whole way down." 
 
204 Pearl-Fishing. 
 
 " There is a great deal to do here," observed the 
 wife. 
 
 "And good reward when it is done," Wood- 
 ruffe replied. "If I can fall in with a stout la- 
 borer, he and AUan and I can get our spring crops 
 prepared for; and I expect they will prove the 
 goodness of the soil. There is Fleming. Supper 
 is ready, I suppose." 
 
 The children were called, but both were so wet 
 and dirty that it took twice as long as usual to 
 make them fit to sit at table ; and apologies were 
 made for keeping supper waiting. The grave half- 
 hour before Moss's bed-time was occupied with the 
 most solemn piece of instruction he had ever had 
 in his life. His father carried him up to th^e rail- 
 way, and made him understand the danger of 
 playing there. He was never to play there. His 
 father would go up with him once a day, and let 
 him see a train pass ; and this was the only time 
 he was ever to mount the steps, except by ex- 
 press leave. Moss was put to bed in silence, with 
 his father's deep, grave voice, sounding in his ears. 
 
The Home of Woodeuffe, 205 
 
 "He -will not forget it," declared his father. 
 "He will give us no trouble about the railway. 
 The next thing is the pit. Allan, I expect you to 
 see that he does not fall into the pit. In time, we 
 shall teach him to take care of himself; but you 
 must remember, meanwhile, that the pit is six feet 
 deep — deeper than I am high ; and that the edge 
 is the same clay that you slipped on so often this 
 morning." 
 
 "Yes, father," said Allan, looking as grave as 
 if power of life and death were in his hands. 
 
 III. 
 
 One fine morning in the next spring, there was 
 more stir and cheerfulness about the Woodruffes' 
 dwelling than there had been of late. The winter 
 had been somewhat dreary ; and now the spring was 
 anxious ; for "WoodrufEe's business was not, as yet, 
 doing very well. His hope, when he bought his 
 
206 Pearl-Pishing. 
 
 pony and cart, was to dispatch, by railway to the 
 town the best of his produce, and sell the com- 
 moner part in the country neighborhood, sending 
 his cart round within the reacli of a few miles. As 
 it turned out, he had nothing yet to send to the 
 town, and his agent there was vexed and displeased. 
 No radishes, onions, early salads, or rhubarb were 
 ready, and it would be some time yet before they 
 were. 
 
 "I am sure I have done everything I could," 
 said Woodruffe to Fleming, as they both lent a 
 hand to put the pony into the cart. "Nobody can 
 say that I have not made drains enough, or that 
 they are not deep enough ; yet the frost has taken 
 such a hold that one would think we were living 
 in the north of Scotland, instead of in Stafford- 
 shire." 
 
 "It has not been a severe season either," ob- 
 served Fleming. 
 
 " There's the vexation," replied Woodruffe. " If 
 it had been a season which set us at defiance, and 
 made all sufferers alike, one must just submit to a 
 
The Home of Woodeuffe. 207 
 
 loss, and go on again, like one's neighbors. But, 
 you see, I am cut out, as my agent says, from the 
 market. Everybody else has spring vegetables 
 there, as usual. It is no use telling him that I 
 never failed before. But I know what it is. It is 
 yonder great ditch that does the mischief." 
 
 "Why, we have nothing to do with that." 
 
 " That is the very reason. If it was mine or 
 yours, do you think I should not have taken it in 
 hand long ago ? All my draining goes for little 
 while that shallow ditch keeps my ground a con- 
 tinual sop. It is all uneven along the bottom ; — 
 not the same depth for three feet together anwhere, 
 and not deep enough by two feet in any part. So 
 there it is, choked up and putrid ; and, after an 
 hour or two of rain, my garden gets such a soak- 
 ing that the next frost is destruction." 
 
 "I will speak about it again," said Fleming. 
 "We must have it set right before next win- 
 ter." 
 
 " I think we have seen enough of the uselessness 
 of speaking," replied Woodruffe, gloomily. " If 
 
208 Peael-Fishing. 
 
 •we tease the gentry any more, they may punish 
 you for it. I would show them my mind by being 
 off, — throwing up my bargain at all costs, if I had 
 not put so much into the ground that I have no- 
 thing left to move away with." 
 
 " Don't be afraid for me," said Fleming, cheer- 
 fully. "It was chiefly my doing that you came 
 here, and I must try my utmost to obtain fair con- 
 ditions for you. "We must remember that the ben- 
 efit of your outlay has all to come." 
 
 " Yes ; I can't say we have got much of it yet." 
 
 "By next winter," continued Fleming, "your 
 privet hedges and screens will have grown up into 
 some use against the frost ; and your own drain- 
 age . Come, come, Allan, my boy! be off! 
 
 It is getting late." 
 
 Allan seemed to be idling, re-arranging his 
 bunches of small radishes, and little bundles of 
 rhubarb, in their clean baskets, and improving the 
 stick with which he was to drive ; but he pleaded 
 that he was waiting for Moss, and for the parcel 
 which his mother was getting ready for Beoky. 
 
The Home of Woodkuffb. 209 
 
 " At I my poor little girl !" said Woodruffe. 
 " Give my love to her, and tell her it will be a hap- 
 py day when we can send for her to come home 
 again. Be sure you observe particularly, to tell us 
 how she looks ; and, mind, if she fancies anything 
 in the cart, — any radishes, or whatever else, be- 
 cause it comes out of our garden, be sure you give 
 it her. I wish I was going myself with the cart, 
 for the sake of seeing Becky ; but I must go to 
 work. Here have I been all the while, waiting to 
 see you off. Ah ! here they come ! you may al- 
 ways nave notice now of who is coming by that 
 child's crying." 
 
 "0, father I not always!" exclaimed Allan. 
 
 "Far too often, I'm sure. I never knew a child 
 grow so fractious. I am saying, my dear," to his 
 wife, who now appeared with her parcel, and Moss 
 in his best hat, "that boy is the most fractious 
 child we ever had ; and he is getting too old for 
 that to begin now. How can you spoil him so ?" 
 
 "I am not aware," said Mrs. Woodruffe, her 
 
 eyes filling with tears, " that I treat him differently 
 14 
 
210 Peael-Fishing. 
 
 from tlie rest; but tlie child is not well. His 
 chilblains tease him terribly, and I wish there may 
 be nothing worse." 
 
 " "Warm weather wiU soon cure the chilblains, 
 and then I hope we shall see an end of the fret- 
 ting. — Now, leave off crying this minute. Moss, or 
 you don't go. You don't see me cry with my 
 rheumatism, and that is worse than chilblains, I 
 can tell you." 
 
 Moss tried to stifle his sobs, while his mother 
 put more straw into the cart for him, and cau- 
 tioned Allan to be careful of him, for it }FeaIIy 
 seemed as if the child was tender all over. Allan 
 seemed to succeed best as comforter. He gave 
 Moss the stick to wield, and showed him how ta 
 make believe to whip the pony, so that before they 
 turned the comer. Moss was wholly engrossed with 
 what he called driving. 
 
 " Yes, yes," said Woodrufie, as he turned away 
 to go to the garden, " Allan is the one to manage 
 him. He can take as good care of him as any 
 woman without spoiling him I" 
 
The Home of Woodeuffe. 211 
 
 Mrs. "Woodruffe submitted to this in silence ; but 
 with the feeling that she did not deserve it. 
 
 Becky had had no notice of this visit from her 
 brothers ; but no such visit could take her by sur- 
 prise ; for she was thinking of her family all day 
 long, every day, and fancying she should see them 
 whichever way she turned. It was not her natural 
 destination to be a servant in a farm-house; she 
 had never expected it, — never been prepared for 
 it. She was as willing to work as any girl could 
 be; and her help in the gardening was beyond 
 what most women are capable of; but it was a bit- 
 ter thing to her to go among strangers, and toil for 
 them, when she knew that she was wanited at home 
 by father and mother, and brothers, and just at 
 present by her sister too ; for Mrs. Fleming's con- 
 finement was to happen this spring. The reason 
 why Becky was not at home while so much wanted 
 there was, that there really was no accommodation 
 for her. The plan of sleeping all huddled together 
 as they were at first would not do. The girl her- 
 self could not endure it ; and her parents felt that 
 
212 Pearl-Fishing. 
 
 she must be got out at any sacrifice. They had in- 
 quired diligently tUl they found a place for her in 
 a farm-house, where the good wife promised pro- 
 tection, and care, and kindness; and fulfilled her 
 promise to the best of her power. 
 
 "I hope they do well by you here, Becky," 
 asked Allan, when the surprise caused by his driv- 
 ing up with a dash had subsided, and everybody 
 had retired, to leave Becky with her brothers for 
 the few minutes they could stay. " I hope they 
 are kind to you here." 
 
 " 0, yea, — ^very Mnd. And I am sure you 
 ought to say so to father and mother." 
 
 Becky had jumped into the cart, and had her 
 arms round Moss, and her head on his shoulder. 
 Eaising her head, and with her eyes filling as she 
 spoke, she mquired anxiously how the new cot- 
 tages went on, and when father and mother were 
 to have a home of their own again. She owned, 
 but did not wish her father and mother to hear of 
 it, that she did not like being among such rough 
 people as the iarm servants. She did not like 
 
The Home of "Woodeuffe. 218 
 
 some of tlie behavior that she saw ; and, still less, 
 such talk as she was obliged to overhear. When 
 would a cottage be ready for them ? 
 
 " Why, the new cottages would soon be getting 
 on now," Allan said ; but he didn't know, nobody 
 fancied the look of them. He saw them just after 
 the foundations were laid ; and the enclosed parts 
 were like a clay -puddle. He did not see how they 
 were ever to be improved ; for the curse of wet 
 seemed to be on them, as upon everything about 
 the Station. Fleming's cottage was the best he 
 had seen, after all, if only it was twice as large. 
 If anything could be done to make the new cot- 
 tages what cottages should be, it would be done : 
 for everybody agreed that the railway gentlemen 
 desired to do the best for their people, and to set 
 an example in that respect; but it was beyond 
 anybody's power to make wet clay as healthy as 
 warm gravel. Unless they could go to work first 
 to dry the soil, it seemed a hopeless sort of af- 
 fair. 
 
 "But, I say, Becky," pursued Allan, "you 
 
214 Pearl-Fishing. 
 
 know about my garden — ^that father gave me a 
 garden of my own." 
 
 Becky's head was turned quite away ; and she 
 did not look round, when she replied, 
 
 " Yes ; I remember. How does your garden 
 get on ?" 
 
 There was something in her voice which made 
 her brother lean over and look into her face ; and, 
 as he expected, tears were running down her 
 cheeks. 
 
 " There nowl" said he, whipping the back of the 
 cart with his stick ; " something must be done, if 
 you can't get on here." 
 
 " ! I can get on. Be sure you don't tell 
 mother that I can't get on, or anything about it." 
 
 " You look healthy, to be sure." 
 
 " To be sure I am. Don't say any more about 
 it. Tell me about your garden." 
 
 " Well : I am trying what I can make of it, after 
 I have done working with father. But it takes a 
 long time to bring it round." 
 
 " What I is the wet there, too ?" 
 
The Home of Woodeuffe. 216 
 
 " Lord, yes ! The wet was beyond everything 
 at first. I could not leave the spade in the ground 
 ten minutes, if father called me, but the water was 
 standing in the hole when I went back again. It. 
 is not so bad now, since I made a drain to join 
 upon father's principal one; and father gave me 
 some sand, and plenty of manure ; but it seems to 
 us that manure does little good. It won't sink in 
 when the ground is so wet." 
 
 " Well, there wUl be the summer next, and that 
 will dry up your garden." 
 
 "Yes. People say the smells are dreadful in 
 hot weather, though. But we seem to get used to 
 that. I thought it sickly work, just after we came, 
 going down to get osiers, and digging near the big 
 ditch that is our plague now: but somehow, it 
 does not strike me now as it did then, though 
 Fleming says it is getting worse every warm day. 
 But come — I must be off. What will you help 
 yourself to ? And don't forget your parcel." 
 
 Becky's great anxiety was to know when her 
 brothers would come again. 0\ very often, she 
 
216 Pearl-Fishing, 
 
 was assured — oftener and oftener as tlie vegetable* 
 came forward; whenever there were either too 
 many or too few to send to the town by rail. 
 
 After Becky had jumped down, the farmer and 
 one of the men were seen to be contemplating the 
 pony. 
 
 " What have you been giving your pony late- 
 ly?" asked the farmer of Allan. "I ask as a 
 friend, having some experience of this part of the 
 country. Have you been letting him graze?" 
 
 " Yes, in the bit of meadow that we have leave 
 for. There is a good deal of grass there, now. 
 He has been grazing there these three weeks." 
 
 " On the meadow "where the osier beds are ? 
 Ay I I knew, it by the look of him. Tell your 
 father that if he does not take care, his pony will 
 have the staggers in no time. An acquaintance of 
 mine grazed some cattle there once ; and in a week 
 or two, they were all feverish, so that the butcher 
 refused them on any terms; and I have seen more 
 than one horse in the staggers, after grazing in 
 marshes of that sort." 
 
The Home of Woodeuffe. 217 
 
 " There is fine tMck grass there, and plenty of 
 it," said Allan, wlio did not like tliat anybody but 
 tbemselves should criticise their new place and 
 plans. 
 
 "Ay, ay; I know," replied the farmer. "But 
 if you try to make hay of that grass, you'll be sur- 
 prised to find how long it takes to make, and how 
 like wool it comes out at last. It is a coarse grass, 
 with no strength in it ; and it must be a stronger 
 .beast than this that will bear feeding on it. Just 
 do you tell your father what I say, that's all ; and 
 then he can do as he pleases ; but I would take a 
 different way with that pony, without loss of time, 
 if it was mine." 
 
 Allan did not much like taking this sort of mes- 
 sage to his father, who was not altogether so easy 
 to please as he used to be. If anything vexed him 
 ever so little, he always began to complain of his 
 rheumatism — and he now complained of his rheu- 
 matism many times in a day. It was managed, 
 however, by tacking a little piece of amusement 
 and pride upon it. Moss was taught, all the way 
 
218 Peael-Fishing. 
 
 as they went home, after selling their vegetables, 
 how much everything sold for; and he was to de- 
 liver the money to his father, and go through his 
 lesson as gravely as any big man. It succeeded 
 very well. Everybody laughed. Woodruffe called 
 the child his little man-of-business ; gave him a 
 penny out of the money he brought ; and when he 
 found that the child did not like jumping as he 
 used to do, carried him up to the railway to listen 
 for the whistle, and see the afternoon train come* 
 up, and stop a minute, and go on again. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Fleming did what he could to find fair play for 
 nis father-in-law. He spoke to one and another — 
 to the ofBcers of the railway, and to the owners of 
 neighboring plots of ground, about the bad drain- 
 age, which was injuring everybody ; but he could 
 not learn that anything was likely to be done. 
 
The Home of Woodrupfe. 219 
 
 The ditcli — the great evil of all — ^had always been 
 there, lie was told, and people never used to com- 
 plain of it. When Fleming pointed out that it 
 was at first a comparatively deep ditch, and that it 
 grew shallower every year from the axjcumulations 
 formed by its uneven bottom, there were some 
 who admitted that it might be as well to clean it 
 out 5 yet nobody set about it. And it was truly a 
 more difScult affair now than it would have been 
 at an earlier time. . If the ditch was shallower, it 
 was much wider. It had once been twelve feet 
 wide, and it was now eighteen. When any drain 
 had been flowing into it, or after a rainy day, the 
 contents spread through and over the soil on each 
 side, and softened it, and then the next time any 
 horse or cow came to drink, the whole bank was 
 made a perfect bog ; for the poor animals, however 
 thirsty, tried twenty places to find water that they 
 could drink before going away in despair. Such 
 was the bar in the way of poor Woodruffe's success 
 with his ground. Before the end of summer hia 
 patience was nearly worn out. During a showery 
 
220 Peael-Fishing. 
 
 and gleamy May and a pleasant June, he had gone 
 on as prosperously as he could expect under the 
 circumstances ; and he confidently anticipated that 
 a seasonable July and August would set him up. 
 But he had had no previous experience of the pecu- 
 liarities of ill-drained land ; and the hot July and 
 August, from which he hoped so much, did him 
 terrible mischief. The drought which would have 
 merely dried and pulverized a well-drained soil, 
 leaving it free to profit much by small waterings, 
 baked the overcharged soil of Woodruffe's garden 
 into hard hot masses of clay, amidst which his pro- 
 duce died off faster and faster every day, even 
 though he and all his family wore out their 
 strength with constant watering. He did hope, he 
 said, that he should have been spared drought at 
 least ; but it seemed as if he was to have every 
 plague in turn; and the drought seemed, at the 
 time, to be the worst of all. 
 
 One day Fleming saw a welcome face in one of 
 the carriages ; Mr. Nelson, a director of the rail- 
 way, who was looking along the line to see how 
 
The Home of Woodeuffe. 221 
 
 matters went. Thougli Mr. Nelson was not exact- 
 ly the one, of all tlie directors, whom Fleming 
 would have chosen to appeal to, he saw that the 
 opportunity must not be lost; and he entreated 
 him to alight, and stay for the next train. 
 
 " Eh ! what !" said Mr. Nelson ; " what can you 
 want with us here ? A station like this ! Why, 
 one has to put on spectacles to see it!" 
 
 " If you would come down, sir, I should be glad 
 to show you ..." 
 
 " Well ; I suppose I must." 
 
 As they were standing on the little platform, and 
 the train was growing smaller in the distance, 
 Fleming proceeded to business. He told of the 
 serious complaints that were made for a distance 
 of a few miles on either hand, of the clay pits left 
 by the railway brickmakers, to fill with stagnant 
 waters. 
 
 '• Pho ! pho I Is that what you want to say ?" 
 replied Mr. Nelson. *' You need not have stopped 
 me just to tell me that. We hear of those pits all 
 along the line. We are sick of hearing of them," 
 
222 Peael-Fishing. 
 
 " That does not mend the matter in this place," 
 observed Fleming. "I speak freely, sir, but I 
 think it my duty to say that something must be 
 done. I heard a few days ago, more than the peo- 
 ple hereabouts know, — much more than I shall 
 tell them — of the fever that has settled on particu- 
 lar points of our line ; and I now assure you, sir, 
 that if the fever once gets a hold in this place, I 
 believe it may carry us all off before anything can 
 be done. Sir, there is not one of us within half 
 a mile of the station that has a wholesome dwell- 
 ing." 
 
 "Phol phol you are a croaker," declared Mr. 
 Nelson. " Never saw such a dismal fellow 1 "Why, 
 you will die of fright, if ever you die of any- 
 thing." 
 
 "Then, sir, will you have the goodness to walk 
 round with me, and see for yourself what you 
 think of things. It is not only for myself and 
 my family that I speak. In an evil day I induced 
 my wife's family to settle here^ and ..." 
 
 "Ayl that is a nice garden," observed Mr 
 
The Home of Woodeuffe. 223 
 
 Nelson, as Fleming pointed to "Woodruffe's land. 
 " You are a croaker, Fleming. I declare I think 
 the place is much improved since I saw it last. 
 People would not come and settle here if the place 
 was like what you say." 
 
 Instead of arguing the matter, Fleming led the 
 way down the long flight of steps. He was aware 
 that leading the gentleman among bad smells and 
 over shoes in a foul bog would have more effect 
 than any argument v/as ever known to have on his 
 contradictious spirit. 
 
 " You should have seen worse things than these, 
 and then you would not be so discontented," ob- 
 served Mr. Nelson, striking his stick upon the 
 hard-baked soil, all intersected with cracks. "I 
 have seen such a soil as this in Spain, some days 
 after a battle, when there weire scores of fingers 
 and toes sticking up out of the cracks. What 
 would you say to that? — eh?" 
 
 " We may have a chance of seeing that here," 
 replied Fleming ; " if the plague comes, and comes 
 too fast for the cof&n-makers, — a thing which has 
 
224 Peael-Fishing. 
 
 happened more tlian once in England, I be- 
 Ueve." 
 
 Mr. Nelson stopped to laugh ; but he certainly 
 attended more to business as he went on; and 
 Fleming, who knew something of his ways, had 
 hopes that if he could only keep his own temper, 
 this visit of the director might not be without good 
 results. 
 
 In passing through Woodruffe's garden, very 
 nice laanagemeiit was necessary. Woodruffe was 
 at work there, charged with ire against railway 
 directors and landed proprietors, whom, amidst the 
 pangs of his rheumatism, he regarded as the poison- 
 ers of his land and the bane of his fortunes ; while, 
 on the other hand, Mr. Nelson, who had certainly 
 never been a market gardener, criticized and ridi- 
 culed everything that met his eye. What was the 
 use of such a tool-house as that ? — ^big enough for 
 a house for them all. What was the use of such 
 low fences? — of such high screens? — of making 
 the walks so wide ? — sheer waste ? — of making the 
 beds so long one way, and so narrow another? 
 
The Home of Woqdeuffe. 225 
 
 — of planting or sowing tliis and ttat? — things 
 ttat nobody wanted. Woodrufib had pushed back 
 his hat in preparation for a defiant reply, when 
 Fleming caught his eye, and, by a good-tempered 
 smile, conveyed to him that they had an oddity to 
 deal with. Allan, who had begun by hstening 
 reverently, was now looking from one to another 
 in great perplexity. 
 
 "What is that boy here for, staring like a 
 dunce? Why don't you send him to school? 
 You neglect a parent's duty if you don't send him 
 to school." 
 
 Woodruffe answered by a smile of contempt, 
 walked away, and went to work at a distance. 
 
 " That boy is very well taught," Fleming said, 
 quietly. " He is a great reader, and will soon be 
 fit to keep his father's accounts." 
 
 "What does he stare in that manner for, then? 
 I took him for a dunce." 
 
 " He is not accustomed to hear his father called 
 
 m question, either as a gardener or a parent." 
 
 "Pho! phol 1 might as well have waited, 
 IS 
 
22S Pearl-Fishing. 
 
 thougli, till he was out of hearing. "Well, is this 
 all you have to show me? I think you make a 
 great fnss about nothing." 
 
 " Will you walk this way?" said Fleming, turn 
 ing down towards the osier beds, without any com 
 passion for the gentleman's boots or olfactory 
 nerves. For a long while Mr. Nelson affected to 
 admire the reed, and waterflags, and marsh-blos- 
 soms, declared the decayed vegetation to be peat 
 soil, very fine peat, which the ladies would be glad 
 of for their heaths in tho flower-garden, — and 
 thought there must be good fowling here in win- 
 ter. Fleming quietly turned over the so-called 
 peat with a stick, letting it be seen that it was a 
 mere dung-heap of decayed rushes, and wished Mr. 
 Nelson would come in the fowling season, and see 
 what the place was like. 
 
 "The children are merry enough, however," ob- 
 served the gentleman. " They can laugh here, 
 much as in other places. I advise you to take a 
 lesson from them, Fleming. Now, dou't you teach 
 •them to croak," 
 
The Home of WooDKurPE. 227 
 
 The laughter sounded from the direction of the 
 old brick-ground; and thither they now turned. 
 Two little boys were on the brink of a pit, so in- 
 tent on watching a rat in the water and on pelting 
 it with stones, that they did not see that anybody 
 was coming to disturb them. In answer to Mr. 
 Nelson's question, whether they were vagrants, 
 and why vagrants were permitted there, Fleming 
 answered that the younger one — the pale-faced 
 one — was his little brother-in-law ; the other — 
 
 "Ay, now, you will be telling me next that the 
 pale face is the fault of this place." 
 
 "It certainly is," said Fleming, "That child 
 was chubby enough when he came." 
 
 " Pho, pho ! a puny little wretch as ever I saw — 
 puny from its birth, I have no doubt of it. And 
 who is the other — a gypsy ?" 
 
 " He looks like it," replied Fleming. On being 
 questioned. Moss told that the boy lived near, and 
 he had often played with him lately. Yes, he 
 lived near, j ast beyond those trees ; not in a house, 
 only a sort of house the people had made for them- 
 
228 Peael-Fishing. 
 
 selves. Mr. Nelson Hked to lecture vagrants, even 
 more than other people ; so Moss was required to 
 show the way, and his dark-skinned playfellow 
 was not allowed to skulk behind. 
 
 Moss led his party on, over the tufby hay-colored 
 grass, skipping from bunch to bunch of rushes, 
 round the osier-beds, and at last straight through 
 a clump of elders, behind whose screen now ap- 
 peared the house, as Moss had called it, which the 
 gypsies had made for themselves. It was the tilt 
 of a wagon, serving as a tent. Nobody was visi- 
 ble but a woman, crouching under the shadow of 
 the tent, to screen from the sun that which was 
 lying across her lap. 
 
 "What is that that she's nursing? Lord bless 
 me I Can that be a child ?" exclaimed Mr. Nelson 
 
 "A child ia the fever," replied Fleming. 
 
 "Lord bless me! — to see legs and arms hang 
 down like thatl" exclaimed the gentleman; and 
 he forthwith gave the woman a lecture on her 
 method of nursing — scolded her for letting the 
 child get a fever — for not putting it to bed — ^for 
 
The Home of Woodeuffb. 229 
 
 not getting a doctor to it — ^for being a gypsy, and 
 living Tinder an alder clump. He tlien proceeded 
 to inquire whether she had anybody else in the 
 tent, where her husband was, whether he lived by 
 thieving, how they would all like being trans- 
 ported, whether she did not think her children 
 would all be hanged, and so on. At first, the wo- 
 man tried a facetious and wheedhng tone, then a 
 whimpering one, and, finally, a scolding one. The 
 last answered well. Mr. Nelson found that a man, 
 to say nothing of a gentleman, has no chance with 
 a woman with a sore heart in her breast, and a sick 
 child in her lap, when once he has driven her to 
 her weapon of the tongue. He said afterwards, 
 that he had once gone to Billingsgate, on purpose 
 to set two fisherwomen quarrelling, that he might 
 see what it was like. The scene had fulfilled all 
 his expectations ; but he now declared that it could 
 not compare with this exhibition behind the al- 
 ders. He stood a long while, first trying to over- 
 power the woman's voice ; and, when that seemed 
 hopeless, poking about among the rushes with his 
 
230 Pearl-Fishing. 
 
 stick, and finally, staring in the woman's face, in a 
 mood between consternation and amusement; — 
 thus he stood, waiting till the torrent should inter- 
 mit ; but there was no sign of intermission ; and 
 when the sick child began to move and rouse it- 
 self, and look at the strangers, as if braced by the 
 vigor of its mother's tongue, the prospect of an end 
 seemed further off than ever. Mr. Nelson shrug- 
 ged his shoulders, signed to his companions, and 
 walked away through the alders. The woman 
 was not silent because they were out of sight. 
 Her voice waxed shriller as it followed them, and 
 died away only in the distance. Moss was grasp- 
 ing Fleming's hand with all his might when Mr. 
 Nelson spoke to him, and shook his stick at him, 
 asking him how he came to play with such people, 
 and saying that if ever he heard him learning to 
 scold like that woman, he would beat bim with 
 that stick ; so Moss vowed he never would. 
 
 When the train was in sight by which Mr. Nel- 
 son was to depart, he turned to Fleming, with the 
 most careless air imaginable, saying, 
 
The Home of Woodruffe. 231 
 
 "Have you any mediciae in your house? — any 
 bark?" 
 
 " Not any. But I will send for some." 
 
 " Ay, do. Or, — no — I will send you some. See 
 if you cau't get these people housed somewhere, so 
 that they may not sleep in the swamp. I don't 
 mean in any of your houses, but in a barn, or some 
 such place. If the physic comes before the doctor, 
 get somebody to dose the child. And don't fancy 
 you are all going to die of the fever. That is the 
 way to make yourselves ill; and it is all nonsense, 
 too, I dare say." 
 
 "Do you like that gentleman?" asked Moss, 
 sapiontly, when the train was whirling Mr. Nelson 
 out of sight " Because I don't — not at all." 
 
 "I believe he is kinder than he means. Moss. 
 He need not be so rough; but I know he does 
 kind things sometimes." 
 
 "But, do you like him?" 
 
 " No, I can't say I do." 
 
 Before many hours were over, Fleming was 
 sorry that he had admitted this, even to himself; 
 
232 Peabl-Pishing. 
 
 and for many days after lie was occasionally heard 
 telling Moss what a good gentleman Mr. Nelson 
 was, for all his roughness of manners. With the 
 utmost speed, before it would have been thought 
 possible, arrived a surgeon from the next town, 
 with medicines, and the news that he was to come 
 every day while there was any fear of fever. The 
 gypsies were to have been cared for; but they 
 were gone. The marks of their fire and a few 
 stray feathers which showed that a fowl had been 
 plucked, alone told where they had encamped. A 
 neighbor, who loved her poultry yard, was heard 
 to say that the sick child would not die for want 
 of chicken broth, she would be bound; and the 
 nearest farmer asked if they had left any potato- 
 peels and turnip tops for his pig. He thought that 
 was the least they could do after making their fa- 
 mous gypsy stew (a capital dish, it was said) from 
 his vegetables. They were gone ; and if they had 
 not left fever behind, they might be forgiven, for 
 the sake of the benefit of taking themselves off. 
 After the search for the gypsies was over, there 
 
The Home of "Woodruffe. 233 
 
 ■was still an unusual stir about the place. One and 
 another stranger appeared and examined the low 
 grounds, and sent for one and another of the neigh- 
 boring proprietors, whether farmer, or builder, or 
 gardener, or laborer ; for every one who owned or 
 rented a yard of land on the borders of the great 
 ditch, or anywhere near the clay-pits or osier-beds. 
 It was the opinion of the few residents near the 
 Station that something would be done to improve 
 the place before another year ; and everybody said 
 that it must be Mr. Nelson's doings, and that it 
 was a thousand pities that he did not come earlier, 
 before the fever had crept thus far along the line. 
 
 For some months past, Becky had believed with- 
 out a doubt, that the day of her return home would 
 be the very happiest day of her life. She was too 
 young to know yet that it is not for us to settle 
 
234: Peael-Fishing. 
 
 whicli of our days shall be happy ones, nor what 
 events shall yield us joy. The promise had not 
 been kept that she should return when her father 
 and mother removed into the new cottage. She 
 had been told that there really was not, even now, 
 decent room for them all ; and that they must at 
 least wait till the hot weather was completely over 
 before they crowded the chamber, as they had 
 hitherto done. And then, when autumn came on, 
 and the creeping mists from the low grounds hung 
 round the place from sunset till after breakfast the 
 next day, the mother delaj^ed sending for her 
 daughter, unwilling that she should lose the look 
 of health which she alone now, of all the family, 
 exhibited. Fleming and his wife and babe pros- 
 pered better than the others. The young man's 
 business lay on the high ground, at the toj) of the 
 embankment. He was there all day ^Yhile Mr. 
 Woodruffe and Allan were below, among the 
 ditches and the late and early fogs. Mrs. Fleming 
 was young and strong, full of spirit and happiness ; 
 and so far fortified against the attacks of disease, 
 
The Home of Woodeuffe. 235 
 
 as a merry heart strengtTicns nerve and bone and 
 muscle, and invigorates all the vital powers. In 
 regard to her family, her father's hopeful spirit 
 seemed to have passed into her. While he was 
 becoming permaaently discouraged, she was al- 
 ways assured that everything would come right 
 next year. The time had arrived for her power 
 of hope to be tested to the utmost. One day this 
 autumn, she admitted that Becky must be sent for. 
 She did not forget, however, to charge Allan to 
 be cheerful, and make the best of things, and not 
 frighten Becky by the way. 
 
 It was now the end of October. Some of the 
 days were balmy elsewhere — the afternoons ruddy ; 
 the leaves crisp beneath the tread; the squirrel 
 busy after the nuts ia the wood; the pheasants 
 splendid among the dry ferns in the brake, the 
 sportsman warm and thirsty in his exploring 
 among the stubble. In the evenings the dwellers 
 in country houses called one another out upon the 
 grass, to see how biight the stars were, and how 
 softly the moonlight slept upon the woods. While 
 
236 Peael-Fishing. 
 
 it was tlius in one place, in another, and not far 
 off, all was dank, dim, dreary and unwholesome ; 
 with but little sun, and no moon or stars ; all chiU, 
 and no glow ; no stray perfumes, the last of the 
 year, but sicMy scents coming on the steam from 
 below. Thus it was about Fleming's house, this 
 latter end of October, when he saw but little of his 
 wife, because she was nursing her mother in the 
 fever, and when he tried to amuse himself with his 
 young baby at meal-times (awkward nurse as he 
 was) to relieve his wife of the charge for the little 
 time he could be at home. When the baby cried, 
 and when he saw his Abby look wearied, he did 
 wish, now and then, that Becky was at home ; but 
 he was patient, and helpful, and as cheerful as he 
 could be, till the day which settled the matter. On 
 that morning he felt strangely weak, barely able to 
 mount the steps to the station. During the morn- 
 ing, several people told him he looked ill ; and one 
 person did more. The porter sent a message to 
 the next large Station that somebody must be sent 
 immediately to fill Fleming's place, in case of his 
 
The Home of Woodruffe. 237 
 
 being too ill to work. Somebody came ; and be- 
 fore that, Fleming was in bed — certainly down in 
 tbe fever. His wife was now wanted at home ; 
 and Becky must come to her mother. 
 
 Though Becky asked questions all the way 
 home, and Allan answered them as truthfiflly as 
 he knew how, she was not prepared for what she 
 found — her father aged and bent, always in pain, 
 more or less, and far less furnished with plans and 
 hopes than she had ever known him ; Moss, fretful 
 and sickly, and her mother unable to. turn herself 
 in her bed. Nobody mentioned death. The sur- 
 geon who came daily, and told Becky exactly what 
 to do, said nothing of anybody dying of the fever, 
 while Woodruffe was continually talking of things 
 that were to be done when his wife got well again. 
 It was sad, and sometimes alarming, to hear the 
 strange things that Mrs. Woodruffe said in the 
 evenings when she was delirious; but if Abby 
 stepped in at such times, she did not think much 
 of it, did not look upon it as any sign of danger ; 
 and was only thankful that her husband had no 
 
238 Pearl-Fishing, 
 
 delirium. His head was always clear, she said, 
 though he was very weak. Becky never doubted, 
 after this, that her mother was the most severely 
 ill of the two ; and she was thunderstruck when 
 she heard one -morning the surgeon's answers to 
 her father's questions about Fleming. He certainly 
 considered it a bad case ; he would not say that he 
 could not get through ; but he must say it was 
 contrary to his expectation. "When Becky saw 
 her father's face as he turned away and went out, 
 she believed his heart was broken, 
 
 " But I thought," said she to the surgeon, " I 
 thought my mother was most ill of the two." 
 
 " I don't know that," was the reply, "but she is 
 very ill. "We are doing the best we can. You are, 
 I am sure," he said, kindly ; " and we must hope 
 on, and do our best till a change comes. The 
 wisest of us do not know what changes may come. 
 But I could not keep your father in ignorance of 
 what may happen in the other house." 
 
 Ko api'ca-ances alarmed Abby. Because there 
 was no delirium, she apprehended no danger. 
 
The Home of Woodruffe. 239 
 
 Even when the fatal twitchings came, the arm 
 twitching as it lay upon the coverlid, she did not 
 know it was a symptom of anything. As she 
 nursed her husband perfectly well, and could not 
 have been made more prudent and watchful by 
 any warning, she had no warning. Her cheerful- 
 ness was encouraged, for her infant's sake, as well 
 as for her husband's and her own. Some thought 
 that her husband knew his own case. A word or 
 two, — now a gesture, and now a look, — persuaded 
 the surgeon and AVoodruffe that he was aware that 
 he was going. His small affairs were always kept 
 settled ; he had probably no directions to give ; 
 and his tenderness for his wife showed itself in his 
 enjoying her cheerfulness to the last. When, as 
 soon as it was li^ht, one December morning. Moss 
 was sent to ask if Abby could possibly come for a 
 few minutes, because mother was worse, he found 
 his sister alone, looking at the floor, her hands on 
 her lap, though her baby was fidgetting in its cra- 
 dle. Fleming's face was covered, and he lay so 
 still that iljss, who haa never seen death, felt sure 
 
240 Pearl-Fishing. 
 
 that all was over. The boy hardly knew what to 
 do ; and his sister seemed not to hear what he said. 
 The thought of his mother, — ^that Abby's going 
 might help or save her, — moved him to act. He 
 kissed Abby, and said she must please go to moth- 
 er ; and he took the baby out of the cradle, and 
 wrapped it up, and put it into its mother's arms ; 
 and fetched Abby's bonnet, and took her cloak 
 down from its peg, and opened the door for her, 
 saying, that he would stay and take care of every- 
 thing. His sister went without a word; and, as 
 soon as he had closed the door behind her, Moss 
 sank down on his knees before the chair where she 
 had been sitting, and hid his face there till some 
 one came for him,' — ^to see his mother once more 
 before she died. 
 
 As the two cofi&ns were carried out, to be con- 
 veyed to the churchyard together, Mr. Nelson, who 
 had often been backward and forward during the 
 last six weeks, observed to the surgeon that the 
 death of such a man as Fleming was a dreadful loss. 
 
 " It is that sort of men that the fever outs off," 
 
The Home of Woodbuffe. 241 
 
 said the surgeon. " The strong man, in the prime 
 of life, at his best period, one may say, for himself 
 and for societj'-, is taken away, — leaving wife and 
 child helpless and forlorn. That is the ravage that 
 the fever makes." 
 
 " Well ; would not people tell you that it is our 
 duty to submit?" asked Mr. Nelson, who could 
 not help showing some emotion by voice and 
 countenance. 
 
 "Submit!" said the surgeon. "That depends 
 on what the people mean who use the word. If 
 you or I were ill of the fever, we must resign our- 
 selves, as cheerfully as we could. But if you ask 
 me whether we should submit to see more of our 
 neighbors cut off by fever as these have been, I can 
 only ask in return, whose doing it is that they are 
 living in a swamp, and whether that is to go on ? 
 Who dug the clay pits ? Who let that ditch run 
 abroad, and make a filthy bog? Are you going 
 to charge that upon Providence and talk of sub- 
 mitting to the consequences? If so, that is not 
 
 my religion." 
 
 16 
 
242 Peael-Fishing. 
 
 " No, no. There is no religion in that," replied 
 Mr. Nelson, for once agreeing in tvhat was said to 
 Mm. " It must be looked to." 
 
 "It must," said the surgeon, as decidedly as il 
 he had been a railway director, or king and parlia- 
 taent in one. 
 
 VI. 
 
 " I wonder whether there is a more forlorn fam- 
 ily in England than we are now," said Woodrnfe^ 
 as he sat among his children^ a few hours after the 
 funeral. 
 
 His children were glad to hear him speak, how- 
 ever gloomy might be his tone. His silence had 
 been so terrible that nothing that he could say 
 could so weigh upon their hearts. His words, 
 howerer, brought out his widowed daughter'^* 
 t&rs again. She was sewing — ^her infant lying in 
 her lap. As her tears fell upon its face, it moved 
 and cried. Becky came and took it up, and spoke 
 
The Home of Woodeufpe. 243 
 
 cheerfully to it. The cheerfulness seemed to be 
 the worst of all. Poor Abby laid her forehead to 
 the back of her chair, and sobbed as if her heart 
 ■would break. 
 
 " Ay, Abby," said her father, " your heart is 
 breaking, and mine too. You and I can go to our 
 rest, like those that have gone before us; but I 
 have to think of what will become of these young 
 things." 
 
 "Yes, father," said Becky gently, but with a 
 tone of remonstrance,' "you must endeavor to live, 
 and not make up your mind to dying, because hfe 
 has grown heavy and sad." 
 
 " My dear, I am ill — very ill. It is not merely 
 that life is grown intolerable to me. I am sure I 
 could not live long in such misery of mind ; but I 
 am breaking up fast." 
 
 The young people looked at each other in dis- 
 may. There was something worse than the grief 
 conveyed by their father's words in the hopeless 
 daring — ^the despair — of his tone when he ventured 
 to say that life was unendurable. 
 
244 Peael-Fishing. 
 
 Becky had the child on one arm ; with the other 
 hand she took down her father's plaid from its 
 peg, and put it round his rheumatic shoulders, 
 whispering in his ear a few words about desiring 
 that God's will should be done. 
 
 "My dear," he replied, "it was I who taught 
 you that lesson when you were a child on my 
 knee, and it would be strange if I forgot it when I 
 want so much any comfort that I can get. But I 
 don't believe (and if you ask the clergyman, he 
 will tell you that he does not believe) that it is 
 God's will that we, or any other people, should be 
 thrust into a swamp like this, scarcely fit for the 
 rats and the frogs to live in. It is man's doing, 
 not God's, that the fever makes such havoc as it 
 has made with us. The fever does not lay waste 
 healthy places." 
 
 "Then why are we here?" Allan ventured to 
 say. " Father, let us go." 
 
 "Go! I wonder how or where! I can't go, or 
 let any of you go. I have not a pound in th& 
 world to spend in moving, or in finding new em- 
 
The Home of' "Woodbupfe. 245 
 
 ployment. And if I had, who would employ me ? 
 Who would not laugh at a crippled old man ask- 
 ing for work and wages?" 
 
 " Then, father, we must see what we can do 
 here, and you must not forbid us to say 'God's 
 will be done !' If we cannot go away, it must be 
 Eis wiU that we should stay and have as much 
 liope and courage as we can." 
 
 Woodruffe threw himself back in his chair. It 
 was too much to expect that he would immediately 
 rally; but he let the young people confer, and 
 plan, and cheer each other. 
 
 The first thing to be done, they agreed, was to 
 move hither, whenever the dismal rain would per- 
 mit it, all Abby's furniture that could not be dis- 
 posed of to her husband's successors. It would fit 
 up the lower room. And Allan and Becky settled 
 how the things could stand so as to make it at 
 once a bed-room and sitting-rdoio. If, as Abby 
 had said, she meant to try to get some scholars, 
 and keep a little school, room must be left to seat 
 the children. 
 
246 Peabl-Fishing. 
 
 " Keep a school ?" exclaimed Woodrufie, look- 
 ing rottnd at Abby. 
 
 "Yes, father," said Abby, raising her head. 
 " That seems to be a thing that I can do ; and it 
 will be good for me to have something to do. 
 Becky is the stoutest of us all, and . . ." 
 
 " I wonder how long that will last," groaned the 
 father. 
 
 "I am quite stout now," said Becky; "and I 
 am the one to help Allan with the garden. Allan, 
 and I will work under your direction, father, while 
 your rheumatism lasts ; and . ." 
 
 " And what am I to do?" asked Moss, pushing 
 himself in. 
 
 " You shall fetch and carry the tools," said 
 Becky; "that is, when the weather is fine, and 
 when your chilblains are not very bad. And you 
 shall be bird-boy when the sowing season comes 
 on." 
 
 "And we are going to put up a pent-house for 
 you, in one corner, you know. Moss," said his 
 brother. " And we will make it so that there shall 
 
The Home of Woodbuffe. 247 
 
 be room for a fire in it, where father and you may 
 warm yourselves, and always have dry shoes 
 ready." 
 
 " I wonder what our shoe leather will have cost 
 us by the time the spring comes," observed Wood- 
 ruffe. " There is not a place where we ever have 
 to take the cart or the barrow that is not all mis:§ 
 and ruts ; not a path in the whole garden that I 
 call a decent one. Our shoes are all pulled to 
 pieces ; while the frost, or the fog, or somethiog or 
 other, prevents our getting any real work done. 
 The waste is dreadful. Nothing should have naads 
 me take a garden where none but summer crops 
 are to be had, if I could have foreseen such a thing. 
 I never saw such a thing before, — never — as mar- 
 ket-gardening without winter and spring crops. 
 Never heard of such a thing !" 
 
 Becky glanced towards Allan, to see if he had 
 nothing to propose. If they could neither mend 
 the place nor leave it, it did seem a hard case. 
 Allan was looking into the fire, musing. When 
 Moss announced that the rain was over, Allan 
 
248 Pearl-Fishing. 
 
 started, and said he must be fetching some of Ab- 
 by's things down, if it was fair. Becky really 
 meant to help him; but she also wanted oppor- 
 tunity for consultation, as to whether it could 
 really be God's wUl that they should neither be 
 able to mend their condition nor to escape from it. 
 As they mounted the long iiight of steps, they saw 
 Mr, Nelson issue from the Station, looking about 
 him to ascertain if the rain was over, and take hia 
 stand on the embankment, followed by a gentle- 
 man who had a roll of paper in his hand. As they 
 stood, the one was seen to point with his stick, and 
 the other with his roU of paper, this way and that. 
 Allan set off in that direction, saying to his sister, 
 as he went, 
 
 " Don't you come. That gentleman is so rude, 
 he will make you cry. Yes, I must go, and I 
 won't get angry ; I won't indeed. He may find as 
 much faidt as he pleases ; I must show him how 
 the water is standing in our furrows." 
 
 " HaUo I what do you want here ?" was Mr. Nel- 
 son's greeting, when, after a minute' or two, he saw 
 
The Home of Woodruffe. 249 
 
 Allan looking and listening. "What business 
 have you here, hearkening to what we are say- 
 ing?" 
 
 " I wanted to know whether anything is going 
 to be done below there. I thought, if you wished 
 it, I could tell you something about it." 
 
 " You I what, a dainty little fellow like you ? — 
 a fellow that wears his Sunday clothes on a Tues- 
 day, and a rainy Tuesday too ! You must get 
 working clothes and work." 
 
 " I shall work to-morrow, Sir. My mother and 
 my brother-in-law were buried to-day." 
 
 "Lord bless me! You should have told me 
 that. How should I kncrw that unless you told 
 me?" He proceeded in a much gentler tone, how- 
 ever, merely remonstrating with Allan for letting 
 the wet stand in the furrows, in such a way as 
 would spoil any garden. Allan had a good ally, 
 all the while, in the stranger, who seemed to un- 
 derstand everything before it was explained. The 
 gentleman was, in fact, an agricultural surveyor — 
 one who could tell, when looking abroad from a 
 
250 Peael-Fishing. 
 
 height, what was swamp and what meadow ; where 
 there^ was a clean drain, and where an uneven 
 ditch; where the soil was likely to be watered, 
 and where flooded by the winter rains ; where ge- 
 nially warmed, and where fatally baked by the 
 summer's sun. He had seen, before Allan pointed 
 it out, how the great ditch cut across between the 
 cultivated grounds and the little river into which 
 those grounds should be drained ; but he could not 
 know, tin told by Allan, who were the proprietors 
 and occupiers of the parcels of land lying on either 
 side the ditch. Mr. Nelson knew little or nothing 
 under this head, though he contradicted the lad 
 every minute ; was sure such an one did not live 
 here, nor another there ; told him he was confusing 
 Mr. Smith and Mr. Brown ; did not believe a word 
 of Mr. Taylor having bought yonder meadow, or 
 Mrs. Scott now renting that field. All the while, 
 the surveyor went on setting down the names as 
 Allan told them ; and then observed that they 
 were not so many but that they might combine, if 
 they would, to drain their properties, if they could 
 
The Home of Woodeuffe. 251 
 
 be relieved of the obstruction of the ditch — if the 
 surveyor of highways would see that the ditch 
 were taken in hand. Mr. Nelson pronounced that 
 there should be no difficulty about the ditch, if the 
 rest could be managed ; and then, after a few whis- 
 pered words between the gentlemen, Allan was 
 asked first, whether he was sure that he knew 
 ■where every person lived whose name was down 
 in the surveyor's book; and next, whether he 
 would act as guide to-morrow. For a moment he 
 thought he should be wanted to move Abby's. 
 things ; but, remembering the vast importance of 
 the plan which seemed now to be fairly growing 
 under his eye, he replied that he would go; he 
 should be happy to make it his day's work to help, 
 ever so little, towards what he wished above every- 
 thing in the world. 
 
 " What makes you in such a hurry to suppose 
 we want to get a day's work out of you for no- 
 thing?" asked Mr. Nelson. He thrust half-a-crown 
 into the lad's waistcoat pocket, saying that he must 
 give it back again, if he led the gentleman wrong. 
 
252 Pearl-Fishing. 
 
 The gentleman had no time to go running about 
 the country on a fool's errand ; Allan must mind 
 that. As Allan touched his hat, and ran down 
 the steps, Mr. JSTelson observed that boys with 
 good hearts did not fly about in that way, as if 
 they were merry, on the day of their mother's 
 funeral. 
 
 "Perhaps he is rather thinking of saving hia 
 father," observed the surveyor. 
 
 " "Well ; save as many of them as you can. Thej 
 seem all going to pot as it is." 
 
 When Allan burst in, carrying nothing of Ab 
 by's, but having a little color in his cheeks fo:/ 
 once, his father sat up in his chair, the baby sud- 
 denly stopped crying, and Moss asked where he 
 had been. At first, his father disappointed him by 
 being listless — first refusing to believe anything 
 good, and then saying that any good that coald 
 happen now was too late; and Abby could not 
 help crying all the more because this was not 
 thought about a year sooner. It was her poor 
 husband that had made the stir; and now they 
 
The Home of Woodruffe. 253 
 
 ■were going to take his advice tlie very day that lie 
 was laid in his grave. They all tried to comfort 
 her, and said how natural it was that she shoiald 
 feel it so ; yet, amidst all their sympathy, they 
 could not help being cheered that something was 
 to be done at last. 
 
 By degrees, and not slow degrees, Woodruffe 
 became animated. It was surprising Jiow many 
 things he desired Allan to be sure not to forget to 
 point out to the surveyor, and to urge upon those 
 he was to visit. At last he said he would go him- 
 self. It was a very serious business, and he ought 
 to make an effort to have it done properly. It was 
 a great effort, but he would make it. Not rheuma- 
 tism, nor anything else, should keep him at home. 
 Allan was glad at heart to see such signs of energy 
 in his father, though he might feel some natural 
 disappointment at being left at home, and some 
 perplexity as to what, in that case, he ought to do 
 about the half-crown, if Mr. Nelson should be goner 
 home. The morning settled this, however. The 
 surveyor was in his gig. If Allan could hang on, 
 
254 Pearl-Fishing. 
 
 or keep up witii it, it -would be very well, as he 
 would be wanted to open tlie gates, and to lead the 
 way in places too wet for his father, who was not 
 worth such a pair of patent waterproof tall boots 
 as the surveyor had on. 
 
 The circuit was not a very wide one ; yet it was 
 dark before they got home. There are always dif- 
 ficulties in* arrangements which require combined 
 action. Here there were dififerent levels in the 
 land, and different tempers and views among the 
 occupiers. Mr. Brown had heard nothing about 
 the matter, and could not be hurried till he saw 
 occasion. Mr. Taylor liked his field best, wet — 
 would not have it drier on any account, for fear of 
 the summer sun. When assured that drought 
 took no hold on well-dried land in comparison 
 with wet land, he shook with laughter, and asked 
 if they expected him to believe that. Mrs. Scott, 
 whose combination with two others was essential 
 to the drainage of three portions, would wait an- 
 other year. They must go on without her; and 
 after another year, she would see what she would 
 
The Home of Woodeuffe. 255 
 
 do. Another Had drained his land in his own way 
 long ago, and did not expect that anybody would 
 ask him to put his spade into another man's land, 
 or to let any other man put his spade into his. 
 These were all the obstructions. Everybody else 
 was willing, or at least, not obstructive. By clever 
 management, it was thought that the parties con- 
 cerned could make an island of Mrs. Scott and her 
 field, and win over Mr. Brown by the time he was 
 wanted, and show Mr. Taylor that, as his field 
 could no longer be as wet as it had been, he might 
 as well try the opposite condition — they promising 
 to flood his field as often and as thoroughly as he 
 pleased, if he found it the worse for being drained. 
 They could not obtain all they wished, where 
 everybody was not as wise as could be wished; 
 but so much was agreed upon as made the experi- 
 enced surveyor think that the rest would follow; 
 enough, already, to set more laborers to workthan 
 the place could furnish. Two or three stout men 
 were sent from a distance; and when they had 
 once cut a clear descent from the ditch to the river, 
 
256 Pearl-Pishing. 
 
 and had sunk the ditch to seven feet deep, and 
 made the bottom even, and narrowed it to three 
 feet, it was a curious thing to see how ready the 
 neighbors became to unite their drains with it. It 
 used to be said, that here — however it might be 
 elsewhere — ^the winter was no time for digging; 
 but that must have meant that no winter-digging 
 would bring a spring crop ; and that therefore it 
 was useless. Now, the sound of the spade never 
 ceased for the rest of the winter ; and the laborers 
 thought it the best winter they had ever known 
 for constant work. Those who employed the la- 
 bor hoped it would answer — found it expensive — 
 must trust it was all right, and would yield a profit 
 by and by. As for the Woodruffes, they were too 
 poor to employ laborers. But some little hope had 
 entered their hearts again, and brought strength, 
 not only to their hearts, but to their very limbs. 
 They worked like people beginning the world. 
 As poor Abby could keep the house and sew, 
 while attending to her Httle school, Becky did the 
 lighter parts (and some which were far from light) 
 
The Home of Woodeuffe. 257 
 
 of the garden -work, finding easy tasks for Moss ; 
 and Allan -worked like a man at tte draias. They 
 had been called good drains before; but now, 
 there was an outfaU for deeper ones ; and deeper 
 they must be made. Moreover, a strong rivalry 
 arose among the neighbors about their respective 
 portions of the combined drainage; and under the 
 stimulus of ambition, Woodruffe recovered his 
 spirits and the use of his limbs wonderfully. He 
 suffered cruelly from his rheumatism ; and in the 
 evenings felt as if he could never more lift a spade ; 
 yet, not the less was he at work again in the morn- 
 ing, and so sanguine as to the improvement of his 
 ground, that it was necessary to remiud him, when 
 calculating his gaias, that it would take two years, 
 
 at least, to prove the effects of his present labors. 
 17 
 
258 Peael-Fishing, 
 
 VII. 
 
 It was observed by "Woodruffe's family, during 
 one week of spring of tlie next year, that he was 
 very absent. He was not in low spirits, but ab- 
 sorbed in thought, and much devoted to making 
 calculations with pencil and paper. At last, out it 
 came, one morning at breakfast. 
 
 " I wonder how we should all hke to have Harry 
 Hardiman to work with us again ?" 
 
 Every one looked up. Harry! where was Harry? 
 Was he here? Was he coming? 
 
 " Why, I will teU you what I have been think- 
 ing," said their father. "I have thought long and 
 carefully, and I believe I have made up my mind 
 to send for Harry, to come and work for us as he 
 used to do. We have not labor enough on the 
 ground. Two stout men to the acre is the smallest 
 allowance for trying what could be made of the 
 place." 
 
 " That is what Taylor and Brown are employing 
 
The Home of WooDEUFrE. 259 
 
 now on tlie best part of their land, said Allan; 
 " that is, when they can get the labor. There is 
 such difference between that and one man to four 
 or five acres, as there was before, that they can't 
 always get the labor." 
 
 " Just so ; and therefore," continued "Woodruffe, 
 " I am thinking of sending for Harry. Our old 
 neighborhood was not prosperous when we left it, 
 and I fancy it cannot have improved since ; and 
 Harry might be glad to follow his master to a 
 thriving neighborhood ; and he is such a careful 
 fellow that I dare say he has money for the joiirney, 
 ■ — even if he has a wife by this time, as I suppose 
 he has." 
 
 Moss looked most pleased, where all were pleased, 
 at the idea of seeing Harry again. His remem- 
 brance of Harry was of a tall young man, who 
 used to carry him on his shoulders, and wheel him 
 in the empty water-barrel, and sometimes offer to 
 dip him into it when it was full, and show him 
 how to dig in the sand-heap with his little wooden 
 spade. 
 
260 Peael-Fishino. 
 
 " YoTir rent, tq be sure, is mucli lower titan in 
 tlie old place," observed Abby. 
 
 " Why, we must not build upon tbat," replied 
 tbe father ; " rent is rising here, and will rise. My 
 landlord was considerate in lowering mine to £3 
 per acre, when he saw how impossible it was to 
 make it answer ; and he says he shall not ask more 
 yet on account of the labor I laid out at the time 
 of the drainage. But when I have partly repaid 
 myself, the rent will rise to £5 ; and, in fact, I 
 have made my calculations in regard to Harry's 
 coming at a higher rent than that." 
 
 "Higher than that?" 
 
 " Yes ; I should not be surprised if I found my- 
 self paying, as market-gardeners near London do, 
 ten pounds per acre before I die." 
 
 "Or rather, to let the ground to me for that, 
 father," said AUan, " when it is your own property, 
 and you are tired of work, and disposed to turn it 
 over to me. I will pay you ten pounds per acre 
 then, and let you have all the cabbages you can 
 
The Home of Woodruffe. 261 
 
 eat besides. It is capital land, and that is the 
 truth. Come — shall that be a bargain ?" 
 
 Woodniffe smiled, and said he owed a duty to 
 Allan. He did not Kke to see him so hard worked 
 as to be unable to take due care of his own corner 
 of the garden; — ^unable to enter fairly into the 
 competition for the prizes at the Horticultural Show 
 in the summer. Becky now, too, ought to be spared 
 from all but occasional help in the garden. Above 
 all, the ground was now in such an improving state 
 that it would be waste not to bestow due labor upon 
 it. Put in the spade where you would, the soil 
 was loose and well-aired as needs be : the manure 
 penetrated it thoroughly ; the frost and heat pul- 
 verized, instead of binding it ; and the crops were 
 succeeding each other so fast, that the year would 
 be a very profitable one. 
 
 "Where will Harry live, if he comes?" asked 
 Abby. 
 
 "We must get another cottage added to the new 
 row. Easily done ! Cottages so healthy as these 
 new ones pay well. Good rents are offered for 
 
262 Peael-Fishing. 
 
 them, — to save dpctors' bills and loss of time from 
 sickness; — and, wken once a system of konse- 
 drainage is set a-going, it costs scarcely more in. 
 adding a cottage to a group, to make it all riglit, 
 than to run it up upon solid clay as used to be tbe 
 way here. "Well, I have a good mind to write 
 to Harry to-day. What do you think of it, — all 
 of you?" 
 
 Portij&ed by the opinion of all his children, Mr. 
 Woodruffe wrote to Harry. Meantime, Allan and 
 Becky went to cut the vegetables that were for sale 
 that day ; and Moss delighted himself in running 
 after and catching the pony in the meadow below. 
 The pony was not very easily caught, for it was full 
 of spirit. Instead of the woolly insipid grass that 
 it used to crop, and which seemed to give it only 
 fever and no nourishment, it now fed on sweet 
 fresh grass, which had no sour stagnant water soak- 
 ing its roots. The pony was so full of play this 
 morning that Moss could not get hold of it. 
 Though much stronger than a year ago, he was not 
 yet anything like so robust as a boy of his age 
 
The Home of "Woodruffe. 263 
 
 Bliotild. be ; and lie •was growing heated, and per- 
 haps a little angry, as the pony galloped off towards 
 some distant trees, when a boy started up behind 
 a bush, caught the halter, brought the pony round 
 with a twitch, and led him to Moss. Moss fancied 
 iie had seen the boy before, an-d then his white 
 teeth reminded Moss of one thing after another. 
 
 " I came for some marsh plants," said the boy. 
 "You and I got plenty once somewhere here- 
 abouts, but I cannot find them now." 
 
 "You will not find any now. We have no 
 marsh now." 
 
 The stranger said he dared not go back without 
 them; mother wanted them badly. She would 
 not believe him if he said he could not find any. 
 There were plenty about two miies off, along the 
 railway, among the clay-pits, he was told; but 
 none nearer. The boy wanted to know where the 
 clay -pits hereabouts were. He could not find one 
 of them. 
 
 " I will show you one of them," said Moss ; " tha 
 one where you and I used to hunt rata." And, 
 
264 Peael-Fishing. 
 
 leading the pony, he showed his old gypsy play- 
 fellow all the improvements, beginning with the 
 great ditch, — ^now invisible from being covered in. 
 While it was open, he said, it nsed to get choked, 
 and the sides were plastered after rain, and sooa 
 became grass-grown, so that it was found worth 
 whUe to cover it in ; and now it would want little 
 looking to for years to come. As for the clay -pit, 
 where the rats used to pop in and out, — ^it was now 
 a manure-pit, covered in. There was a drain into 
 it from the pony's stable and from the pig-styes ; 
 and it was near enough to the garden to receive 
 the re&se and sweepings. A heavy lid, with a ring 
 in the middle, covered the pit, so that nobody could 
 fall in in the dark, and no smell could get out. 
 Moss begged the boy to come a little further, and 
 he would show him his own flower-bed ; and when 
 the boy was there, he was shown everything else : 
 what a cart-load of vegetables lay cut for sale ; and 
 what an arbor had been made of the pent-house 
 under which Moss used to take shelter, when he 
 could do nothing better than keep off the birds ; 
 
The Home of Woodeuffe. 265 
 
 and how fine the ducks were, — ^tlie five ducks that 
 were so serviceahle in eating off the slugs; and 
 what a comfortable nest had been made for them 
 to lay their eggs in, beside the water-tank in the 
 comer; and what a variety of scarecrows the fam- 
 ily had invented, — each having one, to try which 
 would, frighten the sparrows most. While Moss 
 was telling how difficult it was to deal with the 
 sparrows, because they could not be frightened for 
 more than three days by any kind of scarecrow, he 
 heard Allan calling him, in a tone of vexation, at 
 being kept waiting so long. In an instant the 
 stranger boy was off, — ^leaping the gate, and flying 
 along the meadow tiU he was hidden behind a 
 hedge. 
 
 Two or three days after this one of the ducks 
 was missing. The last time that the five had been 
 seen together was when Moss was showing them to 
 his visitor. The morning after Moss finally gave 
 up hope, the glass of Allan's hotbed was found 
 broken, and in the midst of the bed itself was a 
 deep foot-track, crushing the cucumber plants, and, 
 
266 Pearl-Pishing. 
 
 witli them, Allan's hopes of a cucumber prize at 
 the Horticultural Exhibition in the summer. On 
 more examination, more mischief was discovered, 
 some cabbages had been stolen, and another duck 
 was missing. In the midst of the general concern, 
 Woodruffe burst out a-laughing. It struck him 
 that the chief of the scarecrows had changed his 
 hat; and so he had. The old straw hat which 
 used to flap in the wind so serviceably was gone, 
 and in its stead appeared a helmet, — a saucepan 
 full of holes, battered and split, but still fit to be a 
 helmet to a scarecrow. 
 
 " I could swear to the old hat," observed Wood- 
 rxifie, "if I should have the luck to see it on any- 
 body's head." 
 
 " And so could I," said Becky, " for I mended 
 it, — Abound it with black behind, and green before, 
 because I had not green ribbon enough. But no- 
 body would wear it before our eyes." 
 
 " That is why I suspect there are strangers hov- 
 ering about. We must watch." 
 
 Now Moss, for the first time, bethought himself 
 
The Home of Woodeuffe. 267 
 
 of tlie boy lie liad brougTit in from the meadow ; 
 and now, for tlie first time, lie told Ms family of 
 that encounter. 
 
 " I never saw such a simpleton," his father de- 
 clared. " There, go along and work ! Now, don't 
 cry, but hold up like a man and work." 
 
 Moss did cry; he could not help it; but he 
 worked too. He would fain have been one of the 
 watchers, moreover ; but his father said he was too 
 young. Fortwo nights he was ordered to bed, 
 when Allan took his dark lantern, and went down 
 to the pent-house ; the first night accompanied by 
 his father, and the next by Harry Hardiman, who 
 had come on the first summons. By the third 
 evening. Moss was so miserable that his sisters in- 
 terceded for him, and he was allowed to go down 
 with his old friend Harry. 
 
 It was a starlight night, without a moon. The 
 low country lay dim, but unobscured by mist. 
 After a single remark on the fineness of the night, 
 Harry was silent. Silence was their first business. 
 They stole round the fence as if they had been 
 
268 Peakl-Fishing. 
 
 thieves themselves, listened for some time before 
 they let themselves in at the gate, passed quickly 
 in, and locked the gate (the lock of which had 
 been well oiled), went behind every screen, and 
 along every path, to be sure that no one was there, 
 and finally, perceiving that the remaining ducks 
 were safe, settled themselves in the darkness of the 
 pent-house. 
 
 There they sat, hour after hour, listening. If 
 there had been no sound, perhaps they could not 
 have borne the effort ; but the sense was reheved 
 by the bark of a dog at a distance, and then by 
 the hoot of the owl that was known to have done 
 them good service in mousing, many a time ; and 
 once, by the passage of a train on the railway 
 above. When these were all over, poor Moss had 
 much ado to keep awake, and at last his head sank 
 on Harry's shoulder, and he forgot where he. was, 
 and everything else in the world. He was awak- 
 ened by Harry's moving, and then whispering 
 quite into his ear : — 
 
 " Sit you still. I hear somebody yonder. No — 
 
The Home of Woodruffe. 269 
 
 sit you still. I won't go far — not out of call ; but 
 I must get between tliem and the gate." 
 
 With. Ms lantern under his coat, Harry stole 
 forth, and Moss stood up, all alone in the darkness 
 and stillness. He could hear his heart beat, but 
 nothing else, tUl footsteps on the path came nearer 
 and nearer. They came quite up ; they came in, 
 actually into the arbor ; and then the ducks were 
 certainly fluttering. In an instant more, there was 
 a gleam of light upon the white plumage of the 
 ducks, and then light enough to show that this 
 was the gypsy boy, with, a dark lantern hung 
 round his neck, and, at the same moment, to show 
 the gypsy boy that Moss was there. The two boys 
 stood, face to face, motionless from utter amaze- 
 ment, and the ducks had scuttled and waddled 
 away before they recovered themselves. Then, 
 Moss flew at him in a glorious passion, at once of 
 rage and fear. 
 
 " Leave him to me, Moss," cried Harry, casting 
 light upon the scene from his lantern, while he col- 
 lared the thief with the other hand. "Let go, I 
 
270 Peabl-Fishing. 
 
 say, Moss. There, now we'll go roiind and be sure 
 whetlier there is any one else in the garden, and 
 then we'U lodge this young rogue where he wUl 
 be safe." 
 
 Nobody was there, and they went home in the 
 dawn, locked up the thief in the shed, and slept 
 through what remained of the night. 
 
 It was about Mr. Nelson's usual time for coming 
 down the line ; and it was observed that he now 
 always stopped at this station till the next train 
 passed, — ^probably because it was a pleasure to him 
 to look upon the improvement of the place. It 
 was no surprise therefore to Woodruffe to see him 
 standing on the embankment after breakfast ; and 
 it was natural that Mr. Nelson should be immedi- 
 ately told that the gypsies were here again, and 
 how one of them was caught thieving. 
 
 " Thieving! So you found some of your prop- 
 erty upon him, did you!" 
 
 " Why, no. I thought myself that it was a pity 
 that Moss did not let him alone till he had laid 
 hold of a duck or something." 
 
The Home of Woodruffe 271 
 
 " Pho ! pho ! don't tell me you can punisli the 
 boy for theft, when you can't prove that he stole 
 anything. Give him a whipping, and let him go." 
 
 "With all my heart. It will save me much 
 trouble to finish off the matter so." 
 
 Mr. Nelson seemed to have some curiosity about 
 the business; for he accompanied "Woodruffe to 
 the shed. The boy seemed to feel no awe of the 
 great man whom he supposed to be a magistrate, 
 and when asked whether he felt none, he giggled 
 and said " No ;" he had seen the gentleman more 
 afraid of his mother than anybody ever was of 
 him, he fancied. On this, a thought struck Mr. 
 Nelson. He would now have his advantage of the 
 gypsy woman, and might enjoy, at the same time, 
 an opportunity of studying human nature under 
 stress — a thing he liked, when the stress was not 
 too severe. So he passed a decree on the spot 
 that, it being now nine o'clock, the boy should re- 
 main- shut up without food till noon, when he 
 should be severely flogged, and driven from the 
 neighborhood; and with this pleasant prospect 
 
272 Peael-Fishing. 
 
 before Mm, the young rogue remained, whistling 
 ostentatiously, wMle his enemies locked the door 
 upon him. 
 
 "Did you hear him shoot the bolt?" asked 
 Woodruffe. "If he holds to that, I don't know 
 how I shall get at him at noon." 
 
 " There, now, what fools people are ! Why did 
 you not take out the bolt? A pretty constable 
 you would make ! Come — come this way. I am 
 going to find the gypsy-tent agaia. You are won- 
 dering that I am not afraid of the woman, I see ; 
 but, you observe, I have a hold over her this time. 
 "What do you mean by allowing those children to 
 gather about your door ? You ought not to per- 
 mit it." , 
 
 " They are only the scholars. Don't you see 
 them going in? My daughter keeps a httle school, 
 you know, since her husband's death." 
 
 "Ah, poor thiagi poor thing!" said Mr. Nelson, 
 as Abby appeared on the threshold, calling the 
 children in. 
 
 Mr. Nelson always contrived to see some one or 
 
The Home of Woodeuffe. 273 
 
 more of the family wlieii he visited the station ; 
 but it so happened, that he had 'never entered the 
 door of their dwelling. Perhaps he was not him- 
 self fully conscious of the reason. It was, that he| 
 could not bear to see Abby's young face within 
 the widow's cap, and to be thus reminded that 
 hers was a case of cruel wrong ; that if the most 
 ordinary thought and care had been used in pre- 
 paring the place for human habitation, her hus- 
 band might be living now, and she the happy 
 creature that she would never be again. 
 
 On his way to the gypsies, Mr. Nelson saw some 
 things that pleased him ia his heart, though he 
 found fault with them all. What business had 
 Woodruffe with an additional man in his garden? 
 It could not possibly answer. If it did not, the 
 fellow must be sent away again. He must not 
 burden the parish. The occupiers here seemed all 
 alike. Such a fancy for new labor! One, two, 
 six men at work on the land withia sight at that 
 moment, over and above what there used to be ! 
 
 It must be looked to. Humph I he could get to 
 
 18 
 
274 Peael-Fishing. 
 
 the alders dryshod now ; but that was owing solely 
 to the warmth of the spring. It was nonsense to 
 attribute everything to drainage. Drainage was a 
 good thing ; but fine weather was better. 
 
 The gypsy-tent was found behind the alders as 
 before, but no longer in a swamp. The woman 
 was sitting on the ground at the entrance as before, 
 but not now with a fevered child laid across her 
 knees. She was weaving a basket. 
 
 " Oh, I see," said Woodruffe, " this is the way 
 our osiers go." 
 
 "You have not many to lose, now-a-days," said 
 the woman. 
 
 "You are welcome to all the rushes you can 
 find," said "Woodruffe ; " but where is your son ?" 
 
 Some change of countenance was seen in the^ 
 woman ; but she answered carelessly that the chil- 
 dren were playing yonder. 
 
 " The one I mean is not there," said "Woodruffe. 
 " We have him safe — caught him stealing my 
 ducks." 
 
 She called the boy a villain — <iisowned him, and 
 
The Home of Woodeuffe. 275 
 
 so fortli ; but when she found the case a hopeless 
 one, she did not, and, therefore, probably could 
 not scold — ^that is, anybody but herself and her 
 husband. She cursed herself for coming into this 
 silly place, where now no good was to be got. 
 When she was brought to the right point of per- 
 plexity about what to do, seeing that it would not 
 do to stay, and being unable to go while her boy 
 was in durance, she was told that his punishment 
 should be summary, though severe, if she would 
 answer frankly certain questions. "When she had 
 once begun giving her confidence, she seemed to 
 enjoy the license. "When her husband came up, 
 he looted as if he' only waited for the departure 
 of his visitors to give his wife the same amount of 
 thrashing that her son was awaiting elsewhere. 
 She vowed that they would never pitch their tent 
 here again. It used to be the best station in their 
 whole round — ^the fogs were so thick I From sun- 
 set to long after sunrise, it had been as good as a 
 winter night, for going where they pleased without 
 fear of prying eyes. There was not a poultry-yard 
 
276 Peael-Fishing. 
 
 or pig-stye within a couple of miles round, where 
 they could not creep up through the fog. And 
 they escaped the blame, too ; for the swamp and 
 ditches used to harbor so much vermin, that the 
 gypsies were not always suspected, as they were 
 now. Till lately, people shut themselyes into their 
 homes, or the men went to the public-house in the 
 chill evenings ; and there was little fear of meeting 
 any one. But now that the fogs were gone, people 
 were out in their gardens, on these fine evenings, 
 and there were men in the meadows, returning 
 from fishing ; for they could angle now, when their 
 work was done, without the fear of catching an 
 ague in the marsh as they went home. 
 
 Mr. Nelson used vigorously his last opportunity 
 of lecturing these people. He had it all his own 
 way, for the humility of the gypsies was edifying. 
 Woodruffe fancied he saw some finger-talk passing, 
 the while, though the gypsies never looked at each 
 other, or raised their eyes from the ground. Wood- 
 ruffe had to remind the Director that the whistle 
 of the next train would soon be heard ; and this 
 
The Home of Woodruepe. 277 
 
 broTigtt tlie lecture to an abrupt conclusion. On 
 his finisMng off with, "I expect, therefore, that 
 yon will remember my advice, and never show 
 your face here again, and that you will take to a 
 proper course of life in future, and bring up your 
 son to honest industry ;" the woman, with a coun- 
 tenance of grief, seized one hand and covered it 
 with kisses, and the husband took the other hand 
 and pressed it to his breast. 
 
 " We must make haste," observed Mr. ISTelson, 
 as he led the way quickly back; "but I think I 
 have made some impression upon them. You see 
 now the right way to treat these people. I don't 
 think you will see them here again." 
 
 " I don't think we shall." 
 
 As he reached the steps the whistle was' heard, 
 and Mr. Nelson could only wave his hand to 
 "Woodruffe, rush up the embankment, and throw 
 himself panting into a carriage. Only just in 
 time! 
 
 By an evening train he re-appeared. When 
 thirty miles off, he had wanted his purse, and it 
 
278 Pearl-Fishing. 
 
 ■was gone. It had no doubt paid for the gypsies' 
 final gratitude. 
 
 Of course, a sufficient force was immediately 
 sent to the alder clump; but there was nothing 
 there but some charred sticks, and some clean pork 
 bones, this time, instead of feathers of fowls, and a 
 cabbage leaf or two. The boy had had his whip- 
 ping at noon, after a conference with his little 
 brother at the keyhole, which had caused him to 
 withdraw the bolt, and offer no resistance. Con- 
 sidering his cries and groans, he had run off with 
 surprising agUity, and was now, no doubt, far 
 away. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 The gypsies came no more. The fogs came no 
 more. The feyer came no more, at least, in such 
 a form as to threaten the general safety. Where 
 it still lingered, it was about those only who de- 
 
The Home op Woodruffe. 279 
 
 served it, — in any small farm-liouse, where the 
 dung-yard was too near the hoxise ; and in some 
 cottage where the slatternly inmates did not mind 
 a green puddle or choked ditch within reach of 
 their noses. More dwellings arose, as the fertility 
 of the land increased, and invited a higher kind of 
 tillage ; and among tiie prettiest of them was one 
 which stood in the comer, — the most sunny comw, 
 — of Woodniffe's paddock. Harry Hardiman and 
 his wife and child lived there, and the cottage was 
 "Woodrufie's property. 
 
 Yet Woodrufie's rent had been raised, and pretty 
 rapidly. He was now paying eight pounds per 
 acre for his garden-ground, and half that for what 
 was out of the limits of the garden. He did not 
 complain of it; for he was making money fast. 
 His skill and industry deserved this ; but skill and 
 industry could not have availed without oppor- 
 tunity. His ground once allowed to show what it 
 was worth, he treated it well; and it answered 
 well to the treatment. By the railway he obtained 
 what manure he wanted from the town; and he 
 
280 Pearl-Fishing. 
 
 sent it back by tlie railway to town in tlie form of 
 crisp celery and salads, wholesome potatoes and 
 greens, luscious strawberries, and sweet and early 
 peas. He knew that a Surrey gardener had made 
 his ground yield a profit of two hundred and 
 twenty pounds, per acre. He thought that, with 
 his inferior market, he should do well to make his 
 yield one hundred and fifty pounds per acre ; and 
 this, by close perseverance, he attained. He could 
 have done it more easily if he had enjoyed good 
 health ; but he never enjoyed good health again. 
 His rheumatism had fixed itself too firmly to be 
 entirely removed ; and for many days in the year, 
 he was compelled to remain within doors, or to 
 saunter about in the sun, seeing his boys and Harry 
 at work, but unable to help them. 
 
 From the time that Allan's work became worth 
 wages in addition to his subsistence, his father let 
 hinn rent half a rood of the garden-ground for 
 three years, saying — 
 
 " I limit it to three years, my boy, because that 
 term is long enough for you to show what you can 
 
The Home of Woodrufpe. 281 
 
 do. After three years, I shall not be able to spare 
 the grotrnd at any rent. If you fail, you have no 
 business to rent ground. If you succeed, you will 
 have money in your pocket wherewith to hire land 
 elsewhere. Now you have to show us what you 
 can do." 
 
 " Yes, father," was Allan's short but sufficient 
 reply. 
 
 It was observed by the family that, from this 
 time forward, Allan's eye was on every plot of 
 ground in the neighborhood which could, by pos- 
 sibility, ever be offered for hire ; yet did his atten- 
 tion never wander from that which was already 
 under his hand. And that which was so great an 
 object to him became a sort of pursuit to the whole 
 family. Moss guarded Allan's frames, and made 
 more and more prodigious scarecrows. Their father 
 gave his very best advice. Becky, who was no 
 longer allowed, as a regular thing, to work in the 
 garden, found many a spare half hour for hoeing 
 and weeding, and trimming and tying up, in Al- 
 lan's beds ; .and Abby found, as she sat in her little 
 
282 Peael-Fishing. 
 
 school, that she could make nets for his fruit trees. 
 It was thus no wonder that, when a certain July- 
 day in the second year arrived, the whole house- 
 hold was in a state of excitement, because it was a 
 sort of crisis in Allan's aflfairs. 
 
 Though breakfast was early that morning, Becky 
 and Allan and Moss were spruce in their best 
 clothes. A hamper stood at the door, and Allan 
 was packing in another, which had no lid, two or 
 three flower-pots, which presented a glorious show 
 of blossom. Abby was putting a new ribbon on 
 her sister's straw bonnet ; and Harry was in wait- 
 ing to carry up the hampers to the station. It was 
 the day of the Horticultural Show at the town. 
 Woodruflfe had been too unwell to think of going 
 till this morning ; but now the sight of the prep- 
 arations, and the prospect of a warm day, inspired 
 him, and he thought he would go. At last he 
 went, and they were gone. Abby never went up 
 to the station ; nobody ever asked her to go there, 
 not even her own child, who perhaps had not 
 thought of the possibility of it. But when the 
 
The Home of "Woodeuefe. 283 
 
 train was starting, she stood at tlie upper window 
 witli her child, and held him so that he might lean 
 out, and see the last carriage disappear as it swept 
 round the curve. After that the day seemed long, 
 though Harry came up at the dinner-hour to say 
 what he thought of the great gooseberry in particu- 
 lar, and of ererything else that Allan had carried 
 with him. It was holiday time, and there was no 
 school to fill up the day. Before the evening, the 
 child became restless, and Abby fell into low spir- 
 its, as she was apt to do when left long alone ; so 
 that Harry stopped suddenly at the door when he 
 was rushing in to announce that the train was 
 within sight. 
 
 "Shall I take the child. Miss?" said Harry. 
 (He always called her "Miss.") "I will carry 
 
 him But, sure, here they come ! Here comes 
 
 Moss, — ready to roll down the steps ! My opinion 
 is that there's a prize." 
 
 Moss was called back by a voice which every- 
 body obeyed. Allan should himself tell his sister 
 the fortune of the day, their father said. 
 
284 Peabl-Fishing. 
 
 There were two prizes, one of whioli was for the 
 wonderful plate of gooseberries ; and at this news 
 Harry nodded, and declared himself anything but 
 surprised. If that gooseberry had not carried the 
 day, there would have been partiality in the judges, 
 that was ajl ; and nobody could suppose such a 
 thing as that. Yet Harry could have told, if put 
 upon his honor, that he was rather disappointed 
 that everything that Allan carried had not gained 
 a prize. When he mentioned one or two, his mas- 
 ter told him he was unreasonable ; and he supposed 
 he was. 
 
 Allan laid down upon the table, for his sister's 
 full assurance, his sovereign, and his half-sovereign, 
 and his tickets. She turned away rather abruptly, 
 and seemed to be looking whether the kettle was 
 near boiling for tea. Her father went up to her ; 
 and on his first whispered words, the sob broke 
 forth which made all look round. 
 
 "I was thinking of one, too, my dear, that I 
 wish was here at this moment. I can feel for you, 
 my dear." 
 
The Home of Woodeuffe. 286 
 
 "But you don't know — ^you don't know — you 
 never knew ." She could not go on. 
 
 " What don't I know, my dear ?" 
 
 "That he constantly blamed himself for saying 
 anything to bring you here. He said you had 
 never prospered from the hour you came, and 
 now " 
 
 And now* "W"o,odruffe could not speak, as the 
 past came fresh npon him. In a few moments, 
 however, he rallied, saying, 
 
 "But we must consider Allan. He must not 
 think that his success makes us sad." 
 
 Allan declared that it was not about gaining 
 the prizes that he was chiefly glad. It was be- 
 cause it was now proved what a fair field he had 
 before him. There was nothing that might not 
 be done with such a soil as they had to deal with 
 now. 
 
 Harry was quite of this opinion. There were 
 more and more people set to work upon the soil all 
 about them ; and the more it was worked the more 
 it yielded. He never saw a place of so much 
 
286 Pearl-Fishing. 
 
 promise. And if it had a bad name in regard to 
 healthiness, he was sure that was unfair, — or no 
 longer fair. lie and his were full of health and 
 happiness, as they hoped to see everybody else in 
 time ; and, for his part, if he had all England be- 
 fore him, or the whole world, to choose a place to 
 live in, he would choose the very place he was in, 
 and the very cottage, and the very ground to work 
 on that had produced such a gooseberry and such 
 strawberries as he had seen that day. 
 
VII. 
 
 A FAIRY TALE. 
 I. 
 
 TKE SUrrOE3 OF dBRHA, AND THE TOTINQ LADY ; "WITH A KEFEEENCS 
 TO HER PAPA. 
 
 Tj^AE in the west there is a land mountainous, 
 J- and briglit of hue, wherein the rivers run with 
 liquid light; the soil is all of yellow gold; the 
 grass and foliage are of resplendent crimson ; where 
 the atmosphere is partly of a soft green tint, and 
 partly azure. Sometimes on summer evenings we 
 see this land, and then, because our ignorance must- 
 refer all things that we see, to something that we 
 know, we say it is a mass of clouds made beautiful 
 by sunset colors. We account for it by principles 
 of Meteorology. The fact has been omitted from 
 the works of Kaemtz or DanieU; but, notwith- 
 
288 Peael-Fishing. 
 
 standing this neglect, it is well known in many 
 nurseries, that the bright land we speak of, is a 
 world inhabited by fairies. Few among fairies 
 take more interest tn man's affairs than the good 
 Cloud Country People; this truth is established 
 by the story I am now about to tell. 
 
 Not long ago there were great revels held one 
 evening in the palace of King Cumulus, the mon- 
 arch of the western country. Cirrha, the daughter 
 of the king, was to elect her future husband from 
 a multitude of suitors. Cirrha was a maiden deli- 
 cate and pure, with a skin white as unfallen snow ; 
 but colder than the snow her heart had seemed to 
 all who sought for her affections. "When Cirrha 
 floated gracefully and slowly through her father's 
 hall, many a little cloud would start up presently 
 to tread where she had trodden. The winds also 
 pursued her ; and even men looked up admiringly 
 whenever she stepped forth into their sky. To be 
 sure they called her Mackerel and Cat's Tail, just 
 as they call her father Ball of Cotton ; for the race 
 of man is a coarse race, and calling bad names 
 
The "Water-Deops. 289 
 
 appears to be a great part of its business liere be- 
 low. 
 
 Before the revels were concluded, the King or- 
 dered a quiet little wind to run among the guests, 
 and bid them all come close to him and to his 
 daughter. Then he spoke to them as follows : — 
 
 " Worthy friends ! there are among you many 
 suitors to my daughter Cirrha, who is pledged this 
 evening to choose a husband. She bids me tell 
 you that she loves you all ; but since it is desirable 
 that this our royal house be strengthened by a fit 
 alliance with some foreign power, she has resolved 
 to take as husband one of -those guests who have 
 come hither from the principality of Nimbus." 
 Now, Nimbus is that country, not seldom visible 
 from some parts of our earth, which we have called 
 ohe Kain-Gloud. "The subjects of the Prince. of 
 Nimbus," Cumulus continued, " are a dark race, it 
 is true, but they are famed for their beneficence." 
 
 Two winds, at this point, raised between them- 
 selves a great disturbance, so that there arose a 
 
 universal cry that somebody should turn them out. 
 
 19 
 
290 Pearl-Fishing, 
 
 Witli much trouble they were driven out from the 
 assembly; thereupon, quite mad with jealousy and 
 disappointment, they went howling off to sea, 
 where they played pool-billiards with a fleet of 
 ships, and so forgot their sorrow, 
 
 King Cumulus resumed his speech, and said that 
 he was addressing himself, now, especially to those 
 of his good friends who came from Nimbus. " To- 
 night, let them retire to rest, and early the next 
 morning let each of them go down to Earth; 
 whichever of them should be found on their re- 
 turn to have been engaged below in the most use- 
 ful service to the race of man, that son of Nimbus 
 should be Cirrha's husband." 
 
 Cumulus, having said this, put a white nightcap 
 on his head, which was the signal for a general re- 
 tirement. The golden ground of his dominions 
 was covered for the night, as well as the crimson 
 trees, with cotton. So the whole kingdom was put 
 properly to bed. Late in the night the moon got 
 up, and threw over ELing Cumulus a silver coun- 
 terpane. 
 
The Watee-Deops. 291 
 
 II. 
 
 THE ADVENTURES Or NEBULUS AND NUBIS. 
 
 The siiitors of the Princess Cirrha, who returned 
 to Nimbus, were a-foot quite early the next morn- 
 ing, and petitioned their good-natured Prince to 
 waft them over London. They had agreed among 
 themselves, that by descending there, where men 
 were densely congregated, they should have a 
 greater chance of doing service to the human race. 
 Therefore the Eain-Cloud floated over the great 
 City of the World, and, as it passed at sundry 
 points, the suitors came down upon rain-drops to 
 perform their destined labor. "Where each might 
 happen to alight depended almost wholly upon 
 accident ; so that their adventures were but little 
 better than a lottery for Cirrha's hand. One, who 
 had been'the most magniloquent among them all, 
 fell with his pride upon the patched umbrella of an 
 early-breakfast woman, and from thence was shaken 
 
292 Peael-Fishing. 
 
 off into a puddle. He was splashed up presently, 
 mingled with soil, upon tlie corduroys of a laborer, 
 wlio stopped for breakfast on bis way to work. 
 From tbence, evaporating, be returned crest-fallen 
 to tbe Land of Clouds. 
 
 Among-tbe suitors there were two kind-hearted 
 fairies, Nebulus and Nubis, closely bound by 
 friendship to each other. While they were in 
 conversation, Kebulus, who suddenly observed 
 that they were passing over some unhappy region, 
 dropped, with a hope that he might bless it. Nu- 
 bis passed on, and presently alighted on the sur- 
 face of the Thames. 
 
 The district which had wounded the kind heart 
 of Nebulus was in a part of Bermondsey, called 
 Jacob's Island. The fairy fell into a ditch ; out of 
 this, however, he was taken by a woman, who car- 
 ried him to her own home, among other ditch- 
 water, withia a pail. Nebulus abandoned himself 
 to complete despair, for what claim could he now 
 establish on the hand of Cirrha? The miserable 
 plight of the poor fairy we may gather from a de- 
 
The Water-Deops. 293 
 
 scription given by a son of man of the sad place to^ 
 ■which he had descended. " In this Island may be 
 seen, at any time of the day, women dippiag water, 
 with pails attached by ropes to the backs of the 
 houses, from a foul fetid ditch, its banks coated 
 with a compound of mud and filth, and strewed 
 with offal and carrion; the water to be used for 
 every purpose, culinary ones not excepted; al- 
 though close to the place whence it is drawn, filth 
 and refuse of various kinds are plentifully show- 
 ered into it from the outhouses of the wooden 
 houses overhanging its current, or rather slow and 
 sluggish stream; their posts or supporters rotten, 
 decayed, and, in many instances broken, and the 
 filth dropping into the water, to be seen by any 
 passer by. During the summer, crowds of boys 
 bathe in the putrid ditches, where they must come 
 in contact with abominations highly injurious."* 
 
 So Nebulus was carried in a pail out of the ditch 
 to a poor woman's home, and put into a battered 
 
 * Eeport of Mr. Bowie on the cause of Cholera in Ber- 
 mondsey. 
 
294: Peael-Fishing. 
 
 saucepan -vvitli some other water. Thence, after 
 boiling, he "was poured into an earthen tea-pot over 
 some stuff of wretched flavor, said to be tea. Now, 
 thought the fairy, after all, I may give pleasure at 
 the breakfast of these wretched people. He pic- 
 tured to himself a scene of love as preface to a day 
 of squalid toil, but he experienced a second disap- 
 pointment. The woman took him to another room 
 of which the atmosphere was noisome; there he 
 saw that he was destined for the comfort of a man 
 and his two children, prostrate upon the floor be- 
 neath a heap of rags. These three were sick ; the 
 woman swore at them, and Nebulus shrunk down 
 into the bottom of the tea-pot. Even the thirst of 
 fever could not tolerate too much of its contents, 
 so Nebulus, after a little time, was carried out and 
 thrown into a heap of filth upon the gutter. 
 
 Nubis, in the meantime, had commenced his day 
 with hope of a more fortunate career. On falling 
 first into the Thames he had been much annoyed 
 by various pollutions, and been surprised to find, 
 on kissing a few neighbor drops, that their lips 
 
The Water-Deops. 295 
 
 tasted inky. This was caused, they said, by chalk 
 pervading the whole river in the proportion of six- 
 teen grains to the gallon. That was what made 
 their water inky to the taste of those who were ac- 
 ■customed to much purer draughts. "It makes," 
 ihey explained, "our river- water hard, according 
 to man's phrase^ so hard as to Mitail en multitudes 
 who use it, some disease, with much expense and 
 trouble." 
 
 " But all the mud and filth," eaid Nubis, " surely 
 aio man drinks that?" 
 
 "No," laughed the River-Drops, "not all of it. 
 Much of the water used in London passes through 
 filters, and a filter suffers no mud or any impurity 
 to pass, except what is dissolved. The chalk is 
 dissolved, and there is filth and putrid gas dis- 
 solved." 
 
 " That is a bad business," said Nubis, who al- 
 j'eady felt his own drops exercising that absorbent, 
 -power for which water is so famous, and incorpo- 
 rating in their substance matters that the Eaio- 
 Cloud never knew. 
 
296 Pearl-Fishing. 
 
 Presently Nubis found Mmself entangled in a 
 current, by wbicli be. was sucked tbrougb a long 
 pipe into a meeting of "Water-Drops, all summoned 
 from the Thames. He himself passed through a 
 filter, was received into a reservoir, and, having 
 asked the way of friendly neighbors, worked for 
 himself with small delay a passage through the 
 mainpipe into London. 
 
 Bewildered by his long, dark journey under- 
 ground, ISTubis at length saw light, and presently 
 dashed forth out of a tap into a pitcher. He saw 
 that there was fixed under the tap a water-butt, 
 but into this he did not fall. A crowd of women 
 holding pitchers, saucepans, pails, were chattering 
 and screaming over him, and the anxiety of all 
 appeared to be to catch the water as it ran out of 
 the tap, before it came into the tub or cistern. 
 Nubis rejoiced that his good fortune brought him 
 to a district in which it might become his privilege 
 to bless the poor, and his eye sparkled as his mis- 
 tress, with many rests upon the way, carried her 
 pitcher and a heavy pail upstairs. She placed 
 
The "Water-Deops. 297 
 
 both, vessels, full of -water, uaderneatli lier bed, 
 and tlien went out again for more, carrying a basin 
 and a fisK-kettle. Nubis pitied tbe poor creature, 
 heartily wishing that he cotdd have poured out of 
 a tap into the room itself to save the time and la- 
 bor of his mistress. 
 
 The pitcher wherein the good fairy lurked, re- 
 mained under the bed through the remainder of 
 that day, and during the next night, the room be- 
 ing, for the whole time, closely tenanted. Long 
 before morning, Nubis felt that his own drops and 
 all the water near him had lost their delightful 
 coolness, and had been busily absorbing smells 
 and vapors from the close apartment. In the 
 morning, when the husband dipped a teacup in 
 the pitcher, Nubis readily ran into it glad to 
 escape from his unwholesome prison. The man 
 putting the water to his lips, found it so warm and 
 repulsive, that, in a pet, he flung it from the win- 
 dow, and it fell into the water-butt beneath. 
 
 The water-butt was of the common sort, de- 
 scribed thus by a member of the human race : — 
 
298 Peael-Fishing. 
 
 "Generally speaki&g, the -wood becomes decom- 
 posed and covered with fungi ; and iadeed, I can 
 best describe their' condition by terming them fil- 
 thy." This water-butt was placed under the same 
 shed with a neglected cesspool, from which the 
 water — ever absorbing — ^had absorbed pollution. 
 It contained a kitten among other trifles. "How 
 many people have to drink out of this butt?" 
 asked Nubis. " Eeally I cannot tell you," said a 
 neighbor Drop. " Once I was in a butt in Bethnal 
 Green, twenty-one inches across, and a foot deep, 
 which was to supply forty-eight families.* People 
 store for themselves, and when they know how 
 dirty these tubs are, they should not use them." 
 " But the labor of dragging water home, the im- 
 possibility of taking home abundance, the pollu- 
 tion of keeping it in dwelling-rooms and under 
 beds." " Oh, yes," said the other Drop; " all very 
 true. Besides, our water is not of a sort to keep. 
 In this tub there is quite a microscopic vegetable 
 garden, so I heard a doctor say who yesterday 
 * Eeport of Dr. Gavin. 
 
The Water-Drops. 299 
 
 came Wtlier witli a party to inspect the district. 
 One of them said he had a still used only for dis- 
 tilling water, and that one day, by chance, the 
 bottoms of a series of distillations boiled to dry- 
 ness. Thereupon, the dry mass became heated to 
 the decomposing point, and sent abroad a stench 
 plain to the dullest nose as the peculiar stench of 
 decomposed organic matter. It infected, he said, 
 the produce of many distillations afterwards."* 
 " I tell you what." said JSTubis, " water may come 
 down into this town innocent enough, but it's no 
 easy matter for it to remain good among so many 
 causes of corruption. Heigho!" Then he began 
 to dream of Princess Cirrha and the worthy Prince 
 of Nimbus, until he was aroused by a great tumult. 
 It was an uproar caused by drunken men. " Why 
 are those men so ?" said JSTubis to his friend. " I 
 don't know," said the Water-Drop, "but I saw 
 many people in that way last night, and I have 
 seen them so at Bethnal Green." A woman pulled 
 her husband by, with loud reproaches for his visits 
 * Evidence of Mr. J. T. Cooper, Practical Chemist. 
 
300 Pearl-Fishing. 
 
 to the beer-shop. "Why," cried the man, with a 
 great oath, "where would you have me go for 
 drink?" Then, with another oath, he kicked the 
 water-butt in passing — " You would not have me 
 to go there !" All the bystanders laughed approv- 
 ingly, and Nubis bade adieu to his ambition for 
 the hand of Oirrha. 
 
 III. 
 
 NBPHELO GOES INTO POLITE BOOIETT, AND THEN INTO A DUNGEON — HIS 
 ESCAPE, EEOAPTUEE, AND HIS PERILOUS ASCENT INTO THE SKY, SUE- 
 EOUNDED BY A BLAZE OF FIEE. 
 
 Nephelo was a light-hearted subject of the Prince 
 of Nimbus. It is he who often floats, when the 
 whole cloud is dark, as a white vapor on the sur- 
 face. For love of Cirrha, he came down behind a 
 team of rain-drops and leaped into the cistern of a 
 handsome house at the west end of London. 
 
 Nephelo found the water in the cistern greatly 
 
The Watee-Deops. 801 
 
 vexed at riotous beliaTior on tte part of a large 
 numlDer of animalcules. He was told tliat Water- 
 Drops had been compelled to come into that place, 
 after undergoing many hardships, and had una- 
 voidably brought with them germs of these annoy- 
 ing creatures. Time and place favoring, nothing 
 could hinder them from coming into life ; the 
 cistern was their cradle, although many of them 
 were already anything but babes. Hereupon, 
 JSTephelo himself was dashed at by an ugly little 
 fellow like a dragon; but an uglier little fellow, 
 who might be a small Saint George, pounced at the 
 dragon, and the heart of the poor fairy was the 
 scene of contest. 
 
 After awhile there was an arrival of fresh water 
 from a pipe, the flow of which stirred up the anger 
 of some decomposing growth which lined the sides 
 and bottom of the cistern. So there was a good 
 deal of confusion caused, and it was some time be- 
 fore all parties settled down into their proper places. 
 
 " The sun is very hot," said ISTephelo. " "We all 
 seem to be getting very warm." " Yes, indeed," 
 
802 Peael-Fishing. 
 
 said a Lady-Drop ; " it's not like the cool Cloud- 
 Country. I liave been poisoned in the Thames, 
 half filtered, and made frowzy by standing, this 
 July weather, in an open reservoir. I've travelled 
 in pipes laid too near the surface to be cool, and 
 now am spoiling here. I know if water is not 
 cold it can't be pleasant." " Ah," said an old Drop, 
 with a small eel in one of his eyes ; "I don't won- 
 der at hearing tell that men drink wine, and tea, 
 and beer." "Talking of beer," said another, "is 
 it a fact that we're of no use to the brewers ? Our 
 character's so bad, they can't rely on us for cooling 
 the worts, and so sink wells, in order to brew all 
 the year round with water cold enough to suit 
 their purposes." " I know nothing of beer," said 
 Nephelo ; " but I know that if the gentlemen and 
 ladies in this cistern were as cold as they could 
 wish to be, there wouldn't be so much decomposi- 
 tion going on among them." " Your turn in, sir," 
 said a polite Drop, and Nephelo leaped nimbly 
 through the place of exit into a china jug placed 
 ready to receive him. He was conveyed across a 
 
The "Watee-Deops. 803 
 
 handsome kitchen by a cook, who declared her 
 opinion that the morning's rain had caused the 
 drains to smell uncommonly. Nephelo then was 
 thrown into a kettle. 
 
 Boiling is to an unclean "Water-Drop, like scratch- 
 ing to a bear, a pleasant operation. It gets rid of 
 the little animals by which it had been bitten, and 
 throws down some of the impurity with which it 
 had been soiled. So, after boiling, water becomes 
 more pure, but it is, at the same time, more greedy 
 than ever to absorb extraneous matter. Therefore, 
 the sons of men who boil their vitiated water 
 ought to keep it covered afterwards, and if they 
 wish to drink it cold, should lose no time in doing 
 so. Nephelo and his friends within the kettle 
 danced with delight under the boiling process. 
 Chattering pleasantly together, they compared notes 
 of their adventures upon earth, discussed the poli- 
 tics of Cloud-Land, and although it took them 
 nearly twice as long to boil as it would have done 
 had there been no carbonate of lime about them, 
 they^were quite sorry when the time was come for 
 
304 Peael-Pishing. 
 
 them to part. Neplielo then, with many others, 
 was poured out into an uru. So he was taken to 
 the drawing-room, a hot iron having, in a friendly 
 manner, been put down his back, to keep him 
 boUing. 
 
 Out of the urn into the tea-pot ; out of the tea- 
 pot into the slop-basin ; ISTephelo had only time to 
 remark a matron tea-maker, young ladies knitting, 
 and a good-looking young gentleman upon his 
 legs, laying the law down with a tea-spoon, before 
 he (the fairy, not the gentleman) -vyas smothered 
 with a plate of muffins. From so much of the 
 conversation as Nephelo could catch, filtered 
 through muffin, it appeared that they were talking 
 about tea. 
 
 " It's aU very well for you to say, mother, that 
 you're confident you make tea very good, but I 
 ask — no, there I see you put six spoonfuls in for 
 five of us. Mother, if this were not hard water — 
 (here there was a noise as of a spoon hammering 
 upon the iron) — two spoonfuls less would make tea 
 of a better flavor and of equal strength. Now, 
 
The Watee-Drops. 305 
 
 there are three hundred and sixty-five times and a 
 quarter tea-times in the year " 
 
 " And how ma^y spoonfals, brother, to the quar- 
 ter of a tea-time ?" 
 
 ' Maria, you've no head for figures. I say no- 
 thing of the tea consumed at breakfast. Multi- 
 ply " 
 
 "My dear boy, you have left school; no one 
 asks you to multiply. Hand me the muffin." 
 
 Nephelo, released, was unable to look about him, 
 owing to the high walls of the slop-basin which 
 surrounded him on every side. The room was filled 
 with pleasant sunset light, but Nephelo soon saw 
 the coming shadow of the muffin-plate, and all was 
 dark directly afterwards. 
 
 "Take cooking, mother. M. Soyer* says you 
 
 can't boil many vegetables properly in London 
 
 water. Greens won't be greens ; French beans are 
 
 tinged with yellow, and peas shrivel. It don't 
 
 open the pores of meat, and make it succulent, as 
 
 softer water does. M. Soyer believes that the true 
 
 * Evidence before the Board of Health. 
 20 
 
806 Pearl-Fishikq. 
 
 flavor of meat cannot be extracted with Lard 
 water. Bread does not rise so well when made 
 ■with it. Horses " 
 
 " My dear boy, M. Soyer don't cook horses." 
 
 " Horses, Dr..Playfair tells us, sheep, and pigeons, 
 will refuse hard water if they can get it soft,, 
 though from the muddiest pool. Eace-horses, when 
 carried to a place where the water is notoriously 
 hard, have a supply of softer water carried with 
 them to preserve their good condition. Not to 
 speak of gripes, hard water will assuredly produce 
 what people call a staring coat." 
 
 " Ah, no doubt, then, it was London water that 
 created Mr. Blossomley's blue swallow-tail." 
 
 " Maria, you make nonsense out of everything,. 
 When you are Mrs. Blossomley " 
 
 " Now pass my cup." 
 
 There was a pause and a clatter. Presently the 
 muffin-plate was lifted, and four times in succes- 
 sion there were black dregs thrown into the face 
 of Nephelo. After the perpetration of these in- 
 Bulta he was once again condemned to darkness.." 
 
The Water-Drops. 607 
 
 " When you are Mrs. Blossomley, Maria," so the 
 voice went on, " when you are Mrs. Blossomley, 
 you will appreciate what I am now going to tell 
 you about washerwomen." 
 
 " Couldn't you postpone it, dear, until I am ahle 
 to appreciate it. You promised to take us to 
 Eachel to-night." 
 
 "Ah!" said another girlish voice, "you'll not 
 escape. We dress at seven. Until then — for the 
 next twelve minutes you may speak. Bore on, we 
 will endure." 
 
 "As for you, Catherine, Maria teaches you, I 
 see, to chatter. But if Mrs. B. would object to the 
 reception of a patent mangle as a wedding present 
 from her brother, she had better hear him now. 
 Washerwoman's work is not a thing to overlook, I 
 tell you. Before a shirt is worn out, there will 
 have been spent upon it five times its intrinsic 
 value in the washing-tub. The washing of clothes 
 costs more, by a great deal, than the clothes them- 
 selves. The yearly cost of washing to a household 
 of the middle class amounts, on the average, to 
 
308 Peael-Fishing. 
 
 about a tliird part of tlie rental, or a twelftli part 
 of the total income. Among tlie poor, tlie average 
 expense of wasliing will more probably be half the 
 rental if they wash at home, but not more than a 
 fourth of it if they employ the Model "Wash- 
 houses. The weekly cost of washing to a poor 
 man averages certainly not less than fourpence 
 hal:^enny. Small tradesmen, driven to economize 
 in linen, spend perhaps not more than niaepence ; 
 in the middle and upper classes, the cost weekly 
 varies from a shilling to five shillings for each per- 
 son, and amounts very often to a larger sum. On 
 these grounds, Mr. Bullar, Honorary Secretary to 
 the Association for Promoting Baths and "Wash- 
 houses, estimates the washing expenditure of Lon- 
 don at a shilling a week for each inhabitant, or, for 
 the whole, five millions of potmds yearly. Pro- 
 fessor Clark — " 
 
 " My dear Professor Tom, you have consumed 
 four of your twelve minutes." 
 
 "Professor Clark judges from such estimates as 
 can be furnished by the trade, that the consumption 
 
The Watee-Deofs. 
 
 of soap in London is fifteen pounds to eacli person 
 per annum — ^twice as mucli as is employed in otlier 
 parts of England. That quantity of soap costs 
 six-and-eightpence ; water, per head, costs half as 
 much, or three and-fourpence ; or each man's soap 
 and water costs throughout London, on an average, 
 ten shUhngs for twelve months. If the hardness 
 of the water be diminished, there is a diminution 
 in the want of soap. For every grain of carbonate 
 of lime dissolved in each gallon of any water, Mr. . 
 Donaldson declares two ounces of soap more for a 
 hundred gallons of that water are required. Every 
 such grain is called a degree of hardness. "Water 
 of five degrees of hardness requires, for example, 
 two ounces of soap; water of eight degrees of 
 hardness, then will need fifteen ; and water of six- 
 teen degrees, wUl demand thirty-two. Sixteen de- 
 grees, Maria, is the hardness of Thames water — of 
 the water, mother, which has poached upon your 
 tea-caddy. You see, then, that when we pay for 
 the soap we use at the rate of six-and-eightpence 
 each, since the unusual hardness of our water caxises 
 
SIO Peabl-Fishing. 
 
 us to use a double quantity, every man in London 
 pays i't an average rate of three-and-fourpence a 
 year h^-'tax for a hard water ttrougli the cost of 
 soap'sllofie." 
 
 "JNtw you must finisli in five minutes, brother 
 Toti*.^'' '■ "'■' 
 
 " But soap is not the only matter that concerns 
 the washenvoman and her customers. There ia 
 labor, also, and the wear and tear ; there is a double 
 amount of destruction to our linen, involved in the 
 double time of rubbing and the double soaping, 
 which hard water compels washerwomen to em- 
 ploy. So that, when all things have been duly 
 reckoned up in our account, we find that the outlay 
 caused by the necessities for washing linen in a 
 town supplied hke London with exceedingly hard 
 water, is four times greater than it would be if soft 
 water were employed. The cost of washing, as I 
 told you,' has* been estimated at five millions 
 a-year. So that, if these calculations be correct, 
 more than three millions of money, nearly four 
 milHons, is the amount filched yearly from the 
 
The/Wateb-D-sops. 811 
 
 Londoners by their hard water through the wash- 
 tub only. To that sum, Mrs. Blossomley, being of 
 a respectable family and very partial to clean linen, 
 wiU contribute of course much more than her 
 average proportion?' 
 
 "Well, Mr. Orator, I was not listening to all 
 you said, but what I heard I do thmk much exag- 
 gerated." 
 
 *'I take it, sister, from the Government Eeport; 
 oblige me by believing half of it, and still the 
 case is strong. It is quite time for people to be 
 stirring." 
 
 '" So it is, I declare. Your twelve minutes are 
 spent, and we will always be ready for the play. 
 If you talk there of water, I will shriek.^' 
 
 Here there arose a chatter which Nephelo found 
 o be about matters that, unlike the water topic, 
 lid not at all interest himself. There was a rustle 
 vnd a movement ; and a creaking noise approached 
 ..he drawing-room, which Nephelo discovered pres- 
 ently to be caused by papa's boots as he marched 
 upstairs after his.post-prandial slumberings. There 
 
312 Peael-Fishing, 
 
 was more talk uninteresting to tlie fairy ; Neptelo, 
 therefore, became drowsy ; Lis drowsiness might at 
 tlie same time have been aggravated by the close 
 confinement he experienced in an unwholesome 
 atmosphere beneath the muffin-plate. He was 
 aroused by a great clattering ; this the maid caused 
 who was carrying him down stairs upon a tray 
 with all the other tea-things. 
 
 From a sweet dream of nuptials with Cirrha, 
 Nephelo was awakened to the painful consciousness 
 that he had not yet succeeded ia effecting any great 
 good for the human race ; he had but rinsed a tea- 
 pot. With a faint impulse of hope the desponding 
 fairy noticed that the slop-basin in which he sat 
 was lifted from the tray, in a few minutes after the 
 tray had been deposited upon the kitchen-dresser. 
 Pity poor Nephelo! By a remorseless scullery- 
 maid he was dashed rudely from the basin into a 
 trough of stone, from which he tumbled through 
 a hole placed there on purpose to engulf him, — 
 tumbled through into a horrible abyss. 
 
 This abyss was a long dungeoil running from 
 
The Watee-Drops. 813 
 
 back to front beneath the bouse, built of bricks — 
 rotten how, and saturated -with moisture. Some 
 of the bricks had fallen in, or crumbled into 
 nothingness ; and Nephelo saw that the soil with- 
 out the dungeon was quite wet. The dungeon- 
 floor was coated with pollutions, travelled over by 
 a sluggish shallow stream, with which the fairj 
 floated. The whole dungeon's atmosphere was 
 foul and poisonous. Nephelo found now what 
 those exhalations were which rose through every 
 opening in the house, through vent-holes and the 
 burrowings of rats ; for rats and other venom ten- 
 anted this noisome den. This was the pestilential 
 gallery called by the good people of the house, 
 their drain. A trap door at one end confined the 
 fairy in this place with other Water- Drops, until 
 there should be collected a sufficient body of them 
 to negotiate successfully for egress. 
 
 The object of this door was to prevent the in- 
 gress of much more foul matter from without ; and 
 its misfortune was, that in so doing it necessarily 
 pent up a concentrated putrid gas within. At 
 
814 Pe'ael-Pishinu. 
 
 lengtH Nephelo escaped; but, alas! it -was from a 
 Newgate to a Bastille — ^from the drain into the 
 sewer. This was a long-vaulted prison running 
 near th« surface underneath the street. Shaken by 
 the passage overhead of carriages, not a few bricks 
 had fallen in; and Nephelo hurrying forward, 
 wholly possessed by the one thought — could he es- 
 cape ? — fell presently into a trap. An oyster-shell 
 had fixed itself upright between two bricks un- 
 evenly jointed together; much sohd filth had 
 grown around it ; and in this Nephelo was caught. 
 Here he remained for a whole month, during which 
 time he saw many floods of water pass him, leaving 
 himself with a vast quantity of obstinate encrusted 
 filth unmoved. At the month's end there came 
 some men to scrape, and sweep, and cleanse ; then 
 with a sudden flow of water, Nephelo was forced 
 along, and presently, with a large number of 
 emancipated foulnesses, received his discharge 
 from prison, and was let lodse upon the Eiver 
 Thames. 
 
 Nephelo struck against a very dirty Drop. 
 
The Watee-Deops. 315 
 
 ■'Keep off, will you?" tlie Drop exclaimed. 
 " You are not fit to touch a person, sewer-bird." 
 
 "Why, where are you from, my sweet gentleman?" 
 
 " Oh ! I ? I've had a turn through some Model 
 Drains. Tubular drains they call 'em. Look at 
 me; isn't that clear?" 
 
 " There's nothing clear about you," replied Ne- 
 phelo. " What do you mean by Model Drains ?" 
 
 " I mean I've come from Upper George Street 
 through a twelve-inch pipe four or five times faster 
 than one travels over an old sewer-bed ; travelled 
 express, no stoppage." 
 
 "Indeed!" 
 
 ' ' Yes. Impermeable, earthenware, tubular pipes, 
 accurately dove-taUed. I come from an experi- 
 mental district. When it's all settled, there's to be 
 water on at high pressure everywhere, and an 
 earthenware drain pipe under every tap, a tube of 
 no more than the necessary size. Then these little 
 pipes are to run down the earth ; and there's not 
 to be a great brick drain running underneath each 
 house into the street ; the pipes run into a larger 
 
816 Pearl-Fishing. 
 
 tube of earthen-ware that is to be laid at the backs 
 of all the hoTises ; these tubes run into larger ones, 
 but none of them very monstrous; and so that 
 there is a constant flow, like circulation of the 
 blood ; and all the pipes are to run at last into one 
 large conduit, which is to run out of town with all 
 the sewage matter and discharge so far down the 
 Thames, that no return tide ever can bring it back 
 to London. Some is to go branching off into the 
 fields to be manure." 
 
 "Humph!" said Nephelo. "You profess to be 
 very clever. Ho"W do you know all this ?" 
 
 " Know? Bless you, I'm a regular old Thames 
 Drop. I've been in the cisterns, in the tumblers, 
 down the sewers, ia the river, up the pipes, in the 
 reservoirs, in the cisterns, ia the teapots, down the 
 sewers, in the river, up the pipes, in the reservoirs, 
 in the cisterns, in the saucepans, down the sewers, 
 in the Thames — " 
 
 "Holdl Stop there now I" said JSTephelo. "Well, 
 so you have heard a great deal in your lifetime. 
 You've had some adventures, doubtless?" 
 
The "Water-Deops. 317 
 
 " I believe you," said the Cookiiey-Drop. " The 
 worst -was when I was pumped once as fresh water 
 into Eotherhithe. That place is below high-water 
 mark ; so are Bermondsey and St. George's, South- 
 wark. Newington, St. Olave's, Westminster, and 
 Lambeth, are but little better. Well, you know, 
 drains of the old sort always leak, and there's a 
 great deal more water poured into London than 
 the Londoners have stowage room for, so the water 
 in low districts can't pass off at high water, and 
 there's a precious flood. We sopped the ground 
 at Eotherhithe, but I thought I never should 
 escape again." 
 
 " Will the new pipes make any difference to 
 that?" 
 
 "Yes ; so I am led to understand. They are to 
 be laid with a regular fall, to pass the water off, 
 which, beiag constant, will be never in excess.* 
 The fall will be to a poiat of course below the 
 water level, and at a convenient place the contents 
 of these drains are to be pumped up into the main 
 sewer. Horrible deal of death caused, Sir, by the 
 
318 Peael-Fishing. 
 
 damp in those low districts. One man in tMrty- 
 seven died of cholera in Rotherliitlie last year, 
 when in Clerkenwell, at sixty-three feet above 
 high water, there died but one in five hundred and 
 thirty. The proportion held throughout." 
 
 "Ah, by the bye, you have heard, of course, 
 complainings of the quality of water. Will the 
 Londoners sink wells for themselves ?" 
 
 "Wells! What a child you arel Just from 
 the clouds, I see. Wells in a large town get hor- 
 ribly polluted. They propose to consolidate and 
 improve two of the best Thames Water Companies, 
 the Grand Junction and Yauxhall, for the supply 
 of London, until their great scheme can be intro- 
 duced ; and to maintain them afterwards as a re- 
 serve guard in case their great scheme shouldn't 
 prove so triumphant as they think it will be." 
 
 "What is this great scheme, I should Hke to 
 know?" 
 
 " Why, they talk of fetching rain-water from a 
 tract of heath between Bagshot and Farnham. 
 The rain there soaks through a thin crust of grow- 
 
The Water-Deops. 319 
 
 ing herbage, which is the only perfect filter, chem- 
 ical as well as mechanical — the living rootlets 
 extract more than we can, where impurity exists. 
 Then, Sir, the rain runs into a large bed of silici- 
 ous sand, placed over marl ; below the marl there 
 is silicious sand again — Ah, I perceive you are not 
 geological." 
 
 " Go on." 
 
 " The sand, washed by the rains of ages, holds 
 the water without soiling it more than a glass tum- 
 bled would, and the Londoners say that in this way, 
 by making artificial channels and a big reservoir, 
 they can collect twenty-eight thousand gallons a 
 day of water nearly pure. They require forty 
 thousand gallons, and propose to get the rest in 
 the same neighborhood from tributaries of the. 
 Eiver Wey, not quite so pure, but only half as 
 hard as Thames water, and unpolluted." 
 
 " How is it to get to London ?" 
 
 "Through a covered aqueduct. Covered for 
 coolness' sake, and cleanliness. Then it is to be 
 distributed through earthenware pipes, laid rather 
 
320 Peael-Fishing. 
 
 deep, again for coolness' sake in the first instance, 
 but for cleanliness as well. The water is to come 
 in at high pressure, and run in iron or lead pipes 
 up every house, scale every waU. There is to be 
 a tap in every room, and under every tap there is 
 to be the entrance to a drain-pipe. Where water 
 supply ends, drainage begins. They are to be the 
 two halves of a single system. Furthermore, there 
 are to be numbers of plugs opening in every street, 
 and streets and courts are to be washed out every 
 morning, or every other morning, as the trafiQc may 
 require, with hose and jet. The Great Metropolis 
 mustn't be dirty, or be content with rubbing a fin- 
 ger here and there over its dirt. It is to have its 
 face washed every morning, just before the hours 
 of business. The water at high pressure is to set 
 people's invention at work upon the. introduction 
 of hydraulic apparatus for cranes, et csetera, which 
 now cause much hand labor and are scarcely worth 
 steam-power. Furthermore — " 
 
 " My dear friend," cried Nephelo, "you are too 
 
The Wateb-Deops. 821 
 
 clever. More tlian half of what you say is •unin- 
 telligible to me." 
 
 " But the grand point," continued the garrulous 
 Thames drop, " is the expense. The saving of cis- 
 terns, ball-cocks, plumbers' bills, expansive sewer- 
 works, constant repairs, hand labor, street-sweep- 
 ing, soap, tea, linen, fuel, steam-boilers now dam- 
 aged by incrustation, boards, salaries, doctors' bills, 
 time, parish rates — " 
 
 The catalogue was never ended, for the busy 
 Drop was suddenly entangled among hair upon 
 the corpse of a dead cat, which fate also the fairy 
 narrowly escaped, to be in the next minute sucked 
 up as Nubis had been sucked, through pipes into a 
 reservoir. Weary with the incessant chattering of 
 his conceited Mend, whose pride he trusted that a 
 night with puss might humble, Nepho now lurked 
 silent in a comer. In a dreamy state he floated 
 with the current underground, and was half sleep- 
 ing in a pipe under some London street, when a^ 
 great noise of trampling overhead, mingled with 
 
 cries, awakened him. 
 
 31 
 
822 Peael-Fishing. 
 
 "Wliat is tte matter now?" the fairy cried. 
 
 " A fire, no doubt, to judge by the noise," said a 
 neighbor quietly. Nephelo panted now with tri- 
 tunph. Cirrha was before his eyes. Now he could 
 benefit the race of man. 
 
 " Let us get out," cried Nepho ; " let us assist in 
 running to the rescue." 
 
 "Don't be impatient," said a drowsy Drop. 
 " We can't get out of here till they have found 
 the Company's turncock, and then he must go to 
 this plug and that plug in one street, and another, 
 before we are turned off." 
 
 " In the meantime the fire — " 
 
 " Will burn the house down. Help in five min- 
 utes would save a house. Now the luckiest man 
 win seldom have his premises attended to in less 
 than twenty." 
 
 Nephelo thought here was another topic for his 
 gossip in the Thames, The plugs talked of with a 
 constant water-supply would take the sting out of 
 the Fire-Fiend. 
 
 Presently among confosed movements, confused 
 
The Water-Deops. 323 
 
 sounds, amid a rusli of water, Neptelo burst into 
 the light — ^into the vivid light of a great fire that 
 leapt and roared as Nephelo -was dashed against it! 
 Through the red flames and the black smoke in a 
 burst of steam, the fairy reascended hopeless to the 
 clouds. 
 
 KASOAIXY CONDUCT OF THE FEINOE 01' NIMBUS. 
 
 The Prince of Nimbus, whose good-nature we 
 have celebrated, was not good for nothing. Hav- 
 ing graciously permitted all the suitors of the 
 Princess Cirrha to go down to earth and labor for 
 her hand, he took advantage of their absence, and, 
 having the coast clear, importuned the daughter of 
 King Cumulus with his own addresses. Cirrha 
 was not disposed to listen to them, but the rogue 
 her father was ambitious. He desired to make a 
 good alliance, and that object was better gained by 
 intermarriage with a prince than with a subject. 
 
324 Peael-Fishing, 
 
 "There mil be an uproar," said tlie old man, 
 "■when those fellows down below come back. 
 They will look black and no doubt storm a little, 
 but we'll have our royal marriage notwithstand- 
 standing." So the Prince of Nimbus married 
 Cirrha, and Nephelo arrived at the court of King 
 Cumulus one evening during the celebration of the 
 bridal feast. His wrath was seen on earth in many 
 parts of England in the shape of a great thunder- 
 storm on the 16th of July. The adventures of the 
 other suitors, they being thus cheated of their ob- 
 ject, need not be detailed. As each returns he 
 will be made acquainted with the scandalous fraud 
 practised by the Prince of Nimbus, and this being 
 the state of politics m Cloud-Land at the moment 
 when we go to press, we may fairly expect to wit- 
 ness five or six more thunderstorms before next 
 winter. Each suitor, as he returns and finds how 
 shamefully he has been cheated, will create a great 
 disturbance ; and no wonder. Conduct so rascally 
 as that of the Prince of Nimbus is enough to fill 
 the clouds with uproar. 
 
VIII. 
 
 TN" one of the dirtiest and most gloomy streets 
 -*- leading to tte Eue Saint Denis, in Paris, there 
 stands a tall and ancient house, the lower portion 
 of which is a large mercer's shop. This establish- 
 ment is held to be one of the very best in the 
 neighborhood, and has for many years belonged to 
 an individual on whom we wiU bestow the name 
 of Kamin. 
 
 About ten years ago, Monsieur Kamin was a 
 jovial red-faced man of forty, who joked his cus- 
 tomers into purchasing his goods, flattered the 
 pretty grisettes outrageously, and now and then 
 gave them a Sunday treat at the barrier, as the 
 cheapest way of securing their custom. Some peo- 
 
326 Pearl-Pishing. 
 
 pie ttouglit Mm a careless, good-natured feUo-w, 
 and wondered how, with, his off-hand ways, he 
 contrived to make money so fast, but those who 
 knew him well saw that he was one of those who 
 " never lost an opportunity." Others declared that 
 Monsieur Eamin's own definition of his character 
 was, that he was a "bon enfant" and that "it was 
 all luck." He shrugged his shoulders and laughed 
 when people hinted at his deep scheming in mak- 
 ing, and his skill in taking advantage of Excellent 
 Opportunities. 
 
 He was sitting in his gloomy parlor one fine 
 morning in Spring, breakfasting from a dark liquid 
 honored with the name of onion soup, glancing at 
 the newspaper, and keeping a vigilant look on the 
 shop through the open door, when his old servant 
 Catherine suddenly observed: — 
 
 "I suppose you know Monsieur Bonelle has 
 come to live in the vacant apartment on the fourth 
 floor?" 
 
 " Whatl" exclaimed Monsieur Eamin in a loud 
 
 key- 
 Catherine repeated her statement, to which her 
 
 master listened in total silence. 
 
 "Weill" he said, at length, in his most careless 
 
An Excellent Opportunity. 327 
 
 tones, "what about the old fellow ?" and he once 
 more resumed his triple occupation of reading, eat- 
 ing, and watching. 
 
 "Why," continued Catherine, "they say he is 
 nearly dying, and that his housekeeper. Marguerite, 
 vowed he could never get up stairs ahve.- It took 
 two men to carry him up ; and when he was at 
 length quiet in bed, Marguerite went down to the 
 porter's lodge and sobbed there a wl;ole hour, say- 
 ing, "Her poor master had the gout, the rheu- 
 matics, and a bad asthma ; that though he had been 
 got up stairs, he would never corae down again 
 alive ; that if she could only get him to confess 
 his sins and make his will, she would not mind it 
 so much ; but that when fehe spoke of the lawyer 
 or the priest, he blasphemed at her like a heathen, 
 and declared he would live to bury her and every- 
 body else." 
 
 Monsieur Eamin heard Catherine with great at- 
 tention, forgot to finish his soup, and remained for 
 five minutes in profoimd rumination, without so 
 much as perceiving two customers who had entered 
 the shop and were waiting to be served. When 
 aroused, he was heard to exclaim : 
 
 " What an excellent opportunity 1" 
 
328 Peabl-Fishing. 
 
 Monsieur Bonelle had been Eamin's predecessor. 
 The sTiccession of the latter to the shop was a mys- 
 tery. ITo one eyer knew how it was that this 
 young and poor assistant managed to replace his 
 patron. Some said that he had detected Monsieur 
 Bonelle in fi-auds which he threatened to expose, 
 unless the business were given up to him as the 
 price of his silence ; others averred that, having 
 drawn a prize in the lottery, he had resolved to set 
 up a fierce opposition over the way, and. that Mon- 
 sieur Bonelle, having obtained a hint of his inten- 
 tions, had thought it most prudent to accept the 
 trifling sum his clerk offered, and avoid a ruinous 
 competition. Some charitable souls — moved no 
 doubt by Monsieur Bonelte's misfortune — endeav- 
 ored to console and pump him ; but all they could 
 get from him was the bitter exclamation, " To think 
 I should have been duped by Mm P For Eamin 
 had the art, though- then a mere youth, to pass; 
 himself off on his master as an innocent provincial 
 lad. Those who sought an explanation from the 
 new mereer, were still more unsuccessftil. "My 
 good old master," he said in his jovial way, " felt 
 in need of repose, and so I obligingly reKeved hica 
 of aU business and botheraticm.'* 
 
An Excellent Opportunity, 329 
 
 Years passed away ; Eamin prospered, and nei- 
 ther thouglit nor heard of his "good old master." 
 The house, of which he tenanted the lower portion, 
 was offered for sale ; he had long coveted it, and 
 had almost concluded an agreement with the actual 
 owner, when Monsieur Bonelle unexpectedly step- 
 ped in at the eleventh hour, and by offering a trifle 
 more secured the bargain. The rage and mortifi- 
 cation of Monsieur Eamin were extreme. He could 
 not understand how Bonelle, whom he had thought 
 ruined, had scraped up so large a sum ; his lease 
 was out, and he now felt himself at the mercy of 
 the man he had so much injured. But either Mon- 
 sieur Bonelle was free from vindictive feelings, or 
 those feelings did not blind him to the expediency 
 of keeping a good tenant ; for though he raised the 
 rent, until Monsieur Eamin groaned inwardly, he 
 did not refuse to renew the lease. They had met 
 at that period ; but never since. 
 
 " Well, Catherine," observed Monsieur Eamiu to 
 his old servant on the following morning, "how is. 
 that good Monsieur Bonelle getting on ?" 
 
 " I dare say you feel very uneasy about him," 
 she replied with a sneer. 
 
 Monsieur Eamin looked up and frowned. 
 
330 Peabl-Fishing. 
 
 " Catherine," said he, dryly, " you will have the 
 goodness, in the first place, not to make imperti- 
 nent remarks ; in the second place, you -will oblige 
 me by going up stairs to inquire after the health of 
 Monsieur BoneUe, and say that I sent you." 
 
 Catherine grumbled and obeyed. Her master 
 was in the shop, when she returned in a few min- 
 utes, and delivered with evident satisfaction the 
 following gracious message : 
 
 "Monsieur Bonelle desires his compliments to 
 you, and declines to state how he is ; he will also 
 thank you to attend to your own shop, and not to 
 trouble yourself about his health." 
 
 "How does he look?" asked Monsieur Eamin 
 with the most perfect composure. 
 
 "I caught a glimpse of him, and he appears to 
 me to be rapidly preparing for the good o£B.ces of 
 the undertaker." 
 
 Monsieur Eamin smiled, rubbed his hands, and 
 joked merrily with a dark-eyed grisette, who was 
 cheapening some ribbon for her cap. That girl 
 made an excellent bargain that day. 
 
 Towards dusk the mercer left the shop to the 
 care of his attendant, and softly stole up to the 
 fourth story. In answer to his gentle ring, a little 
 
An Excellent Oppoetunitt. 331 
 
 old woman opened the door, and giving him a 
 rapid look, said briefly, 
 
 " Monsieur is inexorable ; lie won't see any doc- 
 tor whatever." 
 
 She was going to shut the door in his face, when 
 Eamin quickly interposed, under his breath, with. 
 Jam not a doctor." 
 
 She looked at him from head to foot. 
 
 " Are you a lawyer ?" 
 
 " Nothing of the sort, my good lady." 
 
 "Well, then, are you a priest?" 
 
 " I may almost say, quite the reverse. 
 
 "Indeed, you must go away; master sees no 
 one." 
 
 Once more she would have shut the door, but 
 Eamin prevented her. 
 
 " My good lady," said he, in his most insinuating 
 tones, " it is true I am neither a lawyer, a doctor, 
 nor a priest. I am an old friend, a very old fiiend 
 of your excellent master ; I have come to see good 
 Monsieur Bonelle in his present afBiction." 
 
 Marguerite did not answer, but allowed him to 
 enter, and closed the door behind him. He was 
 gorag to pass from the narrow and gloomy ante- 
 chamber into an inner room — whence now pro- 
 
332 Pearl-Fishing. 
 
 ceeded a sound of loud cougiing — ^wlien tlie old 
 woman laid her liand on his arm, and raising her- 
 self on tip-toe to reach his ear, whispered : 
 
 " For Heaven's sake, sir, since you are his friend, 
 do talk to him ; do tell him to make his wiU, and 
 hint something ahout a soul to be saved, and all 
 that sort of a thing: do, sir!" 
 
 Monsieur Eamin nodded and winked in a way 
 that said " I will." He proved, however, his pru- 
 dence by not speaking aloud, for a voice from 
 within sharply exclaimed, 
 
 " Marguerite, you are taUdng to some one. Mar- 
 guerite, I will see neither doctor nor lawyer ; and if 
 any meddling priest dare — " 
 
 " It is only an old friend, sir ;" interrupted Mar 
 guerite, opening the inner door. 
 
 Her master, on looking up, perceived the red 
 face of Monsieur Eamin peeping over the old 
 woman's shoulder, and irefuUy cried out, 
 
 " How dare you bring that fellow he^p ? And 
 you, sir, how dare you come ?" 
 
 "My good old friend, there are feelings," said 
 Eamin, spreading his fingers over the left pocket 
 of his waistcoat, — "there are feelings," he re- 
 peated, "that cannot be subdued. One such feel- 
 
An Excellent Opportunity. 333 
 
 ing brought me here. The fact is, I am a good- 
 natured, easy fellow, and I never bear malice. I 
 never forget an old friend, but love to forget old 
 diEferences when I find one party in affliction." 
 
 He drew a chair forward as he spoke, and com- 
 posedly seated himself opposite to his late master. 
 
 Monsieur Bonelle was a thin old man, with a pale 
 shaip face, and keen features. At first, he eyed 
 his visitor from the depths of his vast arm-chair ; 
 but, as if not satisfied with this distant view, he 
 bent forward, and laying both hands on hia thin 
 knees, he looked up into Eamin's face mth a fixed 
 and piercing gaze. He had not, however, the 
 power of disconcerting his guest. 
 
 "What did you come here for?" he at length 
 asked. 
 
 " Merely to have the extreme satisfaction of see- 
 ing how you are, my good old friend. Nothing 
 more." 
 
 " Well, look at me — and then go." 
 
 Nothing could be so discouraging ; but this was 
 an Excellent Opportunity, and when Monsieur 
 Eamin had an excellent opportunity in view, his 
 pertinacity was invincible. Being now resolved 
 to stay, it was not in Monsieur Bonelle's power to 
 
834 PEAEL-FlSfilNG. 
 
 banisli Mm. At tlie same time, lie had tact enougli 
 to render his presence agreeable. He knew that 
 his coarse and boisterous wit had often delighted 
 Monsieur Bonelle of old, and he now exerted him- 
 self so successfully as to betray the old man two 
 or three times into hearty laughter. 
 
 "Eamin," said he, at length, laying his thin 
 hand on the arm of his guest, and peering with his 
 keen glance into the mercer's purple face, " you are 
 a fanny fellow, but I know you ; you cannot make 
 me believe you have called just to see how I am, 
 and to amuse me. Come, be candid for once; 
 what do you want ?" 
 
 Eamin threw himself back in his chair, and 
 laughed blandly, as much as to say, "Can you sus- 
 pect me ?" 
 
 "I have no shop now out of which you can 
 wheedle me," continued the old man ; " and surely 
 you are are not such a fool as to come to me for 
 money." 
 
 "Money?" repeated the draper, as if his host 
 had mentioned something he never dreamt of. 
 " Oh no I" 
 
 Eamin saw it would not do to broach the subject 
 he had really come about, too abruptly, now that 
 
An Excellent Opportunity. 335 
 
 suspicion seemed so wide awake — the opportunity 
 had not arrived. 
 
 " There is something up, Eamin, I know ; I see 
 it in the twinkle of your eye ; but you can't de- 
 ceive me again." 
 
 " Deceive you f" said the jolly schemer, shaking 
 his head reverentially. " Deceive a man of your 
 penetration and depth? Impossible! The bare 
 supposition is flattery. My dear friend," he con- 
 tinued, soothingly, "I did not dream of such a 
 thing. The fact is, Bonelle, though they call me 
 a jovial, careless, rattling dog, I have a conscience; 
 and, somehow, I have never felt quite easy about 
 the way in which I became your successor down- 
 stairs. It was rather sharp practice, I admit." 
 
 Bonelle seemed to relent. 
 
 "Now for it," said the Opportunity-hunter to 
 himself — " By-the-by," (speaking aloud,) " this 
 house must be a great trouble to you in your pres- 
 ent weak state ? Two of your lodgers have lately 
 gone away without paying — a great nuisance, es- 
 pecially to an invalid." 
 
 " I teU you I'm as sound as a colt." 
 
 "At aU events, the whole concern must be a 
 
336 PEARL-FlSHINa. 
 
 great bother to you. If I were you, I would sell 
 tlie house." 
 
 "And if I were you,^^ returned the landlord, 
 dryly, " I would buy it — " 
 
 " Precisely," interrupted the tenant, eagerly. 
 
 , " That is, if you could get it. Phoo ! I knew 
 you were after something. Will you give eighty 
 thousand francs for it?" abruptly asked Monsieur 
 Bonelle. 
 
 " Eighty thousand francs !" echoed Eamin. " Do 
 you take me for Louis Philippe or the Bank of 
 France ?" 
 
 " Then, we'U say no more about it — are you not 
 afraid of leaving your shop so long ?" 
 
 Eamin returned to the charge, heedless of the 
 hint to depart. " The fact is, my good old friend, 
 ready money is not my strong point just now. But 
 if you wish very much to be relieved of the con- 
 cern, what say you_to a life annuity? I could 
 manage that." 
 
 Monsieur Bonelle gave a short, dry, churchyard 
 cough, and looked as if his life were not worth an 
 hour's purchase. " You think yourself immensely 
 clever, I dare say," he said. " They have per- 
 
An Excellent Opportunity. 337 
 
 suaded jou that I am dying. Stuff! I stall bury 
 you yet." 
 
 The mercer glanced at the thin fragile frame, 
 and exclaimed to himself, "Deluded old gentle- 
 man !" " My dear Bonelle," he continued, aloud, 
 " I know -well the strength of your admirable con- 
 stitution ; but allow me to observe that you neglect 
 yourself too much. Now, suppose a good sensible 
 doctor — ■' 
 
 " Will you pay him ?" interrogated Bonelle 
 sharply. 
 
 " Most willingly," replied Eamin, with an eager- 
 ness that made the old man smile. "As to the 
 annuity, since the subject annoys you, we will talk 
 of it some other time." 
 
 "After you have heard the doctor's report," 
 sneered Bonelle. 
 
 The mercer gave him a stealthy glance, which 
 the old man's keen look immediately detected. 
 Neither could repress a smile; these good soul.^ 
 understood one another perfectly, and Eamin saw 
 that this was not the Excellent Opportunity he de- 
 sired, and departed. 
 
 The next day E^min sent a neighboring medical 
 22 
 
838 Pearl-Fishing. 
 
 man, and heard it was his opinion that if Bonelle 
 held on for three months longer, it -would be a 
 miracle. Delightftil news ! 
 
 Several days elapsed, and although very anxious,, 
 Eamin assumed a careless air, and did not call 
 upon his landlord, or take any notice of him. At 
 the end of the week old Marguerite entered the 
 shop to make a trifling purchase. 
 
 " And how are we getting on up-stairs?" negli- 
 gently asked Monsieur Eamin. 
 
 " Worse and worse, my good Sir," she sighed. 
 " We have rheumatic pains, which make us often 
 use expressions the reverse of Christian-like, and 
 yet nothing can induce us to see either the lawyer 
 or the priest; the gout is getting nearer to our 
 stomach every day, and still we go on talking 
 about the strength of our constitution. Oh, Sir, 
 if you have any influence with us, do, pray do, tell 
 us how wicked it is to die without making one's 
 will or confessing one's sins." 
 
 " I shall go up this very evening," ambiguously 
 replied Monsieur Eamin. 
 
 Be kept his promise, and found Monsieur Bo- 
 nelle in bed, groaning with pain, and in the woist 
 of tempers. 
 
An Excellent Opportunity. 339 
 
 "What poisoning doctor did you send?" lie 
 asked, "witli an ireful glance ; " I want no doctor, 
 I am not ill ; I will not follow his prescription ; he 
 forbade me to eat ; I luill eat." 
 
 "He is a very clever man," said the visitor. 
 " He told me that never in the whole course of his 
 experience has he met with what he called so much 
 ' resisting power' as exists in your frame. He asked 
 me if you were not of a long-lived race." 
 
 " That is as people may judge," replied Monsieur 
 Bonelle. "All I can say is, that my grandfather 
 died at ninety, and my father at eighty-six." 
 
 " The doctor owned that you had a wonderfully 
 strong constitution." 
 
 "Who said I hadn't?" exclaimed the invalid 
 feebly. 
 
 , "You may rely on it, you would preserve your 
 health better if you had not the trouble of these 
 vexatious lodgers. Have you thought about the 
 life annuity?" saidRamin as carelessly as he could, 
 considering how near the matter was to his hopes 
 and wishes. 
 
 "Why, I have scruples," returned Bonelle, cough- 
 ing. "I do not wish to take you in. My longev- 
 ity would be the ruin of you." 
 
840 Peael-Fishing. 
 
 " To meet that difficiilty," quickly replied the 
 mercer, " we can reduce the interest." 
 
 "But I must have high interest," placidly re- 
 turned Monsieur Bonelle. 
 
 Ramin, on hearing this, burst into a loud fit of 
 laughter, called Monsieur Bonelle a sly old fox, 
 gave him a poke in the ribs, which made the old 
 man cough for five minutes, and then proposed 
 that they should talk it over some other day. The 
 mercer left Monsieur Bonelle in the act of protest- 
 ing that he felt as strong as a man of forty. 
 
 Monsieur Eamin felt in no hurry to conclude 
 the proposed agreement. "The later one begins 
 to pay, the better," he said, as he descended the 
 stairs. 
 
 Days passed on, and the negotiation made no 
 way. It struck the observant tradesman that all 
 was not right. Old Marguerite several times re- 
 fused to admit him, declaring her master was 
 asleep; there was something mysterious and for- 
 bidding in her manner that seemed to Monsieur 
 Eamin very ominous. At length a sudden thought 
 occurred to him ; the housekeeper — ^wishing to be- 
 come her master's heir — ^had heard his scheme and 
 opposed it. On the very day that he arrived at 
 
An Excellent Opportunity. 341 
 
 this conclusion, lie met a lawyer, witli -whom he 
 had formerly had some transactions, coming down 
 the staircase. The sight sent a chill through the 
 mercer's commercial heart, and a presentiment — 
 one of those presentiments that seldom deceive — 
 told him it was too late. He had, however, the 
 fortitude to abstain from visiting Monsieur Bonelle 
 until evening came ; when he went up, resolved to 
 see him in spite of all Marguerite might urge. 
 The door was half-open, and the old housekeeper 
 stood talking on the landing to a middle-aged man 
 in a dark cassock. 
 
 "It is all over! The old witch has got the 
 priests at him," thought Eamin, inwardly groaning 
 at his own folly in allowing himself to be fore- 
 stalled. 
 
 "You cannot see Monsieur to-night," sharply 
 said Marguerite, as he attempted to pass her. 
 
 "Alas! is my excellent friend so very ill?" 
 asked Eamin, in a mournful tone. 
 
 " Sir," eagerly said the clergyman, catching him 
 by the button of his coat, " if you are indeed the 
 friend of that unhappy man, do seek to bring him 
 into a more suitable frame of mind. I have seen 
 many dying men, but never so much obstinacy, 
 
342 Peael-Pishing. 
 
 never such, infatuated- belief in tiie duration of 
 life." 
 
 "Then you think he really is dying?" asked 
 Ramin ; and, in spite of the melancholy accent he 
 endeavored to assume, there was something so 
 peculiar in his tone, that the priest looked at him 
 very fixedly as he slowly replied, 
 
 " Yes, Sir, I think he is." 
 
 "Ah!" was all Monsieur Eamin said; and as 
 the clergyman had now relaxed his hold of the 
 button, Eamin passed in spite of the remonstrances 
 of Marguerite, who rushed after the priest. He 
 found Monsieur Bonelle still in bed in a towering 
 rage. 
 
 "Oh! Eamin, my friend," he groaned, "never 
 take a housekeeper, and never let her know you 
 have any property. They are harpies, Eamin, — • 
 harpies ! such a day as I have had ; first, the law- 
 yer, who comes to write down ' my last testament- 
 ary dispositions,' as he calls them ; then the priest, 
 who gently hints that I am a dying man. Oh, 
 what a day !" 
 
 "And did you make your will, my excellent 
 friend?" softly asked Monsieur Eamin, with a 
 keen look. 
 
An Excellekt Opportunity. 843 
 
 *' Make my will?" indignantly exclaimed tlie old 
 man; "make my will? what do yon mean, Sir? 
 do you mean to say I am dying ?" 
 
 *' Heaven forbid !" piously ejaculated Eamin, 
 
 " Then why do you ask me if I have been mak- 
 ing my will ?" angrily resumed the old man. He 
 then began to be extremely abusive. 
 
 When money was in the way-, Monsieur Ramin, 
 though otherwise of a violent temper, had the 
 meekness of a lamb. He bore the treatment of his 
 host with the meekest patience, and having first 
 locked the door so as to make sure that Marguerite 
 would not interrupt them, he watched Monsieur 
 Bonelle attentively, and satisfied himself that the 
 Excellent Opportunity he had been ardently long- 
 ing for had arrived. "He is going fast," he 
 thought; "and unless I settle the agreement to- 
 night, and get it drawn up and signed to-morrow, 
 it will be too late." 
 
 " My dear friend," he at length said aloud, on 
 perceiving that the old gentleman had fairly ex- 
 hausted himself and was lying panting on his back, 
 " you are indeed a lamentable instance of the 
 lengths to which the greedy lust of lucre will carry 
 our poor human nature. Jt is really distressing 
 
844 Peael-Fishing., 
 
 to see Marguerite, a faithful, attached servant, sud- 
 denly converted into a tormenting liarpy by the 
 prospect of a legacy ! Lawyers and priests flock 
 around you like birds of prey, drawn hither by the 
 scent of gold 1 Oh, the miseries of having delicate 
 health combined with a sound constitution and 
 large property I" 
 
 " Eamin," groaned the old man, looking inquir- 
 ingly into his visitor's face, "you are again going 
 to talk to me about that annuity — I know you 
 are!" 
 
 " My excellent fiiend, it is merely to deliver you 
 from a painful position." 
 
 " I am sure, Ramin, you think in your soul I am 
 dying," whimpered Monsieur Bonelle. 
 
 "Absurd, my dear Sir. Dying? I will proVe 
 to you that you have never been in better health. 
 In the first place you feel no pain." 
 
 "Excepting from rheumatism," groaned Mon- 
 sieur BoneUe. 
 
 " Rheumatism ! who ever died of rheumatism ? 
 and if that be all — " 
 
 " No, it is not all," interrupted the old man with 
 great irritability; "what wordd you say to the 
 gout getting higher and higher up every day ?" 
 
An Excellent Opportunity. 345 
 
 " The gout is ratter disagreeable, but if there is 
 nothing else — " 
 
 " Yes, there is something else," sharply said 
 Monsieur Bonelle. " There is an asthma that wiU 
 scarcely let me breathe, and a racking pain in my 
 head that does not allow me a moment's ease. But 
 if you think I am dying, Eamia, you are quite mis- 
 taken." 
 
 " ISTo doubt, my dear friend, no doubt ; but in 
 the meanwhile, suppose we talk of this annuity. 
 Shall we say one thousand francs a year." 
 
 "What?" asked Bonelle, looking at him very 
 fixedly. 
 
 " My dear friend, I mistook ; I meant two thou- 
 sand francs per annum," hurriedly rejoined Eamin. 
 
 Monsieur Bonelle closed his eyes, and appeared 
 to fall into a gentle slumber. The mercer coughed ; 
 the sick man never moved. 
 
 " Monsieur Bonelle." 
 
 No reply. 
 
 " My excellent friend." 
 
 Utter silence. 
 
 " Are you asleep ?" 
 
 A long pause. 
 
 "Well, then, what do you say to three thousand ?'" 
 
346 Pearl-Fishing. 
 
 Monsieur Bonelle opened Hs eyes. 
 
 "Eamin," said he, sententiously, "you are a 
 fool ;• the house brings me in four thousand as it is." 
 
 This was quite false, and the mercer knew it; 
 but he had his own reasons for wishing to seem to 
 believe it true. 
 
 " Good Heavens !" said he, with an air of great 
 innocence, "who could have thought it, and the 
 lodgers constantly running away. Four thousand ? 
 Well, then, you shall have four thousand." 
 
 Monsieur BoneUe shut his eyes once more, and 
 murmured "The mere rental— nonsense I" He 
 then folded his hands on his breast, and appeared 
 to compose himself to sleep. 
 
 " Oh, what a sharp man of business .he is!" Ea- 
 min said, admiringly; but for once omnipotent 
 flattery failed in its effect; "So acute!" continued 
 he, with a stealthy glance at the old man, who re- 
 mained perfectly unmoved. "I see you will insist 
 upon making it the other five hundred francs." 
 
 Monsieur Eamin said this as if five thousand five 
 hundred francs had already been mentioned, and 
 was the very summit of Monsieur Bonelle's ambi- 
 tion. But the ruse failed in its effect; the sick 
 man never so much as stirred. 
 
An Excellent Opportunity. S47 
 
 "But, my dear friend," urged Monsieur Eamin 
 in a tone of feeling remonstrance, " there is such a 
 thing as being too sha?p, too acute. How can you 
 expect that I shall give you more when your con- 
 stitution is so good, and you are to be such a long 
 liver?" 
 
 " Yes, but I may be carried off one of those days," 
 quietly observed the old man, evidently wishing to 
 turn the chance of his own death to account. 
 
 " Indeed, and I hope so," muttered the mercer, 
 who was getting very ill-tempered. 
 
 "You see," soothingly continued Bonelle, "you 
 are so good a man of business, Eamin, that you 
 will double the actual value of the house in no 
 time. I am a quiet, easy person, indifferent to 
 money ; otherwise this house would now bring me 
 in eight thousand at the very least." 
 
 "Eight thousand!" indignantly exclaimed the 
 mercer. "Monsieur Bonelle, you have no con- 
 science. Come now, my dear friend, do be reason- 
 able. Six thousand francs a-year (I don't mind 
 saying six) is really a very handsome income for a 
 man of your quiet habits. Come, be reasonable." 
 But Monsieur Bonelle turned a deaf ear to reason, 
 and closed his eyes once more. What between 
 
348 Pearl-Fishing. 
 
 opening and shutting them for the next quarter of 
 an hour, he at length induced Monsieur Eamin to 
 offer him seven thousand francs. 
 
 "Very well, Eamin, agreed," he quietly said; 
 "you have made an unconscionable bargain." To 
 this succeeded a violent fit of coughing. 
 
 As Eamin unlocked the door to leave, he found 
 old Marguerite, who had been listening all the 
 time, ready to assail him with a torrent of whispered 
 abuse for duping her " poor dear innocent old mas- 
 ter into such a bargain." The mercer bore it all 
 very patiently ; he could make allowances for her 
 excited feelings, and only rubbed his hands and 
 bade her a jovial good evening. 
 
 The agreement was signed on the following day, 
 to the indignation of old Marguerite, and the mu- 
 tual satisfaction of the parties concerned. 
 
 Every one admired the luck and shrewdness of 
 Eamin, for the old man every day was reported 
 worse ; and it was clear to all that the first quarter 
 of the annuity would never be paid. Marguerite, 
 in her wrath, told the story as a grievance to every 
 one; people listened, shook their heads, and pro- 
 nounced Monsieur Eamin to be a deuced clever 
 fellow. 
 
An Excellent Opportunity. 349 
 
 A month elapsed. As Eamin was coming down 
 one morning from tlie attics, where he had been 
 giving notice to a poor widow who had failed in 
 paying her rent, he heard a light step on the stairs. 
 Presently a sprightly gentleman, in buoyant health 
 and spirits, wearing the form of Monsieur Bonelle, 
 appeared. Eamin stood aghast. 
 
 "Well, Eamin," gaily said the old man, "how 
 are you getting on ? Have you been tormenting 
 the poor widow up stairs ? Why, man, we must 
 live and let live 1" 
 
 " Monsieur Bonelle," said the mercer, in a hollow 
 tone, " may I ask where are your rheumatics?" 
 
 " Gone, my dear friend, — gone." 
 
 "And the gout that was creeping higher and 
 higher every day," exclaimed Monsieur Eamin, in 
 a voice of anguish. 
 
 " It went lower and lower, till it disappeared al- 
 together," composedly replied Bonelle. 
 
 " And your asthma " 
 
 " The asthma remains, but asthmatic people are 
 proverbially long-lived. It is, I have been told, 
 the only complaint that Methuselah was troubled, 
 with." With this, Bonelle opened his door, shut 
 it, and disappeared. 
 
350 Peakl-Fishing. 
 
 Eamin was transfixed on the stairs; petrified 
 ■witli intense disappointment, and a powerful sense 
 of having been duped. When discovered, he 
 stared vacantly, and raved about an Excellent Op- 
 portunity of taking his revenge. 
 
 The wonderful cure was the talk of the neigh- 
 borhood, whenever Monsieur Bonelle appeared in 
 the streets, jauntily flourishing his cane. In the 
 first frgnzy of his despair, Eamin refused to pay ; 
 he accused every one of having been in a plot to 
 deceive him ; he turned off Catherine and expelled 
 his porter; he publicly accused the lawyer and 
 priest of conspiracy; brought an action against 
 the doctor, and lost it. He had another brought 
 against him for violently assaulting Marguerite, in 
 which he was cast in heavy damages. - Monsieur 
 Bonelle did not trouble himself with useless re- 
 monstrances, but, when his annuity was refused, 
 employed such good legal arguments as the exas- 
 perated mercer could not possibly resist. 
 
 Ten years have elapsed, and MM. Eamin and 
 Bonelle still live on. For a house which would 
 have been dear at fifty thousand francs, the draper 
 has already handed over seventy thousand. 
 
 The once red-faced, jovial Eamin, is now a pale, 
 
An Excellent Oppoetunitt. 351 
 
 haggard man, of sour temper and aspect. To add 
 to his anguish, he sees the old man thrive on that 
 money which it breaks his heart to give. Old 
 Marguerite takes a malicious pleasure in giving 
 him an exact account of their good cheer, and in 
 asking him if he does not think Monsieur looks 
 hetter and better every day. Of one part of this 
 torment Eamin might get rid, by giving his old 
 master notice to quit, and no longer having him in 
 his house. But this he cannot do ; he has a secret 
 fear that Bonelle would take some Excellent Op- 
 portunity of dying without his knowledge, and 
 giving some other person an Excellent Opportunity 
 of personating him, and receiving the money in 
 his stead. 
 
 The last accounts of the victim of Excellent Op- 
 portunities represent him as being gradually worn 
 down with disappointment. There seems every 
 probability of his being the first to leave the 
 world ; for Bonelle is heartier than ever. 
 
 THE END. 
 
Popular Work ! Twelfth Thousand Now Ready! 
 
 LEWIE, OE ThFbENDED.TWIG. 
 
 BY COUSIN CICELY, 
 
 Author of " Silver Lake Stories," etc., etc. 
 
 OnB Volume 12mo., ..... Price 81«00. 
 
 ALDEN, BEARDSLEY & CO., Auburn, N. Y., ? „ ,,. . 
 
 WANZER, BEARDSLEY & CO., Rochestek, N. Y. J -'^""""'"■'* 
 
 " Mother ! thy gentle hand hath mighty power, 
 For thou alone may'st train, and guide, and mould 
 Plants that shall blossom, with an odor sweet. 
 Or, lilce the cursed fig-tree, wither, and become 
 Vile cumberers of the ground." 
 
 Brief Extracts from Notices of the Press, 
 
 * * • A tale which deserves to rank with "TheWide,Wide World." 
 It is written with graphic power, and full of interest. — Harford Repub. 
 
 * * * Her writings are equal to the best. She is a second Fanny 
 Fern — Palmyra Democrat. 
 
 * * * It is recommended by its excellent moral tone and its whole- 
 some practical inculcations. — iV. Y. Tribune. 
 
 * * * Full of grace and charm, its style and vivacity make it a most 
 amusing work. For the intellectual and thinking, it has a deeper lesson, 
 and while it thrills the heart, bids parents beware of that weakness which 
 prepares in infancy the misery of man. " Lewie " is one of the most pop- 
 ular books now before the public, and needs no puffing, as it is selling by 
 thousands. — N. Y. Day Book. 
 
 » • * The moral of the book is inestimable. The writer cannot 
 fail to be good, as she so faithfully portrays the evils which owe their ori- 
 gin to the criminal neglect of proper parental discipline. — HunVi Mer- 
 chants Magazine. 
 
 * * * The plot is full of dramatic interest, yet entirely free from 
 extravagance ; the incidents grow out of the main plot easily and natural- 
 ly, while the sentiment is healthy and unaffected. Commend us to more 
 writers like Cousin (/icely — books which we can see in the hands of our 
 young people without uneasiness. Books which interest by picturing life 
 as it is, instead of giving us galvanized society. — National Democrat. 
 
 * * * A touching and impressive story, unaffected In style and ef- 
 fective in plot. — N. Y. Evangelist. 
 
 * * * The story of the Governess, contained in this volume, is one 
 of rare interest. — Highland Eagle. 
 
 * * * The story is a charming one — the most affecting we ever 
 read Jersey Shore Republican. 
 
 * * * "Cousin Cicely" is just the person to portray family scenes. 
 ' * * This story will be profitable reading. — Daily Capital City Fact, 
 Columbus, Ohio. 
 
 * * * The contents of the work are of the first order, and unexcep- 
 tionable. — Hartford Daily Times.--