JOHN 
 
 BROWN 
 
 Work is the mission of man in this earth. . . . . 
 Let wastefulness^ idleness, drunkenness, improvidence, 
 take the fate which Qod has appointed them, that 
 their opposites may also have a chance for their 
 fate.” 
 
 CARLVLIC, 
 
 LONDON 
 
 GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS 
 
 ISROAD\VA^^ ludgatl; hilg 
 
 NKVV YORK; 41G. BR-OLpM B, STO.KKf 
 
JOHN BROWN 
 
 WORKING-MAN 
 
JOHN BROWN 
 
 WORKING-MAN 
 
 0 ^'o' 
 
 1 “ Work, is the mission of TTtan in this earth. . , . Let 
 
 wastefulness, idleness, drunkenness, improvidence, take 
 the fate ivhich God has appointed them, that their 
 opposites may also have a chance for their fate." 
 
 THOMAS CARLYLE. 
 
 O • T©’ 
 
 LONDON 
 
 GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS 
 
 BROADWAY. LUDGATE HILL 
 
 New York ; 416, Broome Street 
 
 1879 
 
LONDON : 
 
 BRADBURY, AGNEW, & CO., PRINTERS, WHITEFRIAR3. 
 
-yL 13 
 
 DEDICATION. 
 
 ojp 
 
 TO THE RIGHT HONOUR A RLE THE 
 EARL OF SHAFTESBURY, 
 
 I 
 
 My Lord, 
 
 Your Lordship*s kind opuiion of this 
 little work, is great compensation for any disap- 
 pointment which may await its appearance m the 
 world of publication. And the favotir of being 
 permitted to dedicate the book to your Lordship is 
 most gratefully acknowledged by 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
 London, April 17, 1879. 
 
PART I. 
 
 “ The slothful man is a burden to himself. His 
 hours hang heavy on his head, he loitereth about 
 and knoweth not what he would do. His days pass 
 away like the shadow of a cloud, and he leaveth 
 behind him no mark for re7nemb ranee." 
 
JOHN BROWN. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 St. Patrick’s Day, i86— . Everybody in 
 
 Blanque Court, every man and woman, all, save 
 the very young children, drunk as usual. 
 
 Bees’ Buildings, Blanque Court, is a colony of 
 paupers, which was settled chiefly by Irish refu- 
 gees during the famine of 1814 — 15. Poor crea- 
 tures sent or brought over by the benevolent, to 
 escape death by starvation, they at first sought 
 employment by which to support themselves, but 
 though then, as now, in England enormous wages 
 were paid the few skilled workmen, there was little 
 employment for the poor uneducated, and no means 
 open by which they could gain the knowledge which 
 would lead to independence. 
 
 Public and private charities there w’ere in plenty. 
 Schools of pauperism, parochial establishments, 
 founded by legislation as the easiest way of dis- 
 posing of surplus humanity, and as that giving 
 
 B 
 
John Brown, 
 
 least trouble to legislators ; and institutions, esta- 
 blished and supported by the voluntary contribu- 
 tions of those who hoped, and tried in vain, to 
 counteract the baleful influence of misgovernment. 
 But work there was none provided, and so it came 
 to pass that the early settlers of Bees^ Buildings, 
 after making a feeble attempt to find employment, 
 settled down to their life of pauperism, and at the 
 period of their introduction in this chapter, they 
 had assumed the proportions and population of a 
 small town of utterly worthless inhabitants. 
 
 The court is divided into four parts, or quarters, 
 by narrow-paved alleys, one of which continues, 
 and serves as an entrance from the main street. 
 The houses, built at different periods by various 
 landlords, without other consideration than how to 
 build them cheapest, are usually three storeys high, 
 and contain twelve rooms, two front and two back 
 on each floor. The narrowest staircase possible 
 leads to the upper rooms, which vary in size from 
 twelve to fourteen feet square, and are let to their 
 wretched inhabitants at rents varying from ?.s. to ^s. 
 per week each. 
 
 As no one in the court was ever known to earn 
 an honest penny by honest work, it would puzzle 
 those unacquainted with the ways and means of 
 the London poor to find that these rents were paid, 
 and that the inmates had also the means of pro- 
 viding intoxicating drink in abundance. Ignorance, 
 
John Brown, 
 
 idleness, and intemperance had produced their 
 appalling effects ; and the succeeding generations 
 of the colonists in Bees’ Buildings represented the 
 consequences of the vicious lives of their parents. 
 Crippled, epileptic, ophthalmic children, with sallow 
 faces and sunken eyes, little wasted forms, strug- 
 gling with a terrible inheritance of disease — often 
 struggling on long enough to leave another and 
 more horrible specimen of degraded humanity. 
 These called forth the pity of the benevolent, who, 
 without questioning the cause which led to this 
 lamentable result, gave alms willingly and unspar- 
 ingly, and thus nourished and extended the evil 
 they sought to cure. 
 
 One society was formed for the purpose of sup- 
 plying them with blankets and coals during the 
 winter. Another, chiefly composed of ladies, took 
 upon itself the responsibility of their tea and sugar. 
 When the new baby appeared, it was dressed in 
 clothes marked with the name of another benevo- 
 lence, and, when one of this population died, he 
 was buried in winding-sheet and coffin furnished by 
 either private or parochial bounty. And still the 
 population increased, and the evils multiplied. The 
 dwellings grew worse and worse, and the police 
 reports became no better ; and now Bees’ Buildings 
 was the terror of the neighbourhood. 
 
 But young men and women had been known, 
 and still were to be found there, who, having by 
 
 B 2 
 
4 
 
 John Brown, 
 
 some means caught a glimpse of a better life, 
 yearned to leave this misery behind them ; but few 
 there were who possessed sufficient power of will 
 to master the difficulties encountered by those, 
 who, schooled in idleness, try to adopt a life of 
 industry. The majority of these aspirants of re- 
 spectability fled before the first disappointment 
 back to their life of pauperism. But there were 
 those who did not go back, and who, contrary to all 
 they had been told by others who had failed, found 
 their own moral weakness the worst enemy to 
 success. Of one of these who did not turn back, 
 but who went steadily on in the path of honest in- 
 dustry until he reached the reward of integrity, I am 
 about to write. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 John Brown lived in Bees^ Buildings with his 
 father and mother. He was a tall, strong, good- 
 looking young man of twenty. His father, an 
 Englishman born in the workhouse, and bred by 
 a London charity, had married his pauper wife at 
 the age of nineteen or twenty. John’s mother was 
 Irish by birth, but she, with her father and mother 
 and several other children, had come to England 
 when a child — probably sent over by the union. 
 The family took up their quarters in Bees’ Build- 
 ings, and remained there some years, until just 
 after the marriage of their eldest daughter (John’s 
 mother) they had the good fortune to secure a 
 passage to America, and had sailed for New York, 
 leaving the bride behind them. As no member of 
 the family at this period could write, Mrs. Brown 
 had never again heard of her people, and now, on 
 this St. Patrick’s Day, she, her husband, and son 
 John, were as happy in their dirty, unfurnished 
 room, as whiskey and gin could make them. 
 
 Night was closing in cold and wet. The gas in 
 the court, some hours lighted, burned dim and un- 
 
6 
 
 JoJm Brown. 
 
 certain, as gas always does burn in such quarters. 
 More than one inhabitant had been brought home 
 to the buildings insensibly drunk, and many more 
 were yet to come, whilst others, drunk and disorderly, 
 had been taken to the watch-house. Molly Brown 
 was staggering about her dirty room, in fruitless 
 endeavour to prepare what her husband, from the 
 bed, where he lay stretched, had been incoherently 
 demanding as “ supper.” There was barely a spark 
 of fire in the grate, and no other light in the room. 
 John, only less drunk than his father, sat on a box 
 at the table, his head resting on his folded arms, 
 and fast asleep. .Molly, having filled the tea- 
 kettle to the brim with cold water, had with much 
 difficulty raised it to the grate, where it crushed 
 out the remaining spark of fire ; and then the poor 
 wretched woman sat down on a broken box, and 
 teebly bewailed her hard lot. Her ‘ whimpering 
 complaint at last aroused her husband, who, after 
 sundry attempts, at last staggered from the room, 
 and to the nearest public-house. John, too, soon 
 roused himself from his drunken sleep, and pre- 
 pared to follow his father, when a step, surprisingly 
 steady, considering the day and the quarter, was 
 heard on the stairs ; it stopped on the landing and 
 the doorway was darkened by a visitor. 
 
 “ Are you in, John? ” said a voice, in a tone of 
 cheerfulness, which sounded out of place in such a 
 den of wretchedness. 
 
John Brown, 
 
 7 
 
 “Yes,” answered John, “come in, Tim. That 
 
 is, ” he added, “if you can get in. The place is 
 hardly fit for a human being. Of course, everyone 
 is drunk.” 
 
 “ Have you ever a light, John ? I want you to 
 read a letter for me from Margaret. You remember 
 Margaret, Mrs. Brown,” the visitor said, having 
 been made aware of that lady’s presence. 
 
 “ Margaret ! In coorse I do ; her as married 
 Tom Oakley, and went to America.” 
 
 “ Well, Mrs. Brown, I had a letter this same day 
 from Margaret, and great news it is she sends me ; 
 I had it read at the club, but Mike Murphy he read 
 
 it, and I didn’t take in the half of it ; so I came 
 away to you, John, and if you’ll read it to me, slow 
 like. I’ll be that thankful.” 
 
 “ To be sure he will,” said J ohn’s mother, trying 
 to get up from her low seat, and struggling to reach 
 the bit of candle on the table, which, however, 
 John did not trouble her to light, but, taking his 
 friend’s arm, the two young men left the room and 
 the house. 
 
 At the public-house. The Civet Cat, on the corner, 
 they, being well known as good customers, were per- 
 mitted to step into the parlour, and there John read 
 the letter, which had come across the water, bring- 
 ing the great news of which Tim had boasted, and 
 which was as follows : — 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 “Lowell, Mass. 
 
 “ United States of America. 
 
 “ My dear Brother, 
 
 Ever since I received the letter you sent me 
 at Christmas, I have thought nearly all the time of 
 you, and of the miserable life you are leading there, 
 and how I could manage to get you out here ; for, 
 though we have plenty to live on, thank God, and 
 a little laid up for our old age, it’s all from Tom’s 
 hard earnings and savings, and I couldn’t ask him, 
 after all his goodness to me and my poor mother 
 that’s gone, to do more than he has done. But he 
 soon found that I had something on my mind, and 
 wasn’t long finding what it was, and so he just let 
 me take a few boarders, and with a little work I did 
 for some of the Mill hands, I soon had forty dollars 
 saved. Tom heard last week that Mr. Schuyler 
 was going out to England. Mi*. Schuyler is the 
 gentleman Tom and me worked for when we first 
 came over, and he has been like a father to us both. 
 Well, I went away to his house, and sure enough 
 he is sailing on the ist of March, and will be in 
 
John Brow 71 , 
 
 9 
 
 London on or about the 17th, and he will take the 
 money to you, and himself see you off to Liverpool ; 
 and so, dear Tim, I am counting the hours until 
 you are safe under the roof of your affectionate 
 sister, 
 
 “ Margaret Oakley. 
 
 ‘‘P.S.— Mr. Schuyler will buy your ticket for 
 you ; that will be 30 dollars, and will take you to 
 Boston. There, at the Steamship Company’s Office, 
 you will find Tom waiting to bring you on here. I 
 am sorry I can’t send you something for clothing, 
 which is very dear out here ; but, if you can manage 
 it, try to get a few things to put on before you get 
 to Lowell. Everybody here dresses smart and tidy, 
 very different from the likes of us at home in Eng- 
 land, where no one minds how dirty and ragged 
 they are. You will have 10 dollars over your pas- 
 sage-money, but you will want that, I think, on the 
 passage. But Mr. Schuyler will tell you everything. 
 So once more good-bye, my dear brother.” 
 
 ‘‘There,” said John Brown, “that’s all, and 
 lucky you are, Tim Pearson, to have such a sister. 
 But, Tim, what’ll you do in America ? I’ve heard 
 say that it’s blessed hard to get on there, and that 
 if you were dying of starvation you couldn’t get bit 
 nor sup, without the money, and that the rich are 
 harder on the poor there nor here.” 
 
lO 
 
 John Brown, 
 
 What do the poor care, in a place where a 
 labourer can aim three pounds a week?” an- 
 swered Tim, “ an’ that’s what Tom Oakley got, at 
 first, when he went out.” 
 
 “ Three pounds a week, Tim ! It’s joking they 
 were to tell you that ! ” 
 
 “ Then it’s no joke, John, Margaret wrote as 
 soon as ever they got settled out there, and told 
 me that Tom was ‘aimin’ three pounds a week at 
 labouring work, and didn’t Tom send back for his 
 father and sister, within six months of his leaving 
 England, without a copper beyond his passage 
 money? How could he do that if he hadn’t been 
 getting big pay ? ” 
 
 The conversation began to interest and sober 
 John. “ But, Tim,” he said, “ three pounds a week 
 would be one hundred and fifty a year. Who 
 would stay here if that was true ? ” 
 
 “ Well, then, true it is, John ; but to satisfy you. 
 I’ll ask this gentleman when he comes, and then Til 
 tell you all about it. It’s the 17th now, and he must 
 be in London soon.” 
 
 “ This letter,” said John, putting it back in its 
 envelope, “ has no post-mark — how did it come ? ” 
 
 “ Oh,” Tim said, searching* in his pocket and 
 producing a dirty envelope, “ it was inside this.” 
 
 John took the envelope, and exclaimed “ Why, 
 Tim, here’s a note inside this. Well, you are a 
 clever chap ! Why, this letter of Margaret’s was 
 
John Brown, 
 
 1 1 
 
 brought over by the gentleman himself, and here’s 
 a note from him, enclosing Margaret’s letter and 
 giving you his address. Here it is,” and John read, 
 from a bit of foreign note-paper, which had been 
 overlooked by the anxious brother when he found 
 his sister’s letter. “ Here’s the address, J. C. 
 Schuyler.” John spelled the words, ^“Charing 
 Cross Hotel till 20th, 10 o’clock morning.’ I can’t 
 make out what to call the name, Tim, but you are 
 to call on the gentleman in the morning at 10 
 o’clock.” 
 
 How can I find him, John, if you can’t give me 
 the name ?” 
 
 “ I’ll write it for you, Tim, and you must show it 
 to some of them at the hotel.” 
 
 The name was carefully copied on a bit of paper, 
 and the friends parted, Tim full of thought about 
 his sister’s letter, John with the words three 
 pounds a week,” ringing in his ears. 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 John had once, as a young boy, caught a glimpse 
 of life, so different from his past and present sur- 
 roundings, that it left in his heart a longing to see 
 more, and, at first, a determination to turn away for 
 ever from the life he had inherited ; but his stay in a 
 healthy atmosphere had been short, and after it he 
 had wandered back, and, weakly protesting, stayed 
 on, until now, in his twentieth year, he began to lose 
 sight of his more fortunate experience and good 
 intentions, and was rapidly drifting into the indif- 
 ference consequent to indolence and intemperance. 
 A few years more and nothing would have aroused 
 him to a voluntary abandonment of his slothful and 
 degrading situation. But youth and temperament 
 were in his favour, and Tim’s letter awakened 
 energy and ambition. If Tim could earn this 
 almost fabulous sum of money in America, he 
 could do the same. And if more money could be 
 earned by a stronger, more intelligent man than 
 Tim, then John felt sure of yet greater fortune. 
 Foggy though his mind was, from the quantity of 
 poisonous drink he had imbibed during the day, 
 
John Brown, 
 
 I 
 
 he reasoned thus, and could scarcely keep his 
 thoughts and aspirations to himself. The wretched 
 den he called home was unendurable to him when 
 he returned to it ; both father and mother had 
 gone out, he well knew where, but in his present 
 frame of mind this was a comfort. He could not 
 have spoken to either on the subject of his thoughts, 
 and the sight of their condition would have irritated 
 him beyond control. He could not yet think out a 
 plan for the future, or for getting the means of 
 leaving England, and reaching the Eldorado upon 
 which his whole thoughts were bent. His first 
 wish now was to get his head clear from the fumes 
 of alcohol, and to this end he gathered together the 
 dying embers on the hearth, broke up an old box, 
 with which, and the aid of a few coals, he boiled 
 the kettle, and made for himself a strong cup of 
 tea. There was the charity quarter-pound packet 
 of tea, and the packet of sugar from the same 
 source ; they had been left that morning by the 
 visiting lady, and had not yet been pawned or ex- 
 changed at the public for the glass of poison. Milk 
 there was none, nor bread ; but John sent. a child 
 from a neighbouring room for a penny roll, and 
 this, with the cup of tea, made his supper. His 
 hopes concerning his passage-money to America 
 turned naturally upon charity and the guardians. 
 
 “ And if they won’t give me the money, why I 
 must work for it. But what a length of time,” he 
 
14 
 
 John Brown. 
 
 soliloquized, it will take to get six pounds to- 
 gether, and how can I save it when they know I’m 
 aimin’ money. Sure everyone of them’ll be at me 
 like a nest of hungry wasps, and it’ll be, ‘ Come in, 
 John, here,’ and ‘ Come in there,’ and not a penny 
 would they let me take out of the public-house, 
 once they get me in, and then there’s the father and 
 mother the worst of all. But I’ll try, yes, I’ll try ; 
 and it’ll be no fault of mine if I’m living in a hole 
 like this next year this time.” With these thoughts 
 and resolutions stirring him to energy he never 
 knew before, he left the wretched room, and betook 
 himself to an adjoining apartment, where lived the 
 lame fiddler with whom he sometimes passed the 
 night. The room was tenantless when John entered 
 it. The fiddler had for this night a professional en- 
 gagement at an adjoining boarding-house. 
 
 It was the night of St. Patrick’s Day, and in addi- 
 tion to the usual festivities, there was a marriage to 
 celebrate. The bride, a native of Blanque Court, 
 had been educated at a public charity, and was 
 very superior to the costermonger she had married ; 
 but the only consideration which influenced her in 
 her choice was, that the man had a cart and 
 donkey, and could offer her freedom from work- 
 The life of dependence and charity, and her charity 
 education, had eradicated every vestige of womanly 
 independence and delicacy. Somebody else had 
 always thought and acted for her, and the one fact 
 
John Brown. 
 
 15 
 
 with which she had been fully impressed was, that 
 she was a burthen and an intruder in the world, and 
 that she had no business with any human senti- 
 ment except one^ and that, the very highest grati- 
 tude.^ was fully expected of her. The want of this 
 quality and her inability to assume it, as many 
 others did, made her unpopular, and she was turned 
 out as a bad case. The regular routine of life in 
 an institution, and the sameness of occupation, un- 
 fitted her for a household servant in the poor lodg- 
 ing-house, the only situation open to her, who had 
 no character, and she gladly gave up the struggle 
 and began a life of vagrancy, such as her mother 
 and father had lived. The costermonger was lame, 
 stunted in size, and almost deformed in shape ; but 
 he had a room of his own, with a few bits of furni- 
 ture, a cart and donkey, and the vagabond life he 
 promised suited her. So the pretty charity girl 
 married him, and the wedding was held in the 
 bridegroom’s room. The fiddler played, the guests 
 danced, and everyone, including bride and bride- 
 groom, went to bed, drunk, at four o’clock in the 
 morning. At which hour John was awakened by 
 the return of his friend the fiddler. 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 The fiddler was brought home very drunk, and 
 John, being unusually sober, objected to such a bed- 
 fellow, so got up and dressed. The morning was 
 cold and the air raw — it was quite dark, and not 
 a creature was stirring. John’s clothing was thin, 
 and he stood shivering, irresolute whether to turn 
 back to the fiddler, go home to an equally bad 
 atmosphere, or walk about till the neighbourhood 
 would be stirring, when a happy recollection came 
 to him of a new building where the watchman (an 
 acquaintance of his) would be sitting over a good 
 fire. Thither he bent his steps, and was cheerfully 
 admitted by the watchman, who would have been 
 less hospitable, however, had he known that John 
 brought nothing with him to cheer the cold hours 
 of early morning. 
 
 Once admitted, he could not do less than allow 
 him to stay till just before seven when the work- 
 men were expected ; then he was dismissed with 
 a caution to let nobody see him leaving the 
 building. 
 
 It was yet many hours before the inhabitants 
 
John Brown. 
 
 17 
 
 of Bees’ Buildings would be stirring — his mother 
 and father, people of leisure like the rest, would 
 sleep till midday ; he had only sixpence in the 
 world, and that would not get his breakfast at 
 Biddy Flanagan’s, the only place he knew of where 
 a man like himself could get anything to eat ; then 
 he objected to go to Biddy’s, there he would meet 
 his pals, and be tempted with the offer of the 
 morning glass, and on this subject, at least, his 
 mind was settled that it was no use to try to change 
 his life, or better his condition, unless he first gave 
 up drink, and until everything failed in his efforts 
 to get to America, he determined that nothing like 
 spirits should pass his lips. Thus he had adopted 
 the first measure of success. 
 
 The morning seemed colder than before when he 
 gained the street ; thick yellow fog enveloped every- 
 thing, and made sickly halos around the gas lamps. 
 The pavement was in the usual slimy, filthy con- 
 dition, which makes London streets the horror of 
 those who are obliged to frequent them during the 
 foggy season. The use of the hose and water 
 might make the pavements clean in the dirtiest 
 quarters, but this would entail the expense of 
 buying hose, and employing men, and tax-payers 
 would grumble. But would rate-payers grumble if 
 the money now used to support thousands in miser- 
 able idleness were given in wages to enable these 
 people to support themselves ; would it be better 
 
 c 
 
i8 
 
 John Browti, 
 
 not to pay our money to the support of public 
 enterprise, or to the fostering of a public grievance 
 which all condemn, but none move to cure. Gladly 
 would our friend John have worked with hose and 
 broom, or at any employment which offered, but 
 he knew of no place where an unskilled workman 
 without personal character or influence could ob- 
 tain work, and his good intentions began to grov/ 
 weaker and weaker as one obstacle after another 
 presented itself. He walked up and down the 
 slimy, slippy pavement near the entrance of Bees’ 
 Buildings ; his shoulders drawn together, and his 
 body nearly doubled with the damp, searching cold . 
 His hands plunged in the pockets of his shabby 
 trowsers found only the sixpence and the envelope 
 of Tim’s letter, but this last suggested some little 
 consolation. He would go to Tim, early as it was. 
 Tim would be getting ready to fulfil the appoint- 
 ment at Charing Cross, and good fortune awakens 
 good feeling. Tim wouldn’t begrudge him a corner 
 of his room where he could get a cup of tea brought 
 in from Biddy Flanagan’s. He was not mistaken 
 in his surmise. Tim was up making the most of 
 his wardrobe that he might appear as worthy as 
 possible of the honour of calling on a 7‘eal gentle- 
 man at a great hotel. 
 
 ‘‘Why, John,” he said, “this is friendly ! I was 
 just wondering where you went last night, for I 
 looked in before going to bed, and your mother told 
 
John Brown. 1 9 
 
 me you had gone out again after making your 
 tea.” 
 
 “ I wonder she was sober enough to tell you that, 
 or anything else,” John said, gloomily. What 
 
 o’clock was that ? ” 
 
 ‘‘Nigh upon twelve, John. I had been to Doolan’s 
 to see would he let me have a secondhand coat to 
 make myself decent with this morning ; but not he 
 — not without the money, though I showed him 
 Margaret’s letter, and he read every word of it. 
 
 . ‘ I’ve no doubt,’ says he, ‘ but it’s all right, but it 
 ought to have a postmark,’ says he. ‘ And what 
 were you an’ John Brown doin’ in the parlour cf 
 the Cat last night? No, me hearty,’ says he, ‘bring 
 y’er deposit and take the coat, but no deposit, 
 no coat.’ ” 
 
 “Well, you can’t wonder, Tim, that neither he 
 nor anyone else would believe the likes of us, living 
 here with the worst set in London.” 
 
 “ Speak for yourself, if you please,” said Tim, 
 whose promised prosperity had already begun to 
 affect his pride. “ Old Doolan would be glad to 
 let me have a coat this time next year ; and it isn’t 
 every one of the set, as you call them, as has better 
 nor eight pounds waiting in a gentleman’s hands 
 to be called for ! ” 
 
 “Don’t be down on a chap,” said John, humbly. 
 “ I’m sure I’m down enough already, and there’s no 
 ^ use blaming Doolan. Shure he daren’t do any- 
 
 c 2 
 
20 
 
 Jo1l7i B7'0wn. 
 
 thing to you or anyone else if he trusted them with 
 clothes and they refused to pay, for if he was to 
 give any trouble, you have but to threaten to ask 
 where the clothes came from, and Doolan wouldn’t 
 like being urged to answer.” 
 
 “ That’s true enough, but I am vexed to be going 
 to see the gentleman in these rags, and Margaret 
 asking me to make myself decent ; but it can’t be 
 helped. Go I must, and that soon now, for it’s 
 nearly nine o’clock.’’ 
 
 Have you had anything to eat yet, Tim ? ” said 
 John. 
 
 No ; but the kettle’s boiling now, and if you’ll 
 run out and get a loaf, John, you’re welcome to a 
 cup of tea.” 
 
 John readily procured the loaf and the extra 
 tw’opence worth of sugar and milk, and the friends 
 made a comfortable breakfast. 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Tim had the rent of the little room he lived in 
 given him by the landlord of the buildings in con- 
 sideration of certain services he rendered by looking 
 after the rooms when they were vacated, to see that 
 the outgoing tenants did not remove and convey 
 away the grates, doors, sashes, or any of the few 
 fixtures. This enviable appointment would soon be 
 vacant, and Tim kindly offered to speak a good 
 word for J ohn if he would apply for it. 
 
 “ Thank you kindly,” John said ; but, Tim, IVe 
 made up my mind to cut the buildings altogether if 
 I can get work, and to never give in so long as 
 there’s a chance of getting away from the whole lot 
 of them here.” 
 
 “Well, John, if that’s your determination, sure 
 there’s no great trouble getting work. Weren’t you 
 asked to work on some buildings last summer ? and 
 sure there’s plenty of work ; but I suppose it’s poor 
 pay.” 
 
 “Yes, Tim, starvation prices they pay. I was 
 going to work, though, when Pat Murphy he per- 
 suaded me not. ‘ What’s the use of working ?’ says 
 
22 
 
 John Brown. 
 
 he. ‘ It’ll take all you aim to keep you ; and if ye 
 don’t work, why you must be kept. They can’t let 
 you starve, else what’s the guardians for. They 
 must find the necessities, and the societies, the>' 
 find the luxuries. Only fools and women work,’ 
 says he. So as I’ve always had plenty, such as it 
 is, without work, and as work promised nothing 
 better, why I just thought Pat right. But it’s your 
 letter, Tim, that has set me thinking. Three pounds 
 a week, and a man could live like a gentleman. If 
 that story’s true, it will be no fault of mine if I’m 
 not in America this time next year.” 
 
 So saying, the friends parted, Tim to keep the 
 appointment at Charing Cross, John in search of em- 
 ployment. There were some large buildings going up 
 in the neighbourhood, and thither he bent his steps. 
 He reached the place about eleven, and joined the 
 men when they came down for their beer. He 
 knew one of them, and him he approached and 
 began conversation. 
 
 ‘‘I’m looking for a job,” John said; “do you 
 think I could get anything here 1 ” 
 
 “You can try,” the man said. “But what’s 
 up that you are going to work — parish turned 
 crusty ?” 
 
 “ No,” John replied. “ Only I’m sick of life as 
 we have it, and I thought I would see what work is 
 like. What time do you begin in the morning ?” 
 
 “ Six o’clock now.” 
 
John Brown. 
 
 23 
 
 Why that’s dark. Surely you can’t do anything 
 before seven.” 
 
 “ No ; but we gets paid for it all the same.” 
 
 But why don’t the master begin work an hour 
 later when you can see to work ? ” 
 
 Because we won’t let ’em — that’s why. The 
 masters had their own way, and made their own 
 hours long enough ; now we have our turn, and 
 make our own time.” 
 
 ‘‘Is the master very hard ? ” John ventured. 
 
 “ Hard — hard as bricks. He as was a working 
 man like me six years past.” 
 
 “Six years past ! Joe, you never mean to tell 
 me that Mr. Mason was a workin’ man six years 
 ago.?” 
 
 “ Well, he wor then. Not exactly like me, but a 
 workin’ mason, and not aimin’ the money a mason 
 aims to-day.” 
 
 “But, Joe, how did he get on? Had a pot of 
 money left him ? ” 
 
 “Not a bit of it. Just ‘cussed’ luck, that’s 
 what it wor. He first got foreman’s place, then 
 niggered the men to please the master. Then took 
 a job on his own account and had luck with that. 
 Then took a bigger job, screwed down the pay and 
 squeezed time, and here he is. That’s about it.” 
 
 At this moment the master appeared, a grave- 
 looking, pale man, and the workmen went to their 
 Avork. 
 
24 
 
 John BroT.un, 
 
 John lingered, unwilling to lose the chance of 
 asking for work, and yet afraid to speak after 
 hearing the hard character of the master. He had 
 walked toward a pile of timber, and was certainly 
 a suspicious looking character, but too busy with 
 his own thoughts to think of this when he was 
 startled by the question — 
 
 “ What do you want here ? ” 
 
 Looking up, he saw the master, and his first im- 
 pulse was to move on ; but summoning what 
 courage he could, he replied — 
 
 A job, sir, if you please.” 
 
 “ What on?’^ 
 
 ‘‘ Anything I can do, sir. Hod carrying, I sup- 
 pose.” 
 
 What’s your name ? ” 
 
 “John Brown, sir.” 
 
 “ Where do you live ? ” 
 
 John paused. The reputation of Bees’ Build- 
 ings was so well known to every one in the 
 neighbourhood that he felt sure the master 
 would have nothing to do with anyone giving 
 that address. Yet he dismissed the falsehood 
 which sprang to his lips, and said in a hesitating 
 tone — 
 
 “ Bees’ Buildings, Blanque Court, sir.” 
 
 “ Where have you worked before ? ” 
 
 “ Well, sir, to tell the truth, I never worked any- 
 where before.” 
 
John Brown. 
 
 25 
 
 “ Ah, I see, a gentleman of leisure, supported 
 like a monarch by direct taxation/' 
 
 ‘‘ Well, sir, I want to work now, and I'll be very 
 glad and do my best if you’ll give me a job.” 
 
 Something in the man's look and manner im- 
 pressed the master, and he said, “Well, you look 
 in earnest. There’s plenty of work to be had for the 
 asking. You may come on at one o’clock, and clear 
 these rooms out ready for painting. Carry the dirt 
 and shavings down to the yard below, where you 
 will find a cart waiting to take them away from the 
 works. Sixpence an hour, I suppose ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, sir ; and how many hours, if you please?” 
 “From half-past six to five; half an hour at 
 eight and one hour at noon for breakfast and 
 dinner,” said the master ; and the two men turned 
 and went away in different directions. 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 “ I didn’t think to get work so easy,” said John 
 to himself ; and sixpence an hour, why that’ll be 
 twenty shillings a week if I work nine and a half 
 hours a day. Sure I’ll not be long in saving up the 
 six pounds that’s to take me away from this dirty 
 hole. Thank God, I feel already like a new man ; 
 and see what telling the truth did forme. Now, 
 John Brown, make a promise to yourself, and keep 
 it, too — leave off drink, tell no lies, work hard and 
 save your money, and this day twelvemonth you’ll 
 be an independent man.” 
 
 Whilst those good resolutions were being made,, 
 and quite occupied with his own thoughts, John 
 had involuntarily turned his steps in the direction 
 of Bees’ Buildings, and now suddenly stopped at 
 the entrance to the court. 
 
 I’ll not go in there,” he said, “ that’s not the 
 place to keep a good resolution in ; and yet, where 
 will I get my dinner ? The mother might have a 
 bit for me ; but, ugh ! they will both be like 
 
 d Is after their drunken night, and the place 
 
 won’t be fit for a pig. Yesterday I could have 
 
John Brown, 
 
 27 
 
 asked the first person I met for a penny to buy a 
 bit of bread with; to-day I couldn’t do it to save 
 me from starving. Why, I wonder? What has 
 made such a difference ? Well, I must get a bit 
 some way before one o’clock. I’ll try will the 
 baker trust me a loaf.” 
 
 At this moment an omnibus stopped, and John 
 was hailed from the top of it by Tim Pearson, who 
 had just returned from his appointment at Charing 
 Cross. In a few minutes the friends were walking 
 rapidly down towards Tim’s room. 
 
 Is it all right, Tim ? ” John asked at once. 
 
 “ All right ! ” answered Tim, “ I believe ye. Mr. 
 Skiler (that’s the gentleman’s name from America) 
 is just a prince, and no mistake. Every word true 
 about the pay — ten shilling a day he says I’ll be 
 aimin’ after the first week or two, and then if I learn 
 to tend machinery, as Tom Oakley did, I’ll get twelve 
 shillings and perhaps fourteen shillings a day. 
 Margaret, he says, lives in her own house like a 
 lady, and Tom Oakley has bought an’ paid for it, 
 him as niver airnt two shillings a day in his life 
 when he was here. Margaret does nothing but 
 keep her own house, and I’m to start on Saturday.” 
 “ On Saturday next ? ” 
 
 Yes, the first Saturday as ever is.” 
 
 “Why, man, this is only Tuesday.” 
 
 “ Never mind, I must be in Liverpool on Satur- 
 day morning, and on board the ship at twelve 
 
28 
 
 John Brown, 
 
 o’clock of the same day. This afternoon I’m to go 
 to Mr. Skiler again, and he is going to get my few 
 things for me, for he says I’m to go respectable 
 and decently clothed, and not disgrace my sister 
 when I get to America.” 
 
 Well, Tim, you’re the luckiest chap I know ; 
 but I’ve got something to tell you, too \ I’m going 
 to America.” 
 
 “You, John.? No.” 
 
 “ Yes, indeed ; but not on Saturday, Tim, nor 
 for many a Saturday. I’ve got no one to send for 
 me, but I’m going all the same, and I’ve got a job, 
 and begin work this very afternoon.” 
 
 “ You don’t say so ! Well, I am glad, John, and 
 when you come to America you’ll find a friend 
 waiting for you.” 
 
 “Now, Tim, I’m going to ask a favour of you, 
 and I’m not ashamed, for I’ll pay you back some 
 day. I want a bit of dinner ; I haven’t a penny 
 piece, and I can’t go to work without something to 
 eat.” 
 
 “ Come along then, John; don’t stand talking, 
 as if I would hesitate to share my last bit with you. 
 Here take this and get the bread and beer, and I’ll 
 go and get some cold beef or ham.” 
 
 John took the shilling, and soon returned with 
 bread and beer ; Tim brought in a plate of boiled 
 beef, and the friends made a hearty dinner, discuss- 
 ing the while the adventures of the morning. 
 
John Brown. 
 
 29 
 
 At a few minutes to one John was at the new 
 buildings, and ready to begin work. His ‘Hime’^ 
 was taken by the foreman, and he was directed 
 where to begin. 
 
 He was to carry the ddbris of the workmen — the 
 bits of wood, shavings, sawdust, &c.-:-down in 
 sacks, and empty them in the cart which he would 
 find at the door. 
 
 When he descended with his first sackful, he 
 found a man filling the cart from a heap of similar 
 rubbish, which had been evidently carried down 
 from above. He was about to empty his load into 
 the cart, when he was rather roughly stopped by 
 his fellow-labourer. 
 
 Empty the sack here,” said the man. What 
 
 the d 1 are you doing 1 ” 
 
 What I’m told to do,” said John. “ What’s the 
 use of me emptying the sack on the ground for you 
 to shovel up ? ” 
 
 ‘‘’Cause it’s the rule of the association,” the 
 man said ; “ and if you don’t do what others do 
 nobody’ll work with you here — that’s all.” 
 
 “ Oh, it’s the rule of the association, is it ” said 
 John. “ Well, if you’d ’a told me that civil, I don’t 
 know what I might ’a done ; but if you think I’m 
 goin’ to be frightened into the rule of the associa- 
 tion, why yer a little mistaken. Mr. Mason he’s 
 my guv’nor, and I mind no one els’ here.” And so 
 
30 John Brown, 
 
 saying, John shot the sackful of rubbish into the 
 cart. 
 
 The man muttered some imprecations, in which 
 sneak” and “ fool” were audible, but said nothing 
 more at the time, for he had observed the master 
 standing at an open window, where the conversa- 
 tion must have been overheard. John, however, 
 had not seen the master, and was surprised to hear 
 himself called. 
 
 He entered the building, and met the angry looks 
 of two or three workmen before he reached the 
 ' window at which the master was waiting. 
 
 “ I heard the conversation below there,” said he 
 to John, and I just want to tell you, as you are a 
 new hand, that if you don’t want to belong to the 
 association, you needn’t, and that no one here has 
 any right to bully you about it. So long as you do 
 your work to my satisfaction, you’ll receive your 
 pay, and so long as I’ve a job of work to give, you 
 shall have it ; I know though what you’ll have to 
 endure if you stand out for liberty of action — I’ve 
 been through it all, and many a time I came near 
 giving in and falling under the tyranny of Trades 
 Unions ; but, thank God, I had the strength to 
 stand out, and hel*e I am to-day independent. And 
 where are they who made my life miserable with 
 their sneerings and bullying? Why, just where 
 they were then — working by the hour when it suits 
 them, drunk, or in the workhouse ; that’s about 
 
John Bro7un, 
 
 31 
 
 their history. It’s by luck, they say, I’ve got on. 
 Now, young man, try my plan, and you’ll have my 
 luck — work hard, leave drink alone, spend half 
 your earnings on good wholesome food and warm 
 clothing, never spend a shilling unnecessarily, and 
 you’ll soon be pointed at as a man who has had 
 great luck, and pointed at by those who work when 
 it suits them, drink what they like, never deny 
 themselves anything within their reach, and sleep 
 in the Casual when they have no longer the money 
 to pay for a bed.” So saying, Mr. Mason went into 
 another room, and John returned to his work. 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 When he descended to the court his fellow- 
 workman had disappeared; John emptied his 
 sack into the cart and returned for another load. 
 Soon he had filled the cart, and was wondering 
 how it was to be removed, when another cart, 
 drawn by a big Norman horse, and driven by a 
 boy, entered the yard. The boy-driver he knew to 
 be the son of the man who had been shovelling 
 and who had disappeared. 
 
 The boy backed his cart up to the steps of the 
 adjoining house, and was about to unhitch his 
 horse from the cart, and probably to put it in the 
 cart just filled, when a voice from the upper win- 
 dow, upon which “ Office ” was written, called him 
 away. 
 
 John went in search of the master to ask for 
 further orders, as the cart was full, and he did not 
 like to go on filling the other without instructions. 
 He found Mr. Mason, looking harassed and 
 worried. “ Can you drive a horse ? ” he asked 
 John. 
 
John Brown, 33 
 
 “ I can lead the cart-horse, sir, if that’s what you 
 mean,” John said. 
 
 Well, then, take that load of rubbish to 
 
 and shoot it where you see the heap. Then come 
 back and fill the other cart, and do what you can 
 for me to-day. I must get these rooms cleared, 
 and that old fool, Moore, has left and taken his 
 boy off because I didn’t let you do what he told you, 
 and because you are not a member of the ” 
 
 ‘‘All right, sir,” said John, “ I know a chap that 
 will help me in the morning if I cannot get the 
 work done to-day, but I’ll do my best. What ’ll 
 I do with the horse, sir, this evening ? ” 
 
 “ Take the horse and cart to Jarvis’s ; you know 
 Jarvis, the job-master. The carting is his job, but 
 his men have struck, and I don’t know what he is 
 going to do.” 
 
 “Was the boy in Jarvis’s employ?” asked 
 John. 
 
 “Yes, I got him in Jarvis’s yard on the job ; his 
 mother, Moore’s wife, is lying at the hospital these 
 six weeks, nearly kicked to death by that brute of a 
 husband, and he, instead of being locked up and 
 doing penal servitude, is as independent as a lord, 
 and belongs to an association, which ought to 
 admit only respectable men, but as things go now- 
 adays, a drunken blackguard half kills his wife, and 
 is relieved of all the expense of curing and nursing 
 her. He gets work because of the scarcity of 
 
 D 
 
34 
 
 John Brown. 
 
 labour, avails himself of the first opportunity of 
 breeding dissension amongst his fellow- workmen, 
 strikes at the first sign of disaffection, drinks the 
 money which he draws from the club, whilst his 
 family, if he have one, are supported by the parish. 
 It’s all wrong. If the man knew he had to work 
 for his bread or starve, he would work ; but this 
 blessed doctrine of ours that no one must be allowed 
 to starve, even though they decline to work for 
 good wages, is at the root of their independence. 
 I suppose some day things will right themselves.” 
 Thus speaking, as much in soliloquy as address- 
 ng John, Mr. Mason went away, and John re- 
 turned to his work, filling and carting away with a 
 will until the men left off work ; he then drove the 
 horse around to the stables as he had been directed, 
 and finding no one there to receive it, he proceeded 
 to wash the poor beast’s hoofs, and rub him down, 
 when three men entered the yard, two of them 
 inhabitants of Bees’ Buildings, the third a carter, 
 whom he knew to be in the employ of Jarvis. These 
 men came hurriedly up to him and demanded what 
 he was doing there. 
 
 What am I doing here ? ” said John, “ why. I’m 
 doing your work, I believe !” 
 
 “Well, then, you’ll just mind your own business, 
 and leave my work alone,” said the carter ; “ you’re 
 not goin’ to sneak in here as you did at the works 
 this morning, young man. Out of this with you, 
 
John Brown, 35 
 
 and if you come near this yard again, you’ll not 
 leave it so easy.” 
 
 Upon this the two others joined in abuse. 
 ‘‘ Lazy, beggarly, mean sneak, taking the bread out 
 of honest men’s mouths, cringing to the master for 
 favour. They’d teach him to come meddling here.” 
 Oaths and curses, every species of bad language 
 was hurled at poor J ohn, who was about to retire 
 before overpowering numbers, when the master 
 entered the yard. 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 ‘‘ Hallo ! what’s all this about ?” he asked, 
 and what business have you here ? ” — turning to 
 J ohn. 
 
 “Why, sir,” John explained, “Mr. Mason told 
 me to bring around the horse, and when I got here 
 there was no one to take him. So I was rubbing 
 the beast down, when these chaps they came in the 
 yard and began abusing me. I don.’t know what 
 they’re talking about. I’ve done nothing to any of 
 them.” 
 
 “ Oh, ho ! that’s it, is it?” said Jarvis, turning 
 to the angry crowd. “ You have come here to 
 prevent others doing the work you refuse to do 
 yourself. Now, out of this, every one of you, and 
 don’t come back till I send for you. Away with 
 you, or I’ll take means to prevent you troubling 
 me or any one else for some time to come. And 
 you, young man” — addressing John — “can you 
 lend a hand in putting up these horses ? ” 
 
 ‘‘ Yes,” John said ; “ but what’s up ? Where are 
 the men going ? ” 
 
John Browfi, 
 
 37 
 
 “ Oh, on strike, I believe. IVe just come in 
 from Islington, and the news was waiting lor me 
 the men had struck for pay and privileges.” 
 
 ‘‘What, the carters asked John. 
 
 “Yes. I let the horses and carts out on the job 
 to builders. Mason and Gillot, and nearly all the 
 builders in this part have their horses from me 
 and find men to drive them. I used to take the 
 contracts for the carting, but lately I couldn’t do it. 
 The men I employed behaved so badly, I was 
 nearly ruined by having to pay for being behind in 
 fulfilling contracts. I couldn’t get the men to work, 
 and I gave up carting, and now only let the horses 
 to the builders ; but my stable men have got inti- 
 mate with the carters and they’re gone too. I’m 
 sick and tired of it. If I agreed to their demands 
 to-day, they’d make fresh ones to-morrow, and I 
 should be ruined. If I stand out it’s about the 
 same thing.” 
 
 “ Why don’t you let them go, and get a fresh lot 
 of hands ?” asked John, who was the while busily 
 helping with the horses. “ There’s plenty as would 
 only be too glad to aim a day’s wages.” 
 
 “ Where are they ? ” said the master. 
 
 “ Why,” said J ohn, “ last week I went to the 
 workhouse to see Tom Wood that is laid up in the 
 infirmar}^, and I saw six men and four boys waiting 
 to begin workus work at tenpence a-day. Surely 
 they wouldn’t break stones at tenpence a-day when . 
 
38 John Brown. 
 
 they can earn sixpence an hour if the work was 
 plenty.” 
 
 Did you ever work at workus work ? ” enquired 
 Mr. Jarvis. 
 
 ‘‘ Yes, once for two days.” 
 
 ‘‘ Well, how was that ?” 
 
 ‘‘ Well, you see, the old woman got into a row 
 and was locked up, and the old man was in the 
 infirmary, and I had to get work for a couple of 
 days.” 
 
 What did you earn ? ” 
 
 ‘‘ Oh, tenpence a-day.” 
 
 “Well, youYe working now for better wages, 
 aren't you ” 
 
 “ Oh yes ; I have sixpence an hour.” 
 
 “Well, then, you know all about it. You might 
 have had work and the same wages this three 
 years ; but you haven’t been brought up to work, 
 or to think any advantage could be got by honest 
 labour. You have been content to live on what 
 others chose to give you, or to add to their bounty 
 by your only trade — lying, begging, and stealing, 
 and if that failed you for a time, why there was the 
 dear old Mother Workhouse to fall back upon, and 
 though you might be compelled to break stones for 
 a day or two till trade in your own line grew better, 
 it was easier to do this perhaps at the moment 
 than to get up a new story or to help yourself to a 
 trifle from one of the shop doors. Oh, don’t be 
 
John Brown, 
 
 39 
 
 indignant, John Brown, I know all about it — I was 
 brought up to the same trade, and never earnt an 
 honest shilling till after I was twenty-four. Then 
 I got to work by a sort of miracle, and, thank God, 
 I never turned on my luck and good fortune.’^ 
 
 Well, you are about right, sir,’^ said John, who 
 had shown some indignation at hearing himself 
 classed with liars, beggars, and thieves, until com- 
 forted by Mr. Jarvis’s assurance that his own 
 education and experience had been the same. 
 “ You are about right ; and I’m going to try to cut 
 the buildings, and the whole set of them, and get 
 away out of the country, but I don’t know if I shall 
 be able to do it. It’s hard to get enough money, 
 and harder to keep it. The moment the father 
 and mother know I’ve got a few shillings together, 
 they’ll never give me a moment’s peace till they’ve 
 got it out of me. If I could get work away from 
 London, or if I could get some help from the guar- 
 dians, I would go away to-morrow. I’m that tired 
 of it, sir, and sick at the thought of what my home 
 is like, I’d rather throw myself over the bridge 
 than go back to it. And yet I know if they got 
 hold of me and got me on the spree, I wouldn’t 
 care a straw for anything but more drink. I don’t 
 know what to do, sir. What with the difficulty of 
 getting up early and beginning a hard day’s work, 
 when Pve been accustomed to turn out in the 
 middle of the day like a pig from a filthy nest and 
 
40 
 
 John Brown. 
 
 begin the day as I began yesterday—with drink. 
 What with that and the men being all down on me 
 as they wxre to-day at the works, and having no 
 decent place to go to for a lodging, and not a soul 
 to speak to if I cut my old pals, I don’t know how 
 Pm to get on, and my heart is down when I think 
 of what’s before me.” 
 
 Well, look here, John ; now just do what I tell 
 you,” said Mr. Jarvis. “Ask Mason to give you a 
 job on his Hampstead works. Go there, work hard 
 and save your money, cut every one of your old 
 friends, and don’t go near the guardians for help 
 to get away. You can earn 20^. a week, and live 
 well on io.y. Speak frankly to Mason as you have 
 done to me, and he’ll help you all he can ; and for 
 the present, why,. there’s a good, comfortable room 
 up there over that stable. Just keep an eye over 
 the horses, and come down if you think there’s any- 
 thing wrong. You’ll hear every noise from the 
 stables up there. You’ll find a bed and a stove, 
 and all you want, and here’s a half-crown for your 
 help this evening.” 
 
 John hesitated at taking the money, though he 
 had not a penny in the world ; but Jarvis assured 
 him that his services were worth this, and more, 
 and the half-crown was thankfully accepted. 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 In the short experience he had in the calling of 
 an honest man, nothing surprised John more than 
 the consideration and kindness shown him by those 
 two employers. Here was Mr. Jarvis talking in a 
 friendly way, as Mr. Mason had done, giving him 
 good counsel, and putting him in a position of 
 trust, and that after showing himself thoroughly 
 acquainted with his history. It was beyond John’s 
 comprehension, and a contradiction to the stories 
 he had always heard of the unkindness of masters. 
 
 John took possession of his snug room with a , 
 grateful heart, and after making what little arrange- 
 ments he could for the night, he locked everything 
 up, and, with the keys in his pocket and a sense of 
 proprietorship new to him, he went in search of 
 Tim. 
 
 When he reached Tim’s door, he found it 
 locked. A child in the next room informed him 
 that his friend had only just gone out to get some 
 things for his supper. John took a seat in the 
 neighbouring room, where one child had been left 
 
42 
 
 John Brown. 
 
 in charge of two others still younger. The little 
 nurse, not ten years old, had wrapped her two baby 
 brothers in the only covering the one bed pos- 
 sessed, and seated them in a corner, where the little 
 ones kept up a low, piteous whining, whilst the poor 
 little woman was trying in vain to light the few 
 black cinders in the grate. 
 
 “ Whereas your mother ?” John asked. 
 
 “ I don’t know,” said the child in a hoarse 
 whisper. She went away this morning with Molly 
 Brown. She said she’d come back drickly., and 
 bring somethin’ for my tf'oat., and some milk for 
 Tommy and Joey. But she never come, and we’ve 
 not had nothing to eat all day but just a bit of dry 
 bread.” 
 
 “Here,” he said, “run to the baker’s and get a 
 loaf, and stop at Munn’s and get twopennyworth of 
 milk, and come back in a minute. Now, mind, 
 don’t stay, and bring me back the change. And 
 look,” he cried to the child, who was already half- 
 way down the stairs, “ if you see my mother, or 
 the old man, or any of them, mind, not a word that 
 you have seen me.” 
 
 “ Never fear,” said the precocious child, who soon 
 returned with the bread and milk and the intelli- 
 gence that Tim Pearson was coming up with the 
 supper. 
 
 John rose as he heard his friend’s step on the 
 stairs. But who was this gentleman with his arm 
 
John Brown. 
 
 43 
 
 full of paper parcels ? Surely not Tim Pearson ! 
 But, yes, it was, sure enough. 
 
 Why, Tim, man,” he exclaimed, ‘‘what’s come 
 to you ? ” 
 
 “You may well ask that, John. Faith, I didn’t 
 know myself when all was done, and I looked at 
 meself in the looking-glass. But, come on in. 
 We’ll have a bit of supper together, and I’ll tell you 
 all about it. I brought everything with me, for I 
 don’t want them harpies to know I’m here if I can 
 help it. Every one of them would be up to-night to 
 take me out for a glass to drink to my good luck ; 
 and then, if I went with them, and they once got 
 fairly hold of me, good-bye to America and my poor 
 sister’s money.” 
 
 The friends locked and bolted the door, made up 
 a bright fire, arranged the contents of the paper 
 parcels on the table — bread, cheese, and cold ham ; 
 and when the kettle boiled and the tea was made, 
 they sat down to a more comfortable meal than 
 either of them had often partaken of. 
 
CHAPTER XL 
 
 ‘‘And now,” said John, “ tell me what happened 
 to-day. Tell me your news.” 
 
 “ Well,” said Tim, “ when I went to Mr. Skiler 
 to-day, the first thing he said was, ‘ Timothy,’ says 
 he, ‘ I’m glad to see you punctual, but I’m not 
 quite ready for you,’ says he. ‘ Now do you go out 
 and buy half-a-dozen good plain shirts,’ says he, 
 and a pair of good strong boots, and six pairs of 
 socks, and some sensible neckties,’ says he. ‘ Then 
 do you go and take a bath, and get shaved, or get 
 shaved first,’ says he ; ‘ get your hair cut, and take 
 with you to the bath,’ says he, ‘ a clean change, and 
 when you have had your bath, why put on the 
 clean new things, and do what you like with the 
 old ones, and then come back here to me.’ And 
 with that, he gave me three sovereigns, ‘ and send 
 the things you buy here,’ says he, ‘ to this address,’ 
 and he gave me a card. Well, away I went. I 
 asked a cabby I met — one that I knew — where I 
 could best get the things, and he told me. So I 
 went away. I got six of these beautiful shirts for 
 24s., the socks for 6s., and the boots, and beauties. 
 
John Brown. 
 
 45 
 
 for 22S. Then I bought this tie, and hat. Mr. 
 Skiler hadn’t mentioned a hat, but mine wasn’t 
 fit to wear with the other finery, so I bought this 
 one for is, Sd., and a good one it is, too ; and I 
 went away and was shaved. I took the chaiige.^ as 
 Mr. Skiler had called it, and after I had me hair 
 cut and a shave, I went away to the bath. 
 
 “ Well, John, I didn’t know meself when it was 
 all done, and I had put on the clean things. Sorry 
 I was to hev to put on the old coat and trowsers, 
 but when I went back to Mr. Skiler he soon altered 
 all that ; into a cab he got, and me with him, and 
 away we went to a grand tailor’s, where he had me 
 soon dressed in this suit ; and here I am, John, 
 and ar’n’t they just beauties ; ” and Tim got up, 
 and turned round, that the general effect might be 
 admired. 
 
 ‘‘ I dar’n’t come back here by daylight ; I knew 
 I’d have to stand treat all round. I’ve promised 
 the master not to drink a drop till I see me sister 
 in America, and I mean to keep me word, too.” 
 
 It won’t be me, Tim, that’ll make you break 
 your promise. I don’t think either you or I will 
 ask for better than this tea to-night. I wish I was 
 always sure of a comfortable meal like this.” 
 
 The friends sat over their simple repast, and 
 discussed their prospects ; John relating his ad- 
 ventures of the day, until ten o’clock, when they 
 parted. 
 
46 
 
 John Brown. 
 
 As Tim’s door opened, and John was about to 
 enter the dimly-lighted passage, loud voices and 
 coarse oaths were heard in the room opposite. 
 
 “There’s that old d 1, Mag Hussey, at them 
 
 poor children again,” said Tim ; “ poor little 
 wretches, I wonder they live ; she leaves them all 
 day, and sometimes for days together, and drinks 
 every penny she can beg, borrow, or steal ; and 
 then she comes back and beats them if she finds 
 nothing in the house that she can pawn for more 
 drink. The poor little girl had a pair of shoes 
 given her at Christmas, and the child brought 
 them to me, and hid them here for days together ; 
 but at last the mother found it out, and beat the 
 little creature, and pawned the shoes. There, 
 listen to that ! ” 
 
 Piercing cries of “ Oh, mother, don’t, don’t,” 
 came from the room, baby voices mingled with the 
 shrieks of supplication, and the loud imprecations 
 of a strong female voice. John opened the door, 
 and strode into the room. 
 
 “ What are you doing with the children ? ” he 
 
 said ; “ do you want to kill them, ye old fool. 
 
 Sure, the police are in the court below.” 
 
 This intelligence had the desired effect. The 
 woman threw the little quivering child from her, 
 and turned her besotted face towards the visitor. 
 
 “ It’s only that bad boy Mickey of mine, Mr. 
 Brown,” she said. “He desarves what he gets 
 
John Brown, 
 
 47 
 
 and a look from her bloodshot eyes sent the child 
 shrinking behind his sister. 
 
 The girl, the same to whom John had given the 
 money early in the evening, was about to speak, 
 when a hoarse cough prevented. The cough 
 and the whooping sound of the respiration was 
 something shocking to hear. “ What is the 
 matter.'^” John kindly asked the child. 
 
 ‘‘ I don’t know,” she hoarsely whispered. “ My 
 throat has been bad all day, and now I think Tm 
 choking. I think I’ll die, Mr. Brown.” This was 
 said, or gasped, by the child as she tottered toward 
 the bed. 
 
 “ It’s the croup !” said Tim, who had followed 
 John into the room; “it’s the croup! Run for 
 help, John, or the child’ll die. And you, you old 
 brute, it’s beating the poor half-starved children 
 you are, instead of trying to save your child’s life. 
 Here, take this, and go for wood and coals. Run 
 for the dear life, or the child’ll die 1” 
 
 The mother took the money, set up a howl of 
 drunken sorrow, such as one always hears on like 
 occasions from the low Irish, and disappeared. 
 Where Where do you, my friends, think she 
 went? Even John Brown, with his experience of 
 life in Blanque Court, did not suspect that she would 
 go to the public-house— to which she certainly did 
 go ; and the shilling’s worth of fiery gin she drank 
 made her insensible of grief or sorrow, when, at 
 
48 
 
 John Brown, 
 
 twelve o’clock, she was half carried by a neighbour 
 to her miserable room where her child was dying. 
 
 John and Tim were still there. The doctor had 
 been and gone. “There was no hope,” he said. 
 Ah, there was every hope. Hope that the poor 
 suffering, struggling bit of humanity would soon 
 hnd rest — soon be beyond the tortures of fear, 
 cold, and hunger, and escape the life of shameless 
 degradation which had brutalized her mother. 
 
 “Oh, Tim,” John said, an hour later, when all 
 was over, and the friends were walking toward 
 Jarvis’s Yard, “Oh, Tim, what a hell upon earth 
 you are leaving. I’m sick, and that low, when I 
 think I mayn’t be able to get away too. Oh, Tim, 
 when you get to America don’t forget me.; get 
 someone to write for you, and tell me what life is 
 like there. If it’s like this I’d sooner drown my- 
 self than go on with it. I can’t get them poor 
 children out of my head. And the dying child 
 thinking of them when she was at the worst, and 
 saying, what would become of them ! and the 
 mother lying beastly drunk ! Well, the child has 
 gone, anyway ; and while I’ve a penny, and stay 
 in the neighbourhood. I’ll share it with the two 
 poor creatures that’s left. Good-night, Tim, and 
 thank you kindly for all you’ve done for me.” 
 
 “ Good-night, John. Don’t fear that I’ll forget 
 you wherever I go ; and, if you can get leave. I’ll 
 come and sleep with you to-morrow night ; for to- 
 
John Brown. 
 
 49 
 
 morrow I’m giving up my room, and I’m to send 
 my box away to Liverpool on Friday morning. I 
 keep a small box to go with me, but my box of 
 clothes I send off to be put on the ship on Friday.’ 
 All right, Tim ; I’ll ask Mr. Jarvis’s leave, and 
 he isn’t the man to refuse to let me have a friend 
 up in my little room. Good-night.” 
 
CHAPTER XII. 
 
 The next morning Mr. Jarvis had reached the 
 Yard before John was awake. He was aroused by 
 the master calling up for the keys of the stables. 
 
 John arose, dropped the key down from the 
 window to Mr. Jarvis ; then hastily dressed and 
 descended. “ I’m sorry Pm late, sir,’^ he said 
 ‘‘ and I hope you’ll not think it’ll happen again. 
 I went to see my friend Tim Pearson last night, 
 him as I told you was going to America, and a 
 little girl in the next room to Tim’s, a child I 
 knew, was taken bad, and I run for the doctor ; 
 and Tim and me stayed there till the last of the 
 poor creature. Her mother was brought in dead 
 drunk, and the place wasn’t decent for a poor 
 dying child. We stayed on, sir ; and it was past 
 one o’clock when I got here. I looked at the 
 horses, everyone of them, before I turned in.” 
 
 Mr. Jarvis regarded him, John thought, incre- 
 dulously while he recounted the little history, but 
 said little. And when half-past five came, and 
 John was obliged to leave off in the stables to get 
 ready for his other work, the job-master invited 
 
John Brown, 
 
 5 ^ 
 
 him to go round with him to his lodgings and 
 share his breakfast. 
 
 A good hot breakfast of coffee, bread, and bacon 
 awaited them in Mr. Jarvis’s comfortable room. 
 There was a little stove instead of the customary 
 grate, a bright fire burned in it. On the top the 
 coffee-pot boiled and bubbled ; beside this, at a 
 little distance, a saucepan with milk, and between 
 this the pan of sliced bacon, fried and frizzled. On 
 the table there were cups and saucers, sugar and 
 bread. 
 
 ‘‘ I took this room from a Frenchman,” Mr. 
 Jarvis said. “He had it fitted up with the stove, 
 and he taught me how to cook my breakfast and 
 how to make coffee, and I’ll warrant you’ll never 
 taste better coffee, though I do say it. The French 
 know how to live and make the best of every- 
 thing.” 
 
 John certainly did enjoy his breakfast that morn- 
 ing, and when it was finished helped Mr. Jarvis to 
 put away and lock up the remnants. 
 
 “ The lodging-housekeeper would wash up,” he 
 said, “ and do the room.” 
 
 “ Now,” said John, at parting, “ I’ve one favour 
 more to ask, sir. It’s the last night my friend will 
 be here, and if I might have him to sleep with me 
 I’d be very thankful.” 
 
 ^ “All right,” said Mr. Jarvis, “ I have no special 
 objections ; but I’ll tell you at noon. I’ll see you 
 
 E 2 
 
 
5 2 JoJm Brotvn. 
 
 at Mason’s then ; good-day,” and John went away 
 to his work. 
 
 It was so dark when he reached the buildings 
 that he could scarcely find his way about the place, 
 and work was out of the question, even his work, 
 much less the work of the mechanics. However, 
 much as he felt on the subject of beginning work 
 before there was light sufficient to do it, he deter- 
 mined to hold his peace, and, if possible, avoid 
 more unpleasantness from his fellow-workmen. 
 
 He was groping his way about a dark outer room, 
 where he knew his work would be for that day, 
 when a voice called to him the information that it 
 was eight o’clock. 
 
 “ All right,” said John, “ I just heard it strike ; 
 what’s up ? ” 
 
 “ Why, breakfast,” said the voice ; ain’t you got 
 none ” 
 
 “ Oh ! breakfast ? ” said John, “ thank you. I had 
 mine before I came.” 
 
 ‘‘ Oh, oh ! ” said the man, “ so you ’av ’ad your 
 breakfast, ’ave ye, I thought so. So you’re goin’ to 
 come here an’ teach us all our dooty, are ye? 
 Well, I never thought, not even in Bees’ Buildings, 
 to find such a sneak. You’ll do, you will. The 
 gov’nor, old Ironsides, he’ll permote you, he will ; 
 yer such a honest, hindustrous chap, and never 
 wor locked up, never : and yer family, they’re so 
 respectable, an’ ye helped Jarvis with his horses 
 
John Brown. 
 
 53 
 
 last night, didn’t you, an’ had Condy’s room to 
 sleep in, hadn’t ye, but Ccndy he’ll settle that with 
 ye before night. I’ll warrant.” So saying the man 
 retired, and John heard loud laughter and applause 
 from the other men, who had assembled for their 
 breakfast. 
 
 It now became sufficiently light for John to get 
 to work, to which he set with a willing hand but a 
 heavy heart, and the morning passed without fur- 
 ther annoyance. 
 
 At noon Mr. Mason called him to the “office,” 
 and gave him a message from Jarvis, that he was 
 quite welcome to have his friend, Tim Pearson, 
 with him for the night. 
 
 “ I suppose, sir,” John said, “ he wanted time to 
 find was my friend a decent chap ? He’s all that, 
 and no one can say a word against him.” 
 
 “I think,” said Mr. Mason, “that Jarvis pro- 
 bably found out that your story was true about the 
 cause of your being so late last night. He told me 
 he heard you and your friend had been with the 
 poor child that died of neglect.’' 
 
 “Oh, that was it,” said John. “Well, I can’t 
 wonder nobody believes anything we say, though I 
 didn’t think Mr. Jarvis doubted the story I told 
 him. We couldn’t leave the poor child. Tim gave 
 the mother a shilling to run out and get something 
 to give the poor creature, and the mother never 
 come back till she was carried in dead drunk. The 
 
54 
 
 John Brown. 
 
 child as died was the eldest of six, two of them are 
 in the cripples’ home, and one in the home for in- 
 curables, though I believe they were born all right 
 in mind and limb. The mother maimed them in 
 her drunken fits, and she’ll probably do the same 
 for the two poor children left her. It was the cries 
 of one of them she was beating, that took us in last 
 night.” 
 
 ‘‘How dreadful these things are,” Mr. Mason 
 said. “ It sickens one to hear of the torture to 
 which the children of vicious parents are subjected, 
 and they nearly always have children. What 
 swarms of poor, half-starved little creatures you 
 have in the buildings.” 
 
 “ Oh, sir,” John said, “ it’s wonderful what a lot 
 there is of them, and scarcely a healthy child of 
 the lot, but they grow up mostly somehow or 
 another. I remember once when I an’ another boy 
 in the buildings were the only two that had nothing 
 the matter with us. Some had broken backs, some 
 crippled legs, or twisted arms, some deaf, one dumb, 
 and nearly all had bad eyes. Yet there were few 
 deaths, though swarms of children.” 
 
 “ So much for the theory of poverty and vice 
 being a check on population,” said Mr. Mason. 
 “You’ll hardly believe it, but I went to a lecture 
 once in a great hall, where a man was lecturing to a 
 grand assembly, and he told them that if the people 
 all became civilised and prosperous, they would 
 
John Brown, 
 
 55 
 
 multiply so fast that there would be no food for 
 them in a certain number of years, and that the 
 principal check on population was poverty and vice. 
 I could hardly believe my ears, but he said that, 
 and afterwards I got a book he mentioned, and 
 there it was sure enough set down as a law.” 
 
 “Is that the reason, then,” John asked, almost 
 fiercely, “that they keeps us paupers, that they do 
 everything to keep us as we are ? ” 
 
 “ I don’t know that, John, I only know that no 
 one who listened to the lecturer, except myself, 
 gave any signs of surprise.” 
 
 “ Oh, well,” John said, “I suppose there is a God 
 above us who surely didn’t make one half the world 
 to serve as a stepping-stone to help the other half 
 over every trouble. Please God, sir. I’ll be away 
 from the country and all belonging to me this day 
 twelve-month.” 
 
 “ I will do all I can to help you,” Mr. Mason 
 said, “and for the present, you can go to work 
 after this week on the Hampstead job.” 
 
CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 John’s heart bounded with delight at the pros- 
 pect of getting away from the taunts of the men 
 with whom he was at present working, and who 
 knew all about his former life and family. He 
 went away and got a bit of dinner, and the after- 
 noon passed quickly. When he left off work he 
 went and helped Tim with his box, and the friends 
 passed the evening and night together. Tim’s 
 box was opened, and its contents inspected and 
 admired, and many a plan was made for the 
 future. 
 
 I’m going now, Tim,” John said, ‘‘to take the 
 first move toward America. On Monday I go to 
 Hampstead to the other works, and it’ll not be 
 long till I see you again. The master is that kind 
 and considerate, and takes such an interest in me, 
 and Jarvis too ; I never thought, Tim, to find such 
 friends in the task masters that I’ve heard abused 
 since I could understand abuse. I wonder, Tim, 
 how it is so many poor lads go to the bad believing 
 that there’s no use in trying to do better. There’s 
 the preachers and the Society people always talking 
 
Juhn Brown. 
 
 57 
 
 r?bout us, and trying to talk us into a better life ; 
 but who cares for words ? Sure we all suspect 
 these people — God knows of what ; but the lowest 
 one amongst us thinks the clergy and the Society 
 people have something to gain by our reformation. 
 I can’t understand it at all. Your clergy are better, 
 Tim. The Catholic clergy understand us better 
 somehow.” 
 
 “ I don’t know that, John. They visit us oftener, 
 I know, and the convents are very good for the 
 poor ; but sure the Sisters care nothing for us 
 ourselves. They’ve got their eyes fixed on a great 
 crown of glory, and they use their charity to the 
 poor as one of the biggest stepping-stones to it. 
 The priests are the same ; they never try to make 
 us happier here. They bind themselves to miser- 
 able promises, and look always away from this 
 world for happiness, and are always abusing the 
 happiness they have turned their backs on. They 
 never try to civilize us. It’s always the same story 
 with them. We may live like pigs, wallowing in 
 our filth. It’s no sin, they’ll tell you, so long as you 
 go regularly to your priest and attend mass. Sure 
 they could teach brute beasts the road to a church, 
 and if we. are never taught anything better than 
 them, and nobody tells or teaches us how to think, 
 how are we better than they ? ” 
 
 ‘‘ Well, Tim, I suppose someone understands all 
 this. There’ll be a terrible day of reckoning to 
 
John Brown, 
 
 S8 
 
 them that could make it all clear to us, and don’t 
 open their lips. I’m very down, Tim, when I t’dnk 
 of your going — leastways, of myself being left here 
 alone.” 
 
 “Well, John, I’m sorry to leave you. But 
 you’re not like me. You have your father and 
 mother here ; I have nobody that’ll miss me but 
 yourself.” 
 
 “What’s father or mother, Tim, if they’re like 
 mine } Why, I never remember seeing either of 
 them, that they weren’t drunk, or like fiends, 
 because there was no more drink to be got ; why, 
 all the children, ten of us in all, every one but 
 me, died in their infancy, of abuse ; and I would 
 have died, if they could have found any means 
 short of knocking out my brains, that would kill 
 me. I’ve been thrown down stairs from top to 
 bottom, and had my arm and collar-bone broke ; 
 I’ve been removed in the old woman’s arms — 
 her that kept me for sixpence a day before I could 
 walk ; I’ve been nearly scalded to death sleeping 
 on the floor before the grate, the old woman drunk, 
 of course, tipped the teakittle of boiling water on 
 me ; and I remember when our little sister Nelly 
 was burnt to death : she was the fourth that was 
 murdered by the mother in drink. Twice I was 
 near being burnt to death : once when poor Tommy 
 — you remember Tommy? — well, him and me 
 were locked up together in the room, whilst the 
 
John Brown, 
 
 59 
 
 mother went away, as usual, on her begging expe- 
 dition. N elly was the baby then ; and the child 
 was drugged in the morning, and carried out as 
 stock in trade, to excite the pity of the passers-by, 
 with her poor pinched face ; while Tommy and me 
 were locked up for the day, with a loaf of bread, 
 and some brown sugar, as our only food. It had 
 got nearly dark, and the fire had gone out, and 
 Tommy wanted some bread soaked in hot water, 
 with sugar in it ; so I broke up an old box, and lit 
 the fire with a lot of paper, and some straw from 
 Tommy’s and my bed, and this made a great 
 blaze. All at once we heard a roar up the chimney, 
 then we saw a red glare outside the window, and 
 sparks of fire flying through the air. We lived in 
 Thomas’s-place then, just behind where we are 
 now living. The front houses hid the one we were 
 in, for it was lower ; and it was sometime before 
 the fire was seen ; and then we heard the engines 
 tearing into the court. The water dashed against 
 our window, and poured down the chimney. There 
 were we locked in. The window was too high for 
 me to get poor Tommy up to it, or we should both 
 have jumped from it. You know Tommy was a 
 cripple. Well, I made all the noise I could at the 
 door, but nobody came. The poor child shrieked 
 at first, but after a minute or two sat down on the 
 floor, with his little hand pressed against his heart, 
 and his big blue eyes rolling up, I thought, with 
 
Go 
 
 John Brown, 
 
 fright. I went and sat down beside him on the 
 floor. I was that frightened myself, that I could 
 hardly speak, and, of course, I was crying ; but 
 I made myself as brave as I could, for the child 
 had once had a fit, and I feared the fright might 
 bring on another. So I took his little head on my 
 shoulder, and put my arm around him, and then 
 I found him gasping for breath. He tried to speak, 
 poor little man ; but all I could make out was, ‘ Is 
 I dyin’, John?^ Well, the room got darker and 
 darker. I had no candle ; I flew to the door. I 
 tore at the lock, till my poor little fingers bled ; 
 I shrieked, but no one heard me. At last I grew 
 dizzy, and fell down beside the little brother. Ah ! 
 he wasn’t there then, Tim. He’d gone away beyond 
 bolts and bars, as I fell my hand touched his cold 
 cheek, and 1 heard a smothered gasp. I knew 
 nothing more after that, till I awoke ten days after- 
 ward, as if from a dream, in Hospital. I 
 
 thought it was Heaven I had gone to — a clean bed, 
 soft pillows, fresh air, and the songs of birds 
 coming through the open window ; sweet voices, 
 and gentle words, and kind faces all around me 
 — that’s w'hat I saw and heard when I came to 
 myself in — — Hospital. 
 
 “‘Is this Heaven, ma’am?’ I asked a lady, 
 standing near me. 
 
 “‘No, my dear, she said; ‘this is the Chil- 
 dren’s Hospital. You have been very ill ; but 
 
John Brown, 6 1 
 
 now if you keep quite quiet, you will soon be 
 well; 
 
 “ ‘ Will I be sent away, when Pm better, ma’am ?’ 
 says I. 
 
 “ ‘ Yes, my dear, directly you are better you shall 
 go home; 
 
 Home, Tim ! She little knew what it was she was 
 promising me, but the word brought back the terrible 
 scene of my last night at ho77ie^ and I grew dizzy and 
 fell back on my pillow. 
 
 “ Weeks I lay there ill, and at last one of the ladies 
 as came to nurse asked leave and took me to her 
 own house at Barnet. It was there I lived for 
 nearly two years, her teaching me to read and 
 write, and everything I know. She was an angel, 
 Tim, if ever there was one on the earth. But at 
 last the mother came and claimed wages for me, 
 and, of course, I was ’arnin’ nothing. I went to 
 school all day, and in the evening Mrs. Bennett, 
 that was the lady’s name, taught me things they 
 didn’t teach at school ; and all I ever had to do was 
 to carry up the little sticks of wood to the upper 
 rooms, for she always burnt wood upstairs, and in 
 summer I helped her in her little garden. Well, 
 the mother took me away and brought me up to 
 her own trade. But, Tim, I am as sure as I sit 
 here, that it’s the two years’ experience I had in 
 the house of a Christian lady, that gives me the 
 longing to leave this other life behind me. There 
 
62 
 
 John Brown, 
 
 now, Tim, you’re dying with sleep, and IVe made 
 you as gloomy as myself. Good-night, and God 
 bless you.” 
 
 ‘‘Good-night, John, and the same to you,” and 
 the two young men betook themselves to their 
 humble but comfortable beds of clean straw. 
 
CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 The next morning the friends parted, and John 
 said adieu to Tim less gloomily than either had 
 anticipated. Tim was soon on his way to America, 
 via Liverpool, and John returned to his work. The 
 remaining time of his stay in Mr. Jarvis’s yard was 
 made as comfortable as the job-master could 
 manage, but the men who were still on strike did 
 all they could to annoy and vex him, his fellow- 
 workmen at the new buildings never spoke to him, 
 and he constantly heard sneering remarks con- 
 cerning himself and his two friends and employers. 
 However, he had now a very short time to be with 
 them, and at last the Saturday noon came to him, 
 he received his pay and took leave of his tor- 
 mentors. He felt lonely and depressed at losing 
 the friendly support of the two employers, but the 
 thought of turning his back upon his old associa- 
 tions comforted him, and he at once turned his 
 steps in the direction of Hampstead. His expenses 
 during the week had been paid by the money he 
 earned after working hours, and when he arrived at 
 Hampstead, he had nearly his entire three and a 
 
64 
 
 John Brown. 
 
 half days’ wages ; with this he bought a change of 
 under-clothing and some necessary articles of 
 toilet, and arrived at the address given him by 
 Mr. Mason, with a small bundle, all his worldly 
 goods, tied up in a coloured cotton handkerchief. 
 The house to which he was directed was a labour- 
 ing man’s lodging-house, kept by the foreman of 
 the works, to whom Mr. Mason had given John a 
 line of introduction and recommendation. The 
 foreman was at home and received him kindly, and 
 after a few civil words of welcome, conducted him 
 to the room where he was to sleep in company 
 with six other men. 
 
 “You had best take this bed here in the corner,” 
 said the master of the house. “You’ll be out of 
 the way of the men coming in at night, and as I 
 suppose you know, they don’t often come in sober. 
 If you have money or anything valuable you’d 
 best take it down stairs and give it to my Missus, 
 and she’ll lock it up. When you’re ready to come 
 down, you’ll find us in the room we’ve just left.” 
 
 Poor John had no valuables, as we know. So, 
 depositing his bundle on the bed indicated, he fol- 
 lowed the host down-stairs. On the landing at the 
 top of the staircase a great flaring jet of gas burned, 
 showing the dirty condition of everything near. In 
 the room, smelling of tobacco, beer, and soap-suds, 
 John found a number of men assembling round a 
 bare, dirty table, where several pots of beer and 
 
John Br(nun. 
 
 65 
 
 some plates and dishes showed signs of an ap- 
 proaching , meal. As the men seated themselves 
 at the table, they, one and all, produced from their 
 pockets, or from greasy-looking bundles, small 
 brown-paper parcels containing slices of ham or 
 beef, and some bread and cheese. The men sat 
 down with their hats on ; few used plates or dishes ; 
 a pocket-knife served for cutlery, and they all drank 
 beer from the several pewter mugs. A woman at 
 the far end of the room was washing clothes, and 
 the steam from her tub mingled unpleasantly with 
 the other odours in the room. Beyond the washing- 
 tub John saw what he took to be a bed ; but even 
 with his experience in Bees’ Buildings, he could 
 scarcely believe any human being would attempt to 
 sleep in such an atmosphere. 
 
 He had sat down on a bench near the table, at 
 the end nearest the door, whilst the master of the 
 house had gone to speak to the woman. John was 
 wondering how the men came by their supper — 
 whether they brought it in or were supplied by the 
 master, when he was relieved by the foreman re- 
 turning and asking, Will you take your meals 
 with us, or will you bring in what you want } ” 
 
 “ Oh, if you please, I would like to have them 
 with you ; or if that’s not convenient, I’ll go out for 
 what I want,” said John. 
 
 “ That’s as you please,” the foreman replied. 
 “ You can get your beer from the ‘ King’s Arms,’ 
 
 F 
 
66 
 
 John Brown. 
 
 there across the street ; and any meat you want at 
 Mosses, around the corner. But perhaps it will be 
 best for you to take what you want with my missus 
 and me, as you are, Mr. Mason says in his note, not 
 acquainted with London ways.” 
 
 John was rather surprised to hear this piece of 
 information, but he knew Mr. Mason had an object 
 in making such a statement, so he said nothing to 
 contradict it. So he simply answered that he would 
 be glad of the arrangement proposed ; and then 
 ventured to ask how long the work in Hampstead 
 would last. 
 
 “ The buildings are to be finished in September, 
 possession to be given the owner on the 29th ; but 
 what with strikes and holidays, and men dropping 
 off work, and one thing and another, I don't believe 
 the work will be done on the 29th of October.” 
 What has old ‘ Flintskin ’ to pay if the buildings 
 are not finished up to contract ? ” asked one of the 
 men at the table. 
 
 ‘‘ Oh, nothing,” replied the foreman. ‘‘He had 
 strike and other protection clauses in the contract, 
 ril warrant he has taken care, of himself,” the 
 man said. “ I wish it was fifty pounds a day he 
 would have to pay. Fd help the owners to a few 
 fifties.” 
 
 “ Why ? ” 
 
 At the question asked by John, several men who 
 had hitherto paid little attention to what was going 
 
John Brow 71 , 67 
 
 on, turned round, and regarded the questioner 
 sharply. 
 
 “ ‘ Why ” said the man who had spoken — ‘‘ why 
 you must be a duffer to ask that ! 
 
 I don’t know that I’m more of a duffer than 
 some others,” John said ; but all the same, as it’s 
 so easy to answer what you seem to understand so 
 well, I make bold to ask you again why you would 
 be glad to bring loss on your employer ” 
 
 Oh, you do, do you ?” the man replied. ‘‘ Well, 
 then, Mr. Lofty, it’s because my employer, as you 
 call him, grinds us poor men down like slaves, that 
 he may pile up money ; because whilst we poor 
 men do his work, he gets the gain and the credit ; 
 and when the work’s done, little he cares for the 
 poor working-man that has made his fortune for 
 him — him makin’ his bargain that at a certain 
 time, day, and hour he’ll have the work done 
 that’s to be ground out of the sinews of poor 
 men. Let him, and the likes of him, make his 
 bargains : me, and the likes of me, will help to 
 break them.” 
 
 The speaker was an Irishman, whose eloquent 
 orations were of frequent occurrence, and his fellow- 
 workmen laughed, and cheered this outburst. But 
 John became really puzzled, and desirous of know- 
 ing if, behind the seeming interest of Mr. Mason, 
 there lay hidden tyranny and selfishness, so, as he 
 observed that the men were all amused, and not 
 
 F 2 
 
68 
 
 John Brown. 
 
 likely to be offended at any question he put to his 
 Irish opponent, he quietly asked — 
 
 How did the master get the means and the power 
 of ‘ grinding,^ as you call it, the poor working-man?’^ 
 “ How do I know that ? Bad luck to Kim ! ” 
 said Pat, ‘‘ I suppose he got /Ae means and the 
 power as others before him got it — by money.” 
 
 “ But how did he come by the money ?” 
 
 “ How do I know ! Stole it from the sweat of 
 our brow, like the rest of them. And to see him 
 goin’ about with the airs of a gentleman, and giving 
 his orders like a lord — him as was a labourer’s son, 
 and brought up in a charity school, if all one hears 
 is true ! ” 
 
 “It’s true enough, then,” said John, “for he 
 told me so himself ; and now I ask you, who are 
 abusing him, how he came to the position he’s 
 got ? Did a rich man give him his money and tell 
 him to use it for the purpose of grinding down the 
 poor? or did the government that we’re always 
 finding fault with give him the money for the same 
 purpose ? Did he find it in the street ? or did he 
 work hard day and night from the time he was 
 fourteen, when his father died ? Did he deprive 
 himself of everything but the bare necessities of 
 life that he might keep his mother and little 
 brother out of the workhouse? Yes, he did ; and 
 it was by hard work, self-denial, and honest indus- 
 try that Mr. Mason rose to where he is, and I’m 
 
John Brown, 69 
 
 sure no one here would deprive him of the fruits 
 of his life-long labour if they could.” 
 
 John had begun the speech in a quiet, low tone, 
 but as the words came readily to his aid, and he 
 found it easy to say what he wished in defence of 
 his friend, he grew more and more excited, uncon- 
 sciously raised his voice, and stood up. 
 
 Some men had come in at the beginning of 
 Pat^s denunciation, and now gathered around the 
 speaker in rep.y ; and as John finished speaking 
 he was vexed to see that others as well as himself 
 were excited, and that a row was brewing. This 
 he wished of all things to avo d, and by a clever 
 turn did avoid. 
 
 I ask your pardon,” he said to the Irishman, ‘‘ if 
 I have spoken offensively, but Mr. Mason has been 
 my good friend, and Pm sure an Irishman would 
 be the last to blame me for standing up for a friend 
 behind his back.” 
 
 “You never spoke a thruer word nor that,” said 
 Pat, “ and if Misther Mason’s been a friend to you 
 he could not be the friend of a thruer man, an’ give 
 me yer hand, ould fellow.” 
 
 And John’s hand was clasped by very dirty 
 fingers. F urther interchange of civilities was pre- 
 vented by the mistress of the house calling her hus- 
 band and John to the other end of the room, where, 
 at the extreme end of the long table, she had 
 prepared their supper. 
 
CHAPTER XV. 
 
 The meal consisted of bread, cheese, sliced 
 bacon and beer. There was no cloth on the table, 
 and the dishes in use were of different patterns 
 and colours. The foreman’s wife, a young, pretty 
 woman, was dirty and slatternly. Her print dress 
 unfastened at the throat exposed a triangular strip 
 of bare neck. Her hair hanging in uncombed 
 tufts around her face and neck, her arms bare 
 and very dirty, and the front of her dress wet and 
 splashed from the wash-tub, presented a picture 
 of unthriftiness and misery sad to see in a young 
 wife and mother. They were about to commence 
 the uninviting meal when the wailing cry of a young 
 child came from the bed in the corner, and a 
 poor sickly -looking baby was taken up by the 
 mother, who fretfully complained that she never 
 had a moment of rest. The child, only a few months 
 old, rubbed its poor little eyes which it could 
 scarcely keep open in the thick smoky atmosphere, 
 and then fell into a piteous wailing cry. 
 
 John ate his bread and bacon in silence, and as 
 soon as possible took his leave of the family circle. 
 
John Brown, 
 
 71 
 
 The following Monday morning he commenced 
 work at new employment tending bricklayers, and 
 at this he worked steadily and uninterruptedly till 
 the 29th of September, when, contrary to the pre- 
 dictions of the foreman, the new buildings were 
 completed and the men taken away to other works. 
 Mr. Mason had often seen John during the summer ; 
 but knowing the jealousy with which a favourite of 
 the ‘‘ Guvnor’s ” was regarded, he had refrained 
 from any notice or conversation beyond that which 
 he held with the other workmen. But now, when 
 the day came for disbanding the Hampstead staff, 
 the master paid John last, and detained him after 
 the others had adjourned to the public. 
 
 “ I hope,” said Mr. Mason, “ you have given up 
 the notion of going to America. I have heard 
 nothing but good of you, and I can give you a job 
 on other and lighter work than you have been 
 doing, and much better pay.” 
 
 “Thank you kindly,” said John; “and I hope, 
 sir, you won’t think me unmindful of all you have 
 done for me ; but I have worked for one thing only, 
 and that is to get away from the life of a poor man 
 in England. I have saved every penny I could, 
 and I have just enough to buy my ticket and to 
 get a few decent articles of clothing. So, sir. I’m 
 going to start to-morrow for Liverpool, and the 
 only thing that I feel sad about at leaving my 
 native land for ever is that you wish me to stay.’’ 
 
72 
 
 John Brown, 
 
 “ Well, well, John, I’ll wish you good luck where- 
 ever you go ; but I’m afraid you will be disappointed 
 in America. I believe it to be easier to save money 
 here than there. The elements of success are the 
 same there as here, and if applied in the same way 
 will show the same results.” 
 
 “ I don’t quite understand what you say, sir, but 
 my friend Tim writes to me that life is entirely 
 different, and that his sister lives like a lady, and 
 her husband only foreman at some works like 
 your foreman Lambert here I And look how 
 Lambert lives— him and his young wife — and he 
 earning such wages. Why, sir, they know as little 
 about comfort and cleanliness as the people in Bees 
 Buildings.” 
 
 “ That’s because they don’t know how to live. 
 Lambert was a hard-working steady young man 
 till he married a poor girl who had been brought 
 up in idleness, and never taught how to make the 
 most of life. Now they have two children, and his 
 home is so comfortless, that I fear Lambert goes 
 too often to the public house. He is not the man 
 he was before he married, and I should not wonder 
 if he went quite to the bad.” 
 
 “Well, sir, what better chance have I of ever 
 'being comfortable here ? If I were to get married 
 I might be worse off than Lambert, for his wife is 
 sober at least ; and if I live single and stay in 
 lodgings, I spend my days in a home little better 
 
John Brown, 
 
 73 
 
 than a pigstye. No, sir, I’ll go on and on till I find 
 better. I’ve often thought when I read stories of 
 wild savage life, that it’s far better than the life I 
 and the likes of me live here in England.” 
 
 Mr. Mason said no more, but giving John a little 
 present in money, and obtaining the promise of 
 a letter when the young man should get settled in 
 the New World, they parted, and John, the very 
 next day, started for Liverpool, from whence he 
 sailed as emigrant passenger in the ship City of 
 Boston, 
 
PART II. 
 
 “ Who is he that hath acquired wealth, that hath 
 risen to power, that hath clothed himself with 
 •* honour, that is spoken of in the city with praise, and 
 that standeth before the king hi his council f Even 
 he that hath shut out idleness from his house and 
 hath said unto Sloth, Thou art mine enemy." 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 Poor John Brown had an unusually long and 
 very rough passage out to the New World. The 
 discomforts of an emigrant passage across the 
 Atlantic can scarcely be exaggerated. He had 
 suffered sea-sickness from the first day of sailing. 
 He was packed with hundreds of others between 
 decks, in a space insufficient for half the number. 
 Of coarse food there was abundance, but few 
 well enough to eat it, and nothing more delicate 
 provided for the sick. He could not touch the fat 
 boiled beef, bacon, suet dumplings, and potatoes 
 served daily to the poor penned creatures ; and but 
 for the little packet of tea, the pot of condensed 
 milk, and tin of biscuits, with which nearly all had 
 
John Brown. 
 
 75 
 
 provided themselves before embarking, many would 
 have sunk with hunger and exhaustion. And yet, 
 surrounded as he was with horrors indescribable, 
 John never regretted the step he had taken, or 
 wished himself back again in England. Through- 
 out he had found comfort in the thought and belief 
 that this road, bad as it was, would lead him to ^ 
 happier life than had been hitherto his ; and this 
 belief supported him through the dark days of his 
 terrible experience. 
 
 When the ship arrived at New York, he at once 
 took his ticket, as instructed by a letter from Tim, 
 to Lowell, Massachusetts, where he arrived one 
 bright but cold October morning, and found Tim 
 waiting at the railway-station to receive and give 
 him welcome. It was a joyous meeting. John 
 seemed for the first time to realise that he had 
 reached the country upon which for the past six 
 months his thoughts had been fixed. He grasped 
 Tim’s hand over and over again, and would have 
 forgotten all else, had he not been reminded of his 
 luggage, and that they must be thinking of lodg- 
 ings, &c. At New York, before starting, he had 
 been given a small brass plate bearing a number, 
 in exchange for his box, with which he had reluc- 
 tantly parted, though assured by a railway official 
 that it was “ all right,” and that he would find his 
 “ baggage ” at Lowell. 
 
 “ This is all I have to show for my box, Tim. 
 
76 
 
 John Brown. 
 
 A fellow gave me this, and fastened another like 
 it with a strap to the handle, and said it was a/l 
 right for Lowell, an’ not a sight of it have I seen 
 since.” 
 
 “ So it is all right,” said Tim. “ Come away 
 quick, or we’ll lose the express.” 
 
 “ Are we going on farther ?” John asked, follow- 
 ing Tim. 
 
 “ Oh, no,” Tim answered ; ‘‘ I mean the express 
 that takes up the luggage.” 
 
 They ran along the platform to where some 
 porters were loading a great van with luggage 
 which had come in by the train. John saw his 
 box on the platform, and pointed it out to Tim, 
 who gave the bit of brass to a man, who entered 
 the number it bore in a book, gave him a bit of 
 paper, took off the other brass plate which was 
 strapped to the handle of the box, and demanded 
 “ Where to ? ” * 
 
 “ Three hundred and , Washington Street,” 
 
 Tim said ; and the box was deposited on the van, 
 which drove rapidly away. 
 
 “Now,” said Tim, “we’ll just go in here, and 
 when you have had a bit of breakfast I’ll take you 
 to a barber’s to get your hair cut and a shave, and 
 then I’ll show you your lodgings — boarding-houses 
 we call them here.” 
 
 At a little inn and restaurant John got a break- 
 fast of coffee, fried ham and eggs, delicious bread 
 
John Brown, 
 
 77 
 
 and butter, for the sum of 2j., or half a dollar. 
 He then, at Tim’s suggestion, had his hair cut and 
 “ shampooed,” had a good wash, and was shaved, 
 and then accompanied his friend to his new home. 
 
 Dinner is at half-past twelve,” Tim said ; “and 
 you’ll have time to change your things. I suppose 
 you have some clean things ; if not, I’ll lend you 
 some. I board with my sister, but I got you a 
 room and board in a house just next door, and I 
 can get whatever you want directly.” 
 
 “ Thank you,” John said, “ but I have plenty. I 
 never had the chance of changing the whole pas- 
 sage till we got into New York harbour, so I have 
 plenty shirts and ever}^thing.” 
 
 “ Well, then ; do you go directly to your room, 
 or stay. I’ll go with you, and make yourself as tidy 
 as you can. These people here think a great deal 
 about looks, and a man is thought good for nothing 
 if he is not well dressed.” 
 
 “And right they are,” said John. “If a man 
 doesn’t dress well in a country where ever)*^ kind of 
 work is well paid for, sure it’s a sign of a miser, or 
 that he squanders his money. Tm not the one, 
 Tim, to find fault with any rules that’ll make us 
 respect ourselves.” 
 
 “Well, John, you’ll find the people here think 
 plenty of themselves. They think there never was 
 nor ever will be a nation like theirs, or a people so 
 smart — that’s their word for clever here. If you 
 
78 
 
 JoJm Brow?i. 
 
 say a man s clever, they take it you mean he’s a 
 good-natured softy. But here we are ; this is 
 Mrs. Goodrich’s boarding-house.” 
 
 Tim led the way up some very white steps, 
 opened a door without ringing or knocking, and 
 John followed him through a long passage into a 
 large kitchen. Here they found two women at 
 work, evidently preparing a meal ; but John had 
 little time to notice anything, for Tim, immediately 
 on entering the room, addressed the tallest and 
 eldest of the women and introduced “ Mr. Brown ” 
 to “ Mrs. Goodrich.” 
 
 How do you do, Mr. Brown ? I hope I see 
 you well,” the lady said. 
 
 ‘‘ Thank you, ma’am,” returned John ; “ I’m 
 very well.” 
 
 “ Has my friend’s ‘trunk’ come?” enquired Tim. 
 “ Oh, yes ; it’s in the hole. Matilda Jane, will 
 you show Mr. Pearson Mr. Brown’s trunk ; and 
 perhaps Mr. Pearson will help carry it up — 
 Nathaniel ain’t come home from school yet.” 
 
 “All right,” Tim said ; “we’ll manage that, and 
 won’t trouble Miss Goodrich, if you’ll tell me which 
 room my friend’s to have.” 
 
 “ I guess it’s No. 12, ain’t it, Matilda Jane ?” 
 
 “ Yes,” that young lady answered ; “ the second 
 door to the right, at the top of the first stairs. 
 Thank you, Mr. Pearson, we are rather busy now 
 getting dinner.” 
 
John Brown. 
 
 79 
 
 John and Tim carried the little box upstairs, and 
 deposited it in No. 12, a very small, but extremely 
 clean, neat bedroom. 
 
 A single bed, covered with a white bedspread, 
 stood in one corner. Beside this, and under the 
 one window, a square table, also covered with a 
 white cloth, served as a dressing-table. Upon it 
 there was a good-sized dressing-glass and a jug 
 and tumbler. Against the wall, near the door, 
 stood a washhand-stand, ewer, and basin. A 
 grayish carpet covered the floor ; and a chair and 
 towel-stand completed the furniture. 
 
 Poor John had never been even the temporary 
 proprietor of such a habitation before. He looked 
 about him in amazement, and was glad when Tim 
 left him to himself that he might enjoy unobserved 
 his delight and surprise. Tim told him to change 
 his Ihien and come down as quickly as he could, 
 as the men would be coming in now to their dinner, 
 and when the toilette was made and a decently- 
 dressed, nice-looking young man, with a happy ex- 
 pression of face and a good strong figure, stood 
 before the little glass in the neatly furnished room, 
 is it to be wondered that he scarcely believed it all 
 a reality, or that he was the same John Brown who 
 used to live in Bees’ Buildings, Blanque Court, as 
 dirty, idle, and intemperate as the rest of the inha- 
 bitants. 
 
 “ Thank God,” he exclaimed fervently, “ it’s all 
 
8o 
 
 John Brown, 
 
 true, and I haven’t been deceived. This is life, and 
 may I never forget to be thankful for my release 
 from bondage.” 
 
 A great bell now rung, and John descended to 
 the passage, where he found Tim waiting for him. 
 
 “ Mrs. Goodrich has asked me to stay to dinner 
 with you, John, and we’ll go in now,” said his 
 friend. 
 
 They entered a large, clean, airy room, furnished 
 with a very long table, at either side of which were 
 rows of chairs, and upon which was spread a white 
 cloth, with plates, knives, forks, and spoons, and 
 the usual appurtenances of the dinner-table. Seve- 
 ral men were already in the room, and others fol- 
 lowed, all neatly and cleanly dressed, and all with 
 coats on. John had time to notice this, and also to 
 observe that the room was furnished with a large 
 stove at the upper end, that the three windows 
 looked into the street, and were half-curtained with 
 white muslin ; that the floor was painted a dark 
 colour ; that there were strips of a grayish carpet 
 around the table, where the men’s feet would other- 
 wise have rested on the floor ; and that a map and 
 some prints hung on the wall. 
 
 Tim would have enjoyed his friend’s surprise and 
 admiration but for the fear that it would be observed 
 by the other men, and, however willing he was to 
 acknowledge the superiority of their position (in 
 America, when compared to the same class in Eng- 
 
John Brown. 
 
 land) to himself or to his newly-arrived friend, he 
 did not wish to acknowledge it to the natives. 
 
 They do so crow about their country and their 
 institutions he afterwards explained to John, 
 ‘‘ you’d think there wasn’t a country in the world 
 but theirs.” So, upon the present occasion, he 
 gave John a hint to restrain his looks and words of 
 admiration. 
 
 Now, a door leading from the dining-room to the 
 kitchen opened, and the mistress of the house came 
 in with a steaming dish carried with both hands. 
 This was a large piece of boiled beef, garnished 
 with turnips, carrots, and potatoes ; the dish was 
 deposited at the upper end of the table, and Mrs. 
 Goodrich returned to the kitchen and soon ap- 
 peared again, this time accompanied by her daugh- 
 ter, who assisted her mother to carry a large tray 
 of vegetables of various descriptions, and another 
 dish of meat. When these were all stationed at 
 intervals on the table, Mrs. Goodrich announced 
 dinner, and the men all took their seats. Besides 
 the viands brought in during John’s presence, there 
 were on the table white and brown bread, delicious 
 looking yellow cakes, butter, and some kind of 
 nice stewed fruit. Mrs. Goodrich, at the head of 
 the table, carved the boiled beef. Tim, who had 
 been asked to take the seat at the bottom of the 
 table, served the other dish, which proved to be 
 baked pork and beans. The daughter and son 
 
 G 
 
82 
 
 John Broum, 
 
 (Matilda Jane and Nathaniel) waited at table, and 
 the meal was quickly and well served. After the 
 meat, plates were changed, and apple pie, cheese, 
 apple sauce, bread-and-butter were passed round. 
 John Brown had never assisted at such a meal 
 before, but long before it was finished he had de- 
 cided that, unless he got immediate work and high 
 wages, life like this was far too expensive for him. 
 He would, he thought, speak to Tim about it im- 
 mediately after dinner, but unluckily Tim was sent 
 for before dinner was finished, and informed John 
 that he found he was obliged to go back to his 
 work, as the man who had taken his place in the 
 forenoon was obliged to go elsewhere. 
 
 ni leave my friend with you, Mrs. Goodrich. 
 
 I know you won’t let him be lonesome for want of 
 something to do, and Til see you again this 
 evening.” 
 
 So saying, Tim departed, leaving our friend with 
 the household of the Goodrich family. 
 
 John felt very shy, but the first words of the 
 hostess put him at his ease. 
 
 “ If you ain’t really busy, Mr. Brown,” said she, 
 “ I shoitld be glad of your help for an hour or so. 
 Nathaniel, that’s my boy, has a lecture this after- 
 noon at two at the Mechanics’ Institoot^ and can’t 
 stay to do all the chores, and ” 
 
 “ Oh,” John said readily, “ I’ll do anything I can, 
 and be thankful for a lesson in anything that’ll be 
 
lohn Brown, 
 
 83 
 
 useful to you,” and so saying he followed her to the 
 kitchen, where he found Matilda Jane, her sleeves 
 rolled up and with a great enveloping apron, wash- 
 ing and scrubbing pots and kettles. 
 
 “ Well,” said the landlady, “ if you’ll fill the wood- 
 boxes in the kitchen, and fill the biler for me, and 
 just make up the fire in the stove, and carry out 
 this pig’s pail and feed the pigs, I guess by that 
 time ril have the coffee ready to grind. You see,” 
 she explained, “ this is baking day, and the wust 
 day Nathaniel could have for his lecture ; but I 
 suppose he couldn’t make them change the day, 
 and he thinks he’s a little behind now.” 
 
 All this time Mrs. Goodrich was working. She 
 had rolled up her sleeves till nothing of them was 
 to be seen save a circular puff at the shoulder. She 
 had put on an apron which quite surrounded her 
 skirts. She had, by pulling two buttons at the belt 
 of her gown, affected some invisible machinery 
 which shortened her dress several inches. She 
 had seized a great tin pail (emptied therein a cup- 
 ful of salt), and was filling it up with hot water, 
 which passed though a kind of double sieve or 
 strainer, from the boiler attached to the cooking- 
 stove. 
 
 Matilda Jane meanwhile scrubbed and scoured 
 away, depositing pots and kettles, when satisfied 
 with their brightness, on some shelves over the 
 sink where she worked. 
 
 G 2 
 
84 
 
 ' JoJni Bro7un, 
 
 John, with some further instructions, proceeded 
 to do the work. The wood-boxes were soon filled 
 from cord wood cut and piled in the yard ready for 
 use. The boiler was refilled from a pump in the 
 sink where Matilda Jane continued to work. The 
 pigs were fed, and the pail restored to its usual 
 place outside the kitchen door, and now he was 
 ready to grind the coffee, but Matilda Jane pro- 
 tested against this till her work in the near vicinity 
 of the coffee-mill was finished. So John put on 
 his coat and sat down near the stove, .and watched 
 with intense interest the proceedings of these two 
 women. 
 
 The pail of hot salt-water prepared by Mrs. 
 Goodrich was reduced, by adding cold from the 
 pump, to a certain temperature, and then poured 
 into a great trough where, she said, the bread was set. 
 She then proceeded to make and mould, cutting 
 off huge pieces of dough from the mass in the 
 trough, and forming round, soft loaves, which were 
 placed on a board sprinkled with flour near the 
 fire. When all were done, the process was changed 
 for pastry baking. A quantity of flour was sifted 
 on the baking-board, a large piece of dripping, a 
 piece of butter, some salt, and baking-powder, were 
 quickly rubbed into the flour. This was mixed 
 lightly and gradually with cold water, rolled out, 
 spread with butter, sprinkled with flour, doubled 
 up and rolled out again. Then a number of 
 
John Brown, 
 
 35 
 
 large dinner-plates, which looked as if they had 
 seen service, were buttered and spread with 
 pastry, which was pressed and fitted to the shape 
 of the plate, cut off all round, filled with apple- 
 sauce, a covering of pastry put over all, marked 
 and cut with a pastry-cutter at the edge, and 
 put in a cold larder opening from the kitchen. 
 Some two or three dozen of these ‘‘ pies ” were 
 made, and then Mrs. Goodrich returned to her 
 bread. Each loaf was taken up, remoulded, put 
 in a pan which held six loaves, and the pans were 
 put in the oven of the great cooking-stove, until it 
 could hold no more. By this time Matilda Jane 
 had finished “washing up.” John had not been 
 unobservant of her and her work. He had noticed 
 how quickly and deftly she washed plates and 
 dishes in a great pan of soap-suds ; how she had 
 piled them up ingeniously in another large pan, the 
 dishes and plates all made to stand on edge ; how, 
 when all were washed and so bestowed, she poured 
 boiling water over them to rince off the soap ; and 
 then, unfolding a clean white towel, how quickly she 
 wiped the nearly-dried hot plates and dishes. All 
 these she arranged in separate piles, the largest at 
 the bottom ; and when each pyramid was completed, 
 how quickly she carried them to the dressers. All 
 this John saw, and his wonder grew greater and 
 greater at the amount of work these two women 
 managed to accomplish. At 3 o'clock dishes, plates. 
 
86 
 
 John Brown, 
 
 pots, kettles, knives, forks, everything used at 
 dinner, had been washed, cleaned, and put away* 
 The sink had been scrubbed out with soft-soap, 
 hot water, and scrubbing-brush. The bread w’as 
 all ready to bake, and was baking by instalments, 
 and, wondering what would happen next, he watched 
 Matilda Jane light a candle, and, with a great tin 
 pan, prepare to leave the room. 
 
 ‘‘ Can I help you now, miss ?” he asked. 
 
 Well, yes, if you will come and carry the pan 
 for me,” Matilda Jane answered. “ Tin going down 
 cellar for the potatoes.” 
 
 “ Bring up some apple-sass, Matilda,” her mother 
 said, if you’re going down cellar.” 
 
 And John followed Miss Goodrich down a very 
 perpendicular staircase into a subterranean cham- 
 ber, but for the candle they carried, perfectly dark. 
 
 Matilda Jane pounced upon a barrel of potatoes, 
 and in an incredibly short time filled the big pan 
 which John carried. Then a basin, which she had 
 seized as she passed the kitchen dresser, was filled 
 with something dipped from another barrel, and 
 they returned to the kitchen. 
 
 John deposited the pan of potatoes in the sink, 
 as directed by Miss Goodrich, and then observed 
 that she had filled her basin with some dark red 
 stewed fruit, like that he had seen on the dinner- 
 table. 
 
 Is that apple sauce 1 ” he asked. 
 
John B 7 'own. 87 
 
 ‘‘Yes/’ Mrs. Goodrich answered. “That is 
 cider sass.” 
 
 “Cider?” said John. 
 
 “Yes; don’t you make your winter sauce with 
 cider in England, Mr. Brown?” said Matilda Jane. 
 
 “ I don’t know,” John said. “ I never saw it red 
 like that before.” 
 
 “ It’s the cider does that,” Mrs. Goodrich answered ; 
 “ when apples are very plenty in the fall, you see, 
 there’s many as won’t dry^ and some as won’t keep 
 long. So we bile down cider, from four to one 
 quart’s the rule, and preserve our apples in that. 
 They’ll keep two years when well made. This was 
 made last fall.” 
 
 “Well,” John said, “you seem to know how to 
 do everything. If I may make so bold as to ask, 
 do you, mam, and Miss Goodrich, do all the work 
 in this house for all the men I saw here to-day ? ” 
 
 “Every bit of it,” Mrs. Goodrich answered, 
 proudly, “washing and all. We have plenty to 
 do, I can tell you, on bakin’ and washin’ days ; but 
 Matilda Jane’s about as smart as you’ll find ’em, 
 and I ain’t very slow myself. Nathaniel helps all 
 he can, but he wants to teach this winter, and the 
 examination for teachers has got so hard that he’s 
 about as much as he can get through, I guess. So 
 we hav’ to do his chores half the time, and that’s 
 not women’s work. I ain’t afraid of any housework, 
 but I do hate doin’ of chores. I never had nothing 
 
88 
 
 JoJui Brown, 
 
 like that to do when Mr. Goodrich was alive. I 
 always worked hard all my life, but I never had to 
 do outdoor work.’^ 
 
 You have plenty to do without that,” John said. 
 ‘‘ If you had a house like this in England, you 
 would have two or three to help you, and every- 
 thing would be cold and dirty, whilst here you and 
 your daughter are dressed like ladies, and your 
 place is as clean as a parlour. I hope, mam. I’m 
 not making free, but all this is so new to me, that I 
 can scarcely take it in. It seems as if instead of 
 coming to another country, I’ve come to another 
 world, where the living creatures are all made to 
 look the same, but are entirely a different creation. 
 By your leave, mam, I should like to learn how 
 things are managed ; and if you’ll allow me. I’d be 
 thankful to help you with the work any time I have 
 an hour to spare.” 
 
 “ I’m much obliged,” Mrs. Goodrich said, but 
 men don’t need to know anything about house- 
 work. Men’s business is to make the money, 
 women’s to use it and save as much as they can. 
 Why, law bless you, when I was married I was 
 only just eighteen, and we took boarders then. 
 Mr. Goodrich, he did not know no more about 
 housework than a baby. I did the work then for 
 four men,, and we saved all Mr. Goodrich’s wages. 
 He got a dollar and a half a day, and in two years 
 v/e had paid for the furniture of our house and 
 
John Broivn, 
 
 89 
 
 saved two hundred and fifty dollars. Then we 
 took this house and furnished it for boarders, and 
 my husband got two dollars a day after that, and 
 when he died he left me six hundred dollars in the 
 bank, and this house bought and paid for, and that 
 in ten years, Mr. Brown.” 
 
 ‘‘ Why shouldn’t he,” John said, ‘*and you 
 saving ev’ry copper of his money for him I never 
 heard the like of that. I don’t see how you manage 
 such a lot of work, and so easy too. Why, look 
 what you’ve done since noon to-day, and not a bit 
 of noise or fuss ; it’s wonderful, that’s what it 
 is.” 
 
 All the time John and Mrs. Goodrich had been 
 carrying on this conversation he had been standing 
 beside a large table where she had spread an iron- 
 ing blanket and sheet, and was starching and fold- 
 ing clothes. Matilda Jane had pumped a quantity 
 of water into the pan of potatoes, and had scrubbed 
 them clean with a brush, and then put them in a 
 huge colander. After this was done she brought 
 out from the larder the cold meat left at dinner. 
 This she sliced up in small pieces and arranged on 
 two dishes. The bits which were found too small 
 or irregular were thrown into a round wooden 
 bowl, and the marrow bone was carefully put aside. 
 The plates of sliced beef were taken to the pantry, 
 and a large dish of cold boiled potatoes brought 
 out. John watched with interest Miss Goodrich’s 
 
90 
 
 John Brown, 
 
 movements as she quickly sliced the potatoes into 
 the wooden bowl with the meat, a couple of onions 
 were peeled and added, and then Matilda Jane sat 
 down, and taking the bowl on her lap, began to 
 chop meat, potatoes, and onions all together with a 
 half-circular knife, having a wooden handle. 
 
 “ Can I do that for you?” he said, leaving the 
 ironing table and approaching the daughter. 
 
 “ Oh dear, no,” answered the indefatigable girl^ 
 “ I’ve nothing particular to do now, and this is 
 resting.” 
 
 “ Hard resting,” John said; “but what is the 
 chopping for, what’ll you do with that ? ” 
 
 “ This ? why it’s hash for breakfast to-morrow 
 morning. Did you never see hash, Mr. Brown?” 
 
 “ No,” John said, “'I don’t think I ever did; 
 what do you do with it when it’s all <ihopped 
 up ?” 
 
 “ Oh,” Matilda Jane said, laughing at such igno- 
 rance, “ I put it away in the larder till to-morrow 
 morning. You see the breakfast is very early, and 
 we prepare all we can the night before. So to- 
 morrow morning Nathaniel comes down and lights 
 the fire and puts the potatoes (those I’ve washed 
 there in the colander) in the oven to bake. Then 
 I come down and put this hash into a pan with 
 some milk, a bit of butter, considerable pepper, 
 and some salt. I cover the pan and let the hash 
 stand on the stove to get hot. Then Ma comes 
 
John B^'own. 
 
 91 
 
 down and makes the coffee and toast, and fries the 
 pork, while I get the table ready for breakfast ; but 
 you see if we didn’t do a good deal at night we 
 would have a mighty lot to do in the morning, and 
 would have to get up dreadfully early.” 
 
 “ Coffee and toast, and fried pork and hash,” 
 thought John ; ‘‘such breakfasts can’t be for you, 
 John Brown, with less than three pounds in your 
 pocket, and as yet no work.” And he sighed as he 
 looked at Miss Goodrich, the most wonderful crea- 
 ture, he thought, in existence. 
 
 “ Now,” Mrs. Goodrich said, “why don’t you go 
 out for a stroll, Mr. Brown? I’m sure we’re much 
 obliged to you for your help. Supper’s at six, and 
 I daresay you’ll like a little fresh air before that.” 
 
CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 John took the landlady’s hint that he was in the 
 way, and very reluctantly left the kitchen and the 
 house. He strolled through the • streets, which 
 struck him as uninteresting. The shop windows 
 were not furnished with tempting articles of mer- 
 chandise, and everyone he met seemed in a hurry. 
 Men and women, all well dressed and respectable- 
 looking people, hurried past him as if pursued. 
 John was the only lounger in the street, and he 
 began to feel that his leisurely walk and pause at 
 each shop window was attracting the attention of 
 those who pushed by. At last he stopped before a 
 building with an important looking entrance, to 
 which stone steps led up from the street. Here he 
 found swarms of men going in and out. From 
 their dress he took them to be working men. But 
 what they could be doing he could not guess. They 
 nearly all carried small tin pails, and each man had 
 in his hand one or two books. John stood at a 
 distance and watched the stream of humanity 
 pouring in and out the door for some minutes. 
 Could it be beer or some other tipple, he won- 
 
John Brown, 
 
 93 
 
 dered, that they all went for ? and was the book 
 their pass-book in which an account v/as kept ? 
 But some of them had two books, and many 
 carried small baskets instead of pails. John could 
 not make it out, and determined to ask. It must, 
 he thought at last, be a dole these people were 
 receiving. Why should not he inquire ? So he 
 crossed the street and addressed the first man he 
 encountered. 
 
 “ Will you tell me,’^ he said, if you please, what 
 this building is, and what the people are all going 
 in for ? ” 
 
 The man was pre-occupied looking at a half- 
 open book, which John had time to observe was 
 printed. He stopped, looked a moment at the 
 questioner, and then, as if the question had just 
 only reached him, said, “ That ? why that’s ‘ The 
 Library.’ ” 
 
 Thank you, sir,” John said ; can anyone get 
 a book there ? ” 
 
 ‘‘ Any member can. I guess you’re a stranger in 
 Lowell, ain’t you ? ” 
 
 “Yes, sir; I only came this morning, and am 
 "just from England.” 
 
 “ Do tell,” said the stranger ; “well, I guess you 
 ain’t too late to see the library if you like, though 
 strangers ain’t admitted after four, and you’d 
 better go in some other day when there’s more 
 time.” 
 
94 
 
 John Brown, 
 
 “ Thank you kindly,” John said, moving ofif with 
 the stranger, who, like everybody else, seemed in a 
 hurry. ‘‘ But will you tell me why you all take the 
 little cans or pails with you to the library ? ” 
 
 Why, these are our dinner pails. We take our 
 dinner to the works, and most all of us come this 
 way once or twice a week to get our books ; we 
 stop on our way from work, don’t you see. If 
 you’re going to work here in Lowell at the mills, 
 you’d better get one of these pails. You see thir’s 
 a little lamp at the bottom inside ; we light that 
 and boil up our coffee or make tea, and we can 
 heat everything we like ; but I mostly like cold 
 lunch and hot coffee. So you’ve just come from 
 England ? Had a good passage ? ” 
 
 “ Well, no,” John said, not exactly ; but, I be- 
 lieve pretty fair.” 
 
 “ Mean to stay over here, I guess, now you’ve got 
 here, don’t you ? ” 
 
 ‘‘Well, yes, I suppose I shall, though I don’t 
 know how a working man brought up in England’s 
 to get on here ; you all know so much and are so 
 clever,” John said, humbly. 
 
 “ Yes, I guess we’re smarter than the English ; 
 though I reckon we’d be little better here if we had 
 your laws and institootions.^^ 
 
 “ I think it’s the big wages you get here for every 
 kind of work that makes you all so prosperous, that 
 you can afford to educate your children.” 
 
JoJm B7'0wn. 
 
 95 
 
 Well that, maybe, helps to make the difference 
 between the two nations ; though our institootions 
 of ^:^;;/pulsory edu^rttion,y>'^6'^om of speech, liberty 
 of action, universal suffrage, and individooal 
 equality, that’s what does the rest, and that’s what 
 enables us to pay the highest prices for labour, 
 which attracts emigration from ev^ery part of the 
 world.” 
 
 “Oh, is that it!” John said, meekly, when his 
 companion had finished this oration. “ Well, sir, 
 I suppose you’re right. I’m very thankful to you, 
 sir. Good evening.” 
 
 “ Good evening, sir,” his companion said, and 
 hurried on. 
 
 John turned back. Very bewildered he felt with 
 all this new experience, and he began to be ex- 
 ceedingly anxious about his qualifications to com- 
 pete with workmen like those he had met, when he 
 suddenly remembered Tim, who had come to this 
 wonderful country as inexperienced as himself six 
 months ago, and with far less learning, for six 
 months ago Tim couldn’t read the letter from his 
 "sister. John brightened as he remembered this. 
 “ Perhaps Tim’s a great scholar by this time,” he 
 said to himself. “Maybe he knows Latin, and 
 Greek, and mathematics, and all. No knowing 
 what may be done in this country ; workin’-men 
 going to lectures, and getting books from libraries, 
 and talking like Members of Parliament about 
 
96 
 
 John Brow7L 
 
 freedom of speech, and individual equality, and all 
 the rest of it. Of course it’s all nonsense as to 
 that being the reason of the prosperity of people 
 of our class here, but people as speak like members 
 of parliament mostly do talk like that. Freedom 
 of speech, indeed ; I’d like to hear anybody offer- 
 ing the people of Bees’ Buildings, Blanque Court, 
 freedom of speech and individual equality. Give 
 us grog and beer, they’d say with a freedom of 
 speech that would astonish him, and as for indi- 
 vidual equality, why any one of them would cringe 
 to any human being as would give him a shilling 
 to get drunk with. No, no ; it isn’t the politics 
 or the religion as makes the difference between 
 us. It must be the money they get for their work. 
 However, I’ll find out all in time, and it won’t be 
 my fault if I don’t do what the rest of them seem 
 to do, get educated, and get money ; ” and so 
 saying John mounted the steps which led to his 
 lodgings. 
 
 The men had nearly all assembled in the dining- 
 room. The post had come, and all were occupied 
 with letters and papers. A large lamp burned on 
 a table in a corner, which table was furnished with 
 inkstand, blotting-book, and pens. Gas burned 
 in a gasalier over the dining-table. There was a 
 little fire in the stove, and the room w'as bright, 
 warm, and cheerful. The table was spread for 
 supper, and a side-table had been added to the 
 
John Brown. 
 
 97 
 
 furniture of the room, and also spread with a white 
 cloth. The long table had on it large plates of 
 bread, several pats of butter in pretty glass dishes, 
 the two dishes of cold meat Matilda Jane had 
 sliced in the afternoon, some cold pork (the same 
 that had been left from dinner), two glass dishes of 
 apple sauce, and some other stewed fruit. The 
 door presently opened, and Mrs. Goodrich came 
 in from the kitchen, carrying a huge tea urn. 
 Matilda Jane followed with a tray of cups, saucers, 
 sugar, milk, &c., which, with the urn, was deposited 
 on the side table ; both women then returned to the 
 kitchen, and presently re-appeared, bearing dishes 
 of hot rolls and small delicious-looking yellow cakes. 
 These being placed on the table, supper was an- 
 nounced by Mrs. Goodrich, and the men took their 
 seats. Mother and daughter had changed their 
 morning dress for a fashionably-cut black gown, 
 high at the throat, with long sleeves, and both wore 
 linen cuffs and collar of snowy whiteness. The 
 mother wore a pretty cap with black ribbons, whilst 
 Matilda Jane’s coiffure would have done credit to a 
 Paris hairdresser. Matilda Jane was far from being 
 a beauty, but she was a neat figure, and had good 
 hair and eyes, and every advantage had been made 
 the most of. Her black dress fitted to perfection ; 
 her hair was so dressed that, though quite smooth, 
 its luxuriance was seen to the best possible advan- 
 tage ; and a knot of bright ribbon at the throat 
 
 H 
 
98 John Brown, 
 
 relieved and lighted up her otherwise sallow com- 
 plexion. 
 
 John looked in complete but humble admiration 
 at what seemed to him all perfection. This beau- 
 tiful creature, with the slight figure, the white 
 hands, and lovelyi eyes, he had seen scrubbing, 
 scouring, baking and brewing, and here she was 
 standing at a tray making tea and looking exactly 
 as if this was the nearest approach to work she 
 had ever made. Surely, John thought, there never 
 was, even in America, another being possessed of 
 such attractions. 
 
 The meal was delicious. Everything so good, 
 that our friend scarcely knew which to pronounce 
 best. The hot white rolls, which Mrs. Goodrich 
 and her boarders called biscuits, were as light as 
 bread could be ; the butter was sweet and fresh ; 
 the tea hot and excellent ; and the apple sauce, 
 which had been called cider. sauce, very nice. Only 
 the yellow cakes were disappointing. Corn cakes, 
 they were called, and John could scarcely swallow 
 the mouthful of crumbling, dry, insipid bread which 
 he had eagerly taken, under the impression that it 
 was some kind of rich cake. 
 
 When supper was over the men one and all went 
 out. John did what he could to assist Mrs. Good- 
 rich to remove the tea things, whilst Matilda washed 
 up with a quickness that was really surprising. 
 After everything had been taken from the dining 
 
John Brown, 
 
 99 
 
 table, and the chairs also set back, the shutters 
 closed, and the floor brushed up, Mrs. Goodrich 
 turned down the gas but left the lamp burning, and 
 retired to the kitchen, from whence presently John 
 heard her and Matilda Jane going up stairs. 
 
 Greatly to his relief Tim now came in, and sat 
 down to have a little chat. At eight o’clock Tim 
 said he must go on again, as he was doing extra 
 night work. 
 
 John’s first question was concerning the likeli- 
 hood of his getting immediate employment. “ I’m 
 sure, Tim,” he said, I oughtn’t to be here Irving 
 at such an expensive house till I’m earning good 
 wages.” 
 
 “ I don’t think, John,” said Tim, ‘‘that you will 
 find a cheaper house than Mrs. Goodrich’s in all 
 Lowell ; I tried everywhere before I took your 
 room here, they’re all the same price. Now what 
 did it cost you to live in London 
 
 “ Oh, Tim ! at Hampstead you know I lived in 
 lodgings at the foreman’s. I slept in a room with 
 six others, and mostly brought in what I wanted, 
 but sometimes had my meals with Lambert and the 
 wife. Of course we didn’t live like Christians, but 
 just ‘pigged’ it like pagans, and it cost little, but 
 was quite enough for what we got.” 
 
 Well, what did it cost you ?” 
 
 Oh ! about twelve shillings a-week.” 
 
 “ Twelve shillings ! well, that’s just two shillings 
 
 H 2 
 
1 00 
 
 John B7'0wn. 
 
 more than you’re paying here. Mrs. Goodrich has 
 two dollars and a-half for board and lodging, and 
 your washing will cost you seventy-five cents a 
 dozen. Two dollars and a-half is just ten shillings 
 English money, so you see you needn’t be fright- 
 ened at the expense.” 
 
 John heard this with profound astonishment. 
 “Ten shillings a week!” he exclaimed, “and a 
 room to myself, and a house like a gentleman’s to 
 live in, and a table fit for a lord. Why, Tim, how 
 can it be done, is food that cheap here that you 
 have it for the asking, or how is it at all 
 
 “Well, John, I really don’t know what makes 
 the difference ; some things are cheap here, but I 
 think nearly everything is dearer here nor at home. 
 You see these people know so much and do suclf 
 wonders of work that I think they’d make money 
 on a desert island. I never thought much about 
 how it’s done, but I know that here we live, and at 
 home we just stay ; you always were a fellow for 
 asking how things are done, John, I daresay you’ll 
 find out this secret before long.” 
 
 “Well, maybe I shall, but just at present I am 
 in a sort of bewilderment ; nothing would surprise 
 me, not if a coach and four was to be put in for the 
 ten shillings a- week, but Tim, little as it is, I shall 
 only be able to live a short time without work, and 
 I would like to be going to see about something.” 
 
 “All right, J ohn, I’m afraid shop work, that is 
 
John Brown. 
 
 lOI 
 
 work in any of the machine shops, is out of the 
 question this fall. You see it’s late now, and all 
 work slackens in the winter, and if any change 
 for the worse comes in trade, why they only keep 
 on the old hands and do half the work.” 
 
 That’s a bad look out, Tim ; I hope times are 
 good here now.” 
 
 Well, John, only so so. They are talking of 
 stopping some of the stationaries at our works in 
 November. Where I work we make every kind of 
 machinery, locomotives, stationaries, machinery for 
 the mills, and agricultural machines. Well, last 
 year the demand was great, and the orders for the 
 south were beginning to be good again, but some- 
 how trade has fallen off, few fresh orders have come 
 in, and the boss looks down in the mouth and says 
 that unless things brighten he must send off all 
 the new hands, and of course I will have to go.” 
 
 “ What a lot you know, Tim, about everything ; 
 how do you find out all this about trade and every- 
 thing, and what’ll you and the other men do if 
 you’re sent off and the winter coming on ; I suppose 
 you’ve a club or association, or something of the 
 sort to help you through, but what’ll become of me 
 a stranger, and not a friend but yourself, Tim 1 ” 
 
 ‘‘ Don’t look so frightened, John,” Tim answered 
 laughing \ you’ll not be let starve though you’re 
 not a member of club or association ; there is some- 
 thing of the sort started here, but only a few have 
 
102 
 
 John Brown, 
 
 joined it, and I know nothing about it. I was 
 thinking of it, but Tom Oakley set his face against 
 it, and Pm glad now I let it alone. How I know 
 about trade being bad is from the boss himself ; he 
 comes into the works and talks to us men just like 
 one of ourselves. Yesterday morning just after we 
 left off for dinner he come into our room. Old Mr. 
 Osgood, he’s the man as runs the stationaries I 
 attend, was just putting things a little to rights 
 before he went to his dinner — you see I stay on 
 watch when he goes, and then he does my work 
 while I go. Well the master came in and he 
 says : ‘how are you getting on, Osgood/ says he?” 
 
 “ Very well, thank you,” Mr. Osgood says. 
 
 “ Pm afraid we’ll have to stop one of these station- 
 aries soon,” says he. 
 
 “ I’m sorry to hear that,” Mr. Osgood says, look- 
 ing at me. 
 
 “Yes,” says the boss, “times are bad, and I can’t 
 see anything to make them improve till spring ; 
 nothing fresh has come in lately, and unless I get 
 the contract for the machinery on the new branch 
 railroad I’ll have to knock off half the hands.’ ‘ I 
 guess you’re about right,’ Mr. Osgood says ; ‘ times 
 looks black enough. Well,’ he says, ‘we’ve had a 
 mighty good nine months and big pay, and so we 
 are prepared for what comes,’ and the boss and Mr. 
 Osgood walked off together. You see, John, the men 
 know that the more work the boss does, and the more 
 
John Brown, 
 
 103 
 
 hands he employs, the better for himself, and they 
 have to take their chance with him. The pay is 
 large when there is work, and the expense of living 
 not great, so they must save their money in sunshine 
 to buy an umbrella for a rainy day. IVe only been 
 here now and at work little over six months, and I 
 have money enough saved to pay my board and 
 lodging till spring, if I don^t do a turn of work 
 through the winter ; but I will pick up an odd job 
 or so, I have no doubt, and Til go to night-school 
 and try to get a little education. You see, John, 
 when pay’s good, people here must save their 
 money ; for if they don’t, why, when hard times 
 comes, what’s to become of them There’s no 
 workhouse open to feed and lodge those who squan- 
 dered their money when they had it. There’s no 
 societies to encourage idleness and extravagance. 
 A man that ’d spend his earnings in drink, or been 
 wasteful when it was plenty, must starve when hard 
 times come, or go to work at whatever he can get. 
 Why one of the best hands in our shop, an English 
 machinist, with a very good education, spent his 
 money last summer in drink. Well, when the boss 
 struck him off the works with some others in the 
 fall, he had to sell his clothes, one thing after 
 another, to pay for his board — and, I suppose, for 
 more drink — till at last, at Christmas, he had to go 
 out wood-sawing, and Tom saw Jiim one of the 
 bitterest days, when everything was covered with 
 
104 JoJui Broivn. 
 
 frost and snow, with hardly clothing to cover him- 
 self, and his poor hands bleeding and sticking to 
 the saw, trying to earn a bit and a night’s lodging 
 at cutting wood. Seventy-five cents a cord is what 
 you get for that, and you may imagine he didn't 
 earn much.” 
 
 “ Oh, Tim, are the people hard like that.^ was 
 there nobody to give the poor soul a morsel and a 
 bed?” 
 
 “ Not one,” Tim went on. “ Because, don’t you 
 see, everyone here knew that he had drunk his 
 money, and he had nothing left to take him away 
 in the spring with ; well, he got through the winter 
 somehow ; and when the boss was taking on more 
 hands he came, poor fellow, and begged for work.” 
 
 “ ‘ What about drink ? ' the boss says to him. 
 
 ‘“Well, sir,' says he, ‘ I’ve had a pretty good 
 lesson ; I think it’ll serve me,' says he, ‘ and if 
 you’ll take me on again, I don’t think you'll have 
 to complain on that score,” says he. 
 
 “ Well, the master took him on again. He’s one 
 of the best hands at boiler makin’ in the shop. He 
 got a good boarding house, and he's never missed 
 a day's work nor tasted a drop of drink since. 
 When you see him well dressed and respectable, 
 you’ll scarcely believe that he’s the man that was 
 starvin’ last year, and I suppose he has a good 
 bit of money saved ; he did a lot of extra work, and 
 has big pay. And, John, you should hear him talk 
 
John Brown. 
 
 105 
 
 about England and this country. He’s clever, and 
 speaks just like a lecturer, and we often go and get 
 around him on Sunday to hear him on what he calls 
 his Anglo-American experience. He says that ever 
 since he got his trade, till he came to America, he 
 could have had good pay, and did get good wages 
 when he worked, but that he never saved a penny, 
 and often when out of work lived on charity. He 
 does indeed, John ; and many a time, he says, 
 when he’s drank himself sick, and hadn’t a copper 
 left, he’s been taken to the hospital, cured and 
 cared for, set on his feet again, given clothes by 
 some benevolent lady that had been imposed upon, 
 got to work, earned more money, set to drink 
 again, and then the same story — pawning his 
 clothes till he had nothing but rags left, then ill, 
 then the hospital, or the workhouse infirmary, and 
 all the story over again. You see he tried the same 
 thing here, but he woke up to find different results 
 to the experiment, and the American treatment 
 cured him. I’ll introduce you to him some day, 
 and he’ll be a good friend to you. There now, 
 John, I must go. I have spun my yarn to the last 
 thread ; it’s 10 to 8 . I’ll see you at noon to- 
 morrow, and don’t fear you’ll have work soon now. 
 Keep quiet, and look about you till I see you 
 again.” And Tim ran away to his work. 
 
CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 John felt encouraged by Tim’s promise of work, 
 but he could not but feel anxious, the more so at 
 hearing that he was now in a country where nothing 
 was to be got without money, and money only by 
 work. He rose with his head full of what he had 
 heard and went up to his little room. For the first 
 time in his life he realized that he was alone re- 
 sponsible for himself, and the thought frightened 
 him. He sat down on the side of his bed and 
 began to think over the situation. What if the bad 
 times predicted should prevent him getting work, 
 would he be allowed to starve ? He had not been 
 wasteful of his money. It was no fault of his that 
 he had not the means of paying his way through 
 the winter ; it was unlucky that the facts concerning 
 employment in America had not been learnt at an 
 earlier date ; he might have remained in England 
 till spring, and then come to America with .a little 
 money to meet any contingency which might arise ; 
 but now, here he was with three pounds in his 
 pocket, a long winter before him during which bad 
 times were prophesied, and from what he could 
 
John Brown. 
 
 IC7 
 
 gather, nothing to be expected in the way of assist- 
 ance from any quarter. His meditations were here 
 interrupted by the appearance of the mistress of 
 the house, who bustled into the room with a 
 water-can in one hand, brush and dust-pan in the 
 other, Matilda Jane bringing up the rear holding 
 a lighted candle. 
 
 Mrs. Goodrich started back at seeing John, and 
 exclaimed. Law me ! Mr. Brown, how you 
 scared me. What on ai^th be you a doin’ up here 
 all by yourself, and without a light ; why you look 
 as melancholy as a tombstone, I guess you’re home- 
 sick.” 
 
 John muttered some rather incoherent protest 
 at this accusation, and hoped he wasn’t in the 
 way. 
 
 ‘‘Oh dear no,” Mrs. Goodrich said, “we are 
 onlyyf;rm’ up the rooms for the night. If you ain’t 
 got nothing to do, Mr. Brown, you can carry the 
 light for me, I ain’t but two more rooms to do, and 
 then Matilda Jane can go down stairs and get the 
 work ready. 
 
 John readily consented to this arrangement, and 
 Matilda Jane was dismissed. 
 
 Mrs. Goodrich proceeded to turn down the bed- 
 clothes, refill the water jug, empty the slops, and 
 •' pull down the blind. Then some imaginary dust 
 was gathered up from the carpet with the brush and 
 dustpan, the ceremony of emptying said imaginary 
 
John Brown, 
 
 loS 
 
 dust into the slop pail gone through, and they pro- 
 ceeded to another room, and yet another, where the 
 same offices \vere performed, Mrs. Goodrich talk- 
 ing all the time. When all were finished, the gas 
 in the passage w’as turned low, and Mrs. Goodrich, 
 followed by John, descended the staircase. 
 
 “ If you ain’t going out this evening, Mr. Brow*n,” 
 the hostess said, ‘‘ We shall be pleased to have 
 your company, Matilda and I are going to cut 
 carpet rags this evening, and Nathaniel he'll be 
 studying, so if you have nothing better to do, come 
 in and sit with us. You’ll get real homesick if you 
 sit off there by yourself.” 
 
 Homesick ! poor John smiled at the thought. 
 
 ‘‘ Thank you, ma’am,” he said. “ I thought I 
 might be in your way, if not I’ll be thankful to sit 
 with you.” 
 
 The hostess led the way to the kitchen. How 
 bright and comfortable it looked, during Tim’s 
 visit ! Mother and daughter had finished washing 
 up, and put away the tea things. The fire had 
 been allowed to bum down in the big stove. The 
 gas was lighted over the table at which IMatilda Jane 
 was seated with a wicker basket in her lap, and 
 another and larger one at her feet, half filled with 
 large balls of various colours. At the other side ot 
 the table Nathaniel was making mechanical draw’-- 
 ings on a large sheet of drawing paper. The room 
 \vas w^arm, well lighted, and most comfortable. 
 
John Bro7un. 
 
 109 
 
 “ Make yourself at home now, Mr. Brown ; ” said 
 the busy housewife. “ Take a chair and Matilda 
 Jane ’ll give you something to do.” 
 
 John gratefully obeyed, and brought his chair as 
 near Miss Goodrich as the big basket would allow. 
 He watched the work she was doing and tried to 
 make out what it was without asking questions. 
 From a bit of red cloth she was cutting around and 
 around long circular shreds ; when one piece of 
 cloth was finished she began another, and the 
 basket on her lap was getting filled with 
 curious strings, of which the balls in the other 
 basket seemed composed. Mrs. Goodrich had a 
 few things to do before sitting down, and was 
 bustling about as usual, and Nathaniel had no eyes 
 for anything but his own work. John sat silently 
 regarding the clipping and cutting for a time, and 
 at length asked what the strings and balls were 
 for. 
 
 “Why, don’t you know?” Matilda Jane asked. 
 
 “ I’m sure I don’t. Miss,” John said. 
 
 “ Well, guess then,” the girl said, laughing. 
 
 “ Hash perhaps,” said John, remembering the 
 experience of the morning. 
 
 Matilda laughed heartily. 
 
 “ Law me, Mr. Brown, why these are carpet- 
 rags.” 
 
 “ Carpet-rags ! ” John echoed. “And what are 
 you cutting carpets up in these bits for ? ” 
 
I 10 
 
 John Brown, 
 
 Why, Mr. Brown, how funny you are. We are 
 not cutting up carpets, but we are going to make 
 carpets with these rags. The carpets up-stairs in 
 your own and the other men’s rooms, and the 
 strips in the dining-room are made of these bits. 
 If you stay here, ma will seize upon any old things 
 you may have made of cloth or flannel and confis- 
 cate them to this basket. You see any bit, however 
 small, will do ; for when a piece is short we cut it 
 around like this.” 
 
 “ But how do you get these strings made up into 
 carpet ?” John asked. 
 
 “ Why, don’t you see me tack the strings, as you 
 call them, together, and wind them on balls. Well 
 then, ma (when she has enough) makes these into 
 large skeins, and then she dyes them some bright 
 colour ; then they are dried and put in the loom 
 and make the woof ; then they are woven with very 
 coarse yarn, which ma spins, and which makes the 
 warp. We call it, when it is woven, rag-carpet. It 
 is cheap and warm and wears twice as long as any 
 other cheap carpet, don’t it, ma ” This to Mrs. 
 Goodrich, who had drawn up her chair and joined 
 them. 
 
 ‘‘ I guess it outwears any other carpet, cheap or 
 dear, that you’ll get now-a-days. Why the carpets 
 up-stairs in your bedroom and in some of the other 
 rooms, Mr. Brown, was made ten years ago, when 
 Matilda Jane was just big enough to use the scis- 
 
John Brown. 
 
 Ill 
 
 sors. She helped to cut the rags, and tacked for 
 me. I wove that myself, though. I had a spell of 
 leisure at times ; work was slack here, and nearly 
 all the boarders had gone to Boston to look for 
 something to do. I had the rags dyed and ready, 
 and so I hired a carpet-loom and wove the whole 
 of it myself. I spun the yarn myself, too. I used 
 to do that of evenings. I had an old-fashioned, 
 big wheel, and it didn’t take me long to spin all I 
 wanted ; but them as don’t weave, or ain’t the time, 
 mostly employ old folks that have looms to weave 
 for them ; from twelve and a-half to twenty-five 
 cents a yard we pay for the weavin’ generally, and 
 many old people as can do nothing else, make a 
 comfortable livin’ weavin’ carpets and rugs.” 
 
 “How did you learn to spin and weave John 
 asked. 
 
 “ Oh, my mother used to spin and weave pretty 
 nigh all our clothes in those days, and we girls had 
 to help in every kind of work.” 
 
 “ It’s the most wonderful thing, marm, how you 
 out in this country seem to know how to do every- 
 thing, and in our country people know so little.” 
 
 “Well you see, Mr. Brown, people in our cir- 
 cumstances must do without many things we want, 
 or learn to make them. If we hadn’t the bedroom 
 floors carpeted we would have to be constantly 
 scouring and cleaning, and should never get through 
 our work. Now we have the house cleaned (white- 
 
I I 2 
 
 JoJm Brown. 
 
 washed and cleaned) from top to bottom once a 
 year, and the carpets taken up twice, spring and 
 fall ; well, you see, the rooms only want sweeping 
 and dusting, and perhaps the paint may want 
 washing occasionally, but what’s that to scrubbing 
 and scouring perpetually? Why nothing. And / 
 tell you, you wouldn’t like to sleep in a room without 
 fire or carpet in winter in this climate. So we make 
 the best of what we have. It’s just the same with 
 our clothes. We like to dress well, but we couldn’t 
 afford — Matilda and I couldn’t afford — to have 
 first-class dress-makers, and we shouldn’t be satis- 
 fied with poor ones, so we make our own ; and I 
 guess they’re about as good as our neighbours’.” 
 
 “ I should think no one could ' have a more 
 beautiful fit than Miss Goodrich,” John said, “ or,” 
 he added, getting very red, “ a more beautiful 
 figure to wear it.” 
 
 I guess you’ve got a blarney stone in your 
 country as well as the Irish, Mr. Brown,” Matilda 
 said, laughing and looking pleased. 
 
 “ Now,” said John, I want to learn all I can 
 from you ; and as you have been so kind as to tell 
 me so much, I would be very much obliged if you 
 would tell me how you can afford to board us 
 hearty men and give us the best of everything for 
 the price Jim Pearson tells me you charge.” 
 
 ‘‘Well,” Mrs. Goodrich replied, pleased at the 
 opportunity of discussing her favourite subject. 
 
John Brown. 
 
 113 
 
 “ well, Mr. Brown, it’s mighty hard work some- 
 times to get along and save anything through the 
 winter when the boarders leave, but I’ll tell you 
 with very great pleasure all I can. It seems funny 
 for a man to want to know such things, don’t it, 
 Matilda Jane? You see in this country all the 
 household management is left to the women, and 
 the men never trouble their heads about anything 
 but their own work. We women have plenty to do, 
 Mr. Brown, I can tell you, as I told ’em last winter 
 when they came round with their paper to get 
 names on the woman’s rights question, ‘ I ain’t got 
 no time for political talk or to attend political 
 meetings,’ says I. ‘Why, ain’t we got enough to 
 do without turning politicians ? If we’re to under- 
 take the politics,’ says I, ‘ why the men must do the 
 housework, and then I reckon the government ’ll 
 have to take the babies to bring up by contract. 
 Mrs. Lathrop, she had the paper, and she explained 
 that women that had any work to do wouldn’t be 
 expected to take much trouble about politics, only 
 them as had plenty of leisure. ‘Well,’ says I, ‘ Mrs. 
 Lathrop, I guess things are about as safe where 
 they be as in the hands of women who in this busy 
 world have nothing to do. Far as I can make out,’ 
 says I, ‘ women haint given the world much evi- 
 dence of governing ability.’ ‘ They have been given 
 no opportunity,’ says Mrs. Lathrop; ‘they have 
 been oppressed and kept down like slaves,’ says 
 
 I 
 
IT4 
 
 John Brown, 
 
 she. ‘ Well, Mrs. Lathrop/ I says, ^ women have 
 had it all their own way in one great department, 
 and I don’t see as they’ve made much of it. Ever 
 since the days of Noah women have had their own 
 way in household matters, and much they’ve made 
 of the privilege. Why we ain’t got no system of 
 housekeeping more than our ancestors had hundreds 
 of years ago. One good thing would come of men 
 changing places with us, they’d soon establish a 
 regular system, and then when that’s been done 
 women could be employed to work it. But women 
 ’ll never do it themselves. They’re always com- 
 plaining of the difficulties of household manage- 
 ment, but they never take a step towards a remedy. 
 Why, what do I know of the capacity of a help that 
 comes to me from another woman’s service. The 
 help has a good character, and the house she comes 
 from is respectable and all that. Well, she sets to 
 work. I soon find that where she has been living 
 the mistress and the maid worked together, that 
 the mistress did her work entirely different to what 
 I do mine, and that the help had been taught to do 
 likewise. Well, I have to teach her all over again, 
 and that takes as much time as to do the w^ork 
 myself. The next place the girl goes to, the same 
 thing goes on again. Now what I want is to be 
 able to say to a help that applies for a place, ‘ On 
 what system do you work ? Is it the English, the 
 French, or the American ? ’ And when women 
 
John Brown, 
 
 1^5 
 
 shall have established such a system of governing 
 and administering their own department, why then 
 they might have time to devote to politics,’ says I ; 
 and I think I had the best of the argument, Mr. 
 Brown, don’t you ? Anyhow, Mrs. Lathrop didn’t 
 ask for my signature again.” 
 
 ‘‘You do seem to work on system, Mrs. Good- 
 rich,” John says. “ I never saw anything where 
 men are employed conducted more systematically. 
 Why, it’s by your management that you get such 
 an amount of work done.” 
 
 “ Oh, yes, I have a way of doing my own work, 
 and it’s the best way I know anything about, but it 
 aint a recognized system that I work upon. I 
 ought to be able to get help if I wanted it by 
 putting an advertisement in the paper like this : 
 ‘ Wanted, help in the work and general manage- 
 ment of a working man’s boarding-house ; Ameri- 
 can system preferred.’ But no, as I said before, if 
 I get a help I must educate her in my way of work- 
 ing before she’s of any use, and then when she goes 
 to her next situation she has to go through another 
 education providing the housekeeper knows any- 
 thing about her house. But it often happens that 
 in private families there is no housekeeper, no 
 head, and the helps do just what they like ; and I 
 guess the man that provides for such an estab- 
 lishment would like to change places with his wife, 
 and let her do the voting if she’d earn the money 
 
John Broum, 
 
 1 16 
 
 and pay the bills. Well, Mr. Brown, you’ll think 
 I’m never going to tell you what you asked me. I 
 do get so mad with these women that always want 
 to do something that’s right away beyond their own 
 province, and are too weak or lazy to do their best 
 within the bounds that nature has placed around 
 them, that when I once begin on that subject I 
 don’t know when to leave off.” 
 
 ‘‘ Ma would make a good lecturer — wouldn’t 
 she ? ” said Matilda Jane. 
 
 If I had been educated,” the mother said, 
 promptly, ‘‘as I have educated my children, I think 
 I should be able to do some good by writing what 
 I have thought out for myself, but I shouldn’t have 
 lectured.” 
 
 “ I’m sure, ma’m,” John said, “ you must be well 
 educated.” 
 
 “ Well, no, Mr. Brown ; education wasn’t so easy 
 to get when I was a girl ; we lived in the country, 
 and had to go out to work or help at home in the 
 summer, and then we went to school ourselves in 
 the winter ; but the district school was generally 
 taught by some one of our own folks that had been 
 able to get away for a spell to some academy, and 
 you see we all grew up to speak just alike ; there 
 wasn’t much attention paid to our speech or man- 
 ners, and I see the difference now between Matilda 
 Jane’s way of speaking and my own ; but la, sir. 
 I’m too old to change now.” 
 
John Brown, 
 
 117 
 
 “Well,” John remarked, “I wish I knew half 
 what you do, ma’m ; you’ve done credit to those 
 that brought you up, anyway.” 
 
 “There, ma’ ! After that you might tell Mr.Brown 
 what he wants to know ; you won’t get a prettier 
 speech than that, I’m sure,” said Matilda. 
 
 Mrs. Goodrich laughed, and looked pleased. All 
 the time she had been talking she had been cutting 
 ^ and snipping the bits of cloth, and John, instructed 
 by the daughter to “ wind loose,” had been forming 
 more balls of the cloth strings. 
 
 “Well, Mr. Brown, now tell me what you really 
 want to know?” said Mrs. Goodrich. 
 
 “ I want to know, ma’m, how you can live in a 
 house like this, and keep such a table, and board 
 us hearty men for ten shillings, or in your money, 
 two dollars and a half, a week ? ” 
 
 “ Well, as I said before, Mr. Brown, we find it a 
 little hard to make anything in the winter, for then 
 many of the boarders go away when work’s slack 
 here. But, to begin with the house, it cost us first 
 three thousand dollars.” 
 
 “ How many pounds is that?” John asked. 
 
 “ La me, Mr. Brown, I don’t know ! but Natha- 
 niel there can tell you.” 
 
 “Don’t trouble Nathaniel, ma’,” Matilda Jane 
 said. “ I will tell you, Mr. Brown — three thousand 
 dollars is six hundred pounds sterling.” 
 
 “ Well,” Mrs. Goodrich continued, “ the interest 
 
1 1 8 John Brow 7 i, 
 
 on that at five per cent, would be one hundred and 
 fifty dollars.” 
 
 ‘‘ That is thirty pounds sterling, Mr. Brown,” 
 said Matilda Jane. 
 
 “ I will tell you first what I have to do, and then 
 how I do it,” Mrs. Goodrich went on. ‘‘Well, 
 then, you can put down first to be made one hun- 
 dred and fifty dollars,” and John wrote down thirty 
 pounds. “ Well, the rate and taxes are fifty dollars 
 more.” 
 
 “ That is ten pounds sterling,” Matilda said. 
 
 “ The repairs and cleaning cost nigh on a hun- 
 dred dollars, I guess, don’t they, Matilda ? ” 
 
 “Yes,” the daughter answered; “the average 
 expense is about a hundred dollars-^that’s twenty 
 pounds.” 
 
 “ With one thing and another,” Mrs. Goodrich 
 proceeded, “ the furniture cost a thousand dollars. 
 The interest on that in a boarding-house, Mr. 
 Goodrich used to calculate at ten per cent. How 
 many pounds is a thousand dollars, Matilda ?” 
 
 “ Two hundred, ma’ ; and the interest on that, 
 Mr. Brown, at ten per cent, would be twenty 
 pounds.” 
 
 “Well, then, I have to keep my own family 
 of three, and twenty-five boarders, but I have 
 only twenty-five boarders for seven months in 
 the year. For the other five months, I believe in 
 the last three years, I have had an average of 
 
John Brown, 
 
 119 
 
 twelve boarders. Well, the money I receive from 
 boarders during the year amounts to 3,250 dollars. 
 Now, Matilda, you get down the book for last 
 year. Nathaniel made it all up, so that you can 
 see just the income and out-go for the whole year. 
 1 believe the expenses last year were pretty nigh 
 two thousand dollars. That is, to keep house, but 
 you can see for yourself. 
 
 This is asking a great deal,’* said John. “1 
 hope, ma’am, you will excuse the liberty I am taking, 
 and me a stranger in your family ; but there is 
 such a difference in the way working people live 
 here, to that of the same class in my country, that 
 I want to find out if it is because of something you 
 have in this country which is beyond our reach at 
 home, or if it’s the misuse of money, and the mis- 
 rule of government that makes the working classes 
 in England discontented, thriftless, drunken, and 
 wretched, whilst here all seem contented, indus- 
 trious, sober, and happy. And everything you tell 
 me, or that I hear, serve to prove that you have no 
 privileges here which we in England are deprived 
 of, only*you esteem and make the most of every- 
 thing, while we — well, God help us ! — ^just struggle 
 on through our miserable lives with not a hand to 
 help us, or a light to show us a better way.” 
 
CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 Here Matilda placed before John a large book 
 containing the accounts of the past year, made up 
 simply and accurately, and assisted him in under- 
 standing the dollars and cents, or put the sums 
 into pounds, shillings, and pence. After a careful 
 study of the little book, he was surprised to find 
 that the lodging-house keeper made a clean profit 
 of from six or seven hundred dollars a year, besides 
 feeding, clothing, and educating her children, and 
 enjoying the independence of a proprietress and 
 manager of a large family. During the winter 
 months the receipts always decreased, but the loss 
 was made up during the summer months, when 
 there was a diminution of cost in fire, &c., and an 
 increase of income. 
 
 “ I see,” said John, looking over the book, ‘‘ some 
 articles of food are much cheaper here than in 
 England. For instance, you have here five hun- 
 dred and sixty weight of pork at three cents a 
 pound. That in England would be a shilling, or 
 at the very least, <^d. a pound.” 
 
 ‘‘Oh, pork here sells at from 20 to 25 cents a 
 pound, but the pork you see there is our own 
 
John Brown, 
 
 12 I 
 
 raising. The cost of the four young pigs and the 
 corn we bought just to feed them for a while before 
 killing, brought the pigs to 3 cents a pound, but 
 we fed them entirely out of the kitchen. You see, 
 when we cook daily for from twelve to twenty-five 
 men, we have a great deal of food, such as potato 
 and vegetable peelings, sour milk, bits of vege- 
 table, plate scrapings, &c. We have sometimes 
 more than the pigs will eat, besides saving all our 
 soap grease. In the summer I buy a little bran to 
 stir in the pigs’ feed, but everything put together 
 just brings the pork to 3 cents a pound, and last 
 year I had just enough pork to last the year up to 
 the last day. We cooked one of our hams on 
 Christmas, the last that was, and v;e tried the 
 sugar cure on that, and it was first rate. Well you 
 see that leaves me only beef to buy. I generally 
 salt down two or three hundred weight when I get 
 it cheap, and that with pork and about a hundred 
 weight of fresh beef and another of fish, and the 
 odds-and-ends I buy in the way of poultry, sees me 
 through the year. We don’t eat much meat here. 
 The men don’t care for joints, and if they did I 
 couldn’t afford them. I mostly cook my meats with 
 vegetables in stews or ragouts. 
 
 “Then there’s the vegetable item, that is also 
 large. Yes, I use four bushels of ^tatoes a week 
 now, and two in the winter,” Mrs. Goodrich said. 
 “ We pay a dollar a bushel toward spring for our 
 
122 
 
 John Brown. 
 
 Hatoes^ but I mostly buy what I want in the fall, 
 and put them in the cellar or in a root house ; they 
 cost me on an average 75 cents a bushel. Well then 
 the item for flour^s heavy ; 1 use about half a hundred 
 of flour and meal a week, maybe more, but you see 
 I make all my own bread, and it costs me precisely 
 half what it would cost to buy bakers’ bread. Then 
 there’s coal, twenty-five tons at five dollars a ton, 
 and six cord of wood at two-and-half a cordj and 
 75 cents a cord for cutting it. You see,” Mrs. 
 Goodrich explained, ‘‘ we burn wood in the 
 dining-room stove, and in the big stove in the hall 
 to get ashes to make our soap.” 
 
 “Do you make your own soap?” John said in 
 amazement. 
 
 “ Why, la me, Mr. Brown, what on airth would 
 we do with our grease if we didn’t make our own 
 soap.” 
 
 I don’t know, ma’am, I’m sure,” John an- 
 swered. “ I didn’t know that soap was made with 
 grease.” 
 
 “What queer people you English must be. I 
 don’t wonder you are so very poor as you say. 
 Why, we save all the coarse grease here and throw 
 it into a great hogshead you’ll see standin’ out in 
 the back yard ; we always keep the grease covered 
 with lye, that we make from our wood ashes. If 
 you go out into the back yard in the morning, 
 you’ll find two hogsheads, one covered in the corner 
 
John Brown. 
 
 123 
 
 over next the pig pens. That’s the grease tub, and 
 the other near the house, you’ll find standin’ on 
 the supports about three feet from the ground, 
 with a tub under it ; well, that’s the ash tub. We 
 have holes bored in the bottom of that hogshead, 
 and we put some straw into it, and then we sift 
 our wood ash and empty it in there ; we pour in a 
 little rain water from time to time, and as the lye 
 filters into the tub underneath we empty it into our 
 grease tub. The lye you see consumes the grease 
 and prevents any bad smell. When we’re a house- 
 cleanin’ in the spring and fall, we bile up our 
 soap out in the back yard in the pigs’ kettle, and 
 put away our soap. I haven’t never bought no 
 washing or scourin’ soap since I kept house, and 
 my soap is about as good as they make it., I guess.” 
 
 ‘‘ I begin to see, Mrs. Goodrich, how it is you 
 are so prosperous here,” John said ; and no w^onder 
 you work hard, live well, and waste nothing, not 
 even old rags, that in other countries are thrown in 
 the dust heaps.” 
 
 Waste not want not, you know, Mr. Brown. I 
 guess now you’ve had enough of house-keepin’ for 
 one evening ; and you will see that between the 
 income and outlay of my boarding house I have a 
 good margin.” 
 
 ‘‘I’m most thankful to you, ma’am,” John re- 
 plied. “ I only wish I had it in my power to convey 
 the lesson to my poor fellow workmen at home, but 
 
124 
 
 John Bro7un, 
 
 unless they saw the result of the system I’m afraid 
 they wouldn’t believe in it. I see from your book 
 that everything is about as dear here as in England, 
 and that your house costs you as much as it would 
 in the same situation in London, and yet you live 
 on the best of everything in the land, and keep 
 everybody comfortable around you. Now, Mrs. 
 Goodrich, when I worked at Hampstead I boarded 
 with the foreman of the works and his wife for a 
 time, and then I lodged with them, bringing in my 
 own food ready cooked from a cookshop. Well, 
 the master of the house he was earning from 28^-. to 
 30^*. a week ; they had a house they paid ^50 a 
 year for, and they took lodgers as I tell you. They 
 let the rooms to the men for what covered the rent, 
 and lived themselves rent-free, yet Mrs. Lambert, 
 the wife, couldn’t manage on her husband’s wages, 
 and little better than pigs they lived, just from 
 hand to mouth, she running out to the nearest shop 
 to buy a slice of meat for her husband’s dinner 
 and dabbling out her bits of clothes in the evening 
 in a wash-tub that was just beside the bed of her 
 poor baby, and the men all sitting about in the 
 same room smoking and drinking beer, and cursing 
 and swearing every other word, and the dirt — 
 Ugh!” 
 
 “ La a massy, Mr. Brown, you don’t say you live 
 like that in England ; why, it ain’t livin’ like Chris- 
 tians ; well, I never ! ” 
 
JoJi7i Brown, 
 
 T25 
 
 Calling ourselves Christians don’t seem to 
 make much difference between us and savages, 
 Mrs. Goodrich,” said John, and I think it would 
 be hard to find more degraded wretches this side 
 of the Hottentots than I could show you by the 
 thousand in Christian England. Poor children 
 murdered by the score, or maimed for life by bru- 
 talized parents ; men and women living like 
 animals, huddled together in filthy holes, without 
 respect to age or sex ; young women who do not 
 
 know what decency means, young men ” 
 
 “ Oh, Mr. Brown, don’t say any more, for mercy 
 sake,” said Matilda Jane, rising as if to leave the 
 room ; “ such things are too dreadful to listen to.” 
 During the conversation between her mother and 
 John Brown, she had gone to the other side of the 
 table to assist her brother with his lessons ; and 
 she now quickly gathered up his books, and left 
 the room. 
 
 Poor John was overcome with mortification at 
 having allowed himself to indulge in a conversa- 
 tion which was evidently considered improper by 
 one of his listeners at least, and that the one he 
 most wished to please. He sat looking like a cul- 
 prit, until reassured by Mrs. Goodrich. 
 
 “ We ain’t used to hearing of such things as you 
 have been describing, Mr. Brown,” she said, ‘‘ but 
 we hadn’t ought to be afraid to listen to them, be- 
 cause if we don’t know of their existence, we can’t 
 
126 
 
 John Brown. 
 
 help to cure them. It’s very hard to understand 
 how such a state of things can exist in a country 
 where one half the people are so rich, and where 
 the rich are noted for their charity and goodness 
 to the poor, and so sympathetic with distress 
 wherever it exists. There’s a screw loose some- 
 where ; I wonder some one with learning and 
 influence don’t find out where it is, and make 
 the discovery generally known. You have free 
 discussion in your House of Parliament, haven’t 
 you ? well, why don’t your members take up the 
 subject, and give it the benefit of their learning and 
 the power they have of having everything inves- 
 tigated ? ” 
 
 “ Yes,” John answered, “ we have a Parliament, 
 but they have no time to discuss questions like 
 this ; you see, they mostly have great matters to 
 settle in foreign countries. I think England 
 settles the difficulties of every country in the 
 world.” 
 
 ‘‘ I’ve always heard tell,” Mrs. Goodrich said, 
 “that charity begins at home. I ain’t no politi- 
 cian, and I hav’n’t the education that I wish I had, 
 but it don’t take much learning to see that there’s 
 something wrong, and that there shouldn’t be the 
 misery you describe in a country overflowing with 
 wealth, if the wealth was properly administered.” 
 
 “ There never was a people more anxious to do 
 good than the people of England, Mrs. Goodrich,” 
 
John Brown, 
 
 127 
 
 John said ; ‘^why there’s an institution in London 
 for every kind of human suffering. There are 
 homes for old men, homes for old women ; homes 
 for orphans, homes for half orphans ; hospitals for 
 all the different diseases that ever was known, and 
 homes for incurables ; lunatic asylums, homes for 
 idiots, and cripple-homes ; and these are all 
 founded and supported by the benevolence of 
 the people. Besides these, there are the work- 
 houses, the reformatories, and the prisons — all 
 full.” 
 
 “ La a massy on us, Mr. Brown, you don’t say 
 so. Why, wTat makes so many poor?” Mrs. 
 Goodrich asks ; ‘‘ ain’t there no work to be got ? ” 
 
 “I don’t know, ma’am,” John said, sadly. I 
 used to think before I came over here that it was 
 the big pay men get here for their labour that 
 makes the difference ; but I begin now to think 
 otherwise. What with the long winters here, when 
 work of many kinds is scarce, and most labouring 
 work impossible, and the dearness of clothing of 
 every kind, I think the labourers’ pay is just as 
 good at home as here ; and there must be plenty 
 of work to be got, for poor people come from all 
 quarters of Europe to England to find employ- 
 ment. Why, I saw in the papers that there are 
 in London more Jews than in Jerusalem, more 
 Germans than in Berlin, more French than in 
 Paris, more Irish and Scotch than in Dublin or 
 
128 
 
 John Brown, 
 
 Edinburgh. This may not be strictly true ;but I 
 know enough of it is true to show that the induce- 
 ment of employment and good pay brings thousands 
 of foreigners to London.” 
 
 “ Well, then, Mr. Brown, for massy’s sake, what 
 makes your working people so low and wretched ” 
 Mrs. Goodrich asked ; “ it seems to me that you 
 think your country the most prosperous and the 
 most wretched in the world.” 
 
 And so it is, ma’am, just what you say. I had 
 plenty of work there, and good pay ; and it’s my 
 native country, and all belonging to me ; the only 
 relations I know of in the world are there — and yet 
 I sicken at the thought of going back to it ; to take 
 my place in the society and class to which I be- 
 long there, would be to leave behind me here 
 everything a man ought to live for, and to go down 
 to the level of brute beasts. Why, ma’am, I hardly 
 know a man in my station of life as hasn’t been 
 locked up, sometimes for one thing, sometimes for 
 another.” 
 
 What do you mean, sent to prison?” Mrs. 
 Goodrich asked in astonishment. 
 
 “ Yes, indeed, ma’am ; what would you think of 
 that here ? ” 
 
 ‘‘ Why, no one would employ him here if it was 
 knowm, and workmen would refuse to work with 
 him. Of course, workmen here are as good as 
 any one else if they behave themselves, and if they 
 
John Brown, 
 
 129 
 
 don^t, why, their own folks take care the disgrace 
 falls on the individual and not on the class. If a 
 man got in trouble of that kind here, he’d have to 
 clear out, I tell you ; we are as proud of our posi- 
 tion as the best of them,” Mrs. Goodrich said, 
 emphatically. 
 
 And right you are too, and that’s probably one 
 of the reasons you are so superior to us. Why, 
 ma’am, when I worked last in London, I lived as 
 I told you at the foreman’s house ; and when I 
 arrived the first day, I was shown where I was to 
 sleep in a room with six others ; and the guv’nor, 
 when he was showing me the room says, ‘ If you 
 have money or valuables, you had best give them 
 to my missus,’ says he ; ‘ and you had best sleep 
 in the bed in the corner,’ says he, ‘ as the men come 
 in late, and not often sober.’ Now, Mrs. Good- 
 rich, that tells you what sort of characters were 
 working there, and what opinion their foreman had 
 of them. But, bless you, no one thought anything 
 of it ; respectability they think one of the privileges 
 of the upper classes.” 
 
 “You do surprise me,” Mrs. Goodrich said; 
 “ why, if a working-man was to be found guilty 
 here of theft, or any other crime, nobody would 
 board or lodge him afterward, and not a man 
 would work with him, no more than they would if 
 he had some catchin’ disease. It has happened 
 here since I kept workin’-men’s boarding house 
 
130 
 
 John Brown. 
 
 that a workman was convicted of stealin\ Well, 
 his name was taken off his club and library, and 
 when he came out a few dollars was raised amongst 
 the men, and he was sent out far West. I guess 
 once was enough for him, and the treatment cured 
 him, but I never heard anything about him again. 
 Now, I guess, Mr. Brown, we must finish our 
 palaver, it’s bed-time ; I hear the men goin’ upstairs. 
 There’s a jug of milk in the dining-room, if you 
 would like a glass. Good-night.” 
 
 “Good-night, ma’am,” John said, “I hope you 
 hav’n’t found me troublesome, and that you’ll let 
 me do any work I am able to do for you till 
 Monday, when I am I hope to get work.” 
 
CHAPTER XX. 
 
 John slept soundly in his snug bed and rose 
 refreshed in the morning, dressed, and was down 
 stairs long before the breakfast hour. Mother and 
 daughter were busily preparing the meal, and he 
 was very pleased at being allowed to help where- 
 ever his help was of use. When all was finished, 
 and the last dish carried from the kitchen to the 
 dining-table, John, at the request of the hostess, 
 rang the big bell in the hall, and the men came 
 rushing down stairs, as if everything depended 
 upon him who should arrive first. They took their 
 seats, and immediately attacked the eatables, Mrs. 
 Goodrich and her daughter supplying coffee as fast 
 as it could be poured. Very little was said by 
 anyone beyond the Good morning,” and instantly 
 a man had finished he rose, and hurried away. 
 
 The breakfast was excellent. Coffee, hot and 
 fragrant, made with an equal portion of boiled milk ; 
 corn cakes, brown bread, also hot ; two dishes of 
 hash, the same he had seen prepared by the hands 
 of ^latilda Jane ; a curious dish, shaped like a 
 flower-pot, and filled with baked beans, of which 
 
132 
 
 Johji Brown, 
 
 every one partook, and which John thought de- 
 licious, and baked potatoes. Everything was well- 
 cooked ; the room was warm, and the meal in 
 everyway good. When all had finished and gone, 
 Mrs. Goodrich brought from the kitchen a tray 
 containing the family breakfast ; Nathaniel, who 
 had been busy, came in, and John insisted on 
 serving the family, which he did so awkwardly as 
 to excite Mrs. Goodrich^s anxiety for the safety of 
 her porcelain, and Matilda Jane’s amusement. 
 
 This was Saturday, and Mrs. Goodrich gave our 
 friend plenty to do, during the forenoon. Immedi- 
 ately after breakfast, orders for the day were 
 given. “ We’re going upstairs now, Mr. Brown,” 
 said the indefatigable housekeeper, “ to do the 
 work there, and it will keep us busy till ten o’clock. 
 We change all the beds^ on Saturday, and it’s as 
 much as we can do, I tell you, to get through in 
 time to wash up, and get dinner ready for half-past 
 twelve, but we ain’t often late. Nathaniel generally 
 helps a good deal, but, as I told you, he is going to 
 teach, this winter, if he can get through his exami- 
 nations, and he’s attending lectures, and classes, 
 and one thing and another, and I don’t know* how 
 to ask him to give me a mornin’, even bakin’, 
 washin’ days, or Saturdays. Now, Matilda Jane, 
 bring in the pans.” 
 
 These were two enormous tin pans, with handles 
 on both sides. They were deposited on the 
 
John Brown. 
 
 ^33 
 
 side-table, each plate was put therein after being 
 carefully scraped, into a large basin. The bread 
 was put on a fresh clean dish, all the pieces of 
 meat, left after breakfast, were put carefully away 
 in the larder, and when all was removed, the cloth 
 was taken off, neatly folded, the crumbs swept up 
 on the floor, and then John received his orders. 
 
 “If you please, Mr. Brown, if you’ll carry the 
 pans of dishes to the kitchen sink, and then, if you 
 would be so kind as to shake these strips of carpet 
 out in the back yard, and make up the fire in the 
 stove here and in the dining-room, and see to filling 
 the boiler, it would be a great help,” Matilda Jane 
 said, and John flew to obey. When he had com- 
 pleted the order, he, at the mistress’s request, 
 carried upstairs a large pail half-full of hot water, 
 a long-handled mop, and a basin of soft soap. 
 
 He found Mrs. Goodrich and her daughter just 
 finishing the work of the last bedroom. The sheet, 
 neatly folded over the counterpane, was as white as 
 snow ; clean towels had been put on the towel 
 stands and the soiled ones removed ; everything 
 was in its place in the rooms, and all looked clean 
 and comfortable. In the passage a great pile of 
 soiled bedroom linen was heaped together in an 
 outspread sheet, which Matilda Jane tied together 
 at the corners, and gave our friend to carry down 
 stairs. When he returned he found Mrs. Goodrich 
 mopping the passage which had a painted floor, 
 
134 
 
 JoJm B7‘0wn. 
 
 whilst her daughter, with soap and water, lightly 
 and quickly washed all finger-marks from the white 
 painted doors. At 10.15 o’clock the work upstairs 
 was finished, and John carried the pails of scrub- 
 bing water down stairs. 
 
 Then both women set-to to wash up the dishes. 
 One washed with soap and water, whilst the other 
 wiped from the hot rinsing water, plates, dishes, 
 cups and saucers, till all were done. 
 
 Knives and forks were also washed with soap and 
 water, but another process was applied to the knives. 
 On a board was scraped a little heap of bath-brick 
 dust, the knife was laid with the blade flat on the 
 board ; a bit of flannel rolled into a hard wad, was 
 dipped into hot water, then into soft soap, then into 
 the brick-dust, and with this the knife-blade was 
 rubbed clean and bright ; then quickly washed in hot 
 water, wiped dry, and put away. John remembered 
 the way knives were cleaned at Mrs. Bennet’s, 
 when he was a little boy, the labour and time it 
 cost to clean the blade of a knife by rubbing it up 
 and down a board with dry dust, and he wondered 
 if that process was still in use, or if English serv^ants 
 had found out this way, by which a dozen knives 
 could be cleaned in the time that one could be done 
 by the old process. Well, at last, all was “washed 
 up,” and the two women began the preparations for 
 dinner. 
 
 “To-day,” Mrs. Goodrich explained, “ is kind of 
 
John Brown, 
 
 135 
 
 pick-up dinner ; but the men always say they like 
 Saturday’s dinner better than any other. We only 
 have pepper-pot to-day, and just whatever is 
 handiest to cook. I guess we’ll have chowder.” 
 
 ‘‘ What may that be ? ” John asked. 
 
 ^^Well,” Mrs. Goodrich said, “pepper-pot is a 
 kind of soup our folks are very fond of, and 
 
 chowder Well, you shall see me make both. 
 
 In that kettle b’iling on the stove there’s three 
 pounds of scrag of mutton, and three pounds of 
 lean pickled pork, with two quarts and a pint of 
 split peas, and fourteen quarts of water. Well, 
 that’s been a-b’ilin’ since eight o’clock this morning. 
 Besides the things I told you, there’s a dozen cloves 
 and a red pepper. Well, now it’s half-past eleven, 
 and the dinner’s at half-past twelve ; and if you 
 want to know how pepper-pot and chowder’s made, 
 why, just watch me.” 
 
 But here John was called to help Matilda Jane 
 to carry scrubbing pail and mop into the dining- 
 room. 
 
 There he lingered as long as he was allowed, 
 watching the process of mopping, which, in an 
 American house, takes the place of scrubbing. 
 First, a large bit of the floor is mopped with hot 
 water, but only enough water is used to well wet the 
 place ; then some soft soap is thrown on to the wet 
 place, and rubbed all over the space with the mop, 
 which is plunged into the pail repeatedly, and par- 
 
136 
 
 John Brown. 
 
 tially wrung out before being used again; then, 
 when this piece of floor is clean, and the soapsuds 
 well wiped up, the mop is wrung out and the floor 
 dried. The fire in the big stove burns brightly, and 
 very soon the floor is clean and dry. By this 
 process a large room may be cleaned in fifteen 
 minutes which would require an hour’s hard work 
 to scrub, and the position of the body in scrubbing 
 is fatiguing in the extreme, and attended with 
 serious consequences to those who are obliged to 
 frequently repeat the process. 
 
 John was not allowed to see the room finished ; 
 he was called away to see the cooking operations, 
 and found Mrs. Goodrich standing over a moulding- 
 board, where she had just finished making a number 
 of small suet-dumplings. 
 
 I’m afraid,” he said, ‘‘ I’ve lost the lesson in 
 cooking for to-day.” 
 
 ‘‘ Well, yes, the chowder’s made; but I can tell 
 you how that’s done in a minute or two. We just 
 line a puddin’-dish with mashed potatoes, and then 
 lay in layers of any cold fish we may have, with layers 
 of sliced cold potatoes, and some shreds of bacon, 
 with pepper and salt ; then we spread a little butter 
 over the top, cover all with mashed potatoes made 
 soft and smooth with a little milk. Well, we just 
 put this in the oven for twenty or thirty minutes, 
 and it is served in the dish it is baked in. We 
 mostly have it on pepper-pot days, for, you see, the 
 
John Brown. 
 
 137 
 
 pepper-pot is very substantial. Now I’m going to 
 finish my other dish.” 
 
 So saying, Mrs. Goodrich had the pot lifted off 
 the fire, and its contents filtered through a huge 
 colander into a very large basin. She then took 
 the meat out, removed all the bones, and cut the 
 mutton and pork into small pieces. The meat and 
 suet-dumplings were put back into the pot, and the 
 strained soup poured over all and set to boiling 
 again. 
 
 Now,” Mrs. Goodrich continued, “the dump- 
 lings will be done in twenty minutes, and then 
 dinner will be ready. Pepper-pot is one of the 
 favourite dishes here, and it’s very economical. 
 Why, Mr. Brown, you were wondering how I could 
 keep the men for two and a half dollars a week. Well, 
 it’s by knowin’ how to prepare dishes out of the 
 most nutritious and least expensive things. Peas 
 and beans are used in great quantities here, and 
 are cheap, wholesome food for workin’ men ; but 
 they must be cooked delicately and well, or they 
 are both uneatable. I don’t mind telling you what 
 to-day’s dinner will cost ; but I can’t just now, for 
 I must get the table ready.” 
 
 John assisted in carrying the dishes to the dining- 
 room, where Matilda Jane had just finished her 
 work, and the room was clean and dry. The mother 
 hastily spread the cloth, and, with what help John 
 could give her, the table was soon prepared. Then 
 
138 John Bro 7 un, 
 
 the daughter appeared, having changed her apron 
 for a clean one, and otherwise improved and tidied 
 her toilette. She took her mother’s place, and com- 
 pleted the arrangements for dinner. The pepper- 
 pot was dished in a large soup-tureen, and the 
 chowder, removed from the oven, presented a most 
 inviting dish ; a napkin was folded around the deep 
 oval basin or dish in which it was baked, and this 
 placed on the table. 
 
 Now the men began to come in. All went up- 
 stairs, and at precisely half-past twelve the great 
 bell was rung by Mrs. Goodrich on her way down- 
 stairs, after having completely changed her dress of 
 the morning. In the dining-room the men came and 
 took their seats, and the dinner was served. Be- 
 sides the hot dishes, there was some cold meat, 
 pickles, sliced beetroot, brown bread,' a small dish 
 of boiled potatoes, apple-sauce, and pastry of some 
 kind, made in closed tarts, or, as they called them, 
 pies. The pepper-pot was served in soup-plates, 
 and nearly every one partook of it. John thought 
 it the best dish he had yet eaten, until he was 
 served with chowder. This was delicious ; but, as 
 Mrs. Goodrich had said, the pepper-pot was so sub- 
 stantial, that few had inclination for anything more, 
 beyond the sweets. As before, every one eat in 
 silence and in a hurry, and when one had finished 
 dinner, he went immediately away, but not out, as 
 the men had done the day before. Nearly all went 
 
JoJm Brow 71 , 
 
 139 
 
 upstairs, and in the course of a half or three- 
 quarters of an hour appeared again, dressed as if 
 for a fete. Every one had changed his linen, and 
 all looked clean and well-dressed, and all went out. 
 
 “ Where are the men going ? ” John asked. “ Is 
 there anything going on ?’’ 
 
 “ Not particularly,’^ Mrs. Goodrich replied. 
 Nearly everyone has something for Saturday 
 afternoon. The two men that sit next me at the 
 top of the table, have a singing and musical club 
 that meets at half-past three, Saturdays. Then 
 they go on after that’s over to the readin’room. 
 Then there’s Mr. Scott, he’s a member of apolitical 
 club, and two other men boardin’ here are members 
 of the Institute, and go to lectures, and nearly all go 
 to night-classes. Some of the men have to go on 
 again in the works as watchmen at nine o’clock, so 
 they have something for the afternoon.” 
 
 ‘Ms it easy getting into a night class?” John 
 asked. 
 
 “ Well, that depends. There’s a class now where 
 Nathaniel teaches, that’s on Thursday evenings. 
 It’s only for readin’, writin’, and ’rithmetic, and any 
 one can belong to it if there’s a vacancy, but they 
 can only have twenty members. Then there’s a man 
 here now that is getting up classes in natural 
 philosophy and mechanics, but he has some diffi- 
 culty getting a hall. He was here once before 
 and taught. Well, you see, the men used to go to 
 
140 
 
 John Brown. 
 
 his classes, and then ’tend lectures on the same 
 subjects .at the Institute, and they got to know a 
 great deal.” 
 
 “ I don’t think it would do me much good to go 
 to lectures on such subjects,” John said. “ I don’t 
 think I should understand much about philosophy.” 
 “No, I suppose not, because you haven’t a trade, 
 but if you were workin’ in the machine shops, or in 
 the manufactories as most of these people are, you 
 would learn a lot that would do you great good. 
 Why, some of our best machinists never learned 
 their business any other way. They entered the 
 works in the least difficult departments, and worked 
 there till they knew enough to go higher, and then 
 these lectures’and lessons helped them on.” 
 
 “ Yes, I suppose they would help in cases like 
 these, but don’t you have apprentices here? ” 
 
 “ Well, only as I have been telling you ; we don’t 
 believe in men spending three or four years of their 
 lives for nothing.” 
 
 “In England, boys are apprenticed,” John said. 
 
 “ Oh, yes, I’ve heard of that,” Mrs. Goodrich 
 said, “ but our boys have to go to school, and get 
 an education before a trade, and when they’ve been 
 to school and learnt all they can, and had their in- 
 telligence brought out, and can think out things for 
 themselves, why, then a trade ain’t hard to learn. 
 But la me, Mr. Brown, your folks as come over 
 here ain’t much better than machines. They have 
 
John Bjvwu. 
 
 141 
 
 worked all their lives at one thing, and they only 
 know that just as they’ve been taught. No matter 
 what improvements come up, they can’t take ad- 
 vantage of them, because they never saw them 
 before. Them kind of folks ain’t much use to us. 
 A man’s hands here must be directed by his brain, 
 and it’s pretty much the sanie with women. Sup- 
 pose now, I’d just learne^ to bake, or to wash, or 
 to cook, how could I keep house ? Why, I’d have 
 to keep a help in each department, and it would 
 take all that I save now to pay them. When 
 women first come over here from your country, 
 they ain’t no kind of use, though they may have the 
 best of characters. One says she’s been cook, and 
 probably she can’t make a bed ; another, that 
 she’s been a housemaid, and can’t cook a potato. 
 Another comes, and says she was kitchen-maid, 
 and waited on the cook, and I declare if one young 
 woman just over, didn’t tell me that she was maid 
 to the kitchen-maid, and waited on her. Scullery- 
 maid I think she called herself. Well, where that 
 girl lived, there were three women in the kitchen, 
 and not one of them knew anything at all about 
 general housework.” 
 
 If you and Miss Goodrich had more work than 
 you could do yourselves, you would have a servant, 
 wouldn’t yOu ? ” 
 
 I would get an intelligent woman, or two if 
 necessary, to help me, and we would work together 
 
142 John Brouni, 
 
 when there was work, and rest when the work’s 
 done.” 
 
 ‘‘ But in a private family, where the mistress had 
 no occasion to do anything ?” John ventured. 
 
 ‘‘ That don’t alter the situation the least,*' Mrs. 
 Goodrich said. A lady here, who doesn’t want 
 
 to work, contracts with as many people as is neces- 
 sary to run her house. | She pays them certain 
 wages to keep her house clean, to cook the food 
 she orders in, and to do the washin’ of the family. 
 She gives her helps money in return for work, and 
 when the money’s paid and the work’s done, the 
 obligation ceases on both sides, and the help em- 
 ployed feels as independent as the employer. One 
 can’t get along 'without the other, and they’d be 
 great fools if they didn’t get along as. agreeably as 
 possible 'with each other. Though I don’t hold 
 with helps puttin’ on airs, no more’n I do with 
 their employers bein’ stuck up. It’s generally the 
 very ignorant that’s guilty of that on either side. 
 Now I guess it’s time for me to begin my afternoon 
 work, or it won’t do itself.” 
 
 During this conversation, which lasted some 
 minutes, Matilda Jane had cleared away the dishes, 
 and Mrs. Goodrich now assisted in the washing up. 
 Everything was completed, and the kitchen was 
 neat and tidy at a quarter to three o’clock. John 
 had been of use wherever his services were required, 
 and now, when all was done, he said he was going 
 
John Brow Us 
 
 143 
 
 out to visit Mrs. Oakley, Tim’s sister, who had 
 sent him an invitation to come and see her. 
 
 I guess you’d better wait a spell,’’ Mrs. Good- 
 rich said ; Miss Oakley’s a mighty particular 
 housekeeper, and I’m afraid she wouldn’t be very 
 sociable to a visitor on Saturday afternoon afore 
 her work’s done and her washin’ put in soak.” 
 
 Is Saturday afternoon the time fixed for all 
 Lowell to wash its clothes ? ” J ohn asked. 
 
 Oh, dear, no. What an idea ! Saturday after- 
 noon ! Well, I never expected to see a grown man 
 as didn’t know washin’ was done in the mornin’. 
 Bless my soul, Mr. Brown ! if my clothes weren’t 
 on the line, every rag of ’em, by ten o’clock Mon- 
 day mornin’, folks ’ud think I’d gone crazy, and I 
 tell you. Miss Oakley ain’t behind many.” 
 
 ‘‘ But I thought you said something about wash- 
 ing, Mrs. Goodrich.” 
 
 Oh ! I said puttin’ clothes to soak. Well, Mr. 
 Brown, if you’ll just help me now for a few 
 moments, I’ll show you what I mean.” John 
 readily assented. Well, in the shed in the back 
 yard you’ll find two large tubs. Just carry out a 
 few pails of hot water from the b’iler, and pour it 
 into the tubs, and then come in and carry out the 
 clothes for Matilda — she’s gone upstairs for the 
 men’s things.” 
 
 John did as told. He carried out the hot water, 
 found the tubs, which were covered with close- 
 
144 
 
 John B?vwn, 
 
 fitting lids, emptied the water as directed, and then 
 went to the house for a huge bundle of bedroom 
 linen, the same he had brought downstairs in the 
 morning. Mrs. Goodrich now asked him to carry 
 some water from the rain-water tanks, which were 
 so placed as to receive the water from the roof, 
 and to put two pails of cold water and one of warm 
 in the tubs. 
 
 John obeyed, and then began the real business 
 of soaking clothes. 
 
 “You see,” Mrs. Goodrich explained, “these 
 things stay in soak till Monday mornin’, and then 
 there’s nothin’ to wash — the dirt’s all soaked out of 
 them.” 
 
 Now the soiled linen was sorted and separated, 
 after which, the cleaner things, well soaped, were 
 put to soak in one tub or vat, the more soiled 
 things in another. If any stain or spot was found 
 when looking over the linen, John noticed that it 
 was carefully rubbed before being put to soak with 
 the other clothes, and a small tub was brought out 
 in which all kitchen cloths were put, after the 
 process of soaping and rubbing. 
 
 “One thing,” John said, “seems so odd, that 
 with all the work you do, and although all the 
 things in your kitchen are washed and scrubbed, 
 yet your cloths seem scarcely dirty.” 
 
 “ That’s only as it should be, Mr. Brown,” said 
 the housekeeper ; “ things should be washed clean, 
 
John Brown. 
 
 145 
 
 and if they are, why there’s nothing to wipe off. 
 You may go over every cookin’ utensil in my 
 kitchen, (when they’re not in use,) inside and out,- 
 with a clean cloth, and you won’t soil it, because 
 everything is scrubbed clean with soap and hot 
 water. I had an English girl here once, when 
 Matilda Jane was sick with bronchitis. Well, bless 
 me if the girl didn’t wash her dishes in half cold 
 water, and wipe ’em without rinsin’. Of course, 
 she wiped everything into her dish towel, and it 
 was so dirty and greasy before she had finished 
 half the things, that the dishes were all smeared 
 over. I soon set that right. You see with our 
 close stoves and ranges we don’t need to get our 
 pots and kettles very bad, and we always keep the 
 outside clean with a scrubbing brush. My mother 
 used to take pride in saying that her kitchen cloths 
 and towels were just as white as her other towels, 
 and I guess that was saying a good deal.” 
 
 “I see how it all is,” John said. “You are 
 prosperous and happy here because you make such 
 homes for those dependent upon you. No man 
 Avould leave a home like this to spend his time in 
 a beastly tap-room, where every pleasant word, 
 aye, every word that’s not brutally insulting, is 
 paid for by the money that should go to feed and 
 clothe himself and those belonging to him. Why, 
 I’ve been to places where every sight, sound, and 
 smell were too horrible to describe, and yet men 
 
 L 
 
146 
 
 John Brown. 
 
 had to be pushed from the door when their money 
 was spent, reluctant to go to the place they called 
 home, which was ten times worse. Oh, if my poor 
 friends at home could only be taught how to work 
 and how to live.” 
 
 ‘‘ Well, Mr. Brown, they never/ will be taught, 
 that’s my opinion. They must teach themselves ; 
 and they never will do that till they get interested 
 in their own welfare ; and from what you tell me, 
 that won’t happen while you take care of them. 
 Why, la me ! Mr. Brown, supposin’ we brought 
 our children up without education, and taught them 
 that, whatever happened, we’d take care of them ; 
 and whenever they got tired wanderin’, why they’d 
 always find a home ready to receive them ; and if 
 they got sick, a doctor to cure them, and nurses 
 to tend them, how many of ’em do you think would 
 work, and practise self denial to save their money 
 and get a home of their own 1 Why, it’s my 
 opinion there’d be mighty few new houses. Well, 
 from what you tell me, poor folks in your country 
 ain’t educated, and grow up, knowin’ that they’ll be 
 provided for whether they work or not. If they 
 get ill, they’ve a comfortable place to go to, nurses 
 and doctors to tend them, and no questions asked. 
 If the result of their miserably degraded lives ap- 
 pears in their children, there’s a home provided 
 for every disease they may inherit. The deformed 
 and the incurable are removed from their parents’ 
 
John B7vwn. 
 
 147 
 
 sight, who go on uninterrupted in their course. 
 When you send these people out here, at first they 
 nearly sink under the responsibility of themselves. 
 They are as helpless as babies, and mourn after 
 their soup-kitchens and poor-houses, as the Is- 
 raelites mourned after the flesh-pots of Egypt. 
 But work they must, and as every kind of labour 
 is wanted here, and most folks have more than 
 they can themselves do, we are obliged to take 
 what we can get in the way of help, and teach and 
 educate these people how to work and take care of 
 themselves ; and I must say, I never saw anyone 
 more careful of their money than these very people 
 are when they have earned it. They become 
 regular misers, and you’ll see ’em going about in 
 rags at first, because they won’t spend their money 
 on clothes. After a while their children go to 
 school, and see how others in the same position of 
 life live and dress, and they bring pressure to bear 
 on the question, and their parents begin to dress 
 and live like other folks. Well, the women are dirty 
 and shiftless^ and live like pigs till they’ve been 
 here a spell. They don’t know how to work morc’n 
 Oueen Victoria, and they’d be content to go on 
 livin’ the same as ever, but that the men find this 
 precious money they have worked so hard for 
 gOQS much further where the wife knows how to 
 
 * New England term for thriftless. 
 
 L 2 
 
148 
 
 John Brown. 
 
 manage, and he determines that his money shall 
 be administered in the same way ; so he growls 
 and grumbles till she learns first one thing and then 
 another. You see, they can’t very well get drink 
 here ; and if they did drink, nobody’d employ 
 them ; and if they do no work they must starve. 
 So after a while things right themselves, and they 
 make pretty good citizens. But we mainly depend 
 upon the second generation ; they have education,, 
 and make good ^vorkers.” 
 
 ‘‘Well,” John said, “our people at home are 
 going to be compelled to educate their children 
 now ; perhaps things will be better.” 
 
 “ Perhaps so,” Mrs. Goodrich said ; “ but it 
 •seems to me that a little book learnin’ won’t do 
 much for people so uncivilized. The children have 
 to live in filthy homes, and return from school to- 
 these homes, and to savage parents and surround- 
 ings. The little book learnin’ they get ain’t goin’ 
 to raise them above and beyond the example, and 
 the only course of life known by those around 
 them. And it seems to me, ^Ir. Brown, that you’re 
 puttin’ a candle in the hands of poor prisoners, 
 only to show them the horrors of the prison they 
 don’t know how to escape from.” 
 
 “ Well, ma’am.,” John said sadly, “ it does seem 
 so ; but the people are doing all for the best. I 
 suppose there’s no way of doing good to the old ; 
 and they hope to benefit the young ” 
 
John Brown. 
 
 149 
 
 Of course, 'Sir. Brown, “ iBs a difficult question, 
 and would require the best common sense in the 
 land to treat it ; but, as you say, them as might 
 help out the difficulty, are too busy with foreign 
 matters ; and I suppose the disease must go 
 spreadin’ from one generation to another, till it 
 infects all classes, and then there’ll probably be a 
 revolution, and every one ’ll fly to arms, and fight 
 for something quite foreign to the thing they want ; 
 but there’ll be men then, that ’ll set themselves to 
 work to find out what caused the confusion — and 
 they will find it out — and, perhaps, from the ruins 
 of great prosperity a structure will grow up, sup- 
 ported by every individual in the kingdom, and 
 that will stand to the end. A great American 
 statesman said, when we were formin’ our Govern- 
 ment ‘here long ago: ‘Let every brick in our 
 capital represent the interests of a citizen. If 
 one brick falls out of its place, it may weaken 
 the edifice, but it is useless itself ; it has fallen 
 from the dignity of helping to support a great 
 structure, and it lies weak and alone.’ That 
 kind of sentiment, Mr. Brown, possessed all our 
 fathers when they formed our constitution ; and 
 so long as that principle was acted on, we were 
 great and strong, but some bricks fell out of 
 our structure lately, and considerably weakened 
 the buildin’, but it didn’t come down, and the 
 bricks have lain just where they fell, for every 
 
150 John Brown. 
 
 one to trample upon, and they ain’t no account 
 whatever.” 
 
 “ I can’t see,” John said, what any one had to 
 complain of in this country, where every man can 
 take just whatever place he has earned, and keep 
 it, too, if he deserves.” 
 
 “Well, it is mighty hard to understand the 
 Southern war. Some said it was interests that 
 clashed ; some said it was a matter of honour, the 
 South felt called on to defend. For my part, I 
 think it was a little of both ; and the mainsprings 
 that kept the machinery of revolution a-goin’ was 
 party. You see, when there was a President, that 
 favoured the policy of the South, no matter how 
 good a man he was, the other party did all they 
 could to harass him ; and when the North elected 
 a man favourable to some of their strongest poli- 
 cies, why the South began the same game. If the 
 President tried to take a moderate view of things, 
 both parties fixed their eyes upon him to watch 
 every move he made. If his decision leaned a 
 little to the South, our folks were up in arms. 
 ‘ We elected him,’ they said ; ‘ and he has betrayed 
 us.’ If he thought the North right, and leaned 
 towards some measure of their representatives, the 
 South cried out that their interests were over- 
 looked, and that the President was naturally par- 
 tial to those who had voted him to the White House. 
 I’ve so often heard, whilst Buchanan was in office^ 
 
John Brown, 
 
 151 
 
 that there was no President for the North, and no 
 justice ; and Pve heard Southerners say the very 
 same thing. So they both hampered the Executive, 
 till at last they broke out in open fight, and a good 
 thing too. It cost us blood, and money, and friends ; 
 but it must have come, sooner or later, and so iPs 
 well over. WeVe saved our children from trouble, 
 that was bound to come.” 
 
 John did his best to follow and understand the 
 conversation, but much of it was difficult, and some 
 quite beyond his comprehension. 
 
 It is the strangest thing in the world,” he said, 
 “ that you understand so much about everything 
 here. Why, ma’am, you know as much politics as 
 a Member of Parliament.” 
 
 I ain’t no politician, Mr. Brown ; but you can’t 
 help understandin’ of things if they touch your in- 
 terests ; and whatever affects this country, affects 
 every man and woman in it.” 
 
 “ Well, I suppose the same thing might be said 
 of us,” John remarked, “yet I doubt if many 
 people belonging to our class know or care any- 
 thing about the country, or what becomes of it, or 
 care whether they have an interest or no.” 
 
 “ Ah, Mr. Brown, that’s because some one ^else 
 takes the responsibility off your shoulders. You 
 are interested in your country, and affected by all 
 that concerns her, just as much as our children are 
 in us ; but you don’t know it, or feel responsibility 
 
152 
 
 John Brown, 
 
 no more than they do. You see, we have to take 
 a part in the management of our affairs ; but as we 
 can’t all have a voice, we elect the man who has 
 most interest in us, and send him to Washinton to 
 speak for us.” 
 
 I think, ma’am, in England, we vote for what- 
 ever side pays best ; and as for electing a man be- 
 cause he is interested in our wants, I never heard 
 that even promised by them that asked the vote.” 
 
 “ But, Mr. Brown, I understood bribery was un- 
 lawful in your country, and that, if discovered to 
 have been used in the election of a member, they 
 disfranchised the whole district.” 
 
 “ Well, I’ve heard that too, ma’am, and I don’t 
 know much about it — but this I do know, that it 
 cost the member for our part of the world four 
 thousand pounds to get in ; and I know some 
 fellows that had a vote, and a man said to them 
 that the opposing candidate had not spent five 
 hundred pounds, whilst his man had spent four 
 thousand at the last election, and they all declared 
 they wouldn’t give a vote to a mean five-hundred- 
 pounder. If there was no bribery, how was the 
 money spent 
 
 It looks like it, don’t it? Now, Mr. Brown, 
 these things are done ; and I guess Matilda Jane ’ll 
 think I’ve gone crazy to stay here Saturday after- 
 noon talkin’ politics. Thank you very much for 
 your help.” 
 
John Broiun. 
 
 153 
 
 And Mrs. Goodrich got up from the doorstep 
 where she had seated herself some minutes be- 
 fore, whilst John covered the vats, and put some 
 things laying about the little yard in their proper 
 places. 
 
 They entered the kitchen together, and found 
 ?vlatilda Jane busy as usual cleaning and tidying 
 up everything. 
 
 ‘‘ Well, ma,’’ she said, I thought you and Mr. 
 Brown were going to do the washing to-day. Why 
 you’ve been nearly an hour putting the things to 
 soak.” 
 
 Well, I never — I declare I shouldn’t a believed 
 it ! You see, Mr. Brown is so funny, and takes 
 such an interest in everything, that it’s a real 
 pleasure to explain everything to him, as far as 
 one knows.” 
 
 I think Mr. Brown’s going to start a rival 
 boardin-house, ma, and is stealing our trade. We 
 must take care not to let him into any more of our 
 secrets.” 
 
 “Well, I guess he’s had a pretty good lesson 
 since he enlisted in this service, and I don’t think 
 there’s much more to learn.” 
 
 “No,” John said, “only the washing on Mon- 
 day. I shall lose that, as I go to work, I hope, 
 ^Monday morning.” 
 
 “ Where are you going to work ? ” Matilda 
 asked. 
 
154 
 
 fohn Broum. 
 
 ‘‘ I hope on some buildings. Tim Pearson 
 thinks he’ll be able to get me a job.” 
 
 ‘•You’ll be lucky to get work this time of year,” 
 Mrs. Goodrich said ; “ and I hope you’ll get some- 
 thing through the winter, though, they do say, 
 trade’s dull, and times are bad.” 
 
 “Yes, ma’am. I’m rather fretting about that. It 
 would be hard on me in a strange country if I don’t 
 get constant work. If I’d known this about work 
 being scarce, I would have stayed in England till 
 the spring. I ought to have thought of it, and 
 made inquiries before I came. But I only thought 
 of one thing, and that was to get away.” 
 
 “ Yes, it is a mistake for folks to come out here 
 without some capital ; even in the spring trade’s 
 sometimes dull, and folks hadn’t ought to come to 
 a strange country till they know all about the busi- 
 ness they’re goiri’ to follow there. I suppose now, 
 the climate of England is so mild that you work 
 there summer and winter ? ” 
 
 “ Oh, yes,” John said, rather hesitatingly. His 
 experience could not suppdrt him in the assertion. 
 
 “Well, when youVe got through the job you’re 
 goin’ to work on, and if you can’t find other work 
 at once, take my advice and go right back, and 
 work there till spring.” 
 
 Poor John’s heart sunk at this suggestion, and 
 Matilda Jane came to his rescue, by saying that 
 there was always much talk of hard times in the 
 
John Brown. 
 
 155 
 
 fall, and that they sometimes had a most prosper- 
 ous winter after the worst predictions. 
 
 J ohn thanked her for the comfort her words gave 
 him. and then being assured by Mrs. Goodrich 
 that the time had arrived when his visit could not 
 interfere with Mrs. Oakley’s Saturday’s Avork, he 
 took his leave and went to call on the sister of his 
 friend. 
 
CHAPTER XXL 
 
 He found the house quite near his lodgings, not 
 next door as Tim had said, but in a little street 
 behind the greater one in which Mrs. Goodrich 
 lived. There were many houses built alike in this 
 street, all detached, all with tiny gardens enclosed 
 by painted palings, and small iron gates which 
 opened upon a gravel walk leading up to the door. 
 On either side this entrance there was a prettily 
 curtained window, screened with green Venetian 
 blinds, which opened in the middle and folded back 
 against the white wall. Everything bespoke a 
 degree of comfort and even elegance very foreign 
 to the residences of men of the same class in 
 England. 
 
 John knocked, and was at once admitted by the 
 mistress of the house, in whom it was difficult to 
 recognise the strong, rosy Margaret Pearson of 
 times past. Instead, a grave, middle-aged, quietly- 
 dressed woman, in an accent quite foreign, bade 
 him good day, and asked him to walk in. 
 
 I don’t know if this is Mrs. Oakley,” John said ; 
 and then the grave face brightened, and he was 
 recognised. 
 
John Brown. 
 
 157 
 
 ^‘Tim promised to come in with you,” she 
 said, ‘‘or I should have known you at once. 
 You are little changed, and I am very glad to 
 see you.” 
 
 “Thank you very much, ma’am,” John said. 
 “If it had not been for you I shouldn’t have been 
 here. I owe everything to you and Tim. It was 
 reading your letter to Tim that first put the notion 
 into my head, and I never lost sight of it till I 
 carried out my plan.” 
 
 “Well, John,” Margaret said, “with so much 
 determination and perseverance, you are bound to 
 get on here, but I can’t think why you did not get 
 on at home. With Tim, everything like that is diffe- 
 rent. He wants pushing ; and from what I heard 
 I knew he would do no good, without someone to 
 plan and push him on. But you have shown won- 
 derful determination, and we (Tom, Tim, and me), 
 are very sure you will get on in this country. But 
 I must give you some tea. I keep to our English 
 habit of having my tea in the afternoon when my 
 work’s done.” 
 
 And Margaret took a cup and saucer from the 
 cupboard, which John would have mistaken for a 
 bookcase or cabinet, from its glistening glass 
 panels, and brightly polished frame and sash. 
 
 “ I rather thought you would have come in 
 yesterday evening, and Tom would have gone for 
 you, but that he has a meeting to attend on Friday 
 
John Broum. 
 
 158 
 
 evenings, and when he came home -s tco 
 
 late.” 
 
 ‘‘I would have come in,” John said, ‘‘but I 
 thought to wait for Tim, and when he came he 
 could only stay -a few minutes, and then Mrs. 
 Goodrich asked me to sit with her and her family 
 in the evening.” 
 
 “ And didn^t allow you to be idle. I’ll be bound,” 
 Margaret said. “ Mrs. Goodrich presses all avail- 
 able help into her service.” 
 
 “But,” said John, “what a wonderful woman 
 she is ! I couldn’t have believed it possible for two 
 women to get through the work they do.” 
 
 “ Yes,” Margaret replied, “ they do a great deal ; 
 but Mrs. Goodrich is making a fortune, and will 
 soon retire, I should think.” 
 
 “Perhaps, Mrs. Oakley,” John said, “you can 
 tell me how it is that a fortune caa be made, or 
 even a family like hers fed and clothed, by the 
 price she charges for board, when she gives us such 
 food. Why, I find that most things are dear here 
 as they are in England, but if I lived there in 
 the way I am living now, it would cost me a 
 fortune.” 
 
 “ Well, John, I used to wonder just as you do at 
 these things, but I know all about it now. If I 
 was back in England again, Tom and I could live 
 there on his earnings, just as well as we live here, 
 and we would go back but just for one thing, for 
 
John Brown. 
 
 159 
 
 this climate is hard upon us both ; the winters are 
 long and bitterly cold, and the summers are exces- 
 sively hot. Tom has good pay now, and steady 
 work, but the first year we came here we had only 
 four months’ work out of the twelf e. That was before 
 he got into the shops. Well, I didn’t know how to 
 work and manage then as I do now, and the wages 
 Tom had saved soon went, and I had to go out 
 washing and doing chores, till warm weather came 
 round again, and Tom got to work. Going into 
 houses I soon saw how the American housekeeper 
 managed, and I learned to do the same, and now 
 I believe I could live better in England than here. 
 But what I couldn’t stand would be the position I 
 should there take as a working man’s wife. Here, 
 the working classes are educated, and though they 
 are not all smarts there are none vulgar, and if a 
 man amongst them has natural ability, he may rise 
 to any position, and the education he has been able 
 to obtain fits him to fill it. Since I’ve been here, 
 a working machinist has been raised to be Go- 
 vernor of this State, and I believe we have seldom 
 had a cleverer. And, you know, one of our late 
 Presidents had been a rail splitter, and he filled 
 his position with honour, which is acknowledged 
 by all countries. Well, we know that if these men 
 had not been educated, they never could have 
 reached such high positions, and we also know, 
 that everything is open to those who are fit for the 
 
i6o Jo]m Bro7un, 
 
 place, without reference to birth, or the pursuit by 
 which we gain our bread. So everyone tries to 
 get an education, and all educate their children.” 
 Well,” John said, I don’t think I should care 
 much for the contpany I should keep, or for posi- 
 tion, if I had everything around me as comfortable 
 as you have it here.” 
 
 “ Oh yes, you would, John, you are not different 
 to other human beings, or above their wants and 
 weaknesses. Pride of position, and an ambition to 
 go always higher, influences every class of civilised 
 society. When a man loses millions, and comes 
 down to thousands, it isn’t the loss of comforts he 
 mourns. What he has left would probably secure 
 him every comfort ; but it’s the position he held 
 amongst the wealthy that he misses. When a 
 father hesitates to give his daughter to a man who 
 cannot surround her with the grandeur of her own 
 home, it is not that he thinks she will want for the 
 common comforts of life. It is because of the 
 
 position she may lose by it. It is because he ex- 
 pects her to go on always higher. Well, over here, 
 we have this same ambition, and it gives energy to 
 all our actions. But, without education, our ambi- 
 tion would be fatal to happiness. We would only 
 recognise the place we most wished for, and the 
 impassable barrier between us and its attainment.” 
 
 “ But cleverness and education would raise a 
 man in England,” John ventured. 
 
John Brown. 
 
 i6i 
 
 “Yes, I suppose so,” Margaret replied; “but 
 unless he had also wealth, his life would be quite 
 isolated. Amongst those of his own class there 
 would be none whose society would give him satis- 
 faction, and in the garments of a working man, how 
 could he mingle with the purple and fine linen of 
 higher life? Here, he has companionship in those 
 with whom his lot is cast, and though he may be 
 on the highest round of the ladder, others are 
 treading closely on his footsteps, and are looking 
 up to him with pride, and for a helping hand.” 
 
 “ Those who rise like that,” J ohn said, “ are, I 
 suppose, educated from their infancy. It would be 
 of little use now for a man to try to get much higher 
 than respectable independence,* unless he had been 
 taught well when he was young.” 
 
 “ I don’t think,” Margaret answered, “ that book 
 learning has so much to do with education here as 
 in other countries. You see, in England, a poor 
 man must get all his help from books ; the people 
 around him cannot even understand his wants, 
 and his poverty and position prevent his seeking 
 aid from those above him. Here he is associated 
 with educated people ; and the schooling he re- 
 ceived as a boy, serves as a foundation, upon 
 which, by experience, he builds up an education, 
 assisted by thought, and the ideas of those around 
 him. Tom and I study together; but what would 
 be the use of it, if we never met others acquainted 
 
 M 
 
i 62 
 
 John Broivn, 
 
 with the same subjects? I’m not saying that it 
 wouldn’t be a pleasure to ourselves, to be able to 
 discuss things we’ve learned together, but think 
 of the loneliness of our lives, if we never met 
 those whose minds were as far advanced as our 
 own.” 
 
 “But,” John said, “you all seem to live here like 
 ladies and gentlemen. Every one speaks to every 
 one else, as ‘ Mr.,’ or ‘ Mrs.,’ and ‘ Miss.’ Your 
 houses and your dress are as good as the best, and 
 yet you work hard as any poor people I ever saw. 
 I can’t understand how you get the time for book 
 learning, and conversation, and study. You have 
 none of the marks of labour about you.” 
 
 “ Well, John, I have thought out that too, and I 
 believe that the marks you see in our poor at home 
 are the marks of poverty of food, of hard beds, and 
 cold firesides, from youth to age ; and that a man 
 well fed, well clothed, with a comfortable home to 
 return to when his day’s work is done, and a warm 
 bed and fresh air to sleep in, may work from youth 
 to old age without showing at the last a single 
 mark of labour. Why, when I was a girl in service 
 at home, I lived with a gentleman who had two 
 sons. For three months in the year the three 
 were up every morning as soon as daylight would 
 let them, and away they went hunting or shooting. 
 With the last day of hunting they went to a place 
 they had on the river and put themselves in 
 
John Brown, 
 
 163 
 
 training for rowing races. When that season 
 was over (and during it they were never in bed 
 after three o’clock in the morning), then off they 
 would go to Norway, with a hut and a boat, and 
 there they remained, roughing it, and fishing, till 
 they returned to shoot on the moors of Scotland. 
 And year after year it was the same. They worked 
 harder than any labourer I ever knew, but there 
 were no marks of labour about them. They never 
 had a day’s illness. Well, it’s much the same here 
 with the working classes. They live well, and as 
 they are their own masters do no more work than 
 their health and constitution will allow. And all 
 take pride and pleasure in their work. My house, 
 and the management of my husband’s money, 
 give me just as much pleasure and interest, as 
 the Chancellor of the Exchequer finds in the affairs 
 of state and the administration of the people’s 
 money.” 
 
 “ And a beautiful home you have, and you are 
 right to be proud of it. There seems only one side 
 to your life here, and that is all sunlight.” 
 
 “ Oh, no, John, there you are mistaken. You 
 know, some roots and herbs won’t transplant, and 
 it’s the same with some of us. We can’t take root 
 here, and go on in our healthy state. The climate 
 is just the reverse of the climate in England, and 
 many of us suffer terribly from it. It seems to take 
 all the spirit out of one. It’s either bitterly cold 
 
 M 2 
 
r64 
 
 lohn Brown. 
 
 or scorching hot, and many of us never have a day 
 of the old perfect health. Sometimes I so long for 
 the mild climate and the green fields and hedges of 
 dear old England that I forget everything else and 
 wish myself back again.” 
 
 “ I suppose it comes easier to your children that 
 are born here. They get used from their birth to 
 the climate.” 
 
 Oh, yes,” Margaret replied, in a voice so sad, 
 that John regretted the remark. “Oh, yes, the 
 children get on better when there are children. It 
 is one of the strangest things here, John, that so 
 few people have children. If it wasn’t for the con- 
 stantly arriving emigrants I think the people would 
 disappear entirely. And the few that have children 
 are not generally amongst the prosperous and well- 
 to-do. Why, you’ll see here frequent advertise- 
 ments in the papers by people wanting children for 
 adoption. And there’s not a village or street that 
 you won’t find many of these adopted children 
 being brought up according to the means and 
 position of those who adopt them, as if they were 
 their own.” 
 
 “That’s very strange, Mrs. Oakley. T must 
 write to my old master in England and tell him this. 
 He once told me there was a theory, believed 
 in by many, that if the whole people became 
 prosperous the population would increase so much 
 beyond the increase of food, that starvation would 
 
John Brown, 165 
 
 be the consequence. Here you have a result just 
 the reverse of that doctrine.’^ 
 
 Yes, indeed. It’s the Will of God, I suppose, 
 that we should not have everything we wish in this 
 life, so that the wrench is not so great when we come 
 to leave it. But to change the subject. I hope 
 you will get a job of work on the buildings Tim has 
 been telling me of. It is such a very bad time for 
 you to have come to America. The fall work 
 will cease out of doors now soon, and the shop 
 hands are already beginning to talk about the boss 
 knocking off the new hands. You are lucky to get 
 a job, and you will, I am sure, excuse my giving 
 you a little advice, as you are a stranger, and that 
 is, to save every penny of your earnings, after pay- 
 ing your board and washing, for the winter is long 
 and cold, and you may be idle for months. I am 
 not a bit afraid for you once you get a fair start, for, 
 from your letter to Tim, and the way you have per- 
 severed in coming out here, I feel sure you will 
 overcome more than ordinary difficulties.” 
 
 At this moment Tim came in, and announced to 
 John the joyful news that he was to begin work on 
 the Monday morning. Then Tom Oakley came 
 home, and John passed a pleasant hour with his 
 old friends. 
 
CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 The next morning our friend awoke at the usual 
 hour, and became immediately aware that a great 
 change had taken place in the house. Everything 
 was still as midnight, and yet he knew, from a 
 neighbouring clock, that the usual hour for the 
 men to be called had arrived. He dressed and 
 went down stairs : silence there also. In the 
 kitchen the fire had been lighted, but there was 
 no other evidence that anybody was up in the 
 house. He went into the street. What a change 
 since yesterday ! The click of the mills, the clang 
 of the anvil, the shriek of the steam whistle, had 
 ceased. All Lowell was at rest. The day had 
 come toward which ten thousand working men and 
 women, from forge and furnace, and from shuttle 
 and loom, had for six days looked forward. The 
 day of rest and recreation, the New England 
 Sabbath, had begun ; and in no other country that 
 I have ever seen (and I have seen many) is the 
 Sabbath observed so rationally and so in accord- 
 ance with the spirit of the law. The Sunday 
 in New England means perfect rest ; rest for the 
 
John B7‘own. 
 
 167 
 
 body and for the mind. E-very provision against 
 the necessity of work is made on the Saturday, 
 and devised with such niceness that no one may 
 feel the loss of a single comfort. In the morning 
 gatherings at church, friendly intercourse, and 
 pleasant exercise, the day is passed. There is no 
 work done which may, without interfering with 
 comfort, be left undone. There are no entertain- 
 ments allowed which call men and women together 
 to sit in bad air, and get their brains excited and 
 their bodies weakened. The hour for rising is 
 later, and that for retiring earlier on the Sabbath 
 than during the six days of work, and the labourer 
 goes to his task on the Monday refreshed both in 
 body and mind. 
 
 Our friend John took a short stroll in the de- 
 serted streets, and then returned to the house 
 where he found Miss Goodrich preparing the 
 breakfast. Some of the boarders came down, then 
 others, until all were assembled. 
 
 The dining-room looked bright and comfortable ^ 
 and the men, all dressed in their. Sunday suits, 
 were as respectable a gathering as one could see. 
 The landlady soon came in with her coffee-urn, 
 and her daughter and son brought in an unusual 
 number of dishes. 
 
 On Sunday morning the breakfast was an hour 
 later than usual, and continued nearly half an hour 
 longer. There was a special Sunday morning dish. 
 
i68 
 
 John Brown. 
 
 which is not peculiar <o the working-man’s break- 
 fast-table, but is the standing Sunday morning dish 
 in every household in New England. This is called 
 Boston brown bread^ and is only superseded late 
 in the autumn by the equally popular buckwheat 
 cakes. 
 
 The brown bread is made of corn meal sifted, 
 rye flour sifted, and wheaten flour neither sifted 
 nor separated from the brown outer husk. The 
 bread is made in the usual way, is sometimes 
 sweetened with molasses, and baked over-night in 
 a brick oven. It is dark in colour, soft, light, and 
 moist, and is quite unequalled by any other bread 
 for sweetness and nutriment. It is eaten hot, and 
 nearly always accompanied on the breakfast-table 
 with baked pork and beans ; and upon this occasion, 
 though there were numerous other dishes, scarcely 
 anything but these, with coffee, was touched by 
 the breakfast party. There was an unusual amount 
 of conversation between the men, and all seemed 
 to be going to church. One man said he was 
 going to hear a famous preacher from another 
 state, and many opinions were expressed concern- 
 ing his ability as a speaker., and comparisons were 
 made to other preachers who were to hold forth at 
 the various churches. Mrs. Goodrich asked John 
 what church he went to, and her daughter smiled 
 at his answer, that he had not been to any church 
 yet in Lowell. 
 
John Brown, 169 
 
 ‘‘What church did you- attend at home, Mr. 
 Brown ?” Matilda asked. 
 
 “ I did not often go to any church at all,” John 
 said, blushing at the confession ; “ but when I did 
 go, I mostly went to St. James’s, which was in our 
 neighbourhood. The clergyman was very kind to 
 
 the old w , to my mother, and she made me go 
 
 sometimes.” 
 
 “ I suppose,” Mrs. Goodrich said, “ you are 
 Episcopalian ; nearly all your folks are.” 
 
 John had never known that he was anything 
 with such a long name, but he didn’t venture to 
 contradict. 
 
 “ We are Baptists,” Mrs. Goodrich continued, 
 “ that is, I am, but Matilda Jane goes to the Congre- 
 gationalist church, and Nathaniel, he likes the Epis- 
 copalians ; I reckon it’s the music there he goes 
 for. I went once, and the preacher was slow.” 
 
 John made choice of a religion on the instant, 
 and inquired’ most particularly about the Congre- 
 gationalists. All that Miss Goodrich told him 
 increased his interest in a wonderful manner, till 
 at length he declared his intention of learning more 
 by going to that church. Then the young lady 
 could do no less than invite him to go with her, 
 and he went away after breakfast in the seventh 
 heaven of delight, escorting the fair Matilda Jane, 
 whose dress and general appearance rivalled in his 
 eyes any of the grand ladies he remembered to 
 
170 
 
 John Brown, 
 
 have seen going to church on Sunday morning 
 with footmen carrying their prayer-books. 
 
 The church was small but very pretty, and quite 
 full of a most attentive and respectful congregation. 
 And the preacher, a venerable man, said words of 
 encouragement and support to his congregation of 
 working people, and sympathizing deeply with 
 their life of toil, showed an intimate acquaintance 
 with their trials and temptations and gave them 
 promises of reward, here and hereafter. The ser- 
 vice consisted of a simple prayer of thanksgiving, 
 a beautifully sung hymn, and the sermon, and the 
 congregation was dismissed, certainly better and 
 happier men and women for the comforting words 
 they had heard. John listened, and was impressed 
 as he had never been before in a church. There 
 had been no long or wearisome explanation of 
 doctrinal points. No sectarian teachings or ren- 
 dering of the Bible. The preachei: might have 
 been protestant or papist for aught one could 
 gather from his sermon ; but of one thing all who 
 listened felt sure, that he was the earnest sympa- 
 thizing friend of the people who had come to hear 
 him, and that he studied how best to counsel and 
 comfort them according to their wants. 
 
 When our friends reached the street after the 
 benediction, they found it full of people returning 
 from the various services, which all seemed to ter- 
 minate at the same hour. 
 
John Brown. 
 
 171 
 
 Everybody in Lowell appeared to have been to 
 church, and, for once, the people were not in a 
 hurry. All were respectably, and, nearly all, 
 elegantly dressed ; neighbours met and chatted as 
 they walked, and friendly greetings and gossip 
 were exchanged. Miss Goodrich seemed to know 
 everybody, and John felt at times de trop.^ and at 
 times furiously jealous, as young women or young 
 men joined their party and monopolized his fair 
 companion. They met Tom Oakley and his wife 
 at different parts of the street, for Tom and Mar- 
 garet, united on other subjects, differed in their re- 
 ligious views. Mrs. Oakley had remained steadfast 
 to the creed of her fathers, and walked a long 
 distance every Sunday to mass, whilst her husband 
 had, with his new life in the western world become 
 a convert to Methodism, and sang Glory Halle- 
 lujah with great fervour at the weekly meetings. 
 
 At home John found awaiting them a cold din- 
 ner, but a very good one. Cold meats, vegetable 
 salads, cold bacon and beans, bread of every de- 
 scription, potted meats, tarts, cheese, and stewed 
 fruit, and cider sauce, composed the meal. 
 
 “ On Sundays Lowell takes a cold dinner, Mr. 
 Brown,” Mrs. Goodrich said ; “ I hope you don’t 
 mind it.” 
 
 No,” John said ; “ I wish I was always sure of 
 so good a meal.” 
 
 The party broke up after dinner, and John was 
 
172 John Brown, 
 
 allowed to assist the two women in clearing 
 up.” 
 
 The afternoon was passed pleasantly. Our friend 
 was invited, and accompanied Mrs. Goodrich and 
 her daughter to visit some places of interest, and 
 then they took a long drive in a street car quite to 
 the far end of Lowell. Glimpses of the country 
 caught as they neared the environs of the town 
 were extremely beautiful. At this time of year, 
 early in October, the American foliage begins to 
 blend into the soft beautiful browns which precede 
 the more gorgeous tints of November, and a 
 vapoury haze hangs over mountain and plain. In 
 the Northern States I think the months of June and 
 October far the most delightful. In June there is 
 a freshness, a youth, in all growing things. The 
 cold binding winter is entirely banished (and only 
 just banished from some of the Northern Hills), 
 and early summer bursts upon the world with all 
 her youth and beauty. Vegetation springs into 
 life ; every leaflet is tender and green ; every 
 flower seems just blown ; soft breezes come from 
 the west and south, tempering the sun’s fierceness, 
 and delightful showers fall, refreshing and nourish- 
 ing young summer’s tender plants. The early 
 autumn is scarcely less beautiful. First, the deep 
 ripe greens turn to soft shades of brown. There is 
 a haze in the atmosphere, which gives all sunlit 
 things a purple tinge ; gradually as the month 
 
John Brown, 
 
 173 
 
 moves on and the nights become colder, the brown 
 leaves begin to vary in tone to brighter colouring. 
 The haze softens all distant outlines. The sun 
 shines, as it were, through a glass, painted in soft 
 colours. The foliage of the oak, the elm, and the 
 sycamore deepens and deepens, and the sugar- 
 maple, the birch, and the larch flash out their 
 glory of scarlet and gold. A curious stillness 
 prevails in this season, which is called Indian 
 summer. It is the very twilight of the year. The 
 birds know the night is coming and cease their 
 songs. 
 
 This was the season when the Northern Indian 
 provided deer’s flesh and fish for the early winter. 
 Now the squaw looked to her family moccasins 
 and blankets, dried her venison and fish, and piled 
 her faggots around the wigwam ; and the early 
 settlers learnt these lessons of the savages, and 
 handed down to their successors the habit, at this 
 season, of drying, curing, preserving, flesh, fish, 
 and fruit for the winter to come. It is during this 
 late summer time that the housekeeper puts down 
 in earth-bins potatoes and other vegetables. Now 
 she salts her beef and pork, dries and preserves 
 fruit, makes her apple sauce, and fills ner coal- 
 cellar or wood-yard. The summer, brief though it 
 be, is most bountiful, and everything is cheap and 
 plentiful in this early autumn ; and it is by this 
 forethought and provision against the cold winter 
 
174 
 
 John Brown, 
 
 (when traffic in vegetables and fruit would be im- 
 possible) that Mrs. Goodrich manages to give her 
 boarders the delicious food we have helped her to 
 prepare. She buys everything when it is most 
 plentiful, and knows how to preserve all so as to 
 enjoy them bountifully when most scarce in the 
 market. 
 
 I have left the good woman too long, and now 
 find her making tea for her large family after a 
 pleasant excursion to some of the suburbs with our 
 friend John Brown. 
 
 Always seeing new things on Mrs. Goodrich’s 
 table, he was not surprised to hear some of the men 
 ask for “ pudding,” though he thought it a strange 
 tea dish. Bent on discovery, however, he also asked 
 for pudding, and was served with some yellow-look- 
 ing batter in a soup plate ; a jug of milk was passed 
 to him, and he poured some in with the pudding, 
 as he observed others doing. Then he tasted it, 
 and he wished he hadn’t. It was a soft, warm, 
 yielding substance without taste, and our poor 
 friend nearly strangled trying to swallow the spoon- 
 ful. One trial was enough ; he looked with envy 
 upon the men who could and did eat it, for was not 
 the fair ]\tatilda Jane supping off this otherwise un- 
 interesting dish, but he never repeated the experi- 
 ment. He learnt that it was called ‘‘ mush,” thought 
 the name appropriate, and left it to the enjoyment 
 of others. 
 
JoJm Brown, 
 
 175 
 
 Monday morning, at a very early hour, John was 
 dressed, and, with some uneasiness as to his ac- 
 quirements when compared with American work- 
 men, he hurried away after breakfast, and \vas at 
 the foreman’s office, and waiting to be “ taken on,” 
 when the “ Boss ” arrived. His name and address 
 of his lodgings having been taken down, he was 
 told his work, and began at once tending brick- 
 layers. He found a good deal of difference between 
 the American and the English method of laying 
 bricks. In England a man may only lift and lay 
 one brick, whilst in America the bricklayer used 
 both hands, and laid nearly a double number in a 
 given time. John’s business w^as to supply bricks 
 and mortar to two bricklayers, and though these 
 materials were brought up by pulleys, and his 
 business was simply to follow the men with them, 
 he found it was as much as he could do. The 
 rapidity and the steadiness of the workmen surprised 
 him, and he was nearly dead with fatigue when the 
 bell rang for 12 o’clock. Until that moment he and 
 the two men he served worked without a single 
 moment’s cessation, and now when the bell rung 
 the masons dropped their trowels and hurried down 
 the ladder as if there was not a single mioment to 
 lose in the pursuit of some pressing object. 
 
 “ I wonder if they have an interest in the works ?” 
 J ohn thought to himself. “ They couldn’t work 
 harder if the buildings belonged to them.” Then 
 
176 
 
 John Brown. 
 
 the thought struck him ; was it not right that a man 
 should work for his employer as he would work for 
 himself? Yes, he acknowledged it certainly was 
 right, but he had never seen it done before Tired 
 as he was he hurried home, that he might have as 
 much of the brief hour allowed them at his lodg- 
 ings as possible. He went upstairs to his little 
 room, washed, and descended to dinner, which had 
 never seemed so good before. A new dish, by way 
 of sweet, followed the more substantial things, and 
 John thought it better than anything he had before 
 eaten. He was surprised to find that it had been 
 prepared from the despised mush left the preced- 
 ing evening. So sureTy as “ mush ” is made for 
 supper on Sunday evening, so surely does fried 
 “mush’’ appear on the New England Monday 
 morning breakfast or the Monday dinner-table ; 
 and the second addition is infinitely preferable to 
 the first. The pudding, when warm and soft, is 
 put into a mould or basin, and when it becomes 
 firm is sliced and fried in butter to a nice brown. 
 It is eaten generally with maple syrup, or butter 
 and brown sugar, and is very good and wholesome. 
 
 “I suppose,” John said to Mrs. Goodrich, as he 
 lingered behind the other men to have a few 
 moments’ talk with his kind hostess and her 
 daughter, “ I suppose you have your washing all 
 done now ? ” 
 
 “ Oh, yes,” she replied, “ we had everything on 
 
John Brown. 
 
 ^77 
 
 the line by half-past ten this morning. The prin- 
 cipal part of the washing was done when you had 
 your breakfast.’’ 
 
 Was it really, ma’am ? When did you get up 
 this morning, then ? ” 
 
 We always get up at four o’clock on washing 
 days, and that’s why we always wash on Mondays. 
 You see we have rest on Sunday, and get to bed 
 early on Sunday night, so we can get up and be 
 none the worse for it on Monday. We had a larger 
 wash than usual to-day, too, nearly eighteen dozen 
 pieces. But how did you like your work to-day?” 
 
 Well, ma’am, to tell you the truth, I was dread- 
 fully tired. I never saw men work like those I 
 served to-day, and they never stopped a moment.” 
 
 “ Well, you see, Mr. Brown, the season is late 
 now for building, and unless they get the house 
 closed in before the frost comes, it would be a ter- 
 rible loss to the builder, because nothing can be 
 done during the winter, unless the buildings are 
 sufficiently advanced to have lights and fires in 
 them. The men know this, and that is why they 
 hurry on the work.” 
 
 John thought the master’s impending danger of 
 loss would do little toward hurrying on the em- 
 ployes in England, but he said nothing more, and 
 hurried away to his work. 
 
 The masons were before him when he reached 
 the upper storey, where the work was going on, but 
 
 N 
 
178 
 
 John Brown, 
 
 they had not yet commenced. It wanted a few 
 moments of the hour, but all were preparing for 
 work ; and before the bell rung for one o’clock, the 
 bricklayers began, and John of course began to 
 serve them. The same rapid movement and un- 
 ceasing work went on during the afternoon until 
 three o’clock, when the builder himself came up the 
 ladder and stood amongst them. Then there was 
 a few moments’ cessation as he moved from one 
 party of men to another ; all spoke cheerfully and 
 pleasantly to him, and when he came tp the men 
 whom John served, they laid aside their trowels 
 and asked him how he thought they were getting 
 on. 
 
 Wonderfully,” he said, I never saw men do so 
 much work as you have done in the time. I guess 
 we will be ready for the first frost when it comes ; 
 though I really felt uneasy the beginning of last 
 week.” 
 
 “ Oh ! ” one of the bricklayers said, “ we shall 
 finish easily by the ist of November, perhaps 
 before.” 
 
 ‘‘You are the new hand!” the master said to 
 John. 
 
 “Yes, sir.” 
 
 “You have just come over, the foreman tells 
 me. Have you served masons or bricklayers 
 before ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, sir. I did little else in England.” 
 
John Brown, 
 
 179 
 
 I guess Mr. Wilkins and Mr. Bunbridge give 
 you about enough to do, don’t they } ” 
 
 They do indeed, sir,” John replied, feelingly. 
 
 ‘‘ Well,” one of the masons answered, “ we ain’t 
 often served so well as we have been to-day ; I can 
 say that.” 
 
 John felt grateful for the kind word from his 
 fellow workman, and the misgivings he had in the 
 morning entirely disappeared before such praise 
 and encouragement. He worked with less fatigue 
 the next day, and the third scarcely felt any of the 
 weariness of his first experience. The work was 
 certainly hard, but when the working hours were 
 over he had a comfortable house, cheerful society, 
 and good food, and when the hours of rest came, 
 he had a clean room, good air, and a soft bed to 
 return to. 
 
 As the autumn advanced he felt the keen cold 
 winds, but his health was perfect, and he had youth 
 on his side to aid him in getting acclimatized. He 
 joined a night school, and attended Saturday after- 
 noon classes, and was gaining knowledge which 
 would have been for ever shut out from him had 
 not this change in his life made such knowledge 
 desirable, and the fortunate circumstances of the 
 place he had chosen made it attainable. When the 
 buildings were finished upon which he had first 
 been engaged, many of the employes went west 
 and south. Their plans were made long before, 
 
 N 2 
 
i8o 
 
 lohn Brown. 
 
 and they knew where work waited for them. This 
 was fortunate for John; he had gained the con- 
 fidence and esteem of his employer, who kept him 
 at work till late in the winter at good wages. Then 
 there came what Mrs. Goodrich called a “ slack 
 spell,” and John made the time pass pleasantly and 
 profitably by devoting it to the fair daughter of his 
 hostess. He had received, on an average, since he 
 commenced work in October till February, a dollar 
 and a half a day. His board and washing had cost 
 him about three dollars a week. Having a good 
 outfit when he arrived, his outlay in that respect 
 had been trifling, and so it came to pass, that, when 
 the slack spell came, he had a large sum of money 
 saved. His energy and determination had won for 
 him a good name, men predicted for him success, 
 and the fair Matilda began to think him not be- 
 neath her consideration. Her mother had become 
 really fond of the young foreigner who paid such 
 attention to her opinions, and took such interest in 
 her pursuits ; and when John ventured to make a 
 formal proposal, when work had again begun and 
 he was promised steady employment for some 
 months, which Avarranted him, he thought, in 
 taking so serious a step, he was accepted, and 
 he felt from that moment that his career was deter- 
 mined, and that it was upward. 
 
 ‘‘ The only drawback there is,” he said to her 
 mother, when he had been made the ‘‘happiest 
 
John Brown, i8i 
 
 man in the world,” ‘‘is the thought that I am 
 taking her from you. I don’t see how you are to 
 get on without her.” 
 
 “ Oh, I have thought of all that,” the mother 
 said, “I have worked hard enough, and the time 
 has come now when I can rest. I shall sell the 
 house and goodwill, and board along with you and 
 Matilda Jane, if you will have me. I shall have 
 plenty to pay my board with, it will help you, and 
 make her a little more independent. Nathaniel 
 will teach now that he’s passed his examinations, 
 and we shall get along comfortably enough. I can 
 afford to furnish your little house for you, and 
 perhaps do something more, but I sha’n’t promise 
 anything beyond the furnishing.” 
 
 Now John felt assured that he would succeed; 
 surely, he thought, his lines had fallen in pleasant 
 places. Mrs. Goodrich carried out the arrange- 
 ments precisely as she had decided to do — difficul- 
 ties melted before this indefatigable woman, and 
 soon our poor young friend, who had started away 
 one cold March morning from Bees’ Buildings, 
 Blanque Court, in search of employment, who had 
 met with discouragement and temptation to turn 
 back, who had struggled against hereditary vice, 
 and the terrible enemy alcohol, found himself in 
 one short year a prosperous man, in possession of 
 all a man should hold dear ; a good wife and a 
 happy home. 
 
i 82 
 
 John Broum. 
 
 His experience is not unique. Many men both 
 in England and America lay the foundation of their 
 fortune within the first twelve months of their 
 career. In these countries where labour of every 
 kind is in demand, and is well paid for, a man has 
 but to resolve that he will work constantly, save 
 every penny he can spare from comfortable food 
 and clothing, abstain altogether from beer or more 
 intoxicating drinks, and he is sure to succeed. 
 Such a life is most difficult to lead in England, 
 where every temptation is placed before the poor 
 man, and where he has least inducement to resist 
 it. His horpe is generally comfortless ; his wife is 
 ignorant of the first rudiments of housewifery, of 
 how best to prepare the food within her reach, and 
 how best to keep her house clean and healthfully 
 comfortable. The poor man’s life becomes so 
 utterly uninteresting, that the only happiness of his 
 wretched existence is the oblivion of his condition 
 which drink brings him. 
 
 In England every circumstance from his birth 
 upward, tends toward idleness and intemperance, 
 and their consequences, poverty and vice. 
 
 In America the inducements are towards re- 
 spectability. The idle drunkard living in his 
 wretched home, is without the companionship of 
 other men ; his wife is looked upon as unfit for the 
 society of other women ; he cannot find steady 
 employment, and still must work at whatever he 
 
John Brown, 
 
 183 
 
 can get, for if he spends his money in drink, there 
 is no door open to him by which he can get bread. 
 If he spends the money in drink, which should buy 
 food for himself and his family, he and they must 
 starve. He looks around him and sees those whose 
 capital was like his own, only a pair of hands, living 
 in comfort, and what appears to him, luxury. He 
 tries their plan and he soon realises its value. If 
 he continues temperate, he finds friends and com- 
 panions in his fellow workmen, who would not 
 have recognised the besotted creature he has been. 
 He soon begins to take an interest in himself, finds 
 out that he is of importance in the country, and 
 that he has an interest in its government ; that he 
 forms a spoke in the wheel, that he has a vote, and 
 that that vote influences the circumstances of his 
 life ; that he is one of the many who make up the 
 power which moves the machinery of government, 
 and he soon begins to study these political ques- 
 tions which influence his life. He must decide which 
 way his vote is likely to serve the interests of himself 
 and of his class. He discusses the matter with 
 others, compares his opinion with theirs, goes to 
 lectures and public speeches on the subject, and gets 
 an education in the politics of his country, and takes 
 care to give his vote and his support to the man 
 who has shown himself best acquainted with, and 
 best qualified to discuss questions which most con- 
 cern the wants and interests of the voter. All 
 
184 
 
 John Brown, 
 
 these things our friend came to think of, and his 
 life was formed by these influences ; but he could 
 not put his thoughts into shape and write the know- 
 ledge he had gained to his old friends at home. 
 His mind, though naturally superior, had not been 
 trained by learning, and he could not follow or 
 classify his thoughts so as to benefit others. Some- 
 times he heard lectures on political economy, and 
 then he would try to adopt some special principle, 
 and convey the knowledge to his fellow workmen 
 at home, but in vain. He could not follow abstract 
 questions of thought, nor explain them to others. 
 The lives of those around him illustrated the true 
 principles of political economy, and he understood 
 what he saw’, and framed his own life upon the 
 model before him, but of the scientific laws and 
 rules, though influenced by them, he knew nothing. 
 
 And now we will leave our emigrant, who, like 
 thousands of others, had turned his back upon his 
 native land without a regret or a wish to return. 
 He had left his home without sacrificing a single 
 interest. What is it to him that his is the richest, 
 the most enlightened country in the world. The 
 small portion of its wealth which came his way, he 
 had been allowed by the peculiar institutions of his 
 country and by the example of those about him to 
 squander un profitably — and what to him the 
 boasted enlightenment ? . Only a word. No ray of 
 it had penetrated the darkness of his home. Those 
 
John Brown. 
 
 185 
 
 he had left behind were surely as low in the scale of 
 civilisation as the same class in the least favoured 
 countries of the world. In its prosperity and ad- 
 vancement he had no share, and in the length and 
 breadth of his native land he owned no resting- 
 place. So he went forth, and found amongst 
 strangers the blessings denied by his own. 
 
/ 
 
 I SHOULD not like to close this little book with- 
 out giving some proof of my statement, and belief, 
 that the working man may support his family in 
 comfort and respectability on the wages he now 
 receives in England. The average wage now paid 
 labouring men in London is 21^*. per week, and in 
 the country wages vary from i Ss. to 20i'. ; but the 
 sum received in the country, though less, is made 
 equal to the London wages by cheapness of rent. 
 
 Taking a hundred families, I find the average 
 number of children to be three,* and to provide for 
 them and two adults I have 21^. 
 
 First comes the item of rent, the heaviest 
 draught upon the poor man’s purse. For two 
 small rooms or one large one the rent would be, in 
 any central position, per week 5^. Next comes the 
 item of firing : to keep the little stove going for 
 warming, cooking, and washing purposes, 250 lbs. 
 of coal at 20s. per ton, and is. worth of coke is 
 quite sufficient. 250 lbs. of coal cost 2s. 6d. 
 
 ^ Forty-two children out of the 300 are earning their own 
 livelihood, and twenty-six are quite old enough to be in ser- 
 vice. This reduces the average number to 2*3. 
 
John Brown, 
 
 187 
 
 These two essential items being secured, we come 
 next to the staff of life, bread : 14 lbs. of best 
 household flour will cost li*. \od„ Now we have 
 passed the necessities, we come to the luxuries. 
 We buy 2^1bs. best bacon at <^d. per pound, \s, lo^d., 
 \ lb. good tea, is. id. ; 2J lbs. sugar, 3^. per lb., 7 ^d., 
 and 7 pints of milk at, alas, ^d. per quart, ij*. ^\d. 
 We have now given our family a house to live in, a 
 fire to warm them and to cook their food, and 
 bread, tea, with milk, sugar, and meat at least twice 
 a week, and the cost is — 
 
 Rent 
 
 £ 
 
 0 
 
 S. 
 
 5 
 
 d. 
 
 0 
 
 Firing . . . , . 
 
 0 
 
 3 
 
 6 
 
 Bread ..... 
 
 0 
 
 I 
 
 10 
 
 Bacon ..... 
 
 0 
 
 I 
 
 lOj 
 
 4 lb. tea ... . 
 
 0 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 24 lbs. . sugar . . . . 
 
 0 
 
 0 
 
 7 i 
 
 7 pints milk .... 
 
 0 
 
 I 
 
 Sh 
 
 Gas (or half gallon crystal oil) 
 
 0 
 
 0 
 
 6 to 7i 
 
 I lb. soap 3 i^., sand, &c., 
 
 0 
 
 0 
 
 64 
 
 
 0 
 
 16 
 
 5 
 
 Thus we have furnished the family of five with 
 abundance of the food to which they are accus- 
 tomed, and we have 4^. 7 d. remaining. But alas ! 
 this is not the way the English working man 
 spends his m.oney. As a rule, the Saturday’s pay 
 is divided into two parts ; 10s. go to the wife to 
 supply food for the week, and 11s. go to the public- 
 
i88 
 
 John Brown. 
 
 house keeper, and not a penny remains in the 
 pocket of the labourer, when, on Monday morning, 
 he returns to his work. The poor wife in the 
 meantime buys her bread, paying the baker 50 per 
 cent., buys her bit of meat cooked^ and when the 
 rent is paid, and the Sunday passed, she often has 
 not wherewith to buy her children bread ; and then 
 begins the wearying struggle on the part of the 
 poor mother. To earn a few shillings she becomes 
 the charwoman, the huckster, or the beggar. She 
 leaves her children to battle with cold and hunger 
 as best they may, and goes away in search of the 
 means of eking out her husband’s miserable pit- 
 ance. At night she returns to her wretched home, 
 too weary to make it clean, even though she had the 
 means and the inclinatiop. The husband comes in 
 ill-tempered from the effects of yesterday’s de- 
 bauch, the poor children bear the consequences of 
 the situation ; dirt and discomfort reign here 
 supreme, where peace and plenty might be found. 
 
 Not having sufficient ready money to pay for the 
 few necessaries of life, the mother seeks credit at 
 the small shops, and if she gets it, pays enormous 
 profit to the dealer ; and some way or other, 
 these poor women do manage to pay their little 
 debts. By what process of over-starving, over- 
 working, Heaven only knows ; but they do manage 
 to pinch out of the already small allowance to 
 themselves and children the means of paying those 
 
Jolm Brown. 
 
 189 
 
 who trust them. If these people were to live upon 
 the same amount of food, and save the balance 
 which now finds its way to the innkeeper, they 
 would soon be independent. Bread and tea form 
 the chief items of their daily food, and these cost 
 the family of five about 5 ^*. per week. They usually 
 live in one room, however numerous their family 
 may be, for which they pay 'is. to is. 6d., and of all 
 beyond these two items, every penny usually finds 
 its way into the pocket of the beerseller. 
 
 The little coals they use are generally furnished 
 by some society ; and if the calls of the husband 
 be greater than usual, and more drink required, the 
 family wants are supplied by the soup kitchens of 
 the neighbouring convent or vicarage. The figures 
 I have given for the purchase of the daily food of 
 the workman’s family, do not by any means show 
 the most economical way of spending the money. 
 
 The American housewife would spend more in 
 milk and vegetables, would use meal instead of 
 flour, and would vary the item of meat with dried 
 fish, eggs, etc. But the poor Englishwoman knows 
 little of food beyond bread, tea, and bacon, and we 
 have therefore only dealt with the provisions to 
 which she is accustomed. Bread baked at home is 
 a great saving, and is besides more wholesome and 
 nutritious ; but bread cannot be baked without an 
 oven, and here the poor housekeeper is much to be 
 pitied. In America the cooking stove forms part 
 
190 
 
 John Brown, 
 
 of every poor man’s furniture, and no man or 
 woman thinks of marrying, without the means of 
 furnishing their abode, however humble it may be, 
 with this and all other necessary articles or house- 
 hold utensils. 
 
 Here, the poor woman has generally only the 
 small open grate, where baking is impossible ex- 
 cept a loaf at a time in a covered iron pot, and 
 where cooking of every sort is difficult. And yet I 
 have met here in England with poor housekeepers 
 who, w'ith all the inconveniences of their homes, 
 have made their families of seven or eight persons 
 perfectly comfortable on much less than 21s. a 
 week. The lives of such women are certainly with- 
 out much sunlight, and their histories are pitiful 
 stories of unceasing toil, patience, and self-denial. 
 A few shillings added to their scanty income would 
 make all the difference between scarcity and plenty. 
 The slightest help is felt as a great relief — a lifting 
 of the burthen which day by day weighs down and 
 crushes out their youth and strength. But such 
 people seldom get help. Independent or proud, 
 they do not ask it, and the charitable pass them by*, 
 and give to the thriftless, the lazy, and the intem- 
 perate. The house of the hard-working, self-deny- 
 ing woman, is clean ; her children are clad in well- 
 mended garments ; however scanty the food, it is 
 well cooked and decently served. The visitor to 
 her quarter, reports her “well to do,” and passes on 
 
John Brown, 
 
 191 
 
 to the house' where idleness and intemperance are 
 rewarded by charitable consideration and relief. 
 
 There are many opportunities here in London of 
 buying for cash very cheap food, which would still 
 increase the balance saved from the 21s, In nearly 
 every part of London there are benevolent fish- 
 mongers (may they live and prosper) who sell good 
 fresh fish, after a certain hour on the Saturday, at 
 prices so reduced, that a few pennies may secure a 
 comfortable meal for a family. The same thing 
 may be said of fresh meat. I have seen a shin of 
 beef sold to a poor woman at per lb., weighing 
 sufficient to make soup with vegetables for her 
 family of five for a week, 10 lb., 2s. id. This with 
 IS. worth of vegetables, fi couple of pounds of flour, 
 with I lb. suet for dumplings, would give her family, 
 of five one good meal a-day for a week, at a cost of, 
 meat, 2s. id . ; flour, ^d. ; suet, ^\d. ; carrots, tur- 
 nips, and onions, is. ; salt, pepper, &c., id . — Total 
 3^'. io\d. The usual price of shin of beef is 6d. to 
 but on Saturdays, after custom hours, butchers 
 sell the bits and trimmings of joints at greatly re- 
 duced prices. Milk and vegetables are so dear and 
 scarce, that one can but wonder at the farmers’ 
 complaint of low prices and bad markets ; ^d. per 
 quart for milk is an absurd price when butter is 
 sold for IS. 6d. to is. Sd. per lb. The price of Eng- 
 lish butter is kept down by the importation from 
 Ireland and Normandy ; but for our milk, we must 
 
192 
 
 John Brown, 
 
 depend on home dairies, and the price is nearly 
 double what it ought to be, when compared to the 
 price of butter. It requires eight quarts of milk to 
 make i lb. of fresh butter, and this at ^d. per quart 
 would make our butter 3^*. \d. per lb., not counting 
 the cost of making the butter. We want co-opera- 
 tion sadly in this kind of food — vegetables, fish, 
 and milk — and when we have it the poor woman 
 will be most comfortable who has 21s, with which 
 to provide for her family of five person^. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 BRADBURY, AGNEW, & CO., PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS. 
 
: 
 
 i 
 
 ■1 
 
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