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 http://www.archive.org/details/poorlawspaupersi12mart
 
 VSDER THE SUPERINTENDENCE OF THE SOCIETY FOR 
 THE DIFFUSION OF USEFUL KNOWLEDGE. 
 
 POOR LAWS AND PAUPERS 
 
 ILLUSTRATED. 
 
 I. THE PARISH. 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 BY 
 
 HARRIET MARTINEAU. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 CHARLES FOX, &7, PxVTERXOSTER ROW. 
 
 1833.
 
 COMMITTEE." 
 
 Cluiirman—rhe Right Hon. THE LORD CHANCELLOR. 
 
 Vice-chairman— The Right Hon, SIR HENRY PARNELL, Bart., M.P. 
 
 Treasurer— WILLIAM TOOKE, Esq., M.P., F.R.S. 
 
 W. Allen, Esq., PR. and R.A.S- ; 
 
 lit. Hon Viscount Althorp, M.P., 
 Chancellor of the Exchequer. 
 
 VV. B. Baring, Esq , M.P. 
 
 Capt. F. Beaufort, R.N., F.R., and 
 K..\.S., Hydrogiapher to the Ad- 
 miralty. 
 
 Sir C. Bell, F.R.S.L. &E. 
 
 The Right \>ev. the Bishop of 
 Chicht-ster, D.D. 
 
 William (^oulson, Esq. 
 
 R. D. Craig. Esq. 
 
 \Vm. Crawford, Esq. 
 
 T. Fred. Daniell, Esq., F.R.S. 
 
 Right Hon. Lord Dover, F.R.S., F.S.A. 
 
 r.ieut. Drummond, R.E., F.K.A.S. 
 
 T. F. Ellis, Esq., M.A., F.R.A.S. 
 
 .Tohn Elliotson, M.D., F.R.S. 
 
 Thomas Falconer, Esq. 
 
 I I,, (ioldsmid, Esq. F R.,and R.A.S. 
 
 B. (Jompertz. Esq , F.R., and R.A.S. 
 
 (i B. (jreenough, Esq., F.R.andL.,S. 
 
 H. Hallam, Esq., F.R.S., M.A. 
 
 M. n. Hill, Esq., M.P. 
 
 Rowland Hill. Esq., F.R.A.S. 
 
 Edwin Hill, Esq 
 
 Pavid Jardine, Esq., M.A> 
 
 The Rt. Hon. the Lord Chief Juttiea 
 
 of England. 
 Henry B. Iver, Esq. 
 Til. Hewitt Key, Esq., M.A. 
 George C. Lewis, Esq., M.A. 
 James Loch, Esq , MP., F.G.L.S. 
 George Long, Esq., M.A. 
 J. \V. Lubbock, Esq., F.R., R.A., and 
 
 H Maiden, Esq , M.A. 
 A. T. Malkin, Esq., M.A., 
 James M-'nring, Esq. 
 J. HermanMerivale, Esq.,F,A.S• 
 James Mill, Esq. 
 W. H.Ord, Esq, M.P. 
 Dr. Roget, Sec. R.S., F.R.A.S. 
 Sir M. A. Shee. P.R.A., F.R.S. 
 Rev. Rich, sheepshanks, M.A. 
 J. Smith. Esq., M.P. 
 Dr. A T. Thomson, F.L.S. 
 N. A. Vigors, Esq., M. P., F.R.S. 
 John Ward, Esq. 
 H. AVavmouth, Esq. 
 J. Whishaw, Esq., M.A., F.R.S. 
 John Wrottesley, Esq., M.A., Sec, 
 R.A.S. 
 
 THOMAS COATES, Stcrdar}/, No. 59, Lincoln's Inn Fields.
 
 ^5 3 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 . i Chapter Page 
 
 I. — Pay Day at Thorpe . . 1 
 
 II. — Farm Service . .18 
 
 III.— Morning Calls ... 36 
 
 IV. — Thorpe Corner . .53 
 
 J^ V. — Lodgings to Let . . ,71 
 
 ^ VL— A Frolic . . .34 
 
 ^ VII.— More Frolic . . , 96 
 
 6 VIII.— The Spoiler Invited . 106 
 
 < IX. — The Spoiler Welcomed . Ibl 
 
 X.— Ease and Plenty . .158 
 
 "i^ XL— The Mile Cross . .186 
 
 ^ XIL— Try Again . . . .206
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 As any utility which may be contemplated from 
 the following tale must be impaired by the sup- 
 position that the wees and vices it displays are 
 the offspring of an uncontrolled imagination, I 
 beg to state that all that is most melancholy in 
 my story is strictly true, I have unquestionable 
 authority in the Reports of the Poor- Law Com- 
 missioners, and the testimony of others who are 
 occupied in the administration of parish affairs, 
 for every parochial abuse and every pauper 
 encroachment here exhibited ; and I have taken 
 no pains to select the worst instances of either 
 that have come within my knowledge. 
 
 The pleasantest office of philanthropy is, doubt- 
 less, to set forth persuasively whatever is pure in 
 human nature, and lofty in social character : but 
 there is a satisfaction amidst the pain of exhi- 
 biting the reverse of the picture, when vice and 
 misery can be indisputably referred to the errors 
 of a system rather than to the depravity of indi- 
 viduals. All social systems being remediable, 
 the task of exposing the unhappy results of any 
 involves a definite hope of the amelioration 
 which must, sooner or later, follow the exposure. 
 The more clearly evils can be referred to an in- 
 stitution, the more cheering are the expectations 
 of what maybe effected by its amendment. Let 
 these rational hopes console the readers as they 
 have supported the writer of this tale. 
 
 H.M.
 
 POOR LAWS AND PAUPERS 
 
 ILLUSTRATED. 
 
 No. I. 
 
 THE PARISH. 
 
 Chapter I. 
 PAY DAY AT THORPE. 
 
 " Bless me, squire ! what brings you here, I 
 wonder ?" exclaimed farmer Goldby, on squire 
 Manning taking his stand opposite to Donkin, 
 the overseer, who was preparing to pay the pau- 
 pers, to whom the doors were about to be thrown 
 open. " I thought, squire, that you and I saw 
 enough of these people at home, and that you 
 would leave it to Donkin to deal with them 
 to-day." 
 
 " I might as well ask what you come for,'* 
 observed the squire : '• but, of course, you will 
 say it is to see how your money goes. You 
 keep a sharp look out upon Donkin, I know, 
 and make him answer for every sixpence he pays 
 awav." 
 
 " I wish some other people did so too, and 
 then mine would be an easier office than it is," 
 obsersed Donkin. <' Mr. Goldby and I together 
 
 B
 
 2 THE PARISH. 
 
 are a pretty good match for the paupers ; but 
 when you come, squire, or, what is the same 
 thing, when you send VVoolIerton, ■" 
 
 " Aye, Woollerton ! Where's Woollerton ? 
 That is one of the things I came to ask," ob- 
 served the squire. " I want to see him." 
 
 " You have only to wait a few minutes, if, as 
 is most likely, he happened to see you turn in 
 here. He will be sure to pay his respects to your 
 worship and the people without." 
 
 *' Poor Woollerton ! It seems mighty hard 
 that he should always be sneered at by you over- 
 seers, when he gets ready so much of your work 
 to your hand." 
 
 " There is no denying that he does that," re- 
 plied Donkin, laughing. " He and you cut out 
 plenty of work for the overseer." 
 
 " Woollerton is in duty bound to do so, if 
 the squire wishes it," observed Goldby. " Who 
 gave j?oor Woollerton his office, hey, squire ?" 
 
 " The vestry, of course. The vestry made 
 him their clerk, and appointed him his salary. 
 It does not follow that he is at my beck and call 
 because I thought him a fit person to be vestry- 
 clerk. But what I came for is to speak to you 
 about the widow Brand. She has taken an odd 
 fancy into her head. She wants to give up her 
 pay to-day." 
 
 " Well, that wan odd fancy," observed Donkin. 
 
 " Do let one speak, Mr. Donkin. She comes 
 to me to ask to be rated, that she may open 
 a beer-shop. I tell her she does not know 
 what she is about in undertaking such a thing ;
 
 PAY DAY AT THORPE. 3 
 
 and it is my belief that it will be her destruction. 
 What is she to do, I ask her, with half-a-dozen 
 fellows, when they get merry over their beer ? 
 much more when they grow quarrelsome. And 
 then her family —— " 
 
 " O, leave all that to her," cried Goldby. 
 " It is no concern of ours whether she turns out 
 a tipsy customer herself, or gets a stout neio'h- 
 bour to do it. Let us only slip her and her three 
 children off the rate, and she may settle the 
 rest." 
 
 The squire felt it his business, whatever Goldby 
 might think, to prevent a poor widow, if he 
 could, from entering upon a speculation which 
 was likely to ruin her and hers, soul, body, and 
 estate. He had hoped to keep the parish free 
 from the n^ui^ance of a beer-shop ; but it was in 
 vain to hope that no one else would set one up, 
 if widow Brand did not, now that the notion 
 was abroad that such a thing must answer. 
 But he must make one more attempt to show 
 the widow that she had best " let well alone,'* 
 and go on respectably and comfortably, as she 
 had done from her husband's death till now: and 
 he looked to Donkin to bear him out in what he 
 said. 
 
 Donkin smiled at the idea of the respecta- 
 bility and prosperity of living in part on parish 
 pay, as the widow and her children had done 
 since poor Brand's death. He agreed, how- 
 ever, that, judging of a beer-shop by what beer- 
 shops were in other places, it was a fearful 
 undertaking for a lone woman, with young people
 
 4 THE PARISH. 
 
 who might be corrupted. He was far from de- 
 siring to cast her otf the rate as he would cast 
 off a stout labourer, and was willing to give her 
 his best advice. Widow Brand, being in wait- 
 ing outside, was called in. 
 
 She came curtseying, and looking by far too 
 bashful to be fit for her proposed occupation. 
 She hoped the gentlemen would not take it ill 
 that she came to give up her pay. 
 
 No fear ! farmer Goldby assured her ; parti- 
 cularly if she proposed to assist the rate instead 
 of living upon it. 
 
 She must endeavour to do so, the widow re- 
 plied, as it was necessary to her undertaking, 
 though there was one of her children, — the one 
 whose hand she held, — that was likely to be 
 always a burden, and for whom she should be 
 glad to have an allowance still ; but she feared 
 that could not be, if she was rated. 
 
 " She is a poor weakly little thing indeed," 
 observed the squire. " With such a hump as 
 that growing, she will hardly be any taller ; and 
 what are you to do with a sickly child in such a 
 house as yours will be ? You had better think 
 again, dame, and take your money for this week, 
 to give yourself time to consider." 
 
 Mrs. Brand had considered, and gone so far 
 as to get the house ready for its being opened 
 the first day of the next week. It was the house 
 on the common that stands apart on the left, 
 just as you go out of the street. 
 
 " What, one of Blogg's new cottages ?" in- 
 quired Donkin.
 
 PAY DAY AT THORPE. 5 
 
 " Yes, sir ; Mr. Blog*^ is my landlord. He 
 offered me a choice between the middle house 
 of the row, and this one on the common ; and 
 I chose this, (though the rent is higher by thirty 
 shillings,) because it has a large room below, 
 where people may sit and take their beer." 
 
 " And have room to knock one another under 
 the table ; hey, dame ?" added the squire. 
 
 " And because," continued Mrs. Brand, " one 
 gets on better with the neighbours if any thing 
 of the nature of a public-house stands apart, in 
 case of such a thing as a quarrel, or of singing 
 that any one might think too loud." 
 
 " So you expect some trouble of that sort," 
 observed Donkin. " Since you do, and yet have 
 made up your mind, there is nothing more to be 
 said. But you have done wisely in not taking 
 one of the cottages in the row, — at least, if you 
 have made sure of yours being better built and 
 drained." 
 
 '* They are but tumble-down places indeed, 
 sir, to bear a rent of seven pounds. It is better 
 worth while to give between eight and nine 
 pounds for mine ; though the wood work is far 
 from sound, and the walls are very thin for 
 such an exposed situation, as I told Mr. Blogg.'* 
 
 " Those things (though bad enough, as you 
 will find) signify less than the house being 
 built on a clav soil, and havino- no drain, which 
 is the case with the house in Myrtle Row. I 
 wish we could make Blogg pay for all the sick- 
 ness that will be bred in that place when the 
 wet months come on. I told Jay lately that he 
 
 B 3
 
 6 THE PAIUSH, 
 
 would have a lot of patients there by and by, 
 that will keep him too busy to leave much time 
 for speechifying- and writing handbills." 
 
 The squire observed that if every man, woman, 
 and child in the parish was down upon a sick 
 bed, Jay would find time for making harangues, 
 and people to listen to them. Happen what 
 might, Jay would always rate himself more 
 highly as a politician than an apothecary. 
 
 " You have taken pay for three children, I 
 think," said the overseer to the widow. " You 
 have managed to live upon this and your own 
 allowance, and the little you earned." 
 
 " Just managed, sir. With one more child I 
 should have been pretty comfortable." 
 
 " The devil you would," cried Goldby. " So 
 you and your neighbours have children to be 
 made comfortable out of our pockets." 
 
 The widow hoped no offence, and went on to 
 relate that she must dispose of a part of her 
 family, in order to make room for her customers. 
 " And to get your young people out of harm's 
 way, I hope," observed the squire. " What do 
 you do with your sister ? She is so much 
 younger than you, you must remember, that 
 you ought not to reckon on her being so steady." 
 " I had that in my mind early, sir ; and Je- 
 mima has got a very good service with Mrs. 
 Blogg, who takes in washing, and keeps a per- 
 son always employed under her. Jemima will 
 be there liom early in tlie morning till late at 
 night, w^hen my house will be cleared ; so that 
 the only help I have to ask is for my daughter
 
 PAY DAY AT THORPE. 7 
 
 Ruth. If the parish will find her a place, I 
 shall be very g-lad to be relieved of her." 
 
 Farmer Goldby was sure she must want Ruth 
 at home to help her to draw beer, and keep the 
 scores, and clean the house after the many feet 
 that would be going and coming ; but the widow 
 declared her little son Peter to be equal to a part 
 of this business, and that she must take the rest 
 upon herself, or hire help, rather than run the 
 risk of unfitting Ruth for a respectable service, 
 by making so young a girl wait in a beer-shop. 
 Donkin thought the widow was right, and asked 
 Goldby whether he did not want such a girl as 
 Ruth in his kitchen or dairy, adding, that he 
 believed her to be a well conducted, intelligent 
 girl. 
 
 " If you would please to ask the governess, 
 sir," interposed the widow, " she would tell you 
 that Ruth is considered a credit to the school ; 
 and I am sure you would look long among the 
 children in the workhouse before you would find 
 one that would make you so good a servant." 
 
 Goldby merely replied that he did not want 
 such a servant at present. 
 
 " You remember," added Donkin, " you must 
 take your share of the boys and girls who are to 
 be put out next week. It is ten to one that you 
 get such a lass as Ruth." 
 
 " And you certainly mean to take charge of 
 her among those who are seeking service ?" 
 
 " Certainly," the squire decided. " You can- 
 not do less for Mrs. Brand, in consideration of 
 her taking herself and her family off the rates."
 
 8 THE PARISH, 
 
 " Well, then, as Ruth must be a parish girl, 
 and as I must take a parish girl, I may as well 
 take her instead of standing the chance of a 
 worse. But it is very hard when I have too 
 many servants already ; and so my good woman 
 will tell me when she hears of it. Now, mind 
 ye, Donkin, don't put another upon me for a 
 long time to come ; for I take this girl purely 
 to serve the parish." 
 
 " And me, I am sure, and I own it with many 
 thanks," said the widow, curtseying and with- 
 drawing on the entrance of other persons who 
 had business with the overseer. 
 
 Blogg nodded to her as she went out, and 
 then made his way to the table, every body yield- 
 ing precedence to the owner of cottages. 
 
 " Sharpe tells me," said Blogg, " that you 
 refuse to pay his rent for him." 
 
 " To be sure," replied the overseer ; " you 
 know little of the calls upon the rate, if you 
 think that we can pay rents out of it." 
 
 " I know that you will have worse calls upon 
 it if you do not pay rents. I must have my 
 money ; and unless you help Sharpe to pay it, I 
 will distrain, and then you must do the best you 
 can with him and his family." 
 
 " So you want to make the parish pay for 
 your having taken a bad tenant." 
 
 " How do you mean ' a bad tenant ?' Sharpe 
 belongs to the parish. I suppose you do not 
 dispute that. Leave it to me to make him pay 
 as long as he can. When he can pay no longer, 
 his parish must do it. Trust me for choosing my
 
 PAY DAY AT THORPE. 9 
 
 tenants well. I take care to have nothing to do 
 with non-parishioners, unless they can give good 
 security for their rent." 
 
 " You are out in your reckoning, my good 
 sir," observed the overseer, " It has never been 
 our practice to pay rents out of the rate." 
 
 " That is no reason why it never should be. 
 If people have a right to a maintenance from 
 their parish, I cannot see how you can deny 
 them wherewith to pay for a roof over their 
 heads." 
 
 " True, true ; very true," obser\-ed the squire. 
 " Neither you nor I have any rio-ht to draw the 
 distinction where the law makes none. You 
 must help Sharpe with his rent if you find that 
 he really cannot pay it himself." 
 
 " If so," said Donkin, " the best way will be 
 to buy cottages for our paupers at once, instead 
 of putting a yearly profit into Blogg's pocket." 
 
 " With all my heart. I take you at your word, 
 if you give me my price," cried Blogg, urging 
 his challenge with an outstretched arm. 
 
 " And what is your price ? ' 
 
 " Seventy pounds a-piece for the houses in 
 M>Ttle Row." 
 
 " Thank you ; but it would answer better to 
 us to build than to take your damp, rickety cot- 
 tages at that price, even if we had the conscience 
 to put our poor into such unwholesome dens." 
 
 " Build away, pray : you will be just where 
 you were before, as concerns my tenants. Cot- 
 tages do not stand empty long where there are 
 young people of the parish ready to marry ; and
 
 10 THE PARISH. 
 
 there will always be Sharpes enough to live in 
 my cottages, if you build three to my one. My 
 houses will never stand empty long-." 
 
 " They are not likely to stand long-, any way," 
 observed Goldby. " How can you for shame, 
 Blogg, ask seventy pounds for such piles of old 
 brick and rotten wood ?" 
 
 " They yield a rent of seven pounds ; and if 
 that is not good interest upon seventy pounds, I 
 don't know what is." 
 
 "But they would not be worth that to the 
 parish. You know that it is a chance if they 
 stand more than ten years, and you make your 
 tenants pay for the bad quality of the building. 
 The parish could not do this ; so none of your 
 bargains of cottages for us !" 
 
 *' If we bought them, it would be to pull them 
 down," observed Donkin ; " but not with any 
 idea of selling the materials to you, Mr. Blogg, 
 lest you should make them serve for a third 
 erection." 
 
 " You may please yourselves," said Blogg. 
 " If you do not buy, there are others that are 
 ready to do so ; and mind ye, if you do not help 
 Sharpe with his rent this very day, I distrain, and 
 you will have his whole family on your books 
 next week." 
 
 And Blogg retired, casting back a look from 
 the door to see the impression of his speech. 
 Squire Manning seemed to him to be laying- 
 down the law ; and Bloffffwas therefore satisfied 
 that the matter was in a good train. 
 
 There was 'by this time a throng of persons
 
 PAY DAY AT THORPE. 11 
 
 in waiting to be paid, most of whom altered their 
 demeanour in one respect or another when they 
 found that the squire was present. Some became 
 very deferential to the overseer ; others urged 
 new claims with great pertinacity, as if hoping 
 for squire Manning's countenance ; while a few 
 bandied jokes with the good uatured farmer, 
 whose complaints were as inoffensive as they were 
 unavailing. 
 
 " Well, Wilde," said he, " what is to be done 
 with you ? Am I to go on paying you because 
 you do no work ?' 
 
 " Unless you choose to pay me for doing 
 work. Whether work or not, I must have pay." 
 
 " And work too," said Donkin. " There are 
 the gravel-pits, if you cannot get employment 
 elsewhere. We cannot afford to let you do 
 nothing." 
 
 " Now, just tell me honestly, Wilde," said 
 Goldby ; " have you really tried in earnest to 
 get work ? Have you tried as if starvation was 
 before you ?" 
 
 " Why, sir, you see, starvation is not before 
 me, so I can't say : but I have asked a many 
 people, and there's but little encouragement to 
 ask, when they look as if they wished me at the 
 world's end for teasins: them. You know vour- 
 self, Mr. Goldby, that you do not look your 
 handsomest, nor Mrs. Goldbv either, when I 
 come on that errand." 
 
 " That's very true ; but yet it is an awful 
 thing to measure such a stout fellow as you from 
 top to toe, and think that you are eating some-
 
 12 THE PARISH. 
 
 body out of house and home. Do work your 
 best at the gravel-pits, my good fellow, till you 
 can step into somebody's shoes at a better sort 
 of labour." 
 
 Wilde observed that he made no promises. 
 He was as tired as any man of lounging about, 
 and taking no money but what was grudged in 
 the giving ; though, for that matter, one sort of 
 pajment was as much grudged as another in 
 these days. , He remembered the time, young 
 as he was, when hard working men took their 
 wages as a matter of course, without thanks 
 and without repining, because neither the labour 
 nor the hire was thought of as a matter of favour. 
 Now, a man might toil as hard as a horse, and 
 he got only half his dues out of his master's 
 hands ; and he had to go through what no 
 honest man should in getting the rest from the 
 parish. Such a man being treated as a pauper 
 at all events, it was no wonder if he worked like 
 a pauper, and preferred lounging to putting his 
 hand in earnest to what he was about. 
 
 Goldby could answer for the truth of this, and 
 believed that scarcely a man in the parish knew 
 the pleasure of doing a good day's task of labour. 
 The hardest working man in the parish was the 
 squire on the day of a long run in the hunting 
 season ; and next to the squire came the steward 
 and housekeeper, during the bestowing of their 
 master's Christmas bounty. 
 
 " And pray where do you rank me ?" inquired 
 the overseer. " You do not think my place a 
 sinecure."
 
 PAY DAY AT THORPE. 13 
 
 *' Why, man, there is not one of the hedgers 
 and ditchers that stands before this pay-table, 
 that will do such a stroke of work all next win- 
 ter, as you will have done before this day is oyer, 
 always supposing that we go on paying them 
 for beins: idle as we are doinjj; now.' 
 
 " Come, come, Goldby," said the squire, " no 
 more of your abuse of these poor people : I 
 advise you for your own sake. I cannot stop 
 now, as I sometimes do, to palliate what you 
 say ; so do be prudent, and make no more 
 enemies." 
 
 And the squire nodded to the persons present, 
 and withdrew to pursue his morning's ride. 
 Goldby immediately observed in a low tone to 
 the overseer, — 
 
 " The squire neyer can see that it is ourselves 
 and not the poor people that I find fault with, 
 because it is we ourselves who make them idle. 
 And as for making enemies, it is not possible 
 but that a farmer in this parish should be be- 
 set with them. I hold myself to be as ffood 
 natured a fellow as most, but hang me if I can 
 turn myself right or left without meeting a 
 scowling face, or an eye that has mocking in it. 
 But who comes here ? You know this face, 
 surely, do not you?" 
 
 " Not the less for the owner being out of 
 livery. — Well, W^ood, so you show yourself again ; 
 why could not you come while your master was 
 here ? ' 
 
 I had to hold his horse, sir ; he has but just 
 
 c 
 
 ((
 
 14 THE PARISH. 
 
 mounted. My wife has two children, you re- 
 member, sir." 
 
 " I have her down. Pray, Wood, does your 
 master know of your taking parish pay? You 
 who wear his livery, and not only wait at his 
 table, but eat your fill of what is carried from it." 
 
 " My master has nothing to do with my wife's 
 concerns, and it is for her that I take pay. Not 
 so much as a shilling goes into my own pocket," 
 
 " Why, no; I don't see how you would 
 manage to spend it, your wages being a pretty 
 income of themselves, even if you had to find 
 either clothing or food, both of which are pro- 
 vided for you. I shall spare your wife nothing 
 till she wants it more ; so, clear the way, if you 
 please." 
 
 Wood beckoned to the vestry clerk, who had 
 entered the room after a short conference w'ith 
 the squire, as he mounted. Woollerton had much 
 to say in favour of Wood's claim, and advised 
 a reference to the squire in case of any doubt. 
 Donkin always dreaded a summons to the squire's 
 (at the distance of nearly five miles), as more 
 expensive than giving relief. He therefore al- 
 lowed Wood's claim for this week, and proposed 
 to Goldby, in a whisper, that the first of them 
 who saw the squire should endeavour to obtain 
 his assent to the wife of a livery servant being 
 an improper object for parish relief 
 
 When the crowd of claimants had been dis- 
 missed, there was some consultation between 
 the three who remained at the table, as to what
 
 PAY DAY AT THORPE. 15 
 
 should be done towards reducing the expenses of 
 the workhouse, which were, as they had long 
 been, on the hicrease. 
 
 WooUerton entered an immediate protest against 
 any change. When they considered, he said, 
 what sort of people were in the workhouse, — 
 old, diseased, and otherwise helpless persons — it 
 seemed impossible to think, for an instant, of 
 stinting them in their little comforts ; and so 
 soon as many of them would die oflp, it would be 
 a cruel economy to save in that quarter. 
 
 " Aye, but what do you think of the chil- 
 dren ?" said Goldby. " They are not to die off 
 soon, are they? And their little comforts cost 
 us so much, let me tell you, that we shall have 
 few enough left for our own children. There 
 are Halliday's four brats still — year after year. 
 I am sure, Donkin, you cannot have done your 
 utmost to find their father, or he would have 
 been forthcomino; before this." 
 
 " Do you try to find him, then," said Donkin. 
 *' That widow Brand can keep a secret, what- 
 ever else she can do. By no device that I can 
 invent, can I gather an idea from her where her 
 brother has been any one day since he deserted 
 his children ; and yet he lets us know some things 
 about him. He does not mind showins: that he 
 is doing well, and that he cares for his poor little 
 ones, for he sends them presents through the 
 widow Brand two or three times a year." 
 
 " What is there to wonder at in that ?" in- 
 quired WooUerton. " It does not follow from a 
 man's deserting his children that he hates them,
 
 16 THE PARISH. 
 
 while there is the parish to take charge of them. 
 I suppose you do not tliink that Halliday would 
 have left his children to die in a ditch, jf there 
 had been no such thing' as a parish- rate.'' 
 
 " If there had been no such thing as a parish- 
 rate, Halliday would have been supporting his 
 family, instead of making our rate-payers do it; 
 and here is reason enough for our looking to it, 
 that the rate has no more such unreasonable 
 burdens to sustain. In this case I have done all 
 I can. I have even spent more money than I 
 like to think of, in trying to trace Halliday. We 
 must hope that he will turn up one of these 
 days." 
 
 " He will be sure to do that," observed Goldby. 
 " When his children have grown up to an age at 
 which no one will think of their depending on 
 him, and when he begins to fail and to be re- 
 minded of old age, he will come and be one of 
 those whose expenses are not to be grudged be- 
 cause they will soon die off." 
 
 WooUerton observed that if any one had told 
 him that Goldby, of all men, would grow hard 
 hearted, he would not have believed it ; but now 
 he had heard him, with his own ears, make a 
 mockery of old age and infirmity. 
 
 " Your ears deceive you, then," said Goldby. 
 " If I mocked at all, it would be at the notion 
 of old age and infirmity being made comfortable 
 in the workhouse. These poor creatures in our 
 workhouse ought to be cherished at home by 
 their own kith and kin, instead of being turned 
 out lonely among a herd of sufferers like them-
 
 PAY DAY AT THORPE. 17 
 
 selves. But our lads and lasses, even some of 
 the steadiest of them, have as little notion of 
 providing for their parents in old age, as Halli- 
 day's deserted children are likely to have here- 
 after. As a matter of curiosity, Donkin, 1 will 
 go round the workhouse with you some day, and 
 learn how many of the impotent folks we sup- 
 port have able-bodied sons and daughters." 
 
 " With all my heart," said Donkin. " Will 
 you step across with me now ? I am going to 
 look in.'' 
 
 " Not now, for I must make haste home. 
 This business of paying takes a longer time 
 every week, I think." 
 
 " It does ; and I must find some means of 
 shortening it, for the labourers make it an excuse 
 for losing half a day's work." 
 
 " Aye, aye, any excuse will serve where there 
 is no will to work," observed Goldby, buttoning 
 the large metal buttons of his green coat, and 
 fitting on his broad-brimmed straw hat, in pre- 
 paration for departure. The overseer, mean- 
 while, tied up his money-bag, and made the neces- 
 sary entries in his memorandum book. Wool- 
 lerton was already on his way home, to assist his 
 wife in serving the customers, who were particu- 
 larly numerous on pay day, and liberal in their 
 purchases of candle, tea and sugar, bacon, and \J 
 things in general. — If any complaints of high 
 prices were occasionally heard, Mrs. Woollerton 
 was ready to hint to the grumblers, that without 
 her husband's good- nature in the vestry, they \ 
 might have been in no condition to make pur- 
 
 c3
 
 18 THE PARISH. 
 
 chases at all ; and Mr. W. was not slow to inti- 
 mate that the blanne of high prices must rest on 
 those who caused bad debts, for which he must, 
 of course, indemnify himself by a larger profit 
 than would be necessary if all paid their debts 
 in an honest way. 
 
 Chapter II. 
 FARM SERVICE. 
 
 The widow Brand's daughter Ruth was not 
 long in discovering that life in a farm-house is 
 a very different thing from life passed between 
 the charity school and a tender mother's apron- 
 strino:. Ruth had been an industrious girl thus 
 far ; she had always been up in time to wash and 
 dress her poor deformed little sister, and to give 
 the sturdy master Peter his breakfast, before she 
 went to school ; and when she had once learned 
 the routine of the school, she went through her 
 business with considerable regularity, advancing 
 from hemming to seaming, and from the myste- 
 ries of marking and backstitchiiig to the respon- 
 sibility of fixing work for her juniors. She 
 could read pretty well and write a little, but had 
 scarcely sufficient energy for arithmetic, and far 
 too little to bear witli any grace her share of 
 the sweeping and scouring of the school-room, — 
 a proper part of the duty of the elder girls. As 
 Ruth was never idle, however, and as she per-
 
 FARM SERVICE. 19 
 
 formed as much as any body expected of her, 
 and was certainly to be depended upon for truth 
 and honesty, she bore a very fair character, and 
 was likely to meet with a more favourable recep- 
 tion from Mrs. Goldbv than was usual! v otfered 
 to candidates for instruction in the matters of the 
 dairy and farm-kitchen. 
 
 Ruth scarcelv knew whether to like or fear 
 the change proposed for her. She would rather 
 have gone on attending the school and taking 
 care of Biddy ; but as that could not be, she 
 wavered between her awe of Mrs. Goldby, and 
 her dread of the beer drinkers whom she must 
 wait upon if she remained at home. Certain old 
 associations with the Goldbys' interior decided 
 her inclinations to follow her destiny. It was 
 some years since she had been in the orchard and 
 dairy ; for Mrs. Goldby had grown severe against 
 idlers ; but Ruth remembered calling " chick, 
 chick," in the poultry-yard, and picking up the 
 apples that were showered from the tree over 
 her head, and playing hide and seek in the straw 
 in the old barn. She did not suppose that she 
 should now play hide and seek ; but the fowls 
 might, in time, come to be under her charge, and 
 she should be much in the dairy, where the green 
 boughs rustled so pleasantly before the windows, 
 and the coolness was so refreshins: in a summer's 
 noon. There was a lilac hedge just within the 
 palings which separated the little front garden 
 from the road. Often and often had she sup- 
 ported Peter behind, while he stood on the rail, 
 and pulled a fragi'ant bunch or two, with fear
 
 20 THE PARISH. 
 
 and trembling. Now she should have free access 
 to this lilac hedge, and might gather as many 
 white and lilac bunches of blossoms as she chose; 
 perhaps even leaves enough to finish an experi- 
 ment which she and Peter had often begun, but 
 never could complete. Their mother was wont 
 to tell them of the Babes in the Wood, the whole 
 of which story they devoutly believed ; but they 
 could never sufficiently admire the industry of 
 the robins, in covering the children with leaves. 
 Peter was anxious to know how many leaves it 
 would take. There was no horse-chesnut, or 
 sycamore, or other large-leav^ed tree within his 
 reach, and farmer Goldby's lilac hedge was 
 therefore his best resource. One lapfull after 
 another of its widest leaves did Ruth carry to the 
 corner of the churchyard wall, close by, under 
 which poor little Biddy was laid to be covered 
 with leaves ; but the trial never succeeded, either 
 for want of material, or because Biddy would 
 toss her arms about when the leaves were nicely 
 joined, so as to hide the blue of her pinafore, or 
 get up and go away before she was half covered. 
 Ruth was quite aware that it would now be be- 
 neath her dignity to pursue this inquiry by her- 
 self, bat she had, half unconsciously, a hope that 
 under colour of amusing some baby-visiter at 
 the farm, she might arrive at a solution. 
 
 Very different was the actual appearance of every 
 thing from the picture which dwelt in her fancy. 
 It was not now the season for snow-drops or lilacs, 
 or for green boughs to wave around the dairy. 
 Dying leaves were whirled about in the garden
 
 FARM SERVICE. 21 
 
 walks, and a few strav ones were blown into the 
 very milk-pans, when any careless person left the 
 door open to the autumn gusts. There were 
 apples in the orchard, both on the trees and 
 strewed beneath them ; but Ruth was not called 
 to gather them. Mrs. Goldby let no one feed 
 her fowls but herself. The mornings were dark 
 and misty ; and instead of waking with the lark, 
 and tripping across a clover field to hail her cows, 
 Ruth tbund she was expected to leave her bed 
 on a random guess at what o'clock it might be, 
 and grope her way to the tinder-box, at the risk 
 of being growled at if it should prove too early, 
 and scolded if too late to suit any of the various 
 notions of the people around her, respecting the 
 fitness of times and seasons. Then there was 
 all the awkwardness of makino; her wav amons; 
 the cows in the glimmer of her horn lantern, 
 and the discomfort of the draughts in the cow- 
 shed, and of the raw mist when she came out 
 of it ; and the forlorn appearance of the farm- 
 kitchen at dawn, with its long table strewed \Wth 
 the fragments of the last night's supper, — with 
 crusts of bread, and parings of cheese, and spill- 
 ings of beer, all of which she was to remove, 
 and replace with the substantial breakfast of the 
 carters and out-door servants. Next came what- 
 ever fatiguinar variety of work might constitute 
 the order of the day, — scouring the dairy uten- 
 sils, churning-, making cheeses, and what not. 
 Then the long dinner-table was to be got ready ; 
 then huge baskets of apples to be carried up to 
 the apple-loft, and stowed away ; then milking
 
 22 THE PARISH. 
 
 again ; then supper, with noise and confusion 
 which made her thoroughly stupid before she 
 was dismissed, weary, to her bed, to be alarmed 
 by the stirrings of the owls in the roof, or to 
 cry herself to sleep amidst thoughts of Biddy 
 and home. 
 
 If Mrs. Goldby was somewhat severe with her 
 little maid, it was chiefly owing to this propensity 
 of Ruth's to cry. The so-called laziness in the 
 mornings, the want of finish in her milking, the 
 deficiency of vigour in pressing the cheeses, 
 might all — though somewhat provoking faults to 
 an accomplished farmer's wife — have been tole- 
 rated in the prospect of improved experience ; 
 but frequent tears were an unpardonable sin in 
 a dairy-maid. 
 
 " What's this about, child? Tears dropping 
 into my milk-pans ! Are you salting the milk to 
 make it keep ?" was sometimes the insulting 
 question ; to which, when Ruth could achieve 
 any other answer than sobs, she could only reply 
 that she could not make the dappled cow stand 
 still, and she was sure the beast would kick down 
 the pail some day, and then she, the unfortunate 
 milker, would be blamed for the loss of the milk. 
 No inducements were strong enough to persuade 
 her to keep her tears for the actual occasion. 
 
 " Send that girl away," was at other times 
 the order. " She will damp half the straw in 
 the apple-chamber with her crying. But first 
 tell me, Ruth, what is the matter now?" 
 
 Ruth's back ached terribly with carrying loads 
 of apples, and she had pinched two of her fingers
 
 FARM SERVICE. 23 
 
 between the baskets. Her mistress thanked 
 Heaven that every body had not such a back. 
 It ached with churning, it ached with stooping 
 over the curd- tubs, and it was half broken with 
 carrying- apples. As for her fingers, they must 
 take their chance till she could keep them out of 
 harm's wav. She was entreated, however, not 
 to look so miserable ; — more miserable than 
 any girl out of the workhouse, blest with health 
 and a good service, ought to look. If her 
 mother was to see her, she might fancy she had 
 been ill-used, when perhaps she had only been 
 melted at seeing a fowl's head cut off, or scared 
 by a turkey-cock. 
 
 " If you would let me see my mother," Ruth 
 would reply, amidst her tears, *' I might tell her 
 what a" — (still sobbing) " what a fine place I 
 have got." 
 
 " See vour mother ? Whv that is reasonable 
 enough, to be sure, when people have earned 
 indulij-ence, which vou can hardlv think vou are 
 doing while you cry in this way from morning to 
 night, as if we were the cruellest people in the 
 world. If you will mend in this respect, I will 
 see when we can spare you, — if Jenny will un- 
 dertake your work, and if we can fix on a toler- 
 ably convenient dav, and if mv husband does not 
 object to your going, as I rather think he will, 
 to a beer-shop." 
 
 The chance of a trip homewards which was 
 lefi: by these numerous conditions, was enough 
 to inspire Ruth with vigour to sustain the
 
 24 THE PARISH. 
 
 sticking- of a pig-, and to defy the most dolorous 
 hooting of her neighbours the owls. It was 
 more difficult to restrain her fears of the inmates 
 of the farm-kitchen. Thev were all awful to 
 her in different ways ; the carters and cattle-ser- 
 vants from their noise and roughness of act and 
 speech ; and the girls in the kitchen, former in- 
 mates of the workhouse, from their boldness of 
 manner and marked contempt of herself It 
 would have been some comfort if she had known 
 how Mrs. Goldby spoke of these people by her 
 fireside in the evenings, when her husband laid 
 down his paper and took up his pipe, in order 
 to a patient hearkening to his wife's suggestions 
 and complaints. 
 
 " You know, my dear," she sometimes said, 
 *' it is not my way to wish to break through old 
 customs, that have been found to answer well." 
 
 " Which is proved, my dear, by your practice 
 of lecturing me when I am too tired to defend 
 myself" And the farmer yawned fearfully. 
 
 " Nonsense, my dear ! I was thinking of 
 nothing so little as lecturing you. I only just 
 want to know how many more people you mean 
 to crowd in under our roof." 
 
 " Crowd in, my dear ! I wonder what you 
 call crowding. Do you remember how many 
 farm-servants this house held in my father's 
 time, before the additions were made that you 
 planned ?" 
 
 " I remember that those additions have no- 
 thing to do with the number of servants we
 
 FARM SERVICE. 25 
 
 lodge. What difference does it make in that 
 respect that we have a second parlour, and that 
 there is a bay-window to the bed-room over it?" 
 
 " I am sure, my dear, I don't know, except 
 that I always supposed that adding to a house 
 made it larger." 
 
 " And while vou bid me remember," continued 
 the wife, " I do not forget that besides old Wil- 
 liams, who was left a sort of legacy with the farm, 
 there are three other carters, quite a different 
 sort of men from those in your father's time. 
 And then there are the cattle-servants. I have 
 told you before, I would almost as soon have in 
 the cattle themselves to eat three times a day in 
 my kitchen." 
 
 " Well, my dear, if you turn out the carters, 
 I don't know that we could do better than use 
 the space they will leave for such a purpose, and 
 then the cattle-sheds will do for the paupers we 
 shall have to house henceforth." 
 
 " And good enough for them too," observed 
 Mrs. G. ; '• but you are so tender hearted, you 
 let them have the run of your house, and submit 
 to see your wife and your estate pauper-ridden, 
 and then " 
 
 " Just tell me how I am to help it, and whether 
 I am not pauper-ridden in a worse way than 
 you." 
 
 " Very likely ; but only do not talk of bring- 
 ing more labourers under our roof, for I will not 
 pretend to manage your concerns if you do. 
 You are going to say that your mother would 
 not have made such a speech ; nor would 1 in 
 
 D
 
 26 THE PARISH. 
 
 such times as your mother lived in ; but things 
 wear a very different face now. Then farm-ser- 
 vants had some respect and regard for their em- 
 ployers, and some j^race in their behaviour. The 
 men used to be orderly in their conduct at meals ; 
 and when they came in from work, used to sit 
 down, as a matter of course, to cleaning and 
 mending their harness or other tackle, or making 
 baskets, or even knitting their own coarse 
 stockings ; and they went to church on Sundays 
 behind their master, and in the mean time were 
 thankful for any notice he chose to take of them. 
 All this is over now.'' 
 
 " And some people think it is as well it should 
 be over," replied the farmer. 
 
 " What ! are you going to compare their 
 present state with that ?" exclaimed the wife. 
 " Who knows better than you, that they choose 
 their own hours for coming in and going out, 
 and are more fond of gossiping over their ale 
 than of spending quiet evenings at home ? You 
 know that there is not such a thing as a word 
 of thankfulness ever heard from one of them, 
 except old Williams. You know what a sharp 
 watch I have to keep over the girls I am obliged 
 to take, and how little work I get done among 
 them, from some being brought puny and pining 
 from a sewing school, and others bold and lazy 
 from the workhouse. Do you mean to call this 
 a better state of thincs than the old ?" 
 
 " I think it a desperately bad state of things; 
 so bad, that the old custom of our servants 
 living under our roof is quite a different sort of
 
 FARM SERVICE. 2f 
 
 thing from what it was, and so it is as well that 
 there should be an end of it ; except that we 
 cannot make our larore rambhno; farm-houses 
 shrink into dwelHngs of the size we want for our 
 own famihes, and we cannot afford to waste so 
 much room and accommodation. If it were not 
 for this, I should be for making our people shifl 
 for themselves as to lodging and board, and re- 
 lieving you, my dear, of the trouble and anxiety 
 I know they must cost you." 
 
 Mrs. Goldby was somewhat softened by per- 
 ceiving that her husband was really aware of her 
 domestic troubles. She observed that there was 
 some pleasure in providing for the comfort of 
 the labourers in the kitchen, when they showed 
 that they cared for comfort and decency of man- 
 ners, but very little w hen they came in late from 
 the alehouse, and testified no thankfulness for 
 anything that was said or done for them. She 
 hoped her husband was not really going to take 
 in any labourers, in addition to the present 
 household. Goldby replied, that if he wished it 
 ever so much, he doubted whether he could find 
 any that would serve him on such terms. Since 
 men had found something to rely on besides 
 their own exertions, they had found the domestic 
 habits of the farm-house less pleasing than the 
 greater liberty they could enjoy by taking their 
 chance for a livins: between the overseer and the 
 farmer or squire. It was only a sober labourer 
 here and there who would hear of living with 
 his employer for more than the winter months, 
 when it happened to be convenient ; and the
 
 28 THE PARISH. 
 
 times were past when a farmer might pick out 
 such a sober labourer from among the crowd of 
 careless, idle fellows who were brought to him 
 to be fed. 
 
 While Goldby was still talking about sober 
 labourers, he was told that a man whom he knew 
 to be of this class, was waiting to speak with him 
 on business. Mrs. Goldby 's sanction being ob- 
 tained, the man was shown in, and induced to 
 come forward into the light of the wood fire, and 
 tell his business. 
 
 " If it is a long story, Ashly, you had better 
 sit down,'* said Goldby. 
 
 " It depends on you, sir, whether it is to be a 
 long story, or a shorter one than will please me." 
 
 " Indeed ! but take notice before hand, that 
 I do not like long stories except on Christmas 
 nights." 
 
 " Then, sir, to speak out, Sewell, your carter, 
 is going to leave your service." 
 
 " Indeed ! that is news to me. Who told you 
 so?" 
 
 " Sewell himself, sir. He has had a legacy 
 left him ; and so he throws up his work, he tells 
 
 me." 
 
 " How much has he had left him ? a thousand 
 pounds ?" 
 
 " Lord bless you, sir, no ; no more than sixty 
 pounds. But there are three cows into the bar- 
 gain. If you wovdd let me take his place, sir, 
 1 would serve you to the best of my power." 
 
 " And that, I have no doubt, Ashly, would 
 be very well, — much better than it is easy to get
 
 FARM SERVICE. 29 
 
 one's-self served now. But you know, Ashly, 
 there are other things than the quahty of the 
 service, to be borne in mind now in the hiring of 
 servants ; I am sorry to say it, but so it is.'' 
 
 " But if you would consider, sir, it is not only 
 the quantity of work done (though that is much), 
 but the care that is taken of your property, that 
 signifies. Now, I don't pretend to set myself 
 above my neighbours, but I will say that I have 
 a character to keep, and children to support by 
 it, and I should not be likely to risk having my- 
 self turned out of work by using such ruinous 
 ways with your team, and making such waste of 
 your substance, as I heard you complaining of 
 the other day. I have no spite against any one, 
 and do not so much as know which of your car- 
 ters you were complaining of; I only know I 
 should not be hkely to do the like." 
 
 " What are you doing now, Ashly ?" 
 
 " I wish I could say I was doing anything, 
 sir ; for it is not my will to be idle, especially 
 with children depending upon me. But I was 
 turned off from Mr. Binsrham's farm without a 
 fault being found with me, to make way for 
 Tims ; and I have got no work since, (though it 
 was eight months ago,) except at hay and har- 
 vest time.'' 
 
 " What, that drunken fellow Tims? That 
 was because he is a pauper, I suppose, and must 
 be fed. That is the way they reward you for not 
 being a pauper, you see, Ashly." 
 
 " How can you say anything, my dear, to 
 
 d3
 
 V 
 
 \ 
 
 30 THE PARISH. 
 
 tempt a man to throw himself on the parish ?" 
 exclaimed Mrs. Goldbv. 
 
 " The system says more than I could jjet 
 spoken between this and Christmas." replied the 
 farmer ; " and Ashly knows all that 1 can tell 
 him, by having- had a drunkard preferred to him- 
 self for such a reason." 
 
 " I know that tliey will soon make a pauper 
 of me," observed Ashly in a melancholy voice, 
 " unless you or somebody will 2;ive me work. 
 Let a poor man's savings be used ever so thrif- 
 tily, they will soon melt away when nothing is 
 coming in to be added to them." 
 
 *' So, you have savings Y' 
 
 ** It is no secret, sir, that I saved while I 
 could ; if it was, I might be tempted to keep 
 it a secret still, at all risks ; for its being known 
 does me nothing but harm. I had a very pretty 
 store, even after my wife's illness and funeral 
 were paid for ; but I do assure you, sir, I have 
 very little left." 
 
 " I could almost wish that you had none, my 
 good fellow, and then you would stand a better 
 chance, and I should know at once what to do, 
 supposing it true that Sewell is going to leave 
 me." 
 
 " It is true, I assure you, sir. He told me so 
 himself" 
 
 " Well, well. Do you know Wilde ?" 
 
 " He that was a hedger at Bingham's ? I 
 saw him among the paupers in the gravel-pits 
 to-day."
 
 F,\RM SERVICE. 31 
 
 *' Well, the parish has to maintain him, 
 he asking for work. The parish has not to / 
 maintain you. Now, can you expect that Wilde ^ 
 will be continued as a burden while I want a 
 carter?" 
 
 Ashly looked as indignant as the farmer was 
 concerned, and appeared to be above answering 
 the question. Mrs. Goldby seemed little less 
 offended, while she asked whether her husband 
 meant to give into the new fashion of punishing 
 the industrious and prudent, by giving favours '^ 
 in prefierence to such men as — she would not 
 say Wilde, because she knew nothing of him — 
 such men as most of the pauper labourers of 
 their parish. 
 
 Goldby saw all the mischief of such a system, 
 and all the hardship to Ashly : but what could he 
 do? He had no money to spare. — O no, not 
 any, his wife agreed. — He could not afford a 
 maintenance to two men, when one would do all 
 the work which Sewell was about to relinquish ; 
 and if, by making Wilde his waggoner, he could 
 save the parish the expense of his support, it 
 was his duty to do so. 
 
 Ashly moved to depart without having spoken 
 another word ; but the farmer begged him to 
 stay and take a seat, and have a little chat, if he 
 wished to show that he was not angry. Ashly 
 said nothing about not being angry, but sat 
 down as desired. 
 
 " What is Sewell going to do with his legacy ?" 
 was the opening of the proposed chat.
 
 SS THE PARISH, 
 
 " He means to set up for himself. You know 
 sixty pounds is just the price of one of Blogg's 
 cottages." 
 
 "He asked the parish seventy." 
 
 " Aye, that is because he thinks it fair to get 
 anything he can out of the parish. He takes 
 sixty of Sewell." 
 
 *' And a dear bargain Sewell will have of it. 
 Why, he might build for himself cheaper than 
 that, and have a better soil under his feet, and 
 a drain, and a roof that would be pretty sure to 
 outlast a stormy night.'' 
 
 " But he does not like the trouble of build- 
 ing", sir, and wishes to step into his new condi- 
 tion at once. He sells one cow to keep the 
 others, and then " 
 
 " And then," interrupted Mrs. Goldby, '• he 
 will live upon his wife's labour, and pass his 
 time between the beer-shop and the gravel-pits, — 
 the next best place for a gossip." 
 
 Ashly did not attend to the next two or three 
 questions that were put to him, and presently 
 returned to the subject of which his mind was 
 evidently full. He begged pardon for speak- 
 ing of it again, but urged the claims of his 
 motherless children, but for whom he should be 
 too proud to ask twice when once denied. He 
 suggested that Sewell had probably had very 
 g'ood wages, which he certainly deserved as a 
 superior workman : now, it was possible that Mr. 
 Goldby and himself might agree for something- 
 less.
 
 FARM SERVICE. 33 
 
 " You are mistaken there in two ways, my 
 ffood fellow," said Goldbv. " You could not 
 live for so little as I pay Sewell, unless you were 
 helped out, as he is, by the parish. Sewell is a 
 tolerable servant, as servants go, though not 
 such an one as you would be ; but wages have 
 fallen, even since you were out of work ; and 
 they are very different from what they were when 
 a man could maintain his six children upon them. 
 I speak of places where the rate is as high as it 
 is here." 
 
 " And how am I mistaken in another way ?" 
 
 " You forget that Wilde is a single man, and 
 that, however low vou mav fix vour wasres, I 
 can offer him lower, as havins: no wife or children 
 to support." 
 
 " But do not you think, sir, that this will 
 quicken him to get both ?' 
 
 " He must please himself about that. It is 
 our business to save where we can ; and a man 
 who has only himself to take care of cannot 
 expect the same wages from me, or allowance 
 from the parish, as one that has half-a-dozen 
 depending upon him." 
 
 " But I thought the difference was between 
 the married and single, without regard to the 
 children." 
 
 " Yes : we leave it to the parish to look after 
 the little ones. We only make the most of the 
 single men while they are single ; which happens 
 to be a bad thing for you to-day, Ashly. I am 
 sure you can scarcely be more sorry for it than I 
 am."
 
 84 THE PARISH. 
 
 *' That is easily said," replied Ashly, in a 
 mournful voice ; " but I ask your pardon, sir, 
 for thinking that you don't know what it means. 
 You have not seen your wife die with the very 
 words on her lips, that you had promised that 
 her children should be brought up as the children 
 of an honest man that was beholden to no one. 
 You have not felt it weighing on your mind from 
 that day to this, as if you had done wrong, that 
 not a stroke of profitable work has been wrought 
 by your hands, not a shilling earned to remove 
 your children further from parish help. You 
 have not had the bitter thought that you are 
 setting an example of idleness (so different from 
 their mother's !) to your own little ones ; and 
 you have not hoped, and laid all your plans at 
 home for the change a dozen times over, and 
 been disappointed ; and so, sir, it is impossible 
 (though I don't doubt yonr meaning what you 
 say) that you should be nearly as sorry as I 
 am." 
 
 " Well, I am so sorry, that I will ride over to- 
 morrow, and see the squire about it. It is not 
 very likely that he can help you in the way you 
 want, any more than I ; but he ought to know 
 your case." 
 
 " And then if better times come, sir, you will 
 remember me." 
 
 " One of the very first, you may rely upon it ; 
 but I cannot say I have much hope of better 
 times for us farmers, unless somebody else takes 
 a larger share of the burden of our poor. See 
 how my wife shakes her head ! She often pro-
 
 FARM SERVICE. 8& 
 
 phesies that we shall go to the workhouse 
 ourselves ; and if we do get there, perhaps it 
 will be some comfort to her that you were there 
 first ; for then she will be sure that it could not 
 be helped." 
 
 " How you do talk, Mr. Goldby ! When did 
 I ever say such a thing; ? What I say is, that 
 thoutrh it would be a sad thins: to leave one's old 
 home, and the beasts and fowls one has grown 
 attached to, I should not wonder if every farmer 
 gives up at the end of his lease, and leaves it to 
 others to do what they can with the poor. For 
 my part, I would lock up my dairy myself, and 
 pat the dappled cow for the last time, and send 
 my bantams to market every one, and go and 
 live in the red house in the street, with not an 
 ell of garden, to be out of sight and hearing of 
 the parish poor." 
 
 " And they would return the compliment, my 
 dear, for they are not over fond of either you or 
 me." 
 
 " How should they be ? I am almost angry 
 with myself sometimes for being sharp with 
 Ruth, partly because she came after the manner 
 of a parish girl, whether I would or not. She is 
 not a girl to bear being sharply spoken to, how- 
 ever ; and I will let her go to-morrow and see 
 her mother." 
 
 *' That is where Ashly is going now," said the 
 farmer, " to judge by the hurry he is in. Ashly, 
 you had better take a draught of ale with my 
 people behind there, than go to the beer-shop 
 for it. "
 
 36 THE PARISH. 
 
 Ashly disclaimed all thoughts of beer this 
 nig-ht, and was going home to see if his little 
 folks were all in bed. 
 
 Chapter III. 
 MORNING CALLS. 
 
 While Ruth was meditating, the next morning, 
 with tears in her eyes, how she might best 
 remind her unstress that it was now a long time 
 since she had cried, at least by day-light, Mrs. 
 Goldby came into the back kitchen, where she 
 was cleaning the breakfast cans, and asked her 
 if she did not think it was a very fine morning, 
 and if she would not like to go and see her 
 mother. She might ask Jenny to do the rest 
 of her morning's work, and be gone, as soon as 
 she had finished what she was about, if she 
 would promise to be home by dinner time. There 
 was a look of hesitation in the midst of Ruth's 
 joy which made her mistress inquire if there was 
 any difficulty ? when the girl asked whether Mrs. 
 Goldby would be so very good as to speak her- 
 self to Jenny, lest she should not believe what 
 was intended, or should refuse her share in it. 
 Being satisfied on this point, she was emboldened 
 to ask further whether she might gather just one 
 bunch from the tall holly-hock that vyas so full 
 of flower. She should Hke to carry one to 
 Biddy, if it could be spared. Her mistress replied 
 by desiring her to come and speak to her in the
 
 MORNING CA.LLS. 37 
 
 garden when she was dressed ready to g-o, and 
 then went to fill a basket of apples, and cut a 
 bunch of flowers with her own hands, for the 
 widow Brand's table and parlour. Mrs. Goldby 
 was far from thoughtless in these little matters, 
 though strict with her maids, and apt to be out 
 of patience with encroachers. 
 
 Ruth's hands shook so with joy and impa- 
 tience, that she made a terrible clatter among- the 
 cans before she had done with them, and drew 
 upon herself a scolding from her fellow-servants 
 that damped her pleasure even when she was 
 half running, loaded with fruit and flowers, along 
 the lane which formed a short cut to the common, 
 now graced by her mother's establishment. At 
 every reach of the lane, through every gap in 
 the hedge, did the girl look for the face of some 
 friend to whom she could tell that she was going 
 to see her mother, and might stay out four whole 
 hours. No such face appeared, however, for 
 some time ; and Ruth began to feel almost as if 
 nobody cared for her, and almost to wonder 
 whether the people at home would be as glad to 
 see her as she had fancied. Just when she was 
 thinking of resting her basket on the top of a 
 gate, and trying not to cry, she caught a glimpse 
 of a coat-tail that could not be mistaken, and 
 she was instantly re-invigorated. She ran on, 
 shouting in her shrillest voice, — 
 
 " Mr. Ashly ! Stop, Mr. Ashly ! Mr. Ashly, 
 stop, will you ?" But Mr. Ashly did not heed, 
 till she set down her basket, and hollowed her 
 
 u
 
 38 THE PARISH. 
 
 hands to give effect to her shout. Then Ashly 
 turned, and waited till she came up. 
 
 " O, Mr. Ashly, I thought you never would 
 have heard me : how I did call !" 
 
 " What is the matter, my dear ? One would 
 think it was midsummer by your scarlet face. 
 What do you want ?" 
 
 " I am going to see mother ; and I may stay 
 till dinner time. You know I live at the farm 
 now," she continued, seeing her friend look 
 puzzled. " I have not been home this long, 
 long while." 
 
 " So that was what you called me for ; to tell 
 me where you are going. I am very glad 
 indeed, Ruth. And now you must let me carry 
 your apples for you. I can just as well go round 
 your way as not ; and you will get on all the 
 quicker." 
 
 And, as they went, Ashly told her that he 
 should be very glad if his eldest girl had such a 
 place as hers, and could come tripping through 
 the lanes now and then, full of joy, to see her 
 father. Ruth argued that it must be much 
 pleasanter to stay at home and take care of the 
 little ones ; and the controversy lasted till they 
 came within sight and hearing of the beer-shop, 
 when Ashly said he must wish her good bye, 
 and resigned the basket to her, with many wishes 
 that she might have a happy morning with her 
 family. 
 
 Ruth relaxed her speed when she came within 
 a hundred yards of her mother's door, being
 
 MORNTNGf CALLS. 39 
 
 necessary to plan how to gain entrance. Seve- 
 ral lads were standing round the door : men 
 were going- in and coming out, like bees at 
 the entrance of a hive. Ruth was surprised to 
 see how altered the place looked since she saw 
 it last. The grass was worn away before the 
 whole of the front of the house ; and several 
 panes were broken in the windows which had 
 looked so bright and new. Some of the white 
 palings, which enclosed the narrow bed where 
 she had planted pot-herbs, were broken away ; 
 and she could see no signs of the rabbit-hutch 
 which she had confided to Peter's especial care. 
 While she was wonderino: whether she dared 
 push in among the customers at the door, she 
 perceived that Biddy was not afraid of them. 
 This poor child, deplorably deformed, and stunted 
 in her growth from her fourth year, seemed to 
 be making mirth for the loungers, one of whom 
 brought her out in his arms, and set her down, 
 while others threw sticks to various distances, 
 which they cheered her on to fetch and carry, 
 like a dog, while they laughed at her waddling 
 gait and strange appearance, and rewarded her 
 with a sip from their cans, or with nuts from 
 their pockets. Ruth met her full in front, in one 
 of her fetching expeditions, and caught her 
 round the neck, covering her with kisses : but 
 there was as much vacancy as pleasure in the 
 countenance of the child at this meeting, and 
 more eagerness about the apples than about her 
 sister. As Ruth, tall and shm, led home her 
 charge, a shout of mirth at the contrast of theii:
 
 40 TITE PARISH. 
 
 forms burst from the gazers, and was answered 
 by laughter from Biddy, and a burning blush 
 from Ruth. She pushed, elbowed, ducked, and 
 leaped aside from as many as would have pinched 
 her cheeks, or offered her a draught of beer or a 
 whiff from their pipes, and at length stood pant- 
 ing before her mother in the little back room, 
 with Biddy's struggling hand still grasped in her 
 own. " Well, mother !" was all she could say. 
 
 " My dear ! only think of your coming at this 
 time of day, when we are all in confusion always ! 
 Run up to the bed-room, there's a good girl, out 
 of the way of these people; and I will come and 
 speak to you as soon as I can." 
 
 " Do make Biddy come with me, mother, 
 instead of making sport for those men. She does 
 not care for a word I say to her." 
 
 " Nor for what any body says to her. She is 
 growing quite stupid and unmanageable, I think. 
 There's no making her do any thing till Peter 
 takes a stick to her : 'tis almost the only thing 
 she understands." 
 
 Ruth could not answer, even to ask about 
 Peter. She tried what the apples would do in 
 tempting Biddy up stairs, and found that the 
 lure succeeded. The little girl climbed on all 
 fours, step by step, with eyes fixed on the basket, 
 and resisted every attempt to carry, or in any 
 way aid her. When fairly within the bed-room, 
 Ruth bolted the door, but was quite at a loss 
 what to do with her companion when one apple 
 was devoured, and the rest hidden on a shelf 
 which was out of the dwarfs reach. Biddy was
 
 MORNING CALLS. 41 
 
 restless, cross, and so foolish that her sister did 
 not know her for the same girl she had taken 
 care of for so long. She was positively afraid 
 of her from not knowing how to manage her, 
 and listened with intense anxiety for her mother's 
 step upon the stairs, till, at the end of the second 
 hour of her holiday, this seemed almost the only 
 sound she had not heard. There had been the 
 fragment of a song ; the beginning of a brawl, 
 which was stopped ; repeated bursts of laughter ; 
 the crash of falling crockery ; shouts for more 
 beer, which told her that Peter was on the pre- 
 mises ; and lastly, long continued speechifying, 
 accompanied by thumps upon the table, and 
 marked into periods by applause and a buzz of 
 voices. All this time the widow appeared to 
 have forgotten her daughter ; and at last, on the 
 striking of the clock in the midst of the orator's 
 harangue, Ruth had once more much ado to 
 swallow her tears at the thought that this was 
 the way her long expected holiday was passing 
 from her. 
 
 For the sake of something to do, she opened 
 the casement and peeped out cautiously, hoping 
 to see what was passing, without attracting the 
 attention of the loungers below. The first per- 
 son she observed was Peter leaninsr asrainst the 
 window beneath, with his arms crossed on the 
 sill, and listening open-mouthed to the orator 
 within, turning round occasionally to grin and 
 nod when some happy point elicited applause, or 
 releasing himself with a jerk from any tormentor 
 who twitched his jacket for more beer, or pulled 
 
 E 3
 
 42 THE PARISH. 
 
 his hair in sport. Ruth began her attempts to 
 communicate witli him, by a gentle cough, during 
 an interval of comparative quietness, hoping that 
 he would know her cough while no one else 
 would observe it. But Peter had no attention 
 to spare to her repeated signs, till she called his 
 name, and then he looked all ways but the right; 
 and when he discovered that the call came from 
 above, half-a-dozen rude faces were turned up at 
 the same moment with his. In answer to Ruth's 
 request that he would ask mother to come up 
 and speak to her, he beckoned energetically for 
 his sister to descend and hear what pleased him ; 
 but she heard quite enough where she was, as 
 Blogg was not given to make the floors of his 
 houses too substantial to be in proportion to his 
 walls and roofs. That on which Ruth stood 
 shook with every peal of applause from below, 
 and exhaled the eloquence it imbibed. Scarcely 
 a word was lost of all that Jay was saying in 
 complaint of the low rate of wages ; in recom- 
 mendation of a tax on machinery, without which 
 all reform was a humbug and a bubble ; and in 
 ridicule and abhorrence of the overgrown wealth 
 of the landlords. Some of his words seemed to 
 be longer than any at the very end of Ruth's 
 spelling-book ; but there were enough remain- 
 ing of a reasonable length to make Peter, and 
 some less sharp than Peter, think that they 
 understood what they heard. 
 
 " Do they think," cried the orator, " that the 
 diurnal world is made for them alone, — for the 
 aggregation of their comforts and the consolida-
 
 MORNING CALLS. 43 
 
 lion of their wealth ? Look at their rent-roll, 
 and mark the engines of the poor man's exclu- 
 sion from his birthright, the drill and the thrash- 
 ing-machine, and you will find that such is the 
 exposition of their creed. See the lords of the 
 universe riding out through the domains where 
 the poor man waters the ground, as the poet 
 says, w^th the sweat of his brow. See the hare 
 flit across his path, the pheasant whirl about his 
 head, and hear him say in his heart to his hard- 
 working neighbour, ' These are made for the 
 recreation of my amusement, and in no ^vise to 
 fill an empty stomach.' See the chaff flying from 
 his thrashing-machine, and hear him saying in 
 his chuckhng meditations, ' So I give to the 
 winds the scum of the earth, that have been a 
 thorn in my side so long. This machine does 
 my work without complaining, and comes be- 
 tween them and my nobiUty.' Thus is nature 
 to the poor man curtailed of all her fair pro- 
 portions, and Pro\idence enlisted on the in 
 
 the under the banners of despotism." Tre- 
 mendous applause, during which the eloquent 
 apothecary refreshed his throat with one of his 
 own Emulcent Lozenges, in preparation for pro- 
 ceeding. 
 
 *' It is, you know, established on irrefragable 
 evidence, that there are two principles in nature, 
 freedom and politics." 
 
 " And gravitation, sir," modestly suggested 
 the schoolmaster, who liked to interpose occa- 
 sionally. 
 
 " Yes, yes ; we shall come to that by and by,
 
 <( 
 
 44 THE PARISH. 
 
 demonstrating how all phenomena gravitate toj 
 the centre of freedom and union." 
 
 The schoolmaster nodded in token of fulll 
 satisfaction. 
 
 " Shall these principles be asserted elsewhere,'* 
 continued Jay, " and shall we tamely submit to 
 have them nullified by the perverse intrepretations 
 of those that sit in hig'h places, devouring their 
 game with rich sauces while the poor man starves?" 
 
 " I thought he sold sauces himself," whispered 
 one hearer to another. 
 
 " Those are fish-sauces, and they don't come 
 under the game laws, I fancy," Ivas the reply. 
 Sitting in high places," the speech went on, 
 
 and quaking at the nightly fires, which they 
 next day set about quenching with blood, — 
 blood got by trampling on the necks of a mag- 
 nanimous and suffering nation. They promise 
 us reform. From this eg-": wonderful things are 
 to be hatched ; but, in the meanwhile, what is 
 the principle on which this egg is laid? As the 
 cuckoo feloniously drops her offspring into any 
 nest but the right, and the world is disap])ointed 
 in the issue ; so the government '' 
 
 Here Ruth was startled by a pushing and 
 shaking at the room-door. It was her mother, 
 untidy and hurried in her dress and manner, 
 
 " My dear," said she, " lam so sorry I could 
 not get to you before : and now I shall be called 
 away again in a minute, I know. You must 
 come at a better time of day, next time. O, you 
 can't choose, and you don't know when you shall 
 have liberty again. Well, it's a sad pity, to be
 
 MORNtNG CALLS. 45 
 
 sure ; and I want to hear all about how you go 
 on ; but those people cannot be left two minutes. 
 — Be quiet, Biddy, will you ? You had better 
 go out the back way, Ruth. You have grown 
 finely, to be sure, since I saw you last, and you 
 are too tall now to be about here, unless you 
 were older.— Coming, Peter, coming !" 
 
 " O, if you must go, mother, can't you send 
 Peter up? I have not had a word yet " 
 
 " I'll see, my dear ; but Peter is wanted every 
 minute to draw, you see. But I'll tell him to 
 spare a minute." 
 
 Peter came presently ; but Peter was very 
 much altered. He seemed to have nothing to 
 ask his sister, but much to tell her that she did 
 not care to hear. 
 
 " Lord, Ruth, did you hear what a shot old 
 Willett's gamekeeper got the other night from 
 the poachers. He is not dead, however ; but he 
 was so frightened he let them get off with a fine 
 quantity. They say there was three sacks, be- 
 side the hares." 
 
 " I say, Ruth," was the next question, 
 "wouldn't you like a fight? Stuff! never mind 
 your being a girl ! They say girls go and see 
 a fight sometimes. Dick Wilde is going to take 
 me, some day ; and I put him in mind of it every 
 day. I saw a bit of a fight here once. You 
 should have seen Simpson, what a rare hit he 
 got on the chops." 
 
 Now appeared Mrs. Brand again, breathless, 
 to send Peter down. " Perhaps, mother, I had
 
 ii 
 
 THE PARISH. 
 
 belter go, as you are so busy," said Ruth, dole- 
 fully. 
 
 *' Why really, my dear, I think you had, and 
 come again some day when I have more time to 
 speak to you. Remember the back door, you 
 know, and slip out quietly." 
 
 *' Must I go home, then?" said Ruth hesi- 
 tatingly, as the striking clock told that another 
 hour remained at her own disposal. 
 
 " Why, suppose you go and speak to your 
 aunt Jemima. (It is droll to think that she is 
 your aunt, now that you begin to look nearly as 
 old.) You will always find her at Mrs. Blogg's 
 at this time of day, and she can talk to you over 
 her wash-tub or her ironing-board better than 
 I can, with all these people keeping me on the 
 foot." 
 
 Ruth brightened up at the suggestion, emptied 
 her basket into her mother's apron, left the flowers, 
 as desired, on the shelf, and ran off towards 
 Mrs. Blogg's, anxious to make the most of the 
 time that remained. 
 
 Jemima, a girl of little more than twenty, 
 though she bore the venerable title of aunt, was 
 in a very favourable position for a chat, and took 
 care to place Ruth in one which was no less ad- 
 vantageous. The room in which Jemima was 
 washing linen opened into what was called the 
 street ; and door and window were left wide to 
 let the steam escape. Jemima stood at her wash- 
 tub, where she always found that the alternate 
 dip and rub constituted no impediment to con-
 
 MORNING CALLS. 47 
 
 versation, while the splasli among the lather 
 formed a gentle and not unpleasing accompani- 
 ment to the voice. Perhaps this was the reason 
 why she always sang when there was nobody to 
 talk with, unless it was that she wished to show 
 the neighbours what a voice she had. The street 
 was not very narrow, yet her melody penetrated 
 every recess of the opposite shop, which was 
 Jay's, the apothecary. His last apprentice had 
 learned every note of her two songs, '• the Maid 
 of Lodi," and " Jessy the flower of Dumblane," 
 before he had been a week behind the counter. 
 The sudden interruption of the latter in the mid- 
 dle of the last stanza, made him now step to the 
 door to see what caused the interruption, and 
 gave him his first sight of Ruth. 
 
 " Well, Ruth, so you have come to see me, and 
 have a word with me. Now, sit down for as 
 long as you can stay ; aye, there, on that chair 
 by the door, where there is no fear of my splash- 
 ing you with my lather, and you can get a look 
 at James Beaver, if you like. I can see him 
 sometimes where I stand, when the steam blows 
 away for a minute ; but yours is the place, just 
 where you have set the chair, for seeing what is 
 going on. There's James Beaver looking across 
 at you, I declare." 
 
 " So, that is James Beaver ! How he is 
 grown, to be sure." 
 
 " Grown, aye ; well he may be, for he is 
 almost grown out of being an apprentice. But 
 it will be a pity when he goes away to settle for 
 himself, for it is ten to one Mr, Jay gets such
 
 48 THE PARISH. 
 
 another. A nice, modest young man he is ; 
 opening' the shutters so much earher in the morn- 
 ing than the last one did, and very handy in the 
 shop ah'eady, Mr. Jay says. I declare he is 
 peeping- at you from behind the while horse in 
 the window." 
 
 " What is that white horse for?" asked Ruth. 
 '* It used to stand at the saddler's : at least it 
 looks like the same." 
 
 " It is the very same. You may know it, if 
 you just go across and look close, by the black 
 finger marks round the leg, where one of the 
 blacksmith's children took hold to lift up the foot 
 and see if it was properly shod. It is very funny 
 how children imitate what they see. Well, the 
 saddler did not want it any more, when he got 
 so much to do that his saddles and bridles made 
 as good a sign as any plaster horse that ever was 
 made ; so he sold it to Mr. Jay to put in his 
 window, to show that he sells horse medicines. 
 Look, James Beaver is dusting it, seeing us look 
 that way. Mr. Jay says it answers to him to 
 set up his horse, so well as James Beaver keeps 
 it for nothing. Mr. Jay is so droll !" 
 
 Ruth was planning how to begin some in- 
 quiries about Biddy and Peter, when Jemima 
 asked her if she knew Mr. Jay, adding, that he 
 was a nice young man. Oh ! if she had not seen 
 him lately, she had no idea how handsome he 
 was grown to what he used to be. And his 
 speaking ! His speaking was amazingly fine. 
 Many people that knew how to judge, said he 
 ought to be in the House of Commons, And
 
 MORNING CALLS. 49 
 
 SO good natuved with it all ! He would come 
 over when it was getting- dusk, and chat about a 
 hundred things, till one and another came to call 
 him away ; for every body wanted him for his 
 advice, — if not about their illnesses, about their 
 misfortunes ; and he never refused his advice. 
 
 Ruth observed that he seemed to be giving a 
 great deal of it to the people at her mother's. 
 
 •' O, you heard him, did you ? Well now, 
 was not it beautiful ? But you don't know half 
 unless you heard him talk about the fires in the 
 neighbourhood, and the rights of the poor as to 
 the thrashin£]r-machines." 
 
 " Does he come over to talk to you about 
 that?'' aslvcd Ruth ; " or how do you know so 
 much about his speaking?" 
 
 There was a half smile on Jemima's face when 
 she replied that Mr. Jay had sometimes one thing 
 and sometimes another to say to her ; but she 
 had often heard him and Mr. Blob's: talkino* about 
 how the government ought to oblige the parish 
 to make up better wages to the labourers, if it 
 was reallv true that the farmers could afford no 
 higher than were given now. If Ruth could see 
 Mr. Jay as he stood by the door, with the red 
 and green light from his own lamp shining side- 
 ways on his face, with his right foot on the 
 threshold, and the forefinger 
 
 Here Mrs. Blogg made her appearance from 
 an inner chamber, and Jemima's story of Mr. 
 Jay's forefinger was drowned amid the energetic 
 splashing and rubbing which she resumed at the 
 approach of her mistress. 
 
 7
 
 60 THE PARISH. 
 
 Mrs. Blog'g was followed by four children, each 
 a little more able than the one below it to take 
 care of itself; but they could take care of nothing 
 else, and were therefore sadly in the way where 
 washing- was going on, — where there were light 
 baskets which must not be upset, things hung 
 up which must not be pulled down, and tubs of 
 water in which it was dangerous for a little child 
 to snatch at its own reflection. Mrs. Blogg 
 seeming fairly at a loss what to do with them all, 
 Ruth took possession of the youngest to give 
 him a ride on her foot, and asked the next eldest 
 to be so kind as to make her a sand pie on the 
 threshold ; but one of the others beginning to 
 wail about the soap which had been splashed into 
 her eye from Jemima's tub, and the eldest being 
 found guilty of amusing himself with the mangle 
 without leave, there was soon an end of peace in 
 the apartment, and finally a contest between 
 the four which could cry loudest. Mrs. Blogg's 
 temper was not made to bear this. Its first out- 
 break was directed upon the eldest. 
 
 " How dare you be at home, sir, at this time 
 of day ? Why did not you go to the mile-cross 
 an hour ago ? you are more trouble than you 
 are worth, at the best ; and it is the least you can 
 do to pick up what you can at the mile-cross." 
 
 " I'm tired of going there, mammy," said the 
 boy; *' and last time, we could not get Peggy 
 along ; and she cries so when the wind blows over 
 the heath." 
 
 " Never mind her crying ; she must learn 
 better. I can't afford to have my children so
 
 MORNING CALLS. 51 
 
 delicate ; so, off with you ! Pe^^y, my woman, 
 go with your brother and see the gentlefolks ; 
 and when there is a fine carriage coming, if you 
 ask prettily, you will get a penny, I'll be bound." 
 
 The children seemed so unwilling to go, that 
 Ruth could not help inquiring into the nature of 
 their errand to the mile-cross, where she would 
 fain have gone herself. It was such an excellent 
 spot for play, and had been such a favourite re- 
 sort of Peter and herself in old times, that she 
 could not imagine how any child could object to 
 being permitted to jump from the steps of the 
 cross, that marked the meeting of four roads, 
 and to watch for the approach of carriages from 
 the distant quarters of the wide heath. She re- 
 membered how she and her brother used to \de 
 with each other in their obeisances to the travel- 
 lers within these carriages ; and how, when it 
 rained, they ran and sheltered themselves in the 
 gravel- pits where paupers were now employed to 
 dig. On questioning the children as to their ob- 
 jections to do what she remembered with so much 
 pleasure, she found that they were sent, not to 
 play but to beg, — not to jump in the sunshine, 
 but to sit on the steps of the cross in all weathers, 
 to move the compassion of passers-by ; not to 
 pay respect to travellers, but to ask pence of them. 
 Their mother tried to prove to them that it must 
 be very pleasant, and that they might get apples 
 and nuts by it, which they must otherwise go 
 without. 
 
 It seemed to enter Mrs. Blogg's mind, that 
 some explanation was necessary to account for
 
 52 THE PARISH. 
 
 the children of a builder and owner of a mangle 
 being set to beg- in the high road ; and she there- 
 fore observed to Ruth, that her husband was 
 obliged to pay to the rate when he did not know 
 but that he miij-ht have to take from it some 
 time or other ; and that it was but fair that he 
 should get something from the rich if he could, 
 while he was at such an expense for the poor ; 
 and that they were chiefly the rich who passed 
 by the mile-cross on their way to the watering 
 place, a few miles off, — people who could well 
 afford a few halfpence to poor children. — "To buy 
 nuts with?" Why, children must now and then 
 have a few nuts, or something of that sort, and 
 the rich could best afford to give them such 
 things ; besides, the prospect of nuts made the 
 children more ready to go and be out of the way 
 of her washing. Ruth ventured to ask if the 
 children would be willing to work hereafter, if 
 they were made fond of begging now ; the reply 
 to which was, that they were too young, poor 
 things, to be taught any work yet, and they might 
 as well make a little money, if they could, in the 
 meanwhile. So the four little things were dis- 
 patched on their money-getting expedition, the 
 eldest carrying the youngest, and the others 
 being desired to spend a penny, and bring the 
 rest home, like o-ood children. 
 
 There being no more private conversation to 
 be had with aunt Jemima, Ruth departed, look- 
 ing back towards Jay's shop from the end of the 
 street, James Beaver was certainly gazing after 
 her, and she felt (she scarcely knew why) less
 
 THORPE CORNER. 53 
 
 discontented with the issue of her hohday than 
 when she had left her mother's door. 
 
 She was closely questioned by her mistress as 
 to what she had seen and done, and was favoured 
 with much instruction as to how every body but 
 the farmers found the means of orettino; on in the 
 world, while they were weighed down with bur- 
 dens which none were made to share in a due 
 proportion. Mrs. Goldby had a g'ood mind, she 
 declared, to set her young- people to open gates 
 for passengers (which was a wide step above 
 begging), and to sell beer, as a way of getting 
 back from the parish paupers some of the money 
 which went out of her husband's pocket for their 
 support. With all her simphcity, Ruth did not 
 take this threat for earnest. She understood 
 that it was only an ebullition of spleen ; but it 
 left her wondering whether her mother was really 
 growing rich by selling beer, and building castles 
 about the fortunes of the family. 
 
 Chapter IV. 
 THORPE CORNER. 
 
 Mrs. Goldby did herself the justice of making 
 known that the whole society around her did not 
 fall under her censure ; and by this means she 
 certainly enhanced its effect. She could point 
 out examples of labourers who went to the beer- 
 shop for no other purpose than to buy beer ; of 
 
 f3
 
 54 THE PARISH. 
 
 men with families who abhorred parish relief; 
 of growing girls whose backs did not easily ache, 
 or who shed no tears over such aclies ; of little 
 boys who brought home pence without having 
 begged, and without the stipulation of spending 
 a portion of their earnings in nuts. Ashly and 
 his family were pronounced exemplary in the 
 whole of their conduct, and their neighbours, the 
 Goodmans, scarcely less so. She did not per- 
 ceive, in this case, as she was wont to do, that 
 Ashly's young folks were much the worse for 
 being able to read, and being in the habit of 
 reading. She often boasted, indeed, that the 
 little Goodmans did not know a letter of the 
 alphabet, and that they promised, notwithstand- 
 ing, to turn out industrious, and shrewd enough 
 for all practical purposes ; but she had nothing 
 to object on these points to the Ashlys, who 
 were not less industrious, not less shrewd, and 
 certainly better able to amuse their father and 
 each other at dull times than their friends, the 
 Goodmans. 
 
 The children of the two families were more 
 frequently together than any other set of young 
 companions in the parish, Goodman's and 
 Ashly's cottages stood near each other, and apart 
 from the village. Goodman was a labourer on 
 Goldby's farm, and inhabited a cottage in the 
 rear of his stack-yard, in a nook of ground 
 called Thorpe Corner, which was seldom visited 
 by passengers, and would have been thought 
 very solitary and dull but for the vicinity of 
 Ashly's little dwelling. As it was, there was a
 
 THORPE CORNER. 55 
 
 perpetual going to and fro over the three-cornered 
 plot of grass which lay between the cottages : 
 Mrs. Goodman now stepping over to ask whether 
 Susan Ashlv would do a litt'e errand for her 
 as she was going to the village ; or Johnny 
 being sent to know whether any of the Good- 
 mans would accompany him into the fields or 
 lanes to scare birds or hunt hedo-e-hto-s. Good- 
 man sometimes requested Ashly, as a favour, to 
 dig his plot of ground for him, as he had not 
 enough time to do it properly himself ; and 
 then a basket of produce of some sort was sure 
 to find its way to Ashly's dwelling before night. 
 Both families were poor, very poor ; but they 
 contrived to lighten the burden of poverty to one 
 another, in more ways than one, by their friend- 
 ship. They not only imparted of their little 
 substance on those occasions, when the very 
 small gifts of the one party may be of great ser- 
 vice to the other: they not only consoled one 
 another under passing troubles ; but were an 
 effectual mutual support under the permanent 
 vexation to which all honest and independent 
 labourers are subjected, in parishes where the 
 poor-rate is expended lavishly, or otherwise 
 injudiciously. Either of these men would have 
 often found his spirits sink, and his indignation 
 rise to an undue degree, on beholding how the 
 provident and honourable are turned out of 
 work in order to make way for the worthless ; 
 each would perhaps have felt his love of inde- 
 pendence melting away, under strong temptation 
 to claim what others claimed ; each might have
 
 56 THE PARISH, 
 
 desponded as to any good he could singly effect 
 in the way of testimony and example, if they 
 could not have met at the end of the day, at the 
 end of the week, at the end of the year, to con- 
 sult on their affairs, and to vent in sympathy 
 their abhorrence of the present system of em- 
 ploying agricultural labour, and their dread or 
 hope of what future seasons would effect in the 
 way of change. Many people told Goodman that 
 he had nothing to complain of, as he was a supe- 
 rior labourer, and was considered and retained as 
 such by his master, when many others were dis- 
 missed to the gravel-pits, or to any further dis- 
 tance at which their parish might lie, if they 
 should happen not to have a settlement in 
 Goldby's parish. It was true that Goodman 
 was so far better off than others that he was sure 
 of work as long as his master had any to be 
 done ; but he felt himself injured by the system 
 under which he worked, as much as if he had 
 been obliged to pay to his pauper neighbours a 
 fourth, or even a third, of the wages of his hard 
 labour. It came to much the same thing, he 
 often said, whether wages were lowered one- 
 third in order to be made up out of the rates, 
 from which a spirited man could not bring him- 
 self to take a shilling, or whether the labourer 
 was paid full wages, and obliged to give away 
 one-third to support his pauper neighbours. 
 His case was not so hard as Ashly's ; but it was 
 sad enough to afford a theme for many an 
 evening conversation, when the friends were at 
 work side by side, mending their thatch, or
 
 THORPE CORNER. 57 
 
 putting their little plots of ground in order. 
 The evenings, or the Sundays, after church, 
 were the times for Goodman's spirits to sink, 
 and for his friend's, cheered by converse, to rise ; 
 and the mornings, ^vhen Ashly staid at home 
 with nothing to do, and Goodman trudged off to 
 work ^Yith his tools over his shoulder, exactly the 
 reverse. The hours of the year were few, when 
 both were hopeful and happy ; but their attach- 
 ment was not, perhaps, the less strong for this. 
 
 One misty autumn morning, when Goodman 
 came forth in the dusk, with his usual burden of 
 tools, he found Ashly leaning over the gate of 
 the stack-vard he was about to cross. 
 
 " Good morrow to ye, neighbour," said he. 
 " You are early abroad this raw morning." 
 
 " Not earlier stirring than you and yours. I 
 have been watching yon little light from your 
 window this half-hour." 
 
 " Why, yes ; the mornings get too dark now 
 to do any thing without a candle so early as 
 this ; and my dame has no notion of lying in 
 bed any later because the sun changes its time ; 
 so my little folks are all up and about, long be- 
 fore yours, I dare say." 
 
 " No, no : my girl is up the first of the family. 
 And well she may ; for she has more to do than 
 I have." 
 
 " Just at present, man ; but that is not to 
 last for ever. The time will come when you 
 will be as busy as any of us." 
 
 " Aye, for a week or so at hay- harvest, per- 
 haps. But it is a weary time first. The grass
 
 58 THE PARISH. 
 
 is hardly half an inch long yet that I am to 
 
 mow." 
 
 " Well, well. There's your club in the mean 
 time. It is a fine thing for you, belonging to 
 that club." 
 
 " So it is, in as far as it keeps me above the 
 rate ; but it won't do long. It has been a help 
 in sickness, and when my wife died : but neither 
 that fund nor any other will last on, year after 
 year, to support a man who adds nothing to it. 
 Well, but I did not mean to vex you with com- 
 plaints this morning, but rather to know whether 
 you want any thing done at home that I can do 
 for you. Now's your time, you know, when I 
 have only too many hours that I will thank any 
 body to fill up for me. I need not say that I 
 would take nothing for what I might do. It 
 would be kindness enough to let me think I was 
 not idle." 
 
 Goodman could not remember any thing that 
 he wanted done : moreover, he must not stay 
 now to talk : so Ashly was presently left alone 
 at the gate, watching the sun as it rose, turning 
 from blood-red to copper colour, and from copper 
 colour to golden. It was a particularly dull day 
 to Ashly, though it prdmised to be sunshiny and 
 warm for the season. Instead of going home, 
 he lingered about Thorpe Corner, now pulling 
 hips and haws from the moist glittering hedges, 
 and now standing with his hands in his pockets, 
 watching the restless robin that flitted and hopped 
 around him. Before the short thin grass on the 
 plot near his cottage was well dried in the sun-
 
 THORPE CORNER. 59 
 
 shine, he lay down at fall length upon it, lookins: 
 up with half-shut eyes at the pale blue sky. It 
 was not long before he heard little feet busy 
 about him, and felt himself suddenly bestrode by 
 stout young limbs, while a baby face laid itself 
 acrainst his cheek. 
 
 " Father, are you busy to-day ?" was the first 
 unfortunate question. 
 
 " Busy ! no, child." 
 
 " Then I wish you would come and lie down 
 in the church-yard, and see me jump. I can 
 jump this much higher than I could the last time 
 you went." 
 
 " Not to-day. I can't go to the church-yard 
 to-day." 
 
 " Will you go to-morrow, then, and show Bob 
 the owl's nest in the ivy ? We can't get up so 
 high by ourselves." 
 
 " No, not to-morrow. I shan't go to the 
 church-yard any more except on Sundays." 
 
 The children were silenced by their father's 
 tone ; but they wondered within themselves what 
 had made him change his mind about the church- 
 yard, where he used to show them all that was 
 to be seen, and loiter at idle hours, as if he loved 
 the place even more than* they. They were not 
 aware that there was something there which 
 reminded him of his promise to keep every child 
 of his from the parish, as from the worst of 
 misfortunes. 
 
 Presently came another voice, at the sound of 
 which he suddenly raised himself, overthrowing 
 the child that was sitting upou him, and the little
 
 60 THE PARISH. 
 
 one that was trying to gain its feet by the help 
 of his coat collar. 
 
 " Father," said Susan, " as you are within 
 sight, I'll just step down to the osier g-round for 
 some more osiers to peel. Just keep an eye on 
 the door, will you ?" 
 
 Ashly nodded assent, instead of offering to go 
 and cut osiers for his daughter. She went on to 
 ask, — 
 
 " Shall I take the children with me, or will 
 you look to them ?" 
 
 " O, let me go to the osier ground ! I want 
 to go with Susan," cried the children. 
 
 " Take them with you," said Ashly, pushing 
 them away. 
 
 *' Then, Johnny," said his sister, " run round 
 by widow Brand's, and bring Biddy down. She 
 has not been out with us this long while. You 
 will find us by the new dyke, if you make haste." 
 
 " Biddy can't make haste," said the boy. 
 " She goes like the lame duck yonder." 
 
 " Well, don't hurry her ; and mind you help 
 her over the dyke. But you can make haste ; 
 so, off with you !" 
 
 When the children had been gone some time, 
 and before Ashly had ceased wondering what 
 made him too lazy to cut osiers to-day, a heavier 
 step approached, which proved to be Wilde's. 
 He stretched himself, and then lay down also on 
 the grass, saying, 
 
 " That little fellow of yours spoiled our sport 
 just now. He carried off our dwarf just when 
 we were setting her to run a race with Jay's
 
 THORPE CORNER. 61 
 
 dog-. He would have carried off the dog- too ; 
 but we kept him for another kind of sport by 
 and by." 
 
 " Which ? the boy or the dog ?" 
 
 " The dog, to be sure. Your boy would be a 
 rare boy if he could help us to such sport as 
 we expect from that dog by and by, as I said 
 before." 
 
 Ashly made no reply, and Wilde went on. 
 
 " Talking of rare fellows ; is not that fellow 
 Jay a good one ? You should have heard how 
 he has been talkinor, — as finelv as a member of 
 parliament. And he is not a spoil-sport like the 
 whole of one set of speechifiers — the parsons. 
 They are for ever telling us, ' you must not do 
 this,* and ' you must not do that ;' till a man 
 with any spirit asks what the devil he may do. 
 Now, Jav has as much to sav as anv man about 
 the right and wrong of things ; but he sets one 
 on to do fine things with a famous deal of spirit. 
 You should have heard him this morning." 
 
 " I can't think how you find time to hear him, 
 Wilde, at this part of the day, when I thought 
 you ought to be at the gravel-pits." 
 
 " O, I don't trouble my head much about 
 what time of day I work. The parish is bound 
 to find me ; and it does not matter what time of 
 day I do their cursed work, or whether I do it 
 at all ; particularly when I have other fish to fry 
 by and by, as I said before." 
 
 As before, Ashly remained silent. As before, 
 Wilde resumed. 
 
 o
 
 62 THE PARISH. 
 
 " Now you, who have no parish work to do, 
 nor other work either, as far as I see, — you are 
 just the person to help sport, which is a thing we 
 did not expect of you when you wanted your 
 nights for sleep after a hard day's work. But 
 now " 
 
 Ashly cut him short with a declaration that 
 he was never so little disposed for sport as when 
 he had no work. 
 
 " Aye, aye ; you mean singing rollicking 
 songs, and playing skittles, or perhaps helping 
 on a fight. We all know that such sports as 
 those bring nothing in, and help one to run scores 
 sooner than to pay them. But if, as Jay says, 
 there is a sport which has justice, — no ; the rights 
 of the poor, — no ; I forget what he said exactly ; 
 but it came to this, that a hare is a mighty good 
 thing for hungry people to have to eat ; and that 
 there are plenty of people ready to give a good 
 price for pheasants ; and that we have a better 
 right to every thing of that sort than any squire 
 Manning that ever lived." 
 
 " When you prove to me," said Ashly, " that 
 I have a right to squire Manning's pheasants, 
 I'll set Susan to roast them without my having 
 climbed a wall by moonlight, or shot a gam^e- 
 keeper to get them." 
 
 " Hang the gamekeepers ! They would not 
 be shot if they kept out of the way. They have 
 the woods to themselves all the day : they might 
 give us our turn at night. Hang the meddling 
 fellows !"
 
 THORPE CORNER. 63 
 
 " If you let such a meddling fellow as Jay 
 talk you over, Wilde, it will end in the game- 
 keepers hanging you.'' 
 
 " No such easy matter," rephed Wilde. 
 " You'll hardly find my match at dodging in the 
 moonlight, and making a stand in the dark, as 
 you'll see if you'll come with us some night. 
 We meet at-—" 
 
 " Don't tell me a word about it," said Ashly, 
 " or you will repent ; for I won't promise to 
 keep secrets that I have no part in. If I am 
 above taking parish money, while I can do 
 without it, I am much more above taking the 
 squire's game, like a thief. I would sooner beg 
 at his door for a crust of bread." 
 
 " Much you know about it !" cried Wilde, 
 scornfully ; " and where's the wonder, when you 
 never hear what Jay has to say about it ? I 
 suppose you grant that neither you nor the 
 squire has so much to say as Jay. There 
 is not such a man to be met with at every turn. 
 But it is ill-natured of you to talk as you do 
 about blabbing ; and it is cursedly good-natured 
 to the squire. I wonder you have so little spirit, 
 when you owe him a grudge." 
 
 Ashly replied that he had no particular liking 
 for the squire, who had injured him over and 
 over again in preventing his being employed in 
 preference to parish paupers. It was not because 
 the pheasants were Manning's that he declined 
 stealing them, but because he was above stealing 
 at all, and should be, if the game belonged to 
 somebody as hateful as he (whoever he was)
 
 64 THE PARISH. 
 
 that made the game laws, and as helpless as 
 poor little Biddy. 
 
 " It would be strange, to be sure," observed 
 Wilde, *' if you had any consideration for a man 
 that has used you as I know Manning is doing. 
 You should hear what he says.'* 
 
 " Never mind what he says. He can say no 
 real ill of me ; so don't be repeating cross words 
 of his to tempt me to steal his game." 
 
 " You don't know what I'm thinking of. No 
 man can be further from saying any harm of 
 your character ; but it is not the less hurtful to 
 you for that. Says he, ' Let Ashly alone to take 
 care of himself. He is a substantial man ; and 
 we need not trouble ourselves about getting work 
 for him, as he can live for a while without.' " 
 
 " Whom did he say that to?" 
 
 " To Goldby, when he rode over, to tell the 
 squire how much you wished for work. Jay 
 was there and heard it." 
 
 " And what did Goldby say ?" 
 
 " He said the parish would lose more by driv- 
 ing such a one as you to be a half- worker, or an 
 idler, than it could ever gain by giving your 
 proper work to a batch of paupers. That was 
 his civil way of speaking of us who have parish- 
 pay. He will be made to repent of it one day." 
 
 " What did he mean by calling me a half- 
 worker and an idler?" cried Ashly, starting up. 
 
 *' Why, there now, lie down again. He did not 
 mean that you doze on the grass when you have 
 nothing to do. He said what it was that he 
 meant — that the most high-spirited men have the
 
 THORPE CORNER. 65 
 
 least heart for the work that is paid by the parish. 
 He said, that while good labour is so scarce in 
 the neighbourhood, it is a great loss to the parish 
 to have men that do their business like Good- 
 man and you turned from examples into warn- 
 mgs. 
 
 " I'm proud to feel obliged to Mr. Goldby," 
 exclaimed Ashly ; " and if Jay thinks as he does, 
 perhaps he will leave off inciting the people to 
 get hold of all the money they can without earn- 
 ing it.'* 
 
 " Jay told us this to show that you are a warn- 
 ing already, instead of being an example. He 
 says, that any one who passes you when you are 
 lagging along, as melancholy as a new-weaned 
 calf, and afraid to treat yourself with a pint of 
 beer to cheer your heart, may see a warning of 
 what happens to people w ho are above asking for 
 the monev that the law allows them, and vet 
 have not spirit enough to bleed the land-owners 
 and farmers of what they have wrung out of the 
 poor. He says, if you cared for your country, 
 and the poor men in it, you would get into 
 Goldby's pocket, and help to make him pay the 
 cost of his thrashing-machines ten times over." 
 
 Ashly sprang to his feet, while he said that Jay 
 should soon see that he had somethinc: better to 
 do than to consume the substance of an honest, 
 kind-hearted fellow like Goldby. Wilde took it for 
 granted that he alluded to the midnight sport to 
 which he wished to tempt him, and began to con- 
 gratulate him on his roused spirit. But Ashly 
 
 g3
 
 66 THE PARISH. 
 
 had very different thoughts in his mind, and 
 said so. He urged Wilde to proceed to his 
 work in the gravel-pits, and to leave it to the 
 owls to be abroad at night; stepped to his dwell- 
 ing to mend the fire, on which the potatoes were 
 boilins:, and to close the door, and then followed 
 the children to the osier ground, revolving in his 
 mind the notion with which he had just been in- 
 spired — of investing his small remaining funds 
 in some sort of stock, on which he might make a 
 profit. If he could do this, he would no longer 
 be pointed at by his neighbours as the man who 
 was fool enough to save, and pitied by those who 
 approved his spirit. If he succeeded, he should 
 be independent of squires and farmers ; if he 
 failed, it was but coming upon the parish a little 
 sooner than he would otherwise do. 
 
 The children set up a shout when they saw 
 him trudging down the meadow at a quick pace. 
 Susan looked out from among the osiers, and 
 Johnny made a display of the sheaf already cut; 
 and the two little girls left off teasing the ducks, 
 which they had been chasing from creek to cove 
 of the little stream which bounded the meadow. 
 Biddy was found to have lost a shoe, and Bet to 
 be wetted before, behind, and on each side; 
 whereupon Johnny was sent with the children to 
 search for the shoe among the weeds, and to 
 convey it and the owner home; while Ashly 
 helped Susan to finish her task, and loaded him- 
 self with her sheaf He came to the point with 
 his daughter immediately.
 
 THORPE CORNER. 67 
 
 " Susan, how should you like to keep shop ?' 
 
 " What sort of shop ? such a one as Mrs.Wool- 
 lerton could teach me to keep?" 
 
 " Xo, no, I must have a diiFerent sort of shop- 
 keeping from Mrs. Woollerton's, even supposing 
 she would teach any body how to set up in oppo- 
 sition to her. No ; the schoolmaster has taught 
 you something in figures, and I think we might 
 manage to learn the other parts of the business 
 ourselves. It is a long time since we bought tea 
 or sugar ; and it is rarely enough that we have 
 had bacon of late : but I dare sav we remember 
 sufficient to prevent any great mistakes in laying 
 in our first stock. I am sure we have good rea- 
 son to remember the prices we had to pay at 
 Woollerton's." 
 
 " I get some things there now, for that mat- 
 ter," said Susan. ''The last salt butter we had 
 was a penny an ounce." 
 
 " And far from good, too," replied her father. 
 *' I don't believe Woollerton gives more than six- 
 pence a pound for it to the grocer he buys it of. 
 1 have reason to know that he asks for ordinary 
 goods when he buys his stock. We had no great 
 loss in leaving off tea, such as his was latterly. 
 We might bake the leaves of any bush between 
 this and the squire's, and have as good tea. And 
 to charge six-pence an ounce for it ! I dare say 
 we might sell better at four-pence. Then there's 
 cheese. There Is little doubt farmer Goldby 
 would sell me a few of the cheeses he sends to 
 market, and 1 could warrant the quality good and 
 wholesome (which is more than Woollerton's
 
 B8 THE PARISH, 
 
 ever is), and sell it, moreover, at three halfpence 
 the two ounces, instead of a penny an ounce, 
 which every body is paying for his strong" hard 
 stuff, which is not fit for any child's stomach, I 
 am sure." 
 
 Susan doubted whether Goldby would part 
 with any of his cheeses to be sold retail in the 
 neighbourhood, since Woollerton was obliged to 
 go so far for his. Her father told her that Goldby 
 could not sell his good cheeses so cheap as 
 Woollerton's friend, the grocer, could afford to 
 part with his fragrant commodity; so that though 
 Woollerton might make a good profit on Gold- 
 by's, he preferred making a much larger on bad 
 cheese from a distance. 
 
 " Then there are candles," pursued he ; " they 
 are a principal article, for Woollerton himself 
 says there is twice the quantity of candles burned 
 that there was a while ago." 
 
 " Why, how is that, father ? we burn fewer, 
 and so do the Goodmans, now that there is nei- 
 ther sickness nor a young baby in either house." 
 
 " People that have their things found by the 
 parish," replied her father, " grow less careful 
 by degrees than we are obliged to be. In many 
 a cottage where there was formerly never a can- 
 dle seen from March to October, there are lights 
 flaring in the window for hours of the midsum- 
 mer night, when sober labourers ought to be in 
 bed. They must have a candle to gossip by at 
 their doors, or at the open casement; and the sun 
 wastes a pretty quantity of light upon them 
 before they are up in the morning. I fancy it is
 
 THORPE CORNER. 69 
 
 long since many of those who work in the gravel- 
 pits saw the early dew. We shall have them 
 grumbling at getting work when that blessed 
 time, the hay-harvest, comes round, because 
 they must be up betimes to mow." 
 
 " To be sure," observed Susan, " Mrs. Brand, 
 for one, must be a good customer for candles. 
 You may see lights moving about for a long 
 while after her house is cleared at night ; she 
 being busy cleaning up after her customers, I 
 suppose. And all the winter, the few that do get 
 up to work call in there betimes for their warm 
 beer and spices : so she and her maid must burn 
 lights almost the whole night through. She uses 
 better candles than the poor pay a halfpenny 
 a-piece for ; but if it only came to that, think 
 what a bill it would be at the winter's end!" 
 
 *' If she bought of us by the pound, we could 
 afford candles much cheaper than she pays 
 Woollerton. As for bacon, I should like to turn 
 that article over to Goodman, if, as I think, he 
 can manage to keep pigs. It may be a kindness 
 to put it into his head. He can either dispose of 
 the bacon himself, or, what is better, (since peo- 
 ple do not think of buying any where but at the 
 shops,) let me sell it for him, which I would do 
 with great pleasure, giving him every thing over 
 and above the expenses." 
 
 "But, father, only think of the expenses; 
 only think of having a shop." 
 
 " Aye, yoQ are thinking of such a shop as 
 Woollerton's ; or, perhaps, Mr. Jay's, with gild- 
 ing on the drawers; and painted doors to the
 
 70 THE PARISH. 
 
 cupboards. I mean nothing of that sort ; but 
 just a deal table or counter that T can put up 
 myself in our own kitchen, with a sort of covered 
 place behind to keep our stock in ', and perhaps 
 a bench in front to set fruit, and eggs, and gin- 
 gerbread upon in the summer. Or Johnny 
 might have a little set-out of them on the green.'' 
 
 " You forgot that jiobody ever passes our way 
 but the Goodmans, and their custom would be 
 but little." 
 
 " What is there to prevent people passing our 
 way? They will flock to Thorpe Corner fast 
 enough if they find they can buy cheaper by half 
 of us than of Woollerton. If we can but make a 
 beginning, we shall see our quiet nook as like a 
 fair as Woollerton's shop-door, when the people 
 go straight there from the workhouse." 
 
 Susan had yet another objection to make. She 
 had heard that Mrs. Woollerton was continually 
 complaining of the impossibility of getting in her 
 payments ; and Susan was sure she could not 
 press very poor people hard for their money. Her 
 father had no intention of selling for any thing 
 but ready money. Bad debts, or even a delay 
 of payment, would presently knock up a shop- 
 keeper with so small a capital as his. Susan 
 liked the idea of ready money, instead of having 
 the trouble and anxiety of keeping scores. She 
 fully acquiesced in the plan, and promised to say 
 her tables of money, weights, and measures, to 
 herself as often as she took up her needle, and to 
 practise making parcels, so as to waste the least 
 possible time, paper, and string.
 
 LODGINGS TO LET. 71 
 
 The plan being thus opened to his daughter, 
 and favourably received by her, Ashly waited 
 with impatience the return of his friend Good- 
 man, whom he intended to admit to his consul- 
 tations from first to last. The hours between 
 noon and Goodman's evening leisure were spent 
 by Ashly, not so much in peeling osiers with his 
 industrious children, as in ineasuring his dwell- 
 ing, inside and out, and estimating the accom- 
 modations of whicli it might admit. The window 
 was small ; the counter must be short and nar- 
 row ; the cupboards and shelves scanty in depth 
 and height; but who could know what might 
 arise from a small beginning, and whether x\shly 
 and his daughter might not end by keeping shop 
 in the middle house of Myrtle Row ? 
 
 Chapter V. 
 LODGINGS TO LET. 
 
 Mrs. Goldby was wont to mention, as one of 
 the signs of the times, the facility with which 
 people changed their plans, in comparison with 
 former days. In old times, a man, and yet more 
 a woman, meditated long before adopting a new 
 occupation, or introducing any material variation 
 into a long-pursued way of life. jSow there was 
 such shifting and changing, that it was plain 
 the old maxim was forgotten — " A rolling: stone 
 gathers no moss." A man that was a labourer
 
 72 THE PARISH. 
 
 yesterday was to be a shopkeeper to-morrow; 
 and shopkeepers themselves seemed to think little 
 of altering the character of their stock several 
 times in a year. The only thing some people 
 kept steady about was taking- an allowance from 
 the rate ; and if, for purposes of their own, they 
 gave it up for a time, the principle of fidelity in 
 this particular instance was so strong, that on the 
 failure of their schemes they were sure to return 
 to the rate again, with an eagerness enhanced by 
 suspension. All this went to prove, that persons 
 thus changeable were not likely to have much to 
 lose, and that their experiments were therefore 
 tried at other people's expense. If it were not 
 so, there would be, as in old times, a Jack-of-all- 
 trades here and there, and the rest of the working 
 people divided into classes according to their per- 
 manent occupations, instead of a herd of people 
 who were ready to be this to-day, and that to- 
 morrow, whenever a slight promise of profit ap- 
 peared. Some people objected that the prosper- 
 ous were little less changeable than those who 
 had nothing to lose: and these cited Mrs. Brand 
 as an example. Mrs. Brand did not appear to 
 the farmer's wife a fair specimen, however, as 
 her name had stood on the parish books, and no 
 one who was written down in that condemned 
 list was deemed worthy to be regarded as a sign 
 of what the times were to the working classes. 
 
 But what were the changes in widow Brand's 
 plans ? She still kept a beer-shop, as well she 
 might, if what her neighbours said was true of 
 the quantity of beer she drew, and of the nimi-
 
 LODGINGS TO LET. 73 
 
 bers who drank their pints and quarts at her 
 door, and in her house, between morning and 
 night, besides those who sent for it at dinner and 
 supper-times. Every body thought she must be 
 growing rich very fast, and would gladly have 
 borne her burdens to be in her place. What 
 these burdens were, of which she often spoke, 
 and of which her slatternly dress, sharpened 
 voice, and knit brow told yet more plainly, it 
 was not very easy to discover. Even the laziest 
 folks thought they should not object to be up 
 early and late, and to be at every one's call 
 through the day, if they were rewarded with a 
 fine profit, and possessed such a till as her's, where 
 silver and copper were dropping in with a con- 
 tinual jingle. But it was certain that the widow 
 had troubles, however loud she might laugh 
 when every body else laughed, or liowever de- 
 lighted she might at times appear with the apo- 
 thecary's oratory, or Wilde's polite attentions in 
 gi^^ng her half his chair to listen to it. Some 
 mothers, indeed, thought she had trouble enough 
 to make her fi'own in her little son's promise of 
 fuU-blow^n wickedness, and in poor Biddy's in- 
 creasing helplessness of body and mind ; and did 
 not very w^ell see how an abundance of money 
 could compensate for evils of this nature ; but 
 the wonderers continued to form the majority, as 
 there were many who knew what it was to have bad 
 or sickly children, to one who had experienced 
 and could estimate the comfort of having money. 
 To wonder succeeded something like envy, 
 when it bec?ira^ knpwn that the widow was about 
 
 H
 
 74 THE PARISH. 
 
 to open a lodging-place for vagrants, at the sug- 
 gestion and under the sanction of the squire. 
 How many now began to marvel at themselves 
 for not having first thought of doing such a 
 thing, so often as the squire had been heard to 
 lament the difficulty of knowing what to do with 
 vagrants, for whom there was no proper accom- 
 modation in the workhouse ! How many thought 
 the widow Brand had quite enough upon her 
 hands, and flowing into her pocket aheady, and 
 that she might have done some neig-hbour the 
 kind turn of giving up the speculation to him ! 
 Others blessed their stars that they had nothing 
 to do with such a set of creatures as the vagrants 
 that passed through the parish ; and asked how 
 much profit any one could, expect to make of 
 such destitute bodies as they. Meanwhile the 
 widow proceeded with her preparations, which 
 were not very expensive, though they promised 
 as much luxury as could be expected on the 
 terms of two-pence a night. The straw was spread, 
 thick and dry, on the floor of the sort of out- 
 house which was to be appropriated to her va- 
 grant visitors ; troughs of water were placed at 
 each end ; a mighty store of soft soap was laid 
 in ; and roll towels of prodigious length and sub- 
 stance decked the wall. All this was certainly 
 much to offer for two-pence a night; but, as some- 
 body observed, a man that had two-pence might 
 have more, whether from the hands of a magistrate 
 or from some unknown source ; and this surplus 
 was almost sure to be spent in the beer which 
 might be heard splashing into the cans on the
 
 LODGINGS TO LET. 75 
 
 other side the partition. Thus a very few va- 
 grants (and there never had been many in this 
 parish) might make it worth the widow's while 
 to entertain them. 
 
 It was not long after Christmas that she was 
 ready to receive the first wanderer who was 
 directed by the squire to her abode ; and next 
 morning, before less active people would have 
 breakfasted, appeared the squire himself at the 
 widow Brand's door, giving his horse to Peter 
 to be led up and down before the house. He 
 seemed to be disposed to walk in — more so, a 
 discernins: observer would have said, than the 
 hostess to invite him. There was no place for 
 him but her little back parlour, as she could not 
 think of putting him where the men were having 
 their morning draught. The squire condescend- 
 ingly assured her that the back parlour would 
 better suit the purposes for which he came than 
 any more public place. 
 
 " Well, Mrs. Brand," said he, " I sent you a 
 customer last night." 
 
 " Yes, sir, he is still there ;" nodding in the 
 direction of the out-house. 
 
 " Still there I — Well, do not let him slip away 
 without paying you your two-pence. He has 
 two-pence, I assure you. I took care of that 
 before I sent him to you." 
 
 The widow curtseyed in token of her sense of 
 obligation. 
 
 " Perhaps," added Mr. Manning, with a shrewd 
 look, *' he found ways and means of getting more
 
 70 THE PARISH. 
 
 than two-pence into his pocket between my house 
 and yours — perhaps he was a customer in more 
 ways than one. Eh! Mrs. Brand?" 
 
 " Indeed, sir, he has not spent one farthing 
 here ; and if he has eaten any thing-, it could only 
 be such broken victuals as he might have with him. 
 I have made no profit of him, I assure you, sir." 
 
 " Very well — very well. It is as well, you 
 see, that I should come to ascertain the success 
 of our first experiment with this sort of people. 
 They must be looked to, both as to making them 
 comfortable, poor creatures, while they are in our 
 hands, and preventing our being cheated by the 
 rogues among them. What kind of man, now, 
 would you suppose this fellow to be ?'' 
 
 The widow could say nothing to this question, 
 as she had only seen the man for a moment, and 
 taken no particular notice of him then. She only 
 knew that he had been quite quiet, and not asked 
 for any thins: from the time Peter showed him 
 where he was to sleep, till now. She was sur- 
 prised when the squire told her that her guest 
 declared himself to belong to the parish, and that 
 he came for the purpose of claiming relief. 
 She would observe him more particularly, the 
 widow said : and if the squire would favour her 
 with his name, perhaps she might recollect it. 
 
 The name had slipped the busy gentleman's 
 memory, and he had left his memorandum-book 
 in his last night's coat-pocket ; so the name of 
 the vagrant must be learned from himself Mean- 
 while, there was more to be said to Mrs. Brand.
 
 LODGINGS TO LET. 77 
 
 " My good woman," said the squire, looking 
 very serious, " are you aware that your estab- 
 lishment is not a gin-shop ?" 
 
 The widow submitted that it would be rather 
 odd for her to fancy she sold gin, when in fact she 
 sold only beer. 
 
 " If it is not a gin-shop," pursued the squire, 
 *' neither ouscht it to have the morals and man- 
 ners of a gin-shop." 
 
 Mrs. Brand hoped her own morals were pretty 
 good, and she had nothing to do with those of 
 other people. 
 
 " There is your mistake, my good woman ; and 
 a great mistake, I assure you, it is. You are 
 answerable for whatever goes on in your house — 
 for whatever rebellion may be hatching (I would 
 have you look well to that) — for privy conspi- 
 racy — for drunkenness — for brawls — for profane 
 jesting — for '' 
 
 While the squire was racking his faculties for 
 more sins to specify, the widow seized the oppor- 
 tunity of saying, that if she had been aware that 
 all such shocking things were to rest upon lier 
 conscience, she should not have thought so little 
 of opening a beer-shop. 
 
 " I dare say not," was the reply. '• Those 
 who open gin-shops prepare themselves for what- 
 ever mav come of the detestable assemblao-es 
 within their doors ; but " 
 
 " Do you really think they do, sir? Then I 
 think they must be the worst people living." 
 
 *' Do not forget Christian charity, my good 
 woman. Would not you think it hard, now, if 
 
 H 3
 
 78 THE PARISH, 
 
 any body called you the worst person living, be- 
 cause treason was talked in yonder room ? But, 
 as I was going to say, there is great delusion 
 about these beer-shops. They were begun with 
 the idea that people would be enabled by them 
 to provide themselves with good beer at a rea- 
 sonable rate, and that multitudes would leave off 
 drinking gin when there was convenience for their 
 being served with the fine old English beverage, 
 which — which " 
 
 " And I'm sure, sir, people are served reason- 
 ably with very good beer from my shop. You 
 would be surprised at the number that send for 
 their quarts at dinner-time every day, instead of 
 brewing at home." 
 
 *' True, true. An excellent intention, indeed, 
 was that of the legislature in establishing these 
 beer-shops ; and very good beer is yours, Mrs. 
 Brand, I have no doubt. But can you honestly 
 say, now, that there is no rebellion hatched here 
 over your beer ? Does Jay make no speeches ? 
 Do our tradesmen make no complaints of their 
 neighbours — the squire, and the overseer? Do 
 our labourers say nothing under your roof against 
 Goldby ? And," — whispering, " has no poacher 
 drank out of your cans ?" 
 
 " Bless me 1 and does your worship think this 
 is all owing to the beer ?" 
 
 " Not entirely ; for matters were very far from 
 going right before the beer bill passed ; but you 
 will allow that there has been more mischief at 
 work in this parish of late than ever ; and I much 
 fear there will be still more. I fear I cannot keep
 
 LODGINGS TO LET. 79 
 
 our people from hearing of the disorders in other 
 parishes. The news of the fires flies fast, and 
 people's ears are always open to dangerous re- 
 ports of that kind. I own I dread the conse- 
 quences. But remember, that if any mischief 
 happens, I and my brother magistrates shall feel it 
 our duty to question you as to what has passed 
 under your roof; audi hope we shall hear better 
 things of you than some that have reached us 
 lately." 
 
 " Why, sir, as to keeping these fires a secret, I 
 don't see how you are to manage that, now that 
 they have come so near. You can't make people 
 walk with their eyes shut of a night ; and Sims, 
 that did work at Bingham's, saw afire far off one 
 dark night lately, and brought news of it here in 
 the morning ; and — and — a friend of mine climbs 
 up the big elm by the pump every night to look 
 out ; and I've heard that several people are let 
 into the church-tower by the sexton, sometimes 
 as late as twelve o'clock, and watch for hours. 
 So I hope, if there should happen such a thing as 
 a fire in our parish, your worship will not fancy 
 I began it." 
 
 *' But you must own that our parish is in a 
 very sad state — in a much worse state than it 
 was before your house was opened." 
 
 " But if it was shut up to-morrow, do you 
 think, sir, that matters would mend ? I don't 
 say but that a man here and there may drink 
 more beer than he can properly afford ; as some of 
 my bad debts can testify ; and I see plainly enough 
 that when discontented people get together, they
 
 80 THE PARISH. 
 
 increase their discontent, and stir one another up 
 to mischief. But I don't see but that the same 
 things would happen if there was no beer-shop 
 in the place. As long- as labourers have idle 
 time upon their hands, and money from the 
 parish, they will have drink ; and if there is not 
 beer at hand, they will have gin. As long as 
 little tradesmen have to pay more to the rates 
 than they can afford, they will grumble at those 
 that they think make them pay more than they 
 need ; and as for Mr. Jay, he will make speeches 
 as long as he thinks the people wronged ; and if 
 there is not a roof granted him to speak under, 
 he will stand in the wind and the rain." 
 
 *' But, my good woman," said the squire, with 
 a comfortable smile, " you have not answered 
 my question yet. Is the parish in a worse state 
 than when'Blogg let this house to you, or is it not ?" 
 
 '* It certainly is, sir, if all that you and Mr. Jay 
 say be true." 
 
 " I and Mr. Jay !" 
 
 " Yes. Your M^orship seems exactly to agree 
 with Mr. Jay so far. There's a new set of people 
 in Blogg's cottages, poor miserable creatures, 
 Mr. Jay says, so sickly, that he has more trouble 
 than enough with them, considering what his 
 salary from the parish is." 
 
 " Aye, I know the people in Myrtle Row are 
 most of them upon the parish." 
 
 " Half-starved by the parish, sir, Mr. Jay says : 
 and this, and the place being so damp and with- 
 out any drain, makes them very troublesome 
 patients to him.'*
 
 LODGINGS TO LET. 81 
 
 " Blogg must be spoken to to make a drain, 
 and " 
 
 " Bless yon, sir ; the cottages have been out of 
 Blog-g's hands this long while, and the money 
 he sold them for three quarters spent by this 
 time, I'll be bound. Sewell bought one with his 
 legacy, and Blogg compounded with the parish 
 for the rest, as your worship would have it that 
 the parish must pay the rents." 
 
 " True, true. I forgot. Those houses must 
 be looked to, however." 
 
 " Looking will do little good, I am afraid, sir, 
 as long as they are built on a heavy clay. Well, 
 then, there are such labourers as Goodman 
 ground down by the farmers to such wages as 
 will barely find them potatoes, which is, as Mr. 
 Jay says, a burning shame in the farmers, though 
 they complain that they can't give better. We've 
 nothing: to do with that, savs Mr. Jav. It's the la- 
 bourers' business to get their rights of the farmers, 
 and let the farmers get theirs of the landowners, 
 and the other rich folks that oppress them. Then, 
 again, there are the bands of poor men that are 
 set to work in the gravel-pits ; there are more and 
 more of them every day going in droves, as Mr. 
 
 Jay says, to be worked like slaves " 
 
 " Mr. Jay does not know what it is to work 
 like slaves," interrupted the squire. " These 
 paupers do as little work each as a boy of ten 
 might get through.'* 
 
 " Mr. Jay meant, sir, that they were marched 
 in droves like slaves, not that they worked like 
 slaves, which may be much or little, for any thing 
 I know. Then, there are children dropping into
 
 83 THE PARISH. 
 
 the workhouse from here and there, and the over- 
 seer grumbling over every fresh one that comes 
 in, as if it was not a misfortune, as Mr. Jay says, 
 that their parents are prevented, by the oppres- 
 sion of the rich, from maintaining- them. Mr. 
 Jay thinks the least the overseer could do would 
 be to give them what the law orders them, with- 
 out making any difficulty about it. I am sure I 
 dread carrying my poor little girl there, he will 
 taunt me with it so." 
 
 *' What are you going to send her for?" 
 
 " I find I can't keep her at home any longer. 
 She requires more looking after and nursing than 
 I can give her, with my hands so full from morn- 
 ing to night. It will be a great relief to me to 
 have her better provided for than at home." 
 
 " I should have thought you were well able to 
 have your child properly taken care of at home, 
 or by a neighbour. There are few people in the 
 parish now taking so much money as you." 
 
 The widow answered that she had more than 
 enough to do wit?i her money ; that the parish at 
 present made her an allowance for Biddy, and 
 it would cost the overseer little more to have the 
 child in the workhouse. The parish should re- 
 member too, that she had taken herself and all 
 her family off the rate when she began her new 
 way of life ; and it was the least it could do in 
 return to help her poor, deformed child, that was 
 a sad burden upon a widow woman. In this the 
 squire agreed, provided she found herself really 
 unable to maintain the child. 
 
 Mrs. Brand declared her son Peter to be
 
 LODGINGS TO LET. S3 
 
 quite enough of a charge for any mother to bear. 
 Besides his being- so idle that he left nearly all 
 the business of the house on her and her maid, 
 he had lately been detected in pocketing half- 
 pence and six-pences, which he scored against 
 customers. How long this had gone on, and 
 what was the extent of her loss, Mrs. Brand could 
 not guess ; nor did she know what he did with 
 the money, unless he spent it at the fights a 
 friend of hers had taken him to lately. The 
 good-natured squire hastened to turn the conver- 
 sation, thinking that her son's delinquencies must 
 be a melancholy subject for a mother to dwell 
 upon. He asked whether the vagrant could not 
 be roused (supposing him asleep), and brought 
 before him ; and Mrs. Brand sent Peter to see. 
 The boy brought word that he had called for 
 some time and got no answer, and that on look- 
 ing in, he found the man was gone. " Without 
 paying his two-pence ?" the squire asked. Every 
 body supposed so, till the servant girl, hearing 
 the speculations upon the two-pence, gave evi- 
 dence that she had seen the stranger in confe- 
 rence with Peter a few minutes before ; where- 
 upon the boy's pockets were turned inside out, 
 and it appeared that he had received the money. 
 " You will have much trouble with that boy, 
 I fear, my good woman, and you can hardly 
 doubt his wickedness beino' owin^ to the nature 
 of your occupation, whatever you may think of 
 Jay's, and \\ ilde's, and that of other bad fellows 
 that might, for aught I know, have been bad, as 
 you say, without having had a beer-shop to go to."
 
 84 THE PARISH. 
 
 " Bless me, sir, please not to give out that I 
 said such a thing as that ! Mr. Jay a bad man ! 
 and Wilde too " 
 
 " Well, take care they do nothing bad under 
 your roof, that's all. No talk of rick-burning, I 
 beg ! No more such brawls as I happen to have 
 heard of ! I am far from wishing to be hard 
 upon my neighbours, but- " 
 
 He was stopped by protestations that he was 
 the kindest of neighbours, the most indulgent of 
 magistrates, as every body would say who did 
 not want to pinch the poor as to the parish 
 money that was their right. It was only such 
 as the overseer that could ever complain of the 
 squire. 
 
 With this comfortable assurance in his ear, the 
 squire departed in search of the vagrant who had 
 excited his curiosity. He was little aware what 
 kind of consultation respecting himself he left 
 behind him, or what a scene awaited him in the 
 village. 
 
 Chapter VI. 
 A FROLIC. 
 
 While the squire rode away, the idlers, who 
 looked after him from the window and door, 
 delivered their opinions of him. 
 
 " He is a good-hearted man enough," pro- 
 nounced one. " He always gives it against the
 
 A FROLIC. 85 
 
 overseer when a pauper appeals to him. There's 
 some pleasure in going* to him with a complaint. 
 One is sure to get what one wants." 
 
 " He is a better man than Goldby by half," 
 observed another. " He makes every body about 
 him take on labourers, while all Goldby's endea- 
 vour is to employ as few as the overseer can be 
 persuaded to put upon him." 
 
 " But remember," interposed a third, '• what 
 a different thing it is paying labourers one's self, 
 and forcing them on other people to be paid." 
 
 *' Aye, but Goldby is a bad man for all that. 
 The whole time of my affliction last year, he gave 
 my wife no more than half as much help as the 
 squire, though she nursed 2\Irs. Goldby in her 
 last confinement. O, Goldby is a bad man com- 
 pared with the squire !" 
 
 " You would have so much out of Goldby in 
 the way of the rate," said the farmer's advocate, 
 " that you leave him nothing to give away in 
 charity. He cannot afford to help those he has 
 a regard for, because he is obliged to do far too 
 ranch for those who never think of thanking 
 him." 
 
 " I call Goldby a better man than the squire," 
 cried a politician of Jay's band. " Nobody can 
 say that the farmer is rich through what he 
 grasps and wrings from the poor. The farmer 
 has no hares that a poor man's dog may not fol- 
 low. He has no traps set for starving men, who 
 may not bring down a bird as it flutters before 
 them, though they feel they could eat it, feathers 
 
 I
 
 86 THE PARISH. 
 
 and all. I'd sooner take a night walk through his 
 preserves than through Goldby's stack-yards." 
 
 " Hold your, talk," cried the first speaker, 
 " and see what is coming here. What is the 
 meaning of all this ? Where are all these bar- 
 rows of gravel going ? with the fellows hallooing 
 as if they meant to raise the village as they go." 
 
 " That is what they want, no doubt, or they 
 would not come on with such a noise. One, two, 
 four, six, ten, eighteen barrows of gravel ! Why, 
 a cart with one man to drive it would carry as 
 much as that ; and then seventeen of the poor 
 fellows might be taking their ease here with us.** 
 
 The gossips poured out from the widow's door 
 to meet the barrow-men ; and the news soon 
 spread that it was a freak of the overseer's to set 
 the men to wheel away the gravel which had till 
 now been carted. It was said that less gravel 
 was wanted, while there were more men to be 
 employed by the parish, and that this was a 
 device to keep the paupers employed ; a piece of 
 spite, as they called it, to prevent their enjoying 
 a little liberty with their parish-pay. They should 
 like, if they dared, to bury the overseer up to the 
 chin in this very gravel ; and they were deter- 
 mined, at all events, to resist up to the furthest 
 point at which they could hope for the protection 
 of the poor man's friend — the squire. 
 
 " What are you going to do with your loads ?" 
 somebody asked of Wilde, who was a ring-leader. 
 
 " Come and see, and bring as many as you 
 like to look on."
 
 A FROLIC. 87 
 
 " But are you sure you're safe ? Don't get 
 thrown into prison for such a little thing as 
 this." 
 
 Wilde pointed to a companion who carried a 
 book ; and this person explained that the men 
 in the pits had had so much talk from the over- 
 seer about the letter of the law, and so much 
 disputing among themselves as to what this was, 
 that they had clubbed to buy Burn's Justice, 
 which they had studied with such effect as to 
 have great hopes of puzzling the overseer, and 
 perhaps the squire. They expected now to 
 frighten Donkin by a plea, (if their present con- 
 duct could be called pleading.) that work done 
 for the parish must be made profitable, if possible ; 
 which gravel that was harrowed instead of carted 
 could not be. 
 
 Who read and expounded the book to the 
 paupers ? It passed from hand to hand among 
 those who could read ; and the more ignorant 
 gathered round to listen when the overseer's 
 back was turned. All wished to be ready to 
 make Donkin stare, or the squire swear, the next 
 time either should begin laying down the law. 
 
 There was no time for more explanation now, 
 for the entire population of the street was turning 
 out as the procession wheeled round the corner 
 from the common into the village. Such a bustle 
 had seldom been seen in the place. The barrows 
 were driven zig-zag in the hurry, and squalling 
 children and squealing pigs scudded and blun- 
 dered about among the creaking wheels, in terror 
 of being run over. One barrow-man, who was
 
 88 THE PARISH. 
 
 too busy shouting to heed where he went, threw 
 down the bench before the tinman's door, and 
 brought down its ghttering and clattering load. 
 Another upset his vehicle among a little con- 
 gregation of fowls, whose terrors proved that 
 they did not like a gravel-heap so well as a 
 dung-hill. The mishap proved no misfortune to 
 the conductor, who immediately took his seat in 
 his own barrow, and became the wheeled instead 
 of the wheeler. As he was not a very heavy 
 load, he arrived the first at the place of exhibition, 
 a small open spot, where two or three by-lanes 
 met the principal street, and where any obstruc- 
 tion must cause particular inconvenience. Here 
 the seventeen barrows were emptied, their con- 
 tents blocking up the way in every direction for 
 all but foot passengers. On the top was seated 
 Wilde as on a throne. 
 
 They had not to amuse one another and their 
 followers very long before the squire rode up, 
 having wondered all the way from the workhouse- 
 gate what so much noise could mean. 
 
 " Hey day ! What's the matter here ?" he 
 cried, when he found no easy passage for his 
 horse. " Who ordered all this gravel to be 
 thrown here ?" 
 
 " The overseer, your worship," replied Wilde, 
 demurely touching his hat. The squire looked 
 up at the neighbouring buildings, and round him 
 upon the ground, as if endeavouring to spy out 
 some new undertaking which might require the 
 materials before him. A loud laugh burst from 
 the crowd, and a voice exclaimed, —
 
 A FROLIC. 89 
 
 " Where are your spectacles, squire ? You 
 can't see our new road without them." 
 
 As it was no part of their pohcy to put the 
 squire into a passion with any body but the over- 
 seer, the merriment ceased before he had time to 
 think himself insulted, and Wilde informed him 
 of the particulars of the case in a manner which 
 conveyed the entire confidence of the paupers in 
 his assistance and approbation. 
 
 " Where is the overseer ?" was the first solemn 
 question of Mr. Manning, when he had heard 
 the complainant's version of the story. 
 
 Donkin did not appear, though his name was 
 echoed for half-a-mile in each direction from the 
 jDlace of action. Some were, of course, ready to 
 say that he dared not show himself, while others, 
 who knew him better, suspected that he had been 
 called away on some fool's errand, to allow the 
 paupers to enact their scene without molestation. 
 Mr. Manning presently proceeded : 
 
 " Upon my soul, this is tyranny, dreadful 
 tyranny. I am cs much for upholding the laws 
 as any man, and for making people work for 
 what they eat, as long as their work does any 
 body any good ; but I could not strain the thing 
 to such a point as this for the life of me : I could 
 not, upon my soul ! But, my good fellows, 
 Where's the use of bringing all this stuff here ? 
 How will that mend the matter ?" 
 
 Only by showing all whom it might concern, 
 Wilde answered, that the people were determined 
 to have what the law allowed them, and to have 
 it in their own way. 
 
 i3
 
 90 THE PARISH. 
 
 " Hush ! my good man: no more of that. 
 That is too much in Jay's style of talk for me. 
 Let us hear no more about rights, pray. I am 
 sick of hearing of them." 
 
 " You will be more sick still before you have 
 done hearing of them ; and there is not a medi- 
 cine in all my shop that will cure you," cried 
 Jay, who now appeared on horseback on the 
 outskirts of the crowd. " Your only cure will 
 be in giving the people their rights. When they 
 have them to their hearts' content, they will cease 
 to talk about them." 
 
 " Was there ever one of that set of talkers 
 that had a contented heart, I should like to 
 know," said the squire. 
 
 " There never was one yet, sir, that had his 
 rights; if I may use a word, 
 
 ' Far from agreeable to ears polite,' 
 
 as the poet says." 
 
 And here Mr. Jay prepared himself to be 
 eloquent, rising in his stirrups, and taking his 
 whip in the left hand that the right might be 
 free for action. There was nothing to fear from 
 his horse, which was too much accustomed to 
 its master's eloquence to be much moved by it, 
 except upon very extraordinary occasions. At 
 present, the squire was much more disposed to 
 bolt than the steed. He would fain have changed 
 parts, and stood passive, deputing it to the ani- 
 mal to open its mouth in the argument, of the 
 substance of which he was not quite clear. 
 
 " You do not deny, sir, I presume, that man
 
 A FROLIC. 91 
 
 possesses the earth. From this it follows that 
 all men possess by natural right all the land and 
 all the fruits of it, through the whole extended 
 universe." 
 
 " You are very welcome to seek your share in 
 the moon," I am sure, Mr. Jay." 
 
 " Pshaw ! sir. — It follows, I say, that the land 
 must maintain all that are born " 
 
 " Bless me ! must nobody eat tish, Mr. Jay?" 
 
 With a look of ineffable contempt, the apo- 
 thecary went on, — 
 
 " Every man claims only his natural right 
 when he claims to be supported by the land of 
 his native clime. Every attempt to deny this is 
 to rob man of his birthright, — to corrupt the 
 springs of society. Those who call themselves 
 lords of the soil, mistake their title, and are 
 only tenants.' 
 
 " Well, we all know Goldby is only a tenant ; 
 but what has that to do with the overseer ?" 
 
 " It has as much to do with him as light has 
 to do with noon-day, or darkness with midnight, 
 or — or " 
 
 " Or stack-fires with apothecary's turpentine," 
 cried a voice near. " You are a fine fellow to 
 talk of rights of property." 
 
 " I repel every charge whatsoever with scorn," 
 cried the orator, " and postpone imputation to 
 ratiocination. If every man has thus a right to 
 the soil, what follows ? — What follows ? I say;" 
 (the horse disturbing the order of its master's 
 ideas by its restlessness under a most irregular 
 twtch of the bridle) — " What follov^'s ? I ask
 
 92 THE PARISH. 
 
 again. That these oppressed and magnanimous 
 fellow-beings around us have an equal right with 
 Goldby himself to the soil he holds." 
 
 "' To the soil' is just what you said before," 
 observed Mr. Manning ; " but the produce is a 
 very different matter. You do not mean to say 
 that idle people ought to eat up the corn that 
 was sown, and grown, and reaped by labour and 
 tools that Goldby paid for. It seems to me that 
 this is rather hard." 
 
 " The question is not what seems hard to you, 
 sir, but what is hard to people that know more of 
 hardship than you do. Is it not hard to see the 
 rich pursue their sports and their feastings, — 
 hunting, sir, and eating the game they have 
 killed ; while the labourer may not put a gun to 
 his shoulder to shoot anything better than a crow 
 or a sparrow ? Is it not hard " 
 
 " What would you have done some few hundred 
 years ago ?" asked the squire, scornfully, " when 
 men lost a right hand or had their eyes put out 
 for meddling with rich men's game ?" 
 
 " He would have looked out his plaster and 
 salve," cried a voice. 
 
 " What should I have done ?" cried the heroic 
 apothecary; " I would have gone forth like a 
 comet among the host of stars 
 
 " Setting stacks alight with your fiery tail,'* 
 exclaimed the same unfriendly voice. 
 
 *' I would have scoured the country, raising 
 the people wherever I went, and addressing them 
 thus, — ' My friends, goaded by oppression, I 
 throw myself among you * "
 
 A FROLIC. 93 
 
 The action was here suited to the word in a 
 way that the orator did not anticipate. Speaking- 
 of goading', he drove his spurs into his horse's 
 sides so as to make the animal bolt, and throw 
 his rider fairly off upon the shoulders of the 
 nearest of his listeners. The laugh was now 
 against him, and the squire took advantage of 
 the turn affairs had taken to put an end to the 
 controversy. He told the pauper malcontents 
 that they had done quite enough against the 
 overseer for one day ; that office must be re- 
 spected, and that he would advise them to go 
 home quietly when they had had some beer, which 
 he would order for them immediately. And Mr. 
 Manning rode off towards the beer-shop to send 
 the promised refreshment. 
 
 The present appeared to WooUerton a good 
 c^portunity to ingratiate himself with the pau- 
 pers, to the prejudice of his new rival, Ashly. 
 Rashers of bacon and slices of bread and cheese 
 were brought to accompany the beer, in which 
 the vestry-clerk got himself toasted as the poor 
 man's friend. He had it intimated to every rate 
 receiver, how much of his allowance he owed to 
 the clerk's support of his claim in the vestry, and 
 how it was therefore the duty of his proteges 
 to spend in his shop the money he had conveyed 
 into their pockets. Many sneers were spent on 
 the shabbiness of insisting upon ready money, 
 and on the humble pretensions of the little shop 
 at Thorpe Corner, where it was thought that 
 robins and sparrows, and now and then a stray 
 pig, were likely to be the only customers. The
 
 94 THE PARISH. 
 
 paupers joined in the sneers, communicating to 
 the clerk at the same time their expectations 
 that he would obtain from the vestry this favour 
 for one, and that for a second, and another im- 
 possible thing for a third ; all which were in 
 course of being confidently promised, when the 
 overseer came up and stopped the process of 
 negotiation. 
 
 Donkin was not torn to pieces, nor even drag- 
 ged through the horse- pond. The men were in 
 too good a humour from the squire's countenance 
 and benefaction, for any serious mischief The 
 overseer was allowed to find his way after the 
 magistrate, which was more than might have 
 been permitted if they had foreseen the conse- 
 quence. In half an hour Mr. Manning returned, 
 in company with Donkin, in a very different 
 mood from that in which he had departed. When 
 it was pointed out to him, he began to see that 
 the keeping pauper labourers employed is a much 
 more important point than the profit which may 
 be derived from their work ; and that when profit 
 is out of the question, the employment should 
 be continued both for the sake of keeping them 
 out of mischief, and (much more) because where 
 the principle and practice of giving parish sup- 
 port to idlers is once allowed, there is every 
 prospect of the substance of all who are not 
 paupers being consumed unproductively, to the 
 destruction of the whole society where such con- 
 sumption is permitted. When it was pointed 
 out, the squire saw that if labourers had the 
 same allowance from the parish for doing no-
 
 A FROLIC. 95 
 
 thing as the farmers c:ave in wages for twelve 
 hours per day of hard labour, every labourer 
 would be tempted to become a pauper. When 
 it was pointed out, he perceived that the more 
 disagreeable parish work was made, the less 
 temptation there was to become a pauper ; and 
 he was ready to own that no work is so disagree- 
 able as that which is known at the time to be 
 useless. This was the principle on which the 
 overseer had proceeded in his order about the 
 gravel, and to this principle the squire was at 
 present a convert. At present, — for there was 
 no security that he might not admit the first 
 complaint which should be brought to him in his 
 justice-room, of the hardship of wheeling gravel 
 for ein-ht shillinos a week of farmer Goldbv's 
 money. The present, however, was the overseer's 
 most pressing concern ; and he trusted that if he 
 could obtain an immediate victory over the re- 
 fi'actory labourers, any future measures of im- 
 provement would be more easy of accomplish- 
 ment. He prevailed upon Mr. Manning to sanc- 
 tion his orders that the gravel should be instantly 
 removed to the place where it ought to have been 
 carried, and that every man of the eighteen 
 should work two hours longer than usual that 
 day, on pain of being deprived of parish allow- 
 ance and committed to prison, The constable 
 appeared ; WooUerton disappeared ; the apothe- 
 cary had slunk away long before ; the overseer 
 was grave and firm ; the squire evidently on a 
 perfectly good understanding with him, and se- 
 rious in his orders that the remainder of the beer
 
 96 THE PARISH. 
 
 should be carried away. Wilde was therefore, at 
 the end of an hour, left nearly alone in his desire 
 to brave the parish and take the chance of g-etting 
 the allowance out of the overseer by intimidation, 
 and was at length compelled to quit his throne 
 by its being dug away under him. What it re- 
 mained possible for him, as an individual, to do, 
 he did. He repaired to the beer-shop instead of 
 the gravel-pits, and there organized a plan for 
 getting something to live upon without the aid 
 of the parish, and gratifying his revenge at the 
 same time. A band of enterprising malcontents 
 swore to take a midnight walk together through 
 the squire's plantations; and then separated to 
 clean their guns and look out their sacks, during 
 the interval between the present time and the 
 hour of meeting at the widow Brand's back door. 
 
 Chapter VII* 
 MORE FROLIC. 
 
 It was a dark windy night when the poachers 
 bcffan to assemble on the heath. The moon had 
 gone down, no stars were visible, and the flar- 
 ino candle with which Mrs. Brand came to the 
 door from time to time, cast the only light that 
 was visible for miles round after the last twinkle 
 from the village had disappeared. It was bit- 
 terly cold ; that sort of chill being in the air which
 
 MORE FROLIC. 97 
 
 usually precedes snow ; and this and the dark- 
 ness together, made the more punctual of the 
 party not very patient in waiting for such of their 
 companions as had not arrived. They were soon 
 tired of blowing upon their fingers and keeping 
 their dogs quiet, and even of drinking the warm 
 beer that was handed out to them by the widow. 
 Remindino- one another how far thev had to walk 
 to the scene of action, and how necessary it was 
 to secure a good booty for so large a party to 
 divide, they set forth without three of their 
 expected companions. They left directions how- 
 ever about overtaking or meeting the party, which 
 the widow was earnestly charged to deliver accu- 
 rately, as the adventurers were by no means 
 satisfied that they were strong enough to resist 
 such a force as the squire might bring upon them, 
 if by any chance he should be warned of the 
 peril of his game. 
 
 The usual topics were discussed in no very low 
 tones of voice while the party was breasting the 
 wind and passing over the heath, where none but 
 themselves could be supposed to be walking at 
 this time of night. Thev were fflad it was so 
 dark that they need not hide the barrels of their 
 pieces : they thought it would be a pretty scrape 
 if snow should come thick before they left the 
 woods, so as to show how they took their way 
 home : they planned to whom they should offer 
 such game as might be bagged, and compared 
 notes as to whose wife, sister, or friend was the 
 best hand at cooking a hare. This style of con- 
 versation lasted till they reached Thorpe Corner, 
 
 &
 
 98 THE PARISH. 
 
 when the signal was g'iven to be silent and take 
 care of the dogs while passing Goodman's and 
 Ashly's cottages. When most of the party had 
 strode on far enough to venture to begin talking 
 again, Wilde was missed. After waiting a minute, 
 one or two went back to look for him, and stum- 
 bled upon him leaning over the gate of Goldby's 
 stack-yard. 
 
 " What are you doing here ?" said they. 
 " Do you see any body about ?" 
 
 " See I no ; how should one see any body 
 to-night that does not carry a light ? One can 
 hardly make out the top of the stacks against the 
 sky. I was only thinking that if Goldby had 
 foreseen the fires, he would hardly have built his 
 stacks so near the road. Any child that had a 
 grudge against him might fire them, just passing 
 along the lane, while the watch (if there was 
 one) was on the other side the stack." 
 
 " Well, come along now ; for the snow is very 
 near, and the night wears on." 
 
 The poachers found on entering the preserves, 
 that the night was too dark to be very favourable 
 to their purposes of plunder, however well it 
 might at first serve them for concealment. One 
 of them missed his footing while in the near 
 neighbourhood of the gamekeeper's cottage, and 
 fell into a deep ditch, making a prodigious crash 
 and crackle of dry wood in getting out again. The 
 consequences of this false step were much to be 
 feared, unless the gamekeeper's family should 
 happen to be snoring in chorus. The adven- 
 turers cursed themselves and each other for not
 
 MORE FROLIC. 99 
 
 having brought a lantern, by whose light to 
 examine the snares which sly hands had pre- 
 viously set. Further on, the birds were seen on 
 the leafless trees against the faint sky, perched 
 like black balls on the branches ; but the shots 
 seldom told, and the lurchers were less expert 
 than usual in bringing in the game. Wilde 
 found his men growing cross one by one ; a pro- 
 cess which he had never experienced since he 
 was a child. His good humour was now very 
 serviceable in stimulating his companions to the 
 exertion necessary towards fulfilling the object 
 for which they came. 
 
 *' So you can't make a hit to-night, Tims. 
 Well, try again ; remembering who pays for the 
 powder and shot. To my mind, it is the best 
 part of the joke that the squire's money goes for 
 what is to bring down his own pheasants. Try 
 once more, man; the parish will fill your powder- 
 horn again next pay-day. — Tom, what's the use 
 of cramming your piece in that way ? do you 
 think you shall bring down more birds for put- 
 ting in more charge ? It may be all very well 
 to get into the workhouse ; but any part of it is 
 more to my mind than the infirmary, where you 
 will have to go if you make your piece burst in 
 your face. Remember you will have less of Jay's 
 company there than elsewhere, for all he is the 
 apothecary. — Now, before you fire, be quiet all 
 of you, and listen." 
 
 All listened for voices, footsteps, or the crack- 
 ling of boughs ; but all seemed still, till the sud- 
 den rise of a gust of wind gave the signal for
 
 100 THE PARISH. 
 
 Tom's well-loaded piece to be discharged. The 
 momentary glare brought out in strong relief the 
 naked branches overhead, the dark stems behind, 
 and the picturesque figures of the poachers as 
 they stood, — some leaning on their guns, one or 
 two with sacks slung across their slioulders, and 
 all looking eagerly upon one another during the 
 instantaneous revelation of the group. Wilde, 
 and one or two others, fancied that they saw the 
 forms of men among the trees in the back-ground, 
 and communicated the apprehension to each 
 other in whispers. They lost no time in shoot- 
 ing again, to satisfy themselves ; and were con- 
 vinced that they were watched by a party in their 
 rear. 
 
 " Give the word," shouted Wilde, " or I shoot. 
 I shall send a charge among you that you will 
 not like. The word 1" 
 
 " Tire the squire," answered a voice from be- 
 hind. " Jeer the overseer," instantly replied 
 Wilde. " All right, my good fellows, and I'm 
 glad you are come at last. But what the devil 
 kept you so long ? We might have taken battle 
 half a score times before you came up." 
 
 The loiterers had abundance of reasons to give 
 for their delay ; the last of which was the caution 
 necessary to be observed in passing the game- 
 keeper's cottage, wherein there was certainly some 
 movement, though no light was visible. They 
 strongly suspected that the alarm was given, and 
 advised an immediate return ; more especially 
 as the wind was now dropping, and snow was 
 beginning to fall. Wilde would not hear of go-
 
 MORE FROLIC. 101 
 
 mg back with so small a supply of game as they 
 had yet obtained ; just enough, as he observed, 
 to throw every man of them into prison, and not 
 enouirh to run such a risk for. As he was in 
 for it, he would get a sackfull for the market, and 
 trust to the snow continuing: so as to cover their 
 foot-marks before morning. In defiance of all 
 entreaties to give over — of all complaints about 
 his wilfully running his companions into danger, 
 and, finally, of all threats that he should be left 
 alone to disport himself in the woods — he went 
 hither and thither as if he heard no remonstrance, 
 popping off his piece at shorter intervals, and at 
 smaller distances from the ears of the squire's 
 dependants, His spirit of daring communicated 
 some sense of security to his party, and they fol- 
 lowed him from reach to reach of the plantations, 
 till they thought nearly as little as himself of the 
 gamekeeper and the snow. 
 
 If it had not been for the darkness, which con- 
 tinued as thick as ever, this daring might have 
 preserved them from attack, as a gamekeeper 
 with only one or two assistants would hardly 
 have ventured upon encountering, in the moon- 
 light, four times their number of desperate men, 
 armed, and on the watch for resistance. But 
 such a feat might be, and was achieved in the 
 mystery of darkness. Under a wall, in a spot 
 where they least expected it, the poachers found 
 themselves hailed and vio:orouslv attacked with 
 bludgeons, and threats of gunshot wounds. The 
 accident by which many more important and 
 less unrighteous battles have been lost, now hap- 
 
 K 3
 
 102 THE PARISH. 
 
 penecl. Comrades made war upon each other, 
 and consequently could find no end to the num- 
 ber of their enemies ; so that, when many hurts 
 and bruises had been received, and there seemed 
 a great chance of as many more, the adventurers 
 thought it as well to make their escape, giving 
 up the hope, for this bout, of eking out their 
 parish-wages with the produce of the squire's 
 preserves. They made a scattered retreat, leav- 
 ing Wilde in the hands of the gamekeeper and 
 his companion, who had (juietly withdrawn with 
 their prisoner from the commotion as soon as 
 they had fairly set the poachers upon beating 
 one another with heart and good will. 
 
 The being taken did not much affect Wilde ; 
 but his rage was unbounded when he was in- 
 sultingly told, after it was too late, to what an 
 insignificant force he had yielded. The going 
 to prison for poaching was, as he observed, a 
 very different thing to a dependant on the parish, 
 who had nothing to lose, from what it was to a 
 labourer who lived on his own resources, and 
 cared for the reputation of doing so ; but the 
 prospect of being laughed at for life for his igno- 
 minious surrender, was very exasperating to 
 Wilde, and made him doubly bitter in his ha- 
 rangues to his fellow-prisoners on the oppressions 
 of landed proprietors, and the hardships suffered 
 by their victims. 
 
 Those of his party who found their way home 
 "bore wondrous tidings of the battle to tiieir 
 wives and sisters, who bustled about to put the 
 plunder out of sight before any officer of the law
 
 MORE FROLIC. 103 
 
 should appear to make a search, and inquire into 
 all late processes of cooking-, and the mysteries of 
 the cupboards: — cupboards better stored than 
 anv in the dwellins^s of Goodman and Ashlv had 
 been for the whole time that they had been inde- 
 pendent farm-labourers. 
 
 There was sorrow in many faces when morn- 
 ing dawned, and the news travelled fast that 
 Wilde had been taken in the act of poaching. 
 There were no near relations to mourn the 
 event ; but every body in the village knew Wilde ; 
 most people admired what they called his spirit, 
 and liked his good nature ; and all who were 
 engaged in the struggle with the parish autho- 
 rities looked up to him f(*r guidance in their 
 enterprises, and for courage in their attacks on 
 the parish purse. There was, therefore, much 
 sympathy in his misfortune ; but the regret of 
 all united could not equal the consternation of 
 the widow Brand. She was like a person pos- 
 sessed for the first hour after the tidings reached 
 her; and all who saw her were convinced that 
 the scandal which had of late been talked about 
 her was not without foundation. 
 
 Before she had nearly recovered from her 
 crying fit, she was surprised by a visitor whom 
 she little expected, and was convinced anew of 
 the truth of the old maxim, that " troubles never 
 come alone." The parish constable arrived to 
 tell her, that an information of some kind had 
 been laid against her, and that she must appear 
 before the squire in his justice-room the same 
 ^ay at noon. He had provided for her convey-
 
 104 THE PARISH. 
 
 ance, and advised her to carry all the money she 
 had to spare, that, in case of a fine being im- 
 posed, she might, by paying at once, avoid the 
 further discipline of a prison. 
 
 While the widow went to her room to equip 
 herself for her very disagreeable ride, she busied 
 herself in conjectures whether she was to be 
 called upon to swear her unborn child to some 
 one, in consequence of information spitefully 
 communicated to the magistrates ; or to answer 
 for the assembling of the poachers at her door 
 the preceding night ; or to reply to the general 
 charge of keeping a disorderly house. It might 
 be any or all of these ; and she was likely to 
 haA'^e sufficient occupation during her ride in 
 determining what to say in each case. 
 
 She drew the hood of her cloak round her 
 face as the open cart in which she was seated 
 passed through the village, and by the little shop 
 at Thorpe Corner, where a few people were 
 buying snuff or cheese ; and though the wind 
 and snow made the way very dreary, she thought 
 the vehicle reached the squire's avenue all too 
 soon. The first going to the overseer to ask 
 relief had seemed to her a very dreadful thing, 
 before she grew as wise as her neighbours on 
 the subject; but it was nothing in comparison 
 with the first appearance on a summons before a 
 magistrate. 
 
 The news with which she was greeted some- 
 what relieved her. The magistrates, with the 
 rector beside them, were busy swearing in special 
 constables, and she must wait. There were a
 
 MORE FROLIC. 105 
 
 g-Qod many to be sworn in, in consequence of 
 the hourly increasing alarm about fires, which 
 occurred at less and less distances in various 
 directions round the parish. Till the business of 
 swearing in was finished, she was to sit down in 
 the hall with the other people who were waiting 
 to demand or suffer justice. 
 
 Among these people she found her sister 
 Jemima, James Beaver, the apothecary's ap- 
 prentice, farmer Goldby, several of his regular 
 labourers, and a corps of paupers. The over- 
 seer stood apart, looking out of a window, with 
 his hands in his pockets ; and nobody could tell 
 in what capacity he attended, whether as in- 
 forming, or informed against. The widow was 
 in no spirits to join in the talk that was going 
 on around her about the poachers and the special 
 constables ; about shots overheard in the planta- 
 tions, and fires visible from afar. She preferred 
 trying to keep in her tears, after a somewhat 
 childish fashion, by counting the spires on the 
 antlers of the stag which was suspended over the 
 wide mantel-piece, and the tags on the shoulder- 
 knot of the footman, who lingered about in the 
 hope of gathering news for the servants' hall. 
 Mrs. Brand could not, however, with all her 
 countino-, have told the number of either ta^s or 
 spires, if that had been Mr. Manning's first 
 question on her entering" his magisterial presence.
 
 106 THE PARISH. 
 
 Chapter VIII. 
 THE SPOILER INVITED. 
 
 It was a busier day with the squire than often 
 occurred to even so busy a person as himself. 
 He had fixed this morning- for the hearing of 
 several appeals, before he could have any idea 
 of the additional business which was created by 
 the adventure of the preceding night. The visit 
 of the clergyman took him somewhat by sur- 
 prise, and was not altogether agreeable to him, 
 as he had laid some little plans for the dispatch 
 of affairs, with which Dr. VVarrener's presence 
 might possibly interfere. The squire was sadly 
 annoyed by the provision made by law for en- 
 suring the co-operation of two justices of the 
 peace in some exertions of their authority. This 
 appeared to Manning a waste of time, and an 
 irksome restraint. To lessen the grievance as 
 much as possible, he was discreet in his choice 
 of a coadjutor, preferring to send his carriage 
 some miles for old Mr. Weakley, to calling in a 
 brother magistrate from the neighbourhood, who 
 might be less tractable, and encourage an oppo- 
 sition in certain parties, who would be dis- 
 agreeable to a man of the squire's temper. There 
 was no fear of any thing of the kind from 
 Mr. Weakley, who was too old to relish needless 
 disturbance, and too infirm in mind to be able to
 
 THE SPOILER INVITED. XOT 
 
 achieve any thing better than acquiescence. He 
 had no objection to being thus called in on 
 occasion. He enjoyed the importance with 
 which his office invested him, since it could be 
 purchased by a ride in an easy carriage, and a 
 seat in a luxurious chair in the justice-room, 
 while he had all the entertainment of what was 
 going forward, and was saved the trouble of 
 judging and deciding ; all which part of the duty 
 was taken upon himself by the squire. 
 
 The present was one of the occasions when a 
 morning's amusement was thus provided for the 
 old gentleman. It was a sad pity that the 
 clergyman happened to come in, as he was very 
 apt to find something to object to in the pro- 
 ceedings, and was likely to investigate very 
 closely the share of free will exercised by Mr. 
 Weakley. This probability struck Mr. Manning 
 the moment that he saw the rector's look of 
 astonishment on perceiving who it was that 
 occupied the stuffed chair at the warmest corner 
 of the table. 
 
 " Ah ! Dr. Warrener ! My dear sir, how do 
 you do ? I am always glad to see you ; but 
 you have not happened to choose the best day — 
 the day when I can be most at your service. We 
 are very busy swearing in special constables, as 
 it is thought to be high time now for us to be on 
 our guard against what is happening in other 
 places. A dreadful fire last night ! — seen as far 
 as Bickstead! But we do not say much about 
 it to our old friend here, who cannot stand 
 alarms any better than you and I may at his fige.".
 
 108 THE PARISH. 
 
 " Why alarm him, then? — Why dra^ him 
 away from his fire-side, where he need know only 
 what his family choose to tell him ?" 
 
 " O, it amuses him to see what is going on. 
 Mr. Weakley, here is Dr. Warrener. — You re- 
 member Dr. Warrener, sir? Our worthy rector, 
 you know, who has been recruiting his health 
 abroad. I am sure we are equally glad to see 
 him home again." 
 
 Mr. Weakley bowed with all propriety, but 
 without giving any intimation of the fact that he 
 had seen Dr. Warrener almost every day of the 
 two months which had elapsed. since his return 
 to his abode, in the immediate vicinity of JNIr. 
 Weakley's. 
 
 " Do not let me interrupt you," said Dr. War- 
 rener ; " you know what errand I came upon, and 
 will not suppose that it is to see you otherwise 
 than in the way of business.'* 
 
 The squire looked puzzled, for he liad not 
 been informed that the clergyman might be ex- 
 pected. It appeared on inquiry, that the clerk 
 had saved his master the trouble of summoning 
 the widow Brand, by taking the act upon him- 
 self. 
 
 " Do you allow your clerk to summon per- 
 sons in your name, and without your authority?" 
 asked Dr. Warrener. 
 
 " Not without my authority ; by no means. 
 I give him a sort of general authority — a very 
 sufficient authority, I assure you,'' said Manning, 
 glancing uneasily towards some papers on the 
 table, on which he saw that the clergyman's eye
 
 THE SPOILER INVITED. 109 
 
 was fixed. He presently sv/ept them up, and 
 tossed them towards the clerk, continuing, — 
 
 " Merely summonses that I have been sio'ning" 
 while the pen was in my hand, just to get a 
 good deal of business done at a stroke." 
 
 " Does it take so much time to sign while you 
 are filling up ?"' asked the rector, laughing. " I 
 think I shall take the hint from you, and write 
 the dates at the bottom of all the sermons to be 
 written within the next year, lest I should not 
 hswe time to do it each Saturday night." 
 
 " Your clerk cannot fill up blank spaces with 
 theology so easily as mine can with neighbours' 
 names," replied the squire ; " and, so far, I am 
 better off for a clerk than you." 
 
 When Dr. Warrener found that it was actually 
 the squire's practice to sign blank summonses, 
 and leave it to the clerk's discretion to fill them 
 up, he remonstrated earnestly against such an 
 abuse of the powers of a justice ; which, however, 
 Manning justified. 
 
 " Why, my dear sir, only consider how busi- 
 ness must come to a stand, if none of it is to be 
 done by any body but myself. So often as I am 
 out hunting for the whole day, or riding in the 
 mornings, or absent on half a hundred errands 
 besides, it is very necessary indeed to turn over 
 some of my work to the officer who is hired to 
 do it." 
 
 " And if the overseer is summoned, rightfully 
 or wrongfully, six times a week, must he bear 
 the expense of the six journeys hither?'' 
 
 L
 
 110 THE PARISH. 
 
 " We do not siimmon overseers wrongfully,'* 
 replied the clerk, tartly ; " so we cannot answer 
 your question, reverend sir." 
 
 Dr. Warrener thought it'was answered suffi- 
 ciently, if it was the fact that the overseer had 
 always judgment given against him, the sum- 
 monses being issued at the discretion of the clerk. 
 " And this is another device for saving time, 
 I suppose," he continiied, taking up a printed 
 paper, which was lying before Manning on the 
 table. " You will not want this while you are 
 swearing in special constables ; so I will amuse 
 myself with it till other busiiiess comes on.'' 
 
 *' This paper was not printed by my order," 
 replied the squire ; " but I find it a prodigious 
 convenience, and so Morgan told me I should, 
 when he sent it me in the name of all the ma- 
 gistrates round. You see here the amount of 
 relief we are to giv^e, calculated and made into a 
 regular table, according to the number of chil- 
 dren, the amount of wages, and the price of 
 bread. You see nothino; can be easier than to 
 refer to this, and relieve accordingly. It is the 
 exactest thing in the world. A child of ten 
 years old might do the business of the vestry by 
 its help." 
 
 " O yes, very easily, in the way you would 
 have it done. A man is to have so much, if he 
 has so many children, so much wages, and if 
 bread is at such a price. It does not matter 
 whether or not he has a hundred pounds a-year 
 from any other source."
 
 THE SEOItEIi INVITED. Ill 
 
 •' My dear doctor, how you talk ! Where 
 should our paupers get a hundred pounds a- 
 year ?" 
 
 " Or," continued the clergyman, " whether 
 they have half their wants supplied by your 
 worship's Christmas bounties.' 
 
 ** Poor souls ! It is little enough that my 
 small bounty can do for them ; it is far from 
 curing all the cold and hunger within our parish 
 for a single w^eek." 
 
 " If you could prove to me that it cured cold 
 and hunger in any degree without causing more 
 than it cures, I would let you alone, my dear 
 sir, to do your charities as your own kind heart 
 moves you. But while our parish continues in 
 its present miserable state, I shall keep up the 
 controversy with you ; and, as for this printed 
 allowance scale, I warn you that the system of 
 which it is the exponent forms no part of the 
 la^, and that where it is adhered to, payers and 
 receivers are alike in the high road to ruin." 
 
 " The fellows always claim it as law, and 
 seem to know before-hand how much they are 
 to have." 
 
 " Let them club again, as they did once 
 before, to buy a law-book : let them by any 
 means get a sight of the laws relating to the re- 
 lief of the poor, and they will find nothing there 
 about an allowance scale, or about the rehef of 
 able-bodied labourers, out of the workhouse. 
 Do not you see that if our farmers grow poorer, 
 and our tradesmen the same, from the fallimr off 
 of custom, and if our labourers go on to have
 
 112 THE PARISH. 
 
 more children, while wages are dropping, the 
 rate-payers must soon become rate-receivers ?" 
 
 " We must alter the scale as times grow 
 worse, I suppose,'' observed the squire. " I 
 agree with you, that, in our parish at least, 
 matters cannot go on long as they are. The 
 collector has more and more trouble in getting 
 in the rate. He now ctiarges six-pence in the 
 pound for collecting, on this account ; whereas 
 he used to have but four-pence. Something must 
 be done to make people pay." 
 
 The clergyman had long seen and now saw 
 more plainly, from all that passed before his eyes 
 in this room, that it would be surprising if rate- 
 payers were willing to give their substance, when 
 it seemed to answer little other purpose than to 
 increase poverty and to generate vice. 
 
 The overseer's time being the most valuable, 
 he was called in first, to answer a complaint of 
 Goldby's, about relieving persons who were not 
 proper objects. The farmer and Donkin en- 
 tered the room together, and seemed to be on 
 excellent terms. 
 
 " You know," said Goldby to him, " that I 
 have no spite against you, and you may be sure 
 that I would not have brought the matter before 
 their worships if I had not known that you 
 would be here on another complaint. But, as 
 you are here, I really should be glad to know 
 whether you think the man you gave half-a- 
 crown to on Wednesday wanted any such relief." 
 
 " Indeed I do not believe he did. I never 
 thought that he did."
 
 THE SPOILER INVITED. 113 
 
 " Why the devil then did you give it him?" 
 demanded the squire. 
 
 " Because he vowed he would appeal to your 
 worship ; and it is expensive work travelling-, — 
 five miles here and five miles back, and having 
 to give the relief after all.'' 
 
 " But you would not have had to give relief 
 after all, if the man did not want it." 
 
 Donkin made no reply, and the squire under- 
 stood the meaning of his silence. He went on — 
 
 " You think me a cursed soft-hearted fellow, 
 I know, and " 
 
 " Not to me, I am sure," said Donkin, 
 laughing. 
 
 " Nor to rne," said Goldby; " nor to my la- 
 bourer, Goodman. You are obliging me to 
 turn off that man, or to grind him down in 
 wages till he cannot help himself, and must come 
 upon the parish as others do." 
 
 " Nor to Ashly," added the overseer. " He 
 knows what your worship said about his being a 
 substantial man, and therefore the proper person 
 to be left without the work which was given to 
 paupers." 
 
 " Why, hang it !" said the squire, " you w^ould 
 make out that 1 am hard-hearted to all the good 
 people, and kind to all the bad." 
 
 A smile went round at this exact and imrenu- 
 ous interpretation of the thoughts of each. He 
 went on — 
 
 " You will soon see, however, that I am going 
 to be very strict, — very strict indeed ; and I shall 
 show no favour to any body. Mr. Weakley 
 
 L 3
 
 114 THE PARISH. 
 
 knows how careful we are to sift every case ; 
 are we not, Mr, Weakley ?" 
 
 Mr. Weakley flourished his hands, and bowed 
 assent. 
 
 " And we always frown on frivolous com- 
 plaints, and all attempts at imposition ; do not 
 we, Mr. Weakley?" 
 
 Mr. Weakley frowned mightily, and flourished 
 assent again. — Donkin took leave to think, that 
 if they frowned on one side of the face, they 
 winked on the other. He begged to know 
 what he was henceforth to do when applied to 
 for relief by vagrants, or by persons asking 
 merely temporary assistance, who certainly did 
 not want it, and would inevitably appeal, relying 
 on the squire's support. He had a hard task, 
 he declared, between the rate-payers who justly 
 complained of the enormous increase of the rate, 
 the paupers who abused him in the village and 
 triumphed over him in the justice-room, and 
 the squire, who, if he might venture to say so, 
 was sadly apt to think he must be in the wrong 
 in any difference with the people. 
 
 " What must you do ?" interposed Dr. War- 
 rener. " You must, if you wish the people of 
 your parish to keep their integrity and their 
 domestic satisfactions, to have food and clothing, 
 and any prospect of maintenance for their chil- 
 dren, — you must, if you have any heart for the 
 welfare of your neighbours, keep the earnings of 
 the honest out of the hands of knaves, and teach 
 those who have been brought up to look to the 
 law for the relief of every want, that the law
 
 THE SPOILER INVITED, 115 
 
 was made for no such purpose, and shall not be 
 perverted from its true objects by you. Let 
 able-bodied paupers appeal against you till they 
 are tired, and have tired out Mr. Manning too. 
 Go on resisting all claims of persons that can 
 find subsistence elsewhere than out of Mr. 
 Goldby's pocket." 
 
 *' But, sir, think of the waste of time and 
 money ; remember I have five miles to come, 
 and fees to pay, and that I lose the best part of 
 a day." 
 
 " It will soon turn out a saving, depend upon 
 it. A proper consideration of the state of the 
 case will be forced upon those who can regulate 
 it ; and in the second year, you will be troubled 
 with no more appeals, your expenditure will be 
 lessened, and every body about you, from the 
 squire and the farmer down to the poorest of 
 the honest labourers of the parish, will be thank- 
 ing you for your services. What is better, and 
 yet more to the purpose of my vocation, the care- 
 less and idle of your paupers will be turning into 
 honest labourers, and the incorrigible will have 
 taken themselves off, out of our way.'* 
 
 Donkin bowed low, and was now in good 
 heart to hear the other charge on which he was 
 summoned. Three men were called in, who 
 had all the same complaint to make. 
 
 '* Please your worship, the overseer won't 
 give us what we have a right to." 
 
 " And what is that?" 
 
 " We have work for only three days in the
 
 116 THE PARISH. 
 
 week ; and he won't allow us a farthing for the 
 other three." 
 
 " Is this true, Donkin ?'' 
 
 " As far as it goes, sir ; but it is not the 
 whole of the story. Will you please to ask what 
 they are paid for their three days' work ?" 
 
 " We have only got a job at Bingham's for a 
 little while, and we work there only every other 
 day; and we have all families. It is a hard 
 thing for men with families to Hve when they get 
 work for only half their time." 
 
 " Why, so it is ; and it seems to me, Donkin, 
 that it comes to much the same thing whether 
 we make up low wages for full work, or half, 
 where there is only half work." 
 
 " Please your worship, you have not heard 
 yet what these men earn ; and perhaps you will 
 inquire at the same time what the families are 
 that they complain of." 
 
 Two out of three of the families were found to 
 consist partly of grown up sons and daughters, 
 who were or ought to be capable of supporting 
 themselves. The earnings of their fathers were 
 five shillings per day for three days in the week. 
 
 This was more, Mr. Manning observed, than 
 many had with their wages and parish relief 
 together. The appellants, however, blessed his 
 soul, enumerated their necessary expenses, and 
 wondered how he would contrive to live on such 
 a pittance, till he began to think that fifteen 
 shillings per week was indeed a pitiful sum, and 
 that willing men who were without work three
 
 THE SPOILER INVITED. 117 
 
 days in the week ought to be considered by the 
 parish. The men insisted on it as a right, urg- 
 ing more vehemently as they saw his worship 
 more disposed to hsten, that it was very hard if 
 they could not get allowance for their idle three 
 days, when many that they knew who had con- 
 stant work were relieved the whole year round. 
 This argument seemed to the squire quite un- 
 answerable. He asked Mr. Weakley's assent, 
 and of course obtained it ; and ordered Donkin 
 to allow all the three men a shilling a-day for 
 their unemployed days. 
 
 Dr. Warrener took no notice while this was go- 
 ing on, as he did not think himself authorized to 
 interfere in the magistrates' decisions ; but he 
 cast a glance of encouragement towards Donkin, 
 and followed the triumphant appellants to have 
 some conversation with them, as to how they 
 disposed of their earnings, and how it was that 
 they did not feel it a degradation to augment 
 their means by having needless recourse to legal 
 charity. 
 
 When he returned to his seat, he found Don- 
 kin receiving directions to negotiate for the pur- 
 chase of Sewell's cottage, as it was pretty clear 
 to the squire's mind that it would be a saving to 
 the parish to be possessed of this cottage. If the 
 authorities did not buy it, it would fall into the 
 hands of somebody who would let it in reliance 
 on the parish paying the rent. Mr. Manning 
 would speak to Woollerton about it, and he had 
 no hesitation in promising on the part of the
 
 118 THE PARISH. 
 
 vestry, that the parish would agree to any rea- 
 sonable terms of purchase. 
 
 Donkin thought it a pity to bring both Sewell 
 and his house on the rate, when each might be 
 made to keep the other clear of it. Sewell had 
 sold his first cow and spent the money ; he had 
 sold his other two cows and spent the money. 
 He had sold his bit of garden and spent the 
 money ; and if he were now to sell his house, he 
 would spend the money and inhabit it, or some 
 other at the expense of the parish, after all. 
 Would it not be better to let him keep it on his 
 hands as long as he could ? — to oblige him to 
 the last moment to have property ? There was 
 no fear of Blogg's buying it up. He had now 
 nothing to spare for such a purpose ; and no 
 other speculator had as yet appeared. — The 
 rector laughiniily asked him if he was quite sure 
 of his last point, explaining that he had been 
 buying a house in the village lately, and might 
 buy another, if he saw good reason for so doing. 
 
 This reminded Mr. Manning to have the widow 
 Brand called in, and the clergyman's business 
 with her dispatched. Never did a culprit enter 
 a justice-room in greater trepidation. 
 
 " Your business is not with me, good woman," 
 said the squire. " Your landlord wants you. 
 You had better ask him what he has to say." 
 
 Mrs. Brand looked from one to another, as if 
 quite uncertain which of the gentlemen was her 
 landlord. The rector spoke to her. 
 
 " Did not Blogg give you notice, as I desired,
 
 THE SPOILER INVITED. 119 
 
 that I had purchased the house you inhabit, and 
 cautioned you to be very careful in your conduct, 
 as I should be a strict landlord ?" 
 
 Mr. Blogg had said something- about parting 
 with the house ; but the rest of his notice had been 
 understood as a mere idle threat. Dr. Warrener 
 told her that he kne\y she had been frequently 
 warned that she was laying herself open to the 
 law, and that it was his intention now to have 
 her fined, in order to make her more careful in 
 future, and for the sake of the morals of the 
 people who frequented her house. 
 
 The widow bit her lips and twisted her fingers 
 to keep in her ready tears, while she answered 
 that this was being a strict landlord indeed, to 
 treat her in this way at the very beginning of the 
 connexion. 
 
 " I became your landlord for the very purpose 
 of having a hold over the tenant of that house, 
 Mrs. Brand. From its situation, and the appa- 
 rent success you have had in it, it will probably 
 remain a beer-shop, whether you continue to 
 inhabit it or not. Now, I have no objection to 
 beer-shops in themselves. I see a great deal of 
 good that may arise out of them, and no necessary 
 harm. But the harm that has been bred in gin- 
 shops may be carried into places where no spirits 
 are drunk ; and it is my duty to watch that this 
 harm is discouraged to the utmost. If, by seeing 
 that the law is kept, I can put an end to brawhng, 
 extravagance, plotting, poaching meetings, and 
 such things, I shall certainly see that the law is 
 enforced."
 
 120 THE PARISH. 
 
 He then explained to the weeping' widow, 
 whose composure had been completely upset by 
 the reference to poaching meetings, the points 
 wherein she had rendered herself liable to fine, 
 and even to ejectment, and declared that the fine 
 should be exacted, and the sentence of ejectment 
 suspended over her till the future conduct of her 
 establishment should appear. Mrs, Brand denied 
 nothing, and did not beg very hard to be let off, 
 knowing that she should be able soon to discharge 
 the moderate fine imposed. Her only urgent 
 petition was that the character of her house 
 should not be injured. 
 
 "Nay," replied Dr. Warrener, " the character 
 of your house is in your own keeping, not in ours : 
 and none can be more anxious than we are for 
 its respectability, — for its being what beer-shops 
 are intended to be. You know as well as we 
 whether it is so now." 
 
 " I'm sure, gentlemen, if you knew what it is 
 to have to do with such people as live in our 
 parish now, you would be sorry for me rather 
 than press hard upon me. Gentlemen, they are 
 so lost to all care, — so desperate, I may say, and 
 indifferent at the same time, that one has no hold 
 upon them at all. I'm sure I try all I can ; but 
 while they hate some of their neighbours, and 
 scorn others, and make game and matter for 
 speechifying and jesting of all that used to be 
 talked about gravely and quietly, it is more than 
 a lone woman can do to manage such people." 
 
 The squire wondered she was not ashamed 
 and afraid to libel her parish in that manner.
 
 THE SPOILER INVITED. 121 
 
 " She speaks of what she sees," observed the 
 clergyman ; " and probably your clerk would 
 bear out her report, if he judged from the speci- 
 mens that arc produced at this table ; and Goldby, 
 if he looked no further tlian his pauper labourers ; 
 and Donkin, if ha had no acquaintance beyond 
 those among whom his duty lies. My duty 
 leads me among a different class of the pari- 
 shioners ; and I can testify, that so far from the 
 old virtues being extinct, they live in as much 
 greater strength, as they are more severely tried 
 than formerly. It is not the patient and frugal 
 that come to Donkin's pay-table ; nor the indus- 
 trious that drink at noon-day at Mrs. Brand's ; 
 nor the charitable who show their faces amons" 
 paupers who laugh at charity as doing good to 
 none but the parish. The virtuous are obliged 
 to betake themselves to the dark corners of such 
 a parish as ours ; but those who visit these dark 
 corners see as much as society has ever yet seen 
 of meek forbearance of the wicked in their pros- 
 perity, of patience under unmerited neglect and 
 oppression. There was patience formerly ; and 
 many are ready to tell us of the industry of old 
 times ; but then patience was honoured, and 
 industry rewarded. What then is the worth of 
 the patience and industry which I daily see, 
 which are neglected by the rich and derided by 
 the poor ?" 
 
 " I am sure it is a wonder," observed Goldby, 
 '• that there is either the one or the other, since 
 we are doing our utmost to put an end to 
 both." 
 
 M
 
 122 THE PARISH, 
 
 " Nothing," replied Dr. Warrener, " astonishes 
 me so much as the patience of the honest poor. 
 They rise up hungry and go weary to bed (when 
 bed they have), while their less scrupulous neigh- 
 bours get what they want from the parish by 
 asking. The honest poor know that thfey are 
 working harder atid harder foi* wages which are 
 continually lessening, and must go on to do so, 
 in order that the increasing number of the impo- 
 verished may be supported ; and yet the honest 
 poor work on. They feel within their inmost 
 heart that it is they who deserve the sympathy 
 and the encouragement (they do not ask the 
 gifts) of the rich ; and yet they see this encou- 
 ragement given to the slothful and encl'oaching, 
 and do not become encroaching too. When they 
 find their spirit of independence despised, their 
 virtuous toils contemptuously pitied, and their 
 mutual charities ridiculed by their companions, 
 they nourish their high feelings in secret, instead 
 of exchanging them for prolitable dependance. 
 If there is heroic virtue to be found on earth, it 
 is in the dwellings of the independent poor. If 
 there is oppression upon earth, it is in sacrificing 
 them to their pauper neighbours. If there is 
 one work rather than another where the devil 
 would delight to lend a helping hand, it is in 
 transforming the one race into the other." 
 
 Dr. Warrener had been walking about the room 
 in a state of some excitement while declaring what 
 he found in the dark corners of liis parish. He 
 stopped, when Manning asked with eagerness 
 whether he thought the evil work he spoke of
 
 THE SPOILER j:>JVITED. 123 
 
 was advancing in their neighbourhood. Goldby 
 took upon himself to answer. 
 
 " To be sure it is : — flourishing in a way after 
 the devil's own heart. How should it be other- 
 wise, when we offer premiums upon idleness, 
 and tax the virtuous to support the profligate ? 
 What human virtue will stand against that ? 
 And if, among us, we turn but one a year of the 
 independent poor into a pauper, what sort of 
 consciences ought we to have, your worship ? 
 Whether we do thus tempt and overthrow so 
 few as one a year, I leave it to the overseer to 
 tell." 
 
 Judgipg by the enormous increase of the 
 rate, — no less than three hundred pounds within 
 the last year, — the overseer apprehended that 
 many must have taken relief who had hitherto 
 contrived to live without. The lawyer's bill 
 was, however, a very large one, and might 
 account for a part of the increase. It ought to 
 be borne in mind, Donkin said, that the poorer 
 a parish grew, and the more pressed for relief, 
 the greater was the anxiety to disprove settle- 
 ments, and the more numerous the appeals at 
 the Petty Sessions ; so that law expenses increase 
 in proportion as the rate is less able to bear 
 them, in the same manner as the cost rises with 
 the difficulty of collecting the rate. It did make 
 him indignant, Donkin said, to observe how the 
 money went, when he knew so much of the hard- 
 ships of those from whom it was wrung; to see 
 some part passing needlessly into a la^v^er's 
 pocket, and part lavished away, as soon as received,
 
 124 THE PARISH. 
 
 at the shops of jobbers, or, worse still, in drink. 
 He asked Mrs. Brand whether it was not the 
 fact that she drew more beer on a parish pay-day 
 than on any other ? 
 
 The widow could not deny it, but urged that 
 it was not her business, to ascertain from her cus- 
 tomers where they obtained their money. If it 
 passed in a few hours' time from the overseer's 
 money-bag to her till, it was for him to look to 
 it, and prevent it as he might. She had no wish 
 that money should be improperly spent within 
 her doors. 
 
 The squire had long been looking com- 
 passionately on her care-worn face, and now 
 asked her if she had not better have taken his 
 advice, and left it to some one else to open a 
 beer-shop. Donkin and Goldby stopped him 
 with remonstrances, and said he would end by 
 bringing the woman and her three children on 
 the rate again. 
 
 " No fear, gentlemen, if his reverence will be 
 merciful to me. 1 am in for it nov*^, and I scarcely 
 think any thing more will happen than has hap- 
 pened already. It is too late now to make my 
 son what his father was, and to get back the 
 character my house opened with, and to keep my 
 own " 
 
 She could not speak for sobs. 
 
 " Why too late ?" kindly inquired the clergy- 
 man. " Is it ever too late to amend?" 
 
 "Yes, sir; in a place like this. My boy is 
 cast out by the few sober people's children ; and 
 there are plenty of idle folks that are fond of
 
 THE SPOILER INVITED. 125 
 
 teaching him every thing that is bad : and when 
 he finds companions of his own age to play with, 
 it is always some of the little wretches out of 
 the workhouse. And as for the character of my 
 house, — if I opened it only to sober people, I. 
 should have no customers at all." 
 
 " True enough," said Goldby. " The Good- 
 mans and the Ashlys, and such people as they, 
 can no longer afford beer. Those only can 
 spend money in drink who do not earn it." 
 
 " So, gentlemen, you will please to remember," 
 continued Mrs. Brand, " that the blame lies at 
 the door of the parish, and not at mine, if my 
 house is not so orderly as it should be. If you 
 were to toil all day, and cry half the night, as I 
 often do, you could not make it better." 
 
 " Nevertheless," said the clergyman, " the 
 nuisance of a disorderly house cannot be allowed, 
 and I shall eject you, Mrs. Brand, on the very 
 next information of such doings as went on on 
 your premises last night. 3Iy preaching and 
 visiting in my parish will be all in vain if there 
 is any place of corruption open for the people to 
 frequent as they do your house." 
 
 " The corruption spreads from the workhouse, 
 and (if I may make bold to say so) from the 
 justice-room," said Mrs. Brand. 
 
 " Yes, but you give it house-room, as you do 
 to vagrants whom you did not make vagrants ; 
 and we should have less of both if you did not.'' 
 
 " Nay," interposed the squire, " we have only 
 one vagrant yet. Do you know, Mrs. Brand, 
 that fellow turns out to be Halliday, the father of 
 
 H 3
 
 126 THE PARISH. 
 
 the four children who were deserted, and left to 
 the workhouse a few vears a'j'o." 
 
 Mrs. Brand now looked ready to sink. 
 
 " My own brother !" she exclaimed. " My 
 own brother ! and I took two-pence from him for 
 a night's lodging on straw ! Mercy on us, what 
 are the times coming to ?" 
 
 " They can hardly be worse to him than they 
 have been," observed the clergyman. " A man 
 can hardly sink lower than to have four children 
 in the workhouse." 
 
 *' O, but, your reverence^ he was doing very 
 well indeed, from the time he left the parish till 
 I last heard from him. He sent presents to the 
 children many times in a year." 
 
 " Then why desert them ?" 
 
 " He could not have got on here any better 
 than his old friends and companions have done. 
 He thought it the best thing he could do for his 
 children to put them in the way of having what 
 the law allows them, and move off to better his 
 condition elsewhere. I cannot think what has 
 happened to make a vagrant of him." 
 
 A very common thing had happened, the squire 
 told her. Work had become scarce in the parish 
 where Halliday had earned his living for some 
 years. He was turned off to make way for the 
 parishioners who must be maintained ; and, after 
 having spent all he had while waiting in hope of 
 employment in a place where he was known to 
 be a good labourer, he was now passed home, as 
 a vagrant, to a parish where, though a native, 
 he was at this day a stranger^ and could have
 
 THE SPOILER INVITED. 127 
 
 no hope of employment while so many who had 
 pre\iously occupied the ground were idle. It 
 was supposed that he was ashamed to meet his 
 family and old neighbours in his present degraded 
 condition ; for, besides that he had avoided mak- 
 ing himself known to his sister, he had not yet 
 been to the workhouse, and no one had seen 
 him from the moment of his examination, when, 
 however, he had promised to appear before the 
 overseer on tlie reg-ular day. 
 
 The miserable Mrs. Brand now paid as much 
 of her fine as she had present funds for, and pro- 
 mised the rest in weekly instalments. She had 
 little sorrow to bestow on the pecuniary loss 
 when she thought of her lover in prison, her 
 brother a vagrant, her boy a ripening black- 
 guard, and another subject of grief, perhaps 
 
 the bitterest of all. She had had some dreams 
 of ambition and motherly affection for her good 
 girl, Ruih, from being told, and thinking she 
 perceived, that James Beaver liked her very 
 much, and had manao-ed to become verv well 
 acquainted with her of late. Every body thought 
 James Beaver a steadv, religious vouth, and so 
 fond of his business that he was pretty sure to 
 succeed in it ; and it was therefore with as 
 much surprise as consternation that the widow 
 heard what was said of him this morning. He 
 was in waiting in the hall, being summoned to 
 have a child sworn to him bv Jemima. 
 
 What was her consternation, however, com- 
 pared with that of the young man himself? From 
 the time that he had been told of the injury me-
 
 128 THE PARISH. 
 
 dilated against him, he had not had a moment's 
 rest or peace. He did not think there had been 
 such misery in the world as he experienced 
 while trying in vain to turn his persecutors from 
 their design ; and he could now understand 
 something of the temptation to suicide. He 
 tried all means, — by testifying his own extreme 
 surprise, by giving vent to his indignation, by 
 condescending to entreaties, by threats of dis- 
 closing what he had reason to beheve about the 
 real parentage of the unborn child. It was mad- 
 dening to be treated as he was ; — to be told that 
 he gave himself a great deal of needless concern 
 about the matter, as nobody would think the 
 worse of him for it, and as it was impossible for 
 him, an apprentice, to pay the allowance which 
 would be ordered. The whole affair would sis:- 
 nify nothing, if he would but put a laughing 
 face upon it, and cut the clergyman short, in case 
 of his attempting to give him a lecture. Instead 
 of cutting the clergyman short, or even waiting 
 for a lecture, James Beaver now appealed to him 
 while Jemima stood waiting to take the oath. 
 
 " Sir, if you had but come into the neighbour- 
 hood a little sooner, if you had but known some- 
 thing of me, you would never believe her. I 
 know how it all is, sir, if I could but prove it. 
 I am sure the real father is a person who could 
 pay the allowance, and does not like it, and so 
 charges it upon one who cannot pay, that the 
 parish may bear the expense." 
 
 " But you say you cannot prove this," ob- 
 served the squire.
 
 THE SPOILER INVITED. 129 
 
 " How should I, sir? but she knows it ; and 
 how she can be so false — how she can be so 
 
 cruel " 
 
 He could not go on, as the thought of Ruth 
 came into his mind, and the cheerfulness of their 
 last parting. 
 
 " Lord, James Beaver, how you are for mak- 
 ing a fuss, when it would signify nothing if you 
 took it quietly ! As people brew, so they must 
 bake, you know." 
 
 " Take it quietly !" he cried fiercely. " When 
 I have a mother Sir," he continued, appeal- 
 ing again to the clergyman, " I have been reli- 
 giously brought up, and my parents have not 
 thought, so far, that I have disappointed them ; 
 
 and when they hear' ■" 
 
 He was quite subdued, and laid his head on 
 his folded arms on the table, trying no longer to 
 conceal his agitation. Dr. Warrener was deeply 
 grieved for him, whether he was innocent or 
 guilty, and did what he could to persuade the 
 magistrates to defer taking the oath for the pre- 
 sent. The more earnest he grew, however, the 
 more positive was Mr. Manning that it did not 
 do to be tender-hearted in cases of such frequent 
 occurrence ; that the young woman was very 
 clear in her statements, and cool about taking 
 the oath, and that it was the best rule to dispatch 
 business in hand instead of letting it stand over. 
 Mr. Weakley thought that business should never 
 stand over ; that the young woman seemed to 
 know what she was about, and that it was high 
 time to be no longer tender-hearted in such mat-
 
 130 THE PARISH. 
 
 ters. So the oath was talcen. Jarpes Beaver 
 turned with loathing; from his reputed mistress, 
 did not venture to touch his hat to the rector, 
 and left the justice-room with a face of quiet 
 misery, which half broke Dr. Warrener's heq,rt. 
 He followed him, partly to protect him from the 
 g-reetings which were probably awaiting him with- 
 out, and partly to induce him to open his mind 
 more than it was safe to do in a justice- room. 
 
 Jemima remained to make a further demand. 
 Since she had been unable to earn her usual 
 wages by washing', the parish had made her a 
 small allowance ; she now wanted more. 
 
 " Please your worship, it is an order for shoe- 
 money that I want. I wear a good many shoes, 
 and my allowance is not enough for other things." 
 " Then you must buy shoes out of ypur wages. 
 You still earn some, I know." 
 
 "Lord, sir! nothing to keep me decent. If 
 you'll believe me, I have been obliged to go 
 without tea and sugar this week past, and niust 
 for another week, if your worship does not give 
 me an order for shoe-money.'' 
 
 " Or for shoes out of the workhouse stock. 
 Which had it best be, Donkin ?'' 
 "Neither, if I might judge." 
 " Hold your tongue, sir, about what is no 
 business of yours. How shall we come off 
 cheapest, for I look very strictly to these things ? 
 by giving the order for money or shoes ?" 
 
 The shoes furnished to the workhouse were 
 very dear, the overseer observed. They might be 
 had ten per cent, cheaper from y and from
 
 THE SPOILER "WELCOMED. 131 
 
 F — :— , and eten frdm London. He had g-iveii 
 information of this again and again ; but the shoe- 
 maker was a vestryman, and a friend of Wool- 
 lerton's, and nobody would entertain the propo- 
 sition that his contract for shoes should be sub- 
 ject to a revision. This was all beside the mark 
 at present, the squire said ; and the overseer was 
 brought to explain that as the parish was, ort 
 some pretence or other, compelled to take a cer- 
 tain quantity of shoes every year, which occa- 
 sionally proved more than were wanted, it would 
 be better for Jemima to have the article than the 
 money to buy it. What was done with the sur- 
 plus of shoes ? They were given to paupers in- 
 stead of other articles, to be changed away at a 
 loss. There was no lack of barterers for these 
 cheap shoes ; and thus, as Goldby observed, 
 people that were not paupers were shod cheap at 
 the expense of the farmer's pocket. 
 
 It began to grow dark before the hall was 
 cleared, and Mr. Manning congratulated Mr. 
 Weakley on their having done a very good morn- 
 ing's work, and Mr. Weakley agreed that it was 
 a very good morning's work indeed. 
 
 Chapter IX. 
 THE SPOILER WELCOMED. 
 
 The special constables began their duties imme- 
 diately and vigorously throughout the parish. 
 They formed themselves into watches to patrole
 
 132 THE PARISH. 
 
 the roads and lanes, and look into the stack- 
 yards after dark. Jay and his followers laughed 
 at these precautions as unnecessary and absurd, 
 as there had yet been no alarm of fire in or 
 near Thorpe. The apothecary added that he had 
 professionally no objection to the increase of colds 
 and coughs which would be caused by these 
 nightly perambulations, but that he felt the in- 
 dignation which all high-minded persons must 
 experience at the imputation thus cast on the 
 morals of his parish. Certain indications had, 
 however, been perceived, — tokens of the nearer 
 approach of fires, of the presence of turpentine 
 in holes and corners, of a new and curious kind 
 of shopping going forward on Jay's premises, 
 which made wise observers think that it was 
 time for the authorities to be on the alert. It 
 was perceived that Jay became more and more 
 anxious that his apprentice should learn to visit 
 the sick, and more kind and accommodating in 
 staying at home to keep shop, in order that the 
 young man might do so. It was observed that 
 Jay and his apprentice now served at different 
 counters, and that a new class of customers had 
 lately attended the master's. It was not known 
 to be a particularly sickly winter for cattle, but 
 never had such a quantity of horse and cattle 
 medicines been prepared by Jay's hands, or 
 applied for by countrymen in fustian jackets, or 
 strangers in long dark coats, and slouched hats 
 covered with oil-skin. The reputation of Jay's 
 cattle medicines seemed to have had a sudden 
 and remarkable spread ; for his shop was re-
 
 THE SPOILER WELCOMED. 133 
 
 paired to by persons from a distance passing 
 through in gigs, who jumped out, purchased 
 their article, or, if only the apprentice happened 
 to be at home, promised to look in another time, 
 jumped in again, and drove away. 
 
 All that was said of the excellence of Jay's 
 compounds, however well it might account for 
 the increase of his custom, and the appearance 
 of strangers in the parish, did not prevent the 
 more discreet of the special constables from keep- 
 ing an eye on all who came in gigs, and on all 
 property whose owners had become in any way 
 obnoxious to their neifichbours. The obnoxious 
 might be distinguished from the popular in two 
 ways ; by the part they took in the administra- 
 tion of the Poor Laws, and bv the anonymous 
 letters of warning which thev received. It had 
 long been a rule that all who had to pay largely 
 to the poor-rat«, and might therefore be supposed 
 inclined to complain, were, in the language of 
 the discriminators, " bad men;" while all who 
 had contracts with the authorities, and were there- 
 fore supposed to advocate the utmost possible 
 consumption on the part of the paupers, went by 
 the name of " good men." If, however, any 
 one of the "good" failed to plead sufficiently in 
 favour of any applicant, he was now liable to be 
 visited by anonymous threats of fire, powder and 
 ball, or some other punishment not the less dread- 
 ful for being left to be divined from obscure terms. 
 Not only was the squire abundantly warned that 
 he would be burned in his bed unless he released 
 from gaol any unfortunate poacher who might 
 
 N
 
 134 tUE PARISH. 
 
 be in his power; not only was Goldby threafened 
 with utter destruction if h'e did not immediately 
 raise his wages; Woollerton himself was stimu- 
 lated to greater dilijrence in his callini:: as " the 
 poor man's friend," by hints that it would be the 
 worse for him if he did not support every claim 
 which came under the consideration of the vestry. 
 The letter writers could never be found ; and 
 all that could be done t^as to wjitch that their 
 threats were not executed. Never before had 
 truants and trespassers found it so difficult to 
 amuse themselves ; and eviery unemployed pau- 
 per complained of being- stopped if he happened 
 to be out after dark, and questioned about his 
 vocation, and whether he was skilled in buying 
 cattle medicines. Goldby had frequent alarms, 
 being sent for when absent from home, to hear 
 that suspicious persons had been seen near his 
 premises, and to be favoured with a multitude of 
 wise and kind sup-frestions of which it was im- 
 
 Do 
 
 possible to make use. 
 
 " Come, tell me quick, what is the matter now ?" 
 said he one Sunday afternoon, when a messenger 
 had hastened him home from church. " It is 
 scarcely dusk yet. You cannot have caught any 
 body already." 
 
 " There are two or three people lurking about 
 the little barn," said the trembling Ruth ; " and 
 the constable bade me send for you directly. He 
 vfill be back in two minutes with Ashly, whose 
 turn it is to watch to-night. O, sir, don't go by 
 yourself! Do wait till the constable comes, sir ! 
 They might murder you if they found you alone."
 
 THE SPOILER WELCOMED. 135 
 
 ** They will be gone, if I do not make haste to 
 catch them ; so you may send the constable and 
 Ashly after me. I have as good a nose for tur- 
 pentine as any of them, and I should like to be 
 the first to find a fire-ball, if we are to have such 
 things thrown among us. We will stick it into 
 the mouth of the white horse in Jay's window, for 
 a sign." 
 
 Ruth stood on tiptoe, looking anxiously after 
 her master, when Ashly and the constable came 
 up ; they followed towards the little barn, and 
 presently met Goldby returning at a languid 
 pace, with his hands in his pockets, and kicking a 
 round pebble before him as he walked. He was 
 congratulated in joke upon its not being a fire- 
 ball. 
 
 " A fire-ball ! no," said he, peevishly. " You 
 have got your heads so full of fire-balls, there is 
 no room for any other notion. These folks at the 
 barn are only steahng my corn, that's all." 
 
 " Stealing your corn ! And have you caught 
 any of them ? Come, Ashly, make haste," cried 
 the constable. 
 
 " Let it alone, if you please," said Goldby, 
 holding him by the sleeve. "They are welcome 
 to steal my corn." 
 
 It was pretty clear that they were so, Ashly 
 observed, from the barn being left in the bad 
 repair which it had exhibited for a long timey 
 past. Tiiere seemed to be no thought of mend-y 
 ing the holes in the weather-boards. 
 
 " If I mended the barn," replied Goldby, " the 
 paupers would not be able to help themselves
 
 136 THE PARISH. 
 
 with my corn, and then I should have the expense 
 of carrying it to market and selHng it. The pau- 
 pers consume my produce either way ; and it costs 
 me less to let them have it in kind than in the 
 money I bring from the market. It seems they 
 know this, for they did not move off just now 
 when they saw me coming-." 
 
 " I wonder what makes you leave the large old 
 barn in a worse condition still," said the consta- 
 ble. " There is no corn in it for any body to 
 steal, with or without your good-will; and it 
 might be made a serviceable place if it was pre- 
 vented from dropping to pieces." 
 
 " It would not have dropped to pieces these 
 seven years if it had had fair play,'' observed 
 Goldby. "It is in course of being pulled down 
 piece-meal. Paupers must have fuel as well 
 as food ; and they must help themselves from my 
 barn till I can better afford to find them coals 
 out of my pocket.'' 
 
 " You might find them wood from some other 
 part of your estate, surely," said the constable; 
 " some that you could better spare than the raf- 
 ters of your biggest barn." 
 
 Goldby gloomily replied that he could spare 
 them perfectly well. He had nothing now to 
 put into this barn. So many of his fields were 
 let out of cultivation that the building would be 
 wanted no more, while he held the lease of the 
 farm. His successor (if any one could be found 
 fool enough to succeed to a farm in such a parish) 
 must do as he had done years before, — build a new 
 barn, with magnificent expectations of the wealth
 
 THE SPOILER WELCOMED. 137 
 
 it was to hold, and be content in the end to see 
 it carried away, plank by plank, by the hands of 
 the paupers who had first eaten up the corn once 
 housed in it. 
 
 Grief and dread struck upon the heart of 
 Ashly as he listened. He had long been too fami- 
 liar with both emotions, but they arose at pre- 
 sent from a new apprehension. Goldby was 
 the treasurer of the Benefit Club which had long 
 been the principal resource of the independent 
 labourers of the parish when in worldly trouble. 
 If Goldby's affairs were really in the declining 
 way of which he gave the impression this after- 
 noon, it was high time that the funds of the club 
 were placed under a surer guardianship. It 
 would be very painful to hurt the honest farmer's 
 feelings by any token of want of confidence ; 
 but the security of the club was an object too 
 important to be put in competition with any 
 scruples of delicacy. Ashly determined to men- 
 tion the matter at the very next meeting of the 
 club, stating his objection, not as pertaining to 
 Goldby individually, but to lodging public 
 funds in the hands of any farmer in a parish 
 where the pauper system weighed heavily on the 
 cultivators of the land. 
 
 While he was thus meditating, the farmer and 
 the constable discussed the plans laid for pre- 
 serving the peace of the parish the next day. 
 It was to be a very important day — no less than 
 the occasion of the annual distribution of the 
 squire's bounty of food, clothing, and money. 
 It had been removed, with some difficulty, from 
 
 N 3
 
 138 THE PARISH. 
 
 Christmas to a few weeks later, as it had been 
 found that the persons relieved at Christmas 
 were in as destitute a state as ever in a month 
 afterwards ; and it was thought that as the 
 worst hardships of winter do not arrive till nearer 
 the end of it, the food, fuel, and money (though 
 not perhaps the blankets), would do more good 
 to the poor, and better service in lightening the 
 rate in February than in December. The post- 
 ponement had always been unpopular, and the 
 people took advantage of the discontents of the 
 present winter to vent their complaints more 
 freely than they had hitherto dared to do. They 
 spoke of this bounty as of a right, because what- 
 ever the squire gave was saved from the rate. 
 Having got thus far, it was an easy matter to 
 fancy that they ought to have been consulted 
 about the postponement, and to have been at 
 least asked when it was most convenient to them 
 to receive their comforts. It was whispered that 
 the squire was to be groaned at, the housekeeper 
 insulted, — possibly the steward assaulted on the 
 occasion of the distribution ; and as there were 
 special constables in being, it was decided to be 
 as well that they should be upon the spot to pre- 
 vent or repress tumult. 
 
 " Your turn comes to-morrow, I think,*' said 
 the constable to Goldby. 
 
 " Why yes, it does. I would have got off, but 
 I could not. I think it is not fair to make con- 
 stables of us farmers, obhging us to leave our 
 homes unguarded, while we are in much more 
 danger than any body else. I doubt whether I
 
 THE SPOILER WELCOMED. 139 
 
 shall get home till long after dark to-morrow, 
 for there is to be a brave company at the squire's. 
 More by half, he tells me, than when he began 
 his bounty ; and many coming to take charity to- 
 morrow for the lirst time." 
 
 " Ave, and not without thinkino^ about it for 
 a long while past, and making all ready. I 
 wonder whether the housekeeper has seen, as I 
 have, how many silk gowns and black feathers 
 have disappeared as the time for the bounty was 
 coming round." 
 
 " If she is but little more clear-sighted than 
 her master, she might learn much by comparing 
 Mrs. Blogg at Christmas with Mrs. Blogg at 
 Shrove-tide — the builder's wife with the little 
 beggars' mother." 
 
 " Like mistress like maid. Look at Jemima, 
 too ; flaunting away after the apothecary a month 
 ago, in finery that his new cattle medicine is to 
 pay for, I suppose; and now, as sordid and slat- 
 ternly as a workhouse girl, till she has got what 
 she can out of the squire. When his charity 
 purse is empty for this year, her feathers will 
 have another dance in the wind, you'll see." 
 
 " Very likely ; but she looks as demure as a 
 Quaker to-day. If all that are to eat the squire's 
 bread looked as quiet, one could no more fancy. a 
 commotion amonir them to-morrow than a battle 
 on yonder roof^mong your gentle doves.'' 
 
 " Well, I hope they will take their good cheer 
 quietly, and carry it home betimes, that I may 
 give a look about my own premises before I go 
 out upon my rounds at dark."
 
 140 THE PARISH. 
 
 Mrs. Goldby regarded the day of tlie bounty 
 as a day of peculiar comfort to herself. She 
 could have her own way undisturbed among the 
 servants who were left at home, and was quite 
 sure that no loiterers would hang about her 
 gates ; no beggars infest her doors. She had, for 
 some hours, the plenitude and repose of power 
 which she regarded as the first of blessings to a 
 farmer's wife. It was therefore with some sur- 
 prise that she saw a stranger approach her dwell- 
 ing near the close of a day when Jenny had 
 been industrious because there was no one to 
 flirt with her, and Ruth cheerful and alert be- 
 cause nobody laughed at her or criticised her 
 gravity, and because she was to have her share 
 of the general holiday when her day's business was 
 done, having obtained permission to spend the 
 night at her mother's — a night which was pretty 
 sure to be a quiet one at the beer-shop, from 
 every one having drunken his fill at the squire's. 
 
 " What can the fellow want ?" cried Mrs. 
 Goldby, bustling out herself to the door, in the 
 absence of her maid Ruth, while the children 
 huddled together at the window to try how many 
 horrors they could discern in the aspect of a 
 meek-looking, poverty-stricken man, who drew 
 near with as much apparent unwillingness as if 
 - he anticipated the scolding he was likely to re- 
 ceive from the dame. They heard him told that 
 he had no business there; that if he wanted 
 charity, he should go to the squire's ; if re- 
 freshment and lodging, to the widow Brand's. 
 They saw him turn about at once to depart,
 
 » 
 
 THE SPOILER WELCOMED. 1-il 
 
 without further plea, and presently beheld him 
 brought back by their father, and guided across 
 the farm-yard towards that part which lay con- 
 tiguous to Thorpe Corner. 
 
 The farmer soon after came in to fortify 
 himself by a good supper for the watch of the 
 night. 
 
 " Father, what man was that that went to the 
 stack-yard with you just now ?" 
 
 " A very curious sort of man indeed, my dear. 
 Such a man as I have not seen this many a day." 
 
 " He looked a very common sort of man,'' 
 observed the boy. " He looked like a beggar. 
 What is he, father ?" 
 
 " A beg-gar who is ashamed of being a beg- 
 
 -&»* 
 
 gar. 
 
 " That is all put on, to win you on your weak 
 side, depend upon it," said the wife. " I wonder 
 you had any thing to say to him, encouraging 
 the begginff that will make beggars of us all in 
 time." 
 
 " Ft was not to countenance begging, my dear, 
 but to encourage the shame of an unaccustomed 
 beggar, that I had any thing to say to him. I 
 am not going to give him charity. He asked no 
 more than to be allowed to sleep under any roof 
 in my yards." 
 
 "To fire your stacks, I suppose, as soon as 
 you have turned your back." 
 
 " Rather to guard them, my dear. I know 
 the man, and that any one of the children there 
 is as likely to burn my property as he." 
 
 The man was Halliday, who had scarcely been
 
 142 THE PARISH. 
 
 seen in the parish from the day of his first appear- 
 ance as a vagrant. He had been so long accus- 
 tomed to maintain himself respectably, and was 
 so unwilling to cast any reproach on his sister's 
 apparent prosperity, that he could not bring him- 
 self to appear before the parish authorities in his 
 sordid condition, and with the certainty of being 
 condemned to the hateful workhouse to which he 
 had long ago doomed his children, but which he 
 felt would be intolerable to one who had lived as 
 he had done for some years. He deferred the 
 evil day, skulking about in the neighbourhood, 
 subsisting as sparingly as possible on the squire's 
 first donation, and sleeping wherever he could 
 find a little dry straw, instead of showing himself 
 before his sister to ask a vagrant's lodging. Hav- 
 ing furnished himself with the last roll he had 
 the means of buying, he had sought the farmer this 
 evening to take the chance of getting work from 
 him by the most earnest petition that he could 
 frame. This was immediately proved to be in 
 vain, by the fact of Ashly's having been out of 
 work for many months ; and nothing remained 
 but to ask a place to stretch himself in under 
 shelter, and to make up his mind to apply at the 
 workhouse the next day, at the latest possible hour 
 that hunger would allow. When asked how he 
 had so easily brought himself to commit his chil- 
 dren to parish care, he answered that it was their 
 right, and that they, being helpless, need not 
 blush to claim it. The loss of a mother is the 
 loss of almost every thing, he considered, to very 
 young children, and entitled them to whatever 
 
 ^
 
 THE SPOILER WELCOMED. 143 
 
 protection the law of the land ^ave them, which 
 was a very different thini^ from the relief to able- 
 bodied labourers, which many of his old village 
 companions seemed as eager as he was unwill- 
 ing to ask. Goldby told him that he was only 
 half what he should be while he held such per- 
 nicious doctrine about his children ; but that in 
 consideration of his being half-upright, he would 
 do what he could to secure him the most favour- 
 able treatment the parish had to bestow. Mean- 
 while, he conducted him to the farm buildings, and 
 showed him a waggon in one of them, in which 
 he might sleep, and pointed out a shed full of 
 straw from which he might help himself Nvith 
 materials for his bed. As it was now quite dark, 
 he left him a lantern, bidding him extinguish it 
 when he lay down, and promising to come for it 
 immediately after supper, 
 
 Halliday lost no time in preparing his accom- 
 modations, fetching two or three armsfull of 
 straw from the shed, shaking them down in the 
 wa2.'2:on, borrowina: a lone: sack which he found 
 rolled up in a corner to sleep in, and immediately 
 extinguishing his light, thinking that he could 
 as well eat his roll in the dark, and knowing that 
 the farmer could not wish to have anything seen 
 about his premises which could excite particular 
 observation. 
 
 Almost before he began to expect it, the far- 
 mer returned for the lantern. He came groping 
 in the dark, probably for the purpose of better 
 convincing himself that all was secure from fire 
 on his premises. He carried the lantern away
 
 144 THE PARISH. 
 
 with him, saying- that Halliday must not be 
 startled if he heard him about in the shed some 
 hours later, as he should probably look in be- 
 tween the present time and dawn. 
 
 As Halliday lay, he could see a perspective of 
 the farm-house windows, between the rail of the 
 "wag-gon and the roof of the shed. He amused 
 himself for some time in watching the steady 
 light which proceeded from the sitting-room, 
 and observing how the flitting gleams from the 
 other windows became extinn-uished one after 
 another, till, at length, by the time his nose end 
 and uppermost ear began to feel as if in high 
 preparation for freezing, all the fires and candles 
 seemed to be put out, and not an object was 
 visible far or near. He then thought it time to 
 bury his head in the sack and go to sleep ; both 
 which he did immediately. 
 
 He was wakened up (under the impression 
 that he must have been asleep a long time), 
 by some one stumbling bounce up against the 
 waggon. 
 
 " Halloo, farmer," cried Halliday, starting up; 
 *' you don't know the way about your own shed 
 better than any stranger. What sort of a watch 
 have you had ?" 
 
 Nobody answered, and Halliday therefore at 
 once concluded that it was not Goldby who was 
 groping about near him. 
 
 " Can't you speak, whoever you are ?" said 
 he. " Can't you tell me whether you are the 
 farmer or no ?" 
 
 " Farmer ! no ; far enough from being a far-
 
 THE SPOILER WELCOMED. 145 
 
 mer," replied a gruff voice. '' What sort of a 
 corner have you g-ot into ? Can one find a place 
 for a tired man to lie down in till morninsr ?" 
 
 " With or without leave ?" 
 
 " Without, to be sure. Whom should one ask 
 leave of in the middle of the night, when one is 
 almost too tired to speak ?"' 
 
 " You have walked far to-day, then ?" 
 
 '• Only from the next county, that's all ; only 
 thirty mile. Can't you make room for me be- 
 side you ?' 
 
 " After a manner ; but you must get some 
 more straw. Just across the yard, to the right 
 as you turn out of the shed, you will find a place 
 full of straw ; it has wattles in front, but vou 
 can pull the straw out over them, or lie down in 
 it if you like it better than being cramped in the 
 waggon." 
 
 Grumbling at the trouble, the stranger went, 
 but returned in a few minutes, complaining that 
 the place was open to the wind, and too cold to 
 sleep in. He climbed into the waggon, replying 
 to a question from Halliday that he believed it 
 was about two o'clock. Having laid himself 
 down at the further end, he said no more, and 
 Halliday went to sleep again. 
 
 It was not long before he was a second time 
 disturbed. His companion was evidently trying 
 to leave the waggon so quietly as not to be per- 
 ceived. 
 
 '« What now?" cried Halliday. " Why can't 
 you lie still, if you are so tired as you said you 
 were ?" 
 
 o
 
 146 Tl!E IPARISH. 
 
 " I can't sleep, doubled up in a corner in this 
 way. I shall step on to the village, and get a 
 sleeping-place there." 
 
 " You may have one for two-pence, at the 
 widow Brand's," answered Halliday; and he 
 directed the stranget* to the beer-shop, warning 
 him that if he met the patrole, he might be 
 treated as a suspicions character. 
 
 *' They will hardly be this way yet," replied 
 the man : " there was an alarm at Bingham's as 
 I passed, and they would stay there till all is 
 safe." 
 
 " I thought you came here by quite a different 
 way from Bingham's — I'm sure you said so." 
 
 " So I did ; but I saw the fire from four miles 
 off, as I came along the lanes." 
 
 " I hardly think it could have been at Bing- 
 ham's. He has been very popular of late, com- 
 pared with some others of the farmers." 
 
 " You'll see in the morning," replied the 
 stranger ; '^ meantime, I am going on to the 
 village, so good-bye." 
 
 And he stumbled out of the shed, leaving 
 Halliday once more to his repose. Halliday had 
 a momentary suspicion that the man did not 
 leave the stack-yard, as he fancied he heard a 
 step behind the shed ; but all being presently 
 as still as death, he drew himself, with many 
 murmurs against disturbers, into his sack, and 
 tried to finish his night's rest. 
 
 He was not the only person whose repose was 
 broken by a stranger this night. Ruth was 
 sleeping with her mother, after an unusually
 
 THE SPOILER WELCOMED. 147 
 
 quiet evening, of which Mrs. Brand had taken 
 advantage to close her doors early, and get to 
 bed two hours sooner than on any day, except 
 Sunday, for some months past. Ruth's slum- 
 bers were the lightest, and she was therefore the 
 first to hear a strange noise at the window, 
 which she at the moment took for the pattering 
 of hail. It came by fits, however, and she began 
 to fear it was some one tapping, though she 
 scarcely thought the panes could be reached from 
 below otherwise than by a long stick. There 
 was a rushlight burning dimly on the hearth, 
 and she involuntarily looked out between the 
 curtains. She was almost certain she saw a 
 face peeping from without over the half blind 
 which hung against the lattice. 
 
 " Mother I mother !" whispered she into her 
 drowsy mother's ear, " there's somebody looking 
 in at the window ! — There's somebody tapping! 
 O, mother! what shall we do?" 
 
 Mrs. Brand made no answer, but slipped out 
 of bed, threw on a cloak which hung near the 
 bed's head, and unfastened the window with a 
 cautious hand. Ruth did not venture to peep 
 out again ; nor would she have learned any thing 
 by it, as the rushlight blew out with the first 
 draught of cold air that entered by the opened 
 lattice. She heard part of what was whispered 
 between the stranger and her mother. 
 
 " You must have taken something comfort- 
 able to sleep upon," said he, " for you were as 
 sound as a toper. Here have I been dangling, 
 till I thought I could not have held on any
 
 148 THE PARISH. 
 
 longer. There is a better hold now you have 
 opened the window, but it's a precious narrow 
 footing I have g'ot. I doubt whether any body 
 ever stood on it before." 
 
 Never, to her knowledge, Mrs. Brand de- 
 clared. But what did he want, wakening her 
 up in the cold at such an hour ? 
 
 Just to hand her in something that she must 
 keep at the top of her bed, or in some other unob- 
 served place, till called for. She need not be 
 afraid, as nobody would apply to her about it. 
 
 *' Mercy on us ! what is it ?" cried Mrs. Brand, 
 as something cold touched her hand. 
 
 " Nothing on earth but a horse-pistol. There 
 are plenty of horse-pistols in the world, woman ; 
 so, if this is found (which is not likely), it is 
 nothing unnatural in your keeping : but I don't 
 want to have it in mine, because it belonged to 
 poor Wilson," 
 
 " What, he that was transported from Bing- 
 ham's?" 
 
 " Yes, poor fellow ! He was a better one 
 than many we have to do with now. He carried 
 a good heart in his breast, and went away with- 
 out telling any thing : and that is more than 
 some would do that are abroad to-night/' 
 
 " Where ? At Bingham's ?" 
 
 " Aye ; and at some folks' that deserve it 
 worse than Bingham. It is not so much to 
 transport a fellow or two for once and away, as 
 to grind down the poor as Goldby does." 
 
 *' Ah ! they are all calling out upon him for a 
 bad man,"
 
 THE SPOILER WELCOMED. 149 
 
 *' And a bad man he is. He prevented my 
 having" more than three and six-pence a week ; 
 and, more than that, when he had got his own 
 way about it, he had the impudence to find out 
 what I got a week altogether, and tell the vestry, 
 just to show that he was right ; which, after all, 
 he was not, considering what others have that 
 are no worse off than I. — Take care ! Don't 
 jam my fingers in the window, woman ! Can't 
 you wait till I get down, which I must do before 
 it is lighter. " 
 
 " We're far enough from the dawn yet, surely. 
 It can't be much more than three." 
 
 " But there will be another sort of light soon. 
 Bingham's barn is burning now, and Goldby's 
 will be alight presently. ' 
 
 " Mercy ! and am I to keep the pistol '* 
 
 This was the last of the dialos-ue that Ruth 
 heard. Her part was taken from the moment 
 that she heard — " Goldby's will be ahght pre- 
 sently." She thought nothing of being bold or 
 being timid, or of any thing but how she might 
 most quickly get to her master's to give the 
 alarm. The darkness favoured her. While her 
 mother was still talking at the window, she 
 carried her arm full of clothes out upon the 
 stairs, slipped on some of them, unbolted the 
 back door, and got out on the opposite side of 
 the house to that at which the conversation had 
 taken place, and from which her mother re- 
 mained gazing in expectation of the prophesied 
 blaze. In one long paroxysm of terror, but 
 without a moment's thought of turning back, 
 
 o 3
 
 150 THE PARISH. 
 
 the poor girl ran along the lanes, now losing a 
 shoe, but not stopping to feel for it in the dark, 
 now saluted in the face by a stray bough in the 
 hedge, but refraining from a scream. She once 
 tried to call " Fire !" but her voice was scarcely 
 heard by herself, and could not have roused the 
 liveliest robin in the bushes to put forth its head 
 from behind its wing. She reached the gate of 
 the stack-yard without seeing any thing, and there 
 rested in the blind darkness for an instant, to 
 recover breath before climbing the gate, in order 
 to take the shortest cut to the house. Her heart 
 beat so as to shake the gate as she leaned upon 
 it, and her head swam so that she scarcely knew 
 whether she was standing or falling ; and the 
 blue speck which floated before her eyes was 
 very like what she had often been troubled with 
 when dizzy from fatigue or fear. From a blue 
 speck, however, it instantly brightened into a 
 blue flame before her strained eyes. Fully be- 
 lieving that some one must be lurking in the 
 yard, she yet climbed the gate ; but before she 
 had set foot to the ground on the other side, the 
 flames had mounted too high to leave any hope 
 that they could be immediately extinguished. 
 They spread up and down and on each side, 
 and ran along the ridge and eaves of the stack 
 as if a rocket had skimmed them ; and the yellow 
 glare instantaneously brought into strong appa- 
 rition the thatched cottage of Goodman, close at 
 hand ; the gleaming windows of Ashly's dwelling, 
 a little further retired ; the gnarled roots of the 
 ancient trees jutting over the sullen pond ; anij
 
 THE SPOILER WELCOMED. 151 
 
 the diversified paling which surrounded the 
 stack-yard. At a considerable distance, the 
 shadowy house, mantled with its vines and 
 trained pear trees, began to appear as the flames 
 shot up, and cast their radiance over the low 
 buildings which intervened. In these buildings, 
 the cattle began to stir. The pigeons came out 
 upon the roofs, and flapped their wings. A bat, 
 more blinded than Ruth herself by the glaring 
 picture which had suddenly come out of the 
 blank darkness, flew low, and blundered against 
 her face. Half stunned, she rushed on at no 
 very steady pace ; and at the first corner where 
 she turned into comparative darkness, she ran up 
 against a man. He was completely dressed, and 
 had evidently come forth that very moment from 
 a shed ; which circumstances left no doubt in 
 Ruth's mind of his beins: the incendiarv. In a 
 passion exalted by her previous fear, she seized 
 him by the collar, and swayed him to and fro 
 with no contemptible force, while she reproached 
 him with all the vehemence of a woman's anger 
 for having ruined her master, and wishing to 
 burn him and his family in their beds. Halli- 
 day — for it was he — threw her off as soon as he 
 could recover himself from the sudden attack, 
 and ran towards the house, shouting " fire" with 
 all his might. Before he could be persuaded to 
 cease clattering at the doors and windows with 
 his stick, and screaming the names of the master 
 and mistress, the ready Mrs. Goldby was half 
 dressed, and the farm-servants came pouring out, 
 to get as near the fire as they could without
 
 152 THE PARISH. 
 
 being burned, and to gaze upon it with eyes and 
 mouths expanded at the utmost width practicable 
 without dislocation. There were two ponds 
 gleaming" within a few yards ; and a range of 
 buckets had hung before the men's eyes during 
 every meal that they had taken in the farmer's 
 kitchen since they entered his service ; yet 
 no one did any thing effectual towards putting 
 out the flames. All ran hither and thither, 
 jostling and overthrowing one another. Some 
 remarked how the fire ran along the di»y litter 
 on the ground from one stack to another, like 
 water in trenches ; and others followed with their 
 eyes the wisps of burning straw which were 
 carried up by the wind, and fell thick upon the 
 thatched roof of Goodman's cottage, and upon 
 the surface of the pool which slept at the foot of 
 the old trees. These last went out as they 
 touched the water. It would have been well if 
 the former had been equally harmless : but the 
 thatch was kindled before a bucketfull of water 
 had been procured ; and almost before the 
 labourer's winking and scared children could be 
 brought out, the little dwelling was wrapt in 
 flame. 
 
 Ashly was absent on guard as well as the 
 former ; so that the whole direction of affairs 
 seemed for the moment to rest on Goodman. 
 When he had lodged his wife and infants under 
 Ashly's roof, and assured Susan that, standing 
 to leeward, it was in no danger from the fire, 
 unless the wind should change, he appeared, 
 with a face deadly pale, but a composed manner
 
 THE SPOILER WELCOMED. 153 
 
 and steady voice, to do what could be done in so 
 apparently desperate a case. 
 
 It was in vain to make any effort. The farm- 
 servants were bewildered and helpless ; — not 
 made so by the surprise alone, but by the con- 
 duct of the people who came thronging- from 
 the village, some of whom were only in too 
 directly opposite a state. There were many 
 present who showed neither alarm, nor indigna- 
 tion, nor sorrow. They looked on at their ease, 
 talking- about the many reasons which might 
 account for this calamity, and speculating upon 
 whether the injury was aimed at the farmer or 
 the landlord. One offence after another was 
 brought up which Goldby had committed against 
 the interests or the dignity of the poor of his 
 parish, of so much of whose maintenance he had 
 borne the burden so long. — In vain did Good- 
 man look round for more than one or two who 
 were willing to help the farmer instead of in- 
 sulting his misfortunes. There were but very 
 few such friends present. The reason of this 
 was, not that Goldby had scarcely any friends, 
 but that all the more respectable part of the 
 parishioners were engaged at the fire at Bing- 
 ham's. If they had known as well as some of 
 their neighbours that there would be two fires 
 this night, they would probably have divided 
 their numbers, and afforded Goldby his propor- 
 tion of assistance. 
 
 No effectual check was given to the flames 
 till they had burned every thing within that de- 
 partment of the farm enclosures. The stacks,
 
 154 THE PARISH. 
 
 the remains of the big barn, a portion of the 
 cattle sheds, and poor Goodman's cottage were 
 all destroyed within a very short space of time. 
 It was an hour or two before dawn that the 
 greater number of gazers returned home, having 
 seen all that was to be seen, while Goodman, 
 apparently exhausted, was desired by the good- 
 nature of his companions to go and rest him- 
 self, confiding it to them to watch the embers 
 till the danger of a revival of the fire was past. 
 All seemed to be already safe, as the wind had 
 dropped, and the rain began to fall heavily ; but 
 they agreed to watch till the red smoke was 
 changed into grey. 
 
 Instead of turning into Ashly's cottage, where 
 he was expected, — instead of stepping up to the 
 farm-house, where he was invited to refresh him- 
 self, poor Goodman loitered towards the gate 
 which the farmer must enter on his return. 
 
 There the houseless labourer leaned, half dread- 
 ing, half longing for the appearance of his master, 
 heedless of the smarting of his eyes from the 
 smoke, and of the coldness of the dripping rain 
 after the heat to which he had been exposed. 
 There were sights before his eyes and sounds in 
 his ears which left no attention for present sen- 
 sations. From the very bottom of his soul he 
 resented the cruel indifference with which the ca- 
 lamity had been beheld ; and the countenances in 
 which this indifference had been displayed glared 
 before him as if still in the light of the flames. 
 His ears yet throbbed with the groans of his 
 favourite cart-horse, which had cruelly perished
 
 THE SPOILER WELCOMED. 155 
 
 through the mismanagement of some persons 
 who had attempted to bring it out of the stable 
 with its eyes uncovered. When the animal had 
 once become alarmed, there was no doing any 
 thing with it. It had become more and more 
 restive, till the burninsr beams besran to tumble 
 about the heads of those who were measuring 
 their strength at one end of the halter, against 
 that of Dobbin at the other. They were 
 obliged to leave the animal to its fate ; and its 
 horrible groans were destined to haunt for long 
 the sleep of the labourer, who had exchanged 
 morninfT- and evenin2: G^reeting-s with Dobbin as 
 regularly as with his own children for many a 
 year past. 
 
 While Goodman was still convincing himself 
 how easy it would have been for any but the 
 most stupid fools in the world to save the poor 
 beast, the tread of a horse approaching slowly, 
 as if heavily laden, was heard, and Goldby rode 
 up with Ashly behind him. Goodman silently 
 opened the gate for his master, and as silently 
 held the horse when he alighted, not daring to 
 look up to see as much as the dim light of the 
 dawn permitted to be seen of the countenance of 
 the farmer. Goldby was the first to speak. 
 
 " Is the fire out?" 
 
 " Quite, sir. Above an hour ago, sir." 
 
 *' What have we lost ?" 
 
 " All the three stacks yonder, sir, and the 
 sheds, and the big barn. Your cottage," turning 
 to Ashly, " is safe enough. The wind carried
 
 156 THE PARISH. 
 
 the flames the other way. Every stick and stone 
 of your place is safe." 
 
 " And yours destroyed, my poor fellow !" said 
 the farmer. 
 
 " My house is yours while it is standing," 
 said Ashly. " You and yours must live with us 
 till matters come round again." 
 
 " When will that be ?" asked the farmer. " It 
 would have been rather hard work to bring my 
 matters round before; and now the only thing 
 seems to be for Goodman and me to go to the 
 workhouse together." 
 
 Whether he went to the workhouse or not, 
 must depend on the farmer, Goodman declared. 
 If there was work for him on the farm, he 
 might yet struggle through. If not, he must, 
 after all, submit to the workhouse. As for his 
 master, he trusted he was only joking when he 
 talked of ruin. He could not think the loss was 
 such as to ruin anybody. 
 
 Goldby observed gloomily that a small force 
 would overwhelm a sinkinff man. He should 
 never get over this blow ; and he wished that 
 those who had inflicted it might not find that 
 they had cut off" their own means of subsistence 
 by destroying his. They might get their money 
 where they could at the next levy of the rate. 
 He should have none to spare. And he changed 
 the direction in which he was walking, turning 
 away from the path to the stack-yard, and to- 
 wards the house ; as if unwilling to meet the 
 eyes of the loungers who might be on the watch 
 to observe how he bore his misfortune.
 
 THE SPOILER WELCOMED. 157 
 
 The meeting which awaited him at home was 
 not of the most consohno; kind. Mrs. Goldbv 
 having- long before made up her mind that the 
 stranger who was allowed to sleep on the pre- 
 mises must be the author of the mischief, was 
 ready to assure her husband that he might thank 
 himself for what had happened, and that everybody 
 else had seen twelve hours before what would be 
 the consequence of his weak good-nature to a 
 tramper. It was in vain to argue with her that 
 an incendiary was the last person in the world 
 likely to court the observation of the family 
 whose property he meant to destroy. Ruth's 
 testimony to his terror and concern when she 
 encountered him hastening to give the alarm, 
 was very decided ; and the farmer silenced his 
 wife by declaring that he knew his guest, and 
 could answer for his innocence : but Mrs. Goldby 
 was not satisfied ; and for ever after looked wise 
 upon the matter. 
 
 Meanwhile, Ruth deposed to what she had 
 heard of the midnight conference at her mother's 
 window, and Halliday to what had take place in 
 the waggon-shed : the pistol was found on the 
 top of Mrs. Brand's bed ; and exertions made to 
 trace its progress from hand to hand since it had 
 been left behind by its convict owner. The re- 
 sult was that Tims was committed to meet his 
 trial as the actual incendiary ; and great pains 
 were taken to prove Jay an accessary before the 
 fact ; but though the e\idence was strona* enouo-h 
 to give all who heard it a full persuasion of his 
 guilt, it was not of a kind to warrant his being 
 
 P
 
 158 THE PARISH. 
 
 made to hold up his hand at the bar. He was 
 
 at present left at liberty to show, if he could, 
 what service had been done to society by injur- 
 ing the farmers, and how it had become easier 
 to the poor to obtain the legal support which 
 they claimed by exhausting the sources from 
 which it must be drawn. 
 
 Chapter X. 
 EASE AND PLENTY. 
 
 The present was a time to call the virtues of 
 which Dr. Warrener had spoken out of the dark 
 corners of the parish, for the sake of the sufferers 
 from their opposite vices. The farmer received 
 not only sincere condolence from many who 
 had never touched and meant never to touch a 
 farthing of his money, but generous offers of 
 assistance in repairing his losses, as far as the 
 work of the hands could do so. There were 
 labourers willing to devote their spare hours to 
 rebuilding his sheds; and more than one owner of 
 an out-house who offered to lodge either a beast 
 or a labourer who had been burnt out of his ac- 
 customed shelter. Some who had been considered 
 of late as enemies to all charity, because they 
 saw and pointed out the evils of a legal charity, 
 badly administered, now showed by their practice 
 that it was not the principle of charity that they 
 objected to, but its misapplication. The more
 
 EASE AND PLENTY. 159 
 
 bitterly they had complained of the injustice by 
 which work and wages were monopoUzed by 
 paupers, and the funds of society unproductively 
 consumed by its most worthless members, the 
 more ready were they to assist the injured, and 
 to alleviate the losses of the really deserving. 
 
 Ashly was one of the truly charitable. With 
 the assistance of his daughter, he soon discovered 
 (according to the old maxim about a will and a 
 way) that there was room in his dwelling for all 
 Goodman's family for more than one night. By 
 shaking down straw here, and packing the chil- 
 dren closely there, and bringing his mother's old 
 arm-chair into requisition, all were enabled to 
 sleep ; and the bacon and potatoes which Susan 
 quietly declined selling enabled all also to eat. 
 Susan proved to Mrs. Goodman by ocular de- 
 monstration that she had two frocks and two 
 petticoats, and was strong in her argument that 
 she could not put on both at once, and that 
 therefore Nancy might as well be wearing the 
 spare ones as crawling about half naked in the 
 month of February. It was far from being- 
 Goodman's intention to subsist for any length of 
 time on his friend's bounty, let the alternative be 
 what it might. He only waited for a few days 
 to see what turn his master's fortunes would 
 take. 
 
 This was but too soon decided. Ashly came 
 home at dusk one afternoon, — four days after 
 the fire, — from a business trip to the next 
 town. Goodman had not left Thorpe Corner all 
 day, being engaged in repairing the roof of his
 
 160 THE PARISH. 
 
 friend's out-house ; and was now making haste 
 to finish his work before it was quite dark. 
 Ashly gently pushed through the children who 
 nearly filled the apartment, and making his 
 way out behind, sat down on the lower steps of 
 the ladder at the top of which his friend was 
 engaged. Goodman hailed him from the roof, 
 but he made no answer. Johnny crept behind 
 the ladder and twitched the skirts of his father's 
 coat, but could obtain no notice. Ashly never 
 stirred till Goodman came down and asked 
 leave to pass ; and then Ashly only got up, and 
 went into the house, mechanically taking his 
 seat beside the low fire, and lifting one of the 
 
 children on his knee, forgetting however to 
 
 play with it. 
 
 " You are dull to-night, neighbour," observed 
 Goodman, when he came in, wiping his brows, 
 
 from his labour. 
 
 *' I'm afraid it will be but a dull night to us 
 
 all," replied Ashly. " I bring but dull news for 
 
 you, neighbour: and as there is no help for it, 
 
 one may as well speak out at once. Goldby 
 
 has failed." 
 
 " What, downright stopped ; so as to leave 
 
 his farm, and give no more work?" 
 
 " Not a stroke more will be done there by 
 
 him and his. He has nothing left to go on 
 
 with." 
 
 *' Nor to pay up the funds of the Benefit 
 
 Club, I am afraid V 
 
 '* The greater part is as clean gone as if it 
 
 had been burnt in the fire," Ashly replied.
 
 EASE AND PLENTY. 161 
 
 Goodman answered nothing for some time. 
 The misfortune of each was too great for pre- 
 sent comfort. Mrs, Goodman was the first to 
 speak, timidly inquiring- what they were to do 
 next. 
 
 " Go to the overseer to-night," replied her 
 husband, " We must not take another meal in 
 this house : and I am only sorry we have taken 
 so many, the club being knocked up in this way. 
 Ashly, I am sorry at my heart for you, — that all 
 your toiHng and saving should have come to this," 
 
 " Don't say any more about that,'' answered 
 Ashly ; " nor yet about going away to-night. 
 The potatoes are on the fire, and there is no 
 reason for vour turnino- out before mornino^. I 
 wish I could say anything about your staying 
 lono;er: but I don't clearlv see how I am to 
 keep out of the workhouse myself ; and I must 
 feed my own children as long as I can ; and I 
 have but httle left to do it with." 
 
 Goodman consented to stay twelve hours 
 longer. The thoughtful Susan hastened supper, 
 and got the noisy children stowed away earlier 
 than usual ; and then a last consultation was 
 held. 
 
 Perhaps no people cling more tenaciously to 
 hope, than the poor who have a thorough ab- 
 horrence of dependance on the parish. Every 
 glimpse of a possibility of obtaining work is 
 hailed ; every effort to do without w hat have 
 hitherto been deemed necessaries, is made light 
 of when the dreaded time seems to be just at 
 hand. If such hope was honoured as it deserves, 
 
 p3
 
 162 THE PARISH. 
 
 society would be astonished at its efficacy in 
 averting the dreaded event. In the present case, 
 the mutual advisers were more hopeful for each 
 other than for themselves. 
 
 " You will not be in the workhouse many 
 days," said Ashly. " I see nothing for it but 
 your going there ; but it is the interest of the 
 parish officers now to get work for you ; and, 
 when once that happens, you will prosper again. 
 No one can throw in your teeth any disgrace 
 from having slept in the workhouse for a night 
 or two, just because your own cottage has been 
 burnt over your head. It is quite a different 
 thing from the way that Wilde and Tims and 
 many more have applied ; quite different too 
 from Halliday's case. Poor fellow ! he can't 
 skulk about in sheds any more, and is obliged 
 to go in. I dare say he will court being by your 
 side all day ; but you will not forget that he de- 
 serted his children, and will hold up your head 
 accordingly." 
 
 Goodman muttered that there was little kind- 
 ness in keeping up his pride for him, when he 
 was brought to such a pass. It was no time 
 now to talk of holding up one's head. He did 
 not see, however, why Ashly should not keep 
 his as^ high as ever. Though the Benefit Club 
 — ^that best resource — was broken up, there was 
 the little shop, besides what the children earned, 
 and the hope of seasonable employment for 
 Ashly at hay-making and harvest times. 
 
 Ashly agreed that he might get on if he had 
 fair play ; but there lay the difficulty. Any one
 
 EASE AND PLENTY. 163 
 
 would think that fair dealing as to the qualities 
 and prices of goods, would carry the day over 
 such a method of traffic as the Woollertons, but 
 in this parish it was not so. If an angel came 
 down from heaven to sell the best goods for a 
 mere song, he would have no custom in a pauper- 
 ridden parish, unless he had interest with the 
 vestry. There were plenty of stories to be told 
 about the arts used by the Woollertons to get 
 custom, and the way in which they were aided 
 and abetted by rate-payers and rate-receivers ; 
 but Ashly was not fond of blistering his tongue 
 with such tales. He would rather struggle on 
 as long as he could, without losing heart or tem- 
 per, and submit with as good a grace as he could 
 if the worst came to the worst. 
 
 Goodman found himself" quite unable to use the 
 hint about submitting with a good grace, when it 
 became necessary, the next morning, to present 
 himself and his family to the overseer. His wife 
 was crying, and the children were as thoroughly 
 unhappy as their parents, having been brought 
 up to regard the high walls which surrounded 
 the workhouse-yard with as much fear and dis- 
 like as those of a prison. A more low-spirited 
 group of applicants had never appeared before 
 the overseer, who was far from being disposed to 
 welcome them. The observation of Ashly (who 
 accompanied his friend , carryin g the youngest child 
 in his arms) that Goodman's domestication in the 
 workhouse would probably be only for a few days, 
 was the first thing which made Donkin's brow 
 relax. He observed that the parish must find
 
 164 THE PARISH. 
 
 some means of shaking off its bm'dens, as its 
 resources seemed to be failing- in every direction. 
 Bingham had lost much by the fire; Goldby was 
 impoverished ; and now, before the week was 
 out, Woollerton's death 
 
 " WooUerton dead," cried Goodman, looking 
 up for the first time. 
 
 " Dead, aye ; he died last night ; and, as some 
 people think, in debt to the parish. I wonder 
 how many months it is since I began pressing 
 upon the squire and the vestry the necessity of 
 having the clerk's accounts made up and settled. 
 They always said it should be looked to, and 
 never bestirred themselves ; and now they may 
 make the best they can out of the widow." 
 
 Here Donkin checked himself, as if ashamed 
 of having spoken to pauper applicants of what 
 was uppermost in his mind ; but the fact was he 
 forgot in what capacity they appeared before 
 him ; and Goodman, as well as Ashly, had 
 hitherto been looked upon as a man with whom 
 any one might hold discourse without condescen- 
 sion. He felt as if that time was over for ever, 
 when the overseer silently made out the order 
 for the workhouse, and dismissed the party with 
 an intimation that work was to be had in the 
 gravel-pits if none more profitable should be 
 found elsewhere. 
 
 Ashly had scarcely a thought to bestow on the 
 change which might be effected in his own pros- 
 pects by Woollerton's death, while attending his 
 friend to the workhouse-gate. It was he who 
 pulled the bell j it was he who told the porter
 
 EASE AND PLENTY. 165 
 
 that Goodman wanted to see the governor ; but 
 it was Goodman who first declared that the 
 moment was come for them to part. Ashly 
 glanced round upon the throng of noisy, dirty 
 paupers who were making merry or quarrelUng 
 within the enclosure, and immediately pronounced 
 that the parting could be but for a very short 
 time. He would see them, if possible, the first 
 hour that they came out, and on Sunday at all 
 events, if they should not be released before. 
 
 The slam of the gate shook his spirit within 
 him as he stood alone on the outside ; but not 
 so fearfully as his friend's. Goodman heeded 
 no circumstance of the confusion around him 
 while crossino; the court, till one of his children 
 wrenched her hand from his grasp, and ran off 
 with a cry of joy. She saw Biddy at a distance 
 among a group of men, women, and children, — 
 Biddy whom she had taught to play ducks and 
 drakes while Susan Ashly was cutting osiers, and 
 to pick up acorns in the lanes for the pigs. Biddy, 
 sickly and cross as her face now habitually ap- 
 peared, seemed as glad to see an old companion 
 as she could be of anything ; and when that com- 
 panion was forcibly brought back to appear be- 
 fore the governor, Biddy crawled after the party 
 so perse veringly as to draw upon the new-comers 
 the attention of all who amused themselves with 
 laughing at her. The overseer had been more 
 kind in act than in manner. He had directed 
 that Goodman and his familv should be allowed 
 to have their meals by themselves, and be in all 
 respects treated with the consideration due to
 
 166 THE PARISH. 
 
 those who were paupers only temporarily and by 
 accident. They were accordingly shown to an 
 apartment, where a fire was presently lighted, 
 the room having" been unoccupied for some time ; 
 and were told that dinner would be brought to 
 them in two hours. 
 
 Mrs. Goodman was, at her own desire, fur- 
 nished with knitting ; the pauper who brought 
 it to her seeming much amused at the request. 
 The family were then left alone to grief and 
 dulness, — grief to the parents, and duUiess to 
 the children, who looked round upon the bare 
 and not very white walls, seeing no promise of 
 better amusement there than in tracing the 
 cracks in the plaster, and then gazing up at the 
 window, which contained cobwebs enough to 
 afford promise of much fly-catching in summer, 
 but presented no prospect like the pretty, cheer- 
 ful one at Thorpe Corner ; nothing but the 
 paved yard and high wall which surrounded 
 it. When the children turned to their parents, 
 they saw their mother's tears falling upon her 
 knitting-needles, so that she could scarcely go 
 on with her work, and their father's face too 
 grave for them to venture to speak to him. 
 They began to think they were very tired, — very 
 sleepy, — very hungry : and were heartily glad 
 when two great brown dishes, a pewter jug, and 
 some trenchers, were brought in, and put down 
 on the bench at one end of which their father sat. 
 They thought it very odd that he was not as 
 eager as they to eat. 
 
 When at length Mrs. Goodman wiped her
 
 EASE AND PLENTY. 167 
 
 «yes with her apron, and uncovered the brown 
 dishes, the children were not allowed to besrin 
 at once upon the boiled mutton and turnips dis- 
 closed to view. They were told they must wait 
 till some further directions were obtained. Atter 
 watching ibr footsteps till the tat begtm to look 
 opaque, and the icravy had turned into flakes 
 before the eaijer eyes of the children. Mrs. Good- 
 man softly opened the door, and called in some 
 person who happened to be at hand, to know 
 how they were to help themselves ; how much 
 of all this meat and veg-etabies and beer was 
 meant for them. She was vehemently laughed 
 at for her question, and told to eat up every bit 
 and scrap if she Uked. It was only the regular 
 allowance for six people, weighed out in the 
 governor's scales. lioodn\an begged pardon for 
 having caused his wife to ask the question; but 
 there was more meat in that dish than his family 
 had seen in his house any week of the last year ; 
 and he had not supposed it could all be meant 
 for them. The children ate all they could, and 
 were sorry to leave otK while any remained : but 
 coiuibrtcd themselves with the prospect of another 
 such dinner to-morn.nv. 
 
 It seemed so cruel to shut up the children 
 from the presetU hour — i>ne ocUick — till bed- 
 time, that their mother e.\ertcd herself to inither 
 up her spirits and take the little ones out into 
 the vard. where she did not like them to iio with- 
 out her. 1 1 was a great etlbrt to her ; atid she sat 
 down with her knitting at some distance tVom 
 any body. The children were not so shy when 
 the feai' of ih« high >vuU— the fear which had
 
 168 THE PARISH. 
 
 been so carefully instilled into them — began to 
 wear off. They saw that several children were 
 at play, and heard how loud they laughed, and 
 observed that they did not care what they said or 
 did. There were well known faces too. Be- 
 sides Biddy, there was Jemima, who had often 
 played with them in a better place. There were 
 several babies of all ages ; and the eldest girl 
 was so fond of nursing babies that she always 
 quickly made acquaintance, wherever she might 
 be, with all who carried them. She had been 
 proud of having been pronounced a very nice 
 nurse, and a great help to her mother, when 
 little George was a baby ; and she had been 
 quite sorry when he was no longer in arms. 
 She now hoped to acquire new credit among the 
 variety of babies that were being dandled within 
 a circuit of a few yards. 
 
 " What, are you as fond of playing with ba- 
 bies as ever, Nanny ? ' asked Jemima, seeing 
 Nanny take one of the little ones from its tired 
 mother, and teach it to set one foot before the 
 other on the bench where some of the women 
 were sitting. 
 
 •' I like it better than ever," replied Nanny ; 
 " our baby has got past being nursed now ; and 
 when he wants to be carried, he is so heavy that 
 it is not the same thing as tossing a mite of a 
 baby like this." And she held up the crowing 
 child at arm's length. 
 
 *' Well, if you stay long enough, you shall 
 help me to nurse mine, unless it should please 
 the Lord to provide better for it." 
 
 " Will it live here with you always?"
 
 EASE AND PLENTY. 169 
 
 " It will live here whether I do or not ; and I 
 shall too, if I can. I'm not so fond of Mrs. 
 Blogg's wash-tubs as to go back, if I can keep 
 where I am." 
 
 " But who is your husband?" 
 
 " James Beaver ought to be ; but he is so 
 obstinate, he won't, though tlie squire and every 
 body has told him that he ouij-ht. If he stands 
 out much longer, I shall get somebody else. 
 There are plenty of husbands to be got here, as 
 you'll find by and by." 
 
 Nanny thought she should not like any of the 
 dirty rude people who stood about ; but she was 
 told that she would learn to like them, if, by mar- 
 rying one of them, she could be saved all trouble 
 about how to live, and have a good dinner every 
 day without the plague of earning and cooking it. 
 It was tiresome enough, to be sure, to have to 
 take one's turn in scouring the floors and doing 
 the kitchen work ; but there was plenty of fun 
 and sociability between times ; and it was not 
 difficult to persuade one's friends to come in, so 
 as to make the turns occur seldomer, and show 
 the governor that here, as well as elsewhere, it 
 was " the more the merrier.'' 
 
 Nanny's mother was all this while being in- 
 structed after somewhat the same manner as the 
 little girl. An elderly woman came and took a 
 place beside her as she sat retired, pretending to 
 admire the dexterity and industry with which she 
 knitted, and observins: that she would be a for- 
 tune to the parish if she went on slaving as she 
 would do in a house of her own.
 
 170 THE PARISH. 
 
 *' I see you and your husband are wearing 
 your own clothes," she observed. " Why don't 
 you wear the workhouse dress, since you are not 
 above letting your children wear it ?" 
 
 " They must wear it, poor things, because all 
 their own clothes were burnt, except the shirts 
 and shifts they had on when they were taken from 
 their beds. My husband and I had just time to 
 slip on what we had worn the day before. I did 
 give a pull at the chfist where the children's 
 Sunday things were kept ; but it was veiy heavy, 
 and there was such a crackling and roaring, and 
 such a heat and smoke, that I was obliged to 
 leave it behind. I am thankful that we each 
 saved a suit." 
 
 *' But you might as well have taken a work- 
 house suit too when it was offered you, as I sup- 
 pose it was." 
 
 *' It would not have been worth while, so few 
 days as we are likely to be here. My husband 
 is now out till dark, trying to get work." 
 
 " But you need not have worn the clothes 
 more than the first day, just for show ; or not 
 more than just the gown; for the governor 
 would not think of lookins: to see what sort of 
 handkerchief and petticoat and stockings you 
 had on ; and then you might have got a cup of 
 tea, which I dare say you have been used to." 
 
 " Why, I like my cup of tea as well as any 
 body ; but I suppose one must not look for such 
 a thing here. Nothing but milk-porridge of an 
 afternoon, I am told.' 
 
 " Unless you bestir yourself to get something
 
 EASE AND PLENTY. 171 
 
 better : but there are always people going out 
 and in, and your husband will be one, who can 
 settle your little matters in the village. Mrs. 
 Woollerton has no objection to changing away, 
 when one has no money; and she has taken two 
 pair of shoes of me very lately. Her gin is as 
 good as you can get, though she does not pro- 
 fess to sell it." 
 
 Mrs. Goodman thought this was taking an 
 advantage which was not meant when parish 
 clothing was given : in return for which ridi- 
 culous speech she was stared at, and asked what 
 parish relief was for but to be made the most of 
 by those to whom the law gave it. She was 
 more respectfully listened to when she doubted 
 whether such dealino-s would 2,0 on any lono-er 
 now that Woollerton was dead. As it was un- 
 derstood that most of his business was derived 
 from his being vestry-clerk, she questioned whe- 
 ther the widow would find it answer to go on 
 keeping shop, unless she married the next vestry- 
 clerk. The next vestry-clerk would probably 
 purchase the good-will of the concern, and carry 
 it on, as people seemed to think that the offices 
 of vestry-clerk and general shopkeeper must be 
 naturally and profitably conjoined in a parish 
 populous in paupers. 
 
 Woollerton dead ! This was the most impor- 
 tant piece of news that had entered the work- 
 house for many a day ; more important to the 
 paupers than Goldby's fire, since it signified far 
 less to them how the rate was raised, which 
 must be raised to support them, than whether
 
 172 THE PARISH. 
 
 they had in the vestry-clerk a friend who was in 
 their interest, in return for their patronage of his 
 shop, or a man who would retrench all needless 
 indulgences, and consider the rate-payers more 
 than the paupers. Many of the loungers in the 
 yard now began to tremble^ for their gin, their 
 tea, their tobacco ; and not a few indulged in 
 the prevalent workhouse amusement of match- 
 making: an amusement which is no where else, 
 not even in the drawing-rooms of the great, pur- 
 sued with so much eagerness and success. It 
 was presently settled that Mrs. Woollerton, who 
 knew their ways so well, should be induced to 
 marry the new vestry-clerk, if those interested 
 could gain their point of having a single man 
 put into the office. The ways and means of 
 effecting this were discussed, and the merits of 
 the few candidates who could appear were ba- 
 lanced and measured as carefully as if the 
 inmates of the workhouse had constituted an 
 elective body. 
 
 In the midst of the speculation thus excited 
 the Goodmans were forgotten, and the after- 
 noon therefore passed less strangely and uncom- 
 fortably than might have been expected. Nanny 
 turned from one baby to another, and learned a 
 great deal from the mothers that she never knew 
 before, and that excited and amused her curiosity 
 in a very agreeable way; and when tired of this 
 sort of occupation, there was Biddy to play 
 with and protect from the practical jokes of the 
 youngsters in the yard. All but their practical 
 jokes seemed to be so relished by the foolish
 
 EASE AND PLENTY. 173 
 
 object of them, that it was not for any body else 
 to quarrel with them. It was not so with all the 
 fun that was going forward. 
 
 A purblind old vToman had groped her w^ay 
 out of one and into another of the many doors 
 that opened upon the yard, to have a little chat 
 with a friend who was too lame from palsy to 
 walk about. The appearance of this old woman 
 was more respectable than that of most of the 
 paupers, though the crape on her widow's bon- 
 net was brown and fraved, and her thread- bare 
 black cloak formed a curious contrast with the 
 workhouse dress in which she was otherwise 
 clothed. 
 
 As she descended the stairs which led from the 
 chamber she had visited to the yard, the girls 
 who sat at various elevations mocked her, and 
 made believe to pull the cloak which trailed on 
 the next step above her. When she was out 
 of danger of falling, and began to grope with 
 her stick along the wall, she had as many train- 
 bearers as a princess surrounded by pages. 
 One rude boy atter another twitched a corner, or 
 came to play bo-peep under it, while their sisters 
 placed themselves in front on purpose to be run 
 against, and have cause of shrill complaint. 
 The old woman very naturally swung her staff 
 round her from time to time, as an irritated 
 horse lashes himself with his tail to get rid of the 
 flies on a July day ; but these children were as 
 nimble as flies in escaping, and as sure to return 
 and fasten upon their victim. A very aged man, 
 who had made an excursion from his seat to re- 
 
 q3
 
 174 THE PARISH. 
 
 light his pipe, came to the widow's assistance, 
 but it was httle that he could do against a gather- 
 ing tribe of mischievous children. His growling 
 was disregarded ; the old woman held by one 
 arm, and it was too much to expect that he 
 should surrender the pipe which he carried in the 
 other hand. He seemed quite as likely to be 
 twitched and made use of for bo-peep as his 
 companion, when Nanny appeared as the cham- 
 pion of both. She took upon herself the guid- 
 ance of the woman, thus setting the man at 
 liberty to kick, cufF, and growl to better purpose 
 than before ; and at length the task was happily 
 accomplished of seating the old folks one on each 
 side of Mrs. Goodman. 
 
 *' Who are you, child ?" asked the old wo- 
 man; " I do not remember your voice, and I 
 am sure from your behaviour that you have not 
 been in this place long." 
 
 *' Nor shall be long, I hope," replied Mrs. 
 Goodman, giving the heads of their story. 
 " This is a bad place for children, I see." 
 
 " And yet," said the old man, " workhouses 
 were meant for such as them and us. It seems 
 odd, but it is quite true, that none of them turn 
 out good, and none of us happy. This is not 
 what was meant when workhouses were made for 
 the helpless poor." 
 
 *' 'Tis because others besides the helpless poor 
 come into them that they don't answer," observed 
 the widow. 
 
 *' I am sure all the folks here seem helpless 
 enough," replied the man. *' There's scarce a
 
 EASE AND PLENTY. 175 
 
 man that can botch a shoe while here, or keep up 
 his credit as a hedger and ditcher when he gets 
 out again, if such a thing happens ; and as for 
 the women, they can neither spin, nor knit, nor 
 bake and brew as women did in my day." 
 
 *' That is because they are not obh'ged to do 
 such things as honest people are that live in 
 houses of their own. They would be no more help- 
 less than others if they had nobody to help them. 
 But I was speaking of those that find their eyes 
 and their feet failing them, or are too young to 
 work. A workhouse ought to be a place for 
 them to be made comfortable in, instead of such 
 a miserable den as this, where people come to 
 be plagued as soon as they are past being cor- 
 rupted." 
 
 Mrs. Goodman thought it hardly likely that 
 any who had passed the best part of their lives 
 in a home of their own should settle down 
 quietly any where else. She did not see that 
 any body was to blame for that. 
 
 " To be sure," answered the old woman, ** the 
 aged seem hardly the right persons to go and 
 live in a crowd, as my neighbour Potts says. I 
 remember finding it very teasing to have my 
 grand-children coming in and out when I lived 
 at my son's; and when the baby cried in the 
 night, I could not go to sleep again as the others 
 did. But all that was nothinfj to what we have 
 to ffo throusrh here. What with one cousrhins: 
 all night, and another that is superannuated, 
 saying her prayers aloud for hours together, and 
 the heavy tread above and below, there is no
 
 176 THE PARISH. 
 
 sleeping' in the dark or in the light. As for 
 what we meet with if we step out to speak to a 
 neighbour, you saw something of that just now. 
 I often pray the Lord to release me, and send 
 me where I may be in quiet." 
 
 " You did not give your father reason to pray 
 that prayer before you/' said the man. 
 
 *' I am thankful not to have been obliged to 
 send him from me,'' replied the woman. " He 
 was deaf, to be sure, from the time he was 
 seventy-two ; but he was not the less sensible of 
 being disturbed. I taught all my children to 
 step lightly, and the very youngest of them 
 rarely pushed against his chair. I hope he had 
 as much of quiet as the poor can well have in 
 their old age." 
 
 •' Just what you hoped and deserved to have 
 yourself," muttered the old man. 
 
 The widow's ears served her better than her 
 eyes, and she overheard the remark. She re- 
 plied that she did not wish any body to be 
 blamed for placing her in the workhouse. If 
 times were now what they had been thirty years 
 before, her son would have done for her what 
 she had done for her parent ; for he was far 
 from wanting in duty. But the more people 
 went to the workhouse, the more must go. 
 They made work scarce to independent labour- 
 ers, and wages low ; and when such labourers 
 found, as her son did, that it was all he could do 
 to maintain his own children, there was no help 
 for it, but his parents must go to the parish, and 
 take their chance with the crowd that pressed
 
 EASE AND PLENTY. 177 
 
 upon the rate. She had chosen to enter the 
 workhouse in preference to any one of the chil- 
 dren being' brought upon the rate, as it was bet- 
 ter that the aired should be made uncomfortable 
 for a Httle while before they died, than that the 
 innocent should be corrupted for life. But must 
 they be corrupted ? Mrs. Goodman asked. They 
 generally, if not always, were so, both the com- 
 panions bore testimony ; and they mentioned 
 that the foremost among the widow's tormen- 
 tors were the children of Halliday, — children as 
 innocent and well-trained as could be seen 
 when they entered the workhouse, but now given 
 to all sorts of wickedness that folks so young 
 could fall into. Mrs. Goodman thought this no 
 proof, and owned that she should expect (in case 
 of being obliged to remain longer than she hoped 
 would be necessary), to keep her young ones in 
 something of the same habits that they had been 
 brought up in at home. This reminded her 
 that it was time to call them in from play. She 
 left the old people to seek out their respective 
 corners, and called her children after her into 
 the room which she was at present allowed to 
 call their own. 
 
 *' You are tired, love," said she to her hus- 
 band that evening, as he sat waiting gloomily 
 for bed-time. 
 
 " Who would not be tired of the first day in 
 a workhouse ?" he replied. " And not a chance 
 of work do I see to get iis out of it. I have 
 applied to every body that employs any sort of 
 labourers, except two or three that I was obliged
 
 178 THE PARISH. 
 
 to leave till to-morrow. But they will not em- 
 ploy me, I know before-hand. There is not a 
 chance of work." 
 
 *' Well, we must wait patiently," answered 
 the wife. *' Meantime, we have a roof over our 
 heads, and abundance of all that we want. When 
 they have let me clean up this room (which I 
 mean to do to-morrow), we shall be more com- 
 fortable than I ever expected to be away from a 
 home of our own. And you will get up your 
 strength with eating meat every day. I have 
 been quite vmeasy about you since the tire. You 
 over-tired yourself then, and you did not eat half 
 enough at Ashly's, from consideration for him. 
 Here you will have plenty, without having occa- 
 sion to consider any body's means." 
 
 Goodman made no answer, and his wife pro - 
 ceeded to advise his going to bed, and making 
 himself easy in mind. The great step was taken, 
 and could not be retracted. They had received 
 parish relief; and now the wisest way would be 
 to make the most of it, and enjoy good shelter, 
 food, and clothing while they had it. They 
 miffht take a lesson from the children in this. 
 Once having seen what was within side the high 
 wall they had had a horror of all their lives, they 
 lost all fear, and were as merry as the wildest of 
 the workhouse children. 
 
 Goodman took his wife's advice about going 
 to bed. The rest of her counsel was adopted 
 more slowly, but not less surely. He did not 
 make himself very easy this first night, nor en- 
 tirely so the second ; but by the third, he felt the
 
 EASE AND PLENTY. 179 
 
 relief from the care of providing for his family so 
 pleasant, that he was ready to laugh at the chil- 
 dren's accounts of their frolics in the yard, and 
 to agree with his wife that it was better to wait 
 with a little patience till work turned up than to 
 tramp the whole country round, wearing out 
 shoes and strength to no purpose ; and upon 
 this conviction he went to sleep as quietly as he 
 had ever done under his own roof, in old days 
 before he went supperless to bed, wondering 
 how bread was to be found for his little tribe till 
 his next w^a2:es should come in. 
 
 Their present residence was soon made more 
 sociable and pleasant by the companionship of 
 other old acquaintances. The little Goodmans 
 had been pleased to find Biddy in the work- 
 house ; their parents were soon called upon to 
 welcome Biddy's mother and brother. The beer- 
 shop had become such an intolerable nuisance, 
 through the meetings held there since the fires, 
 that Dr. Warrener had executed his threat of 
 ejecting Mrs. Brand for keeping a disorderly 
 house. She had immediately decided on com- 
 ing into the workhouse till after her confinement, 
 hoping that Wilde would by that time be out of 
 prison, and ready to marry her, and being at a 
 loss what to do with her hopeful son Peter, in 
 the meanwhile, in a home of her own. She had 
 had no heart for her business since Wilde's ad- 
 venture ; and had not, she declared, had a mo- 
 ment's peace for weeks till now. Now she was 
 fully prepared to expatiate with the Goodmans 
 on the comfort of being provided for without
 
 180 THE PARISH. 
 
 care or trouble, and letting the world wag with- 
 out doors, as long- as they had their mutton and 
 beer and mirth within. 
 
 Widow Brand had never been so courted in 
 her prosperous days as she was now in her pau- 
 per-state. She had not yet disclosed who was 
 the father of her unborn child ; and many in- 
 mates of the workhouse, who were on the 
 watch for every opportunity of getting indul- 
 gences, and who thought that the real father 
 might be disposed to lay down a sum, in con- 
 sideration of being relieved from all danger of 
 future demands for the maintenance of his child, 
 asked a recompense for the loan of their names. 
 This loan of names was merely an empty cere- 
 mony, as all parties knew perfectly well that the 
 overseer would never be able to recover a 
 shilling. Three pounds and a treat were the 
 terms proposed at first. They were brought 
 down to a sovereign, and pipe and porter ; but 
 in vain. The widow said that the real father 
 would appear all in good time, and that there 
 was no occasion to take a false oath unless it 
 was necessary. 
 
 Mrs. Brand observed to her sister Jemima, 
 what a pity it was that some of these people had 
 not come in her way before she had gone so far 
 as to swear her child to James Beaver. It 
 would have answered the purpose of screening 
 Jay just as well, and have spared the poor 
 youth's name. Jemima answered hotly, that it 
 would not have answered her purpose equally 
 well, at least if there had been any calculating
 
 EASE AND PLENTY. 181 
 
 upon Beaver, as there was upon most young men 
 new to the world. But he was so perverse, there 
 was no knowing what to make of him. 
 
 " O, you thought you should make him marry 
 vou, and he won't. Well, vou had better jret one 
 of these people to be your husband. They seem 
 to be verv read v.'' 
 
 Jemima tossed back her head, and observed 
 that there was no need for her to go about 
 beaaiua' for a husband. There was one that 
 was ready to take her to-morrow, if the squire 
 had not laid him fast ; and he would marry her 
 the first day he came out of prison, if she would 
 promise (which she was quite disposed to do) to 
 have no silly high notions about hving out of the 
 workhouse, at any rate till they had children 
 enough to set better wao-es from the farmers than 
 he had ever obtained as a single man, and a 
 comfortable allowance from the parish for their 
 family. 
 
 Just as Mrs. Brand was going to explain that 
 this was much like her own case, Jemima ob- 
 served her countenance change, and following the 
 direction of her eye, saw that Ruth was being 
 shown in by the porter. 
 
 Mrs. Goldby herself would hardly have won- 
 dered at Ruth's being tearful now. 
 
 " O, mother !" she cried, " how long must you 
 be in this place?" 
 
 " Till you have to come here to her. Miss 
 Ruth, I dare say, for all your high notions," cried 
 aunt Jemima. " You thought to be Mrs, James 
 Beaver by and bye, and keep a pretty shop. 
 
 R
 
 182 THE PARISH. 
 
 But your management will come to nothing, and 
 Mrs. James Beaver you never will be," 
 
 " I know it — I know it/' murmured Ruth, 
 amidst a torrent of tears. " I did not think he 
 could ever have been so bad — so very wicked." 
 
 " O, it is very pretty to talk of his being bad ! 
 You would have had him, for all his badness, if 
 you could. But I'm glad you know you can't. 
 Who told you the story, my dear ? O, your mo- 
 ther does not know it, I see." 
 
 And the tormentor proceeded to relate that 
 Beaver had engaged himself to a very poor girl 
 in the next parish, whom he meant to marry as 
 soon as his apprenticeship was up. Some people 
 thought it was a fine thing to do, to bring a wife 
 upon the parish in retaliation for the parish having 
 ascribed a child to him. Jemima said nothing 
 of the opinions of others, that he had rashly 
 engaged himself in self-defence, to avoid Jemi- 
 ma's solicitations to go to the altar, and the prac- 
 tices of the master who would have made him a 
 tool in his schemes, and the screen of his vices. 
 Mrs. Brand could not help wishing that, whether 
 or not he had erred in the way imputed to him, 
 Ruth had been the one to whom he had engaged 
 himself; but neither of the young people once 
 thought of this. Ruth had no other idea than 
 that all was over, fiom the moment she heard 
 what had taken place in the justice-room, at the 
 beginning of the winter. As for Beaver, he had 
 never since lifted up his eyes to Ruth ; and had 
 cast about for a very different though not a posi- 
 tively disreputable person, when he sought to
 
 EASE AND PLENTY. 183 
 
 engag-e himself for the purpose of being able to 
 say that he had done so. 
 
 As it was not the pleasantest thing in the 
 world to stand crying in the workhouse-yard, 
 stared at by a crowd of paupers, and as her feel- 
 ings, under insult and affliction, could not be 
 immediately restrained, Ruth looked hastily about 
 for some corner where she mio'ht hide herself 
 from the many eyes that were upon her, and 
 from the tongue of her affectionate aunt. Her 
 mother aided her by askino; her to "'o and see the 
 Goodmans, who would be wishing to know some- 
 thing of their late master and his family. 
 
 " Why, bless me ! look at poor Ruth !" cried 
 Mrs. Goodman as they entered. " Sit down, 
 my dear,'* she continued, "till my husband and 
 the overseer have done talking. What a pity 
 it is that you distress yourself so about your 
 mother ! I could have cried like you at first 
 coming in, but indeed it is not half so bad as 
 you think, when the first feeling is over." 
 
 It appeared from what was overheard of the 
 conversation at the opposite side of the room, 
 that the overseer found the whole family only too 
 ready to agree that the workhouse " is not so bad 
 as people think, when the first feeling is over." 
 
 " To be sure, farmer Jones's is not such work 
 or such wages as you would prefer, if you could 
 pick and choose," the overseer was heard to 
 say ; " but it is such as would have prevented 
 your coming here, if it had been offered the 
 day after the fire. You had better be off with- 
 out delay, and make sure of it/*
 
 184 THE PARISH, 
 
 *' I'Jl just step to Ashly's, if you please, sir, 
 and tell him of it. He has been out of work 
 long'er than I. I am sure he would be very 
 glad of it." 
 
 " No doubt he would ; but what have we to 
 do with Ashly? He is an independent man." 
 
 " He was, sir ; but the Benefit Club is broken 
 up by Goldby's failure ; and it was that club that 
 helped Ashly to hold up his head all this time. 
 Unless something- offers, he must soon be on 
 the parish ; and, as I am so already, I should wish 
 to give up the work to him, sir, if you please." 
 
 " It pleases you to be very kind to Ashly, I 
 see,'' replied the overseer; " but I must please 
 to do the best I can for the parish. If Ashly 
 has to come upon the rate in the end, we can't 
 help it ; but that is not the case yet ; and we 
 must provide first for those we have upon our 
 hands already." 
 
 Goodman seemed to have several other ob- 
 jections to make, in the midst of which, Donkin 
 cut him short, remarking; that the family had 
 been treated with particular consideration while 
 they had been known to be accidentally de- 
 prived of work. The case would be quite altered, 
 however, if they refused employment. For the 
 little time which would elapse before they would 
 be turned out, they must be reduced to the level 
 of the other paupers, eating in the common 
 room, and mixing- at all times with their fellow- 
 inmates of the workhouse. — Goodman seemed 
 a little impressed by this, but had some remark 
 to make about the necessity of an allowance
 
 EASE AND PLENTY. 185 
 
 from the parish, in addition to the promised 
 
 wages. 
 
 " Well, you know I gave you to expect some 
 allowance ; and if, as you say, you must have 
 money to begin with, you can take a month's 
 allowance in a lump to-day. Only you must be 
 sure and remember that vou have had it for a 
 month to come." 
 
 Donkin would not stav lons^er than to sav that 
 he expected to see Goodman presently, to receive 
 the promised money as he went to his work, 
 
 Ruth made haste to help Mrs. Goodman to 
 collect the children, and the few articles of pro- 
 perty they had carried in with them. She was so 
 happy on their account at their release, and had 
 so little doubt that her master and mistress 
 would be so too, that she could not understand 
 the apathy with which they moved to the gate. 
 She took the opportunity of slipping out with 
 them, and was amazed to see them turn their 
 backs unwillino-lv on the \\\^\\ wall, and meet 
 the free air and sunshine with faces of g-reater 
 anxiety than they had worn in what she felt to 
 be the dismal and disgusting restraint of pau- 
 perism. — She hoped that if the day should ever 
 come when she mi2:ht release her mother from 
 this hateful place, she should see more satisfac- 
 tion in the change ; meanwhile, she determined 
 to deposit where she knew they would be wel- 
 come the tidings of Goodman's having got em- 
 ployment, and accordingly quickened lier pace 
 that she might have time to look in at Ashly's 
 on her way home. 
 
 R 3
 
 186 THE PARISH. 
 
 Chapter XI. 
 THE MILE CROSS. 
 
 A LITTLE time decided the question whether Ashly 
 was more or less in want than Goodman of the 
 work which the latter would have declined for his 
 sake. While Goodman could sink no lower than 
 he was, Ashly had already begun to rise, though 
 deprived of the resource of the club to which he 
 had long subscribed, and from which he reason- 
 ably expected relief in all times of pressing need. 
 The death of the vestry-clerk removed the unfair 
 disadvantage under which Ashly's little shop had 
 hitherto suffered, and customers began to multi- 
 ply just when their custom had become absolutely 
 necessary to save this good man and his family 
 from the disgrace and misery of pauperism. In 
 the interval between the death of VVooUerton and 
 the appointment of his successor, the buyers of 
 the village discovered that it was much pleasanter 
 to purchase with the simple view of furnishing 
 one's self with what one wants, and therefore to 
 be at liberty to get good articles cheap instead of 
 bad articles dear, than to buy with a view of 
 patronizing and being patronized. Some had 
 tried the experiment of steahng to Thorpe Cor- 
 ner, and furnishing themselves with good butter 
 and well-made candles, without publishing the 
 fact that they had changed their dealer ; but it 
 did not answer. WooUerton always detected the
 
 THE MILE CROSS. 187 
 
 proceeding ; and if the tenants were not penitent 
 on heins: taxed with it, thev were made to fear 
 the effects on their own interests after the next 
 vestry meeting : and could propitiate the potential 
 clerk only by purchasing an unusual quantity of 
 rancid butter, and of candles that ran down in 
 the burning as if they were warm out of the 
 chandler's trouo;h. It was a matter of wonder to 
 many how so busy a person as Woollerton could 
 bear in mind when one family ought to be out of 
 soap, and how long another had been without 
 buvino: cheese, and that a third must have left off 
 tea, or dared to buv it elsewhere. From such 
 super\-ision they were now freed, (for no one 
 feared Mrs. "Woollerton, as unconnected with her 
 husband's office. She might scold as she pleased ; 
 the tongue of a pauper can match that of a jobber 
 at any time) ; and this freedom was some conso- 
 lation for the interruption in the even course of 
 rate-receivinnr for which thev had been obliged to 
 their official advocate. 
 
 The little green recess at Thorpe Corner was 
 now no longer the quiet place it had been when 
 only a stray labourer or chance customer crossed 
 the three-cornered grass-plot. Men and women 
 came, some with basins, and some with dishes ; 
 while children who could not be trusted with 
 earthenware were bid to bring the bacon or the 
 butter in brown paper ; the mother observing 
 that if they did let either substance down in the 
 dust, it would not signify, hke breaking what cost 
 more than they went to buy. Susan, having 
 discovered this principle of management, became
 
 188 THE PARISH. 
 
 very careful to wrap up her ounces and quarter 
 pounds so as to leave no folds open, that her 
 butter might not be pronounced soiled, or her 
 bacon gritty. Her pauper customers were, how- 
 ever, disappointed at finding that their shopping, 
 however freed Trom restriction, was now placed 
 on a new principle. The chijdren were sent 
 back without that which they came for, unless 
 they brought their halfpence in hand ; and their 
 parents were asked whether it was reasonable to 
 expect to be cheaply served except for ready 
 money. If Ashly had consented, like Wooller- 
 ton, to take the chance of two out of four cus- 
 tomers paying their scores, and of that payment 
 taking place many months after the purchase, 
 Ashly must, like Woollerton, have charged a 
 higher price for worse goods. This very much 
 altered the paupers' view of the case ; and many 
 of them could not submit to the preposterous 
 inconvenience of paying Ashly in the same way 
 as Ashly paid the wholesale dealer from whom 
 he purchased his stock. 
 
 This class of customers Ashlv was content to 
 dismiss after a single visit. Those who remained 
 were enough to occupy Susan's time whenever 
 her father should happily be again employed at 
 out-door work ; a time to which he looked for- 
 ward with the greater confidence as his domestic 
 concerns improved. He had the good-will of 
 the paupers who had been made so by the pres- 
 sure upon the rate of such as chose to be a bur- 
 den. He had the good-will of all the economical 
 and prudent — that is, of most of the independent
 
 THE MILE CROSS. 189 
 
 labourers of the place ; and these were enough to 
 support a small and safe concern like his. 
 
 As the spring: advanced, a new set of custom- 
 ers appeared to benefit him by the custom which 
 
 they withdrew from the grocer at Y . 
 
 Mrs. Goldby was known to purchase at Y 
 
 the groceries for her large establishment in 
 wholesale quantities ; and it was therefore w^ith 
 some surprise that Susan Ashly found herself 
 called upon one day to serve her friend Ruth 
 with some articles for the farm-kitchen. She 
 ventured to recommend some other articles, in 
 case of Mrs. Goldbv beins: in want of them also 
 before she had occasion to send to Y . 
 
 " We are not ffoinsc to send any where but 
 here for our groceries, for the little time we re- 
 main at the farm,'' said Ruth. " The family is 
 so small, and we are going so soon, that my 
 mistress says she shall buy what she wants of 
 you, if you serve her as well as you serve other 
 people." 
 
 Susan curtsied, as if Mrs. Goldby had been 
 present while she answered. 
 
 " No doubt of that. We serve all alike — all 
 as well as we can afford. But how is the family 
 smaller than it was ? I thought there was as 
 much brown sugar used in the farm in one day 
 as any one of our sugar-boxes will hold.'* 
 
 *' There used to be, in the middle of winter,'' 
 replied Ruth ; '* but the farm-servants have all 
 taken a fancy to go away this spring, as they did 
 last. My mistress says that if we were to stay 
 another winter "
 
 190 THE PARISH, 
 
 " So you are really going- before winter !'' 
 
 " Before winter, yes ! We quit the farm at 
 Midsummer ; and my mistress says the men 
 might have had the grace to stay till that time, 
 considering how comfortably they have been 
 housed through the worst part of the year, when 
 they would most likely have been out of work. 
 My master reasonably looks, she says, to being 
 well served through the year by those he keeps 
 on through the winter; instead of which, at the 
 first word they hear of higher wages when the 
 busy spring time comes on, off they go ; one this 
 way, and another that, without thinking of my 
 master's convenience, or how they leave his work 
 to a set of pauper-labourers who do not care 
 whether they do it well or ill, or whether it is 
 done at all," 
 
 "' 1 am afraid you are all rather downhearted 
 still at the farm," observed Susan. 
 
 " We should be, if we were going to stay," 
 replied Ruth. " But both master and mistress 
 hope more from moving than they could ever 
 have got by staying ; and the labourers that stay 
 are not sorry to look for a rich farmer in the 
 place of one who has grown so poor as master." 
 
 " I hope the rich one won't grow poor in 
 time, like Mr. Goldby, as I heard father saying 
 last night," observed Susan ; to which her friend 
 answered, that Goldby wished his successor 
 might do what he himself ought to have done 
 long before — -look into the condition of the pau- 
 pers and the rate before he settled, and come to 
 an understanding with the parish that its affairs
 
 THE MILE CROSS. 191 
 
 should be better managed than to involve the 
 ruin of the resident farmers. He himself meant 
 to choose his future residence with a view to this 
 as much as to any other circumstance whatever. 
 He would rather never set foot in a ploughed 
 field again than be pauper-ridden as he had been 
 to his ruin at Thorpe. He hoped the people 
 most in fault would now be made to reconsider 
 their methods ; if not, this farm and every other 
 that might become vacant would remain unlet, 
 and the appropriate punishment would fall upon 
 the parish of having no land-occupiers to help to 
 support its poor, or (as Ruth expressed it after 
 her own manner) the paupers must live without 
 the rate, as the little shopkeepers could not pay 
 it without the farmers to help them. 
 
 "■ Now tell me, Ruth,'' said her friend, " what 
 do you feel about going away ? Do you go by 
 choice, or had you rather stay ?" 
 
 " O, I cant stop and tell you all about that 
 now," said Ruth, in some agitation. " It is bel- 
 ter for me to go, and my mistress is very kind in 
 thinking so, and in taking me with her at the 
 first word that was said to her about it." 
 
 " And who spoke to her about you ?" 
 
 " My mother was unwilling I should stay any 
 longer," replied Ruth, in a tone of deep distress ; 
 " and Dr. Warrener said something too which 
 made my mistress speak like a mother to me 
 about staying in a respectable service with small 
 wages, rather than being cast adrift as I might be 
 
 if . However, I am to stay with mistress, 
 
 whether master goes into one of the small red
 
 192 THE PARISH. 
 
 houses in the street, or (which is more Hkely) 
 into a farm in some other parish. He would not 
 farm again in this parish, managed as it is, for 
 five hundred pounds given him at the end of 
 every year, he says. But let me have my parcel. 
 I must go." 
 
 *' Be sure you tell me when you know where 
 you are to go," was Susan's parting injunction, 
 as a new customer appeared to take Ruth's place 
 at the counter. This new customer was one of 
 the labourers who had left Mr. Goldby for the 
 sake of more profitable work. He and the com- 
 panions who had quitted the farmer's roof must 
 now board themselves; and all who paid regu- 
 larly were added to the list of Susan's customers. 
 Some of her neighbours congratulated her on the 
 benefit her business derived from more money 
 being spent by eight persons buying their groce- 
 ries separately at a small retail shop, than by 
 one of the eight purchasing the total required 
 quantity at wholesale prices ; but Susan had 
 grown shrewd enough to see that this was not an 
 unmixed advantage, even to her shop. She would 
 rather that the groceries should have cost no 
 more than formerly, and that the surplus expen- 
 diture should have been given to her father as 
 wages, in return for the labour he was willing to 
 bestow on the good land which Goldby was 
 obliged, for want of capital, to let out of cultiva- 
 tion. There was another way too of putting the 
 case. The funds of the Benefit Club were mixed 
 up with Goldby 's capital, and had vanished away 
 with it ; so that every waste of that capital, whe-
 
 THE MILE CROSS. 193 
 
 ther it was lavished on idle consumers, or thrust 
 into the pocket of the small retail dealer, might 
 be regarded as the misapplied expenditure of the 
 funds of the club. Susan would much rather 
 have seen her father enjoying the assistance 
 which was his due from the society, than receive 
 any remnant of its ruined funds in the form of 
 increased custom. 
 
 Her father had had a good deal of conversa- 
 tion with Dr. Warrener on the practicability of 
 re-establishing this club on the dividend which 
 might be expected to remain after the settlement 
 of Goldby's affairs. Dr. Warrener had pointed 
 out to him what improvements had taken place 
 in the constitution and management of such 
 societies since the one in question was founded, 
 and had shown and explained to him tables, 
 from which it appeared that if a few young men 
 would join the former members, the contribu- 
 tions of the whole, with the dividend, would be 
 sufficient to re-establish the society on a safe 
 footing. Ashly was this morning gone in search 
 of his friend Goodman, to run over with him the 
 names of the young men in the parish who would 
 be most likely to join, and to whom the proposal 
 should first be made. The difficulty was, that 
 the single men among the labourers were paid so 
 much less for their labour than the married that 
 there was a direct temptation to them to marry. 
 It was no easy matter to find a single man of the 
 labouring class who could or did support himself 
 without parish assistance ; and still less easy to 
 find a married man who did not ridicule the idea
 
 194 THE PARISH. 
 
 of his beginning to subscribe to a benefit club 
 after he had begun to have a family, and in such 
 unpromising times. Still Ashly thought it hardly 
 possible that the number should be so very small 
 as Dr. Warrener and he had made it out to be ; 
 and he wished to see whether the Goodmans 
 could not help him to enlarge it. 
 
 He went to the place where he expected to 
 find Goodman at work, at the distance of a few 
 miles fiom Thorpe. Goodman was gone, having 
 that day thrown up his work from discontent 
 with his wages. Ashly then proceeded to the 
 single room where the family had lodged since 
 leaving the workhouse. They had paid their 
 landlord two hours before, and departed — 
 whither, the people of the place did not know, 
 but they had turned up the higher road to 
 Thorpe. 
 
 Along the upper road, therefore, Ashly re- 
 turned, having come by the lower. He perceived 
 no traces of those he was in search of till he 
 arrived within sight of the Mile Cross, on the 
 heath. There, from a distance, he saw Good- 
 man lying along the highest of the three steps, 
 with his hat over his eyes, as if to shade them 
 from the yellow sunshine of a spring afternoon. 
 His wife looked scarcely less lazy. If she was 
 doing any thing, it was picking out a weed here 
 and there from the crevices of the stone. The 
 children were jumping over the lengthening sha- 
 dow — the little ones, of the shaft — the bigger 
 ones, of the cross beam. Tlie wealthiest nobles 
 of the land could not have looked more free from
 
 THE MILE CROSS. 195 
 
 worldly care than this group would have appeared 
 to a careless eye. A foreigner travelling' by 
 would have had them down in his note or sketch 
 book in a trice, as an out- standing specimen of the 
 once- envied English peasantry. Ashly was far 
 from contemplating them in any such light. He 
 knew too well how small must be the utmost 
 degree of ease and happiness which a man in his 
 friend's circumstances could enjoy, to be misled 
 by the outward show of an hour's leisure on a 
 sun-shiny afternoon. 
 
 He came close up to the group before he was 
 perceived ; and then Goodman did not seem in 
 over haste to uncover his eyes. 
 
 " What a hunt I have had !" cried Ashly. 
 " T have gone just four miles round af\er you. 
 But one might easily have had a worse day for 
 the walk ; and a worse seat to rest on at the end 
 of it," he continued, placing himself next Good- 
 man, and taking off his hat, while he faced the 
 mild breeze. 
 
 " What could you want with me, to give your- 
 self so much trouble?" asked Goodman. 
 
 Ashly related his business, and began counting 
 on his fingers the men who might, he thought, 
 become members of the club. Goodman inter- 
 rupted him with the news that he did not know 
 what he was talking about. One, and another, 
 and another, of tliese very men had thought it a 
 ffood thino; for the societv when the treasurer 
 failed, as the members got less from the funds, 
 after subscribing for years, than they might have 
 from the parish without subscribing at all.
 
 196 THE PARISH. 
 
 *' You will not get one of those you mention 
 to join you," he concluded. 
 
 " You don't consider the difference between 
 saving' up capital and taking charity," said Aslily, 
 astonished at his friend's line of argument. 
 
 " O, yes ; there is a difference ; (though one 
 would not call parish assistance charity, since it 
 is provided bylaw ;) but men cannot stop to con- 
 sider such differences in times like these. They 
 must bring down their pride, and live as they can. 
 That pride is a sort of delusion, after all, which a 
 poor man cannot indulge in these days," 
 
 " A sort of delusion 1" cried Ashly, starting up 
 and putting on his hat. " Is it a delusion that 
 I stand here a happier (I don't mean a better) 
 man than you, because I can stretch out my 
 hands and say, ' Not a penny of another man's 
 money has touched these palms ?' Is it a mis- 
 take to think that my children look up to their 
 superiors with different eyes from the litlle crea- 
 tures that live on charity ; neither downcast like 
 the humbled, nor bold like the hardened ? Is it 
 not true that all the care, and hunger, and disap- 
 pointment that I and mine have gone through, 
 are easier to bear than the orders of parish bene- 
 factors, and the being mixed up with the bad and 
 the despised? Here I stand, and I defy any 
 body to despise me. I could set my children in 
 the middle of the church aisle, and dare any one 
 to throw a taunt at them about the place they 
 hold in society. There may be some wiser ; 
 there may be many richer ; but there are none 
 more honourable. Is it a delusion that there is
 
 THE MILE CROSS. 197 
 
 comfort in feeling this ? I beg- your pardon, 
 friend," he added, seeing; Goodman shut his eyes, 
 as if wanting to go to sleep again ; " I beg your 
 pardon for saying all this to you. But it was 
 throuah misfortune and not fault that vou were 
 reduced ; and I did not mean to make out that 
 I was any better than you, — only happier. And 
 I should not have said a word about it, if you 
 had not let drop something very unhke yourself, 
 Goodman." 
 
 Goodman did not know that he had said any 
 thing that he did not think. He had tried the 
 two ways of living, and so, ought to know ; and 
 he was ready to declare that he had had more 
 pain and trouble to provide for his family for the 
 last week, than he was likely ever again to meet 
 with in the workhouse, once having got over the 
 dread of going in. 
 
 " You don't mean that vou are o'oino: into the 
 workhouse any more ! ' cried Ashly, in fear of 
 the answer. 
 
 " O yes, we are going there now ; and so we 
 are making the most of the last free afternoon we 
 shall have. The worst of a workhouse is, that 
 one can't go out and come in when one likes. 
 It is better in our workhouse than in manv, the 
 governor not being particular as long as one is 
 within the court by bed-time ; but it costs some- 
 thing to get over the shyness of asking leave to 
 set foot beyond the threshold." 
 
 Ashly hoped tliat if it should ever be his lot to 
 be driven into a workhouse, he should never get 
 over this shyness. He had rather be fixed in his 
 
 s3
 
 198 THE PARISH, 
 
 bed by rheumatism than ranj^e about by the suf- 
 ferance of those to whom he had surrendered his 
 hberty in exchan<»;e for charity-bread. But was 
 it really true that tlie Goodmans had given up 
 the struggle for which they had so long been 
 honoured by those whose respect was worth 
 having ? Was the workhouse to be really their 
 home ? 
 
 " Why, yes," said Goodman. " I am quite 
 tired out with seeing my neighbours helped with 
 whatever they chose to ask, while I was left to 
 labour and strive as I might. 1 he only fair 
 thing is to share one with another ; and so you 
 will come to think in time, neighbour." 
 
 " By that time there will be nothing left to 
 share. I thought you knew, Goodman, that the 
 help that was given to your neighbours was the 
 very cause of your difficulties." 
 
 " To be sure I do : that is the very thing I 
 have been complaining of all this time. There 
 is Wilde ; but they gave him such low wages, I 
 don't see how he was to do without help. Then 
 there is Tims : he has had a mint of money 
 from the parish ; and the more he and his family 
 got, the lower my wages fell. And now Sewell 
 is come upon the rate, for all his pretty legacy ; 
 and the Bloggs are talking of making a claim ; 
 and, among ihem, they will drive independent 
 labourers out of the place to seek work ; and 
 there is no help for it but doing as others do. 
 So we are going to the workhouse now ; and, 
 wife, it is time we were on the foot again, judging 
 by yon shadow."
 
 THE MILE CROSS. 199 
 
 " But don't you see," cried Ashly, seizin*^ him 
 bv the button ; *' don't vousee that vou are doina: 
 the very thing; you complain of others for doing-? 
 Yoic help to leave the independent labourer no 
 chance. You do your best to destroy the sub- 
 stance we all depend on. Yoii will carry another 
 family into pauperism in your train, and they 
 will carry more ; and so all will become paupers, 
 and nothing- will be left." 
 
 Goodman twitched away his button, and bade 
 Ashly call the spoilers to account who had burned 
 him out of house, and home, and work : and if, 
 as wise people said, these spoilers were made 
 such by parish abuses, let him go and call the 
 officers to account. All he had to do with was 
 getting bread for his children while it was to be 
 had ; and so he was on his way to the workhouse. 
 
 " But you can get bread in other ways," cried 
 Ashly. " You had work this morning-, and have 
 thrown it up. And I know that money was 
 given you to begin with, in the belief that you 
 would ask no more." 
 
 " I can't help what they chose to believe," 
 replied Goodman. " Their money and my four- 
 teen hours' work a day would not buy such meat 
 and beer as we shall have to-morrow without 
 toil and trouble. And if the time ever comes, 
 as you seem to think it will, when there will be 
 little meat and beer for any body, I can hardly 
 be worse off than I should be now as an inde- 
 pendent labourer. So I shall get what 1 can in 
 the meanwhile, and trust for the future." 
 
 " Trust ! Aye, this is the use people make of
 
 200 THE PARISH. 
 
 the word trust !" said Ashly. " The squire 
 trusts that the paupers will grow fewer by 
 miracle, I suppose, for nobody sees how it is to 
 happen in any other way, if we go on as we do. 
 The vestry trust that the rate will not go on 
 increasing-, though they encourage every body 
 round to come and take a share. They trust 
 that vagrants will leave off coming, though they 
 prepare pence and open a lodging for them. 
 They have trusted that you would keep your 
 family clear of the parish, while they have done 
 their utmost to break down the principle and 
 feelings which kept you independent. And now, 
 here are you trusting that ruin will not come, 
 when you are snatching bread from the mouth of 
 him who has earned it, and robbing the pockets 
 of those whose substance is our only resource. 
 O, I am sick of the word in such mouths !" 
 
 " I am sure," interposed Mrs. Goodman, " I 
 have never heard even the clero-vman talk more 
 of trust than I have heard from you. When my 
 Nanny had the fever, and you came and held 
 her in her ravings, you bade me trust that she 
 would get well if we followed the doctor's orders. 
 And when you ran in to tell us of the fire, you 
 said you trusted the children would all be got out 
 safe. And you are for ever bidding Susan trust 
 that you will all do well in time : and now you talk 
 against my husband for using the same word." 
 
 *' But how does he use it ? I might as well 
 have trusted that Nanny would recover if you 
 gave her poison, or that your children would be 
 saved if nobody went into your burning house
 
 THE MILE CROSS. 201 
 
 to wake them, or that my family would prosper 
 if Susan took to cheating and I to drinking, as 
 that our parish will not be ruined by all its 
 labourers becoming: paupers. The Bible tells us 
 that not a sparrow falls unless God wills it ; but 
 no bible reader expects that the sparrow will 
 hold on its flight when a shot has broken its 
 wing. You and I may trust that Providence 
 will not let us fall into degradation and poverty, 
 but then we must try to keep above them. If 
 we plunge into them, we may wait long enough 
 for a miracle to lift us out." 
 
 Goodman meanwhile was summoning the 
 children from their play, and preparing to go. 
 He muttered so as to be scarcely understood, that 
 he did not expect ever to have heard such harsh 
 words from an old friend like Ashly. 
 
 " It is because I am such an old friend that I 
 speak as I do," said Ashly. " I am too much 
 bound to you, Goodman, to see you acting unlike 
 yourself without being hurt, and telling you that 
 I am." 
 
 Goodman did not see that any body was so 
 bound to him as to have any thing to do with 
 his affairs. 
 
 " Yes, I and mine are," replied Ashly. " Did 
 not you walk ten miles to bring a doctor to my 
 Mary ? And did not you send in your wife to 
 nurse her to the last, and carry her head to the 
 grave yourself? And have not we worked 
 together at one another's thatch and palings, and 
 got a laugh out of one another many a day when 
 our hearts were heavy ? And have not we agreed
 
 202 THE PARISH. 
 
 a hundred times that if we could keep the over- 
 seer from setting- foot in Thorpe Corner, we could 
 and would struggle on, upholding each other ? 
 And now, you can struggle on, and you will 
 not ; and yet you complain that I am hurt." 
 
 Goodman smiled painfully, and said that it 
 was easy for those who felt themselves getting 
 up in the world to lecture their old companions : 
 it was the way of the world. Ashly resented 
 this speech ; Goodman grew angry ; his wife 
 began to scold ; Ashly raised his voice to make 
 himself heard above the din. The noise reached 
 the neighbouring gravel-pit, where the workhouse 
 labourers were employed, or unemployed. They 
 came pouring over the ridge which hid the pit 
 from sight, to enjoy the quarrel, and exalt it, if 
 possible, into a fight. As soon as they gathered 
 an idea of the subject of dispute, they took part 
 in it so far as to bear down Ashly to the utmost. 
 He had too long and stoutly testified his opinions 
 about a parish maintenance to leave himself any 
 friends among the paupers ; and they were 
 delighted to have now found an opportimity of 
 exasperating and insulting him. At every word 
 of Goodman's they slapped the knee and cheered, 
 pressing closer and closer round Ashly to see 
 how he bore it. At every word of his they 
 jeered and mimicked, and the louder he spoke, 
 the more noisily they laughed. He might soon 
 have so far forgotten himself as to strike a blow, 
 lithe tormentors arovuid had not begun to form 
 .Themselves into a ring, and given signs of a 
 wish to bring the strife to this point.
 
 THE MILE CROSS. 203 
 
 " I cannot fight you, Goodman," cried Ashly. 
 " I cannot make sport for these people with an 
 old friend. Follow me to some place where they 
 cannot come." 
 
 And he broke through the circle, threw off the 
 meddlers who would have brought him back, 
 and turned only once, and for an instant, when 
 the word " coward" was shouted atter him. 
 Goodman was then standing irresolute, his wife 
 holdinnr him back bv one arm, and a stout 
 pauper or two pushing him on from behind. 
 
 " If he does not follow me this instant," said 
 Ashly to himself, " I have lost him for ever." 
 Hearing no rapid steps behind him, he strode 
 on with a swelling heart : — but Goodman was 
 not to be his enemy for ever. 
 
 As soon as he had turned his back, Goodman 
 began looking from one to another for that 
 praise and justification of what he had said and 
 done which he could not find in himself. Every 
 body was ready to welcome him into tlie pauper 
 fraternity, and to assure him that it was hio^h 
 time to break partnership, as to high notions, 
 with Ashly. But when they went on to plunge 
 into the gratuitous abuse of his friend, which, in 
 a crowd of this character, waxes more offensive 
 every moment, they became too disgusting for 
 even Goodman's anger to endure. When he was 
 told that Ashly was no better than Woollerton, 
 unless a sanctified cheat is better than a bare- 
 faced one ; that he was a sneaking informer 
 against pauper frolics, and moreover knew more 
 of Goldby's fire than he chose to tell, Goodman
 
 204 THE PARISH. 
 
 broke from the railers, Hed after Ashly, seized 
 his hand in full view of the mob, and was evi- 
 dently offering' peace, 
 
 " If we were alone," was Ashly's reply to his 
 gesture, " I would take your arm and never 
 think of the matter again. But how can I be 
 friends with you in a moment, when you have 
 set me up alone to be scoffed at for holding 
 principles which I know to be right? I would 
 have walked with you to the workhouse gate, 
 and set your children within it with my own 
 hands, for friendship's sake ; but I cannot, in 
 the face of these paupers, so appear to give up 
 my principles." 
 
 Goodman would have allured him on, but he 
 stood firm, saying, — 
 
 " Remember, neighbour, you now belong to 
 the many, and I stand alone. When you were 
 on my side, you might have done any thing with 
 me. But you have chosen to leave me alone, 
 and I shall act for myself. I will not quarrel 
 with you, as I said before; but not a step fur- 
 ther will I move on this path. Farewell, Good- 
 man. If ever you wish to come and see me, 
 you will always be welcome ; and only let me 
 know when you are in distress : but you will 
 not expect me to visit you in the workhouse, un- 
 less you were one of the impotent people for 
 whom the workhouse was provided. Farewell, 
 neighbour." 
 
 The wife and children had now come up, and 
 the pauper crew stood at a distance, looking on. 
 They saw Ashly help Goodman to swing upon
 
 THE MILE CROSS. 205 
 
 his shoulder the basket his wife had brought 
 after him. They saw Ashly kiss the children, 
 and shake hands with Mrs. Goodman, and then 
 strike across a knoll on the heath, in an opposite 
 direction from that in which the pauper family 
 slug-g'ishly pursued their way. 
 
 When nothing more was to be seen, the dis- 
 appointed rabble dropped back into the gravel- 
 pit to recover their coats and tools before pro- 
 ceedino- to the villao-e for their evening; carouse. 
 They murmured at the want of spirit of both the 
 disputants, and pictured to one another the de- 
 hght that it would have been to see Ashly well 
 drubbed. The place being soon left clear by 
 his tormentors, Ashly repaired by a circuit to the 
 Mile Cross, and disconsolatelv laid himself down 
 where Goodman had been lying just before. 
 He charged the pauper system, which he had 
 always considered the bane of his parish, with 
 the breach of an old and much-tried friendship ; 
 and revolved in his aching mind all the instances 
 in which he and his friend had been that sup- 
 port and comfort to each other which they could 
 never be again. The sun went down before 
 his thoughts settled upon any other aspect of the 
 circumstance =;. When the dew befiran to fall 
 chilly upon his face, he bethought himself of 
 home, and, starting up, felt a thrill of joyful 
 pride animate his reflection, that if he was alone, 
 his lonehness was not forlorn. It was for those 
 who had lost their own self-respect to feel 
 forlorn.
 
 206 THE PARISH. 
 
 Chapter XII. 
 
 TRY AGAIN. 
 
 The church at Thorpe was seldom so well filled 
 as one Sunday this summer, — the last Sunday 
 in. June. Mr. Goldby was to depart the next 
 day, and many friends wished to bid him fare- 
 well. The rector had returned after another 
 journey which his health had obliged him to 
 take. He would preach, if able; and if not, 
 would certainly be present ; and not only all the 
 more conscientious part of the parishioners went, 
 but several of the careless, who did not wish to 
 be missed from their pews on this day. The 
 successor of Mr. Goldby had arrived during the 
 week ; and all who wanted work or amusement 
 took the chance of gaining access to him in the 
 church-yard, or of getting a good view of him 
 during the service. The paupers from the 
 workhouse, who were wont to slip away to pur- 
 sue their own devices, as soon as the gate was 
 closed behind them, trod all the same path 
 this morning, and actually appeared in the place 
 where they were supposed to be at this hour. 
 The church-yard w^as busy with groups of 
 talkers before the bell had begun to ring, and 
 Goldby' s name was on every tongue. He was 
 talked over with regard to his kindliness and 
 his stinginess ; the good he had tried to do to 
 the village, and the harm he hud always plotted
 
 TRY AGAIN. 207 
 
 against the paupers ; the esteem the rector en- 
 tertained for him, and the trouble the squire had 
 had with him ; the regret of his labourers and 
 old friends at losing him, and the joy of the 
 poor who had rviined him that he was going to 
 make room for a rich man on whom they might 
 fasten their claims afresh. Mrs. Goldby, it was 
 thought, would be a good riddance. For all 
 her kind heart, and her beneficence when people 
 did their duty, she was very much in some per- 
 sons' w^ay, with her talk of economy, and her 
 mercilessness in making every body work as 
 hard as herself if they would have her favour. 
 Ruth had no enemies. Several were sorry to lose 
 sight of her ; and those who were not, grounded 
 their satisfaction on the truth that she was much 
 better in a respectable service with a good mis- 
 tress, whose esteem she had won, than in the 
 same village with a mother who had disgraced 
 herself, and a brother from whom nothing was 
 to be hoped. It w-as thought that the publica- 
 tion of banns which was to be gone through to- 
 day should have been delayed a Sunday or two, 
 that she might have left the parish and be out of 
 hearing. While this gossip was going on, the 
 new farmer crossed the church-yard with ^Ir. 
 Goldby; and the rector being known to be in the 
 vestry, every body made haste to follow the 
 stranger in. 
 
 f- Immediately upon the conclusion of the ser- 
 vice, the rector requested that no person would 
 leave the church, as some affairs were about to 
 be discussed which were of great importance to
 
 208 THE PARISH. 
 
 every person present. At this announcement, 
 some hearers were glad that they had come, and 
 others wished themselves away. The only one 
 who attempted to depart was Jay ; and he was 
 stopped by a civil inquiry from Dr. Warrener 
 whether he could not spare half an hour, as his 
 testimony would probably be wanted as to the 
 health of some of the parishioners. Jay made a 
 flourish about his patients expecting him, but 
 staid nevertheless, happy in the prospect of 
 being an important personage for once again. 
 Much amusement was excited by his talk of his 
 patients ; for it was well known that they were 
 four-footed, and could hardly be much troubled 
 with disappointed expectations about their me- 
 dical adviser. Jay had gone down in the world 
 since the fires. No profitable patients would 
 employ him ; and as he could not make a living 
 out of paupers, however sickly they might be, 
 he had become more and more of a cattle doc- 
 tor and travelling quack, making excursions into 
 the neighbouring country with pink pill-boxes, 
 and blue-papered phials, and letting it be known 
 that he was prepared to administer either politics 
 or physic, according to the wants of those wliom 
 he courted. His figure began to correspond 
 with his fortunes, and he did not this day feel it 
 altogether satisfactory to have the attention of 
 the whole congregation fixed upon it. 
 
 The rector explained that the rate-payers of 
 the parish considered the present a good oppor- 
 tunity for laying open to their neighbours the 
 state of parochial affairs, which had become so
 
 TRY AGAIN. 209 
 
 critical that a communication of this sort could 
 not be lono: delayed, and could scarcely be better 
 timed than now, when a new yestry-clerk was 
 about to enter upon liis office, and when tlieir 
 respected friend Mr. Goldby was on the point of 
 resigning his place among them to a successor, 
 and would favour them with his parting- advice, 
 and the results of his experience. The rector 
 then briefly exhibited the deplorable state of the 
 place as to the funds for the recompense of la- 
 bour, and for the support of the poor, and as to 
 the proportion between the independent poor 
 and paupers. It appeared that the amount be- 
 stowed by individuals in priyate charity had been 
 doubled, trebled, quadrupled within a few years, 
 till no further increase could be looked for: that 
 the rate had grown in like manner, till the small 
 shop-keepers could no longer answer the fre- 
 quent calls of the collector ; and every farmer in 
 the neio-hbourhood had let more or less land out 
 of cultivation, and been compelled to sacrifice 
 portions of his capital, one after another, to the 
 permanent and increasing damage of his income, 
 and the certainty of his ultimate ruin. And 
 what had been the effect upon the condition of 
 the poor of all this expenditure ? The poor 
 were in an infinitely worse condition than before 
 the expenditure had become large. The total 
 population had increased one-sixth ; the pauper 
 population more than qne-half ; and while more 
 were added to the list every day, there were no 
 funds to answer the demand. The yestry-clerk, 
 who had been left in quiet possession of the 
 
 T 3
 
 210 THE PARISH. 
 
 accounts for many a month, had died in debt to 
 the parish 300/. ; and wlience the deficiency was 
 to be supphed was more than the wisest of the 
 vestry could say. 
 
 The squire declared that this grievance should 
 not trouble the parish any longer. He con- 
 sidered himself in a great measure answerable 
 for Woollerton's misdeeds, as he had got him 
 appointed, and had screened him, through an 
 ill-grounded confidence, from such observation 
 as should have been exercised upon him. He 
 should the next morning send the vestry his 
 cheque for 300/., and withdraw himself as much 
 as he could from the management of the affairs 
 in which he had always taken a very conspicuous 
 part. He had devoted his time and his money 
 for years past, and seemed after all to have done 
 nothing but harm. He should Teave the poor to 
 those who could deal more harshly with them 
 than he had the heart to do. 
 
 The rector could not let this last observation 
 pass without remark. They were the least harsh 
 to the poor who most effectually obviated poverty, 
 as those are the kindest parents who avoid spoil- 
 ing their children. Every poor man in the pa- 
 rish would have been happier at this day, if the 
 relief ordered by law had been restricted to the 
 cases contemplated by the law ; and all who were 
 real friends to the poor would unite at the present 
 crisis in brino-inG: about that restriction. A com- 
 parison of the classes who were then receiving 
 relief with those which the law contemplated, 
 would show that the restoration must take place
 
 TRY AGAIN. 211 
 
 fi-raduallv, but that it was hi2:lilv necessarv that 
 it should take phice. Dr. Warrener then men- 
 tioned that the proper objects for support from 
 the rate were old and impotent persons, who 
 could not be provided for by relations ; and that 
 idle persons were originally ordered to be taken 
 into a workhouse, there to maintain themselves 
 by labour. 
 
 " Now see," said he, taking a list from the 
 overseer, " how we have wandered from this 
 intention! Passing over the aged and infirm, 
 and deserted children, without inquiring v/hether 
 they have relations who can maintain them, I 
 find— 
 
 " Widows who, with their children, are able 
 to w^ork." 
 
 Thouofh Dr. Warrener was very careful not to 
 look up from the paper he held in his hand, 
 many eyes were turned upon some representa- 
 tive of each class as he read. Mrs. Brand now 
 fidgetted on her seat, and Peter laughed. Dr. 
 Warrener went on — 
 
 " Unmarried mothers and their children." 
 
 The overseer,, less considerate than the clergy- 
 man, looked full at Jemima when he said that 
 such mothers made matters worse by marrying 
 the paupers with whom they made acquaintance 
 by becoming burdensome to the parish. A 
 stranger would,, perhaps, scarcely credit the scan- 
 dal they had heard with their own ears that day — 
 that, of the two couple who had just been asked 
 in church, the two men were in jail and the two 
 women in the workhouse. Jemima tried to ex-
 
 212 THE PARISH. 
 
 change smiles with her sister, but Mrs. Brand 
 "was not quite so lost to shame as to make light 
 of such an exposure. After the murmur of won- 
 der and indigniation had subsided, Dr. Warrener 
 proceeded — 
 
 " Vagrants, for whom a lodging is provided, 
 and whose number therefore increases from week 
 to week. 
 
 " Apprentices, who having obtained a settle- 
 ment by apprenticeship, threaten to bring pauper 
 wives from other parishes. 
 
 " Household, aye, liveried servants, who make 
 the parish pay for their imprudent marriages, 
 while they eat and drink of tlie best, and receive 
 their golden sovereigns as the quarter-day comes 
 round." 
 
 Wood, the squire's footman, who stood next 
 the overseer, jogged his elbow, and said that he 
 wished somebody would stop his reverence's 
 tongue, as he was not going to apply for relief 
 any more. The overseer smiled, and was glad 
 to hear it. His reverence went on — 
 
 " Jobbers in workhouse clothing. Jobbers in 
 the food and drink of the poor. Jobbers in the 
 dwellings of the poor." 
 
 The shoe- making vestry-man tried not to un- 
 derstand the allusion. Mrs. Woollerton thought 
 she had no more concern in it now that her hus- 
 band was dead ; and Blogg, that having sold 
 his last cottage in Myrtle Row, he need feel no- 
 thing at the detail that Jay now entered into, of 
 the sickness and mortality which had prevailed 
 there during the winter. The waste of life and
 
 TRY AGAIX. 213 
 
 health had here been so fearful, that no attention 
 was left for the less important expenditure of 
 parish resources which had followed in its train. 
 The next improper burden upon the rate was in 
 favour of — 
 
 " Lawyers, and magistrates' clerks, for fees 
 and law expenses, which would seldom or never 
 be necessary if parish relief was not improperly 
 claimed. 
 
 " Collectors of the rate, who naturally charge 
 hio-her the more trouble thev have in extorting 
 money from the rate-payers ; and finally, 
 
 " Able-bodied labourers." 
 
 Goldby here rose to say that it was not now 
 perhaps very wonderful to his neighbours, that 
 his resources had not been equal to a variety of 
 calls which were as little authorized by reason as 
 by law. He had paid away all his savings for 
 years to support persons who were no more con- 
 templated by the Poor Laws at the time of their 
 formation than the House of Lords ; and his re- 
 ward had been to have his property destroyed by 
 fire, because his neio:hbours had been encouraged 
 to think him not generous enough. He did not 
 mean to complain now that it was all over, but 
 he wished to relate (in connexion with the sub- 
 ject of relief to able-bodied labourers) a circum- 
 stance which showed the consequence of giving 
 that relief The friend who was to succeed him 
 in his farm had offered work on the preceding day 
 to some exceedingly inditferent labourers at two 
 shillings per day. These men seemed to be un- 
 willing to exchange parish idleness for fairly paid
 
 214 THE PARISH. 
 
 labour, and refused the work unless they were 
 dismissed at half past four o'clock, or paid extra 
 for whatever work they did after that time. Half 
 past four of a Midsummer day ! But this was 
 parish time ; and not a minute longer would they 
 work without more pay. A better man than any 
 of them, who had suffered too long for their en- 
 croachments, was ready to engage himself with- 
 out any such stipulation, but had been offered, 
 the farmer was happy to say, the superior terms 
 which his superior work deserved. 
 
 Ashly bowed low when he saw many eyes 
 turned upon him, but was more grieved by 
 Goodman's downcast looks than pleased at the 
 compliment to himself. He made bold to say 
 that he was truly thankful to have got work at 
 length, and hoped, with all his heart, for every 
 body's sake, that it would last ; but he did not 
 see how it was to last, if any other farmer was to 
 be treated as Mr. Goldbv had been. If he was 
 as rich as the squire, he must be ruined by such 
 doings. 
 
 The rector believed that every body present 
 was of the same mind with Ashly, and it was 
 therefore to be hoped that they might further 
 agree on such alterations in their mode of ma- 
 nagement as might in time redeem the parish 
 from its depth of pauperism. The present was 
 not the place or occasion for entering upon the 
 discussion of these new measures, but rather for 
 pointing out • 
 
 He was interrupted by a question from an 
 eager person at his elbow, who wished to know
 
 TRY AGAIN. 215 
 
 whether he should receive no compensation for a 
 bad bargain which he had made, on the suppo- 
 sition of the administration of the Poor Laws re- 
 maining' what it had been. Sewell, who had just 
 obtained a fixed allowance on reaching his fitiieth 
 year, and on having spent the last remains of his 
 legacy, had taken the fancy to become a tramper, 
 and had mortgaged the parish allowance to the 
 present applicant. As it appeared that the pro- 
 mise of the allowance being permanent had come 
 from the squire, the applicant was referred to 
 him, there being little probability that the parish 
 would continue Sewell's payment. 
 
 The few words which Dr. Warrener wished to 
 say before he dismissed his flock related to the 
 deplorable change which had taken place in the 
 morals, yet more than in the fortunes, of his 
 parish. He could scarcely trust himself with his 
 emotions of grief and shame when he approached 
 this subject. He would only now ask those who 
 heard him whether they saw age revered, infancy 
 guarded, or youth well-trained ; whether the 
 sober man was not ridiculed, the industrious man 
 pitied, and all who deserved most of society dis- 
 coura2;ed in everv way. He thought he saw in 
 the faces of many around him that they felt the 
 place in which they were assembled to be pro- 
 faned by such disclosures as had been offered 
 that day ; but he believed that the profanation 
 had taken place long before, when profligates, and 
 consumers of the honest man's substance, and 
 those who had caused and countenanced such 
 profligacy had met to worship in careless uncon-
 
 216 THE PARISH. 
 
 sciousness of their guilt. If the exposure just 
 made should lead to any degree of rectification of 
 the morals of the parish, the place would have 
 been put to as holy an use as on the most solemn 
 occasion of worship. 
 
 The congregation separated as quietly as if 
 at the close of such a celebration. The greater 
 number waited in the church-yard to offer a fare- 
 well to Goldby, and entreat his forgiveness for 
 the irreparable injuries he had suffered at the 
 hands of themselves and their companions. He 
 was more ready to pardon than they to entreat; 
 and was, they thought, over-modest in giving 
 his advice to use the advantages of the respect- 
 able new beer-shop with moderation, and to be 
 considerate in their claims on his successor. He 
 was recompensed for having his hand almost 
 pulled off with hearty shakes before he reached 
 the gate, by the hope that, as his misfortunes 
 seemed at length to have touched the hearts of 
 his neighbours, he might be the last martyr to 
 the mal-administration of the Poor Laws in the 
 parish of Thorpe. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 London: William Clowes, Sianiford-Strect.
 
 THE HAMLETS, 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 BY 
 
 HAKRIET MARTINEAU. 
 
 LONDON: 
 CHARLES FOX, 67, PATERNOSTER-ROW 
 
 1S33.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Chapter Paob 
 
 1. The Orphans' Welcome .»•••• 1 
 
 2. Age without Honour 14 
 
 3. Queen Elizabeth's Hospitality .... 35 
 
 4. Important Trifles C3 
 
 5. Delights of Office . ........ 80 
 
 6. Holiday Schooling 102 
 
 7. Ease with Dignity 119 
 
 8. Labour with Dignity 140 
 
 9. Last Homes 15&
 
 THE HAMLETS. 
 
 Chapter I. 
 THE ORPHANS' WELCOME. 
 
 It was a very warm May afternoon, when 
 Mrs. Monk, the wife of Monk the fisherman, 
 pursued her way homewards throug;h the weary 
 deep sand which extended between the hamlet 
 of Hurst and her cottage on the beach. Slowly 
 as she walked, the children who were her 
 companions could scarcely keep up with her. 
 She had carried her own little boy, of three 
 years' old, through the roughly- paved street of 
 Hurst, and had set him down on coming to 
 the sand, where, if he fell, he could not 
 easily hurt himself, and in crossing which he 
 might take his own time. The two other chil- 
 dren were not her own. They were the orphan 
 children of a fisherman, who had been drowned 
 in a late storm at sea ; and Mrs. Monk's er- 
 rand this afternoon had been to take charge of 
 them from the parish — the overseer having of- 
 fered to board them with her for eighteen-pence 
 a week. Harriet was a stout girl often, and her 
 pale-faced brother, Ben, just turned nine. They 
 
 B
 
 2 THE HAMLETS. 
 
 now followed in the train of Mrs. Monk, and 
 kept no more than a respectful distance as long 
 as the child was willing to be half led, half car- 
 ried by the two elder ones ; but when he 
 wrenched his hand from Ben, to pick up a bit of 
 red lobster-shell, Ben walked off by himself, as 
 if offended, and Harriet found it a hard and warm 
 task to get her charge along, crying, as he did, 
 if she ran on a few steps to lure him forwards, 
 and persisting in stopping every moment while 
 she had hold of his hand. Mrs. Monk had 
 disappeared among the boats, and Ben seemed 
 to have found something curious on the margin 
 of the tide, while Harriet and Fred were but 
 midway over the sand. 
 
 Monk seemed to relish the warmth of the 
 weather more than his wife had done. When she 
 arrived, she found him basking on the ground, 
 on the sunny side of his boat, asleep, as a pas- 
 senger would have declared, but awake enough 
 to half open his eyes when his wife's step ap- 
 proached, and ask her for the tobacco she was to 
 bring him. He thought she never would have 
 come back, and he wanted his tobacco. 
 
 Mrs. Monk was frightened to think that she 
 had forgotten the tobacco ; but if her husband 
 knew what a bustle there had been 
 
 What cared he for the bustle? She must just 
 step back for the tobacco as quick as she could. 
 It was plague enough that she had kept him 
 waitinjj all this time. 
 
 Could not he just step himself? She had to 
 give these children their suppers, and to manage
 
 THE HAMLETS. # 
 
 about a bed for them ; and she had been in the 
 midst of so much disturbance all the afternoon, 
 she was not fit to be kept standing any longer. 
 
 " So you have broug^ht the children back ! — 
 one of them w ill run to the shop ; do make 
 haste and send one of them." 
 
 Ben looked shy and alarmed, and Harriet 
 offered to go. 
 
 " I suppose," said Mrs. Monk to her husband, 
 " you are thinking of putting out to sea, as you 
 can't get your own tobacco. I don't like sending 
 the girl back to the shop, such a bustle as there 
 is there ; but, indeed, it is like to be a fine night 
 for the fishinof." 
 
 " No such thing ; it is like to be a rough 
 night, and I am not going to put out with the 
 risk of bad weather." 
 
 *' If it is not too rough, such is just the wea- 
 ther for the mackerel. Dyer is gone out, I see, 
 and Hart is makino- readv : and thevhave both 
 brought in a fine draught since you took your 
 last trip.'' 
 
 " And they may bring in another, for any 
 thing that I care ; I shan't stir to-day. What 
 sort of a bargain did you make about the chil- 
 dren? ' 
 
 " We are to have eighteen-pence a week for 
 each of them ; the overseer left word with his 
 wife that it is enough, and I could not say but 
 it was." 
 
 '^ 'Tis little enough ; but you must get work 
 out of them to make it answer. They ought to 
 be able to do a deal at their age." 
 
 b2
 
 4 THE HAMLETS. 
 
 ■^ *' I expect to find them willing* ; and it is 
 f^ood for young things to work. Indeed, I told 
 Ben that you would take hini out fishing to- 
 night." 
 
 " Then you told him wrong, and you may 
 find him something else to do ; I shan't stir to- 
 day." 
 
 Not even to purchase his own luxuries, liis 
 wife perceived ; and, as it was so, she only 
 hoped he would doze till Harriet could be back 
 "with her purchase. It was very provoking that 
 the tobacco should have been foriiotten : but a 
 scene had been going forward in the shop which 
 might well serve to excuse the neglect. Reece, 
 the shopkeeper, was the overseer ; and, in con- 
 sequence of his office, was more unpopular than 
 it suits the interest of a shopkeeper to be. In 
 striving to offend nobody, he had placed himself 
 at the mercy of the people about him ; and the 
 consequences fell occasionally upon his wile ; a 
 timid woman, who was even less able than him- 
 self to bear them, Reece was known to be 
 away this day, at Weston, on parish business ; 
 and the wives of certain bold paupers had taken 
 the opportunity of frightening Mrs. Reece into 
 giving them money in her husband's absence. 
 Mrs. Monk had seen her, after faint attempts to 
 return argument for bullying, resort to a boot, 
 one of a pair which stood on a high shelf, and 
 pay therefrom a shilling to one applicant, and 
 eighteenpcnce to another, and even so much as 
 haif-a-crown to a shrill-voiced, red-faced dame,
 
 THE HAMLETS. 8 
 
 who held up her fist in corroboration of her 
 tongue. 
 
 Harriet came back in terror, lest she should 
 be also chidden for delay. Mrs. Reece had not 
 been able to attend to her till she had waited a 
 long while ; and no wonder, considering- the 
 confusion about the door. The constable had 
 been called, and had carried away a woman who 
 had seized the boot in which the money was con- 
 tained ; declaring that she would pay herself 
 what she hud a ricrht to. This was o-oinfj rather 
 too far, even for the gentle Mrs. Reece, and she 
 had ventured to call in the constable. A crowd 
 gathered, of course, about the door ; and when 
 Harriet was there they had not dispersed. Mrs. 
 Reece was crying; and it was reported that she 
 repented what she had done, and was going to 
 the magistrate to beg the woman off. 
 
 " Well, my dear,"observed Mrs. Monk to Har- 
 riet, " depend upon it, it is a better thing for 
 you to be here than to have gone with Bessy. 
 There, now don't bes^in to crv, as soon as one 
 mentions Bessy: you will see her very often, 
 you know ; quite often enough, in my opinion, 
 if these bullying sort of people are the people 
 she is to live amongst. It will be a wonder if 
 she does not catch up their manners ; and as for 
 you and Ben, however little I may be able to do 
 for you, depend upon it you will stand a better 
 chance here than in Hurst Workhouse." 
 
 Harriet knew little about the workhouse, but 
 that her friend Bessy was going to live in it ; 
 
 b3
 
 6 THE HAMLETS. 
 
 and she would have liked to be with Bessy. 
 Bessy was five years older than Harriet ; but 
 they had been accustomed to play together, and 
 to ffo backwards and forwards to school in 
 company, till the farmer had been obliged to 
 drop the school, and nobody had taken it up. 
 Bessy had promised to see Harriet on the beach 
 and on the down as often as she could ; and the 
 workhouse people had so much liberty, that this 
 would probably be almost daily ; but it was not 
 the same thing to Harriet as if she could have 
 Bessy always at hand, to say any thing to, and 
 to take the lead in all they might have to do. 
 She was very fond of Ben ; but Ben might have 
 been in the workhouse too. To make the matter 
 worse this evening, Ben was very cross; whether 
 from shyness (which always made him cross), or 
 from being disappointed of going out to sea, his 
 sister could not tell ; but he did not seem to have 
 a word to say to her when Mrs. Monk turned her 
 back for a minute. He dared not yet show any 
 ill-humour to Mrs. Monk or to her husband ; 
 Harriet had the benefit of it all. 
 
 Her uncomfortable thoughts were not soothed 
 by what she overheard Mrs. Monk muttering to 
 herself about her hopes that this was not the 
 way they were to go on ; her husband taking no 
 care about the children, and they seeming so 
 unhappy and so helpless. Harriet was longing 
 for something to do; but she did not know her 
 way about the holes and corners of the cottage, 
 and could not ask to go to bed till she had found 
 out where she was to sleep. She now thought
 
 THE HAMLETS. 7 
 
 she could make an effort for Ben's sake ; and 
 she asked whether Ben might not go to bed. 
 
 *' When he has had his supper ; but I have 
 had no time to i^et it for him yet. Shall you get 
 it? Yes, to be sure you may: there is the bread 
 on yonder shelf; and you may have the milk 
 
 now, instead of waiting for it, if O, here 
 
 comes the milk ! carry out that jug for it. What's 
 the matter? What is at the bottom of the jug? 
 O, my husband's beer has been in it. Well, 
 wash it — quick! — at that tub of water. Here, 
 let me wipe it with my apron. Now take in the 
 milk. What! can't you cut the bread ? Bless 
 me ! you must learn. Now, while Ben is getting 
 his supper, come and see what sort of a place 
 we can make for you to sleep in. Ben must 
 sleep with Fred : they will make room to sleep, 
 I warrant, though the place is small ; and you 
 can bundle up these things for a bed for yourself 
 in yon corner, I dare say. Very well ! you have 
 made a bed before, I see, though you can't cut a 
 crusty loaf Now, how soon can you be up in 
 the morning, do you think?" 
 
 Harriet, who had recovered her spirits by dint 
 of bustling, had little doubt she could be up 
 when Mrs. Monk pleased. 
 
 " Very well ; then eat your supper, and I will 
 tell you. You know you must set your mind to 
 earning something ; both of you, mind, Ben. I 
 can't atford to have you lying about asleep on 
 the down, or doing mischief on the beach, like 
 many older than you that I am ashamed to see, 
 every time I go out. I must look about for
 
 8 THE HAMLETS. 
 
 employment for you ; and, meantime, you might 
 as well bring- me wliat wool you can get from the 
 down : between this and shearing-time there 
 will be a good deal on the bushes." 
 
 Harriet thought she should like this ; but 
 where was she to put the wool as she got it ? 
 Why, where did she suppose but into an apron 
 that she might take for the purpose? Harriet 
 happened to have a bag ; and it was agreed that 
 the bag, being the smallest, might do for Ben, 
 and the apron for her. Two wedges of brown 
 bread were put into the bag for their breakfast, 
 and they might come home when they had ga- 
 thered wool till they were very hungry. Tiiis 
 settled, Ben was sent to wash his face at the 
 tub, and go to bed. Harriet was wanted yet a 
 little longer, to put away two plates and a basin ; 
 to throw out some potato-peelings into the ash- 
 hole, andr blow the fire to boil the kettle for 
 Monk's cup of tea. When all this was nearly 
 finished, a low wail was heard from the next 
 room. On inquiry, it was found to proceed from 
 Ben ; not yet in bed, but standing in his siiirt, 
 wiping away his tears with its ragged sleeve. 
 His grief was that he could not get into bed, as 
 the baby was lying directly across ; his little feet 
 appearing where Ben wanted to rest his weary 
 shoulders, and the same little feet being old 
 enough to kick rather vigorously on receiving a 
 bint to get back into their proper places. This 
 matter being arranged by Mrs. Monk in a mo- 
 ment, and Ben helped by the same hand to lie 
 down without pushing Fred out upon the floor.
 
 THE HAMLETS. 9 
 
 the boy was permitted to 2:0 to sleep, as soon 
 as he could, under the conviclion that he must 
 not move half an inch to the right or to the 
 left. 
 
 The children, dreaming anxiously in their un- 
 accustomed beds of the next morning's rising, 
 were happier than Monk and his wife over their 
 tea. The fisherman had not energy to make 
 his circumstances as good as they might be ; but 
 he could complain as bitterly as any man of the 
 declining state of the place, and the wrongs 
 which lie supposed himself subject to from cer- 
 tain dwellers in Hurst. He was this evening in 
 high dudgeon, on account of the reported ap- 
 proaching departure • of certain housekeepers, 
 who had long been his customers for fish. He 
 understood that Groves was about to remove to 
 the next parish; and he had himself seen bills 
 in the windows of Moss's house, which was to 
 be vacant at Michaelmas. He wondered what 
 these people came for, if they must go away 
 when they had taught their neighbours to de- 
 pend upon them for custom, and 
 
 " And for the rates," observed his wife. *' That 
 is the root of the matter, they tell me. The 
 rates are too high for any middling shopkeeper 
 to bear; so no wonder they talk of going some- 
 where where they will be taxed less for the pa- 
 
 ■ 1 »> 
 rish. 
 
 *' As for that matter, they may as well go as 
 
 stay ; for there is no getting them to pay. You 
 
 had belter look sharp after your tliree shillings a 
 
 week for these children ; ibr I hear that, take
 
 lO tllE HAMLETS. 
 
 too;etlier all that are rated, not above one in five 
 pays." 
 • " Because they can't pay, I suppose." 
 
 " Well, but it is such a shame ! What is to 
 become of us poor, I wonder, if the better sort 
 grudg-e us our right in such a way ? " 
 
 " We must go out fishing in foul weather as 
 well as fair, I suppose," replied the wife, glanc- 
 ing timidly, first out of the window, and then at 
 her husband. " Not that I think it will be foul 
 weather to-night," she continued. 
 
 •* I am doubtful about it," said her spouse, 
 shutting one eye, and looking up with the other 
 through his own clouds of tobacco smoke into 
 the sky, *' I am doubtful still ; but, at any rate, 
 it is too late now." 
 
 " There is Wilkins's boat but a quarter of a 
 mile beyond the reef," answered Mrs. Monk ; 
 *' he is not in doubt, it seems." 
 
 ** His head has not been on his shoulders so 
 many years as mine, love. When it has, he 
 will know better than to go, and get tossed, and 
 drenched, and wearied, when the parish is bound 
 to give him the worth of whatever fish he might 
 find" 
 
 " But our rent-day comes round in a fort- 
 night, and we have got nothing ready for it, but 
 what I ought to have by me against my confine- 
 ment." 
 
 '* Keep it by you ; the parish must pay the 
 rent." 
 
 " What reason have we " 
 
 " Have done with your reasons, will you? I
 
 IfHE HAMLETS. 11 
 
 can't pay the rent, and I shall say so ; and let us 
 see whether Reece dares make any objection to 
 the parish doing so ; so much as I buy at his 
 shop. Hold your tongue about my going out, 
 I tell you : it is a pretty thing for you, w ho stay 
 at home in peace and under shelter, to give me 
 broad hints about putting out, to be tossed and 
 blown about, while every body belonging to me 
 is sound asleep. You may mind your own busi- 
 ness, and hold your tongue." 
 
 The dame did both to such good purpose that 
 scarcely another word could be extracted from 
 her this niffht. She minded her own business— r- 
 the business of the wives of such men as Monk ; 
 she refreshed herself from her hard day's work 
 with a scanty crust, because her husband, who 
 had been doing nothing, ate up the rest of the 
 loaf; she lighted a fresh candle, to sit down and 
 darn his stockings, when he threw himself, 
 already half asleep, into bed ; she cautiously 
 opened the lattice, because she was sickened with 
 the smoke which still hovered in the apartment, 
 and hastily shut the window again, when her 
 husband gave fearful token that the winds of 
 heaven were visiting his face too roughly. There 
 ■was little room to wonder that she obeyed the 
 other injunction — to hold her tongue. It was 
 long since she was known to enliven her solitary 
 work by a song, as in the days of her girlhood ; 
 and her little boy was never overheard talking 
 to himself, as children do whose young powers 
 of speech are properly exercised by a cheerful 
 jnother.
 
 12 THE HAMLETS. 
 
 The children's breakfast was secure, Mrs. 
 Monk remembered, whatever her own might be. 
 She heard them trudoe off with it earlv in the 
 morning-, after having turned and turned again 
 in their beds, and called in a whisper to each 
 other to know whether it was time to get up. 
 The matter was decided by guess-work at last ; 
 for the sun was only just peeping up above the 
 eastern waves when tliey went out, running over 
 the shingle for the first fifty yards, as if escaping 
 from a prison. 
 
 It was high noon when they returned, and 
 Monk had been gone to sea some hours. 
 
 *' Well, my dears," said Mrs. Monk, " did you 
 find any wool ?" 
 
 The question was answered by the children 
 throwing down the apron which they carried 
 between them, and untying it, to show a very 
 respectable bundle of flocks. Mrs. Monk pro- 
 nounced this a n'ood morning-'s work, and asked 
 them if they were quite sure that none of their 
 wealth came direct from any sheep's back. They 
 declared that wherever there were sheep on the 
 downs, there had been a shepherd, who would 
 not have let them pluck wool from any but law- 
 ful places ; and they also exhibited more pricks 
 and scratches than could have come from any 
 but a most intrepid search among the furze- 
 bushes. Mrs. Monk would now have been satis- 
 fied, if the children would have let her ; but they 
 had more wonders to display. 
 
 " You forget the bag,'' said Harriet, with a 
 broad smile, while Ben gave a caper before he
 
 THE HAMLETS. 13 
 
 stood stock still to watch the effect of the dis- 
 closure. 
 
 *' What; more wool still in the bag? Dear 
 me!" 
 
 " Yes, more wool ; a little more wool.*' 
 
 " And something besides wool." 
 
 " Now, don't tell," said the children, inter- 
 rupting one another. 
 
 The sig-ht was worth seeing when, at last, it 
 did appear : four smooth, pure white eggs — the 
 delicate eggs of the guillemot — came forth from 
 the wool with which the baa: ^vas lined. 
 
 " Mercy, children ! you have not been over 
 the cliff, to be sure I" 
 
 *' No, the cliff-ravens gotthese forus,"said Har- 
 riet. *' We saw a bio- raven licfht, and we ouessed 
 what he had got ; and w^e went when he flew 
 away, and under some bits of chalk we found 
 this egg." 
 
 " No, no," said Ben ; " this one was the first 
 we got: that other came from under the furze- 
 bush. This was the one that lay in the hag- 
 track." 
 
 " Ah, so it is. Well, these other two'are what 
 we watched for, when once we had begun to 
 find. There was somebody shooting below ; 
 and when the wills flew off the benches, the 
 ravens popped down, and we followed them — O 
 such a way — when they came up again. Are 
 they not pretty eggs ? " 
 
 *' Very fine eggs, and quite fresh, no doubt : 
 we may trust the ravens for getting fresh eggs. 
 Now my advice is, that you take them to the 
 
 c
 
 14 THE HAMLETS. 
 
 Cottag-e to sell. The young ladies may not know 
 yet, being strangers, how much is thought of 
 these eggs ; but you may as well try. I shall be 
 glad if you make something of your first fetch 
 ofeggs. But, stop; don't be in such a hurry 
 to tie your bonnet, Harriet. The potatoes are 
 just ready, and you must have your dinners first. 
 Now can you creep up into the loft, and find a 
 corner to stow the wool in till shearing- time ? 
 Then we will have a cleaning of all you have 
 got. Hand the apron up to your sister, Ben, 
 while I take off the potatoes, and then make 
 yourself tidy to go to the Cottage." 
 
 Chapter II. 
 AGE WITHOUT HONOUR. 
 
 Mr. Barry, the owner and inhabitant of the 
 Cottage, was a gentleman of small fortune, who 
 had only lately become a resident at Hurst. He 
 had two daughters, the eldest of whom was 
 now out of health, and it was on her account that 
 the family had left London, and come to live on 
 their sea-side property. They had now been at 
 Hurst lono; enouuh to become aware that if its 
 state had been understood bv them some months 
 before, they should have chosen some other part 
 of the coast, notwithstanding- the advantage of
 
 THE HAMLETS. 15 
 
 having here a house of their own to live in. 
 The curse of pauperism appeared to spread 
 itself over the whole place, and, like one of the 
 Egyptian abominations, penetrated into the re- 
 cesses of every house. Mr. Barry found not 
 only drunkenness in the streets, idleness on the 
 downs, discontent in the farm-house, and pining 
 misery in the hovel, but fraud, spreading from 
 the transactions of the overseer's office till it 
 tainted all the dealings of the place. The ser- 
 vants he had brought with him were no longer 
 what they had been ; and it became nearly as 
 difficult to his daughters to deal with tradesmen 
 as to escape from beggars. For his part, his 
 income was not so large but that he felt the 
 pressure of the heavy poor-rate to be a great 
 grievance ; and it was a melancholy thing to look 
 forward to the annual increase which must be 
 expected under the continuance of the present 
 system. He was very explicit on the subject of 
 his concern and apprehensions with the neigh- 
 bouring gentlemen at whose houses he dined, 
 and whom he met at church, or in his rides and 
 walks : but though they agreed as to the evils 
 of the general state of things (which nobody 
 could pretend to think a good state), there was 
 great difficulty in bringing any two to assent to 
 any one remedial method. Mr. Rickman, the 
 farmer, would hear no more against paying 
 wages out of the rate than Copland, the builder, 
 against discharging the rents from the same 
 source. Colonel Lee did not see how the allow- 
 ance system was to be dispensed with ; and the 
 
 c2
 
 16 THE HAMLETS. 
 
 curate, Mr. Shaw, thouf^lit it the plain duty of 
 Christians to give more and more wilHngly to 
 the indigent, the more indigent tliere were. When 
 it was hinted that Clnistian charity might do 
 more honour to its name if it could supersede 
 misery instead of palliating it, if it could lessen 
 the number of the indigent, instead of reconciling 
 the poor to indigence, he smiled, and promised a 
 sermon on this new aspect of an old virtue, as 
 soon as a tangible exemplification of it should be 
 presented to liim. On one point all these gen- 
 tlemen were now, however, likely to arrive at the 
 same conviction. The scenes of riot which had 
 this day taken place in Recce's shop exhibited 
 clearly the principle, that a shopkeeper is not the 
 proper dispenser of optional relief among his 
 customers. It was pretty evident that Reece 
 must cease to be overseer, though it was not so 
 certain that a successor could be found, who 
 would not be more or less shackled bv the same 
 incumbrances of private interest. All the trades- 
 men of the place were circumstanced like Reece ; 
 and the farmers had ricks that might be burned 
 by angry paupers, and must pay wages which 
 might be conveniently eked out by parish-pay. 
 If there had been a certain fixed mode of relief 
 appointed, which neither farmer nor tradesman 
 could think of altering, there would have been 
 an end at once of temptation and suspicion ; of 
 apprehension on the part of the distributor of 
 parish bounties, and of extravagant expectation 
 on the part of the receivers. Such a fixed mode 
 did not yet exist, however ; and, in its absence,
 
 THE HAMLETS. 17 
 
 the best measure seemed to be to appoint an 
 overseer who bore the least possible relation of 
 pecuniary interest to the people of Hurst. Mr. 
 Barry was such an one ; and as he was willing 
 to take the office upon himself at a particularly 
 troublesome time, nothing was said against his 
 appointment, though the farmer, the magistrate, 
 the tradesman, and the cler2:Yman had each his 
 secret belief that the new overseer would fail in 
 some wild scheme or another for the improve- 
 ment of parish affairs. 
 
 Not that Mr. Barry was usually considered 
 any thing of an enthusiast. No one could har- 
 bour such an idea who saw him iofTfrinsr alonsr 
 on his tame pony, observing every thing he 
 passed, and nodding at most things that he 
 observed, as if they corroborated something in 
 his own mind. His whole demeanour showed, 
 as plainly as demeanour can show any thing, 
 that though his good-humour would allow of 
 other people being in the clouds as much as they 
 would, he must beg to be excused from mount- 
 ing there himself. He had always enough be- 
 fore his eyes, he believed, to occupy him fully; 
 and though others might soar for a wider look- 
 out, it suited him better to take what was put in 
 his way as subject matter for the moderate degree 
 of thought and action which was necessary to his 
 happiness. He was no more of a bustler than 
 he was of a schemer ; no more of a meddler than 
 of a visionary; and no one would have thought 
 of ascribing impracticable plans to him, if some 
 of his declared notions had not been at variance 
 
 c3
 
 18 THE HAMLETS. 
 
 with tlie state of things, whicli seemed, by some 
 natural necessity, to be sinking from bad to 
 worse, and from worse to desperate. 
 
 It was settled, no one objecting-, that Mr. 
 Barry was to be overseer ; and lleece took down, 
 for the last time, his parish pair of boots, iu 
 order to render up his account of the expenditure 
 of the year. When he had produced a few 
 shillings and sixpences from the right boot, and 
 receipts for many hundreds of pounds from the 
 left, his business was done, as far as he could 
 pretend to discharge it. He could give no 
 account of the money raised, except in as far as 
 it might be deduced from a comparison of the 
 list of rate-payers as it stood on Joy, the tai- 
 lor's measure (Joy having been overseer three 
 years before) with the list of arrears now pre- 
 sented on a slate. As for parish-books, if there 
 were any, Reece was guiltless of all knowledge 
 of them. The gentlemen might depend upon it 
 all must be right enough if he kept money in one 
 place, and carefully put away the receipts in an- 
 other : but if it would satisfy them better to 
 cast up the sums, they were welcome to do so, for 
 any olfence it would occasion to him. The gen- 
 tlemen made use of the permission thus kindly 
 offered, and found that the receipts exhibited an 
 expenditure of 1245/., and that the list of arrears 
 required as close an examination as Recce's claim 
 for the repayment of advances made in conse- 
 quence of these arrears. 
 
 Mr. Barry entered on his office as quietly as if 
 all was going right in it. 11^ did not fret and
 
 THE HAMLETS. 19 
 
 fume among* the delinquent rate-payers, nor 
 boast to the paupers that they had a new hand 
 to deal with, and would find that that hand was 
 about to turn over a new leaf. He was known 
 to have visited the workhouse, and to have had 
 it measured and examined by a builder. The 
 railing which filled up the fourth side of the 
 square in which the workhouse stood was re 
 moved, and the space built up of solid brick, like 
 the three other sides ; and even the door in this 
 wall had no peep-hole left, except a very small 
 wicket; so that the gaieties of the road could no 
 lono'er be seen. Mr. Barrv had also been observed 
 walking to Weston, and trotting to the other 
 neighbouring hamlet of Barham ; and reports 
 were abroad of the new overseer having insisted 
 on there being a new governor of the workhouse, 
 and of his having been permitted to make his 
 own choice of this officer. Beyond these small 
 movements, there was no bustle caused by the 
 change of administration. 
 
 Mrs. Monk was one day dropping a few tears 
 over a folly of her own, when Goody Gidney, an 
 aged pauper, came over the sands, as was her 
 frequent practice in summer, to chat with her, 
 and spend a few sighs over the fancies of people 
 who would not be satisfied with 2:ood old ways. 
 Mrs. Monk's folly was the having told her hus- 
 band that she had a little money laid by against 
 her confinement ; a communicativeness proved to 
 be folly by his having given notice that he wanted 
 the money particularly ; not to pay his rent — the 
 parish must do that — but for some secret puPr
 
 20 THE HAMLETS. 
 
 pose : she suspected to risk in a smiio;g'linnj 
 adventure. This was an occasion which mif;ht 
 excuse a few tears : the fancies over which 
 Goody Gidney came to sigh were some of those 
 which had been anticipated from the new over- 
 seer. 
 
 " Now, sit ye down," said Mrs. Monk ; '* it 
 is some time since I've seen you abroad, Goody." 
 
 " And that's the more wonder, as they have 
 left us so Httle to look at at home. It is seventy 
 years this Midsummer that I have had my seat 
 inside the workhouse paling, to look out upon 
 the road, morning and evening, summer and 
 winter ; and now they have filled up all with 
 brick-work, so that there is nothing to be seen 
 but a carrot-bed just under the wall. The place 
 is so dull now, that the wonder is, as you say, 
 that I have not been more abroad." 
 
 " Seventy years, did you say, Goody? I 
 knew you were well acquainted with the inside 
 of the workhouse, but I had no notion you could 
 have been there so long. Seventy years have you 
 sat within those pales ?" 
 
 *' Not till next month ; seventy years come 
 Midsummer, was what I said. I was just past 
 five years old when my mother brouglit me in 
 with her ; and I remember her setting me up on 
 those very pales — only they have been painted 
 often since — to see the geese on the down ; for 
 there was no row of cottages there then. After 
 the geese, there was a potato-field there ; and 
 when the potato-field was let down, it was made 
 the pound } and many a laugh we had at the
 
 THE HAMLETS. 21 
 
 cattle that were put in. Then, when there was 
 no cattle in the hamlet but the farmers', that were 
 not likely to get into the pound, it was taken 
 down, and the new row of cottages built." 
 
 " The new row I " exclaimed Mrs. Monk ; 
 " why, Goody, I was born in one of those cot- 
 tao-es." 
 
 " Mav be so ; for vou are but a vouncrster, 
 thouo;!! vour husband was iust iroin<r out of his 
 frocks, I remember, when I was thinking- of 
 ttiarrying Tom Cocks, the villain that ran away 
 and left me. There must be thirty years, I 
 fancy, between you and your husband. Vrell, 
 but as I was cfoins: to sav, whatever miirht be 
 opposite the workhouse, there was generally 
 something passing to amuse us; especially in 
 the season when so much company comes to the 
 sea ; and now it is all shut out with this U2:ly 
 brick wall. However, it does not signify to me 
 so much as to some others — to those who are 
 to stay behind." 
 
 *' Why, indeed, as the parson says. Goody, 
 the passing shows of this world signify little 
 to " 
 
 •' O, I don't mean that," replied the old 
 dame ; " I am not so old as vou think for. 
 What I am thinking of is our moving to 
 Weston. They are going to remove us old folks 
 and the children to Weston." 
 
 " After you have been steady to the same place 
 for a long life ! Well, that does seem hard ; 
 and what will you do at Weston? " 
 
 " They say we are to be more comfortable and
 
 22 THE HAMLETS. 
 
 quiet at Weston than we can be here ; and I 
 don't mean to deny that there may be more 
 noise than suits old heads in our place : at least, 
 I see some of the poor old creatures, that have 
 not been long used to it, like me, g-row very cross 
 about the clatter of the men over their beer. 
 Hut r would put up with that rather than quit ; 
 that is, if they left the paling as it was." 
 
 " But I don't understand about Weston ; no- 
 body lives there but the market-gardener : the 
 only other house that I know of is the squire's, 
 and that has been shut up these six years." 
 
 " That is all true ; but the parish has a great 
 concern in that small hamlet, though nobody 
 lives there but the market-gardener. There 
 was such a number of settlements got there by 
 service in the squire's family, that it is a great 
 expense, they say, to the parish. Now, if the 
 ditferent hamlets help one another, they think 
 they can lessen the expense : so all the old and 
 weakly folks and children are to go from this 
 workhouse to live in the empty place they are 
 making ready at Weston ; and any middle-aged, 
 working people that claim relief at Weston are 
 to be received here ; and some say that Barham 
 is to be taken into the bargain too." 
 
 " Well, it seems to me an odd way of saving, 
 to make two workhouses, when there was only 
 one before ; but you will have a fine air. Goody, 
 on that hill, and a sweet view as one need look 
 upon, and quite within a walk of your old friends 
 too. 'Tis an easy walk for you still, 1 should 
 think."
 
 TRE HAMLETS. 23 
 
 ** Still ! what should hinder mv walkinGj- as 
 well as ever I did, I wonder ? " said the otTended 
 dame ; " I fancy we shall be better off as to 
 seeing- our friends than those that stay behind ; 
 for 'tis said there is to be great strictness about 
 going in and coming out of the workhouse." 
 
 " Ay, there is always talk of that when a new 
 overseer comes in. I remember it when Rick- 
 man took it ; and in Reece's early time ; and, to 
 be sure, thev both look a-s if thev could be cross : 
 
 but to look at Mr. Barry Dear me ! how it 
 
 made me start ! seeing the young ladies outside, 
 just when I was speaking of their father — Walk 
 in, young ladies. Please to walk in. Miss Barry, 
 and ISIiss Emily. It was the children you 
 wanted, I dare say. We were glad you liked 
 the eggs — ihey are considered a great dainty 
 hereabouts. I am sorry to see Miss Barry look 
 as if she wanted more such good nourishment." 
 
 It was on business about the children that the 
 ladies came ; not only to praise the eggs, and 
 promise to take more whenever brought quite 
 fresh, but to srive notice of a certain arrann-e- 
 ment about their schooling. The ladies repeated 
 "what Goody Gidney had told of the intended re- 
 moval of part of the workhouse establishment 
 to Weston : eleven old and sick people, and 
 twenty-five children were to be there placed; 
 leaving forty-four able-bodied paupers behind. 
 The easy, good-tempered governor was to look 
 after the old and young, who were attached to 
 him, and his wife was to be schoolmistress to 
 ^he five-and-twenty children. Any children
 
 24 tHE lUMLETS. 
 
 wlio had been placed out by the parish, as Har- 
 riet and Ben were, were to be permitted to at- 
 tend the school, on the condition of bringini^ to 
 the workhouse, by a certain hour, a daily portion 
 of grass for platting", from the marsh where it 
 grew in abundance: which marsh |they must 
 pass on their way home. The Miss Barrys were 
 anxious that Harriet and Ben should have the 
 advantage of attending this school, and came to 
 urge Mrs. Monk to let them go. 
 
 Mrs. Monk had not the least objection to the 
 children learnin<2: whatever the ladies thought 
 they should know ; but she hoped they would 
 consider the difference the schooling would 
 make to her in respect of their work. It was 
 hard enough to make it answer to keep them 
 now, as it was. She conceived she had a title 
 to all their labour, such as it was, and to all that 
 it might be when they grew up to labour to 
 better purpose. If they were out for five or six 
 hours a day, wearing shoe-leather all the time, 
 and came home tired, as she supposed they 
 would, she could not undertake to keep them 
 both for three shillings a week. 
 
 *' You must speak to my father about that 
 part of the business," said Miss Barry ; " for it 
 is a matter that Emily and I have nothing to do 
 with. The interests of the children are what 
 we are thinking of ; and it seems to me that we 
 can hardly consider them too carefully." 
 
 " Very true, Miss Barry. When one thinks of 
 their poor mother, laid in the churchyard, and 
 their father, down under the sea, and remembei:
 
 THE HAMLETS. 25 
 
 that the same may happen to one's own any day, 
 one would not look too close to one's own in- 
 terest, except that they are the clmrn;e of the 
 parish, and the parish should take care of its 
 own." 
 
 '• To be sure," interposed Goody Gidney, 
 •' that is what I have always said, when ihey have 
 wanted to drive me out here and there, and no- 
 body knows where, for a livelihood. ' I belong 
 to the parish,' says I always, * and the parish is 
 bound to take care of its own.' " 
 
 " So to take care of its own," observed Miss 
 Barry, " as that they shall least suffer for being 
 under its charge. We are too apt to forget 
 what we really mean when we talk of the parish, 
 and to think of it merely as some place from 
 which shillings and sixpences are to come when 
 they are called for." 
 
 " Yes," said Emily, ** we talk of the parish 
 as if it were something separate from all of 
 us; as we might speak of the parliament up 
 in London, or the Indies, or the other side 
 the world. But the parish is made up of you 
 and me, and papa and Mr. Copland, and 
 every body ; and we have all agreed together 
 to take charge of these poor orphans, and 
 be what their parents might have been to them. 
 Then comes the question how we shall bring 
 them up ; whether they shall remain ignorant, 
 and turn out idle, as most parish-children have 
 done here, or whether we shall have them 
 taught as if we really cared for what we have 
 undertaken to do for them." 
 
 J)
 
 26 THE HAMLETS. 
 
 " 1 am sure I have done what is in my 
 power, ladies. I have fed them better than I 
 have fed myself, and sent them to their sleep 
 many a time when I should have been glad 
 enough of Harriet's help ; and I will say that 
 they have learned no wickedness here, and that 
 I have taught them much that they did not 
 know before, in the way of handiness about 
 what they undertake." 
 
 " Very true, indeed, Mrs. Monk; we have 
 observed all this, and we are anxious that they 
 should stay with you rather than be taken into 
 the school ; which they must be, unless you 
 can spare them daily. My father hopes that 
 from this school the children will turn out quite 
 different from what they were in the old work- 
 house, and he makes it a rule that all the parish- 
 children attend it. You must remember how 
 much more likely they will be to repay you for 
 your care of them, after being properly taught, 
 than if they spent their whole time on the down, 
 and in nursing your baby, and helping you in 
 house matters. It is very right that they should 
 do all these things, but we should take care that 
 they know how to do more ; that they should be 
 qualified to get free of the parish as soon as pos- 
 sible." 
 
 " Recollect what an advantage it will be to 
 you," added Emily, *' when Harriet can do 
 your sewing for you, and Ben be trusted to sell 
 your husband's fish, and reckon the money right. 
 Those will be the limes when they will repay
 
 THE HAMLETS. 27 
 
 you for sparing* them now for four or five liours 
 in the day." 
 
 Goody Gidney observed that parish children 
 were left lo shift for themselves in the work- 
 house in her day, without being; made of so 
 much consequence as boys and girls were con- 
 sidered now-a-days. 
 
 Emily rather thoug-ht these same neglected 
 parish children had managed to make them- 
 selves of more consequence to the parish in the 
 end than the parish quite liked. One such, she 
 knew, had left two children, and fourteen grand- 
 children a burden upon the rates. Another had 
 never been able to settle, and had cost the pa- 
 rish more in removals than an abode of seventy 
 years in the workhouse, like Goody's own, would 
 have done. The bones of a third were swing- 
 ing on a gibbet in some distant place, where he 
 had carried the name of his parish to disgrace it; 
 and several more had involved their native place 
 in heavy fines to repair the mischief they had 
 done in rick-burning and other violences. It 
 was better, it appeared to Emily, to make chil- 
 dren of consequence enough to keep them out 
 of harm's way, and cure their ignorance, when 
 they were young, than to drive them to distin- 
 guish themselves miserably when they grew up. 
 How was the parish to answer to the parents of 
 the orphans who grew up profligates and mur- 
 derers, — much more to the great Parent who 
 expressly deposited this charge, — for having ac- 
 quitted itself no better of its responsibility ? 
 
 Mrs. Monk aclaiowledged that she should 
 
 d2
 
 28 THE HAMLETS. 
 
 never forgive herself if Ben should become a 
 rickburner, from her having done anything' to 
 prevent his knowing better. She should think 
 his mother was looking down from the sky, and 
 his father up from the sea, to reproach her: but 
 it seemed to her rather a new thing to take the 
 case of parish children so much to heart. 
 
 ** If we consider," said Miss Barry, "how 
 many are made parish children by ourselves, the 
 wonder is that we can be so careless as we have 
 been about what becomes of them. Now and 
 then it pleases God to throw little children on 
 our mercy, by taking away their parents, and 
 leaving them without natural guardians ; but it 
 much oftener pleases man to bring families under 
 the cruel mercy of the parish by mismanaging 
 the labour on which we all live, and by inter- 
 fering with the course of industry. It pleases 
 man to separate children from their natural 
 guardians, by either tyranny or temptation, too 
 strong for the poor and the ignorant to resist. 
 The least that man can do in reparation is to 
 place the children in no worse a condition than 
 they would have been in the home provided by 
 independent industry. If the parents are driven 
 upon the parish, or tempted into the workhouse, 
 nothing can repair the injury to them ; but to 
 bring up their little ones to such a destiny as 
 that of parish children usually is, is an iniquity 
 which God will no more pardon than man 
 ought to endure.'* 
 
 Goody Gidney took snuff in sign of offence 
 at hearing puupcrB thus spoken of. She thought
 
 THE HAMLETS. 29 
 
 she had 2:one through life very decently, and 
 challenged any body to say any harm of her, — 
 brought up, as she had been, by the parish. 
 The ladies thought that if she was unconscious 
 of any impropriety in having lived seventy years 
 at other people's expense, and in leaving the 
 world without having done anything for society, 
 except trying its patience, there was little use in 
 argument. A glance from Mrs. Monk also 
 showed them that Goody's destiny was not ex- 
 actly that which she should covet for Harriet. 
 It was thought that the old pauper had never 
 earned so many pence as Harriet had received 
 already for eggs, wool, and running of errands, 
 — in which last occupation she was employed 
 in the place of many an abler-bodied person 
 who disliked the trouble of walkins: in hot wea- 
 ther, and preferred sleeping away the intervals 
 of parish pay. 
 
 As Harriet ran in at the moment to give 
 notice that Monk's boat was in sight, and 
 coming in quick with a fair wind, the ladies 
 inquired of her what she and Ben meant to do 
 with their pence as they got them ? Mrs. 
 Monk sighed, and said there was a sad want of 
 some safe and profitable place in which to store 
 up small sums. The ladies were surprised to 
 hear this complaint when they knew there was a 
 Savings Bank at Barham : but they had to learn 
 that the men of Hurst would not let any one 
 belonging to them deposit money openly, lest the 
 parish should know of it, and make a difficulty 
 ^bout paying their rents, and the allowance for 
 
 d3
 
 30 THE HAMLETS. 
 
 their children. When it had come out that 
 Monk had prohibited his family from having 
 anythinf^ to do with the Savings Bank, the young 
 ladies asked whether tliey could be of use in 
 taking- care of any small sums the children might 
 have from time to time. Mrs. Monk eagerly 
 called Miss Emily out of Goody's hearing, and 
 begged to be included in the offer, producing 
 a bit of blue rag tied up, which yielded the 
 eleven shillings she had long been saving to 
 help to answer the expenses of her confinement. 
 
 While Mrs. Monk was hunting high and low 
 for a pen to dip into the dusty ink, with which 
 her husband had now and then to scrawl a bill 
 for fish, and with which Emily was now wishing 
 to write an acknowledgment of the eleven shil- 
 lings, Harriet disappeared to watch again for 
 the boat which was bringing Ben from his first 
 trip. In a few minutes, both girl and boy re- 
 appeared, hauling along a pannier of fish, too 
 heavy to be carried more than three steps with- 
 out resting. They brought a message that Mrs. 
 Monk was to go down and bring up the nets, 
 and then be sorting the fish till Monk should 
 come home from the public-house, where he was 
 ffone to refresh himself 
 
 Ben had been very sick before he landed ; and 
 he looked rather crossly at Harriet as she stood 
 clapping her hands to see how high the last wave 
 carried the boat upon the beach; but when he 
 bethought himself of showing how his hands 
 were chafed vviththe line, and saw how proud Har- 
 riet was of his having caught an oar which was
 
 THE HAMLETS. 31 
 
 near fallinGC overboard, and how miserable at his 
 having' nearly fallen overboard himself, he grew 
 grand and good-humoured, and thought Mrs. 
 Monk might perhaps not trouble herself about 
 the nets, but leave the contents of the boat in 
 his charge. He insisted upon it that he knew 
 perfectly well what was in the boat, and what 
 was to be done, but was desired, with a wink, 
 to go down and touch nothing, but wait till she 
 should come. Perceiving that the wink related 
 to themselves, (Goody having slipped away on 
 findinn- that she had had her share of notice for 
 this day,) the ladies took leave, hoping that the 
 children's attendance at the school would be 
 secured without their being removed from under 
 Mrs. Monk's care. 
 
 The mood of complacency in which they left 
 Mrs. Monk, from her having disposed safely of 
 her money, and been honoured by a visit of 
 consultation from the ladies, was soon disturbed 
 by the fisherman, who returned wrathful at 
 what he had heard at the public-house, and per- 
 haps a little the worse for what he had taken in 
 his heated and hungry state. He stalked in 
 between his wife and the children, who were 
 seated on the shingle, busy about the fish, 
 blamed them for his stumble over a line which 
 he had not perceived, and desired Mrs. Monk 
 to make haste and fetch him what money she 
 had. She tremblingly produced two sixpences 
 and three halfpence, which were jerked angrily 
 out of her hand upon the shingle, where it
 
 32 THE HAMLETS. 
 
 would be well if the sixpences should prove re- 
 coverable amoiiir the larg-e stones. 
 
 " What makes you so lazy ?'' he cried, " 'Tis 
 not what is in your pocket that I want, but 
 what you have laid by. Up and fetch it, I say." 
 
 " I have no more money than this,'' she re- 
 plied. " There is not a farthing in the house. 
 You may go and see." 
 
 *' Then you Hed when you said there was. 
 You said you had got some against the au- 
 tumn." 
 
 •' So I did, and so I have ; and I am not 
 going to spend it, or let any body spend it, be- 
 fore the autumn. I am not going to let the 
 child that is coming wait on charity, any more 
 than the child that is playing yonder, while I can 
 work and save for them both. The money — 
 and little enough it is — is safe, where you will 
 not get it ; which you would do if it was in the 
 house." 
 
 *' If you have dared to go to the Savings 
 Bank-^" 
 
 " I have neither been nor sent, nor had any 
 dealings with the bank, because you forbade me : 
 but you will not forbid me making ready for my 
 time, I am sure, husband, nor be angry at my 
 doing what every decent wife should. Think 
 how many husbands there are that make the con- 
 trary complaint ! " 
 
 Monk did not deny this ; but his wife did not 
 know all. It was his belief that Barry must be 
 mad, as to parish matters, — He had actually
 
 THE HAMLETS. 33 
 
 given notice that no more rents would be paid 
 from parish-funds; and, what was yet more 
 absurd, that every dwelHng in the hamlet was to 
 be rated. 
 
 " Rated ! why, he is not going to rate us? '* 
 
 *' Yes, but he is; and even poorer cottages 
 than ours. So now you may see whether I am 
 not likely to want all the money I can get. As 
 for paying the rate, that is all nonsense ; I can't 
 do it, and I won't ; but 'tis the not having my 
 own rent paid that puzzles me. I have not had 
 so much as a doubt about it these four years. 
 I don't see but what we must turn out when our 
 landlord chooses to turn us out." 
 
 *' Where?" 
 
 " Into the workhouse, I suppose." 
 
 " Oh dear ! I suppose, husband, rather than 
 that, you would go out fishing without so much 
 minding the weather — you would not have a 
 child of yours born in the workhouse ! " 
 
 Monk believed that many as good as he had 
 had children born in the workhouse, and thought 
 no harm of it. All he knew was, that he could pay 
 neither rent nor rate ; and rate enough was like 
 to be wanted to answer for Barry's mad pranks. 
 It was said he had refused to make payments to 
 a distance in favour of those who had settle- 
 ments at Weston ; offering to take ail home who 
 could not do without relief: so, if half a dozen 
 families came back into the workhouse, to save 
 the little that was now paid to a distance " 
 
 " The little ! why, it is upwards of fifty 
 pounds a year."
 
 34 THE HAMLETS. 
 
 *' Well, if it be, how will you maintain four or 
 five families on fifty pounds a year?" 
 
 '* If they should choose to come, indeed, it 
 would look something like waste then. I sup- 
 pose our better sort of rate- payers will be making" 
 more haste than ever to places that are less bur- 
 dened." 
 
 *' To be sure they will, and leave us the bur- 
 den." 
 
 '* We being ourselves part of the burden ; you 
 and I, grown up and hearty, as much as these 
 young orphan things. Well, if each could bear 
 his own burden, I could fancy T might reconcile 
 myself to it very well ; paying our own rent, 
 and somehow getting bread for our own chil- 
 dren ; but as to making us bear a part of other 
 people's burdens, I can't think what Mr. Barry 
 means by proposing such a thing — except that it 
 reminds me of what Miss Emily was saying, 
 that the parish is not an empty name, but made 
 up of them and us, and all that live in it ; and 
 that we are all equally bound to help the help- 
 less, as far as we can ; the poorest as well as the 
 richest. This [may be Mr. Barry's reason for 
 rating us all ; and this is the way, perhaps, to 
 find out who are the helpless." 
 
 And as she looked at her stout husband lifting 
 Ben out of his way with the left hand, and 
 shifting his boat with an application of the right 
 foot, Mrs. Monk thought her husband would 
 scarcely like to be called, in so many words, one 
 of the helpless.
 
 THE HAMLETS. 35 
 
 Chapter III. 
 
 QUEEN ELIZABETH'S HOSPITALin'. 
 
 It appeared, in course of time, that Mr. Barry 
 had fully possessed certain of his neighbours of 
 his wishes and designs with respect to the parish 
 poor ; for there were some who expressed neither 
 surprise nor dismay at what astonished others 
 not a Httle, and who did not attempt what 
 was expected of them in opposition to the new 
 plans. 
 
 There had been reports current for several 
 days about the expected arrival of a new gover- 
 nor of the workhouse, on the departure of all 
 but the able-bodied paupers for Weston, when it 
 was made known in Hurst that the present 
 Thursday was the oddest pay-day that had ever 
 been known in the hamlet. 
 
 Monk had been to ask for his quarter's rent, 
 thinkino: it as well to avoid all notice of what he 
 had heard of the intention of making no more 
 such payments. Mr. Barry had told him that 
 the law did not authorize this mode of relief. 
 Monk had declared himself unable to pay it, and 
 had been offered an order for the workhouse, for 
 himself and his family, as the only assistance 
 offered by the law to those who could not provide 
 themselves a shelter. Monk had muttered some- 
 thing about the magistrates, and departed very
 
 86 THE HAMLETS. 
 
 anfrry at being ofFered the workhouse, though 
 he had talked to his wife about claiminn: it. 
 
 Hornman, the labourer, had asked, as usual, 
 for the half-crown and two eighteen-pences 
 necessary to make up his wages, and had been 
 taken by surprise with a refusal. On pleading 
 the invariable custom since he had been a far- 
 mer's labourer, of supplying from the parish- 
 fund the bread which his wages would not buy 
 for his children, he was told that this bread 
 might be had in the workhouse, if he chose to 
 go there with his family ; good bread, and 
 plenty of it, clean clothing and lodging, to be 
 paid for by the work to be done in the workhouse- 
 yard. Hornman thought it out of the question 
 to give up his employment, and eight and six- 
 pence a week, in order to get relief, and was inform- 
 ed that he mi^-ht then refuse it. He mio-lit shift 
 for himself out of the house, or be provided for 
 in it ; but to allow him to unite the advantages 
 of the two ways of living would be an injustice 
 to the independent labourer. 
 
 The next man who applied declared that he 
 and his young wife must starve if their five shil- 
 lings were withheld, and made no scruple about 
 entering the house ; for which an order was 
 therefore immediately supplied. A number of 
 idle persons followed his example, knowing that 
 it was considered no bad lot to live in Hurst 
 workhouse, where the people had hitherto been 
 allowed to do pretty much what they pleased, 
 and whither many would have gone, long ere 
 this, but for the couveuieuce of receiving their
 
 THE HAMLETS. 37 
 
 pay at home. They found to-day, however, 
 that their notions were not at all suitable to the 
 actual state of things. 
 
 The doors were thrown open to them without 
 the slightest hesitation, and Millar, the new go- 
 vernor, received them kindly. 
 
 *' You will find every thing comfortable, I 
 hope, as long as you are obliged to be here ; 
 and I shall be happy to give any information 
 which may help you to employment, and release 
 you again. Meantime, you will find your work 
 ready for you in the yard. I will show it you 
 when you have changed your dress ; and my 
 o:ood woman will take char2:e of vour wife. — 
 Walk that way, friend, and you will find Mrs. 
 Millar waiting to cfive vou vour dress." 
 
 So there was to be a workhouse dress ! that 
 was a new fancy : and what might the work 
 be? 
 
 " Stone-cutting, and a daily portion allotted 
 to each man." , 
 
 But Adams could not cut stone ; it was hard 
 work, and he had never tried it. 
 
 " Try it now, then ; and if you cannot do it, 
 there are bones to be broken. You shall have a 
 hammer; and anybody can break bones: but 
 the stone-cutting is the superior sort of work." 
 
 " And what is my wife to do while I am 
 breaking bones? " 
 
 *' She will be employed with the other wo- 
 men, at their side of the house. Mrs. Millar 
 will see that she has what she wants, in the 
 way of work and every thing else. Now move 
 
 £
 
 38 THE HAMLETS. 
 
 on, if you please ; and when yon are washed and 
 dressed, I shall have done speaking to the peo- 
 ple behind you." 
 
 It was so long since Adams had been in so 
 clean a place, that he looked round him with 
 some decree of awe, and walked as if he tn>d on 
 eggs. The most splendid carpet could not have 
 felt more strang-e to his feet than the well- 
 scrubbed boards ; and no furniture could have 
 excited his wonder more than the long row of 
 white deal tables which stretched from end to 
 end of the eating apartment. Not a speck, or a 
 crack, or a cobweb was to be seen along the 
 whole range of the whitewashed walls ; and the 
 lattices, as clear as the air itself, aflforded a fine 
 view of the perspective of the cement lines of 
 the outer wall. 
 
 When he had beautified himself with soap and 
 water, to a degree which he had not practised 
 since his mother taught him how to dress on a 
 Sunday morning, Adams walked back through 
 the same solemn silence, vexed at the creaking 
 of his prodigious workhouse shoes; made to 
 last as long, apparently, as he could possibly 
 abide in the place. 
 
 The silence remained no longer than during 
 his passage to the yard ; where there was the 
 grating of the saw, the thumping of the bone- 
 hammer, and almost every other sound that 
 could be anticipated, except that of loud voices. 
 This, they were informed, could be no more per- 
 mitted in the yard of a workhouse than of a farm 
 or curin2:-house. Such conversation as did not
 
 THE HAMLETS. 39 
 
 hinder their own or other people's business, they 
 were welcome to ; but order was the rule of the 
 house. Under this permission, nothing remained 
 but to gTumble over that hardest work of all — 
 work which brings no disposable pay. 
 
 Adams had soon had enough of it. The 
 stone-cutting shook his arms to the shoulder- 
 blade, he declared ; and the bone-breaking 
 seemed as likely to break his bones as those on 
 which he was employed ; his back would never 
 stand it. One other choice remained ; there 
 was the corn-mill in the shed. On hearins: of 
 the corn-mill, five or six joined Adams in choos- 
 ing that kind of work ; hoping that there would 
 not be room for more than half of them, so 
 that the other half might take their ease. To 
 their great disappointment, it was found that the 
 handle might be extended to any length, so as 
 to admit the application of any degree of power, 
 and that the entire population of the w^orkhouse, 
 when fullest, might be employed in grinding 
 corn. Another provoking circumstance was, 
 that the grinders had not the amusement of 
 seeing the effects of their labour; a partition 
 having been put up between the mill and the 
 handle. This was the fault of some mischievous 
 paupers, preceding the present set. They had 
 thrown dirt and pebbles into the corn, and thus 
 compelled the governor to exclude their succes- 
 sors from the sight of their own work. It was 
 not his fault that they worked at their handle 
 like blinded horses in a mill, 
 
 e2
 
 40 THE HAMLETS. 
 
 No mill-horse ever tossed his head and shook 
 his sides with more satisfaction on being un- 
 harnessed than these paupers made their way to 
 the dinner-table, on the bell being rung. There 
 was something, however, in the aspect of the 
 apartment which at once quieted their glee. 
 The cleanliness and order put them in mind of 
 Sunday ; of the old Sundays, which they did 
 not like to look back upon ; and there was no- 
 thing very tempting in the share of bread and 
 mug of water which was set for each man. 
 There was quite enough food for the most hun- 
 gry labourer that ever longed for his dinner ; 
 yet where was the beer ? 
 
 No beer was allowed in the workhouse. The 
 labourers out of doors found it difficult to get 
 beer ; and why should the paupers, whom they 
 helped to support, expect it } 
 
 No beer ! Was ever such a thing heard of ?— • 
 Then they would make haste and finish eating, 
 that they might have time to smoke a pipe before 
 they set to work again. 
 
 Not so : tobacco was even more out of the 
 question than beer. How should their neigh- 
 bours out of doors afford to give away luxuries, 
 when they could barely get necessaries for them- 
 selves ? 
 
 Great was the wonder what Goody Gidney 
 would do without her snuff, and Adams's poor 
 old father without his pipe ; and all the aged 
 women up at Weston without their tea. Much 
 was said about cruelty — much that might have
 
 THE HAMLETS. 41 
 
 been spared — for it was presently explained 
 that tobacco, beer, and tea were allowed at Wes- 
 ton. It was granted that the ag-ed, who had 
 become unable to do without the little luxuries 
 w^hich they had earned for themselves in their 
 better days, ought to be cheerfully supplied with 
 these things, under the calamity of becoming 
 paupers in their time of helplessness, but it was 
 declared that all indulgences should be disdained 
 by the strong who could not earn them. 
 
 As there was nothino- to be done at table but 
 to eat bread and drink water, under the eye of 
 the governor, every one was raiher glad of the 
 signal to be moving again. Several had already 
 begun tattooing the floor or the benches with 
 heels and knuckles, and one or two seemed half 
 asleep, when their munching was done ; while 
 certain fidgety persons near swung first one 
 leg and then the other over the bench, leaned 
 first one elbow and then the other on the table, 
 and finally folded their arms and gazed all about 
 for something to look at. These jumped up, 
 like schoolboys from their lessons, when the half 
 hour was up ; but not all to hasten to work. 
 
 " I can't work any more to-day, sir ; that 
 confounded grinding has half broke my back ; 
 I can't work any more to-day." 
 
 " I am sorry for that. You can't eat any 
 more to-day, then.'' 
 
 " Lord ! sir ; I must have my supper." 
 
 *' Certainly, if you earn it. Not without." 
 And this was all that could be got out of Mr. 
 Millar. 
 
 e3
 
 42 THE HAMLETS. 
 
 " I can't work any more to-day, sir," declared 
 another ; " I am not fit for work." 
 
 " I am sorry for that ; what is the matter ? " 
 
 *' I am not well ; no more fit for that work 
 tlian a man just out of Barham Hospital." 
 
 " The doctor will call presently, and he shall 
 see you. You can wait here till he comes." 
 
 The patient thought the fresh air of the yard 
 would be better for him than being alone in a 
 room ; but till the doctor ordered fresh air, the 
 quiet, airy room was considered by the governor 
 to be the better place. 
 
 " If you will show me where I am to sleep, 
 sir, I should like that better." 
 
 " You can't be quieter than you will be here 
 till supper-time ; and we do not allow going up 
 and down stairs during the day. How long 
 have you been ill? " 
 
 " O, I am often ill, with a pain of my own ; 
 I can't work when I have it bad." 
 
 " It has come on since noon, I think, has it 
 not?" 
 
 *' Why, yes, in part. 'Tis very bad now." 
 
 " Well, the doctor will soon be here. You 
 can keep as quiet as you please till he comes." 
 
 The doctor came, and considered that there 
 was no immediate danger, general as this pain 
 of the inside seemed to be. He thought an 
 emetic this afternoon, and plenty of camomile-tea 
 to-morrow, would most likely send it away for a 
 good while. He would probably have been 
 proved right, if the case had continued as .bad 
 as when he saw it ; for the mere sight and scent
 
 THE HAMLETS. 43 
 
 of the emetic restored the patient to his place at 
 the corn-mill, and prevented any return of the 
 pain for that day. 
 
 The corn-mill was unavoidably noisy, like 
 other corn-mills, and there were some delicate 
 personages among these paupers who could no 
 more abide noise than some others could recon- 
 cile themselves to quietness. While one was 
 telling his neighbour that he would not stay to 
 be sent to sleep with dulnes3 over his meals 
 three times a-day, another vowed he would not 
 remain to have his head shaken to pieces with 
 the grating of the mill. Others had misgivings 
 of a ditierent kind. 
 
 " I say, Jem, what's to be the end of all this 1" 
 
 " No end, that I see. Here we may work 
 away, I suppose, sawing and sawing, grinding 
 and grinding, as long as we have to stay." 
 
 '* Without ever seeing the colour of money for 
 all our pains ! Well, work is work every where ; 
 but it is twice as hard where one gets nothing 
 for it." 
 
 " Except such food as one can mostly manage 
 to get without being kept in a prison lor it. I 
 had rather have half a meal, and eat it where 
 and how I please, than a whole one in a prison. 
 I have no notion of being made a prisoner be- 
 cause I am poor ; I won t stand it. I will go 
 and tell the governor so." 
 
 " And so will I ; and it is odd if my wife is 
 not of my mind by this time, if they deal with 
 the women as they deal with us. My wife won't
 
 44 THE HAMLETS. 
 
 consent to g-o without her tea, I will answer for 
 her. I'll go and see." 
 
 The governor came as soon as called, to be 
 told that it was a very wicked thing" to imprison 
 people because they are poor ; to which he fully 
 agreed. 
 
 " Then why do you make prisoners of us, 
 sir ? All because we are poor." 
 
 " I always thought that a prison was a place 
 where people were put in and ke})t in without 
 their will ; which is not the case here. You 
 asked to come in ; and if you choose to go 
 away again, nobody hinders you." 
 
 " I'll take you at your word, sir, and go ; I'd 
 rather do any body's work than yours, any day, 
 and have my liberty." 
 
 " With all my heart: if you can get other 
 work, you have no business to be here. If you 
 cannot, you will be thankful for having this place 
 to come to, to earn food and shelter. As soon 
 as you think you can get work, I would advise 
 you to go. The doors will be open to-morrow 
 morning." 
 
 " I'll go to-night, now, before the hour strikes.'* 
 
 " You know that you cannot. The overseer 
 told you that our gates are opened only once a 
 day." 
 
 " But you can bid them be opened." 
 F *' Certainly not, to let folks out at night to 
 come back in the morning. The doors are open 
 once a-day. Go or stay, as you please; but 
 whichever you do, you make your choice for the
 
 THE HAMLETS. 45 
 
 day. And now, if you mean to have your sup- 
 per, it is time you were earning it." 
 
 " Where is my wife ? I want to speak to her." 
 
 " She is at her work ; you will have time to 
 learn her mind in the morning, before you go." 
 
 There was no resource but work, as before, or 
 idleness and hunger ; so back to the corn-mill 
 went the complainers. Those who were not 
 complainers — the very few who had come into 
 the house because they really could not find a 
 living out of it — worked silently and steadily, as 
 a means of getting bread. They did not turn 
 aside at every noise that made itself heard from 
 without, above the creaking and grating of their 
 machine. 
 
 " Hark ! what is that ? " cried Adams, as the 
 thump of a drum, and the squeak of a fife, and 
 the melody of an organ penetrated the work- 
 shed. 
 
 " Music a going to the next fair, that is to be 
 held to-morrow," answered Jem ; *' there's to 
 be a fine donkey-race on the green, the first 
 thing in the morning. Scott's donkey has been 
 in training this fortnight," 
 
 Adams cursed himself if he would have come 
 in these two days if he had known that. Now 
 he could not get out till morning ; and ten to 
 one it was time enouirh to see the race. He 
 knew that, formerly, no people were gayer at the 
 fairs than those that came from the workhouse, 
 and he saw no use in keeping them mewed up. 
 He proposed that a general and very urgent re- 
 quest should be made to Millar to permit a holy-
 
 46 THK HAMLETS. 
 
 day to take place next day, and the gates to be 
 opened from an early hour. 
 
 Millar had made up his mind to answer all 
 demands patiently, till the plan of the work- 
 house had become sufficiently known to preclude 
 them. He replied, that while some who sup- 
 ported the workhouse were unable to cease their 
 labour and take pleasure for a single day, it was 
 out of the question that inmates of the house 
 should make merry. They had no business, that 
 he could perceive, with organ and drum within 
 the gates, and he would not allow them to be 
 hailed ; so organ and drum passed on, and the 
 grumblers returned to their work, astonished to 
 find that pauperism was any hinderance to gaiety. 
 
 In the morning, before the hour of opening 
 the gates, the workhouse coats were, for the most 
 part, thrown contemptuously into a corner, and 
 the shoes stood upon one another in a heap ; the 
 men, and some of the women, were walking im- 
 patiently about the yard, teazing to be let loose ; 
 and when, at last, the word was given, they 
 rushed through the portal, with ideas about 
 pauperism very ditierent from what they had had 
 when they entered, twenty-four hours before. 
 The few whom they left behind repaired to their 
 work with a heavy heart, thankful to be saved 
 from starvation, but hoping not long to owe 
 their subsistence to legal charity. 
 
 Of the escaped paupers, some ran to witness 
 the donkey-race and other spectacles of the fair ; 
 trustinn; to £>et a meal and a lodiiinG^ for that 
 day, and to find work the next. Two went to
 
 THE HAMLETS. 47 
 
 lodge a complaint with Colonel Lee, the magis- 
 trate ; alleging that the overseer had, in the 
 one case, refused the weekly allowance, inva- 
 riably given till now, and in the other declined 
 paying rent as requested. Colonel Lee inquired 
 whether all assistance had been refused ; and on 
 being informed that the workhouse was offered 
 in each instance, pronounced that nothing 
 further could be claimed by law, and that no 
 pretence remained for summoning the overseer. 
 He comforted the applicants by hints that he 
 thought theirs a hard case, but considered him- 
 self obliged to observe the letter of the law as 
 carefully in the instance of an overseer as in that 
 of paupers. The time was not yet come for him 
 to perceive that the interests of a third party — 
 the parish — interests outweighing those of pau- 
 pers and overseer together, require also the strict 
 administration of the law in question. 
 
 These two applicants carried back news of 
 their defeat to their expecting brethren ; some of 
 whom were in favour of an appeal to ano- 
 ther magistrate. As it appeared likely, how- 
 ever, that the neighbouring magistrates were all 
 in a " conspiracy " against the paupers, it was 
 judged better to enter into a counter-conspiracy 
 against the overseer ; and, till it could be ma- 
 tured, it was resolved to show the governor that 
 they could and would have beer and tobacco, for 
 all his tiresome good-natured looks and wise 
 sayings. 
 
 In pursuance of this resolution, one bethought 
 himself of the felling going on this week in
 
 48 THE HAMLETS. 
 
 Colonel Lee's woods, and wondered whether 
 employment could be got in barking the trees. 
 The Colonel was propitious, his forester not ob- 
 jecting ; and by dinner-time, two of the paupers 
 of yesterday were busy amid blows as noisy as 
 ever bone-hammer made, and at an occupation 
 as fatiguing as grinding any kind of corn un- 
 mixed with pebbles. Another met a woman, be- 
 longing to a village four miles inland, with a 
 basket full of limpets for sale. It occurred to 
 him, that if limpets were worth fetching from a 
 distance of four miles, he might probably make 
 enough by them in Hurst, or, at least, in the 
 neighbouring fair, to furnish his share of the in- 
 tended pipe and pint per man. Down to the 
 rocks he hastened, while the tide was yet low ; 
 and he might be seen dabbling in pools, slipping 
 about on moist sea-weed, and picking the fish 
 from every crevice, till he had filled his hat and 
 his pockets. While thus employed, he was made 
 to turn and look up by an extraordinary commo- 
 tion among the sea-birds ; an unusual number 
 of which fluttered about him, or settled on the 
 surface of the water, at safe distance from the 
 shore, balancing themselves on the undulations, 
 as if wholly at ease and careless of what the 
 spoiler was doing about their homes. This 
 spoiler was one who was come to rob the sea- 
 fowl, because he was not permitted to rob his 
 parish. With his pipe and pint, and spite 
 against the governor in prospect, he was swing- 
 ing, clambering, leaping, and prying, with no 
 small success, in his search after eggs : a sue-
 
 THE HAMLETS. 49 
 
 cess which would have furnished himself and his 
 assistants with a dinner, even if the invalids and 
 epicures of the neighbourhood had not purchased 
 the dainty at a price which left something over 
 when dinner was paid for. 
 
 The last wlio remained idle, and likely to be 
 hungry, was Jem Collins. He had not inge- 
 nuity to think of any new plans, and not such a 
 character for diligent toil as would induce any 
 one to employ him when others were at liberty. 
 When he found that he was not wanted at felling 
 and barking, and that farmer Rickman did not 
 desire his services, the only device he could sug- 
 gest to himself was to go and pay a dutiful visit 
 to his grandmother, in the workhouse at Weston, 
 and take the chance of partaking of her dinner. 
 It was some trouble to walk to Weston ; but he 
 began to consider what a good thing it was that 
 the old folks were permitted to receive their 
 friends, instead of being shut up like the able- 
 bodied paupers at Hurst. By this means, he 
 might get a sup of beer or tea sometimes, when 
 he must otherwise go without ; and might, at 
 the same time, gratify his grandmother with the 
 sight of the lad she was so fond of She was 
 very apt at hoping that he would grow up a 
 credit to the parish that reared him ; and he had 
 so far fulfilled her trust, that he was, at twenty 
 years old, six feet two inches high. 
 
 Jem Collins met with something by the way 
 which made him postpone his filial duty for an 
 hour. In traversing the marsh which lay between 
 Hurst and Weston, he took it into his head to 
 
 F
 
 50 THE HAMLET3, 
 
 quit the usual path, and strike across an expanse 
 of rushes, which he thoug;ht would save him a 
 few steps. A little bare liead popped up from 
 the rushes on one side of him, and a blue pina- 
 fore pee])ed out from the other, and immediately 
 after, a scream of joy told him that he was " Jem 
 Collins, Jem Collins," that Betsy had not seen 
 she did not know when. They used to play to- 
 gether, and have plenty of fun in the workhouse 
 at Hurst ; but Betsy's removal to Weston had 
 interrupted the acquaintance which she was now 
 deli<j:hted to renew. 
 
 Betsy had come down into the marsh with 
 Harriet and Ben, after school, for the ])urpose of 
 n-athering- rushes for candles, while they plucked 
 their usual quantity of grass for platting". The 
 brother and sister had finished gathering the 
 grass, and were now preparing a present of 
 rushes for Mrs. Monk. All three had been 
 merry together, till Jem Collins came ; but he 
 engrossed Betsy's attention, so that her com- 
 panions were left to amuse and help one another 
 as they might. She no longer heard when ap- 
 pealed to as to which of two rushes she should 
 guess to be the longest, without measuring, and 
 she pushed Ben away when he obligingly came 
 to point out how to look for the finest tufts. 
 Ben's temper was not made to bear this. He 
 flung himself round on his heel, and seemed on 
 the point of vowing never to gather another rush. 
 
 " What a shame of Betsy to behave so to 
 you ! " cried Harriet ; " she well nigh drove you 
 into the mud,"
 
 THE HAMLETS. 51 
 
 " Never mind her," said Ben, restored in a 
 moment, by seeing that he was cared for ; " that 
 is always the way with her, because slie can't 
 bear me." 
 
 " O, Ben!" 
 
 " O, she is very fond of you ; she tells Jane 
 Scott how you lend her thing's, and all that." 
 
 " Does she, really ? " 
 
 *' But she can't abide me ; she says she can't." 
 
 *' If I thought that " Harriet began 
 
 flinging down her handful, while Ben went on 
 proving his point, till he had worked her up to 
 a determination never to say another word to 
 Betsy. The brother and sister turned their backs 
 to the two who stood gossiping at a distance, 
 and grew into excessive good-humour with each 
 other, while quarrelling with a sinning com- 
 panion. They each pressed their best rushes 
 upon each other. Ben helped to disengage Har- 
 riet's pinafore from a brier, and Harriet fright- 
 ened away a frog which had made Ben start, 
 and without showing that she saw the start. 
 They became very confidential also in their chat. 
 
 " I wonder what I lent Betsy," said Harriet; 
 *' I don't know any thing I have got to lend, but 
 what I have in school, and that is not mine ; so 
 it is not so very good-natured." 
 
 '' O, but it is," protested Ben ; " because 
 there are several that won't lend in school. That 
 was what Betsy meant ; and it is very true, 
 though she is such a cross thing." 
 
 *' Do you think any body else thinks me 
 
 F 2
 
 52 THE HAMLETS. 
 
 o-ood-natured ? I wonder whether they think so 
 at home." 
 
 " Yes, they do," pronounced Ben ; ** I heard 
 them say something to one another once." 
 
 "Did you? — when? — what about? — what 
 was it?" 
 
 *' O, it was just after we came to them, when 
 you were lifting up Fred and lifting him down 
 again, and he would not be satisfied ; I heard 
 them say that they had a good bargain of you 
 for Fred's sake." 
 
 *' Which said it? — what were the words ?" 
 
 '' O, that is all I remember. Did you ever 
 hear them say any thing about me ? " 
 
 *' No, never: but I am sure, if you had any 
 thing to give away, they would say you were very 
 generous. But I did hear something ; — our go- 
 verness whispered one day that you had a very 
 pretty colour when you had been running." 
 
 Ben could not help smirking at this ; but he 
 immediately wished that he had something to 
 give away. Harriet sympathized entirely in 
 this. She thought it must be so very nice to 
 give charity. She wondered whether Ben had 
 ever thought of such a thing as she had often 
 wished, and never told any body — she did not 
 think she could tell any body. 
 
 " O yes ; you will tell me." 
 
 *' No ; I don't think I can tell any body — I 
 never did." 
 
 " O, do, do ! tell me, tell me, dear." 
 
 This last word — an unusual one from Ben's
 
 THE HAMLETS. 53 
 
 lips, together with the feehng* of his arm round 
 her neck — opened Harriet's heart entirely ; she 
 half choked between eagerness and shame as she 
 said, " I should like to get up very early one 
 morning", and g-o about doing good," 
 
 " O, so should I ! " cried Ben, instantly firing, 
 so as to make her glad she had told ; " I won- 
 der whether we could get out without any body 
 hearing us ?" 
 
 " I think I could jump down from the win- 
 dow; and you need not wake Fred." 
 
 " Then what should we do first?" 
 
 " We might go and ask Mrs. Scott whetVier 
 she wanted any thing that we could do for her. 
 And if she was not up, I think I could get her 
 pitcher, and fill it at the spring, so that she 
 would find it at the door full, instead of having 
 to go herself. Perhaps, if you looked into the 
 houses as you went along, you might see 
 some baby that was ill, and we might stop its 
 crying. I know how to stop a baby crying, un- 
 less it is very bad indeed. And then we might 
 meet an old blind beggar-man that could not 
 get over the land-springs by himself 5 you might 
 help him over, and lead him safe up the down, 
 while I was hushing the baby." 
 
 '* But those are all such little things : I should 
 like " 
 
 <( 
 
 O, so should T, if we could — I should like to 
 find out some people that are almost starving, 
 and carry them whatever they want." 
 
 •' There are so many people that are almost 
 
 F 3
 
 54 THE HAMLETS. 
 
 starving, and they never do quite starve. No : 
 I should like to take people to the fair, and buy 
 whatever they took a fancy to, and a great deal 
 more ; I would buy " 
 
 " But you know, Ben, we have nothing to 
 buy with, except my seven-pence and your five- 
 pence, that the Miss Barrys have ; and I don't 
 think we may spend that at the fair till you have 
 got your woollen cap to go to sea in, and I a 
 better pair of shoes for Sundays. O, I do wish 
 we had some money ! I wish we could be 
 generous ! " 
 
 " I am afraid we can't yet ; but I am almost 
 tired of hearing our governess and every body 
 tell us about our duty in being grateful to the 
 parish, and trying to keep off the parish. It 
 seems such a little, easy sort of thing to do." 
 
 " So it does ; but yet they say there are many 
 on the parish that hoped once to do fine things. 
 We must take care of that ; for we can't be ge- 
 nerous if we keep on the parish, you know." 
 
 " Can we if we keep oft"? " 
 
 *' Perhaps we can. Mrs. Monk says she knew 
 a gentleman, a very rich gentleman, in London, 
 that was once a parish-boy. You may find some 
 grand way of getting rich, and then yoti will let 
 me live with you " 
 
 " To be sure ! It will be yours just as much 
 as mine." 
 
 "And we will go out then before break- 
 fast, as early as we like, and do a great deal of 
 good. What shall we carry ? "
 
 THE HAMLETS. 55 
 
 "What do people want most? But I think 
 others, besides rich people, do a great deal of 
 good." 
 
 " Jesus Christ was not rich, for one. I 
 suppose he was very generous. Could we do 
 anything tliat he did, do you think ? " 
 
 *' I can't think of anything," replied Ben, 
 after a pause. " It was not he that gave a cup 
 of cold water to somebody, was it? If it was, 
 it would be something like your filling the 
 pitcher." 
 
 " He only told people to do it ; but I never 
 recollected that when I talked about Mrs. Scott's 
 pitcher. Here ! here is the finest rush we have 
 got yet ; you had better put it in the middle of 
 your bundle.'' 
 
 " No ; I won't take it. You found it ; you 
 must keep it," 
 
 This was declared impossible, and the final 
 agreement was to unite the bundles, which 
 really made a fine large one. Ben was unwil- 
 ling to let the subject drop on which his 
 waking dreams had evidently been of late em- 
 ployed. 
 
 '* I have often wondered," said he, "whe- 
 ther there is anything generous in taking care 
 of Fred." 
 
 "Not in taking care of him, because we 
 are bound to do it ; but there is one thing we 
 might do about Fred that would be generous." 
 
 Ben was eager to know what this was ; but 
 Harriet seemed to have even more difficulty in 
 speaking out about it than about her favourite
 
 56 THE HAMLETS. 
 
 scheme. At lenj^th her meaning appeared. She 
 thought that it would be generous, not only to 
 refrain from cuffing" Fred vvlien he was cross, 
 but to smile at him, and help him to be good- 
 humoured again. Ben was very near cuffing 
 his sister for suying this ; but he remembered 
 his declaration that he would never forgive her 
 if she did not say it, and changed his purpose. 
 Squeezino' his hands together at the back of 
 his head, he let out that he knew he was very 
 cross witli Fred and every body sometimes ; 
 but, then, Fred and every body was very pro- 
 voking sometimes ; which Harriet did not pre- 
 tend to dispute. She thought Betsy and Jem 
 Collins very provoking to-day, talking and 
 laughing, without ever thinking about Betsy's 
 old companions. By the bye, a thought 
 struck her : would not it be generous to forgive 
 Betsv and Jem Collins? Ben thouQ-ht it would, 
 and that it would make the thing belter still to 
 offer them the bundle of rushes. Harriet he- 
 sitated for a minute about this last effort; but 
 recollecting that Mrs. Monk really did not ex- 
 pect any rushes this day, she could not resist 
 the temptation to do a generous thing. 
 
 " I said a little while ago," she observed to 
 her brother, "that I would never speak to 
 Betsy again, for your sake; but you will not 
 mind my speaking to her to tell her that I forgive 
 her, will you ?" 
 
 Ben turned round to look at the gossiping 
 pair, and gave a breathless sort of permission. 
 Harriet accordingly went up, looking, in her own
 
 THE HAMLETS. 57 
 
 idea, equally mild and solemn, to tell Betsy that 
 she forgave her. 
 
 " You forgive me ! What for ?'* 
 
 *' For not liking Ben so well as me, and for 
 treating us so this afternoon, and for " 
 
 The most provoking tears in the world would 
 come just at the wrong moment. Jem laughed ; 
 Betsy laughed after him ; Ben threw his hat at 
 Betsy, and then turned to Jem, savins:, 
 
 *' And I forgive you too for laughing, be- 
 cause vou don't know anythin"- about what 
 Harriet means. And you may have these 
 rushes, if you like. They are the best we 
 could find." 
 
 " And beauties they are," cried Jem. " Here, 
 Betsy, shall I dress up your hat with them, or 
 shall we play ball with it ? 'Tis a fine big ball." 
 > " No, no," cried Ben, eagerly. ''It will come 
 untied if you toss it up. They are to make 
 candles of Here, I will show you." 
 
 And in all good faith Ben began explaining 
 the process, not at liberty, like Harriet, to per- 
 ceive the winks which passed between Jem 
 and Betsy. Harriet stood narrowly watching 
 them for some time, and then put her arm on 
 Ben's shoulder, saying, 
 
 " They are making game of us all the time, 
 Ben. They don't care a pin for the r\ishes." 
 
 A more insulting laugh than ever follow^ed 
 this discovery ; the laughers running away, 
 hand in hand, and looking behind them to see 
 what became of the rush-gatherers. Harriet
 
 i^^ THE HAMLETS. 
 
 slowly took up the bundle, which seemed to be 
 suddenly scorned by Ben as much as by Jem. 
 
 *' Throw them into the mud," he said. 
 "They are nasty trumpery thini^s, after all." 
 
 " Why, so they are ; but they will make can- 
 dles at home just as well as ever; and if Mrs. 
 Monk does not want them, they will do for 
 litter for Dawson's pig." 
 
 " Well, take them home for what I care; 
 but it is all nonsense for us to try to be gene- 
 rous." 
 
 " Don't let us think any more about it to- 
 day," said Harriet, secretly unwilling to give up 
 her aspirations. " I am sure it is full time 
 for us to be home, and we are to have new 
 bread for dinner to-day. I saw Fred sucking 
 the last crust of the old loaf this morning." 
 
 Somewhat cheered by this pleasant prospect 
 they trudged home with their burden between 
 them, not a rush being dropped by the way for 
 Jem to make game of, if he should return by 
 the same track. 
 
 Jem did return by the same track ; but not 
 till he had escorted Betsy home, accepted from 
 her the loan of a sixpence which somebody had 
 given her for a birth-day present, and eaten up 
 two-thirds of his grandmother's dinner while 
 paying his duty to her. He left the old lady 
 with a tine appetite for her tea, and much gra- 
 tified at her dear lad's approval of her new 
 location. He was as easily convinced as she 
 could desire, that the aged folks were much
 
 THE HAMLETS. 
 
 5d 
 
 quieter here than down below ; that they could 
 sleep better of nights ; that it was a rare view 
 from the yard bench ; that nobody grudned 
 them their little comforts, as was the case when 
 a score of rude fellows were bullyincr for tea 
 and tobacco; and that, on the whole, the re- 
 moval had been nothing but a good to the party 
 most concerned. She told a neighbour, while 
 sipping- her tea, that there was some pleasure in 
 talking- to her boy Jem, who agreed in all that 
 was said, instead of insisting-, like some of 
 Goody Gidney's g-ossips, that the change was 
 altog:ether a piece of tyranny, such as the whole 
 parish ought to rise up against. 
 
 Jem's success in tilchiiiG^ his dinner encoii- 
 rag:ed him in his idea of filching his pipe and 
 drink in the evening. He was punctual in his 
 attendance at the spot where his fellow paupers 
 of the preceding day were to meet to laugh at 
 the overseer, and beard the governor. They 
 came from their limpet selling, their felling and 
 barking, their eg^ quest, their collecting of 
 pebbles for the roads, and of sand for do- 
 mestic purposes, — each one with more or less 
 of earnings, — either in his pocket in the form 
 of money, in his hand in the shape of a mug of 
 beer, or sticking from the corner of his mouth 
 in the semblance of a tobacco-pipe. They sat 
 down in a ring under the workhouse wail, where 
 they might enjoy the sea-breeze after their la- 
 bour, and attract the attention of passers by, 
 who might be going down to the shore for si- 
 milar purposes of refreshment.
 
 60 THE HAMLETS. 
 
 There they sat sing'ing' in praise of liberty 
 and malt liquor, taking care that it should not 
 be their fault if the <^overnor did not learn this 
 evening^, that free-born Britons are made to 
 work for themselves, and not for any parish 
 task-master on earth. This was a doctrine no 
 more objectionable to the governor than to Mr. 
 Barry, who was coming up from a walk on the 
 beach with his daughters just in time to hear a 
 stanza about himself. He stood i:i full view, 
 with a daughter on each arm, till the song was 
 finished, laughing as much as any of them at 
 every home stroke, and nodding an approving 
 ffood nicrht. Millar had seen him from the 
 privileged wicket appropriated to the governor, 
 and slipped out to meet him at the back of the 
 premises. 
 
 " The plan seems to work well, so far," ob- 
 served Mr. Barry. " How many have you left 
 in the house?" 
 
 " Thirty ; and we breakfasted forty-two* this 
 morning. We are to have an influx to-morrow, 
 I hear; and to this we shall be subjected for 
 some time, I suppose, till our system becomes 
 better known.'' 
 
 " Ay, and you will have much trouble with 
 them yet awhile, I fear. You may have some 
 fiercer spirits to deal with than any of these who 
 have left you to-day." 
 
 •' Never mind me, sir. Trust me to manage 
 them for a time, knowing as I do that they will 
 be thankful enough for what we are about when 
 the thousands that have been spent in keeping
 
 THE HAMLETS. 61 
 
 up this house are at liberty to go into the 
 people's pockets as wages." 
 
 " Yes, yes. But we must have much pa- 
 tience, and not look too soon for the time vou 
 speak of. We have much to go through first." 
 
 "True, sir; I am aware of that. Some of 
 those who have looked for work in a spirit of 
 defiance, will come back upon us when their 
 fit of spite is over, and " 
 
 " And they cannot all live upon such poor 
 chance earnings as they have got to-day." 
 
 "No; but, meantime, one day's mainte- 
 nance has been saved from the pockets of the 
 farmer and the housekeeper, which will supply 
 another dav's work. This is somethiiio- oained. 
 Yes, yes. However little value there may be in 
 the shell-fish and esTG-s, and other thin«:s that 
 have been added to our parish resources to-day, 
 such gains will be valuable enough to us, if 
 they cause the farmers to call for another carter 
 or , ploughman each, and the housekeepers for 
 each an extra dish of fish once or twice a week. ' 
 
 " And there mav be some," observed Mi>s 
 Barry, " who have learned this day that it is 
 more pleasant to work than to depend on the 
 parish." 
 
 " Both in and out of the house, depend upon 
 it. Miss Barry. I have left a poor fellow at the 
 mill, actually crying at their shouting without. 
 I believe he would be off through the window, 
 if he could, ^t the first glimpse of a likelihood 
 of getting employment. But he is a bad work- 
 er
 
 W THE HAMLETS. 
 
 man, though willing- enoiigli ; and I fancy he 
 will be one of the last to leave us." 
 
 " Poor fellow ! I hope they all meet with 
 very different treatment now from what they 
 did under the old system, Millar. The brutal 
 way of speaking- to the paupers, and the harsh- 
 ness of the management, always struck me as 
 one of the worst features of the old plan. It 
 was a thing' I could never reconcile with the 
 governor's known kindness of heart, and still 
 less with the matron's." 
 
 *' It was not their fault, sir ; it was owing to 
 mixing up such different sorts of people to- 
 gether, and changing plans so often, that 
 harshness was called in to do what method 
 
 ould have eff'ected. The less we are ridden 
 by would-be paupers, the easier it is to be duly 
 kind to real paupers. One need hide one's 
 compassion only so lonn- as it is liable to be 
 made the occasion of abuse and imposture. 
 Take away impostors and encroacliers, and real 
 paupers will be regarded as people should he 
 who are sufferinc: under a verv ""rievous and 
 humbling misfortune. For my part, as I was 
 saying to my wife, there are few kinds of mis- 
 fortune that I pity more : and her answer is, 
 that if the true misery and humiliation of it 
 were known, there would be fewer pretenders 
 to it, and fewer aiders and abettors of it." 
 
 " I am quite of your wife's opinion, and I 
 hope the whole parish will be so too before 
 long. Meantime, I have no doubt the poor
 
 THE HAMLETS. fi9 
 
 fellows may feel themselves well off in your 
 hands. You will always bear in mind the rule 
 that they are to have whatever comes below the 
 limit of what is enjoyed by the independent 
 labourers who help to support them. This is 
 the limit prescribed by justice, and therefore by 
 true charity ; and this limit can never exclude 
 personal respect and kindness, which are the 
 due of the pauper, as of every other man." 
 
 Chapter IV. 
 IMPORTANT TRIFLES. 
 
 About a month after this time, Harriet got up 
 very early one morning-, and went out, — whe- 
 ther to do good, she could not at all determine 
 within herself. She was afraid that some mis- 
 chief might arise from her proceeding ; but the 
 Miss Barrys were such good ladies, and had 
 been so kind to Mrs. Monk and the family, that 
 it seemed wrong not to tell them of anything 
 which concerned their father very nearly. They 
 would tell her too whether she was doinir riffht 
 or wrong, and then she should know another 
 time. 
 
 Miss Emily was only half-dressed when Har- 
 riet arrived, and Miss Barry was not up. In- 
 stead of making their little visiter wait or go 
 away again, however, the young ladies showed 
 
 g2
 
 64 THE HAMLETS. 
 
 their respect for the value of her time by ad- 
 mitting her to their dressing room to tell her 
 story. Her story was, that she was not quite 
 asleep, the niij^ht before, when Monk came in 
 from his evening" gossip, and told his wife some- 
 thing that Harriet thought Mr. Barry ought to 
 know, though she was sure Monk did not 
 intend her to repeat it. Ought she to tell, or 
 not? 
 
 Was it about public or private business ? 
 
 Public, altogether. It was about the work- 
 house. 
 
 This being the case, Miss Emily thought 
 Harriet should tell, as nobody could possibly have 
 any proper private interest in the workhouse 
 affairs, and the welfare of the whole parish was 
 concerned in them. So Harriet told that a 
 vigorous push was to be made next week to 
 drive out the new system, and get back the old 
 plans of allowance, rent paying, &c. It was 
 agreed in the hamlet, that every labourer in the 
 two hamlets who had a fancy for any parish 
 assistance should demand on a certain dav to 
 be admitted into the workhouse. Now, the 
 workhouse could, by no possibility, be made to 
 hold two-thirds of the number who had already 
 entered into the conspiracy; and it was con- 
 sidered certain that Millar must declare his 
 hands to be full, and that Barry must consent to 
 give relief as the people liked best to have it. 
 Monk already began to talk of having his rent 
 paid for him next quarter, though Harriet 
 thought his wife did not wish it, but had rather
 
 THE HAMLETS. 65 
 
 see him go out fishing* a httle oftener, and have 
 something better to do with an odd sixpence 
 than to spend it as he did when there was 
 nothing to lay by for. 
 
 " He did manage to pay his rent last quarter, 
 did not he?" 
 
 " O yes, miss ; and my mistress says, that 
 if he once reconciled himself to the new plan, 
 he would be as sorry as any body that it should 
 be given up. Ihe little he would have to pay 
 in rate ' 
 
 " Which would grow less and less, till it 
 came to almost nothing." 
 
 " Yes, miss ; that little would be much more 
 than made up to him by several people staying 
 and buying his fish, that talked of going away 
 when the rates were so high. If he lost three 
 or four of his customers, the parish must do 
 more than pay his rent to make it up to him." 
 
 *' They will stay now, I have very little 
 doubt; for they begin to see that the rates are 
 falling already, and are much more likely to fall 
 when all are agreed to act upon the new plans. 
 I will tell my father what you have let me 
 know ; but I believe he is prepared for all the 
 opposition that can be planned against him. 
 You see how quietly the workhouse people 
 go to church now; and you know how they 
 threatened at first to take a run on the down 
 instead." 
 
 " Just as if they ought not to go to church 
 like other people, my mistress said; and the 
 more for being in a state of misfortune. But I 
 
 g3
 
 66 THE HAMLETS. 
 
 suppose the better sort liked to drop into church 
 unobserved; and the worse, to make Sunday 
 a pretence for going to some place that they 
 liked belter than church. My mistress says I 
 shall not be able to go to church, miss, for the 
 few Sundays that I am to be manager." 
 
 " Manager of what ? " 
 
 " Of Fred, and everything, when my mistress 
 is confined, miss. She is going to have no- 
 body to nurse her but me, except just at first ; 
 and she thinks that so she can make the money 
 do that you have of hers, without meddling 
 with the rent, and " 
 
 " So Mrs. Monk tells you of all these things, 
 Harriet ; so she tells you that we have money 
 of her's. Well, you are growing a great girl 
 now, and you should be showing yourself a help 
 to your mistress." 
 
 *' 1 could not be maijager for her without 
 being told these things. I am most afraid 
 about my master's coming home, and not finding 
 all as it should be." 
 
 *' If you do your best to have it so, he will 
 make allowance, I dare say, and remember that 
 you are a very young housekeeper." 
 
 *' That won't prevent his saying what he is 
 always saying to Ben and me. We are weary 
 of hearing it ; and it puts Ben out more than 
 anything ; so that I am always watching for it. 
 He is lor ever saying that we must go back to 
 the workhouse." 
 
 " He means less unkindness, perhaps, than a 
 person might who thought more ill of the work-
 
 THE HAMLETS. 67 
 
 house than he does. Mr. Monk seems to think 
 the workhouse the proper place for poor people." 
 
 *' And mv mistress is mortally afraid we should 
 get used to hear of g:oing back, and so not 
 mind it. But it is not that that I am afraid of, 
 so much as what Ben may do. He says if we can 
 keep on a bit longer as we are, he can get out to 
 sea, in one of the Newfoundland ships, or some- 
 how." 
 
 '* Leaving you to shift for yourself?" 
 
 " When he has once made sure of my not 
 going back to the workhouse ; he would not go 
 till he had seen me in service, or somewhere 
 safe. But I tell him that, there being only us 
 two, it will be odd if we must live on the two 
 sides of the world. If my master would cease 
 his talk about the workhouse, Ben would be 
 very well content to be a fisherman ; for he 
 has no further desire after the sea.*' 
 
 " And what sort of service would you like ? " 
 
 " I've no great mind to any ; but perhaps 
 that is because I am not fit for any. I like 
 dandling children, and teaching them to do 
 things ibr themselves; and so, if I was any 
 thing of a servant, I would be a nursemaid. 
 But then there is the ironing of babies' caps : I 
 could not do that ; I am sure I dare not touch a 
 lace border. The last time my mistress spoke 
 sharp to me was about running the heater 
 through the crown of Fred's nightcap." 
 
 " And have you mended it ? '" 
 
 *' O, miss, it was too bad for mending, ever so 
 much. I was like to thrust it into the fire be-
 
 68 THE HAMLETS. 
 
 fore she saw it, I was in such a fright ; but Ben 
 came in." 
 
 " And he made you ashamed of wanting to 
 burn it?" 
 
 " He took it to my mistress, and she was less 
 sharp with me for having been sharp upon him 
 first." 
 
 " And how did Ben hke that?" 
 
 " Why, when Ben is put out, it is commonly 
 when he has been more or less wrong himself. 
 He was not put out then, except that he thought 
 she said more than she need. But it was almost 
 a new cap, and quite spoiled ; and the thing 
 that my mistress least likes is to have to lay out 
 money just now. However, I put her off from 
 it, about the caps, and Fred will soon have 
 his cap again now ; I have got all but the 
 strings, and I can finish the making in two 
 more mornings ; and might have done it to- 
 morrow, but for the coming here to-day. If 
 farmer Rickman will give us three-halfpence for 
 as many rushes as we can get this afternoon for 
 litter, 1 can buy the tape for the strings as I 
 come home ; for Ben will wait for his t ree-far- 
 things, he says : he will not be easy, any more 
 than I, till the cap is done." 
 
 " Well, I hope you will have paid both your 
 debts before the end of the week, so as to have 
 quite an easy mind on Sunday. Now try to 
 fasten my gown, and let me see what kind of a 
 lady's maid you would make." 
 
 Harriet blushed and laughed as she laid aside 
 her bonnet, and applied her stout fingers to the
 
 THE H\MLETS. 69 
 
 slender buttons of the lady's dress. She laughed 
 vet more at the bare notion of her ever curling 
 and dressinc; a lady's hair. She had been taught 
 to crop Ben's hair, and keep it close cut ; but 
 this she thouijht was a verv different thins: from 
 curling Miss Emily's ; in which she was un- 
 doubtedly rio-ht. 
 
 *' It is well you should learn to use your fin- 
 gers' ends about small things," observed Miss 
 Emily ; " for there w ill be a young baby soon 
 at home for you to help to take care of; and you 
 little think, I dare say, how much a baby's tem- 
 per and comfort depend on having its things put 
 dexterously off and on. You have been more 
 used to lift the boiler and scrub the floor, I 
 fancy, than to manage a tender infant. How do 
 you think you shall get through till your mistress 
 is about again ? " 
 
 *' She has told me all I shall have to do, and 
 
 »> 
 
 *' Come, tell me about it. But it is a pity your 
 cap is not here, for us to be going ou with while 
 we talk." 
 
 In great glee, Harriet lifted up her apron and 
 showed her workbag under it. She had had no 
 distinct idea of doing any thing to the cap while 
 at Miss Barry's ; but she could not bear to be 
 parted from such a treasure as this article of her 
 own buying and making. She laid it under her 
 clothes when she put them off at night, and wore 
 it under her apron all day long. 
 
 *' Give it me/' said Miss Emily, " and I will
 
 70 THE HAMLETS. 
 
 do a piece for you : it is only fair, as I keep you 
 talking here." 
 
 Harriet's countenance fell — she was bent 
 upon doing every stitch of it herself ; but her re- 
 spect for Miss Emily would not let her say so in 
 any other way than by being suddenly melan- 
 choly. 
 
 " Does Mrs. Monk put a full .border upon 
 her child's nightcaps ? " asked Miss Emily. 
 " I wonder she finds time to iron them — to say 
 nothing of the making." 
 
 *' No, no, miss, Fred's caps have no border in 
 general ; but I had a mind to make this a bit 
 prettier than the one I burned. Don't you think 
 it is prettier with u border, Miss Emily? " 
 
 *' That depends very much upon how the 
 border is put on. I doubt whether this will or- 
 nament Freds cheeks. Who taught you to full 
 on a border, Harriet? " 
 
 " Nobody. I looked close at my mistress's 
 cap one day ; but I know this is not so neat." 
 
 " Would you like to learn to do it better — 
 shall I pick this off, and show you the way ? " 
 
 ** It won't be done by to-morrow, then, ma'am, 
 will it?'* 
 
 " Perhaps not ; but it will be better worth 
 giving away the next day." 
 
 " I3en reckoned so on its being done to-mor- 
 row ; I don't know what he would say." \ 
 
 " I think I do, if Ben is the boy I take him 
 for ; he would say that you have no right to 
 give an untidy cap in exchange for a tidy one."
 
 THE HAMLETS. 71 
 
 " Why ; that's true. I did not think of that 
 before. I shall thank you much, miss, fordoing 
 the unpicking ; but " 
 
 " But you wish the work to be all your own. 
 So it shall be. Bring* me that work-box. There 
 is a border of mine there, that you may learn 
 upon ; and then you can do every stitch of your 
 own yourself." 
 
 As the lesson proceeded, Harriet was asto- 
 nished to see how handsome her border would 
 look when half its breadth was not taken up 
 with the clumsy roll which, when starched, (as it 
 was to be, at least on its first appearance), would 
 prove a perpetual irritation to Fred's temples. 
 
 *' How will you manage about buying things 
 when you are housekeeper, Harriet? Are you 
 clever at getting articles good and cheap ? " 
 
 " I have mostly got what I was sent for, with- 
 out having to choose. When one is sent for a 
 quarter of an ounce of tea, one can hardly miss ; 
 and the same with butter for breakfast : and that 
 is the sort of buying I have been used to." 
 
 " But you will not have time to run up to the 
 shop every time Mrs. Monk will want a cup of 
 tea, or a slice of bread and butter ? " 
 
 *' No, miss ; and so she says she will make a 
 great shopping one day soon ; thinking she can- 
 not spend some of her money better. She will 
 get oatmeal enough for all the gruel wanted for 
 the month, and a pound of sugar, and as much 
 tea as she can afford after that. The meat and 
 the bread she must trust to me to buy ; but it
 
 72 THE HAMLETS. 
 
 would not do to be runninp; out every meal-time, 
 when the baby must not be left." 
 
 *' Certainly ; nor yet to pay for the grocer's 
 paper and string for ten times as many parcels as 
 need be made up ; nor yet to have the tea ground 
 down to dust with contitant weighing, so that 
 you are tempted to put a third more than is 
 wanted into the pot; to say nothing of the un- 
 tidiness and waste of having scraps always 
 about — a dry bit of cheese, and a soft bit of but- 
 ter, and a little dust of tea which nobody relishes, 
 and everybody may be tempted to put out of the 
 way. Any man would be glad to see his half 
 dozen scraps turned into a respectable wedge of 
 cheese or pat of butter, and the pinches of brown 
 sugar at the bottoms of three or four cups col- 
 lected in a jar ; and yet they let their wives go on 
 buying in the smallest quantities they can get.'' 
 " If they have not the money at hand, miss, 
 what can they do? as my mistress savs. It is 
 only when she is o-oinjr to be confmed, or on 
 some such particular occasion, that she can get 
 money enough to buy more than is just wanted 
 for the day. My master will have tea ; and my 
 mistress has never money enough for more than 
 a quarter of an ounce at a time, considering the 
 sugar." 
 
 " Well, Harriet, if you can once manage to 
 get the sugar for two days on the Monday, and 
 the tea for two days on the Tuesday, the time 
 may soon come when you can buy tea and sugar 
 for three days at one purchase. If my sister and
 
 THE HAMLETS. 73 
 
 I did not take care to consider tliis in our buying;, 
 my father would be just as likely to go into the 
 workhouse before the end of the year as to help 
 other people to keep out of it." 
 
 " Why, Miss Emily!" 
 
 " It is very true, 1 assure you. We are not 
 rich ; and it is only by looking to our shillings 
 and pence tliat v>e can live as comfortably as we 
 do : and if, by our way of buying things, we 
 wasted a shilling on every pound of tea, and six- 
 pence on every measure of butter, and three- 
 pence on every pound of sugar, and so on, all 
 through the house, we must, besides keeping ano- 
 ther servant to run our errands, give up one com- 
 fort after another, till we should sink down into 
 poor people." 
 
 Harriet could not fancy this at all. 
 
 " Well, I will show you an example. You 
 know Butler? Yes, the carpenter, who lives 
 down near the Point. Do you know what he 
 has to live upon ? " 
 
 *' He gets eighteen shillings a week, one week 
 with another, the whole vear round. Then his 
 son gets something.'' 
 
 " Nine shillings a week from farmer Rick- 
 man. So those three people — Butler, and his 
 wife, and son — have upwards of seventy pounds 
 a year to live upon. Butler had relief from the 
 parish last year, when his wife was laid by for a 
 week ; and it was but yesterday that he asked 
 for it again." 
 
 " Well, miss, I am sure they seem very poor." 
 
 *' They do, I never saw a more comfortless
 
 74 THE HAMLETS. 
 
 home than theirs. But I have not done my 
 story. Do you know Mr. Day ? " 
 
 " What, the blind gentleman at Barham ? " 
 " The same. You call him a gentleman. 
 What do you think of his being- no richer than 
 Butler? Mr, Day, and his wife and daughter, 
 live on seventy pounds a year ; and do you think 
 he will ever ask for relief from the parish? " 
 " Dear me, no I But how do they live ? " 
 " Very sparingly, indeed, but decently ; as 
 you may see by their appearance at church on 
 Sundays. Mrs. Day does every thing about the 
 house with her own hands ; and Rachael Day 
 waits upon her father, and takes care of all the 
 needle-work and shopping ; and they declare 
 that they have enough to eat, and are never with» 
 out decent clothing. But then they do without 
 tea ; and if they had it, they would not waste on 
 paper and string as much in a month as would 
 buy them a pound of mutton." 
 
 Harriet pondered for a long time what made 
 the difference between a poor person and a gen- 
 tleman. She could quite understand why Butler 
 could never be called a gentleman ; but why it 
 should be an insult (as it certainly would be) 
 to call Mr. Day a poor person, she could not 
 at once make out. She wondered whether 
 the difference lay in reckoning income by 
 the week or by the year. She presently re- 
 collected that it was in her power to stock the 
 house with one article, at least, before the days 
 of her housekeeping. Did not Miss Emily 
 think that candles burn down much quicker
 
 THE HA&ILETS. ^b 
 
 when fresh made, than when they have been 
 kept some time? — No doubt, and especially 
 when made in summer. Ah I it was too late 
 now to make any but a summer batch for this 
 year ; but Harriet thought she could prepare a 
 sufficient stock for the nights when a light must 
 be burning in Mrs. Monk's room from dark till 
 sunrise. This was approved. But could she 
 make broth, and boil potatoes ? — O dear ! Har- 
 riet thought everybody could do that. No such 
 thing. Miss Emily had seen as much meat 
 wasted in the making of broth as would have 
 fed a child ; and both the rich and poor would 
 retain their relish for potatoes much longer 
 than they do, if cooks — lofty and lo\\Jy — did 
 their duty by them. jVIiss Emily had seen a 
 slovenly fisherman's wife very lately let down the 
 fire under her pot of broth, till it became neces- 
 sary to use chips (a very expensive article), and 
 blow the fire ; a practice which wastes as much 
 fuel as time. At length the water boiled away 
 at such a rate, that there was fear the liquid 
 would be all gone before the good man came 
 home to his dinner; so the lid was taken off, 
 giving entrance to the smoke ; cold water was 
 poured in to check the boiling from time to time ; 
 and the whole came upon table, at length, a 
 curious compound of hard vegetables, sodden, 
 tasteless meat, and water, flavoured equally with 
 smoke and salt. As for potatoes, they were 
 often pronounced waxy in texture and disagree- 
 able in taste, when they need be neither the one 
 nor the other, if they were but set on in cold wa- 
 
 h2
 
 76 THE HAMLETS. 
 
 ter instead of hot, and left to drain in the steam 
 for a few minutes before being brought to table. A 
 steamer to fit upon the saucepan might be bought 
 presently for the value of the distasteful potatoes 
 that are thrown into the ash-hole, or to the pigs. 
 By the by, Miss Emily had heard her father re- 
 mark that he had never seen so few pigs in any 
 neighbourhood as about Hurst. How was it? 
 Was there any reason why fishermen's cottages 
 should not have a sty at the back, as well as 
 country labourers' ? 
 
 Harriet could only answer for the views of 
 the people she lived with. Mrs. Monk had 
 talked of a pig again and again ; and Ben and 
 Harriet had offered to feed and water it ; but 
 Monk never would hear of it. He did not see 
 why they should be plagued with a grunter, 
 when all that they would get by it would be that 
 the parish would refuse to pay the owner's rent, 
 on the plea that he had property. 
 
 " But there is an end of that reason now that 
 his rent is paid for him no longer.'' 
 
 *' Yes : and my mistress let drop one day 
 lately that she should like to get a young pig 
 in the early part of next year, and try if she can- 
 not keep him so as to kill her own bacon the 
 winter after. She 1 as no doubt my master 
 would find a bit of cold bacon a good relish at 
 sea ; and she promises he shall have none of 
 the trouble of a pig." 
 
 *' I rather think we shall see a few more 
 grnnters poking about among the boats before 
 long," observed Emily. " There are many be-
 
 THE HAMLETS. 77 
 
 Monk who have been airaid of seeming too 
 comfortable, tor fear of the parish leaving off 
 helping them. Two or three, who have made 
 up their minds that my father is the most obsti- 
 nate man in the world, have managed to get 
 things that they never could atFord while they 
 waited on the parish." 
 
 Perhaps that is why the Wilkinses have got 
 the new cupboard put up, with Mrs. Wilkins's 
 grandmother's china teapot in it, that every body 
 thought was sold long ago ; as she had not 
 been heard to speak of it since they first went to 
 the overseer. And Hart has put up a beautiful 
 bench, with arms at each end, outside his house, 
 where his wife may sit and net, when she is look- 
 ing out for his boat. Ben has jjot leave to a:o 
 
 >3 3 
 
 and see it painted green." 
 
 " And I will promise to come and feed your 
 pig when he takes his first meal in his new sty," 
 said Miss Emily, smiling. 
 
 " O, Miss Emily, may I tell my mistress so ; 
 and Ben ? '* 
 
 " O, yes ; and your master, too, if you like." 
 
 " But it will be winter, miss ; after Christ- 
 mas, you know." 
 
 " Well ! I walk your way in winter as well as 
 summer ; and it must be a heavy snow that will 
 prevent my coming to feed your new pig. I 
 kope my sister may be well enough next winter 
 to go down and watch the boats putting off and 
 coming in. It is a sight she is very fond of." 
 
 " O, miss l O, dear ! if we had a bench, like 
 Hart's, for her to sit on, out of the wind when it 
 
 H 3
 
 78 THE HAMLETS, 
 
 blows off shore. A bench, painted blue or green. 
 Which do you like best ? " 
 
 "I think brown looks very neat, and it suits 
 with the other colours about your cottage. But 
 you must get the pig before you think of a 
 bench." 
 
 '^ When I thought of a bench, I thought that 
 
 Ben and I But we have something else to 
 
 do first. Something that Do you know, Miss 
 
 Emily, if I make a good manager when my 
 mistress is confined, 1 am to have a whole day 
 to myself at last, before I go to school again. 
 Ben and I may do what we like for a whole 
 day." 
 
 " I dare say you have made up your minds 
 already what you shall do." 
 
 Harriet's conscious smile was a sufficient re- 
 ply. As she seemed to have some difficulty in 
 abstaining from an explanation of her intentions, 
 while they were evidently meant to be a secret. 
 Miss Emily brought back the discourse sud- 
 denly to the nightcap border, which was by this 
 time ready for a fresh experiment. 
 
 " You see now, Harriet, how you are to go on 
 with it. Put it by, and run home. You will be 
 in time to wash Fred's face before he eats his 
 crust ; and I hope your time has not been 
 wasted, my dear. You have learned something ; 
 and you may have done a service, by telling me 
 what you did about the workhouse. Now run 
 home ; and take care your heater is not too hot 
 the next lime you iron a cap." 
 
 When Harriet had so arranged her bog, with
 
 THE HAMLETS. 79 
 
 its precious contents, and patted down her 
 apron, as r.o leave no bunch rig:ht or left, by 
 which any one might guess at the existence of 
 the nightcap, she was ready to go ; and merrily 
 she tripped along, thinking of savoury broth and 
 a brown bench, of the ditlerence between roving 
 the down and being shut up in that dismal- 
 looking workhouse, and of the comparative de- 
 sirableness of sleeping sound in the dark — as 
 she did all night at present — and sitting in 
 Monk's arm-chair at midnight, with a rushlight 
 burning dimly on the table, and a tender little 
 baby lying across her lap, breaking the silence 
 now and then by a soft squall ; which was to be 
 her position, she supposed, some time hence. — 
 In the midst of these thoughts, an alarming thing 
 happened. When she reached the brow of the 
 cliff, and before she was on her guard, a puff of 
 wind caught the right-hand corner of her apron, 
 and carried it up, so that all the dwellers on the 
 beach might have seen, if they had chanced to 
 be looking up, that she carried the bag in which 
 was the nightcap. She looked hastily about 
 her, found she was not particularly observed, 
 huddled up the bag in her apron till she should 
 be out of the wind, and hopped, skipped, and 
 jumped down the zigzag path. She presently 
 saw signs of preparation about Monk's boat. 
 Monk himself had on his red and blue cap ; a 
 sure token that he was o-oin": out. Ben was 
 staggering down under an excessive load of nets 
 and panniers ; and little Fred followed, with an 
 empty tin can, which he stopped to ring and
 
 80 THE HAMLETS. 
 
 jingle against every large stone he passed. Har- 
 riet called loud — louder — louder still ; but Ben 
 not only did not turn, but swung his leg over 
 the side of the boat, as if about to depart with- 
 out giving one other look landwards. 
 
 *' He will be gone ! There, he is in ! If he 
 would stop just a minute now I Here he comes 
 out again ! — tucking up his trowsers to run the 
 boat out. I may catch him yet. — How he does 
 grow, to be sure ! Six months ago he could no 
 
 more have given such a push as that 1 wish 
 
 he would not tug so hard, and then I should be 
 sure to catch him. There I now he sees me. 
 How tiresome this deep sand is ! " 
 
 To Ben's questions of where she had been, 
 and what she had been doing, she could give no 
 answer at present, Monk was calling so im- 
 patiently. She must just say, that Ben must 
 riot expect the cap to be finished the next day, 
 and that she had had another grand scheme put 
 into her head to consult him about some time or 
 other. Nothing that they could do just yet, 
 but 
 
 And Ben might make what he could of the 
 *' but," till his impatient master should let him 
 talk with his sister in peace and quiet. 
 
 Chapter V. 
 
 DELIGHTS OF OFFICE. 
 
 No rushes were gathered — no pennies were 
 
 gained — no tape was bought this day, steadily
 
 THE HAMLETS. 81 
 
 as Harriet had resolved that all these things 
 should be achieved. But it was no new thing 
 to Harriet to be obliged to surrender her pur- 
 poses, and to make herself happy in some other 
 person's way instead of her own, if she meant 
 to be happy at all. Like many another little 
 girl, it daily happened to her to find herself 
 pinned down to work when she intended to 
 play ; to be made to think about the price of 
 potatoes,when she would rather have been reckon- 
 ing up glittering shells, and flinging about red and 
 green seaweed. Like many another little girl, 
 she was greeted with harsh scoldings, which she 
 was not aware of having deserved, or with wea- 
 risome murmurs about little evils which she 
 could not remedy, when she had hoped to be at 
 liberty to listen to the wild music of the sound- 
 ing shore ; or, at her place of play, the down, to 
 the sheep-bell and the herdsman's call ; or, at 
 her place of rest, the school, to another Shep- 
 herd's call to the weary and heavy-laden. Unlike 
 many another little girl, Harriet could fulfil her 
 own objects amid all these interruptions. She 
 could meet Ben at each turn and winding of her 
 daily course, soothe his suffering at hearing her 
 blamed, and get quietly over it for his sake ; 
 show him, when his turn came, that there was 
 one who understood him, while no one else did : 
 plan pleasant things for Fred when he was 
 naughty, to be executed when he should be 
 good : and, above all, look forward, far beyond 
 present toils, fears, and mortifications, to the 
 day when she might be subject to nobody but
 
 82 THE HAMLETS. 
 
 Ben.; when she need not trouble any body to 
 manage their affairs for them, and when she 
 might bjd him God speed in the morning, and 
 have every thing comfortable for him against 
 the evening. — Even this day — this anxious, busy 
 day — when the neighbours were coming in and 
 out, and nothing had been bought that ought to 
 have been bought, and all was confusion, for 
 which everybody seemed ready to blame her, 
 these thoughts found an opening in her crowded 
 heart to come and go, and put her in mind that 
 this strange day would certainly come to an end. 
 It was also necessary to remind herself that this 
 rising gale would blow itself out, and leave a 
 lull which would enable the fishing-boats to re- 
 turn home ; and that meanwhile there was One 
 who held the waters in the hollow of his hand, 
 and could still the chorus of winds and waves 
 with a word, when it pleased him rather to listen 
 to the voice of human prayer. The gale rose 
 through the day ; and by the time twilight came 
 OB, and all was at length still within Monk's 
 cottage, two women's voices were heard from 
 the beach, anxiously calling to one another, till 
 the gusts overpowered them. 
 
 Harriet could not go out to learn what her 
 neighbours thought about the danger of those 
 who were at sea. Her vision of the arm-chair 
 was realized sooner than she had expected ; and 
 there she was sitting, with the new-born infant 
 on her knees, fearing lest the rushlight should 
 blow out, notwithstanding all her care to shield 
 it from draughts ; fearing lest the gruel should
 
 THE HAMLETS. 83 
 
 not prove so good as it might be made ; fearing 
 lest Fred should wake and make a noise ; fearing 
 lest Mrs. Monk should take alarm at the storm, 
 and praying incessantly her trembling prayer 
 that her Parent — the Parent of the orphan — 
 would promptly bring back her brother, and 
 meanwhile keep his heart from sinking, as hers 
 did, with every blast. It struck her that the 
 watch of the nurse was not altogether so happy 
 a thing as she had expected ; and she was just 
 managing not to cry at the thought, when her 
 mistress called her, and gave her something else 
 to think about. 
 
 " Harriet, what o'clock is it ? " 
 
 *' I suppose, past nine. I have been watching 
 for the church clock striking this long while ; 
 but the wind is the other wav, so that we shall 
 not hear it. But it must be past nine." 
 
 " Much more than that, child, surely. Is not 
 the wind very high ; one would think that the 
 door and the windows were open, by the splash 
 and the draught." 
 
 " They are both shut : but it does blow a 
 little." 
 
 " I wonder where you have managed to put 
 the candle ; it flickers so, I can't bear it." 
 
 *' I'll put it in the other room ; there may be 
 less of a draught there." 
 
 *' There is a great smell of smoke — are you 
 sure there is nothing burning ? " 
 
 " no ; but it happens to be the same wind 
 that always makes our chimney smoke. Your 
 gruel is on, against you would like a little."
 
 84 THE HAMLETS. 
 
 HaiTiet must put down the baby beside its 
 mother, and go and make sure that notliing was 
 burning. Then she must step out, and learn 
 when the last boat came in, and whether it was 
 thought any more could make the land to-night. 
 She brought back an opinion that the boats 
 woidd keep out till daylight. She did not tell 
 that there was not a fisherman's wife of them 
 all who thought of sleeping this night. 
 
 " They may come, however," said Mrs. Monk ; 
 " so put a light in the wiudow, child. It had 
 better be the tin lamp, if there is any oil in it. 
 A rushlifjht will not show far enough out," 
 
 The flaring lamp was placed in the window ; 
 gruel was called for, and found to have a slight 
 flavour of smoke ; Harriet was wondered at for 
 having come in with the hem of her frock drip- 
 ping, and she went and dried it, refraining from 
 saying that it was impossible to go out at the 
 door without being wetted, as the spray dashed 
 up against the very window of the cottage. If 
 Mrs. Monk had not been curtained up in a corner 
 of the back room, she must have been aware of 
 this ; but Harriet was resolved that she should 
 not know it from her. 
 
 '* When are you going to bed, Harriet ? " was 
 the next cpiestion. 
 
 " Going to bed ! I thought I might sit up 
 with you all night." 
 
 " How should I go to sleep with you moving 
 about all night ? " 
 
 " But I am afraid I should not hear you call, 
 if I were to fall asleep."
 
 THE HAMLETS. 85 
 
 *• You would fall asleep just as much if you 
 sat up, and perhaps let the baby drop too, if you 
 have the fancy to nurse it. No, no. Go to 
 bed." 
 
 " So as to be out of the way of knowing; any 
 thino- about Ben till the inoniin2:, ' thousht 
 Harriet, slowly preparins: to take oif her frock. 
 She was once more called to Mrs. Monk's bed- 
 side, to be told of this, that, and the other that 
 must be done the next day. 
 
 " And when you have done that, you must 
 
 But never mind that now. My dear, I 
 
 have to beg- your pardon, Harriet, for being very 
 cross and very troublesome." 
 
 Harriet wanted to say, " No, no," but could 
 not speak quite as she thought a good nurse 
 should do : so Mrs. Monk went on. 
 
 " I believe it is the wind that worries me. But 
 to be sure, you may say the same ; for you must 
 be thinking about Ben, as I am about my hus- 
 band. But thinking about Ben has not made 
 you cross ; so, the more shame for me." 
 
 Harriet had just time to say, " No, no," be- 
 fore a kiss startled her — the iirst kiss for many 
 a lonq: month — a kiss which reminded her 
 strangely of a dimly-remembered time when some 
 one's arms held her, some one's bosom was a 
 warm resting-place for her cheek. What did it 
 now signify whether she lay awake or slept this 
 night ? 
 
 She did sleep ; and sooner than would have 
 been supposed possible by any one who did not 
 know how great had been her latigue of the day. 
 
 1
 
 86 THE HAMLETS. 
 
 When she was awakened by the lig^ht g^oing- out, 
 she fouMd that the g'rey morning- had stolen on 
 so far that there was no need to replenish the 
 lamp, and that, if she could steal out, without 
 disturbing Mrs. Monk, there was a chance of 
 getting some tidings for her by the time she 
 awoke. Fresh blew the morning breeze, and 
 hoarsely rolled the leaden-coloured sea, flecked 
 with foam. But there was something which 
 took away her breath more than the wind, and 
 tixed her eye more than the foam — a boat, la- 
 bouring in the billows, and making for the land. 
 An old man and a young woman were awaiting 
 it, and while doubtful whether it was theirs or 
 Harriet's, all were full of sympathy for one an- 
 other. But when it proved to be theirs, there 
 was no more time to attend to Harriet. She 
 was forgotten in the ecstacy of watching the 
 contest with the breakers, pushed aside when 
 the boatmen leaped ashore, and with difficulty 
 favoured with the news that all that the fisher- 
 men had seen since daybreak was a boat at some 
 distance, floating bottom upwards. 
 
 Could she, dared she j^o home ? Harriet won- 
 dered. — Yes, if she could get in without having 
 been missed — without danger of being ques- 
 tioned. She had not been missed, and half an 
 hour after she was called up, as if from sleep, 
 and did her duty by Fred, and the fire, and the 
 floor, as usual. Having turned Fred out to play, 
 she put off the thoughts of breakfast awhile, till 
 she could better bear the idea of something to 
 eat. Presently a neighbour or two came in to 
 hear how Mrs. Monk had passed the night j and
 
 THE HAMLETS." 87 
 
 one wanted warm water to wash the baby, and 
 another a clean basin for some more gruel. 
 While Harriet was holdini^ out the latter, for the 
 gruel to be poured in, Fred pushed in between 
 her and the neighbour, hugging and coaxing 
 something snow-white. 
 
 '* Why, Fred, where did you get that sea- 
 gull — who gave you that bird, dear ? '' 
 
 *' Ben.' 
 
 " Ben ! Where, where ? Where is Ben ? " 
 
 The child led the wav to the door, Harriet at 
 his heels ; and thence, assuredly, might be seen 
 Monk and Ben, pulling their boat up on the 
 beach as leisurely as if nothing had threatened 
 them at sea, and nothing awaited them at home. 
 Harriet stole back to her mistress. 
 
 *' May 1 just take the baby, and show him to 
 my master .' I will wrap him up very warm,' 
 
 " So, they are back safe ! Thank God ! My 
 dear, I cannot let the baby go out yet. But you 
 may ask my husband to come and see it, if he 
 does not know already.'' 
 
 When Monk had coolly shaken his dripping 
 arms and legs, before entering his wife's room, 
 Harriet looked to her brother with some degree 
 of awe, for an account of the perils of the past 
 night; but Ben seemed much more full of the 
 rare quantity offish they had caught in the gale 
 than of the dangers of the gale itself. It must 
 have been a severe one too, for several birds had 
 come up in the nets with the fish ; but if Ben had 
 been frightened, he did not choose to say so, or 
 he had forgotten it; and Harriet determined, as 
 
 l2
 
 88 THE HAMLETS. 
 
 she had done once or twice before, never to be in 
 such a panic again. 
 
 Monk had business in the hamlet as soon as 
 he had had his bread, cheese, and beer. What- 
 ever had been his own experience, and that of 
 his neighbours, of late, as to how little was to 
 be liad from the parish, he was resolved to lose 
 nothinc: for want of askin"-. His business was 
 to demand the weekly allowance for his new-born 
 child ; and he did so as if it had been a matter 
 of course, which no one would think of refusing-. 
 There was a slight additional chance of suc- 
 ceeding, from the overseer having his hands full 
 of business, and, it was supposed, his head and 
 heart full of perplexity and trouble this day. 
 This was the day of the intended rush to fill the 
 workhouse to overflowing; by which the over- 
 seer might be forced to give relief according to 
 some of the old methods. It was true, he had 
 given out, the day before, that two empty houses, 
 which stood a little apart, were to be fitted up as 
 a supplement to the workhouse : but this was 
 scarcely believed till they were seen this morning 
 to be actually open, and that workmen were going 
 in and out. On perceiving this, many of the 
 conspirators were disposed to withdraw; as they 
 had no intention of really submitting to work- 
 house drudgery and confinement. Some new 
 courage was infused into them, however, by the 
 tidings that Colouel Lee and farmer Rickman 
 had been overheard, as they stood talking before 
 the door, to wonder at any nian daring so to 
 waste the parish money as to offer to maintain a
 
 THE HAMLETS. 89 
 
 whole family, when they only asked for a little 
 help in the way of allowance. Barry had the 
 law with him, certainly ; and for a little while 
 he must be allowed his own way : but the sooner 
 such an extravagant fancy was put an end to the 
 better. As for the rate having been so much 
 less within' three months, that might be acci- 
 dent ; and there was little chance enough of its 
 continuing to decrease, if six people were to be 
 maintained when the support of only one was 
 asked for. These remarks, finding their Avay 
 from one gossiping group to another in the 
 street, emboldened many to come and ask relief, 
 as they had pledged themselves to do. 
 
 *' Please, sir," said a farmer's labourer, when 
 four or five applicants had received an order for 
 the workhouse, and one or two had slunk 
 away without, '' please, sir, I must have the 
 allowance again for my wife and myself. I'll 
 say nothing about the children this time ; but 
 my wages will not maintain us all. I have 
 brought my certificate, sir." 
 
 *' What certificate ? " 
 
 *' About what wages I have. Before you 
 were overseer, we always brought certificates 
 from the farmers about the rate of wages for the 
 week. Nine shillings this week, sir." 
 
 " I do not ask for any certificates. You are 
 the best judges of whether you want the relief 
 the law offers you ; and it is a point I never 
 dispute. If you choose to 'give up your work, 
 and go into the house, you shall have an order." 
 
 *' Please just to look at the certificate, sir; 
 
 i3
 
 90 THE HAMLETS. 
 
 and I have neig-hbours here who will speak to 
 my character." 
 
 *' I have nothinjr to do with your character. 
 The hiw orders the rehef of the indigent, with- 
 out asking about their character. A knave 
 must no more be allowed to starve than an 
 honest man. Will vou have an order for the 
 house or not? " 
 
 While the man was explaining what a pity it 
 would be that he should throw up his work for 
 so small a sum as he contended for, iarmer Hick- 
 man came up and looked at the certificate, to 
 which the overseer would pay no attention. 
 
 " Do you mean," said he to^ the applicant, 
 *' that Dove pays you no more than nine shil- 
 lings a week ? Did farmer Dove sign this ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " He might have saved himself the trouble," 
 observed Mr. Barry : " it has nothing to do 
 with our business." 
 
 *' Besides, I know him to be paying, as I am, 
 fourteen shillings a week." 
 
 *' That was before he took on so manv new 
 hands, sir. He has taken on half a score within 
 these six weeks." 
 
 " And yet pays fourteen shillings a week to 
 labourers of your class, to my knowledge. Ho! 
 ho! 1 see! Here is a date very nicely altered. 
 This certificate is a year old, and has been altered 
 for the occasion. Mr. Barry, you will not give 
 this fellow relief.*' 
 
 • " Tliat depends on whether he thinks he wants 
 it."
 
 THE HAMLETS. 91^ 
 
 " Lord bless you, sir ! what am I to do with 
 nine shillinnrs a week?" 
 
 " That is for you to judge of. If you cannot 
 subsist, take this order for the workhouse. If 
 not, make way for the people behind you. If 
 you want time to consider, you may apply again 
 an hour hence. After that, the gates will be 
 shut." 
 
 " You will hear no more of him," said Rick- 
 man, as the applicant moved off grumbling. 
 *' Depend upon it, he has fourteen shillings. It 
 is no new trick bringing these false certiticates. 
 It has even been laid to the charge of us farmers, 
 that we have drawn them out falsely, to get our 
 men relieved out of the rate. Whatever others" 
 may have done, I never did it. But I wonder 
 you let the fellow off so easily." 
 
 Mr. Barry again declared that it was no con- 
 cern of his, and pointed out that one of the ad- 
 vantages of the new plan was its freeing the 
 administrators of parish affairs from all the 
 odium and responsibility of inquiring into cha- 
 racter ; which appeared to him to have nothing 
 to do with whether a man should or should not 
 be starved. 
 
 The next case was one in point. A vagrant 
 applied for funds to pursue his journey to his 
 place of settlement. 
 
 " Certainly, you shall have means to work 
 yourself on, and a day's subsistence for a day's 
 labour.'' 
 
 The wanderer had never heard of people of 
 his class beins: detained to labour, v.^
 
 P2 THE HAMLETS. 
 
 " Indeed ! the law authorizes no relief but in 
 exchange for labour. We cannot afford jour- 
 neys gratis to our own people ; of course, there- 
 fore, not to strangers. In yonder house you 
 may subsist to-day, if you choose to earn your 
 meals ; and at this time to-morrow, you can 
 proceed.'' 
 
 " Somebody has been putting it into your 
 head, sir, that I am an impostor." 
 
 *' No such thing, I assure you. I never heard 
 a word about you, and have nothing to do with 
 whether you are an impostor or not. If you 
 want food, you will work for it. If not, I sup- 
 pose you will let it alone." 
 
 "He will take the chance of private charity,*' 
 said Colonel Lee, who had come to look on. 
 
 *' If our neighbours choose to give him cha- 
 rity, it is their own doing entirely, Colonel. 
 They all know that he maybe relieved out of the 
 rates, if they do not wish to assist him. There 
 needs be no mendicity in the parish under this 
 system." ^ 
 
 *' Why, indeed, we are not likely to be much 
 troubled with beggars, if our neighbours learn to 
 send them to be relieved according to law. Beg- 
 gars are not usually the class likely to covet a 
 day's subsistence in return for a day's labour ; 
 and if such an honest sort of one should appear 
 now and then, he will be thankful for the food 
 and shelter. This man, I fancy, will turn his 
 back upon us as soon as he can.'* 
 
 " O, are you there. Monk ? You are the man 
 that will help me to what I want," said Mr.
 
 THE HAMLETS. 98 
 
 Barry ; *' your wife is a good washerwoman, is 
 not she?" 
 
 " She took in washini^ before I married her." 
 ' *' Very well. There is help wanted in wash- 
 insr in the workhouse, now and then, and I told 
 Millar to offer the hire to your wife in the first 
 place." 
 
 " Help wanted in washing in the workhouse !'* 
 exclaimed the Colonel : " of all the women that 
 go into the workhouse, are there none that can 
 wash?" 
 
 " Many an one, I dare say ; but the women 
 w^ho go into the workhouse usually get out again 
 before washino:-dav comes round." 
 
 " What ! is it worse to them than to the men ?" 
 
 *' Much the same, I fancy. We change nearly 
 the whole set two or three times a week ; and 
 some stay only a few hours. The only stationary 
 ones we have had since I came into office, are 
 two men ; one a bad character, and the other a 
 poor workman, both of whom would fain get 
 employment if they could ; and three women, 
 only one of whom is able at present to wash : so 
 that somebody must be hired to assist her. What 
 say you, Monk ? " 
 
 Monk bespoke the employment for his wife 
 accainst the time when she should be able to un- 
 dertake it. Meanwhile, he requested to be allow- 
 ed eighteen-pence a week for his second child, 
 for the same reason that he was allowed that 
 sum on the birth of his first — that children are 
 a great expense to a poor man. 
 
 As he must have anticipated, his demand
 
 94 THE HAMLETS. 
 
 met with no more favour than similar ones from 
 other people, who wanted it more. But, as he 
 had not anticipated, some of his neighbours 
 came forward to protest against his claim ; to 
 wonder why he should have more than others, 
 and to tell of the fine drauo-ht of fish he had 
 brought home, and of the indulgences he con- 
 tinued to obtain : all which Mr. Barry, for the 
 twentieth time, explained did not concern him, 
 or any body but Monk and his family. If 
 the applicant wanted relief, he knew how he 
 might get it ; if not, he might let it alone. 
 Monk was not at all pleased at some remarks 
 that he overheard about the rate-payers being 
 obliged to Mr. Barry for putting a stop to the 
 encroachments of people who ought to be above 
 asking for parish relief. He was afraid that the 
 spirit of combination against the overseer was 
 beginning to give way, and that he should have 
 to resign his hope of his rent being paid for him, 
 on his burdens being increased. Time was get- 
 ting on ; the crowd of applicants in his rear was 
 dwindling away, and there was no appearance 
 of the overseer's paper and ink not sufficing for 
 the required number of orders for the workhouse. 
 Everybody drew back, to make way tor the 
 next group that appeared. The news was by 
 this time spread through the neighbourhood that 
 the boat, which had been seen floating bottom 
 upwards, was found to be Dyer, the fisherman's, 
 and that no doubt remained that Dyer and his 
 eldest son had jxone down in the storm. The 
 poor man had left a wife, and five children too
 
 THE HAMLETS. 95 
 
 young to provide for themselves. A neighbour 
 now brou2:ht these children to Mr. Barrv, and 
 told him their story, leaving their case to the 
 merciful consideration of the overseer. Every- 
 body knew that the Dyers were miserably poorj 
 their boat being' almost their only property. The 
 widow had actually, at this moment, not enough 
 money in her possession to provide her children 
 with food for this one day. 
 
 " This is a clear case," said Mr. Barry ; " the 
 poor woman and her family must be taken the 
 best care of. The children shall be received at 
 Weston, and she shall go with them. There 
 she can be as quiet as she likes, and be provided 
 with comforts, till we can see what else can be 
 done for her," 
 
 The bystanders were rather surprised that 
 Weston, rather than Hurst, was talked of for 
 Mrs. Dyer. 
 
 " It is true," he replied, " Mrs. Dyer is neither 
 old nor sickly; but such an affliction as hers 
 renders her the proper object of consideration 
 and indulgence. The day when she becomes 
 able to work will be the time for us to furnish 
 her with employment. At present, subsistence 
 and quiet are what she wants ; and she shall 
 have them." 
 
 " Could not you afford an allowance in her 
 ease, sir ? I don't know what the neighbours 
 will think of her being obliged to leave home, 
 even though she may be more comfortable else- 
 where." 
 ^' I have no right to order an allowance in
 
 96 THE HAMLETS. 
 
 any case whatever. If tlie nei^i^hbours are averse 
 to her leaving- home, they may enal)le her, if 
 they so please, to remain there. I do not expect 
 this of them, remember ; though the time was 
 when private cliarity visited the fatherless and 
 the widow in their affliction, and relieved them 
 from worldly cares, till the mind had become 
 once more fit for exertion. The time was when 
 it was borne in mind, that as all classes of work- 
 ing; men are not suffering alike at the same time, 
 it is their duty to yield mutual help amidst the 
 fluctuations of fortune. The time was, when the 
 neighbours would have taken these poor children 
 home, and waited by turns upon the mother 
 with help and consolation ; but that time was 
 before parish interference had stepped in to close 
 the hearts and hold back the hands of neigh- 
 bours from each other. That time may come 
 again — and I trust it will — but it is too soon 
 yet to look for it ; and I do not expect that Mrs. 
 Dyer will find help any where but from the 
 parish. And the parish shall do its best for 
 her. It would be doing its worst to step between 
 her and private charity (as it has been doing in 
 other cases for this many a year), till there is 
 .scarcely any charity left among us, except that of 
 two or three of the rich. The parish shall not be 
 aiding in this bad work while I have the manage- 
 ment of its funds. It shall do its best and 
 kindest for Mrs. Dyer; leaving private charity 
 open to do something belter and kinder, if it can 
 and will." 
 
 " Then what am I to tell ^Irs. Dver, sir?"
 
 THE HAMLETS. 97 
 
 " That she shall be \velcome, with her chil- 
 dren, to Weston ; where there will be nobody to 
 disturb her, but such visiters as she may wish to 
 see ; that she shall have work found for her 
 when she is able to work ; and that the children 
 shall be maintained and educated till she can 
 maintain them herself," 
 
 The neighbour withdrew with the children ; 
 the two eldest of whom looked grave and w on- 
 dering, while the younger ones had been at play 
 under the table, or staring about them, in touch- 
 ing unconsciousness of their misfortune. 
 
 They were not destined to see the inside of the 
 Weston house this dav. On taking Mr. Barn's 
 message into consideration, several neighbours 
 were found to aafree, that though thev had little 
 to say against the overseer's reasons, it seemed 
 a pity that poor Mrs. Dyer should go from home 
 in a hurry, when it might somehow turn up that 
 she might do without. They could not have 
 pretended to take upon themselves the expenses 
 of a funeral ; but as there was unhappily no 
 funeral, they thought they might manage to keep 
 her where she was till she could look about her 
 a little. At any rate, they would not mention 
 movins' to her this dav. So the widow was 
 advised not to trouble her head about any lit- 
 tle matters for to-day, at least. The hovel ia 
 which she lived soon looked tidier than its wont, 
 and there was no unseasonable mirth of chil- 
 dren within it ; the little ones being taken home 
 by the neighbours. Fuod appeared before it 
 was nsked for; and ere the widow lav down to 
 
 K
 
 9^ 
 
 THE HAMLETS. 
 
 weep through the lorif^ hours of the night, some 
 kind hand had kindled the light which is so 
 precious to the watcher, and a friendly voice 
 had whispered promises for the morrow. 
 
 Even Monk caught the contagion of sympa- 
 thy ; perhaps the more readily from having been 
 obliged to give up all hope of parish assistance 
 for himself. He began to meditate whether 
 (especially as his wife would for some time be 
 much taken up with a young baby) the office of 
 washerwoman in the workhouse miffht not be 
 resigned in favour of Mrs. Dyer. Tliere was a 
 difference between giving, and giving up. He 
 could not give; for it was impossible for him to 
 do without his beer and his pipe, or any thing 
 else that he had ; and it would not do to pinch 
 his wife very closely at present; but if he could 
 continue to get his draught and whiff without his 
 wife going out to wash — as he had always done 
 yet — he might, perhaps, achieve the generous 
 thing, and surrender the advantage to poor 
 Dyer's widow. He considered it an important 
 and very magnanimous surrender, and was not 
 sure that he should find himself equal to it at last; 
 for the toil was to be his wife's, and the money 
 his, without giving up any thing for it, since \ 
 Harriet was now growing very handy, and could 
 set his dinner before him as comfortably as his 
 wife herself 
 
 Mr. Barry had his own thoughts upon the 
 case all this day. He was, indeed, not much 
 disposed to think of any thing else, or to talk as 
 usual.
 
 THE HAMLETS. 99 
 
 ■ * Papa is pleased that the empty house may be 
 shut up again," observed Emily; " and that the 
 people have not outwitted him. I think he had 
 gome fears at breakfast-time that half the hamlet 
 would have declared itself in a state of pauperism 
 before night; and now the workhouse is not 
 half full, and will probably be nearly empty by 
 this time to-morrow ; for those who went in by 
 q^greement, must be angry enough at the con- 
 spirators who fell off and left them in the lurch. 
 J do not wonder that papa looks pleased." 
 
 " As for that, my dear, those who really mean 
 to do good will take pretty good care not to be 
 outwitted. It shall go hard with me before I let 
 our people do that. I am glad, of course, to 
 have been spared the evil of proceeding to extre- 
 mities in my experiment, and tilling two houses 
 with paupers, even for twenty-four hours. I 
 would have kept them for twenty-tour weeks or 
 months, if they had chosen to persist ; so con- 
 yinced am I of the goodness of the principle ou 
 which we are now acting ; but a more speedy 
 operation is, of course, pleasanter in every way." 
 
 " The matter of t!ie immediate expense is a 
 very important one." 
 
 *' It is. There is now every hope — there can 
 be no doubt — that many hundred pounds will 
 be saved from the profitless maintenance of 
 paupers, to be laid out in rewarding labour ; that 
 is, in enabling the farmer and shopkeeper to lay 
 out their own money in their own way, for the 
 benefit of themselves and society; in enabling 
 the labourer to support his household with a 
 
 K 2
 
 100 THE HAMLETS. 
 
 spirit unhardened and ungrieved ; in enabling 
 the pauper to make tlie comparison between 
 freedom with toil on the one hand, and restraint 
 with more irksome toil on the other. The rate 
 has fallen one-third already, and is still fallincr: 
 and Rickman and Dove are paying their men 
 fourteen shillings a week, instead of nine, as at 
 this time last year." 
 
 " Then Groves and Moss will stay, I hope, 
 and no more worthy people be driven away by 
 the rates, leaving- us less able than ever to bear 
 the burden." 
 
 " I have more hope than hitherto of their 
 staying. It was not merely the yearly sum to 
 be ];aid in rates which alarmed them ; but 
 the hardened spirit of the people, which gave 
 promise of worse things perpetually. This 
 day, they may have seen that spirit softened. 
 This, girls, is the crowning event of the day. 
 Charity — by which I do not mean money-giving 
 — has come among us again ; and now 1 can 
 fancy that I discern an end of pauperism, with 
 all its guilt and all its miseries." 
 
 " What are we to do, papa ? Cannot we help 
 to familiarize this charity ? " 
 
 *' Eminently; and the more from its being 
 pretty well understood that you have not money 
 to give away. Watch over this poor woman, in 
 companionship with her other neighbours, and 
 help her to supply her own wants. She will 
 soon wish for employment, and we must have it 
 ready for her." 
 
 ''What shall it be?"
 
 tf ftAMLETS. tOl 
 
 " We must see what she is fit for. If she can 
 work, I have no fear of her beiri^ compelled to 
 be idle. Looking for work is now a very dif- 
 ferent thing from what it was a year, or even 
 four months, ago. Our able-bodied men may 
 now leave it to children to get limpets, and cut 
 rushes, and pick up stones to mend the roads. 
 Our men are wanted for higher work than this ; 
 and the busier they are, the more there will be 
 for the women to do. If you will find out what 
 Mrs. Dyer is fit for, I may safely promise, I be- 
 lieve (that which I should have thought a rash 
 engagement some months ago) that she shall 
 have a biddincr for her labour as soon as she 
 wishes for one. Meantime, she is undoubtedlv 
 less forlorn than any poor widow who has met 
 her affliction within our borders of late years." 
 
 " I wonder how her husband thought of her 
 lot as he went down ? " 
 
 " Bitterly, most bitterly, if he was a man. 
 But now, if a similar fate should overtake an- 
 other husband and father of this place, he may 
 be spared some of the misery of such dying 
 thoughts as this poor man's most probably were. 
 He may think of his family as likely to be allowed 
 their chance of thriving amidst the common in- 
 fluences of society, instead of being exposed to 
 the blight of a corrupted legal charity." 
 
 K 3
 
 102 THE HAMLETS. 
 
 Chapter VI. 
 
 HOLIDAY SCHOOLING. 
 
 The three weeks during which Harriet held the 
 office of manager at home did more to make a 
 woman of her than all the toils, troubles, and 
 pleasures of preceding years. But she must be 
 once more a child, for one day, at least ; the day 
 when she and Ben were to do as they pleased, 
 before returning to school. 
 
 It pleased tliem to do a very important thing; 
 a thing for which Ben had been preparing, at 
 leisure times, during the whole three weeks while 
 Harriet was hugging the baby or finishing Fred's 
 nightcap, as the infant slept. It pleased Har- 
 riet and Ben, not yet to put up a cupboard 
 within doors, or a bench without, or to make 
 efforts after a pig, but to attempt something 
 which might help in the acquisition of all these 
 good things in time. It pleased them to try to 
 shrimp; and Ben had secretly taken a lesson 
 from a neighbour, and made a shrimping-net, 
 and openly borrowed a basket for the occasion. 
 Into this basket went a sufficiency of bread, 
 sweetened with the extraordinary luxury of 
 treacle. Water they were, of course, left to find 
 for themselves. The net had been hidden, with 
 due discretion, some way from home, and Ben 
 took care that he was out of sight of the gable 
 window of the coltao-e before he waved it over
 
 THE HAMLETS. 103 
 
 his head, and cried '* Hurra ! " The shore under 
 Crow's Cliff was the point where they had de- 
 termined to begin. At any place nearer, there 
 might be bathers ; and the young folks chose to 
 have their ground all to themselves. They ran 
 the whole way, as if they had not had the entire 
 day before them ; and their hearts were just be- 
 ginning to leap up at the sight of the rippling 
 blue tide in which they were presently to be 
 paddling, when they heard a sound which they 
 did not like at all. It was a shot, striking short 
 against point after point of the cliffs. Ben 
 looked up, out, around, and could see nothing. 
 
 " There they are," said Harriet, *' a good way 
 off — a tall gentleman and a short ; unless it is a 
 boy. — Why, look there behind those rocks. The 
 rocks are so brown with the weed, that one can 
 scarcely see a dark coat behind them when the 
 gentlemen stoop to point their guns. And there 
 is the dog, brown too, frisking after the birds. 
 But I doubt whether the gentlemen have shot 
 any." 
 
 " It is always the way," grumbled Ben ; 
 " there is always somebody in the way. I shall 
 put on my shoes again. I won't shrimp when 
 any body is in sight." 
 
 *' Well, you see the water will be more fit by 
 and by ; and I dare say the gentlemen will go 
 away." 
 
 " That they won't. This is the great place 
 for the birds to build, and that gun will be pop- 
 ping off all day. I wish I could chuck it into 
 the sea."
 
 104 THE HAMLETS. 
 
 " I think we had better go further," Harriet 
 suggested, " or shrimp away without minding 
 them. Let us walk just behind them, and see 
 what they are doing." 
 
 Ben somewhat sulkily consented ; and, carry- 
 ing his shoes in one hand and his net in the 
 other, while Harriet took up the basket, he was 
 making a circuitous route behind the sportsmen, 
 "when a shot took effect, a bird fluttered and fell, 
 and the dog seemed unaware of the circun^- 
 stance, 
 
 *' Run in and fetch it for the gentleman," s^id 
 Harriet ; " I think it is the first he has hit, and 
 it is a pity he should lose it." 
 
 Ben dashed in knee-deep for the bird, and 
 seemed to commit his ill-humour to the waves ; 
 sd graciously did he run up to the sportsman 
 with the prey. He found that tlie little gentle- 
 man was a boy about his own age, who loaded 
 the pieces for his father (or whoever else his 
 companion might be), but did not shoot. Ben 
 found it rather interesting to watch the next 
 attempt, and afterwards to run races with the 
 dog for the falling birds. The shrimping 
 seemed to have gone out of his mind for the 
 presejit. 
 
 ** Have vou no shoes?" asked the "'entleman, 
 seeing that it made no difference in the boy's 
 pace whether he ran over sand or shingle. — Ben 
 pointed out that he had shoes. 
 
 *' You live in yonder hamlet, I suppose — 
 Whom do you belong to ? ''
 
 THE HAMLETS. 105 
 
 " Her. She is my sister." 
 
 *' Nobody else ? Then I suppose you are on 
 the parish." 
 
 " In a manner ; but it is not for long'. AVe 
 shall do for ourselves soon." 
 
 " Indeed ! and what do you mean to be?" 
 
 " A fisherman. I've been out to sea many 
 times. They'd take me out as a boy now, if my 
 master would spare me." 
 
 *' There, George, when will you be able to 
 say as much ? " 
 
 " So you do not like the being on the parish, 
 boy?" said he; " Did you ever see the inside 
 of the workhouse ? " 
 
 Yes, Ben had seen it ; for there were no neigh- 
 bours disposed to take him home when his fa- 
 ther was lost. He had seen enough of the work- 
 house, during those few sad days, to wish very 
 earnestly never to see it again. 
 
 While the gentleman went on questioning 
 Ben about his circumstances, opinions, and feel- 
 ings — employing him meanwhile in running hi- 
 ther and thither, in turns with the dog, Harriet 
 wandered on along the shore, looking for a 
 shrimping place as good as the one she had left 
 behind. A long way off, she found one, which 
 looked most tempting: a fine level of sand, 
 affording a large extent of shallow water ; a gap 
 between the piled masses of the cliff, which 
 showed the sky through, and invited her, by its 
 being within reach, to make it the resting-place
 
 106 THE HAMLETS. 
 
 of her basket ; the perfect quiet of the place, 
 from which the hamlet could be seen only indis- 
 tinctly in the distance, and there being a drip of 
 fresh water down the cliff, at which they might 
 drink when dinner-time came ; all these things 
 put together made Harriet glad that she had 
 been sent on, if Ben would but come. Ben 
 came, when she had bared her feet and tucked 
 up her petticoats, and tried the coolness of the 
 water with as many toes as she ventured to use 
 for the experiment without the sympathy of 
 Ben's. Ben wanted a higher sym])athy from 
 her. He brought a sixpence in his hand — the 
 first piece of silver money either had ever pos- 
 sessed : for though Harriet had seven-pence, it 
 had been told in copper into Miss Emily's laj). 
 After a speculation as to what could induce the 
 gentleman to give Ben so much, and a long 
 consultation about where to put it that it might 
 be safe, with trials of how it looked on different 
 ledges and in different clefts of the rock, it was^ 
 tied up, with as many knots as the coin contained 
 pence, in the corner of Harriet's apron, and the 
 work of the day was entered upon. 
 
 *' Give me the net ; it is my turn first, because 
 I made the net," said Ben. 
 
 ** Your turn first! when I am two years 
 older!" cried Harriet, beginning to push the 
 net before her, after the manner of shrimpers. 
 Ben hastened towards her, making a prodigious 
 splash, and tried to pull it from her, disregarding 
 all her warnings that he was driving the shrimps
 
 THE HAMLETS. 107 
 
 away. She turned her back ; he dodged her. 
 In fear of having it pulled from her before she 
 had caught any thing, she uplifted it, and found 
 no shrimps, nor any thing but a bit of green weed. 
 " Now, you know nothing about the way.'* 
 — Ben began. 
 
 " We ffot more rushes in half an hour than we 
 shall get shrimps to-day, after all," thought 
 Harriet ; but the remembrance of the friendship 
 of the day of rush-gathering rose in time to pre- 
 vent her prophecy coming true. 
 
 *' Well, I believe 1 do know nothing about 
 the way," said she ; " you had better take the 
 net first, and show me." 
 
 " No : not take the net, but only show voii 
 how, without making a splash and a fuss," 
 said Ben, very graciously ; and nothing could 
 now exceed the desire of each not to have the 
 net. The shrimps, if they happened to hear, 
 must have mourned over this politeness ; for it 
 was a fatal omen to them. Up they came by 
 handfuls, wriggling and hopping; and a fine 
 display they made when turned into a hole 
 Scooped in the sand for their reception. For 
 nearly two hours might the clear voices of the 
 boy and girl have been heard by any wanderer in 
 this solitude, congratulating one another on the 
 goodness of the net and the plenitude of the 
 supply, and exclaiming at something or another 
 ihat was happening every minute. 
 
 '* Look, what a monster ! " " There, you let 
 that great fellow get away ! " *' Will this round
 
 108 THE HAMLETS. 
 
 thinir; eat like a shrimp when it is boiled?" 
 " But, Ben, if we g'et eiohteen-pence one week, 
 how do we know that we shall earn as much the 
 next? I think we had better get it two or three 
 weeks forward before we say a word about it to 
 the overseer or any body." 
 
 Ben thought he could not wait ; but, mean- 
 time, wanted to know whether the creature he 
 held by the tail was small enough to be thrown 
 into the water ai^ain. 
 
 " I think now we might turn them all out, 
 and sort them, and put the tiny ones into the sea, 
 and the others into the basket. Here, do you 
 empty the net this time, and I will reach down 
 the basket." 
 
 " The basket ! Where ? Why, you silly thing," 
 said Ben, when he saw the predicament of the 
 basket, " what made you stick it there, where 
 the salt water will spoil all our bread and trea- 
 cle ? " 
 
 His dismayed sister could only protest that 
 there was no water in the arch when she weda-ed 
 the basket in it. There was enough now, how- 
 ever, pouring through in gushes with every wave. 
 Before she could get through the water, which 
 had risen unperceived between her and the arch, 
 the basket tottered, and then toppled into the 
 waves ; on whose bosom it was floating away, 
 dispersing its contents in all directions, when 
 Harriet caught it. The dinner was fished up, 
 but found to be utterly spoiled. Those must be 
 hungry indeed who could eat bread and treacle 
 soaked in sea-water. Harriet was very, very
 
 THE HAMLETS. 109 
 
 sorry, and supposed they must either change 
 Ben's sixpence somewhere for food, or o-et home 
 earlier than they had meant, to hasten their supper. 
 A sudden rush and spread of green water drove 
 tliem back to hold their consultation nearer the 
 clifF. This flow of the tide seemed to decide the 
 choice of evils between fasting and changing the 
 sixpence. 
 
 " There, now," said Ben, " we can't get 
 back, I believe, if we would. It will be too late to 
 want to buy our dinners when the tide goes 
 down ; so the sixpence is safe, and that is a good 
 thing." 
 
 Jt was no more practicable to get forward than 
 back. But they had fished quite as many shrimps 
 as they expected, and there was a cave behind 
 them which looked very pleasant ; just the kind 
 of retreat where people who lead Harriet's sort 
 of life like to sit and do nothing, now and then. 
 This cave was soon the only place left for them 
 to amuse themselves in ; the water flowing up 
 to the very ledge at the entrance. On this ledge 
 they sat down ; Harriet to wring her gown-tail, 
 and Ben to point out how very green this wave 
 was upon the white sand, and the next greener, 
 and another greenest of all, and to tell how far 
 down he could distinguish the leech-line of his' 
 master's nets when out on such a clear sea as 
 this. 
 
 *' And what a sound every time now ! " said 
 Harriet; " it makes a noise as if it was quite in 
 the cavern. And so it is, Ben ; it has come up 
 all that §ince we sat down," 
 
 L
 
 110 THE HAMLETS. 
 
 *' The faster it comes in, the sooner we shall 
 get out," said Ben. 
 
 " Ah I I am afraid you will be sadly hungry 
 before we get back. But I hope it is just going 
 to turn now.'* 
 
 On the very point of turning, Ben thought : 
 indeed it must be higher already than usual, to 
 judge by the old appearance of such water-marks 
 as he could find. There was no sicrn of the tide 
 turning, however, for one five minutes after an- 
 other. The gleams danced more m.ultitudi- 
 nously on the roof of the cavern ; tlie shock of 
 each wave resounded more hoarsely; and Harriet 
 was detected by her brother sending a hasty 
 glance round the place, as if questioning whether 
 there was not a hole to creep out of Ben stood 
 up, with his arms by his sides, looking at her. 
 
 " I say, Harriet, suppose the tide goes on 
 coming up in this waji^, so as to fill up this whole 
 place ! " 
 
 " Why, then, I suppose we must be drowned." 
 
 *' I'll never be drowned, if I can get away," 
 cried Ben, running vehemently round the narrow 
 space, and even pushing against its walls, which 
 had stood since the creation. 
 
 '' Why, Ben ; stop ! Stop, Ben ! AVhat do 
 you do that for? I can't bear to see yon do 
 that ; you know very well you can't get out." 
 
 Ben sprang upon her, and hung round her 
 neck, as if he meant to strangle her ; probably 
 to prevent her repeating these words. She dis- 
 engaged herself as soon as she could, and cry* 
 ing, sat down at the furthest end of the place,
 
 THE HAMLETS. Ill 
 
 Whatever might be Ben's mood, at any time, 
 nothing exerted so much influence over it as 
 Harriet's tears. He now grew very quiet, and 
 sat down by her. Harriet never wept long. 
 
 •' AVhat a what an odd thing it would 
 
 be," she said, *' if we were to die by drowning, 
 when father was drowned ! " 
 
 Ben would now tell her what he had never 
 meant to tell her — that he had fallen overboard 
 in one of his trips with his master. Harriet's 
 feeling on hearing this was not exactly what it 
 would have been in Monk's kitchen. As she 
 fixed her eyes upon the place where a new point 
 of the cliff had just disappeared, she wanted 
 most of all to know what drowning was like. 
 
 Ben could not tell her much about it, as he 
 had tumbled in, and been pulled out before he 
 well knew what he was about. It put him in a 
 great fright, however; much greater than during 
 the nio:ht when Harriet thouo-ht he would never 
 come back again. At the remembrance of that 
 night, Harriet smiled and said, 
 
 *' Why, it was your being so far away, and I 
 safe at home, that made me care so much that 
 night. We are together now; and there is no- 
 body else belonging to us," she continued,bright- 
 ening ; " so what may happen does not much 
 signify.'* 
 
 " No ; they are thinking little enough of us ; 
 gabbling at school, some of them ; and master 
 and mistress busy, and not thinking about us 
 till night." 
 
 *' If any body is thinking about us, 'tis Fred ; 
 
 l2
 
 112 THE HAMLETS. 
 
 and he has not sense enough to know where we 
 are and what iniiiht befal us." 
 
 *' What will they all say when they hear it ?" 
 asked Ben. " You don't think every body will 
 be talking about us, as they did about the Dyers, 
 do you ? And yet I heard a g-ood deal about 
 Joe Dyer, too ; and he was less than a year 
 older than me." 
 
 Harriet thought that might be owing to his 
 having- gone down with his father, whose life 
 was a very important one. She was very glad 
 that nobody knew of the silly quarrel between 
 ten and herself this very morning, about the 
 net. Jt was strange to think they could have 
 quarrelled about such a trifle, so short a time 
 before they should be waiting as they were now. 
 Ben was sure it was his fault that they had 
 quarrelled so often as they had done ; but he did 
 not think, if he could get out now, that he 
 should be so cross any more. He had often 
 been angry with himself, but somehow, he never 
 could say so at the right time ; and Harriet 
 seemed to have forgotten it all afterwards, so 
 that it would have done no good to put her in 
 mind. Harriet always knew this, all the time ; 
 but they had better not talk now of getting out 
 any more. See how the water was coming up 
 to their very toes ; and there was such a small 
 opening left at the mouth of the cavern, that 
 they could not see one of the ships that she had 
 watched when she first sat down. They were 
 quite alone now, except 
 
 Ben would not give up. He made haste to
 
 THE HAMLETS. 113 
 
 show how a point of rock, which he did not re- 
 member to have seen till now, seemed to be 
 popping up and down in the moving water. He 
 thought it was becoming more and more largely 
 visible. Harriet thought not. They agreed 
 neither of them to speak till the matter was 
 decided. In five minutes the point was com- 
 pletely covered. 
 
 *' We might have come upon the parish by 
 and by, and had everybody against us," said 
 Harriet, ** and I don't mind it, as if it was 
 you only. I think we ought to be saying our 
 prayers, Ben." 
 
 " I don't know how — What do you think we 
 should sav?'' 
 
 *' I suppose we should say what we think- 
 that we are ready to go, and not afraid of any 
 thing, and that we have been very happy so far. 
 I should say for mvself that vou have been a 
 very good brother to me. I know I never cared 
 much for ^ny thing but because of you ; and I 
 never should have been much afraid of any thinjr 
 that might happen while 1 had you for a bro- 
 ther, Ben." 
 
 Ben did not think he had been so happy as 
 Harriet ; but that was his own fault, and he did 
 not mean to be less thankful on that account. 
 He had been more put out with people ; and he 
 still thought they had used him hardly some- 
 times. — Very hardly, from not understanding 
 hira, his sister agreed. 
 
 •* There I there goes the basket 1 '* 
 
 l3
 
 114 THE HAMLETS, 
 
 Harriet cauglit it, and proposed putting it on. 
 a high projection, hke a shelf, which she thought 
 she could reach by climbing. She was afraid it 
 was impossible for either of them to get upon it, 
 or to find room to remain there in any posture; 
 but the basket might stand there ; and it was a 
 pity somebody should not have it, and the net 
 too. Ben thought the same of his sixpence; 
 and when the tiglit, wet knots of Harriet's apron 
 were at length loosened, the coin was laid con- 
 spicuously on the top of the shrimps, and the 
 whole lodged on the shelf 
 
 Harriet's cotton sliawl fell from her shoulders 
 into the water, while she was mounted, and the 
 next ebb canied it out of reach. It seemed to 
 herself very perverse ; but she could scarcely 
 help crying at seeing this one article of her pro- 
 j>erty taken possession of by the waves, when 
 there was every probability that they would pre- 
 sently swallow up herself and all she had. 
 
 No ; not quite all. She wondered who would 
 have the money of theirs that was in Miss Bar- 
 ry's hands Miss Barry would soon know what 
 had become of them, if she liked to ask. The 
 sporting gentlemen could tell nearly enough 
 where they went to give an idea what must have 
 happened. — To think, Ben said, how near those 
 crentlemen miffht be, and that from the mouth of 
 this very cave the roofs of the houses in the 
 hamlet might be seen, and that yet no one was 
 stirring to save them ! 
 
 A quieter power was now at work to save
 
 THE HAMLETS. 1:15 
 
 them (as they soon perceived) than the less 
 mighty force which man puts in motion in his 
 contests with nature. The tide had at length 
 turned, and inch after inch of slimy footing ap- 
 peared. The water-line fell, till a white soil 
 was once more visible, and the world opened 
 airain upon those who had well nigh left it. 
 They had little to say during the reaction, under 
 which they had now to suffer. At first they sat 
 still : but when the water had nearly left the 
 cave, their impatience to get out became exces- 
 sive. When they emerged, at length, with 
 tlushed cheeks and chattering teeth, they felt, 
 thouji-h full of thankfulness, as if it must have 
 been very silly to be so frightened ; and they 
 avoided looking at each other. 
 
 When they had made a further escape from 
 the shadow of the cliff to the sunshine on the 
 down (being anxious to get a good way from 
 the margin of the sea just at present) Ben 
 turned round to propose that they should say 
 nothing to anybody of what had happened. — 
 " Say nothing ! and why ? " Because the mis- 
 tress would perhaps blame them, and most likely 
 never let them go out shrimping again. This 
 last was not to be thought of, as shrimping was 
 looked upon as the grand means, the strong 
 ground of hope, of freeing themselves from the 
 parish. Silence was therefore agreed upon. 
 
 Silence was kept. No explanation was given 
 in answer to Mrs. Monk's surprise at seeing 
 them home before night.
 
 110 THE HAMLETS. 
 
 " Well, I suppose you found you had had 
 enough of being together, and so came home, 
 very wisely. You are just come when I wanted 
 you, Harriet. Here, take the baby while I set 
 things straight a little for my husband. I have 
 not been able to get a single thing done to-day, 
 Fred was so wakeful and troublesome. I sup- 
 pose it is because he has been used to have you 
 put him to sleep and manage him. What have 
 you got in your basket, Ben — shrimps ! a quan- 
 tity of shrimps ! My dears, did you get all these 
 yourselves? I do believe there will be four or 
 live pints of them when they are boiled ; and, 
 one with another, I should not wonder if they 
 bring you three-pence a pint. You shall finish 
 the day to your liking. I will boil them for you 
 presently, and then you may carry them up to 
 sell, in time for people's tea. Fill the saucepan, 
 Ben, and fetch me down the salt, and then run 
 and ask Mrs. Hart to lend you her pint measure. 
 I dare say she will." 
 
 "May I get Ben his supper first?" asked 
 Harriet. 
 
 ! " It is full early for his supper, and I doubt 
 whether there is any bread : but he can step to 
 the baker's from Mrs. Hart's." 
 
 Ben found a small crust, which he broke be- 
 tween himself and his sister, and ran off just in 
 time to avoid witnessing the trouble Harriet was 
 about to fall into about the loss of her shawL 
 It was missed, and she was called to account for 
 iU
 
 THE HAMLETS*, 117 
 
 "It fell off into the water, and it floated away. 
 Ben tried all he could to get it." 
 
 " Then he may try all he can to get you an- 
 other ; for I cannot afford to give you thin2;s to 
 be lost in that foolish way. You should have 
 left it on the sands, with your shoes and stock- 
 ings. It is always the way when you give chil- 
 dren pleasure, that some mischief comes of it. 
 It seems as if they could not make merry with- 
 out losing or spoiling something." 
 
 " The shrimps might go to pay for it, only 
 they are half Ben's," said Harriet. 
 
 " Well ; the fault was half Ben's, I dare say. 
 You were at some silly play in the water, T have 
 no doubt." 
 
 Harriet merely said, " no," and concluded 
 within herself that the gains of the hohday must 
 go to repair the losses of the holiday. She was, 
 however, spared this mortification. 
 
 In a little while, Mrs. Monk saw from the 
 window that the neighbours were hastening to- 
 wards a particular spot on the beach, where 
 something was apparently to be seen. She fol- 
 lowed to learn what was the matter, desiring 
 Harriet to stay within with the children. She 
 soon returned with Harriet's shawl, which she 
 threw at her, saying that getting it back again 
 was better luck than she deserved, and that it 
 was to be hoped she would be duly ashamed of 
 the trouble and concern she had occasioned to 
 the gentlemen who brought it. — They had seen 
 the children on the shore in the morning, they
 
 118 the'hamlets. 
 
 said ; and not havinjj observed them return be- 
 fore the spring-tide overflowed the whole beach, 
 in the direction they had taken, and having seen 
 this shawl washed up, the sportsmen had feared 
 that the children might be lost, and had hastened 
 back to the hamlet to ascertain whether the shawl 
 was known there, and to give the alarm. They 
 had been very good-humoured, Mrs. Monk said, 
 on finding that their trouble had been in vain ; 
 but she had felt herself bound to make as 
 humble an apology as she could for Harriet's 
 carelessness. Harriet duly thanked her proxy, 
 and proposed running after the gentleman to 
 return the sixpence; the story of which she had 
 not, till now, been allowed time to tell. — She 
 was bidden to keep it, and not suppose that 
 such as she was to think of offering sixpence to 
 gentlefolks. 
 
 Mrs. Monk was certainly very cross to-day. 
 She had often been cross of late. She mentioned 
 it herself sometimes, and said she was wearing 
 out, or growing old, or something. Every one 
 who heard her say this, rallied her about talking 
 of age, when her husband, who was many years 
 older, seemed as hearty a man as ever. As for 
 wearins: out, unless there was some illness or 
 grief that no one knew of, such a thing was dif- 
 ficult to account for ; since her husband had cer- 
 tainly got up in the world of late, being free of the 
 parish, and no worse off at home than before, but 
 rather better, from his venturing to get many 
 little comforts about him that he did not think of
 
 THE HAMLETS. 119 
 
 having, so long as the overseer's eyes were 
 always upon him. Harriet was growing up, too, 
 to be a more handy help than many women 
 were blessed with. It was really a pity that 
 Mrs. Monk should think of such a thing as 
 wearing out. 
 
 Even Harriet ventured to hint this, when the 
 shrimps had been sold for fifteen-pence, and the 
 orphans thus became authorized to speak, as 
 those who have a power, as well as a will, of 
 their own. 
 
 Chapter VII. 
 
 EASE WITH DIGNITi'. 
 
 However much Mrs. Monk's neighbours might 
 at first think it a pity that she should fancy any 
 thing about being worn out, the time came when 
 they began to entertain the same fancy. What- 
 ever the cause might be, she certainly declined; 
 and a weary decline it was. It was just five 
 years from the time when she had taken the two 
 orj)hans under her protection, that they performed 
 the last offices of children to her; going from 
 closing her eyes, to comforting the husband who 
 survived her. 
 
 She had been tended carefully, and provided 
 with far more comforts than some few years be- 
 fore she would have ventured to wish for j cir-
 
 120- THE HAMLETS." 
 
 ciimstahces which she owed to her own merits. 
 It was her training which had made Harriet the 
 nurse and housekeeper which she was now 
 found to be. It was her example which had 
 accustomed Ben to the industry which now 
 largely assisted to supply the wants of the fa- 
 mily ;-: and it was her conduct as a wife which 
 secured from Monk more consideration and 
 manifestation of affection than she had ever en- 
 joyed since the early days of their marriage. 
 
 Monk did, indeed, appear to want comfort 
 when all was over, the body laid in the ground, 
 and the funeral guests departed. What was he 
 to do, in this time of his old age, he asked, with 
 two young children, who, he always used to 
 think, would be left imder the care of a good 
 mother whenever he should be past toiling and 
 managing for them ? 
 
 This was a question which Harriet and Ben 
 had expected, and to which they had prepared 
 an answer, after some grave consultations in the 
 sick chamber of their friend, and again over her 
 coffin. Their answer was: Why should not 
 they all go on living together, as they had done ? 
 If Monk would continue his occupation just 
 when it pleased him to go out to fish, and let 
 Ben have the free use of his boat and other ap- 
 paratus, there seemed little doubt that the rent 
 could be raised, and the wants of the family 
 provided for. Harriet would do what she could 
 to prevent the children feeling the loss of a 
 mother ; and as Monk grew older and less able 
 to ex^rt himself, Fred would be growing up inta
 
 THE HAMLETS. 121 
 
 a fitness to be either a sailor-boy — his favourite 
 fancy — or something else that was useful ; and 
 none of them would ever think of poor little 
 Harry being a trouble. 
 
 Monk was quite ready to own that no other 
 plan could yield equal promise of comfort to 
 him ; but thought it hard that the parish should 
 have no help to offer to persons in his kind of 
 distress. In old times — and even now, in 
 parishes not fifty miles off — there would be an 
 allowance given to each of his children, and help 
 to himself, and the entire charije of Harriet and 
 Ben willingly resumed. 
 
 " But we do not want it, or wish for it," 
 said Ben. " After having been off the parish 
 entirely now for more than three years, it would 
 be a sin and a shame to go back to it." 
 
 " And the children shall not have to think 
 about the parish, if we can help it," added Har- 
 riet. " As Ions: as there is the Hurst school for 
 them to go to, they need not look to the Weston 
 one for instruction ; and, as for their ever having 
 to labour a stroke, or taste a meal in the work- 
 house here, I trust Providence has a better lot 
 in store for them." 
 
 Monk trusted so too ; but he was getting an 
 old man, and the one that he looked to for every 
 thins: was s:one, and there was no venturins: to 
 say, Who could tell how soon he might pass 
 away ? He was reminded that the story of 
 Harriet and Ben might be taken as a hint as to 
 what was to become of his own boys. Harriet 
 and Ben had been left more unprotected than 
 
 M
 
 122 THE HA.MLETS* 
 
 these children. They had been reared to a state 
 of early independence, and were ready to testify 
 their thankfulness by discharg'ing offices of pro- 
 tection to other two, who might possibly have 
 it in their power to repay to society, in their 
 turn, the benefits they should have received. 
 This was much better than'owing; any thing to 
 the parish ; and there seemed every reason to 
 think that the parties concerned lost nothing by 
 such kindly arrangements. 
 
 " No ; I don't say tliey do," replied Monk ; 
 ** for I am sure it would have been a very differ- 
 ent thing to her that is gone to have me come 
 home with her parish allowance, once a week, 
 and nothing more than that grudged money to 
 comforther with: it would have been very dif- 
 ferent from her having you always at her beck 
 and call, and Ben bringing in his half-crown 
 sometimes, and no talk of the parish, from first 
 to last of |ier illness. I don't deny the good of 
 this ; but it may not often happen that such as 
 you and Ben are at hand at such times." 
 
 " Not where the parish is always at hand to 
 be applied to first, I dare say," said Harriet : 
 " but I do not see why there should not be 
 plenty such as Ben and me, if orphans were 
 timely taught and tended in some place out of 
 the workhouse. In the workhouse, they do not 
 know whom to look up to, to thank and repay 
 for the care of them ; and so, too often, grow 
 up thankless. But people must be bad indeed, 
 be they orphans or any thing else, to take their 
 rearing, and training, or any kind of help, and
 
 THE HAMLETS. 123 
 
 not wish to give the same in their turns to some 
 that want it as they once did. You will let us 
 try to take care of Fred and Harry ; and you 
 will try yourself to be comfortable with us, will 
 not you ? — If we find we cannot get on, it is only 
 to separate then instead of now : but, indeed, I 
 have much hope, and so has Ben, that we shall 
 
 get on. 
 
 " Well, my dear, you can but try, if you wish 
 it ; and if you do not find me so comfortable as 
 I have been, you will not fancy I want to be 
 going any where else. I shall never be com- 
 fortable any more." 
 
 " We do not expect, we never thought of 
 making up to you for her that is gone. O no! 
 it is little we can do ; but what trouble we can 
 save you we will." 
 
 " Harriet has something particular to say 
 about that," observed Ben : " it is better to get 
 every thing agreed upon completely beforehand, 
 that there may be no difficulty afterwards.'' 
 
 What Harriet had to stipulate was, that the 
 management of the money affairs of the family 
 should be left to those who were to direct its 
 other affairs. If Monk would just fix upon the 
 weekly sum which he thought would answer his 
 expenses for his own little comforts, it would 
 trouble him least to have that sum resiularlv, and 
 not be further burdened about any other expen- 
 diture ; and, for her own part, Harriet thought 
 she and Ben could not justly undertake to do 
 their part on any other plan. — Monk, who hated 
 trouble at all times, and now was particularly 
 
 M 2
 
 124 THE HAMLETS. 
 
 indisposed to exertion, had no objection to make ; 
 and Harriet was immediately invested with the 
 dignity of domestic manager, and Ben with the 
 responsibihty of providing the greater part of 
 the resources. 
 
 The greater part ; for his sister determined 
 that while she could earn money, the whole re- 
 sponsibility should not rest on Ben. Monk 
 scarcely ever went out fishing after this time, and 
 he took charge of the two pigs at the rear of 
 the cottage ; finding it an amusement to feed 
 and tend them in the morning, and throw odds 
 and ends to them at other times of the day, when 
 there was nothing to be seen on the beach. He 
 did not object to being left in charge of the little 
 one when Fred was at school ; and thus Harriet 
 was set at liberty for hours together to go out 
 shrimping, or to wait on the bathing parties who 
 now frequented the place in summer. For this 
 last service she was so well recompensed as to 
 enable her] to discharge the funeral expenses 
 without begging for delay in the payment of her 
 rent, or being obliged to sell one of the pigs ; 
 which would have been a discouraging beginning 
 of her housekeeping. 
 
 " I am glad you came home before dark, 
 Ben," said his sister,one fine Midsummer evening, 
 " and that you let my master — (for so the young 
 folks continued to call Monk) — I am glad you 
 let my master go to bed first ; for I want to 
 consult with you. But, are you very tired?" 
 
 ** A good deal ; but I am not for bed just 
 yet.'*
 
 THE HAMLETS. 125 
 
 €* 
 
 Well : about the rent. Quarter-day is close 
 at hand ; but I need not tell you that, for we 
 have both been counting" the days since the 
 month ben;an, and shall till the quarter is past. 
 Is my master sound asleep, do you think ? " 
 
 Ben went to make sure, and shut the door se- 
 curely while he pronounced him snoring". Har- 
 riet, meanwhile, lighted a candle, brought down 
 a slate and pencil from a high shelf, and a little 
 leathern bag" which Miss Barry had given her 
 to keep money in. Ben hung up a blind before 
 the window, that no gleam of silver might find 
 its way out, and set Monk's chair for his sister, 
 and a stool for himself, preparatory to the im- 
 portant business of settling accounts. Their 
 conversation was conducted in a whisper. 
 
 " Now, Ben, do you take the pencil and 
 reckon. How much do you expect to get for 
 your iish to-morrow ? " 
 
 *' Vy'^hy, I have had but poor luck to-day, whea 
 I expected something better ; but I may get 
 half-a-crown, leaving the smallest of the fish for 
 our own dinners." 
 
 ** I shall want a shilling of that for bread and 
 salt ; and our stock of potatoes is nearly out : 
 but we may reckon on sparing fifteen-pence of 
 it for the rent. Here I put nine-pence to it 
 from my shrimping to-day." 
 
 *' That is two shillings ; and it is down on the 
 slate." 
 
 " Here is your great five shilling piece ; that's 
 seven. And three sixpences ; eight and six- 
 pence. Now, have we the other six and six- 
 
 u 3
 
 126 THE HAMLETS^ 
 
 pence ? Yes ! here are seven shillings and 
 three-pence halfpenny. Only think of our having 
 nine-pence halfpenny over ! if you sell your fish 
 as you say." 
 
 '* I think I shall. What will vou do with the 
 money left over l '' 
 
 *' There ure plenty of ways to spend it. The 
 window wants a pane. I saw Miss Emily glance 
 at it, being stuffed, the last lime she was here." 
 
 " And Harry's pinafore is all one gi-eat hole." 
 
 •' He tore it from top to bottom, just when I 
 had mended it : but though it looks such a big 
 hole, it is not so bad to mend ys some. I'll do 
 it to-night. But he will soon want another or 
 two. iiut there is a thing we shall have to pay, 
 they say, that we must keep a little money for; 
 though I dare not mention it to my master." 
 
 *' O, then, I know you mean the rate. ,To me 
 there [is a pleasure in paying that, instead of 
 taking it." 
 
 " Ah ! instead of taking it : and having ever 
 taken it, it is our part to pay it. I wonder how 
 much it will be." 
 
 *' It can't be much upon us ; so many more 
 being payers now, and less wanted, by half, than 
 there was when there were fewer to pay. If I 
 thought it would not be more than nine-pence, 
 
 *' That is what I was going to say. You might 
 take it when you take the rent, to show your 
 readiness." 
 
 " But how will you manage about the win- 
 dow, and about Harry's pinafores ? "
 
 THE HAMLETS* 127 
 
 ** I will get enoug'h for that before many days 
 are over, if the lame lady goes on bathing. Be- 
 sides, we have near three shillings in the Bank. 
 We would not take it out, if we could helj> it \ 
 but there it is, in case we really want it. But 
 I should like to pay the rate with a grace." 
 
 *' Then I'll be off early with my tish, and get 
 all paid and settled to-morrow, shall I ? " 
 
 " Yes, do : and remember to bring the re- 
 ceipts. Look here ! Here is where 1 keep my 
 receipts. Double bags like these are convenient 
 things ; money in one side, and receipts in the 
 other." 
 
 " What receipts can you have ? I never 
 thought of such a thing." 
 
 *' Nor should I, but for something Miss Emily- 
 said to me once about buying too little of a thing 
 at a time. I got half a pound of tea for my 
 master, the last time I wanted soap for my 
 washing, and the grocer gave me a receipt. And 
 I chose to ask one of Dodd for the great piece 
 of cheese, because we had been apt, before I was 
 manager, to run scores there, and my mistress 
 rather thought he charged us twice over some- 
 times." 
 
 *' Well ; whatever way you manage, things 
 are full as comfortable as they were before yoa 
 were manager. That I will say for you." 
 
 *' Will you? can you? I am so glad ; for I 
 could not be sure myself. But we must re- 
 member that any thing that used to go wrong 
 might not be my mistress's fault, while she had 
 not her own way, as I have."
 
 128 THE HAMLETS. 
 
 ** 'Tis a pity she had not ; for my master 
 seems as comfortable now as ever he used to be ; 
 or, I should rather say, more. He does not 
 seem to miss her as I thought he would." 
 
 *' Ah ! you don't see him at times when I do, 
 "When he lies under the boats, or leans over the 
 rail by the pig-sty, then is his time for thinking 
 of her." 
 
 " I am sure I think of her much oftener than 
 that." 
 
 " To be sure ! and so does he ; and so do I. 
 Before I go to sleep, and when I wake, and as 
 sure as ever Harry cries, I think of her. He is 
 a winning boy, Harry, is not he?'* 
 
 *' He is : but scarcely hke to be so fine a fel- 
 low as Fred. If Fred is made a sailor-boy, as he 
 wants to be, he will get credit at sea, depend 
 upon it." 
 
 " I doubt whether his own father has such an 
 opinion of him as we." 
 
 "He does not know him so well ; though 
 that is a strange thing to be said about father 
 and son. Besides he is against old ])eople 
 admiring any thing much ; and he calls himself 
 old now.'* 
 
 *' He is, to be sure. Sixty is a great age. I 
 hope I shall not live to sixty, if I must leave 
 off admiring such boys as Fred." 
 
 " If you think sixty such a great age, what do 
 you think of eighty-three — Goody Gidney's age 
 —what would you say if my master lives to 
 eighty-three ? ** 
 
 *' That he shall be welcome to live with us
 
 THE HAMLETS. 129 
 
 still, instead of going upon the parish for any 
 part of the many years that Goody Gidney has 
 been there." 
 . *' If we go on living together," said Ben 
 
 *' Ah 1 " said Harriet, smiling, " the time 
 must come, I know, when you will be thinking 
 of something different ; but " 
 
 " O, but I was thinking of it for you, not 
 me. You are the eldest." 
 
 **jO, but I was thinking about it for you ; 
 because it signifies more to you. However, we 
 had better not even think at all about it, for one 
 another or ourselves. We do very well at pre- 
 sent ; and this is the sort of life we always used 
 to plan together ; and I am sure I like it very 
 much.'' 
 
 " So do I ; a thousand times better than being 
 ordered about and managed, as we were. We 
 will never order Fred about as I used to be or- 
 dered. I used to say so to myself at the time, I 
 remember. But, Harriet, I can't say that this 
 is exactly the sort of thing we used to plan — it 
 is not living, just us two together." 
 
 " No ; but much better. More useful, though 
 less free and quiet. It is far better than we ever 
 had reason to think of ; so do not let us say a 
 word against it, Ben ? '* 
 
 *' O no ; not I. I like fishing when I am 
 abroad, and seeing you manager when I am at 
 home ; and so I am content. And a shame it 
 would be if I was not. So good night ; I am 
 going to bed." 
 _ " And I am going to mend Harry's pinafore.
 
 130 THE HAMLETS. 
 
 And look where I put the money-ba^, that you 
 may know where to find it to-morrow, without 
 asking, if you should happen to come for it when 
 I am out. Good night." 
 
 Monk came in from a lounsre with a neicfhbour 
 the next day, just while Ben was showing his 
 sister the receipts he had brought for the rent, 
 and also for the rate, which had amounted to 
 no more than five-pence, and was scarcely likely 
 to be so much next time. Monk looked over 
 Ben*s shoulder (as Ben was looking over his 
 sister's), and was not displeased. Instead of 
 pitying them, as they expected he would, for 
 being called on to discharge their duties as 
 housekeepers in the parish ; instead of railing at 
 the oppression of the overseer, Monk seemed to 
 look with complacency on a document, which 
 was one of the very last he would some time 
 ago have desired to see in his house. After 
 putting on his spectacles twice to read it, he 
 stuck it up between the two best brass candle- 
 sticks over the fireplace. 
 
 "Had not I better put it away with my other 
 receipts?" inquired Harriet. 
 
 " No, no. Let it stay where it is. I like to 
 See it. I will take care that no harm comes to 
 it. I like to see it there, — Well, Ben, what 
 handiwork next ? " 
 
 ** Mending the window. I got three-pence 
 more for my fish than I reckoned upon ; and 
 that, with what I had left after paying the rate, 
 helped me to a pane and some putty ; and now 
 I'm going to try my hand at glazier's work."
 
 THE HAMLETS. 131 
 
 Harriet drew near her brother, when he was 
 at his task, to discover whether he had inquired 
 of the glazier the expense of brown paint. He 
 had ; and he really thought that if the two jobs 
 were done at one time, so as to waste no paint 
 — the touching up the boat, and painting the 
 bench — the bench might be afforded. The 
 glazier had said the same thing as the carpenter, 
 about the family having been old cnstomers, and 
 the willingness of all friends to deal handsomely 
 with the young folks on their first setting out* 
 So Ben thought Harriet might hope to see the 
 bench up, and Miss Barry sitting on it, before 
 the long evenings were all gone by. It was much 
 to be desired that it should be done during the 
 long early mornings, that the glazier's time 
 might not have to be paid for, but the business 
 be done by Ben himself, without interfering with 
 his fishing. He had painted his master's name 
 on the boat once, and knew how to use the 
 brush. 
 
 As Harriet sat this afternoon on the step of 
 the door, making a checked shirt for her brother, 
 and talking to Harry, who was rearing a tower 
 of sand on the outside. Monk wanted to pass 
 more than once, with a neighbour or two, to 
 show a curious bit of coral on the chimney- 
 piece, which might just as well have been shown 
 any day for the last ten years. It was observa- 
 ble that each visiter had something to say to 
 Harriet about the rate, and the new plan of 
 giving receipts for every payment. 
 
 At length, seeing no more neighbours at
 
 132 THE HAMLETS. 
 
 liberty, Monk found out that it was likely to be 
 a very fine evening, and that it was a great 
 length of time since he had seen Goody Gidney. 
 He would take Harry in his hand, and go and 
 look in upon her. Harry could not leave his 
 fortification, however ; and Monk went alone, 
 looking really like something of the old man, 
 Harriet thought, as she followed him with her 
 eyes across the deep sand. 
 
 Goody Gidney rephed to her guest's remarks 
 on its being a long time since she had crossed 
 his threshold, that it did not do for elderly people 
 to put themselves in the way of seeing trouble. 
 It was bad for the spirits to go into a house 
 where there had been a death; and besides, 
 Monk was a leisure man now, and it was rather 
 his part, considering his youth, to come and visit 
 her. 
 
 *' Why, Goody, I have not so many years upon 
 me as you, by upwards of twenty, 1 know ; but 
 yet it is on account of age that I have time on 
 my hands, as you heard. 1 have nearly given 
 up fishing, because I am too old for the sea." 
 
 " Now, take my advice, and don't begin 
 talking about being old long before you need, as 
 people commonly do. I don't mean to give in 
 to any such fancies till I am really old.'* 
 
 " And when will that be, Goody?" 
 
 " O, one hears of many people, you know, 
 that live to a hundred, and more ; and up to 
 ninety-six is quite common : and I'm far enough 
 from that yet." 
 . •* True, Goody. I rather wonder you let
 
 THE HAMLETS. 133 
 
 yourself be moved up to this place as an old 
 person." 
 
 " Why ; it was not for me to take offence, 
 when so many, not even elderly, came too. Jem 
 Collins's grandmother is not above half way be^- 
 tween you and me. It need not be long-, you 
 see, before you can get in. You will fmd it 
 very comfortable and pleasant." 
 
 Monk thanked her, but had no present inten- 
 tion of ever coming ; which Goody thought very 
 odd and unnatural, expatiating on the advan- 
 tages of the residence; its quiet, airiness, fine 
 views, &c. Monk assumed an air of condescen- 
 sion as he answered : 
 
 " All these things may signify much to you, 
 who have never known what it is to live in a 
 home of your own. I have no doubt it is a fine 
 exchange from the place below; considering the 
 state it was in for most of the seventy years you 
 lived there ; but my case is different " 
 
 *' Very difl'erent from what it was, Mr. Monk. 
 Where is she that made your home every thing 
 to you? Gone, and left you with two young 
 things. — Neighbour, I did not mean to make 
 your countenance change so : but if you tempt 
 me to speak of differences, you know " 
 
 ** She has left behind her some that make my 
 case as different from yours as it was before; 
 and we do not take it as the kindest thing in the 
 world, Goody, to talk to those who help to sup- 
 port the workhouse of going in themselves. As 
 long as our receipt for the rate sticks up before 
 my eyes at home, as I left it just now, I shall 
 
 N
 
 134 THE HAMLETS. 
 
 take it amiss to be supposed to design coming 
 in, Goody." 
 
 *' Bless my heart ! neighbour, who could have 
 guessed that you had grown so high since I saw 
 you last?'* 
 
 " 'Tis not that I have grown high, Goody; 
 nor has it all happened since you saw me last ; 
 but I do not pretend to deny that times are 
 changed so far as that those who live and have 
 long lived on the rate have no right to make 
 themselves equals with_those who pay to the 
 rate." 
 
 " And a pretty piece of work you made about 
 paying to the rate when it was fir&t talked of! 
 You did not hold up your head so mightily about 
 it, then." 
 
 " Because then it seemed just the thing that 
 would sink me quite. It is different now, for 
 nie and others. Wages are so much better — 
 near double what the farmers used to give ; and 
 as it is a thriving place, more people have come to 
 live, besides those staying who talked of going 
 away ; so that there is more encouragement to 
 fish. One can pay the rate now without feeling 
 it burdensome ; and may find it unpleasant to 
 hear any thing about coming into the workhouse.'* 
 
 *' Very well 1 with all my heart. You know 
 all my wish for you and yours used to be that 
 you might be as well off as I was. And, as 
 neighbour Collins was saying to me " 
 
 " Ah ! Mrs. Collins. I'll just say ' how do you 
 do ?' to her before I go down." 
 
 *' Do, That is her place commonly ; the seat
 
 THE HAMLETS. 135 
 
 by the gate. She hkes the sea view best, and I 
 the road where people pass ; so ^Ye each please 
 ourselves. She knits too." 
 • " And you ? Do you knit or spin ? To my 
 recollection, I never saw you do either." 
 
 •' Why should I, if I don't want it for amuse- 
 ment ? I was going to say Collins is rather 
 
 downhearted to-day, on account of some news 
 she has heard ; and you may give her some cer- 
 tainty about the matter, perhaps ; and that will 
 settle her mind, at least." 
 
 Monk could not do any good, he feared. He 
 had heard something of Jem Collins's conduct 
 towards Betsy ; but he did not know that any 
 body expected any thing better from Jem Col- 
 lins. As for the poor girl, she was done for ; 
 and he had desired Harriet to have no more to 
 say to her, except just speaking when they met. 
 
 *' About Jem himself," continued Monk, *' I 
 want to know what that fellow is doing. I shall 
 go and ask the overseer whether he is on the 
 parish still. I have no notion of our money 
 going to support a vagabond like him." 
 
 '• His grandmother will tell you presently whe- 
 ther he is in the workhouse or out of it," ob- 
 .served Goody. 
 
 *' And if he is in, he ought to be turned out. 
 There is no use talking about wanting work, 
 now that people are coming from other parishes 
 to work for Rickman and Dove.'* 
 
 " How some folks would have grumbled in 
 my young days at people coming in from other 
 parishes ! " observed Goody. 
 
 n2
 
 136 THE HAMLETS. 
 
 *' Because they came to get settlements, and 
 ours had the name of a good parish. Now that 
 settlements here can get them nothing better than 
 a place in the workhouse, which nobody likes, 
 there is no danger of their coming to encroach. 
 As for ours having got the name of a bad parish, 
 I say it is a better parish than ever it was for the 
 character and comfort of the people in it. And 
 that is the one thing to be considered." 
 
 Goody Gidney, who never appeared to dream 
 of her being of a different class in society from 
 the dwellers below, agreed that she was indeed 
 very comfortable now ; and against her character 
 nobody had ever had any thing to say. She had 
 reason to be thankful that she belonged to this 
 parish. 
 
 Monk did not find his old friend such suitable 
 society for him as he used to think her ; she was 
 so utterly blind to the difference there was now 
 between them. Instead of staying as late as the 
 rules of the Weston house allowed, he went to 
 inquire of Mr. Barry about Jem Collins, and one 
 or two more idle fellows that ought not to be 
 supported by him and his, and by other folks that 
 had a right to speak about what should be done 
 with the fund they helped to raise. 
 
 It was Mr. Barry's practice to receive on 
 terms of equality all who came to say any thing 
 to him on the administration of parish affairs. 
 He now referred Monk to the accounts, which 
 were deposited so as to be accessible to all the 
 rate-payers of the hamlet, previous to their being 
 sent up, with those of the neighbouring hamlets,
 
 THE HAMLETS, 137 
 
 to the parish quarterly examination. There 
 Monk might find (with so much minuteness were 
 these accounts kept) an entry of every expense 
 incurred on behalf of the particular persons he 
 named, if they had been chargeable to the parish. 
 He would find little to object to in the amount 
 of rehef given. It had, of course, been all within 
 the workhouse, and the expenses of the two 
 houses of Weston and Hurst had been, in all, 
 only 200/. this last year. Monk was meditating 
 a shake of the head, and an observation that this 
 was a large sum, when he remembered that, at 
 the time of Mr. Barry coming into office, the an- 
 nual expenses had been between twelve and 
 thirteen hundred pounds. 
 
 On this head Mr. Barry had just to say that 
 the rates were about to fall more lightly than 
 ever upon the housekeepers of the place. He had 
 discovered that the fund^ which was annually 
 applied to the distribution of bread and blankets 
 from the church-door was not appropriated to 
 any such purpose by the benevolent person who 
 bequeathed it. It was designed for the " relief 
 of the poor,'' and the trustees were at liberty to 
 spend it in any way which might seem to them 
 to afford the most relief to the poor. 
 
 "Which is not according to the present plan, 
 sir," said Monk. 
 
 *' So I think. There used to be more jea- 
 lousy, and quarrelling, and encroaching about it 
 than the donation was worth ; and now the dif- 
 ficulty is to find people willing to take it. Those 
 who pay to the rate do not like to be ranked 
 
 n3
 
 138 THE HAMLETS. 
 
 with ^ the poor/ for the sake of a gift which can 
 come no oftener than once a-year. It was the 
 seeing loaves put np to be bid for, as it were, 
 that made me consider whether the money might 
 not be spent upon those who really want it." 
 
 " Relieving the poorer housekeepers at the 
 same time, Sir, by lessening the rate." 
 
 *' Yes ; the proceeds of this bequest will go a 
 good way towards making up the small rates we 
 shall want next year. There is another large 
 charity belonging to the whole parish, whose 
 object has died out, and whose funds are accu- 
 mulating, without the trustees knowing what in 
 the world to do with them. Col. Lee is stirrins: 
 up the other magistrates to see whether that fund 
 may not be legally applied to the maintenance of 
 paupers. If he gets the thing done, Hurst, 
 Barham, and Weston may find the relief to their 
 rates no trifling one. In that case, I should not 
 wonder if there is even an end of rate-collecting 
 here altogether, in the ordinary way. I am sure 
 the parish will always be ready to answer the 
 call in case of the sudden misfortune of a large 
 family ; such as Dyer's, for instance." 
 
 " I suppose Mrs. Dyer is still employed about 
 the workhouse. Sir. You know it was I that got 
 her that employment, if you remember." 
 
 " I remember. — Yes. She is employed in 
 washing and cleaning, when there is any thing 
 to do ; but that is seldom now. The two or 
 three women who are there are those wiio are 
 there for some good cause, and are therefore 
 fixed, so far as to do the necessary business of
 
 THE HAMLETS. 139 
 
 the house. There is hope of even their leaving 
 in a little while." 
 
 " Poor Mrs. Dver ! " 
 
 " O, she has other work, of course ; or she 
 would be there herself. The elder boys are 
 placed out, and she finds herself able to main- 
 tain the younger ones ; her friends remembering 
 the importance to her of always having employ- 
 ment. She does not yet keep her pig, or show 
 a bit of new furniture every year, like many of 
 her neighbours ; but she does not want bread, 
 and has never broun:ht her children to take a 
 meal in the workhouse." 
 
 Monk hoped the parish had done its duty by 
 the widow, as much as if she had had the daily 
 maintenance of herself and her litlle ones iVom 
 its funds, every day since her husband's death. 
 And now he would go home, and get his best 
 spectacles, and see, before he slept, how much 
 Jem Collins had cost the parish. He would not 
 look so close into a sober poor man's receipts — 
 he should be ashamed to do it ; but Jem was 
 any thing but a sober poor man ; and the sober 
 of the parish ought to know what he cost them. 
 
 Emily observed to her father, when Monk was 
 gone, that he did not appear to have the slightest 
 recollection of having ever taken parish relief 
 himself 
 
 " Never mind, my dear," replied her father ; 
 " we will not recal it. Tlie best thine: we can 
 wish for a working man is that no idea of parish 
 relief should enter his head ; and the next best 
 thing to never having had such an idea is to 
 lose it.'*
 
 140 The hamlets. 
 
 Chapter VIII, 
 LABOUR WITH DIGNITY. 
 
 Harriet did not find her work grow less under 
 her hands from her being at the head of the 
 household. Though the purpose to her happi- 
 ness was answered just as well by her having 
 gained confidence in herself and dignity in the 
 eyes of others, and being unmolested in the ful- 
 filment of her little plans, the time had not yet 
 come for any relaxation of exertion. She did 
 not wish to relax till she had accomplished several 
 things she knew to be desirable; through a 
 pretty long series of which she saw a grand dis' 
 tinct object — the fitting out Fred properly as a 
 respectable sailor-boy. She would not only do 
 every stitch of his things herself, but Ben and 
 she must buy them ; and for this purpose pence 
 and sixpences must find their way to the Savings 
 Bank, from this day to that of making the final 
 purchases. The thought of this achievement 
 roused her many an early morning from her 
 deep sleep, and enabled her to undertake another 
 task, and yet another, at the end of a long day. 
 Sometimes, too, it took her abroad when the 
 family were at rest, and gave her courage to 
 cast her net into waters, upon which only 
 she and the moon looked down. When the tide 
 served for shrimping at midnight, at midnight 
 she went forth to shrimp ; taking her rest before 
 it, or after it, or the next night, as it might
 
 THE HAMLETS. 1*41 
 
 happen. Mr. Barry always thought that if these 
 young people showed a thoughlfulness and 
 sobriety beyond their years, it was o\^ing, not 
 only to their early circumstances of orphanhood, 
 but to their each beino- much eno:ao:ed in a silent 
 and solitary occupation. Ben had plenty of lei- 
 sure to think over his past and plan his future 
 life, while waiting for the time to draw in his 
 nets, or while trimming his sail; and when 
 alone, under the shadow of the cliffs, Harriet 
 settled her mind about a thousand things that 
 she might have had to decide hastily amidst the 
 bustle of the family at home. She could never 
 manage to lie awake and think, as she had heard 
 that many good managers do. Such thinking 
 always fell into dreaming, or into nothing, im- 
 mediately : but when she was noiselessly pacing 
 the sands, with bare feet, or gently splashing 
 through the water, there was nothing to inter- 
 fere with her thousand thoughts of Ben, and her 
 hundreds of Fred and Harry. Monk was not 
 very observant of little things ; but even he dis- 
 covered, at last, that most new and clever little 
 methods of management, most rectifications of 
 abuses in the household, most novelties of indul- 
 gence to the children, came after Harriet had 
 been out shrimping at night. 
 
 This could not have been the case if Harriet 
 had been afraid. But her mind was too full for 
 such an engrossing feeling as fear. If anybody 
 had questioned her, she would have asked what 
 she should be afraid of. She liked shadow and 
 moonlio-ht equally by turns, had been taught no
 
 142 THE HAMLETS, 
 
 superstitions, and had never received harm from 
 any human being'. She was so harmless herself, 
 that it was not Ukely she ever would. Meantime, 
 it was wise and kind of Ben to put no distrust 
 into her mind, and to avoid making her think 
 that she could go nowhere and do nothing with- 
 out him. He believed that none but herself 
 ever went to the stiller parts of the shore at the 
 hours she chose ; and he knew that if any went, 
 it would only be people belonging to the hamlet, 
 who would as soon think of quenching the bea- 
 con as harming Harriet. Ben often closed the 
 door softly behind her, and sometimes delayed 
 putting off in the morning till he saw lier long- 
 shadow on the distant sands : but he never trou- 
 bled her by offering to undertake night in ad- 
 dition to day fishing, for the sake of protecting 
 one who needed no protection. 
 
 One night, he was too sound asleep to [hear 
 his sister let herself out at eleven o'clock, after 
 having gone to rest with the children at seven.' 
 There was no moon ; but the stars were bright 
 enough to show her every little pool and bay left 
 by the tide, even if there had not been the beacon 
 to light her path with its periodical radiance. 
 Now casting a red tint over the wet sand, now 
 trembling over the heaving waves, and now 
 bringing out the apparition of a dark boat, 
 dancing in the tide, the lighthouse gleam left few 
 parts of the scenery unrevealed in turn. If any: 
 one had been looking out, Harriet herself, swath- 
 ed and barefoot, and with her net and basket 
 slung over her shoulder, might have appeared to"
 
 THE HAMLETS« J43 
 
 come and go on the shore, as the light revolved. 
 But all seemed to be already at rest in the cot- 
 tages. A dog, here and there, was asleep on its 
 master's threshold. No lights appeared through 
 the windows, except where a young baby occa- 
 sioned such an indulgence. Nothing moved ia 
 the hamlet but the light weathercock on the new 
 bath-house. Nothing breathed but the night- 
 breeze along the face of the cliffs. Nothing 
 spoke but the sea's everlasting voice ; and that 
 was at its gentlest, and at nearly the farthest 
 recession of the tide. Now was the time for 
 Harriet to think, when she had made up her 
 mind whether the extreme point of the range of 
 cliifs, the point behind which yon bright star had 
 just risen, was the ten mile point or the thirteen ; 
 and whether the dawn would begin to shine 
 behind her ere the dull red line of sky before her 
 should have become as grey as the sea. She 
 had dismissed this, and bestowed a passing 
 grateful thought on the ditference between such a 
 balmy air as this, and the cutting night-wind 
 she had sometimes to encounter, when she was 
 disturbed in her approach to other subjects by 
 voices near her. At first she heard only one, a wo- 
 man's voice, and fancied it might be calling her ; 
 but, in a momentary lull of the waves, she distin- 
 guished a hoarser tone. They were not pleasant 
 voices ; or, at least, not put to a pleasant use 
 just now ; and she wished to avoid them, if she 
 could make out precisely the direction in which 
 they came. While pausing for another moment 
 to. listen, the broadest light of the beacon fell
 
 144 THE HAMLETS. 
 
 towards her, casting two long shadows up to 
 her feet, and disclosing* her to the persons to 
 whom those shadows belonged. 
 
 " Will you leave ofl', or must I make you ? " 
 said the man to his companion ; " don't you see 
 there is somebody listening to you ? "_ 
 
 *' 'Tis Harriet, and she shall listen," cried 
 Betsy. " Harriet, don't move off I have some- 
 thing to tell you. I tell you that Jem Collins, 
 that stands there, is a cruel, wicked wretch, that 
 cares for nobody, if he can but please himselt." 
 
 *' Indeed, I feared so," replied Harriet. 
 
 " Ah ! it is what every body will be telling 
 me," cried Betsy ; " I shall hear of nothing else 
 all my days. I never would believe it. I believed 
 him before every body, and gave him all I had, 
 as often as he asked for it ; ay, money, time 
 upon time. And now he gives me up to go into 
 the workhouse, and not a thing will he do for 
 me or the child that's coming." 
 
 " I always told you," replied Jem, *' that 
 there was the parish to go to. There were Por- 
 ter's two children, and Lambert's, and plenty 
 more, that were taken care of by the parish ; 
 and neither Porter nor Lambert had any trouble, 
 being too poor, as I am, to pay to the order. You 
 knew that as well as I did." 
 
 " I never took you for such a one as Porter, 
 or Lambert either ; and you turn out ten times 
 worse; for you won't help me when you knoty 
 I have not the parish, nor any thing else, to 
 depend on." 
 
 ** That is the parish's fault, not mine. Ay.
 
 THE HAMLETS. 145 
 
 Look about for the girl. She has sh'pped away 
 from your foul tongue ; and no wonder. I^et 
 her ffo. What has she to do with it ? " 
 
 Betsy was bent on making Harriet a listener 
 to the dispute. She watched intently to discover 
 the direction in which she had stolen away, and 
 sprang upon her presently to bring her back. 
 
 " O, I cannot come with you," said Harriet ; 
 " never mind me; I can do you no good now, 
 Betsy ; and my master desired me " 
 
 " Not to speak to me, I suppose : but you 
 shall ; and so shall many more, who don't in- 
 tend it now. Every soul shall hear me tell 
 about Jem Collins. Come here, Jem ; come, 
 and hear what I say about you," 
 
 Jem had taken advantage of her leaving his 
 side to make his escape ; and Betsy called to 
 him in vain. 
 
 " He is gone," said Harriet ; " do not look 
 after him any more to-night, but go home, and 
 try to be less angry against him. I don't mean 
 to sny that he lias not behaved very badly to 
 you ; but where's the use of telling every body 
 so? If I were you, I should just try to get 
 through as cpiietly as I could." 
 
 Harriet's tongue clave to the roof of her 
 mouth at the bare thought, " if she were Betsy." 
 
 " Quietly ! 1 will never be quiet ! " cried 
 Betsy ; " he coaxed me, and coaxed me, for 
 long, and then he said he would marry me, and 
 was getting money and every thing I had from 
 me, under that pretence. And then, when it was 
 
 o
 
 146 THE HAMLETS. 
 
 too late, he talked about Porter's children and 
 the parish " 
 
 *' I think you had better go to Miss Barry," 
 said Harriet ; " she will tell you from her father, 
 whether the parish can do any thinp; for you. 
 And, indeed, there is no use in talking- to me 
 about it ; 1 don't know any thing about what 
 people ought to do when " 
 
 " To Miss Barry ! I went to her father more 
 than a week ago." 
 
 " And could not he help you at all ? " 
 
 " O, he got the Colonel to give the order 
 upon Jem for the money. But they gave tlie 
 order to me ; Mr. Barry saying that it was no 
 business of his, and that I must get the money 
 from Jem. I have been trying ever since, and 
 not one penny can I get." 
 
 " I am sure he might earn it," said Harriet 
 indignantly. 
 
 " So he might, if he was not the idlest and 
 the wickedest wretch that ever deceived anv 
 body. After all his speeches and promises I I'll 
 expose him ! I'll tell every g-irl in the parish to 
 take care how she trusts to such as he." 
 
 It occurred to Harriet that this might be what 
 Mr. Barrv intended, when he declined interferino- 
 between Betsy and her lover. 
 
 " They will see quite enough, without your 
 paining yourself to tell them, Betsy," said she. 
 *' Nobody thinks well of Jem Collins, or of any 
 one v;ho would act as he has acted by you. — 
 Better take it as patiently now as you can."
 
 THE HAMLETS. l-i7 
 
 '* Patiently ! Go and talk to them about being 
 patient that are better treated by the parish than 
 I am. Go to Porter's woman, in the next pa- 
 rish, living' comfortably with her two on what 
 the parish ordered for them. Porter won't pay, 
 any more than Jem : but the parish does not 
 lay the burden of that upon her, as my parish 
 does upon me." 
 
 Harriet had no thought of reasoning with 
 poor Betsy just now ; but she did wonder who 
 should bear the burden of the profligacy of one 
 party, if not the other guilty party. To visit it 
 upon the innocent rate-payers, that the guilty 
 parties might go free, seemed very unjust. She 
 thought Ben would have good reason to com- 
 plain if he were compelled to pay any part of 
 what Jem would not pay, for the support of 
 Jem's child, that Betsy might live at ease. It 
 was a heavy burden for poor Betsy to bear ; but 
 it was clear that Mr. Barry was letting it rest oa 
 the right shoulders. 
 
 " I did not mean to stay ; I must not stay," 
 observed Harriet ; " but just tell me what yoa 
 mean to do ; for I am frightened for you." 
 
 '" Do ! why, there is but one thing for me to 
 do, L'.nless I drown myself " 
 
 " For shame, Betsy! you would not be so 
 wicked." 
 
 " I'll not do it till I have made every body- 
 know what Jem Collins is. You may depend 
 upon that. I looked to him to get me out of 
 service, w hich I hate. And now there is nothino* 
 left before me but the workhouse, which is ten 
 
 o 2
 
 148 THE HAMLETS. 
 
 times worse. I have not a shilling ; and there 
 is nobody to g-ive me one, knowing- that the 
 workhouse is the proper place for such a friendless 
 poor creature as I am now. So, there I must go. 
 It makes me sick to think of it ; with that high 
 •wall all round, and nobody there, scarcely ; and 
 the quiet and the work tog-ether ; while Jem 
 will be out in the sun, and laughing and pleasing 
 himself, just as if he had never heard of such a 
 person as me. Or, perhaps, sometimes his laugh 
 may be at me." 
 
 " Turn your thoughts some other way, Betsy,** 
 said Harriet, terrified at her companion's to- 
 kens of passion, and turning her back towards 
 the beacon, that her own tears might not be 
 seen. " There is no use in afflicting yourself in 
 this manner. Turn your thoughts some other 
 way." 
 
 '* Which way?" was the fierce question; to 
 which Harriet could find no ready answer, Bet- 
 sy's condition appeared so wholly forlorn. She 
 was secure of necessaries and protection from 
 injury ; but beyond this, there seemed not a 
 hope for her. 
 
 *' Go, go your ways," said Betsy presently. 
 *' I've called you to witness about Jem, and that 
 was what I wanted. Go your ways now.'' 
 
 *' If there was any thing that anybody could 
 do for you," said Harriet — " It is not likely that 
 anyone could prevail with Jem, if you cannot. 
 Better give up all thought of that, and put him 
 out of your mind, and have nothing more to do 
 with him ; particularly in the way of com-
 
 THE HAMLETS. 3 49 
 
 plaining of him ; which will give occasion of 
 triumph and talk to some people. But since it is 
 certain that vou will not let him delude you 
 
 au:ain- 
 
 " Not he, nor anybody ; depend upon that." 
 
 " Since you are not likely to be deluded again, 
 you can give your mind to being patient under 
 your lot, and getting such good -will by being 
 steady, as may help you to be free of the work* 
 house, in time." 
 
 Betsy turned in disgust from the re])resenta- 
 tion which held out no more than this. But 
 what more could Harriet, or anyone, hold out ? 
 With many tears, Harriet asked this ; and the 
 question and the sympathy softened Betsy. 
 
 " Do go now, Harriet,'* said she ; " I shall 
 not tell your master how long I kept you talking 
 with me. He won't hear it, unless you choose 
 to tell him." 
 
 " O, he does not mean that I should never 
 
 speak to you in any way; only He would 
 
 not object, I am sure, to what we have been 
 saving ; but " 
 
 " Well, I wonder, since he is so particular 
 about you, that he lets you come out in this vvay, 
 along the shore." 
 
 " 1 dare say he does not know what I do ; 
 though Ben does. But I should tell him, if he 
 asked, that I never met or saw any thing to be 
 afraid of.'' 
 
 " Well ; I was alwavs afraid, as Ions: as I can 
 remember." 
 
 o 3
 
 150 THE HAMLETS. 
 
 Harriet was inwardly surprised. Slie had 
 hitherto taken Betsy for a rather bold girl. What 
 was Betsy afraid of? she asked. 
 
 " I hardly know ; but I never go near a 
 shadow like that, without prying to see if there 
 is nobody there ; and when there is any rattle 
 
 on the shingle But I won't talk in that way 
 
 to you, when you have so much further to go. 
 But I could no more go on by myself, as you are 
 
 doing now, or even with you, than Though, 
 
 to be sure, one might go with you, if at all ; for 
 I dare say nobody thinks of meddling with you, 
 or with anybody belonging to you. But — do 
 you really mean to go on to-night, now ? " 
 
 *' Indeed 1 do, and quickly ; for there's the 
 clock going twelve ; and the tide will not wait 
 for me. Don't you be out so late any more, 
 unless you have business like mine." 
 
 " I can always get in, by a way of my own ; 
 and I shall have little enough liberty soon." 
 And, under the irritation of this thought — a 
 most painful one to a person of Betsy's tastes 
 and habits — she turned away without saying 
 good night. 
 
 " I wonder what made Betsy afraid, so long- 
 ago as she speaks of," thought Harriet, as she 
 went on her way. " I do not wonder at her 
 being apt to start at every thing now ; but when 
 she was younger, and before she got into any 
 mischief, that I know of, 1 wonder what it could 
 be. She used to say the same Scripture words 
 with Ben and me at school, though 1 am afraid 
 she has forgotten them many a time since —
 
 THE HAMLETS. 151 
 
 * The darkness and the liii:ht are both alike unto 
 Thee.' I always think of that when I find one 
 night bright moonlight, and another almost pitch 
 dark. But, except for taking care that the tide 
 does not come up too higli before I am aware, I 
 do not remember having been troubled with 
 taking care in my walks. I just remember, 
 once or twice, on a very dark night, having a 
 feelinir come over me that I had when a child, 
 and did not understand the beacon, as if the 
 light, at the full, came quick and close up to my 
 eyes, and away again : but it only made my 
 breath come quick for a moment. 1 have often 
 heard, though, that such fancies come thick 
 into minds that are troubled, like poor Betsy's. 
 What is ever to be done about her ? It is wretch- 
 ed to think of, any way. Nothing that Jem, or 
 anybody, could do now for her would do her any 
 good, that I see ; and it will take such a weary 
 time to win her way up again out of her shame. 
 I could not wonder to hear her talk of drowning 
 herself, though I know, and I told her, how 
 wicked it would be. But I should be much 
 tempted to do it in her case. And to think what 
 is before me, instead of such a dreary look out as 
 hers ! — the sitting at the door, making Ben's 
 shirts, with Harry to prattle to me ; and the 
 getting Fred ready, as such a handsome little 
 fellow should be ; and Ben's having a boat of 
 his own, and never a sharp word between us 
 two now, as there used to be ; and the sea and 
 the sunshine open to us, free as we are, and 
 accountable to nobody. Ben says my master
 
 152 THE HAMLETS. 
 
 g'ets to be c^uided by me in every thing'. I am 
 sure 1 have no wish for that, further than to 
 make him comfortable. Jiut how ditferent from 
 poor Betsy, when we used to sit together at 
 school, and I thought her so much happier, be- 
 cause she was bigger and merrier. If one could 
 but bring her out of her scrape, to be as I am I 
 — Jiut one can only pray God to heal and help 
 her, and take care against being proud when one 
 thanks him for oneself It makes one wonder 
 why he is so very good to Ben and me. But I 
 will teach it to Fred and Harry, at quiet times, 
 when they will take my meaning. 1 should like 
 them to be sensible of it, whether or not they 
 should be orphans, too, before they are fit to 
 take care of themselves. Now, here's the place, 
 and it is high time I was busy in it. — Betsy 
 talked of looking into the shadow sometimes — I 
 thouo'ht I saw somethino; movin"' under the 
 clilf just now; but, whether it is a fisherman, or 
 a fisherman's wife, or any body else that is 
 watching, they will do me no liorm." 
 
 So Harriet lowered her net from her slioulder, 
 and took her way into the midst of the ])ool ; 
 breakin": the mimic stars on its surface into a 
 million of sparkling fragments as she went. 
 
 She had crossed and recrossed, and carried 
 a fresh prey to the shore several times when, 
 as she stooped over her basket, she thought 
 she perceived some one first sauntering- under 
 the clitf, and then pausing, as if to watch 
 her ; all which made no dillerence in her pro- 
 ceedin»s. When once more in the middle of the
 
 )» 
 
 THE HAMLETS. 153 
 
 pool, a voice accosted her ; and on turning to- 
 wards it, she saw a fig-ure standing* on the mar- 
 gin. In answer to the " I say, mistress," she 
 asked who it was. 
 
 *' Only Jem Collins. I just came after you to 
 speak about Betsy, because you have more 
 power over her than any body ; and you heard 
 what she has been saying to-night." 
 
 " Which you cannot unsay, I should think.*' 
 
 " The thing is, I can't maintain her and the 
 child, if I wished it ever so much ; and the pa 
 rish is the best help she had a right to expect. 
 .^ " So I think, when she trusted to you." 
 • *' But if you or somebody do not stop her 
 tongue, there's not a soul in the place will hear 
 a word I've got to say. I wish you would per- 
 suade her to hold her tongue, and not go about 
 abusing me for what can't be helped now. I 
 wish you would persuade her" 
 
 *' I did try." 
 
 " Ah ! I thought you would, when you knew 
 the whole." 
 
 " I did try ; but it was for her sake, not for 
 yours." 
 
 *' Well ; you women are jealous for one ano- 
 ther, as you should be ; but if you fancy any 
 body belonging to you to be in such a scrape ; 
 suppose your brother Ben " 
 
 " Ben ! " cried Harriet, in a tone which came 
 back to her from the face of the clitF. 
 
 " Well ; any body else that you care about. 
 Where would be the use of raisins: the whole 
 neighbourhood, about a thing that can't be un-
 
 154 THE HAMLETS. 
 
 done ; the parish not stepping in, as he expected, 
 to shield him ? " 
 
 *' No use, that I see ; for the only thinG^ that 
 can be done is done, without Betsy's afflicting- 
 herself by talking as she does. The parish has 
 taken care that all shall be warned a«:ainst such 
 as you, by letting it be seen how you treat Betsy. 
 It was this being done already that made me 
 advise her to take every thing as quietly as she 
 can." 
 
 " Well 1 thank you for that advice ; and I 
 hope you will continue it." 
 
 " If Betsy asks me again, I shall say the same 
 as I said to-night ; but not because you desire it. 
 If you had come to ask me to comfort her, or to 
 notice her, or to nurse her, I should have listened 
 to you with some pleasure : but you come to 
 ask for yourself, and not for her ; and so what 
 you say has no weight with me." 
 
 " I did not think you had had it in you to be 
 so hard-hearted, mi.stress ; and so sharp with 
 one, too." 
 
 Harriet did not think it necessary to justify 
 herself from the charge of being sharp to Jem 
 Collins. She went on with her business, and 
 let him talk till he found he had no more to say. 
 As he sauntered away, chucking pebbles into the 
 water as he went, she paused for a moment to 
 look after him, and glory in Ben's activity of 
 body and cheerfulness of spirit, which formed as 
 strong a contrast with Jem's entire demeanour 
 as kindly innocence with selfish guilt. 
 
 This emotion sprang up again within her
 
 THE HAMLETS. 155 
 
 ^vhell she next saw Ben, as she was returning: in 
 the sunrise — the very early sunrise — when few 
 but Ben thought of being- abroad. She was 
 shading' her eyes from the level rays, to see if 
 any one was stirring among the cottages, when 
 she perceived her brother sitting before the stern 
 of his master's boat, with a paint-pot in one 
 hand, and the brush in the other. "SVhen she 
 came up, she saw that it was white paint, and 
 that larire letters were beiniz: formed on the stern. 
 
 " Why, Ben ; what are you painting ? " 
 
 " Mv own name. I did not intend to tell you 
 till it was done ; but now you see. — Master 
 brought me this paint last night, and bade nse 
 change the name while my hand was in for 
 painting. He says the boat should be mine, as 
 I am always the one to go out in it now." 
 
 " And very true ; and very kind of him ! But 
 I think you are the first person hereabouts that 
 ever had a boat of his own at your age, Ben." 
 
 Ben smiled consciously, and took prodigious 
 pains with the J then under his hands. He also 
 told her that the bench was to be put up lime 
 enough to be painted this day, so as to he dry 
 for company to sit on by next Sunday. If it was 
 pleasant to make Ben's shirts while seated on the 
 door-step, what must it be on the bench which 
 his own hands had earned and painted ? Har- 
 riet could not go to bed for three more hours, as 
 Ben recommended. She was neither tired nor 
 sleepy. She had rather take the other painting* 
 brush, and touch up the window-frame and 
 door-posts, as there was much more paint than
 
 156 THE HAMLETS. 
 
 Ben would want for his boat, and he was quite 
 sure they might use it all. 
 
 All was finished, and the wondering children 
 duly instructed how to g'o in and out without 
 smearing- their clothes, before Monk came forth 
 to admire, and to receive Harriet's confession of 
 how much she had had to say to Betsy. He 
 soon saw enough of the horror and disgust 
 which had been excited in her to be satisfied that 
 she had received no contamination. The real 
 danger of such contamination exists where pa- 
 rish charity interferes, to make crime a condition 
 of privilege rather than of punishment. 
 
 Chapter IX. 
 
 LAST HOMES. 
 
 ^' Goody Gidney dead I " " She would not have 
 believed it herself, if the doctor had told her it 
 was to be before she was ninety-six." " They 
 say she did not know what to make of being ill, 
 and scolded the doctor right well for not curing 
 her in a day." These were the exclamations 
 which resounded from all parts of the hamlet 
 when Goody Gidney, who, it was thought, was 
 never to die, had actually breathed her last, be- 
 fore the end of the summer. There were some 
 who openly spoke of its being high time that the
 
 THE HAMLETS. 157 
 
 parish should be reUeved from the burden of a 
 useless and thankless person, who had encum- 
 bered it for upwards of seventy-five years ; 
 others, interested in the correction of the social 
 abuses of the place, admitted 'to themselves in 
 silence that they felt a yet greater relief; and the 
 kindest of the old woman's friends could do 
 nothing more in the way of lamentation than 
 recall what they described as her cheerfulness 
 and contentment ; a sort of cheerfulness and 
 contentment which society could not afford to let 
 many of its members indulge. 
 
 " Is there any body, Colonel," — said Mr. 
 Barry, " would you mention any two or three 
 whom you would wish to be hired for bearers ? " 
 
 *' Hired, my dear sir ! let the workhouse 
 people be the bearers, to be sure." 
 
 " Willingly, if we had any; but there is not a 
 man in the workhouse, but the governor." 
 
 " Is it possible ? " 
 
 *' Perfectly true. Poor Rowe, who is not the 
 best of workmen (which kept him with us so 
 long), was taken on by Dove a few days ago ; 
 and he seems to think he shall get on pretty well. 
 He was the last we had. If you chose to make 
 the women the bearers, we could not muster 
 enough." 
 
 " Well, then, hire what is necessary. We 
 need not grudge it, as it is the last we shall 
 have to pay for Goody Gidney. If you had 
 been made overseer while she might still have 
 been called able-bodied, we should have paid 
 
 p
 
 158 THE HAMLETS. 
 
 the last many a year ago. We must never ad- 
 mit such an incubus on the hamlet again." 
 
 " The people seem to feel much as you do 
 about that. How they are talking about the 
 poor old soul on every hand ! *' 
 
 " They would not, if she had not been so 
 wonderfully cheerful and contented, as her 
 friends praise her for having been. If she had 
 shown the least desire to do her duty to society, 
 or even the least sense of obhgation to those 
 who maintained her by the fruits of their toil, 
 our people would have been the first to bid her 
 not think about what it gave them pleasure to 
 do for her. Our people are far, very far from 
 being hard-hearted to their neighbours now, 
 whatever they may have been formerly. It cheers 
 one's very soul to see what they will do to help 
 one another." 
 
 " Yes ; it will be found so, I believe and 
 trust, with all societies of people, every where, 
 when help is seen to be really of use, and every 
 man is allowed the disposal of his own, Where- 
 ever there is man, there will be charity, unless 
 some disturbing power is introduced to turn his 
 aims aside, and dishearten him." 
 
 " That is a happy faith to have." 
 
 " And is it not a wholesome one ? Is it not 
 a well-grounded one ? " 
 
 *' Certainly, if we may judge from what you 
 have done here, by acting upon it. Well ; you 
 had better get this poor creature into the ground 
 as soon as you can, that tlie people may leave
 
 THE HAMLETS. 159 
 
 off talking about her. It can do them no good 
 to dwell any longer on her encroachments. 
 When do you mean the funeral to be ?" 
 
 " I should have wished it to be to-morrow 
 morning ; but to-morrow is open day at the 
 Savings Bank, and I cannot leave my post. I 
 make it a rule to be present, as overseer, at all 
 pauper-funerals, now that they occur so seldom ; 
 and I would not pick out Goody Gidney's as the 
 one to absent myself from." 
 
 " Could not you depute somebody to fill your 
 place at the Savings Bank ? " 
 
 " Impossible ! Nobody is so much in the 
 confidence of the depositors as the secretary for 
 the time being. They have so much to say to 
 me, that I vv^ould not turn them over to any one 
 else till I go out of office, if I could help it." 
 
 ** I wonder how many overseers in Eno;land 
 are secretaries to the Savings Banks of their 
 parishes. They have little enough to do in the 
 management of deposits, I should think." 
 
 " Or in their office of overseer ; in the one or 
 the other. I find that the less I have upon my 
 hands as overseer, the more I have to do at the 
 Savings Bank. Almost every man now who is 
 above hopes and fears about the parish, that is, 
 almost every man in the hamlet, has a larger or 
 smaller deposit in the Bank ; and they see no 
 more reason for reserve with the overseer about 
 their little wealth than with any other man." 
 
 " Reserve as to their money-savings would be 
 of little use while they otFer to the eyes of their 
 overseer so many other testimonies of their being 
 
 p2
 
 160 THE HAMLETS. 
 
 above the need of parish care, I seldom take a 
 walk dovvii to the beach without seeing- some- 
 thing new about the houses. Who would have 
 thought of poor Mrs. Dyer settiug- up a bathing- 
 machine ? and her cousin Scott having actually 
 achieved a cow and a brood of poultry on the 
 down ? As for your daughters' proteges, Har- 
 riet and Ben, there is no saying what state of 
 beauty their place may grow into in time." 
 
 " Ah ! that bench has been an object of am- 
 bition this long while, as I have reason to know. 
 It was first planned to be, among other pur- 
 poses, "^a resting-place for my daughter in her 
 walks, when we all thought slie might never be 
 better. Now that she is well, and wants rest no 
 more than other people, it is still considered pre- 
 eminently her seat ; and I wish you had been 
 with us when she took possession of it." 
 
 " I wish I had. You will very likely see me 
 in the churchyard at the hour of the funeral. 
 How will you have it followed? " 
 
 " By three out of the Weston house. There 
 are only three that are capable." 
 
 *' And the biggest child out of the school will 
 make the fourth.'* 
 
 " I had rather avoid that. I keep the chil- 
 dren as much as possible from being associated 
 with grown paupers." 
 
 "• Very right, very right ! Some good-natured 
 body will drop in and make the fourth, I dare 
 say." 
 
 ;,. There was nobody in Hurst good-natured 
 enough to offer to appear to be a pauper even
 
 THE HAMLETS. 161 
 
 for a single hour, and it was not the kind of 
 favour that the overseer chose to ask of his 
 neisrhbours. Tlie froverness of the Weston 
 school, who ran no risk of being mistaken for a 
 pauper, filled the place in the little procession. 
 She could easily be spared, as she had now 
 scarcely any pupils. One after another, they 
 liad been transferred to the flourishino; school at 
 Hurst ; bringing their two-pence a week with 
 due regularity, and thinking more highly of 
 education the more completely it w^as discon- 
 nected with public and private charity. Only 
 three or four sickly and friendless children re- 
 mained at Weston, helping one another with 
 their lessons this dav, till their sroverness should 
 return from the funeral. 
 
 Though there was no pretence of grief on the 
 occasion, there was no levity. The few gazers 
 who were in the churchyard abstained from all 
 reflections on the dead ; and if one whispered to 
 another the hope that Heaven would grant him 
 a more honourable departure, and a very dif- 
 ferent kind of burial, the observation was made 
 with the quiet seriousness which befitted the 
 occasion. 
 
 " W^ill you give just another look to the old 
 place, before it is shut up ?" said the overseer to 
 Colonel Lee, pointing to the workhouse, as they 
 were leavins: the churchyard. 
 
 *' jNIillar is leaviu"' it to-dav, is he ? " 
 
 " This afternoon. He proceeds to X , 
 
 whither the fame of his management has reached, 
 and where thev want to instal him as sover-
 
 162 THE HAMLETS. 
 
 nor. X is so lar^e a place that it is scarcely 
 
 to be hoped that its workhouse will be actually 
 emptied, like ours ; but he may possibly so far 
 reduce its establishment as to intrust it to other 
 hands'^ five years hence, and travel on to do the 
 same work in some new place." 
 
 " And many a five years may he live to carry 
 on the work ! What a work it is ! Let there 
 never be an end of honouring- Howard for 
 havin*^ explored the depths of prison-houses ; 
 but he achieves a yet nobler task, who so sweeps 
 out the abominations of our pauper-houses as to 
 leave no temptations to guilt and idleness to 
 harbour there. But, Barry, what will yoii do, in 
 case of a vagrant appearing, or any other case 
 arising ?" 
 
 " Open the house, and put in a governor from 
 among our own people, who now perfectly un- 
 derstand our philosophy and methods, if it is 
 but for a single night, the workhouse shall be 
 opened.'' 
 
 " It will be long before you find any one to 
 give you the trouble. A vagrant will rather 
 pass on, an indigent man's friends will rather 
 help him over his difficulty than that either 
 should be held up in the view of the hamlet as 
 its solitary pauper." 
 
 " We have not had a vagrant these two years ; 
 and if you will go in with me, you will see the 
 last of our able-bodied indigent." 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Millar's last ooods and chattels 
 were being driven from the gate as the gentlemen 
 entered it. Betsy, with her baby]^ on one arm
 
 THE HAMLETS. 163 
 
 and her little bundle of clothes on the other, was 
 makinn-her last humble curtsey to her host and 
 hostess. She did not look up as she passed the 
 gentlemen. 
 
 " What is to become of that poor thing ?" 
 inquired the Colonel. 
 
 " She thinks she can pick up a living by hard 
 work among lier poor neighbours," replied Mil- 
 lar. " She will have a toilsome life of it ; but she 
 was bent upon going, and she has taken such 
 pains, under my wife, to qualify herself for the 
 kinds of labour the poor folks require, when 
 they can hire help at all, that I hope she may 
 find bread. If not, she knows where she may 
 have it ; but I believe she would work twenty 
 hours out of the twenty-four, rather than come 
 back. Well, wife ; are you waiting for me ? 
 Perhaps, gentlemen, you would like to walk 
 round with me while I lock up." 
 
 Mrs. Dyer, who attended to receive the keys, 
 in order to the discharge of her office of airing 
 and cleaning the house from time to time, now 
 followed, to see that the tables and benches 
 were piled up, and the rest of the homely furni- 
 ture stowed away so as to be kept clean and dry 
 with the least trouble to herself. The footsteps 
 of the party resounded as they traversed the 
 empty rooms ; and so did the turning of the 
 locks, though the only rusty lock on the premises 
 was that of the cell ; a place allotted to disor- 
 derly paupers ; the door of which had, however, 
 stood open for many a year past. It required a 
 strong hand to slip the bolt. The outer gate
 
 164 THE HAMLETS. 
 
 was closed by Millar, with a slam so energetic as 
 to make the whole party smile. When he had 
 flung the weighty key into Mrs. Dyer's apron, 
 he bowed to the gentlemen, in token of his 
 office being now discharged. 
 
 '* What a fine sea it is to-day ! " observed the 
 Colonel, when he had shaken hands with Millar 
 and his wife, and watched them for a moment 
 on their path. " What a fine rippling sea it is !'* 
 he repeated, taking the bridle of his horse from 
 the groom, who was waiting for him near the 
 edge of the cliff. " I shall ride home by the 
 sands, where the women and children look so 
 busy, while their husbands and fathers are stand- 
 ing out in that little fleet of boats." 
 
 When the figures of the Colonel and his 
 groom were vanishing in the distance of the 
 sunny shore, Mr. Barry was still standing, as 
 when they parted, looking abroad from the edge 
 of the clitF. The most punctual man in the three 
 hamlets was, for once, heedless of the time. 
 
 London : W. Clowes, 
 Duke Strect.StamforU SUcetj Lambctli.
 
 WICKEDNESS AND NULLITY 
 
 OF 
 
 HUMAN LAWS AGAINST MENDICANCY, 
 
 AND THE 
 
 ANTI-CHRISTIAN CHARACTER OF THE 
 IRISH POOR-LAW, 
 
 PROVED FROM THE CONSIDERATION OP 
 
 ALMS-GIVING, MENDICANCY, AND POOR-LAWS, ON 
 CHRISTIAN ANT> CATHOLIC PRINCIPLES, 
 
 IN A SERMON, 
 
 PREACHED IN ST. MICHAEL S, LIMERICK, 
 
 ( On Whitsunday, the \th of June, 1813,) 
 
 ON BEHALF OF THE THOMOND-GATE MALE AND FEMALE 
 
 SCHOOLS, 
 
 BY 
 
 THE VERY REV. MICHAEL FITZGERALD, 
 
 P. P. of Ballingarry and R. C. Archdeacon of Limerick. 
 
 DUBLIN: 
 
 PRINTED BY J. BROWNE, 36, NASSAU-ST. 
 
 1843.
 
 SERMON, kt* 
 
 ** Then shall he answer them, sapng : verily I say unto 
 you, inasmuch as ye did it not to one of the least of 
 these, ye did it not to me." — Mat. xxv. 45. 
 
 My Brethren — In the few desultory observa- 
 tions which I am about to submit to you, I rely on 
 your kind indulgence, that you will not expect 
 from me any thing like what is usually implied in 
 the idea of a Charity Sermon. I have not stood in 
 a pulpit for more than a quarter of a century ; 
 and if I do so now, it is to avoid giving offence, 
 by refusal, to an old and valued friend. It is 
 true that having been constantly engaged in 
 the duties of a Parish Priest in the country, I 
 had occasion from time to time to attempt the 
 task of instruction. But to the simple and 
 humble children of the soil, an unpretending, 
 
 * Such as happened to attend this sermon wilTperceive, that 
 whilst all that was spoken is given with minute accuracy in this 
 Report, a very considerable addition has been made, including nearly 
 a third part of the whole matter of this publication. This part 
 was included in the original plan and notes of the sermon, but was 
 omitted by particular desire, lest it might reach a length that would 
 operate injuriously to the interests of the charity. The part thus 
 omitted is included in the present publication, because it completes 
 the original design, and also because it is, in the judgment of the 
 author, the most important and interesting portion, if he may pre- 
 sume to claim such character for any portion. The supplied por- 
 tion is contained in pages 16, 17, 18, i9, and from 23 to end of 1st 
 part. The second part of the sermon is printed verbatim as 
 preached.
 
 not to say homely, style of instruction is found 
 the best adapted ; and mine, in nine cases out 
 of ten, had the further disadvantage of being- 
 conveyed through the medium of the Irish lan- 
 guage. Under these circumstances, and having 
 lost in no small degree that ready command of 
 the English language which usually follows on 
 the education and public habits of a clergyman, 
 I feel that on the present occasion I have under- 
 taken a task beyond my strength. I may add, that 
 there is no christian duty which a parish priest 
 in the country has less frequent occasion to in- 
 culcate than that of alms-giving. Such instruc- 
 tion, thank Heaven, is wholly superfluous in 
 the country parts of Ireland ; and in the scenes 
 in which my lot has been cast, so far are the 
 arts of persuasion from being necessary where 
 the subject of alms-giving is concerned, that I 
 verily believe that no human efforts could dis- 
 suade the poor rackrented farmer, the labouring 
 cottier, or the half-employed village tradesman, 
 from sharing his scanty store, and the shelter 
 of his humble home, with all who come to claim 
 it in the name of the God of Charity. No- 
 where, within the broad dominion of the Catho- 
 lic Church, is the precept of the Apostle, " to 
 give not grudgingly or of necessity," more liter- 
 ally complied with, than among the middling 
 and humbler classes of our countrymen. The 
 Apostle subjoins, " that God loves a cheerful 
 giver ;" and in the gracious dispensations of 
 God's heavenly Providence may we not yet hope, 
 that sooner or later he will stay his chastening
 
 hand, and mete out to his faithful people of 
 Ireland with that full measure wherewithal they 
 mete unto him, in the person of his poor and 
 afflicted members, and that he will at length 
 shew to the merciful, mercy, even in "this 
 life, a hundred-fold." What is true of the Chris- 
 tian people of the rural districts of the diocese 
 is, I make no doubt, equally true of their more 
 polished, their more opulent, and their more 
 enlightened fellow-Christians in this great city. 
 I have good reason to know that this far-famed 
 city is not more remarkable for the proud his- 
 torical associations connected with its name, 
 than for the prompt and munificent liberality 
 with which its numerous charitable institutions 
 are upholden. It may then, perhaps, appear a 
 superfluous task, in a locality so honourably 
 distinguished, to insist on the high desert and 
 indispensable obligation of almsgiving — indeed 
 it ought to be such, one might hope, in any 
 Christian assembly. But this is the age of 
 Political Economy, a science, as it is called, 
 which seems in some particulars to set itself 
 up in opposition to the wisdom which is from 
 above, and in none more than in its iron-hearted 
 inculcations as to the treatment of the poor. 
 If I mistake not, some of its leading teachers 
 reprobate alms-giving, if not as a crime, at least 
 as a weakness and a folly, and as a practice 
 fraught with mischief to society. As there is 
 in every large city what is termed a reading 
 public, it may be that writings of this descrip- 
 tion may have led some of those who now hear 
 
 A 2
 
 me, to regard the Christian duty of almsgiving 
 in an unfavourable point of view. To ask for 
 alms is already prohibited by law^ in England, 
 and I believe some w^ell-meaning persons look 
 forward vv^ith satisfaction to the enactment of 
 some such law in Ireland. Again, we learn 
 from the writings of what I may call the new 
 school at Oxford, that in England very gene- 
 rally, and perhaps in Ireland more generally 
 still, among our Protestant fellow-subjects of 
 all denominations, the doctrines of Free Grace 
 and of Faith in the Atonement, are taught in a 
 manner that might seem to many well calculated 
 to cut up the root of good works, and seal up 
 the fountains of Christian beneficence. If we 
 can rely on No. 87 of the publications known 
 by the name of Tracts for the Times, the ten- 
 dency of the popular Calvinism is to decry good 
 works as useless, or at least as non-essential to 
 salvation, and to hold up what is termed self- 
 righteousness as the state of mind most opposed 
 to grace and salvation. Nothing can be farther 
 from my intention on the present occasion than 
 controversy of any kind, but it is clear that the 
 religious views of so large a portion of the com- 
 munity, including so many of the great and 
 powerful of the land, must give a colouring and 
 a tone to public opinion ; and that that state of 
 opinion may influence the fashion of thinking 
 of many, who do not by any means concur in 
 the abstract doctrines to which that state of 
 public opinion may be owing. Under these 
 circumstances, and if only for the sake of form,
 
 I shall in tlie first part of this discourse (if dis- 
 course it must be called) dwell on the reason- 
 ableness and necessity of the Christian duty of 
 Alms -giving. In the second, I shall endeavour 
 to shew that on the present occasion an oppor- 
 tunity is offered, of exercising this great Chris- 
 tian virtue in a manner that must be pleasing 
 to God, since it is likely to prove extensively 
 and lastingly useful to not a few of our fellow- 
 creatures. 
 
 According to the fashion of thinking that 
 obtains amongst us, the word Alms-giving has 
 fallen into bad repute, owing to the pride and 
 and irreligiousness, no less than to the selfish in- 
 difference to the sufferings of the poor, prevail- 
 ing amongst the great majority of those who 
 make the English language the ordinary vehi- 
 cle of their thoughts.* The word " Alms" 
 conveys to the minds of most people the idea of 
 something mean, and threadbare, and abject ; 
 but like some other terms that have drifted 
 down the current of popular usage from their 
 original significancy, the word Alms may boast 
 a very respectable descent. It is derived from 
 the Greek word E\eo9, Mercy ; and hence it 
 signifies, according to its etymology, a deed of 
 
 * " This country [England] is the most uncharitable in the 
 world ; and the sums that we give in charity are a perfect pittance, 
 and are shameful to the name of Christian, through pretty well for 
 a nation governed, as this is, entirely on heathen principles. » * * 
 We say nothing to America, which is only the realization of every 
 English vice and principle in greater intensitv."— Theological 
 Review, No. LV. (July, 1840) p. 232,
 
 8 
 
 mercy. But in Christian language it symbolizes 
 the ripened and perfected fruit of the fairest 
 and sweetest blossoms of the human heart. To 
 Christian thoughts and ideas it shadows forth 
 the outcome and flowerage of the purest and 
 noblest feelings of our nature. Christian alms- 
 giving is the blessed result of sincere and disin- 
 terested goodwill towards our fellow-man, and 
 of affectionate and respectful sympathy in his 
 sufferings and sorrows ; both sentiments being 
 purified and exalted to a still higher tone by 
 the motive and principle of reverence, love, and 
 gratitude towards the common Father of Men 
 who dwells on high. I will, however, for the 
 moment dismiss the obnoxious term, and substi- 
 tute in its stead a more high-sounding word, 
 but still its perfect equivalent — Christian Be- 
 neficence. Now that beneficence to our bre- 
 thren of the human family is the sacred and 
 indispensable duty of every Christian, is a pro- 
 position which I must not undertake to prove. 
 On its behalf I could adduce no arguments that 
 are not in themselves so obvious, that to dwell 
 on them would be to insult the understanding 
 of my present hearers. In this respectable and 
 enlightened Christian assembly I cannot sup- 
 pose that there is one who is not schooled in at 
 least the first elements of Christian morality. 
 But putting Christianity aside for the moment, 
 how can we reconcile it to our notions of the 
 wisdom and goodness of our Father who is in 
 Heaven ; that it is consistent with his holy de- 
 signs, and the gracious dispensations of his
 
 Providence, that one man should riot in wanton 
 waste and profusion, whilst another pines and 
 perishes under the emaciating and degrading 
 want of the commonest conveniencies and neces- 
 saries of life. We can conceive that a kind and 
 even a provident father might be induced to 
 rely so confidently on a favoured son, as to leave 
 the entire heritage at his disposal. He might 
 aim at drawing still closer the natural ties of 
 family aflPection, in his anticipation of the gene- 
 rous dealing of his trusted heir with the other 
 branches of the kindred stock. But if that heir 
 should, to use the language of Scripture, waste 
 his whole substance in riotous living, leaving 
 the other children of the same common parent 
 to feed on the husks of swine or perish with 
 hunger, the common voice of mankind would 
 pronounce him guilty, not only of unnatural 
 cruelty towards his own flesh and blood, but 
 also of a perfidious violation of the trust implied 
 in the dispositions of his father and benefactor. 
 Hence we find, that the common reason of man- 
 kind points to beneficence and works of mercy, 
 as the means appointed by Heaven to correct or 
 mitigate the inconveniences resulting from the 
 unequal allotment of human conditions ; and all 
 agree, that he who attempts to subvert this great 
 law of nature, is guilty of treachery to man and 
 treason to Heaven. Dispersit dedit pauperi- 
 hus — " He distributed and gave to the poor," 
 is laid down by the Spirit of God as a trait of 
 human character inseparable from that holy 
 fear which the same Spirit, in the preceding 
 
 A 3
 
 10 
 
 psalm, had pronounced the height of wisdom ; 
 and this principle of the inseparable connection 
 between religion and beneficence, is so much in 
 accordance with the common feelings of man- 
 kind, that in all ages and countries, and under 
 every phase of religion, or of error assuming 
 the guise of religion, beneficence has been ever 
 accounted an essential part of religion, and 
 the most sacred duty of man. This is a doctri- 
 nal point on which Confucius and Pythagoras, 
 Zoroaster and Mahomet, are quite in harmony. 
 It was a truth felt and acknowledged amongst 
 the Peruvians and Mexicans, as well as amongst 
 the Egyptians and Persians : it was a principle 
 held as sacred amidst the pastoral simplicity of 
 Arabia and Tartary, as amidst the polished 
 refinement and high-wrought civilization of 
 Greece and Italy. It is obviously an everlasting 
 principle — a fixed law of our being — written by 
 the hand of the Author of Nature in indelible 
 characters on the human heart. As regards 
 revealed religion, if I were to adduce one-half 
 of the passages that are to be found in almost 
 every single book of the New Law and of the 
 Old, on the merit and obligation of alms-deeds, 
 I should be guilty of a most unreasonable tres- 
 pass on your time and attention. Indeed, if 
 there be any duty inculcated in the sacred Scrip- 
 tures with a frequency of repetition that seems 
 to border on importunity, and with an emphasis 
 that to to the worldly-minded might seem ex- 
 aggerated and excessive, it is that of almsgiving. 
 In the 25th chapter of St. Matthew, in particu-
 
 11 
 
 lar, where the Redeemer with his own divine 
 lips describes the day of judgment, or at least 
 some portion of its awful awards, almsgiving is 
 represented as of such extreme importance, that 
 one might imagine for the moment that all other 
 Christian duties were thrown into shade, and 
 " shorn of their just proportions." The fires 
 of hell, and the everlasting companionship of 
 devils, are thundered forth as the inevitable 
 consequences of neglecting this duty, with an 
 almost angry vehemence of denunciation, which 
 we find it hard to reconcile with the ordinary 
 meekness of the mild and humble Redeemer. 
 To me it seems wonderful, how those who pique 
 themselves on their familiar acquaintance with 
 the holy Scriptures, can reconcile this passage 
 with the antinomian opinion that good works 
 are superfluous, or at least not essential towards 
 acceptance with God. And there are many 
 other passages that to me, at least, would appear 
 equally irreconcileable with these novel opinions 
 to be found in the Epistles of the holy apostles 
 Peter, Paul, James, and John, not to speak of 
 other parts of the sacred writings. The Church 
 of God, the Pillar and Ground of Truth, has, 
 in every age, given the broadest and most literal 
 interpretation to these beneficent maxims of 
 her divine Head and Founder, and of those 
 Apostles on whom, as a foundation, her ever- 
 lasting superstructure has been raised ; and she 
 has ever held, that ' Alms-giving, with due dis' 
 positions, and from supernatural motives,is one 
 of the surest avenues to God's favour and friend-
 
 12 
 
 ship.' Hence it is, that amongst the bright and 
 glorious features of the Catholic Church, stamped 
 as they are with the evident impress of the 
 Divinity, there is none more beautiful than her 
 rich and bounteous charity towards her suf- 
 fering children. In the eyes of those whose 
 minds are imbued with the spirit of Catholicity, 
 the poor have what I may call a sacramental 
 character, inasmuch as they represent, and 
 are in a certain sense identified with the per- 
 son of our divine Saviour, The Church puts 
 no far-fetched glosses, no strained interpre- 
 tations, on the plain declarations and maxims 
 of him who was the Light of the world. In the 
 same spirit that she holds that he meant what 
 he said and no more, when he spoke the words, 
 "this is my body," and that he did not mean to 
 riddle (if I may say so) with the countless mil- 
 lions of well-meaning worshippers who were 
 destined (as he fully foresaw) to understand 
 his words in their literal sense. In the same 
 way she holds that his words were the words 
 of truth and life, when he pronounced, " I was 
 hungry, and you gave me to eat ; I was thirsty, 
 and you gave me to drink." She holds with 
 the firm grasp of undoubting faith, that the 
 Christian who relieves a poor brother, does not, 
 like Abraham, "entertain Angels unawares," 
 but that he shares his sufficient store, or his 
 scanty pittance, as the case may be, with him 
 who will one day come in the clouds of heaven, 
 with great power and majesty, and command 
 his angels to summon the whole human race,
 
 p 
 
 o 
 
 from the four winds, before the everlasting 
 throne of his judgment and dominion. The 
 Christian must walk by faith, and not by sight. 
 On this great Christian festival, we celebrate 
 the day-spring that ushered in the bright sun 
 of revelation, and chased away the dark and 
 murky night of heathenism. It is our good 
 fortune to bask in the noontide blaze that 
 followed on that auspicious dawning. It is 
 evident that light was intended by its beneficent 
 Author to aid our moral vision — our spiritual 
 perception of things. In the absence of the 
 sun, objects dimly seen through the failing twi- 
 light present but a faint and confused outline. 
 But the full light of day is sure to restore their 
 true colours, their exact forms and proportions. 
 It is clear that they who should see objects 
 exactly after the same fashion, at stages of 
 illumination so exceedingly different, must la- 
 bour under a diseased or defective state of 
 vision. Hence it is, that we cannot be said 
 to be illuminated by the light of Christianity, 
 if we view objects as the Heathens would 
 have viewed them. It is evident we must 
 have shut our eyes against the heavenly light, 
 unless we behold it giving to every object 
 its true shape, form, and character ; lighting 
 up the landscape with its sun-bright glories, 
 and robing all nature around in the radiant 
 mantle of its rich, its pure, its beautiful efful- 
 gence. The rays of the sun, slanting through 
 the richly painted and gorgeous compartments 
 of some gothic window, will give to the cold
 
 14 
 
 and dull grave-stones beneath, a lustrous and 
 unearthly tint : so the objects that appear 
 mean and abject to carnal eyes, assume the 
 bright and sunny hues of life and immortality 
 to him whose views are coloured over and tin- 
 ged with the pure and heavenly light of faith. 
 What to earthly eyes can appear more dis- 
 mally miserable, mean, and melancholy, than 
 some feebly wailing and famished infant, ex- 
 piring on the emaciated bosom of its pauper 
 mother, in some fireless and cheerless abode of 
 starving poverty, open on every side to the 
 venomous breath of the winter blast. Yet in 
 the views of faith, if his soul has been rege- 
 nerated in the waters of baptism, that wan and 
 withered child of misery, "all desolate, defiled, 
 and unclean," as he appears, is an object whom 
 even kings might well envy. In the eye of 
 faith, that is in very truth — in the sober cer- 
 tainty of waking reality — he is a young heir, 
 setting out to take possession of ampler fief, 
 and prouder rank, than ever earthly potentate 
 or people bestowed on some warrior, the saviour 
 of a nation, returning triumphant from the 
 bannered field of his fame. He is about to be 
 crowned with the boundless and unspeakable 
 glories of life and immortality. He is about 
 to be associated with the angelic host, and to 
 mingle in their bright and dazzling array. He 
 is about to shine, resplendent as the sun. He 
 is about to enjoy that stupendous, and to us 
 inconceivable privilege enounced by St. John, 
 that of " following the lamb whithersoever he
 
 15 
 
 goeth." We have not faith. We do not re- 
 alize in good earnest the views of faith. But 
 the faith of God's church cannot fail. The 
 spirit of God is ever present with her, to guide 
 her unto all truth. The carnal man knoweth 
 not the things that belong to the spirit of God ; 
 but the Church, and all those who are guided 
 by the spirit of God, take hold of eternal life. 
 They regard the prospective interests of a 
 future state, as solid and substantial realities, 
 and to forget what I may call the sacramental 
 character of the suffering members of Christ, 
 is to depart as widely as possible from that 
 close attention, that firm reliance, that constant 
 reference to the supernatural and invisible 
 world, which form the very marrow and sub- 
 stance of Christianity. The Church therefore, 
 has never failed to inculcate, as well by her 
 teaching, as by her bright and blessed example, 
 the maxim of the apostle, " not to give grudg- 
 ingly, or of necessity." Her own acquisitions ; 
 her oblations, her endowments, have been ever 
 largely, liberally, munificently shared with the 
 poor. Her cathedrals, her chapter-houses, 
 her hospitals, her monastic foundations, were 
 no less the retreats of piety, learning, and as- 
 cetic seclusion, than the ever open and assured 
 refuge of the children of poverty and afiliction. 
 Of the truly christian and generous spirit in 
 which alms-deeds were practised in the abbeys 
 of old, we have an instance recorded by one 
 who was certainly no great friend to monastic 
 institutions. Sir Walter Scott, in a note to
 
 16 
 
 one of his works of fiction, preserves an anec- 
 dote of a religious community which, pre- 
 viously to the dissolution of the monasteries, was 
 in the habit of doling out roast beef by the 
 measure of feet and yards. The union work- 
 houses of England, those modern substitutes for 
 her ancient abbeys, deal out their largesses to 
 the poor of the land with a much more sparing 
 hand, and in measure far less lavish and waste- 
 ful. Some wretched artizan roaming in search 
 of employment — of liberty to toil, which he 
 courts in vain — arrives at the close of some 
 dismal winter day, wayworn, and faint, and 
 sick at heart, at the gate of the union work- 
 house.^ Whether sad admission awaits him there 
 will depend on the temper in which he may 
 happen to find the gruff and pampered menial 
 master. Admitted, he finds himself in a com- 
 mon ground-floor receptacle, fireless and bare, 
 while a crust, some thin porridge, and straw 
 to repose on, without blanket or bedding, are 
 given him for the night unconditionally. But 
 a breakfast on the same liberal scale must be 
 earned by three hours labour in stone-break- 
 ing, and then "he is sent on his way rejoicing," 
 happy in the consciousness that there are now 
 no abbeys in England to vex men's souls with 
 the alleged merit of good works, and to distend 
 their stomachs with yards of roast beef. We 
 read in the Proverbs, that "the tender mercies 
 of the wicked are cruel ;" and one might be 
 tempted by the instances so frequently detailed
 
 17 
 
 in the Times newspaper, to apply the maxim 
 to the existing system of poor law relief in the 
 sister country. In Catholic countries, where 
 the hand of the spoiler has not descended, and 
 where the spirit of Catholicity has full scope, 
 poor laws are quite superfluous. There alms- 
 giving is considered a sacred duty — a part of 
 the sacrifical ritual of Christianity. " Be care- 
 ful," says St. Paul, " to communicate and do 
 good, for with such sacrifices God is well 
 pleased." In those countries a law to prohibit 
 and punish mendicancy would be looked upon 
 with horror, as an impious attack on the funda- 
 mental doctrines and practices of Christianity. 
 In vain would you allege that the law may justly 
 prohibit alms-giving, where it has provided that 
 none shall want the necessaries of life. The at- 
 tempt to supersede private beneficence, by pro- 
 viding for the poor so effectually as to render 
 alms-giving superfluous, is an attempt as im- 
 pious in principle as it is absurd and impracti- 
 cable in effect. It is impious, because it is an 
 attempt to falsify prophecy. Moses said, the 
 poor shall never cease out of the land, and a 
 greater than Moses said, ye have the poor al- 
 ways with you. The attempt is absurd, because 
 the mercenary administration, and the fraudful 
 abuses inseparable from a system so demoral- 
 izing and unnatural, must generate burdens 
 which the resources and industry of no politi- 
 cal community could bear. This was fully ex- 
 emplified in England, the wealthiest country in 
 the world, under the old poor-law system.
 
 18 
 
 The old poor-laws were intolerable to the 
 wealthy; the new poor-law is- intolerable to 
 the poor. There is a medium, if one could find 
 it. And it is found in Catholic countries, in a 
 very moderate supply of public relief for the 
 poor, but an exhaustless store of private bene- 
 ficence, expanded to its utmost developement 
 by the laws, the habits, the public opinion, 
 but, above all, by the religion of the people. 
 The Egyptians are said to hatch chickens by 
 tens of thousands in ovens or hot-beds : if 
 somewhat on the same principle, the state were 
 to take charge of all children born into the 
 world, and place them, when eight days old, 
 under the tender care of nurses hired by the 
 public, it would be as effectual a check on po- 
 pulation as Malthus himself need desire, and 
 the effect of the system on the moral and phy- 
 sical developement of the survivors would b.e 
 far from favourable. Now, it seems to me that 
 on christian principles, it is as contrary to the 
 order of Providence and nature, to withdraw 
 the poor from the protection and operation of 
 private beneficence, as it would be to withdraw 
 the tender babe from the wholesome nourish- 
 ment and fond yearnings of its mother's bosom. 
 Of this, at least, I am sure, that there is not one 
 of "the relations dear, and all the charities of 
 life," that has its duties prescribed more empha- 
 tically, and under heavier denunciations by the 
 Redeemer, than the relation between him who 
 hath the substance of this world and him who 
 hath it not. The Church Catholic, therefore,
 
 19 
 
 while she teaches with St. Paul, that every oue 
 should work diligently, eating (if possible) his 
 own bread, has never invented any fine-drawn 
 distinction between poverty and destitution. She 
 leaves to English Commissioners, what are 
 called tests, those dragons destined to guard 
 the golden luxuries of the workhouse. Coarse 
 and stinted food, forced labour, imprisonment 
 and degradation, the snapping asunder of the 
 strongest and tenderest ties of nature — and all 
 for the purpose of affording relief and comfort — 
 are discoveries in science, to which the Catho- 
 lic Chui'ch has no claim ; for her wisdom is from 
 above, and the God whem she worships, is the 
 God of charity. The word pauper — that hor- 
 rible word which christian lips should never 
 apply to a fellow-being — is of pure English 
 coinage. To Ensflish ears it sounds as some- 
 thing worse than felon ; and it was evidently 
 devised for the purpose of conveying as much 
 of hatred, contempt, and abhorrence for the 
 poor, as two small syllables could be made to 
 contain. Again, the law by which a wretched 
 woman is shut up in the House of Correction 
 for three weeks, and her infant of ten months 
 old torn from her, to be sent to the workhouse, 
 for no greater offence than that of begging a 
 shilling from a fellow-christian, to save her 
 from dying of hunger, is a law which in Catho- 
 lic countries would be considered worthy of a 
 community of cannibals I And yet, such a 
 committal was perpetrated by the Lord Mayor 
 of London within a few weeks, but the infant.
 
 20 
 
 we are told, shrieked so dreadfully at beiug se- 
 parated from its mother, that the committal, 
 and consequent separation, was delayed — until 
 evening ! * 
 
 The Catholic Church has never stigmatized 
 much less punished, poverty as a crime. She 
 has never sought to degrade the poor ; on the 
 contrary, she recollects, with St. James, " that 
 God hath chosen the poor rich in grace, and 
 heirs of the kingdom which he hath promised ;" 
 and she teaches her children, with the same 
 apostle, not to " despise the poor." She re- 
 collects, that her divine Head and Founder, on 
 at least one occasion, (that of sending to bespeak 
 the apartment for the purpose of celebrating 
 the Passover,) did that which a modern Poor- 
 law Commissioner might construe into an act 
 of mendicancy. There is great reason to 
 think that in the flight into Egypt, and in 
 other passages in the Saviour's infancy, the 
 Holy Family might have availed themselves of 
 the same humble resource. However this may 
 be, it is as certain as prophecy and gospel can 
 make it, that the Redeemer, " the Holy One 
 of Israel, was a man of sorrows, and acquainted 
 with grief ;" and he himself feelingly observed, 
 " that the foxes had holes, and the birds of the 
 air nests, but that he himself had not where to 
 lay his head." A monarch can confer no 
 higher mark of favour on him whom he de- 
 
 * The woman's name was Mary Clarke, the gentlenuin who 
 gave her a shilling, and then came forward to prosecute, rejoiced 
 in the name, real or assumed, of Henry Bull I !
 
 21 
 
 sires to lionour, than that of investing him 
 with some ornament taken from his own royal 
 person — a pelisse, or a sword, or the star of 
 an order of knighthood, according to circum- 
 stances ; and surely that garb of poverty, if not 
 of mendicancy, which the Saviour deigned to 
 wear, can be considered no degradation by any 
 one who has a spark of christian faith within 
 his bosom ; therefore, in the views of the Ca- 
 tholic Church, poverty is not degradation, and 
 mendicancy she holds in so high honour, that it 
 enters as an element into some of her noblest 
 institutions. Her mendicant orders have been 
 for ages her pride and her glory. They have 
 been foremost ever among the soldiers of the 
 cross, and by their ministrations, the light of 
 faith, and the treasures of eternitv, have been 
 borne to the remotest regions of the globe. 
 Not to speak of the canonized and illustrious 
 founders of those orders, and of their various 
 affiliations — not to speak of a host of holy doc- 
 tors, martyred missionaries, and sainted ceno- 
 bites and solitaries, of " whom the earth was 
 not worthy," there have been sent forth from 
 the schools of mendicancy, those to whom even 
 political economists might well yield respect. 
 In foreign countries Ximenes, Bartholomew, 
 Las Casas, and Ganganelli, are quite above 
 contempt ; and in our own, the names of 
 Arthur O'Leary, Doctor James Doyle, and 
 Theobald Mathew, mendicants all three, 
 will be long remembered and honoured by 
 Irishmen. In the eves therefore of a Catholic,
 
 22 
 
 -who is such in truth, mendicancy carries with it 
 no degradation. In a family one child thinks it 
 no degradation, to ask a share in the toys 
 which some partial visitor has placed at the 
 disposal of a more favoured little one. In more 
 advanced years, a brother arriving from a 
 journey, hastens to make himself at home in 
 the house of his brother, instead of seek- 
 ing an inn. He has, perhaps, no legal claim 
 to hospitality ; but he has a claim which no 
 one dreams of disputing. Yet such are 
 precisely the views which faith suggests 
 as to the claims of the poor ; they are bone 
 of our bone, flesh of our flesh. It is one 
 of the first principles in the communion of 
 saints, that we are all members one of ano- 
 ther. We are all one crew embarked in 
 the same vessel on the voyage of eternity ; we 
 are all fellow-probationers — all in the same 
 condition of apprenticeship for immortality — 
 " Tyrones ^ternitatis" — audit is only because 
 we lose sight of these and all the other views 
 which faith presents — views as sublime as they 
 are certain and real — that we despise the poor. 
 " If the mind were in us that was in Christ Je- 
 sus, we would have compassion one of another ;" 
 we would be meek, we would be courteous in 
 our intercourse with the poor. In Catholic 
 countries, the relief which reason and religion 
 enjoin, is given and accepted with mutual res- 
 pect and mutual good will. Columbo, journey- 
 ing on foot, reaches the gate of a convent, and 
 thinks it no degradation to obtain needful re-
 
 23 
 
 freshment for his boy Diego, the destined heir, 
 in after years, of his high honours as Admiral 
 of the New World, and the transmitter of his 
 illustrious posterity almost down to our times. 
 Contrast this with the treatment of a distin- 
 guished man, reduced by unavoidable misfor- 
 tune to the sad necessity of appealing to public 
 charity in England. Gourlay was a distin- 
 guished member of the Canadian Legislature 
 about thirty years ago. He afterwards settled 
 in England, where he was so opulent as to ex- 
 pend six thousand pounds in enclosing a park. 
 He commenced business as a banker ; he failed, 
 and was reduced to utter poverty. He was 
 seen breaking stones on the high road, under 
 the tender and merciful auspices of an English 
 overseer of the poor ! Yes, they relieved his 
 physical wants, after their churlish, their stinted, 
 their barbarous fashion ; but they crushed his 
 heart, they fevered his brain with the burning 
 sense of indignity and wrong. May God pre- 
 serve his faithful people of Ireland from imitat- 
 ing the iron-hearted, ostrich-like cruelty of 
 England to the poor of the land* — a cruelty 
 which sooner or later must bring down judicial 
 
 * " England is the least charitable country in all the world." — . 
 British Theological Review, (LV.) July, 1840, p. 234. 
 
 " What must be the condition of the poor in this country, [Eng- 
 land] when a penny or a piece of bread will bring people from far 
 and near, and make their applications most inconveniently numer- 
 ous? What must the real state of poverty be, when all kinds of 
 shifls must be resorted to, to prevent the numbers from being over- 
 whelming, which would apply for the miserable pittance which the 
 poor law provides, and the hospitality of an English work-house ? 
 What must be the state of the poor, and the measure of hospitality 
 in the provinces generally, when a bed of loose straw, eighteen 
 inches wide, in company with sixty or a hundred other persons lying
 
 24 
 
 calamities upon her. May antinomian re- 
 ligionists, or speculators in political economy, 
 never obtain influence enough to harden the 
 hearts of Irishmen against the cries of distress, 
 or to intercept those cries by the wicked, im- 
 pious, and anti-christian enactments of a law 
 against mendicancy. Such a law, if an immoral 
 nullity could be termed a law, would be an 
 atrocious crime against the poor and the de- 
 fenceless ; and it would be nothing less than a 
 felon parliament that would dare to light up 
 such a persecution against Christ in the person 
 of his poor. These may appear strong expres- 
 sions, particularly when it is considered that to 
 " give honour where honour is due," is a maxim 
 sanctioned no less by religion than by the plain- 
 est dictates of good taste and good sense ; but 
 there have been felon parliaments before now, 
 whose wicked laws, though enacted centuries 
 ago, still press grievously on the necks of the 
 poor of these countries. Much of the misery of 
 our day may be traced to the sacrilegious spo- 
 liation of the patrimony of the poor by Henry, 
 and his slavish and felon parliaments. Much 
 of the existing misery may be traced to a funded 
 national debt,* introduced when a felon parlia- 
 ment dethroned a rightful king, and bathed 
 
 on the floor of the same apartment, and two pieces of bread — and this 
 during an uncertain and limited season — will cause the poor for a 
 hundred miles round to floclc together to London. Truly, this 
 England is a country pre-eminently charitable !" — British Theolo- 
 gical Review, No. LV. p. 237. 
 
 * See Theological Review, No. LV. (July, 1840.) page 254, for an 
 exposition of the evils resulting to the poor from the state of society 
 arising from the existence of a funded national debt.
 
 25 
 
 realms in blood, to maintain a heartless, a blood- 
 stained, and a perfidious usurper ; and lastly, no 
 small share of the poverty of Ireland in parti- 
 cular, is due to those penal laws by which a felon 
 parliament trampled on those Irish rights and 
 liberties which had been so nobly vindicated 
 under the walls of Limerick. 
 
 The fact is, that in these and all other cases 
 since the beginning of the world, in which 
 lawgivers have justly incurred the execration 
 of mankind, it was because they set them- 
 selves up against the great Lawgiver and Lord 
 of Heaven. It was because they attempted 
 to clog the wheels of the moral government 
 of the universe with cobweb laws, based on 
 principles either impious or immoral. To 
 bring this principle to bear on the subject 
 now in hand, I will observe, that in countries 
 in which the seeds of a " faith working in 
 charity," and " showing itself by good works," 
 are extensively sown, and carefully cultivated, 
 the poor of that land will reap a harvest of be- 
 neficence sufficient for all just and useful pur- 
 poses. Hence it is, that in most Catholic coun- 
 tries, no other poor laws are needed than those 
 resting on the sole sanction of the everlasting 
 authority of Christ. But let us suppose a coun- 
 try where antinomian doctrines in religion are 
 prevalent among the great majority of the peo- 
 ple, including nearly all of the higher and more 
 opulent class. Let us suppose at the same 
 time, that there is in vogue in that country a 
 species of bastard philosophy, that maligns Pro-
 
 26 
 
 viflence, and denounces beneficence as little less 
 tlian criminal ; in such a country it cannot but 
 happen that the harvest of beneficence will fall 
 short, and poor laws will be needed to save the 
 rich from the despair of the poor. However, 
 vmder the circumstance stated, if this antinomian 
 and Malthusian spirit should happen to actuate 
 the framers of the poor law, instead of beneficence 
 the poor will find in the provisions of that law, 
 the mere husk and outward shell of beneficence, 
 — a dry skeleton of charity, without flesh or fat- 
 ness. Unpromising as such a law may at first 
 appear, it may admit of much improvement in 
 its administration, on the same principle that 
 very sanguinary laws often operate as a protec- 
 tion to offenders. Indeed, it seems certain, 
 that in Ireland the high-minded, generous, and 
 warm-hearted character of our people, fairly 
 represented in the Irish boards of guardians, 
 has done much to qualify the original iniquity 
 and cruelty of the anglo-Irish poor law. But 
 go one step further in the adoption of English 
 poor law principles, and you touch forbidden 
 ground. To prohibit mendicancy by law, is 
 substantially an attempt to annul the com- 
 mandment of Jesus — " Give to him that asketh 
 of thee ;" for how can you fulfil this command, 
 if the terror of the jail, or what is worse 
 in England, of the work-house, is employed 
 to deter your suffering brother from appealing 
 to your sympathy. If the importation of wine 
 into Ireland were as strictly prohibited by law, 
 as the importation of opium into China, it would
 
 27 
 
 be to all intents and purposes an attack on Chris- 
 tianity. The necessary effect of such a prohi- 
 bition would be, to frustrate the command given 
 at the Last Supper — " Do this in remembrance 
 of me." On the same principle I impeach and 
 utterly deny and abjure the power of any legis- 
 lature on this earth, to debar man from appeal- 
 ing, in the hour of his need, to the loving 
 kindness and sympathy of his brother. It would 
 be an impious attack on that everlasting ordi- 
 nance of Jesus Christ — " Because I was hungry 
 and you gave me to eat, because I was thirsty and 
 ye gave me to drink, enter into the kingdom pre- 
 pared for you.' Where the obligation of giving is 
 laid on by Jesus Christ, there must exist on the 
 other hand a right equally clear, of receiving what 
 is freely given, aye, and of asking, for all may 
 ask for that which is of right theirs. Obliga- 
 tion and right are in this case, as in others, 
 correlative terms ; and to take away that right, 
 Christ himself must appear on earth again. 
 
 The poor-house then, though it should stand 
 within a yard of your door, cannot excuse vou 
 from the duty of alms-giving. If your brother 
 be poor, he has a right to your alms by the 
 magna cTiarta of the everlasting empire of 
 Christ : and what has he done that you should 
 attaint his blood, and punish him with the for- 
 feiture of his christian and human privileges 
 and rights. He refuses to assume the name 
 and the garb of Pauper, and he is quite right ! 
 The name Pauper, though of Latin origin, 
 bears in its present acceptation, the right
 
 28 
 
 English stamp, and implies something so mean, 
 so degraded, so abject, that he who has once 
 borne it can never recover his self-respect, 
 and that innate dignity which belongs to every 
 man, and to every Christian. He refuses to 
 associate with the vile, the vicious, with " those 
 long wedded to disgrace." He refuses to share 
 the common board, the common dormitory, to 
 endure the contamination of their conversation 
 and society — and he is quite in the right. The 
 eternal law of God is at his side — St. Paul told 
 him that "evil communication corrupts good 
 manners." There is at this moment in a work- 
 house in this county, a female inmate, who 
 was once the respected and happy mistress of 
 an opulent household ; a household from which, 
 in the course of years, hundreds were distri- 
 buted, if not in money, at least in kind, as alms 
 to the poor. And yet this honest matron 
 must associate with the mothers of bastard 
 children — nay herd with common prostitutes ; 
 share the same table, the same bed, the same 
 seat, with those from whom, in her better days, 
 her virtuous instincts would have impelled her 
 to shrink with loathing! And is this a system of 
 relief that ought to be tolerated in a Christian 
 country ? Again, you do not punish shop-lifters, 
 sheep-stealers, or those guilty of attempts to 
 commit unnatural crimes, with perpetual im- 
 prisonment. No ! perpetual imprisonment, with 
 food worse than that assigned to felons, is re- 
 served for those whose only crime is poverty. 
 You waste millions on the release of black
 
 29 
 
 Africans, from a state that was bliss compared 
 with the sufferings of the poor at your doors ; 
 and yet you doom the white because he is poor, 
 to be the bond-slave of every poor-law official, 
 from the commissioner with his thousands a 
 year, down to the overseer of stone-breaking, 
 whose services are requited with a pennyworth 
 of tobacco by the month. " Your table groans 
 with costly piles of food ;" your menials fare 
 sumptuously every day, and your brother, be- 
 cause he is poor, must day after day, week after 
 week, year after year, recur to the same ever- 
 lasting, unvarying sameness of coarse, stinted, 
 unsavoury food. In a work-house in this coun- 
 ty, animal food was refused to the poor inmates 
 on last Christmas day. This house is on the 
 estate of an English Earl, and his Agent is 
 Chairman of the Board of Guardians. I have 
 read of an English Earl in the olden time, who 
 caused to be inscribed on his tomb the homely 
 but not immeaning words, " What I gave, I 
 got." In what it was usual formerly to call 
 the dark days of Popery, an English Earl 
 would have fed a thousand poor during the 
 Christmas holidays, and have said little about 
 it. But we live in an enlightened age, and 
 these wretches who would have deemed the 
 coarsest animal diet — tripe, slinkveal, or the 
 parings of bacon prime luxury, were doomed 
 to the usual stint of potatoes and water-gruel 
 on the great festival of Christmas. I will do 
 that board of guardians the justice to say, that 
 I firmly believe there was not one of their 
 
 B 2
 
 30 
 
 number who would not willingly regale some 
 scores of these poor wretches for that day, at 
 his own private cost. But men will do in a 
 corporate capacity, and under the sanction of 
 inhuman and unnatural laws, that which they 
 would shrink from with horror as individuals. 
 But it is not enough to stint, to enslave, to 
 doom to imprisonment, to compulsory and de- 
 grading labour, your poor brother, he must in 
 addition to those foul wrongs be subjected to 
 torture — ^the torture of his mind and feelings. 
 Whilst yet in life and health he must endure 
 "all the tender anguish nature shoots through 
 the wrung bosom of the dying man." Those 
 ties which nature has bound in close and inex- 
 tricable folds round the human heart, must in 
 his case be violently rent and torn asunder. 
 Throughout the realms of nature maternal in- 
 stinct is one of the most powerful and pervading 
 principles of animal existence. Nature forces 
 you to respect this principle in the manage- 
 ment and treatment of your domestic animals. 
 It is only in the case of your unhappy fellow- 
 creatures that you dare venture on the unna- 
 tural cruelty of separating the mother from her 
 young. Human parents are bound by the laws 
 of God and nature to " train the child in the 
 way in which he should walk." The Christian 
 who neglects this sacred duty, is denounced by 
 St. Paul as worse than a heathen. That pa- 
 rent would be a monster in nature whose heart 
 did not yearn towards the children of his loins ; 
 and yet you refuse relief to the poor, unless
 
 31 
 
 tbey submit to the gross, the cruel, the incre- 
 dible outrage of giving up the direction, the 
 society, the very sight of their children. But 
 jou go further, you violate the express com- 
 mand of God, the divine and primeval bond of 
 domestic life: "What God hath joined together, 
 let not man put asunder." You force the married 
 poor to set at nought the counsel of the apostle : 
 " Come together again, lest Satan tempt you 
 for your incontinency." I ask, are the eternal 
 laws of God thus to be placed in abeyance, 
 that the eyes of the pampered children of lux- 
 ury may not be plagued and disgusted with the 
 sight of beggars ? By what authority do par- 
 liaments and poor-law commissioners thus con- 
 travene the everlasting ordinances of the God of 
 heaven and earth ? Let me sum up in brief fash- 
 ion : By what authority do you debar an honest 
 christian matron from her claim of sisterhood, 
 unless she submit to the degradation of herd- 
 ing with the most infamous of her sex — unless 
 she consent to lose sight of those infants whom 
 she has carried in her womb, and nursed at her 
 breast, and who are, in her eyes, " the fairest 
 among ten thousand P' By what right do you 
 refuse to acknowledge the claim of a brother, 
 because he will not separate from the wife of his 
 youth, and submit to all the other atrocious and 
 multiplied inflictions which I have attempted 
 to enumerate ? Can human laws excuse you 
 whilst you kill by inches — whilst you degrade, 
 torture, and persecute Jesus Christ in the per- 
 son of his poor members ? " Inasmuch as you
 
 32 
 
 have done it to one of the least of these my 
 brethren, you have done it unto me." Politi- 
 cal Economists may look upon these as Utopian 
 notions, but the vain and wicked devices of hu- 
 man policy must pass away, whilst the truth of 
 God remaineth for ever. " The fool hath said 
 in his heart, there is no God;" but there is a 
 God! and as a God of justice and beneficence, 
 he must regard our system of poor-law relief 
 as a foul abomination! Our poor-law system 
 has been framed in an anti-christian, inhuman, 
 fiend-like spirit of hatred and contempt for the 
 poor. In its provisions, their rights, their 
 feelings, their interests have been wickedly, 
 nay, wantonly, trampled down and spurned ; 
 and so far is the poor man from being bound to 
 accept relief on such terms, that in nine cases 
 out of ten, the poor are bound in conscience to 
 suffer every hardship, short of absolute loss of 
 life, rather than accept of relief on terms so 
 iniquitous and horrible. In spite of such a 
 poor-law, your poor brother retains his claim 
 upon you, strong as it came forth in the fiat of 
 the eternal Judge. You can refuse him legally, 
 but you do so, not with the hazard, but with 
 the certainty of eternal damnation : " Go you 
 cursed into everlasting fire," I hope that better 
 principles may yet prevail, and that a day may 
 come when the present union workhouses will be 
 converted into houses of refuge for such among' 
 the aged poor, as may chance to have survived 
 all human ties, and who will, in the winter of 
 age, find their grey hairs respected, and expe-
 
 32 
 
 rience that tenderness and humanity which is 
 now exhibited to the pensioners of Kilmainham 
 or Greenwich, or the inmates of those alms- 
 houses for the aged, described by Mr. Dickens, 
 as existing at Boston, in America. I hope a 
 time will come when the honest poor, who are 
 ashamed to beg, but who are suifering under 
 unavoidable poverty, will be relieved at their 
 own homes, and without any breaking up of 
 family ties ; and that discreetly, respectfully, 
 and bountifully, and principally by means of a 
 heavy assessment on the income and property 
 of the more opulent classes of the community, 
 not omitting, by any means, those whose high- 
 park walls and guarded gates effectually shut 
 out their mendicant brethren of the dust from 
 all access. Such a provision would be worthy 
 of a christian country, and is rendered neces- 
 sary, if not unavoidable, by those considerations 
 founded on the religion and opinions of the 
 great majority of our fellow subjects in these 
 countries, to which I already adverted. Such a 
 provision too ought to take effect in spite of 
 the sacrifices which it might demand from a 
 selfish and pampered generation. The law of 
 a christian country ought to vindicate God's 
 good providence, in spite of the selfish outcry 
 of those who would willingly forget the day of 
 judgment, in the unrestricted enjoyment of the 
 endless luxuries which wealth can command in 
 this age and country. Fiat justitia ! But under 
 the most favourable state of the law that could 
 be rationally hoped for, the "poor shall not
 
 34 
 
 cease out of the land," and alms-giving will 
 continue to be a vital and undispensable duty. 
 It is in fact an essential feature in the chris- 
 tian system, more essential, in a certain sense, 
 than the Holy Scriptures themselves. Cha- 
 rity to our neighbour is inseparable from the 
 genius and character of the new law : " By 
 this shall men know that you are my disci- 
 ples, if you love one another." St. John, the 
 beloved disciple, who has, I believe, sometimes 
 been called the Apostle of Charity, from his 
 particular addiction to the inculcation of this 
 divine virtue, asks the question : " If a man 
 see his brother in want, and shut the bowels 
 of his compassion against him, how doth the 
 charity of God abide in him ?" We are told 
 " that charity never faileth ;" but I confess I 
 know of no divine oracle that would preclude 
 the success of the attempt made by Dioclesian, 
 impious as it was, to leave no copy of the Holy 
 Scriptures extant. If he had succeeded to the 
 utmost extent of his designs, the letter of the 
 Scriptures would have still been preserved, al- 
 most entire, in the writings of the primitive 
 Fathers ; and the word of God would have still 
 subsisted, in all its saving strength and holy 
 efficacy, in the teaching of the church, which 
 is " the pillar and the ground of truth, "for the 
 gates of hell could not prevail against her. 
 The Saviour would be with her to the end of 
 the world, and the spirit of God would not fail 
 to guide her unto all truth. But alms- giving is 
 a sacrificial rite of Christianity — a tribute of
 
 35 
 
 homage, gratitude, and love, to be offered to 
 the person of the Redeemer, until the day when 
 he shall come in the clouds of Heaven, to de- 
 mand a terrible account of the exact fiilfilment 
 of this great, this essential, this ever-subsisting 
 Christian ordinance. How could any human law 
 supersede such an obligation ; but above all, how 
 could its stringency be weakened in the least by 
 the poor law actually existing among us. The 
 present poor law in this country provides that 
 the poor shall be kept alive ; but only on con- 
 dition that that life shall be a drearv void — a 
 living death — an utter estrangement from all 
 enjoyment, save that which may arise from 
 swallowing, in silence and gloom, a stinted mess 
 of potatoes and water-gruel, twice in the twenty- 
 four hours. In every other respect, every day 
 which passes over the head of the poor man is 
 to be like that which preceded, "blank, dreary, 
 dismal, joyless, unendeared." Every day in the 
 year (that of the Saviour's nativity not ex- 
 cepted) is to wear the same Ash-wednesday 
 garb of heaviness and sadness. Life is to be 
 for ten, fifteen, or twenty lonsr and drearv years, 
 a dull, stagnant pool, clothed in Dead-Sea black- 
 ness and stillness. Is the human mind capable 
 of such endurance ? or can the lunatic asylum 
 fail to recruit its numbers powerfully from the 
 union work-house ? Must not such a system 
 generate every fierce, and malignant, and deso- 
 lating passion in the bosoms of its victims, un- 
 less religion work miracles in subduing the 
 maddening impulses which such fiendish cruelty
 
 36 
 
 must generate in its natural and necessary re- 
 action. Such are the bitter and poisoned fruits 
 of policy devoid of religion, for no religion 
 would degrade itself by entering into alliance 
 with such a system. God is charity: hehateth 
 nothing of the things which he hath made ; he 
 ordained that the poor should never cease from 
 the land ; and he ordained, too, that they who 
 have the substance of this world should deal, in 
 such fashion with those who have it not, that 
 these latter might have access, not only to the 
 bare necessaries of life, but also to those reason- 
 able and moderate comforts and enjoyments, 
 without which our present state can hardly be 
 otherwise than unhappy. This, to my mind, 
 he appears fully to have provided for when he 
 said — " Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thy- 
 self." " All things whatsoever that ye would 
 have men do unto you, the same do you in like 
 manner also unto them." It requires, I think, 
 no great skill in logic, no very elaborate chain 
 of argument, to infer from these commandments, 
 that our poor brother or sister ought not to be 
 shut out from all comfort, joy, and happiness. 
 So to doom them may be the law of man, but it 
 is not, it cannot be, the law of God — for " God 
 is charity." Having dwelt thus far on the uni- 
 versal obligation of the great Christian duty of 
 almsgiving, I shall next proceed to shew that 
 the occasion on which we are assembled, affords 
 an opportunity for its laudable exercise. 
 
 END OF THE FIRST PART.
 
 37 
 
 SECOND PART. 
 
 My Brethren — An opportunity is this day 
 proffered for your acceptance, (and tappy they 
 who miss not, abuse not, opportunities,) of pro- 
 curing at a small sacrifice a large amount of 
 human weal, both temporal and eternal. The 
 parish-priest of St. Munchin's,* at whose bidding 
 I stand here, the feeble and unpractised advo- 
 cate of a cause which he could plead himself to 
 far better purpose, is well known to all who hear 
 me. Though " strong for service still, and 
 unimpaired," he has survived nearly all the co- 
 temporaries of the early part of his career in 
 your city. He has not only been the parish- 
 priest of one of your parishes for more than 
 thirty years, but he was for the most part of 
 that time the public servant, in another sense, 
 of the whole conununity of your city. For 
 twenty-five years at least he was, I shall not say 
 the chaplain, but the spiritual nursing-father, 
 of the dismally-miserable objects who filled 
 the old poor-house of your city. How many 
 hundreds of times did he endure the himiiliating 
 sights, and the faint and sickly smells which no 
 care could exclude from wards crowded with 
 debility, decrepitude, and dotage. From my 
 own casual experience on one or two occasions, 
 I can say that the duties of that poor-house 
 
 • Rev. Richard Walsh.
 
 38 
 
 were some of the most painful that could fall 
 to the lot of a clergyman ; yet, for five-and- 
 twenty years unsalaried and unrequited, did my 
 reverend friend attend in that establishment 
 almost daily, and its duties made a most serious 
 addition to the ordinary cares and responsibi- 
 lities of his position. In his presence I shall 
 not presume to speak of my reverend friend in 
 those terms which truth and justice would de- 
 mand, but the enlightened and high-minded 
 citizens of Limerick are too just, too generous, 
 too discerning, not to appreciate the worth of 
 such a man. I will content myself with asking, 
 is there any one of those who know him, who 
 doubts in the least the honest sincerity of his 
 zeal ! — is there any one who knows him, that has 
 the slightest misgivings as to his singleness of 
 purpose ! and if this truly Christian clergyman, 
 with the straitened resources of his humble 
 suburban parish, makes an effort to bring the 
 poor children of his flock to Christ, and to pre- 
 serve their baptismal innocence untarnished and 
 uninfected, amidst the mephitic moral influences 
 of a crowded commercial city, can he fail of 
 being assisted by the generous sympathies of 
 the people of Limerick. He aims at converting 
 the heaven-born gift of reading and writing to 
 the glory of the Giver, by making it the vehicle 
 of thoughts, and aspirations, and purposes, in- 
 stinct with life and holiness. If he teach the 
 fresh and innocent child to offer the sacrifice of 
 praise with his young lips, to " lisp the eternal 
 name of God with purity's own cherub mouth,"
 
 39 
 
 is there not reason to hope that that child will 
 grow up a man of prayer ; that amidst the cares 
 of advanced life his soul will be ever accessible to 
 high and solemn thoughts ; and that his heart 
 will be ever ready to pour forth from its fulness, 
 those spiritual sacrifices that ascend like vialled 
 odours before the throne of God. In these 
 schools the young mind will be stored with all 
 fitting knowledge of things temporal as well as 
 eternal ; and that knowledge will be associated 
 with early habits of self-denial — that habit, than 
 which none is more valuable in a religious, a 
 moral, and even an economical point of view ; 
 and with this habit will be associated its kin- 
 dred virtues of self-knowledge, self-respect, and 
 self-control. I hesitate not to assert, that the 
 Christian who will join in this benign, this 
 blessed work, will send the stream of his bounty 
 through a channel than which none can be more 
 wholesome, more pure, more extensively and 
 lastingly fertilizing and useful. Can I believe 
 that there will be found in this Christian as- 
 sembly one who will prefer to squander in sin- 
 ful, or at least unmortified, indulgence — to 
 abuse, as children their toys — the trifle by 
 which he might promote the pure, the pious, and 
 the godlike efforts of this honest and faithful 
 shepherd. But I anticipate no such result : I 
 know of old the open heart, the open hand of 
 the Catholic people of Limerick ; I know how 
 prompt and how generous are their free-will 
 offerings on the altars of Christian charity. 
 It has been stated lately in Parliament, that
 
 40 
 
 a sort of qualified heathenism prevails to a con- 
 siderable extent in the manufacturing districts 
 of England. I allude to this statement with no 
 feeling of exultation, but rather with deep sor- 
 row, that the sister country should be stained 
 with so foul a blot. The Catholic religion, 
 persecuted or abused though it be, has preserved 
 this island from any such calamity. Ireland 
 was once an Island of Saints, and I trust it will 
 continue, to a certain extent to be an Island of 
 Saints until the consummation of all things. 
 Yet in vain do we confess God with our lips, if 
 we deny him by our deeds ; and what better are 
 we than heathens, if we " look not to Christ, the 
 author and finisher of our faith," " who when he 
 was rich, for us became poor ?" We must re- 
 semble Christ — we must be clothed with Christ : 
 " All those whom God predestinated to be saved, 
 he made conformable to the image of his son." 
 Now how can we resemble him who went about 
 doing good ? How can the mind be in us that 
 was in him, unless we are ready, like him, to lay 
 down our lives for our brethren? Christ died 
 "that he might redeem us in his blood, that he 
 might cleanse to himself an acceptable people ;" 
 and in primitive times at least, a Christian would 
 not have hesitated to " strive unto blood" for 
 the same glorious objects. But without wasting 
 one drop of that purple tide that circles within 
 your veins, Christ this day invites you to join 
 him in the great work of human redemption ; 
 and in order to point out to you the scenes in 
 which that unbloody redemption is to be wrought,
 
 41 
 
 I must ask you to accompany me in spirit and 
 imagination for a short minute or two. The 
 immortal spirit can expatiate unconfined in the 
 boundless fields of thought, and in these few 
 brief moments I must hurry you over a vast 
 expanse of billowy, dark blue seas — over half 
 an ocean — until somewhere near the Equator 
 you alight in the close-crammed, dark, and in- 
 fectious hold of a convict-ship. She must appear 
 deep sunk in the waves — heavily laden with 
 her odious and degraded live cargo — sullenly 
 plunging and ploughing her ill-omened way 
 through the great deep, towards the still dis- 
 tant shores of what I mav call another world. 
 Stand for a moment in that narrow, hot, and 
 reeking den of infamy, where three or four hun- 
 dred wretches, divorced for ever from all that 
 can make life desirable, wedded for ever more 
 to disgrace and misery, are laid down in irons, 
 manacled, shackled, and leg-bolted. You cannot 
 bear to breathe the noisome atmosphere for a 
 few brief moments, loaded as it is with offensive 
 animal effluvia and putrid exhalations. But 
 these lost wretches are allowed to leave it only 
 for ten minutes in twenty- four hours, and that 
 only in calm and favourable weather. But it 
 is not in its pestilential heat, and closeness, and 
 fetidness, that this lurid and loathsome duno:eon 
 may be likened to a sort of anticipated hell. 
 The furies — the malevolent passions — the des- 
 pair of hell — are there ! In despite of physical 
 restraints, the unconquerable will still stub- 
 bornly clings to evil, and the hand, though
 
 42 
 
 shackled and impotent, is red with blood ! — for 
 the heart is strong in its impulses to murder 
 and destroy ; and the most severe and jealous 
 precautions are necessary to restrain these hu- 
 man tigers from throttling their keepers. But 
 the tongue is unshackled, and amongst these 
 coarse, hardened, and shameless criminals, we 
 may suppose the language of the region is quite 
 in keeping with the character of its inhabitants. 
 It is easy to conceive that blasphemy, brutality, 
 and lewdness form the staple of the conversation, 
 and that every narrative of successful villainy, 
 every sentiment breathing ferocious hatred and 
 envy to man, and defiance to God, finds ready 
 acceptance and applause in such a pandemomium 
 as I have attempted to sketch. Oh ! is it in 
 the power of man or angel to transform this 
 hideous moral deformity, or to wash away the 
 deep stains of habitual and inveterate depravity. 
 Can the leopard change his spots, or the Ethiop 
 his skin? But let us go still further, and 
 imagine the very natural sequel of such an 
 opening scene. Imagine one of these lost 
 wretches struck with calenture under the influ- 
 ence of a tropical sun, and removed in hot, his- 
 sing fever to some close and suffocating nook 
 in the sick ward of the vessel. Imagine him 
 racked with the fell agonies of mortal disease, 
 and receiving the attentions usually bestowed 
 on a sick convict — much akin to those usually ex- 
 hibited towards worn-out domestic animals dy- 
 ing in a ditch of some loathsome disease. Ima- 
 gine him, helpless, hopeless, utterly friendless.
 
 43 
 
 No wife, no sister is nigh, to wipe the clammy 
 sweats of death from his brow — no Christian 
 priest to breathe hope and consolation into his 
 soul. At length he feels his utter misery and 
 abandonment. He reflects, when too late, on 
 his mispent life : he thinks of the wife whom 
 he left exposed to poverty and temptation : he 
 thinks of those children to whom he left no in- 
 heritance but the evil of his example, and the 
 shameful record of his misdeeds. Oh ! would 
 you not, if it were in your power, despicable as 
 this wretch may be, gladly restore him to health, 
 to home, to such happiness as might be his. 
 But even if this were in your power, who could 
 restore him to innocence, to character, to self- 
 respect, to that moral dignity which is lost for 
 ever. To restore all the blessings which he 
 has forfeited would be a task almost too great 
 for Omnipotence. The evil here is of such 
 magnitude, that there is no balm in Gilea^ — no 
 cure, so far as this world is concerned, can be 
 found in Heaven above or on earth below. Yet 
 does God on this day proffer to you Commission 
 and Power, under his holv Providence, to cure 
 ills irremediable even as these. Nay, he offers 
 to you a still higher Privilege, that of arresting 
 the Evil ere it arrive. Veyiienti occurrite mor- 
 ho. Reason and Benevolence alike proclaim, 
 that prevention is better than cure. Mr. Bru- 
 nei may well be grateful for the transcendant 
 skill which extra<;ted the piece of gold which 
 had been lodged for six weeks in his lungs, but 
 what agonies of suspense would have been spare<l
 
 44 
 
 him if the gold had never got there. Assist 
 my reverend friend to train the poor children 
 of his parish in Christian discipline, and he who 
 without that training would form part of the 
 live lumber of the convict-ship, will be a good 
 husband, a fond and careful father, and the 
 honest and exemplary owner of an humble 
 perhaps, but still a contented and happy home. 
 
 There are, as you know, certain religious Or- 
 ders in the Catholic Church, which combine as- 
 cetic discipline with active exertions in the sa- 
 cred cause of charity, under its various aspects, 
 and according to the various necessities of the 
 poor and suffering members of Christ. These 
 Orders have extorted not only reverence and 
 admiration, but fostering and effectual protec- 
 tion from the most envenomed enemies of mo- 
 nastic institutions ; and they constitute, in their 
 various branches, a sublime and beautiful em- 
 bodiment of that spirit in which the Church 
 Catholic combines what are in themselves inse- 
 parably allied in the designs of heaven, benefi- 
 cence and holiness, the love of God and the 
 love of man. The Orders named of Mercy, 
 of Charity, of the Redemption of Captives, and 
 many others, are the different branches of this 
 noble tree, whose roots are fixed on earth, 
 whilst it carries its glorious head, heavily load- 
 ed with fruits and blossoms, to the very height 
 of heaven. The order of Christian Schools is 
 a recent, but already a flourishing and fruitful 
 branch of this majestic tree : and the Boys'
 
 45 
 
 School, which it is my duty to bring under 
 your notice on the present occasion, is con- 
 nected with this order. It is needless to say 
 that christian piety and morals, with all their 
 blessed fruits, form the primary objects of 
 these truly Christian Schools — not to speak of 
 the benign and blessed example of these good 
 men — not to speak of their patient and perse- 
 vering zeal, and self-sacrificing devotedness to 
 their duties — not to speak of the blessing of 
 heaven which must attend on their efforts, it is 
 clear that the combined and disciplined tactics 
 of such an institute, must produce effects not 
 to be expected in ordinary schools. The pupils 
 of these schools, whilst they are instructed 
 carefully in all temporal knowledge suited to 
 their condition, will not fail to learn that true 
 wisdom, which consists in the holv fear of God, 
 with more certainty than is always derived 
 from schooling of higher pretension : train up 
 a child under the mild, pious, and beneficent 
 tutelage of these venerable men, and there will 
 be little fear that he will find his way into the 
 hold of the convict ship ; he will increase in 
 grace and favour with God and man ; and in 
 whatever station his lot may be cast, he will 
 adorn that lot by his piety, the purity of his 
 morals, and the integrity of his principles. In 
 an English University an aspiring tutor pursues 
 with fond interest the promising career in life 
 of some lordly pupil. He looks out to see him 
 stem the tide of political tumult, and climb the 
 giddy height of political ambition. Somewhat 
 
 A 2
 
 46 
 
 after the same fashion, the good Brother of the 
 Christian Schools looks out into that world he 
 has renounced, to see some hopeful scholar of 
 the very humblest class in life, breast the temp- 
 tations of the world, and climb the heights of 
 Virtue and Holiness. The short and simple an- 
 nals of the poor make no conspicuous figure on 
 the florid page of the Historian ; but the good 
 Monk knows that their obscure deeds and un- 
 noticed sufferings, are recorded and blazoned 
 on high. The sun sheds a warmer beam, and 
 and the rain descends in greater abundance, in 
 the lowly valley than on the lofty peak by 
 which it is crowned ; and whilst the low se- 
 questered dell is green with herbage, and fra- 
 grant with wild flowers, the Alpine pinnacle, 
 though it may amaze us with its height, and 
 dazzle with the bright tints of its everlasting 
 snows, presents but a glazed and icy aspect — a 
 sterile waste, to the gaze of heaven. The 
 threadbare garb of poverty is, as the good monk 
 well knows, of as much value in the sight of 
 God and his Angels, as the ermined robe of 
 royalty. The beggar covered with sores was 
 found worthy of room in the bosom of Abra- 
 ham ; and sceptred kings, and queens blazing 
 in jewels, might well envy some lowly son of 
 toil or poverty whose history could, like that of 
 Enoch, be summed up in the few, but pregnant 
 words : " and Enoch walked with God, and he 
 was not, for God took him." 
 
 But reverse the picture — abandon the orphan
 
 47 
 
 or outcast child of poverty, to roam at large a 
 free commoner, in those haunts of idleness and 
 vice, which are, of sad necessity, always to be 
 found in a large commercial city. If you per- 
 mit his earliest recollections, his earliest as- 
 sociations to be connected with dishonesty and 
 sin ; if you leave him to drink in wickedness, 
 at his eyes and his ears, from his tender 
 years ; if, whilst his reason is weak, and his 
 animal appetites strong, you abandon him un- 
 guarded and unshielded to every temptation, 
 whether it arise from alluring instinct or e\'il 
 conmiunication — if he is allowed to pass his 
 days neglected, unkempt, unwashed, in listless 
 sloth, in your streets or on your quays — if his 
 nights are spent in the haunts of coarse profli- 
 gacy — what can you expect, but that as he 
 grows in physical developement, he will gra- 
 duate in crime — first, a prowling thief, next, a 
 shoplifter ; then, rising to deeds of higher em- 
 prise, he will become a burglar and a cut- 
 throat, until utterly reprobate and lost, he be- 
 comes a burden, a nuisance, a curse to society 
 — fit freight for the convict ship — fit food for 
 the gallows — a being evidently marked out for 
 immortality in hell ! 
 
 " And thinkest thou this, O man, tliat thou 
 too shalt escape the judgment of God." In 
 the terrible judgment of the great day, when the 
 fi'rst averment, the capital count on the indict- 
 ment, will run thus : Inasmuch as ye did it not to 
 one of the least of these, ye did it not to me : do
 
 48 
 
 you flatter yourselves with the hope that you will 
 not be called to account for the death of those ou 
 whose behalf you were appealed to in vain : 
 " He that hateth his brother is a murderer." 
 This is a decree of doom stamped with the sig- 
 net seal of the Holy Ghost, and the whole con- 
 text, too long to recite here, evidently shews 
 that in the mind and meaning of the inspired 
 apostle, he that loveth not, hateth.* Now, I 
 ask you, can you be said to love this orphan or 
 destitute child, who, born an outcast on earth, 
 was doomed by your selfish parsimony, to be 
 the outcast, the disowned, the disinherited of 
 heaven ? Was not that orphan once arrayed 
 in the white stole of his baptismal innocence ? 
 Was not his pure and sinless soul, instinct 
 with holiness — clothed with Jesus Christ as 
 with a " lamb precious and undefiled ?" Did 
 not the faithful shepherd, alarmed at the dan- 
 gers around, ask your aid ? Did he not appeal 
 to you to forego some trifling indulgence, to 
 abstain from some purchase dictated by vanity 
 or folly, that thus, without a moment's real suf- 
 fering, or at most, some trifling and temporary 
 inconvenience, you might assist him to shut up 
 that innocent with the other younglings of his 
 flock, in a safe and secure enclosure. In that en- 
 closure he would have been carefully guarded, 
 sedulously and fondly tended ; he would have 
 been led daily to the brink of the fountains of 
 living waters ; he would have been daily nou- 
 rished with the sweet and wholesome food of 
 
 • I.John, iii. 14 to 18.
 
 49 
 
 souud doctrine ; he would have grown up to 
 glad the eye and cheer the heart of that good 
 shepherd ; he would have been the strength, 
 the pride, the beauty of his humble fold. But 
 you refused ; you preferred the gratification of 
 some low appetite, or silly vanity, to the bright 
 and undying glory of rescuing a soul from 
 death ; you abandoned him to the wolves of 
 " evil communication ;" you abandoned him to 
 the vultures of the mind, his own evil pas- 
 sions ; and, I say, you slew him I His blood is 
 upon your head : you are answerable to the 
 Eternal Judge for his death — not the death of 
 his body, but the death of his soul — the second 
 death, the death that knows no resurrection I 
 In vain will you avail yourself of the subter- 
 fuge of the sons of Jacob — mala hestia de- 
 voravit eum — an evil beast had devoured him. 
 No, it was you whose avarice sold to the Ish- 
 maelites that orphan boy, who had a brother's 
 claim on your tenderness and compassion. 
 He was the child of the same eternal Father ; 
 he was co-heir of the same Redeemer ; he was 
 born again of the same Holy Spirit with your- 
 selves, and you will have to answer for his 
 blood to the Father of Spirits in the dreadful 
 day of wrath and just retribution. 
 
 All this may appear to some amongst you 
 as a mere attempt at rhetorical flourish ; but I 
 tell you these are the fixed, solid, unchangeable 
 views of faith, followed up to their legitimate, 
 their unavoidable consequences. But I fear 
 there are among the Christians of our time,
 
 50 
 
 some who have little or no faith to regulate 
 and guide their views of things. Faith is a 
 vital and active principle. Faith, working in 
 charity, is a fire that consumes the dross of 
 selfishness, lights up generous emotions, and 
 warms the heart with the glow of high and 
 holy purposes. But the light of faith is in 
 the souls of many ; a light unaccompanied by 
 heat ; a light that cheers not, warms not, 
 scarce bestows its colouring on the surface of 
 objects. The light of faith to many is a glim- 
 mering, distant, phosphoric light, dispensing 
 none of those blessings of which the light of 
 heaven is the harbinger, or the minister, in 
 the beneficent economy of nature. 
 
 But there is one pure and pious portion of 
 my hearers to whom these reproaches can have 
 no application. To that portion I appeal, I 
 shall not say with confidence, for that feeling 
 cannot be called confidence which rises to ab- 
 solute certainty. It can require no effort, no 
 eloquence, to evoke on an occasion like the 
 present, the ancient, the ever-living, the beau- 
 tiful spirit of the Christian women of Limerick. 
 Isaiah declared that that church whose glories 
 he saw dimly gleaming through the mists of 
 futurity, should have queens for its nursing 
 mothers ; and there are in Limerick in the pre- 
 sent times (as in times past), those to whom in 
 everv moral and christian attribute that exalts 
 the female character above the level of ordinary 
 humanity, even queens might yield precedence.
 
 §1 
 
 It is a consoling, a delightful reflection to ray 
 reverend friend, that he has already succeeded 
 in enlistiDg the sympathies of many of their 
 number on behalf of the poor female children of 
 his flock. And I need not say that the ladies 
 whose names are before the public, as the 
 patronesses* of the Female Poor School of Tho- 
 mond Gate, are distinguished by all those gra- 
 ces and virtues that exalt the female and chris- 
 tian character. But the nursery in which my 
 reverend friend is anxious to secure these 
 fresh and beautiful, but still frail and fender 
 blossoms, from the blight of sin ; that train- 
 ing by which he seeks to give a holy and 
 heavenward direction to the natural gentleness 
 and tenderness of female feelings ; is under the 
 particular superintendance of one most respec- 
 table lady, than whom none can be better fitted 
 for the gracious, the angelic task.f I have no 
 acquaintance with this lady, and know not if I 
 have ever seen her, but to those to whom she is 
 known, it is superfluous to say, that to the aristo- 
 cracy of birth and station, she unites the aristo- 
 cracy of sense and virtue, of taste and dignity, 
 and, what is higher still, of exalted piety and fer- 
 vent charity. These poor female chikh-en have 
 the peculiar good fortune of being the "plants of 
 her hand, and the children of her care ; " and 
 who can doubt that under such auspices. Chris- 
 tian purity — indeed all Christian virtues — must 
 
 * Mrs Pavler, Mrs. O'Reilly, Mrs. Dr. Carro!, Mrs Captain 
 Vereker. 
 
 t Mrs. O'Reilly.
 
 52 
 
 grow up thriving, vigorous, and hardy plants, 
 proof alike against the chill sea blast from the 
 ocean, and the hot burning breath of the desert 
 — proof alike against the stormy turbulence of 
 angry passions, and the withering warmth of 
 sensual seductions. It will be indeed a nursery 
 rich in blossoms and flowers, but still richer in 
 the fruits of everlasting life, beautifying earth, 
 and wafting its fragrance as an odour of sweet- 
 ness before the throne of the Most High. If 
 the wealth of this lady were as ample as her 
 charity ; if the large possessions which she 
 inherited from her ancestors were still at her 
 disposal, it is more than probable the present 
 appeal would not be needed, at least as regards 
 the J'einate school of St. Munchin's. But she 
 gives to this humble school that which no gold 
 could purchase. She gives to these poor children 
 the light of her example — her time — her mind 
 — her inestimable labours. Connected by birth 
 or alliance with the best and noblest of the 
 land, and well fitted to adorn that high circle 
 in society to which she naturally belongs ; yet 
 is she seen in winter and summer, in rain and 
 in sunshine, wending her way over Wellesley 
 Bridge, to spend her day amidst these poor 
 children. She disdains not to bring the re- 
 sources of her strong and cultivated under- 
 standing to bear on the stupid or froward ob- 
 stinacy of some coarse-tempered child of rude 
 poverty, until by repeated efforts and trials she 
 has made that temper as meek, as gentle, as 
 docile, and as disciplined as her own. She
 
 53 
 
 bears the close atmosphere of the crowded 
 school-room, she endures the homeliness, the 
 indolence, the rude petulance of these poor 
 children ; but she has her reward even in this 
 world, when by slow but sure degrees she finds 
 that she has succeeded ; that she has taught them 
 to appreciate, to admire, and at an humble dis- 
 tance to emulate the obedience and humility of 
 Jesus — the laborious diligence, the meek, pious, 
 and confiding resignation of Joseph — and the 
 unstained purity of the immaculate Mother of 
 God. And is there to be found one among the 
 generous, the high-minded, the far-famed Chris- 
 tian women of Limerick, who will not be de- 
 lighted to promote so noble an object. Who 
 can doubt that they who graduate, if I may say 
 so in such training, must go forth arrayed in 
 all the beauties of holiness. They will come forth 
 ripened into saints, and their course through 
 life will be like that of angels sojourning here 
 on the high behests of their immortal king. 
 Imagine one of these young persons residing 
 in the bosom of her humble family, in some 
 lowly abode of decent poverty. She will carry 
 into that humble home the refinement inse- 
 parable, even in the lowest walk of life, from 
 high-toned principle, and pure undeviating rec- 
 titude — a host of gentle virtues will flit around 
 her — quiet, forbearing, placable, unselfish, she 
 will not fail to win the warm affection of her 
 humble family circle. Silently and unconsci- 
 ously she will acquire an influence over the 
 views, the principles, and the conduct of those
 
 54 
 
 with whom she is connected by her position — 
 that house will become a house of prayer, the 
 calm and healthful abode of cleanliness, con- 
 tent, and order, as of charity, peace, and devo- 
 tion. Behold the sick chamber where a mother 
 or sister is chained down to the bed of pain 
 and sickness ; how watchful, how sedulous, 
 how affectionate will her attentions be found ; 
 with the instinctive compassion and tenderness 
 of the female heart, purified by the heaven-born 
 fire of charity, she will emulate a ministering" 
 angel from on high, or what is perfectly equi- 
 valent, a Sister of Mercy here below. What 
 an acquisition to a respectable family will a do- 
 mestic servant be found, who has had the 
 benefit of such training as I have attempted 
 to describe ; she will be no eye servant, for 
 she will sincerely fear the Lord. How per- 
 severing, how punctual, how devoted in the 
 discharge of her allotted duties will she be 
 found ? How scrupulous her honesty ? How 
 instinct will be her soul with feelings of mo- 
 dest and womanly decency ? How acute will 
 be her unaffected abhorrence for everything in 
 thought, word, or deed, that could, in the 
 slightest degree, sully that purity which she has 
 been taught to cherish as the lily of virtues ? 
 How attentive to the duties of the Lord's-day ! 
 How instant in prayer ! — how fervent in spirit, 
 serving the Lord ! Not to speak of the salutary 
 influence of such an example on the other 
 servants and children of a household, if we 
 have a spark of faith must we not believe that
 
 55 
 
 the prayers of such an one ought to bring down 
 blessings on a family, and avert many evils, 
 both spiritual and temporal ? Suppose her 
 placed in the honorable state of christian mar- 
 riage, joined according to the ordinance of 
 God to some honest man of her own class in 
 life. Who can duly estimate the value of her 
 influence — of her example as a wife and mother ? 
 — of the holy counsel — of the sage remon- 
 strance, seasonably, discreetly pressed on the 
 attention of the head-strong husband, or the 
 erring child ? Will not the effects of this influ- 
 ence, of this example, extend beyond the imme- 
 diate occasion ? Will not the memory and 
 the edifying example of her virtues extend be- 
 yond the term of her life ? Oh, my friends, let 
 these admirable schools fall for want of due 
 support, and you seal up, you dry up a a rich 
 fountain, welling forth the waters of life and 
 salvation to a generation yet unborn. 
 
 In the respectable presence in which I stand, 
 I cannot, I dare not venture to exhibit the re- 
 verse of the picture, even if I had not already 
 trespassed to so very unreasonable an extent on 
 your time and attention. I dare not allude 
 in particular detail to the frightful evils that 
 follow from the neglect of early training in 
 religion and morals of the female poor in a 
 large city. These evils are of so obvious and 
 so offensive a character, that they cannot fail 
 to have obtruded themselves on your attention. 
 I entreat you then to look to yourselves ; to
 
 56 
 
 avert the pouring out of these vials of wrath — 
 avert the hot plague — the foul and fetid infec- 
 tion of the moral atmosphere of your city. 
 Protect the youth of the rising generation in 
 whom you take an interest, your own appren- 
 tices, your in-door and out-door servants, the 
 sons of your household themselves from the 
 arts and allurements of those whose steps, in 
 the emphatical language of scripture, lead down 
 to hell. Protect yourselves from having your 
 ears and your eyes outraged by gross, rank, 
 unblushing profligacy, brought home to your 
 doors, and shewn under your windows. Shew 
 mercy to the poor, and you will in this, as 
 in most other instances, shew mercy at the 
 same time to yourselves. 
 
 In conclusion, my brethren, let me beseech 
 you to divest yourselves of those opinions 
 which you may have unconsciously drawn, 
 either directly or indirectly, from the dark, 
 dreary, and desolating doctrines of political 
 economists of a certain school. Let not God's 
 immutable laws of justice and mercy be super- 
 seded or overawed in your minds by the vain 
 or wicked devices of human policy. Do not 
 delude yourselves with the belief that any thing 
 short of absolute inability can release you from 
 the vital and essential obligation of alms -giving. 
 If you close your heart and your hand against 
 Christ, in the person of his poor, nothing 
 short of inability can arrest the judgment of 
 the great day, or save you from existing to all
 
 57 
 
 eternity as " victims salted with fire" in hell. 
 This may appear a harsh mode of expression ; 
 but, enlightened, high-minded, and aristocratic, 
 as my present hearers may happen to be, com- 
 pared to my ordinary hearers in the humble 
 sphere of my own proper duties, I cannot 
 preach for them any other Gospel than that to 
 which I am accustomed. I cannot invent a 
 new Gospel for their special accommodation. 
 It was the meek and merciful Redeemer, with 
 his own divine lips, that said : Go you cursed 
 into everlasting fire ; and from the same divine 
 lips proceeded the frightful declaration, that in 
 hell every victim shall be salted with fire. 
 Your inability to give alms will be weighed in 
 the scales of the sanctuary ; it will be tested by 
 the fiery ordeal of infinite truth, justice, and 
 holiness ; it will not be measured by the falla- 
 cious standard of human opinion, or by the im- 
 portunate demands of luxury, vanity, or fashion. 
 Opinions and fashions change — it is the condi- 
 tion of their being ; but the law of God is fixed as 
 the bases of the everlasting hills — Veritas 
 Domini manet in cete^^num. In our days exces- 
 sive refinement and overwrought civilization, 
 whilst they plunge millions into the depths of 
 misery, furnish, at the same time, so many ob- 
 jects of gratification to the ever-growing tastes 
 and cravings of luxury, that the rich find no dif- 
 ficulty in bestowing all their abundance on their 
 own insatiate and selfish longings after ex- 
 citement and pleasures. But this taste for sel- 
 fish indulgence in expensive luxury is not con-
 
 58 
 
 fined to the higher classes. An unmortified 
 spirit that will not be content with the simple 
 conveniencies of life, is almost universal in 
 every class raised above indigence. The great 
 of the world three centuries ago, kings, and 
 princes, and prime ministers, lordly, and even 
 royal dames, a Duchess of Northumberland, or 
 a Queen of England, were content with food 
 and accommodations that would, in oiu* days, 
 be spurned with disdain, not only by the pam- 
 pered children of wealth, but by their menial 
 servants. But besides an unchristian, because 
 an unmortified attention to ordinary comforts, 
 do not some amongst you waste the gifts of 
 God, for which you must render a strict ac- 
 count, in procuring objects merely calculated 
 to gratify idle curiosity ? Do you not fill your 
 book shelves, your cabinets, and your various 
 repositories with costly trifles — trumpery that 
 you forget or despise before the purchase is a 
 week old. " Go to now," says St. James, " ye 
 rich men, weep and howl for your miseries that 
 shall come upon you : ye have lived in plea- 
 sure on the earth, and been wanton." But of 
 you, my friends, I hope better things. I know 
 you are too well instructed not to be aware 
 that a christian who does not set aside a pro- 
 portion, and a large proportion of his income, 
 for the purposes of alms-giving, is walking in the 
 broad way that leads to perdition. So thought 
 the primitive Christians ; so thought the primi- 
 tive Fathers ; and so think all who are really and 
 truly Christians. You will, on this day, I make
 
 59 
 
 no doubt, " ofifer to God those sacrifices with 
 which he is well pleased ; you will communi- 
 cate and do good," and your deeds of mercy 
 will ascend before his throne as an odour of 
 sweetness. May that Spirit of Charity that 
 descended on the day of Pentecost, kindle in 
 our hearts his holy fires, that we may be united 
 to God, the immortal, the invisible, the all- 
 glorious, the all-bounteous, the all-beauteous, 
 by the bonds of that deep, boundless, enthusi- 
 astic intensity of love, which he alone can 
 justly claim. May we love in him, and for 
 him, our neighbour originally formed to the 
 Divine Image, and renovated by the Holy 
 Spirit after the same divine model in the 
 " righteousness of holiness and truth." May 
 the spirit that erst purified the lips of Isaiah 
 with fire, purify, not only our lips, but our 
 hearts, that the dross of selfish and earthly at- 
 tachments may be burned and purged away. 
 May we be found " neither empty nor unfruit- 
 ful" in the great and terrible day of the Lord, 
 that so we may deserve to hear from the lips 
 of him whose decree of doom must fix in ada- 
 mantine chain our everlasting destinies : Come, 
 ye blessed of my Father, receive the kingdom 
 prepared for you : I was hungry, and you gave 
 me to eat, I was thirsty, and you gave me 
 to drink. Inasmuch as you did it to one of the 
 least of these little ones, you did it unto me 
 Amen.

 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS-URBANA 
 
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