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'■Winding thro-ugh the broWn and yellow wood 
 
THE _ X^' .T'U, 
 
 WANDEEING MASON 
 
 AND 
 
 OTHEE STOEIES. 
 
 BY 
 
 W. T. 
 
 ILIXrSTEATED. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 GROOMBRIDGE AND 
 1874. 
 
 SONS, 
 
PRINTED BY J. E. ADLARD, BARTHOLOMEW CLOSE. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 The Wandeeing Mason . . . . 1 
 
 The Golden Ram . c . , 39 
 
 Milton's Golden Lane . . , « 106 
 
 One New Year's Eve . . . . ,122 
 
 A Night op Tobtubes . . . 158 
 
 Going Hopping . . « .177 
 
 Twelve Miles from the Royal Exchange . .199 
 
 The Portrait OE A Spy . . , . . 213 
 
 Loitering by the Way . . . . 237 
 
 The Abbot's Garden . . . . 254! 
 
 The Elixir OE LiPE . • , ,279 
 
 An Englishman's Castle 287 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2015 
 
 https://archive.org/details/wanderingmasonotOOtw 
 
THE WANDERING MASON. 
 
 Close against the clmrcli of St. Maclou^, at Eouen^. 
 in an ancient house^ whose topmost windows seemed 
 almost within arm^s reach of the church walls^ dwelt_, 
 in the early part of the present century^ a widow and 
 her daughter^ named La Eoquette. The house is 
 still standings although too dilapidated to be inha- 
 bited^ and is said to be the oldest in that most ancient 
 quarter of the city. The row of houses^, of which 
 this stands at the corner (forming an angle with the 
 street leading to the church door on the western side), 
 though evidently more modern^ are built with the 
 same projecting floors, leaving such a narrow ribbon 
 of sky overhead, that the rough-paved and straggling 
 street below is dusky at noon of a summer^s day. At 
 this time the widow kept a shop there, and sold small 
 Roman Catholic trinkets, — beads, wooden crosses, 
 and wreaths of dried flowers, with which tlie people 
 ornament the graves of their kindred, and the altars 
 of their saints, upon certain days. The daughter was 
 a worker of worsted slippers, some beautiful speci- 
 
 1 
 
2 
 
 THE WANDEEING MASON. 
 
 mens of whicli are still made and sent to Paris^ and 
 even to foreign countries^ by the people of Rouen. 
 The widow had been left with another child — a son, 
 some years older than the daughter^ who had fallen 
 into evil courses^, absconded from a jeweller^s employ- 
 ment, to whom the widow had paid an apprentice-fee — 
 the fruit of long struggle and privation — gone to sea 
 and come back again, involved himself in political 
 riots in the city, and had been a great trouble to her 
 in her affliction. At the time when he had lived with 
 her in the house, the neighbours had frequently been 
 compelled to protect her from his violence ; but at the 
 period of which I speak she had not seen him for 
 some time, and did not know whether he were still in 
 the city. 
 
 Throughout a whole winter food had been dear, and 
 the widow^s resources had been scantier than ever, foi* 
 the people had then no money to spare for the articles 
 she sold. In such times she had little for her support 
 but the ill-paid work of her daughter, Nenette, 
 who toiled early and late to supply their wants, looking 
 forward to the winter to lighten her labour. There 
 was a long frost that winter, which continued till near 
 the end of the month of March. With all their indus- 
 try and frugality they were sorely pinched at times ; 
 they had nothing now to keep them from day to day 
 but the work of Nenette; she knew this, and never 
 failed to go to prayers every morning, at daylight, in 
 the church of St. Maclou, where, kneeling beside her 
 little wooden chair upon the cold stone pavement. 
 
THE WANDEEING MASON. 
 
 3 
 
 sometimes alone, she prayed, for her mother^s sake, for 
 the bread of that day. 
 
 Every night, as the great church clock struck nine, 
 Nenette made up her little packet of work, and set 
 out, alone, to the shop of the dealer, in another quarter 
 of the city. The streets were badly lighted at that 
 time, and, except in the principal thoroughfares, the 
 shops were closed before she started ; but she was not 
 afraid, or tried to think she was not, that her old 
 mother might not be anxious whilst she was gone. 
 Once, however, she could not help thinking that some 
 one had followed her at a distance, both in going and 
 returning. She did not speak of it to her mother, but 
 she lay awake that night thinking of it anxiously ; she 
 thought that it might be her brother, but she reflected 
 that he could have no object in following her but to 
 speak with her, in which case he would not have allowed 
 her to return without stopping her ; knowing this, and 
 also that their poverty was well known, she strove to 
 persuade herself that it was a fancy, banishing her fears 
 as well as she could till she fell asleep, but they came 
 back again in dreams. 
 
 She rose in the morning before daylight, and worked 
 till from her window she saw the church door opened, 
 when she went across, as usual, to prayers. The 
 masons were at work there with their noisy hammers, 
 but Nenette did not hear them after a while. Except 
 the masons, and the old lame beggar-woman who sat 
 beside the inner door from morning till night, Nenette 
 was the only person there at that early hour. When 
 
4 
 
 THE WANDEEING MASON. 
 
 she rose to go^ the old woman pulled the cord of the 
 door for her^ but without asking for alms^ as was her 
 custom. She shivered^ for the morning was frosty, and 
 her breath made a cloud about her. ^^I have not 
 given you a Hard since Toussaints, Esther/^ said 
 Nenette; ''1 can only give you a blessing now-a-days.^^ 
 God keep you from harm/^ said the old woman ; 
 your blessing is better than the money of many .^"^ 
 That night Nenette went out earlier than usual, 
 although it was quite dark. She shut the door, and 
 looked up and down the street, but it was quite 
 deserted. Looking, however, by accident towards the 
 entrance to the church, she thought that some one was 
 standing there. The porch was deep, and darker than 
 the street, but she fancied that it was the figure of a 
 man. She hesitated a moment, for she knew that the 
 church had been closed for an hour past, and she 
 had never seen any one before standing there after 
 the doors were fastened. She drew out her key ta 
 open the door again, but a fear of alarming her 
 mother, perhaps without occasion, restrained her. If 
 I run over and knock at the door of Madame Boutard,^^ 
 she thought, what would they say to me ? that I am 
 dreaming, perhaps ; and then, if they should come out 
 to look, and find no one — for the man would no doubt 
 be gone by then — I should look as silly as Jeanne 
 rioquet, when she found the white hen under her bed.^^ 
 But a stronger reason with Nenette was the necessity 
 of the errand she was upon ; Shall my mother want 
 bread to-morrow for my folly ? thought she ; has 
 
THE WANDERING MASON. 
 
 5 
 
 not the dealer told me many a time that he is busy in 
 the mornings and will only give ont work and pay 
 money at night ? She put her key into her pocket 
 again^ and walked away quickly. 
 
 She did not look back before she got into the main 
 street^ but once stopped to tie up her bundle again in 
 order to listen for any one following her without 
 appearing to do so^ but she heard no one. The shops 
 were only then shutting up^ and she had nothing to 
 fear there^ but she could not always keep in the main 
 street. The slipper-merchant lived on the western side 
 of the city^ and Nenette was obliged to turn down the 
 Eue St. Romain^ a dark and straggling lane^ running 
 up to the cathedral. She had got nearly to the end of 
 this street^ when she heard a footstep behind her at a 
 distance^ exactly as §he had heard it the night before. 
 She walked faster^ and once, in another street, heard it 
 again, but by the time she had reached her destination 
 she had missed it altogether, and feeling then bolder, she 
 looked back, but saw no one. Nenette determined to 
 tell the slipper-dealer of her fears, for it struck her 
 now that the man, knowing by some means her errand, 
 waited only to rob her upon her way back. The slipper- 
 dealer looked grave at first, but having walked some 
 distance down the street in the direction she had come, 
 and seeing no one, and probably not wishing to be put 
 to trouble, he laughed at her story, and told her to 
 count her beads, and. not to look behind her till she 
 reached her home. The man meant to reassure her^ 
 but his words seemed to her so cruel, that the tears 
 
6 
 
 THE WANDEEING MASON. 
 
 came into her eyes. ^^And yet^ if it should be w 
 robber/^ she said^ almost imploringly^ as she lingered 
 on the threshold ; if they stole my money it would 
 be a sad day for us to-morrow; we have not five 
 haricots in the house.^^ 
 
 " Never fear^ Nenette/^ said the man ; ''^ if I thought 
 there was any danger^ look you^ I would put up my 
 shutters directly^ and go with you. Never think that 
 a man would follow you all this way and back again 
 for the sake of two-and-twenty sous ; you have been 
 thinking how precious the money is to you just now, 
 till you fancy that some one is going to rob you. 
 Stay^ my child/^ continued the man^ as she was about 
 to turn away ; you have never said before that you 
 were so poor as that. If you should lose your money, 
 come to me in the morning at daylight ; but never fear 
 that any one would follow a poor girl to rob her of 
 two-and-twenty sous. Va 
 
 Nenette dried her tears, and thanked the man ; she 
 thought that he must be right — his afifectionate tu-^ 
 toiement, had given her courage again, and she walked 
 briskly towards home the same way that she had come. 
 
 And yet, as if by magic, she heard the footsteps 
 again behind her before she had got half-way down 
 a long street. By dint of listening intently, she thought 
 she even knew the step, and could be sure that it was 
 the same. She would not have forgotten to count her 
 beads even if the slipper-merchant had not told her ; 
 nor did she omit to say little scraps of prayers, which 
 are held by her Church to have peculiar power when in 
 
THE WANDEEING MASON. 
 
 7 
 
 danger of violence. After these it seemed to her little 
 short of a miracle that the footsteps grew more distant, 
 and at last died away altogether. 
 
 Nenette had mnch trouble to conceal from her 
 mother her agitation. The widow thought that her 
 manner was strange. Had the slipper-dealer said 
 there would be no more work shortly ? and how came 
 she to forget to buy some lentils on her way home ? 
 How fast she had gone ! she had been and come back 
 like a bird^ though she had finished her work earlier 
 than usual j and how strange she should forget the 
 lentils ! 
 
 Nenette trimmed the lamp^ and said^ Indeed the 
 master had spoken kindlier that night than ever ; she 
 did not know how she came to forget the lentils ; she 
 would go and get them in the mornings in the Rue 
 Gros Horloge^ where they were better and cheaper 
 than she could have got them anywhere at that hour ; 
 meanwhile^ she could knock at Madame Boutard^s, and 
 buy some bread. 
 
 Nenette went out again; the street was quite 
 deserted. She looked towards the church porch, but 
 there was no one there. Nenette went back without 
 the bread. 
 
 The widow had lighted some bits of charcoal in a 
 little pan, thinking to sit there awhile and talk with 
 her daughter, but when she found that she could get 
 no bread, she thought they had better not sit up. 
 
 " It was very foolish of me to forget the lentils,^^ 
 said Nenette. 
 
8 
 
 THE WANDEHING MASON. 
 
 "We shall want no supper if we go to sleep/^ said 
 the old woman; ^^we never thought to be pinched 
 like this when we lived at Pont de P Arche^ in the 
 old time when your father was alive. Phillipe was a 
 good and honest boy then/^ 
 
 Poor Phillipe said Nenette; ^^I wonder where 
 he is to-night.'^ 
 
 Why should you wonder^ child ? " replied the old 
 woman; ^^does he think of us? No^ no; I cannot 
 forgive Phillipe the ruin he has brought upon us. It 
 is hard to speak like this of my own child ; but when 
 I know how good you are^ Nenette^ and how you 
 suffer for his conduct^ — when I see you day by day 
 working and enduring this poverty, from which he 
 might and should have saved you, what wonder that 
 my anger against him keeps alive ! 
 
 Nenette took the lamp, and they went upstairs 
 together. Her mother slept in the room of an old 
 woman lodging in the house. She bade her ^^good 
 night upon the landing/ giving her the lamp. ^^I 
 can find my way up without a light/^ said she ; never 
 fear, mother, the dark does not frighten me.^^ 
 
 Cold, and very hungry, though she had tried to 
 think she was not, the girl went up the dark stairs to 
 her little chamber. The moon had come out, and it 
 was so light that she could see everything in the room. 
 She lay in bed, and saw the line of light along the 
 tiled floor, and the crucifix upon the mantel-piece ; and 
 through her window the masonry of the church, more 
 rich than many cathedrals. But when her cold bed 
 
"The masonry ol the church was more rich than many cathedrals." 
 
 Page 8. 
 
THE WANDERING MASON. 
 
 9 
 
 became warmer^ and she dropped asleep^ she wandered 
 far away from there^ dreaming of the town of Pont 
 de TArche^ her birthplace. Pont de FArche is higher 
 up the Seine ; a very ancient town, with a castle stand- 
 ing in ruins by the water-side^ and a bridge overgrown 
 with shrubs clinging to the brickwork^ and growing 
 upon the buttresses and deltas^ about the piers^ and on 
 wooden houses^ that look themselves as if they grew out 
 of the parapet. Nenette saw all this^ and the dark 
 forest upon the hills beyond^ for the moon was shining 
 in her dream. 
 
 II. 
 
 Early in the morning, before the lamps were out in 
 the streets, Nenette rose and went out to buy the 
 lentils. It was daylight when she returned, but her 
 mother was not awake, so she put back the shutters 
 below, and employed her time in brushing the dust 
 from the articles in the shop. When she had done this 
 she lighted a charcoal fire in the little brazier, and set 
 the lentils to boil. 
 
 In the midst of these operations she heard a foot- 
 step in the shop. She found a stranger there. Nenette 
 knew by his dress that he was one of the masons 
 working in the church, and afterwards she remembered 
 seeing him there at work^ and sometimes at mass on 
 Sundays. 
 
10 
 
 THE WANDEEING MASON. 
 
 ^^I wish to buy a rosary or two/^ said the stranger; 
 ^^old Esther told me I could get them here." 
 
 More than one ?" asked Nenette^ who was 
 not less astonished to have a customer at that early 
 hour^ than she was to hear him ask for several 
 rosaries. 
 
 ^^Yes/^ he replied; '^1 have to make some pre- 
 sents.''^ 
 
 Nenette showed him some of turned oak, and some of 
 glass, and he took them up and examined them. 
 
 They are very strong in the clasps," said Nenette, 
 with all the air of the shopkeeper with a customer who 
 hesitates. Her visitor selected two, and said he would 
 take some others if she had any better. 
 
 ^^I have some necklaces like these with crosses,^^ 
 said Nenette, and others, that look like jet, without 
 crosses, for one franc and a half; those you have 
 bought are one franc apiece. See," she said, taking 
 out a little drawer and showing them. The man took 
 them up and examined them also, Nenette scrutinising 
 his features as he was looking down, as if to anticipate 
 an objection. He lingered so long that she thought he 
 must be going to find fault with them. 
 
 The clasps of these are even better than the others,^* 
 she said at length. I wear one now like them, which 
 I have worn three years, and the clasp is not broken or 
 tarnished, as I will show you." 
 
 When Nenette lifted up her arms to unfasten the 
 clasp behind her neck, her round figure showed so 
 well that it was no wonder that she caught her ^dsitor^s 
 
THE WANDERING MASON. 
 
 11 
 
 eyes fixed upon her. Nenette^s cheek reddened^ and 
 she thought again within herself that it was very- 
 strange that he should come to buy necklaces at that 
 time in the morning. She gave her beads into his 
 hand^ and he looked at them and gave them back 
 again. He said ^^they were very neat; could she 
 take the crosses from the one sort and put them on 
 the plain necklaces if he paid a higher price for them 
 Nenette thought she could; but this was a difficult 
 task. She tried at first to open the ring with her 
 fingers^ but she failed ; then she essayed with the scissors 
 -that she kept hanging to her side ; and finally she tried 
 her teeth. 
 
 Her visitor drew in his breath as if afraid that she 
 might hurt herself^ and said it did not matter; but Ne* 
 nette assured him that if he could wait a minute she 
 should be able to accomplish it ; she had a penknife up- 
 stairs that would open it in a moment^ and^ without leav- 
 ing him time to make an objection^ she turned away^ and 
 ran up to her room. But the penknife was not to be 
 found. How tiresome/^ said Nenette^ who began to 
 fear that her sudden good fortime would slip from her 
 by some accident ; I am sure I left it here last 
 night ; he will be tired of waiting, and go away without 
 buying anything^ and perhaps never come back.^^ She 
 turned her workbox over and over, raked out her 
 bag of coloured wools, lifted up her frame to look under 
 it half a dozen times, and flung it down sharply on 
 the table. Then she recollected that she had not felt 
 in her pocket, — and found it there after all. Her 
 
12 
 
 THE WANDERING MASON. 
 
 customer was not gone when she reached the shop^ but 
 was sitting there^ apparently in no haste to depart. 
 Nenette tried the knife^ and opening the rings of 
 three crosses^ according to the stranger^ s directions^ 
 transferred the crosses to the plain necklaces^ when^ 
 looking up^ she caught her visitor^ s eyes again fixed 
 upon her. She could not help feeling embarrassed^ 
 and a little awkward in wrapping the necklaces in 
 paper; and when she said that he had to pay her 
 eight francs her cheek grew redder than ever. Her 
 customer, however, did not seem to remark her con- 
 fusion, but having paid her the money, bade her re- 
 spectfully ^^good morning.'^^ 
 
 '^'^What a strange man!^^ thought Nenette. She 
 looked at the money as it lay on the counter, half 
 afraid to touch it; nor was it strange that, taught 
 from earliest childhood to believe and respect the mul- 
 titudinous legends that form a part of her faith, she 
 should feel a dread lest in taking up the money she 
 might be unknowingly completing some unholy bar- 
 gain. ^^He did not talk like we do,^^ she thought, — 
 for he spoke her langua,ge with a foreign accent, And 
 when have I ever known any one come into our shop a 
 little after daylight, and buy five necklaces, especially 
 at this time of year, when people do not make presents, 
 like at New Yearns Day or at the time of the Fair 
 But she thought of her mother, and how well it was 
 to have a little stock of money, so that if her work 
 should fail her one day they might not be without 
 lentils in the house ; upon which she began to think 
 
THE WANDERTNG MASON. 
 
 IS 
 
 that she ought to take up the money^ and be very 
 thankful for it; and that if she could find out that 
 it was the mason who had bought them^ and not a 
 semblance of him assumed to deceive her^ there would 
 be nothing to fear. 
 
 She hastily gathered up the eight francs^ and turned 
 to go up to her mother^s bedroom with them^ but she 
 met her at the foot of the stairs. Stay^ mother/^ cried 
 Nenette^ ^^tell me your dreams.^^ The old woman 
 " had not been dreaming^ or could not recollect her 
 dreams if she had ; what had happened 
 
 ^'1 dreamt of the moon shining on the river/^ said 
 Nenette^ " which^ they say^ means a shower of silver 
 money .^^ 
 
 ^^Well?'' 
 
 My dream is true^ — see She held out the 
 money, in franc and half^^franc pieces, in her hand. The 
 old woman looked puzzled; Could she have had a 
 customer so early, and a customer who had spent all 
 that money 
 
 Yes, indeed,^^ replied the daughter; '^and who do 
 you think it was 
 
 cc Pierre, the hawker V 
 No ; no one buying to sell again ; a customer who 
 bought them for himself, and paid one and two francs 
 apiece for them. But you will never guess; shall 
 Isayr^ 
 
 " Stay said the old woman ; ^4t was Hendrich.^^ 
 Nenette^s face grew reflective for a moment ; then 
 she began to laugh so long and so loudly that the 
 
14 THE WANDERING MASON. 
 
 i\ddow became impatient. She did not see anything 
 to laugh at ; if she had guessed the wrong person^ that 
 was not remarkable/^ 
 
 ^^No_, no/^ said Nenette^ striving to check her 
 laughter^ it is not that you have guessed the wrong 
 person; I was laughing to think that all the time I 
 was telling you to guess^ I had forgotten that I did 
 not know myself. All I know is that he looked like 
 one of the masons in the churchy and he spoke like a 
 stranger.^^ 
 
 That is he/^ said the widow ; it is Hendrich^ the 
 Danish man. I have often talked with him at the 
 shop door. Old Esther told me that he had been a 
 good friend to her all the winter ; he knows how poor 
 we are^ and takes this way to help us.^^ 
 
 The joy of Nenette was a little dulled with the 
 thought that the stranger^s purchases were half an act of 
 charity. That morning she ate her breakfast before 
 going to prayers^ for she had fasted a long time. The 
 widow continued to talk of Hendrich at breakfast time, 
 but her daughter was thoughtful and silent. 
 
 And yet he said that he wanted them for presents/^ 
 muttered Nenette as she went out. 
 
 She could scarcely drive this from her thoughts as she 
 knelt at prayers in the church. The masons were still 
 at work there, but she did not dare to lift up her eyes 
 to see if her visitor was among them. As she went out 
 she saw that old Esther had one of the rosaries of 
 wooden beads hanging to her side, with a metal cross 
 attached to it that Nenette herself had given her; 
 
THE WANDERING MASON. 
 
 15 
 
 she knew by this that her mother^s conjecture was 
 rights and that her strange customer was Hendrich^ the 
 Danish mason. 
 
 It was determined that the money should be kept in 
 case of need^ and Nenette resolved to work as before 
 till the fine weather came. She went still to the 
 slipper-dealer^s in the evening. Once or twice after 
 that day she felt again the strange conviction that some 
 one followed her^ although now^ she thought^ at a 
 greater distance than before. In spite of her having 
 fancied this so often^ she could not help feeling alarmed 
 about it j for not knowing what motive could lead any 
 one to molest her^ she could not tell what reason might 
 have induced the postponement of the design from day 
 to day. Sometimes she was on the point of telling her 
 mother her fears, but she knew that this would only 
 alarm her without doing any good ; for she was some- 
 what infirm, and could not go with her, or be any pro- 
 tection for her if she did. 
 
 Another night, going out later than usual, Nenette 
 heard again the footsteps of her mysterious pursuer. 
 She could not be mistaken this time. She felt sure 
 that he had come from one of the doorways on the 
 opposite side of the street. She passed along the Rue 
 des Pretresses (a street since rebuilt in modern style), 
 and through the lane called St. Romain, hearing it still. 
 It seemed to her that it grew nearer, but that the 
 stranger walked more stealthily than before. She 
 hastened, but still she heard the same footsteps stealing 
 after her. The streets were very dark. She was sorry 
 
16 
 
 THE WANDERING MASON. 
 
 that she had chosen the Rue St. Eomain^ instead of 
 going round by the Place St. Ouen. The few little 
 shops there^ on the one side of the street^ were all 
 closed } and on the other side was only the sombre wall 
 of the archiepiscopal palace. She hastened on over the 
 rough paving-stones^ interspersed with little pools of 
 water^ muttering her prayers and thinking how foolish 
 she had been to neglect the many warnings she had had. 
 
 Only let me get safe home this time^^^ she thought, 
 
 and to-morrow I will tell the cure, and he will advise 
 me what to do/^ 
 
 And thus she got to the market-place, and again her 
 pursuer seemed to have abandoned his design, for she 
 listened and even looked back, but she could neither 
 see nor hear him any longer. She would not speak to 
 the slipper- dealer again, for she knew that her story 
 would gain no credence from him, who had frequently 
 rallied her about the last occasion, when he assured her 
 that he never doubted that it was a timid girFs fancy ; 
 so she left his shop and took her way homeward, hoping 
 that she might get back, as before, without injury. 
 
 Not hearing the footsteps any more, she took courage, 
 and passed again through the Rue St. Romain ; indeed 
 there was scarcely less security there now than else- 
 where, for all the shops in the busier streets were closed. 
 She had reached the further end on her way back, and 
 had turned into the street near her home, when a man 
 who had just passed her turned back and called her by 
 name. They stood near a lamp, and on looking round, 
 she saw that it was her brother Phillipe. 
 
THE Wi^NDEEING MASON. 
 
 17 
 
 I thought it was Nenette/^he said ; do you walk 
 about the dark streets at this hour 
 
 Nenette thought from his manner that he had been 
 drinking^ and she felt afraid of him. I have been to 
 take my work home/^ she said. We have nothing 
 else to live on now.^^ 
 
 That is hard/^ replied the brother. 
 
 Indeed it is/^ said Nenette. ^^I cannot tell yom 
 how we are troubled sometimes. Oh^ Phillipe^ how 
 different this might have been V 
 
 ^^It is too late to talk to me like that/^ said 
 Phillipe. What I have been I know ; what I am^ and 
 what I might have l>een^ I know. Your reproaches do 
 no good.^^ 
 
 I did not mean it to reproach you/^ said Nenette. 
 ^^I know you do not think of all this. I have said 
 so many times. I did not mean to speak of what 
 you might have been^ but of what you might be 
 stilL^^ 
 
 ^^What might I be still asked Phillipe^ angrily. 
 
 You talk of what you don^t understand. What can a 
 man be who is watched and dogged as I am ? Here am 
 I these three or four months, hiding, because of that 
 little skirmish at the Hotel de Ville, like a rat in a 
 hole, stealing out now and then when I have to beg a 
 meal, or when a little liquor has made me bolder, as it 
 has to-night. What would you have me do ? What 
 honest trade would you have me take to 
 
 Indeed I do not know, said Nenette. God help 
 me to tell you ! This is the only sorrow that I have,— 
 
 2 
 
18 
 
 THE WANDERING MASON. 
 
 for our poverty only makes us cling together closer, my 
 mother and me/^ 
 
 It would be better to give me a little to help me in 
 my miserable plight/^ he said. I would not ask it 
 from you when you are so poor yourselves, but hunger 
 makes a man cruel/^ 
 
 Nenette thought of the money at home, and gave 
 him all that she had received from the slipper-maker. 
 
 But tell me one thing, Phillipe,^' she said. Have 
 you ever followed me at night-time in the streets 
 
 follow you ! he answered. ^^When have I 
 ever troubled you or your mother, spied your move- 
 ments, or begged a sou of you till now, in all the time 
 that I have been away from home? But look you, 
 Nenette, two-and-twenty sous will not keep a man 
 from jumping into the Seine if he had a mind to do it. 
 Is that all you can give a brother who asks you for the 
 first time ? 
 
 Nenette cried bitterly and said that she had no more. 
 Come,^^ he said, taking her roughly by the arm. 
 
 Tell me you have a week^s work-money about you^ 
 and I shall know you speak the truth.''^ 
 
 Nenette was terrified by his manner, and strove to 
 withdraw her arm ; but at that moment a man darted 
 out of the dark street of St. Eomain, through which 
 she had just come, and thrust him from her so vio- 
 lently, with a blow upon the chest, that he reeled and 
 staggered back several yards. Nenette was too fright- 
 ened to know whether her deliverer was a companion 
 of her brother^s or not. She turned and ran swiftly 
 
THE WANDERING MASON. 
 
 19 
 
 across the road to the corner of the street in which, she 
 lived ; when^ pausing to look back^ she saw her brother 
 and the stranger standing still under the lamp. She 
 could hear their voices^ as if they were talking angrily, 
 although she could not distinguish their words. A 
 moment afterwards, the stranger turned again quickly 
 up the street from which he had issued, and her brother 
 went on his way. 
 
 She could not conceal from the widow this time the 
 cause of her agitation. They sat up late that night, 
 talking over the circumstances which had so terrified 
 her j and it was decided that she should go no more at 
 night. Afterwards they made all doors and windows 
 fast, and retired to bed. 
 
 When Nenette took her necklace off that night, she 
 remarked, for the first time, that it looked newer than 
 before. She took it up and examined the clasp, and 
 was convinced that it was not the necklace which she 
 handed to the mason to look at when he made the pur- 
 chases in the shop. Surely,^^ said she, ^^he must 
 have taken several in his hand at once, and afterwards 
 given me the wrong one.^^ 
 
 She lay awake that night thinking of the strange 
 events of the day. Finally, she thought again of the 
 necklace, and fancied that Hendrich might have ex- 
 changed it purposely for a new one, — a thought to her 
 very fruitful of good dreams. 
 
20 
 
 THE WANDEEING MASON. 
 
 III. 
 
 When^ at lengthy the frost broke up, and fine wea-^ 
 ther came, affairs grew better with the widow and her 
 daughter. The privations of that winter had taught 
 them a severe lesson, and Nenette resolved this year to 
 endeavour to save something of their earnings to pro- 
 tect th^m when the cold season came again. This was 
 not easy to do, for the profits of the shop were trifling 
 at the best of times, and her own earnings never suf- 
 ficed alone for their support. Some way, she thought, 
 might perhaps be found for getting more money. But 
 what way ? 
 
 Many hours she sat alone upstairs at her window in 
 that spring-time, musing, devising, castle-building. 
 Sometimes she thought of selling the produce of her 
 work in the shop; and ,the possible gains from this 
 each day were multiplied and portioned out, till she 
 forgot that her project had yet to be begun. Then 
 some objection would come, and all her card-palace fell 
 into a heap of ruins. People would not come there 
 to buy slippers, even if she got the shoemaker to put 
 the soles to her embroidery. The dust would soil them 
 if they lay long unsold, and both work and money 
 would be lost. Better would it be,^^ she thought,/^ to 
 save something from the sale of the ornaments in the 
 shop (as her mother had said), than to run such a risk. 
 Surely twenty sous a week might be put by, making at 
 least thirty francs before the cold weather. This would 
 give them forty sous a week besides her work to live on 
 
THE WA^^DERING MASON. 
 
 21 
 
 for fifteen weeks of the worst part of the season. But 
 who knew that the next season would be bad? It 
 could not be worse than the last ; and she would work 
 as before^ and perhaps keep her money till the next 
 year. To this she was adding the savings of another 
 year_, when a shadow came upon her thoughts^ for she 
 remembered her brother Phillipe^ and saw in her 
 memory a vivid picture of a night when^ half imploring 
 and half threatening^ he took from them the fruit of 
 some weeks^ savings once before. She said to herself 
 that^ even with this prospect^ it was her duty to strive : 
 but her spirit was gone ; the shadow kept upon her 
 thoughts^ and she built no more castles that day. 
 
 But it happened^ a little before Easter^ that Pierre, 
 the hawker^ on making some purchases of the widow, 
 told her that he was to have a stall in the fair that is 
 held along the Boulevard at that time, and offered to 
 show for sale there anything that her daughter might 
 make for the occasion. Here was a project that she 
 had not dreamed of, — the best plan that could be de- 
 vised come to her without seeking. Nenette said she 
 thought they were now going to be fortunate after all 
 their troubles j and the mother saw in it a new lesson 
 upon the duty of waiting patiently. 
 
 Nenette worked now more diligently than ever. All 
 kinds of new and beautiful designs came into her head 
 as she sat in her bedroom working alone. Easter was 
 at hand. One day, sitting with her window open, in 
 the topmost room of the house, she heard the masons 
 at work outside the church below ; looking down she 
 
32 
 
 THE WANDERING MASON. 
 
 saw that they had built up a slight scaffolding. She 
 remembered her strange customer^ and how^ by some 
 means^ she had changed her necklace. She remem- 
 bered their poverty, her fears in the street, and the 
 strange way in which she had been parted from her 
 brother Phillipe on the last night she had gone out 
 alone ; and these things and that dark winter, seemed 
 to her like a long night of dreams, of which the spring- 
 time was the awakening and the daylight. The next 
 day, on rising, she looked out, and lo ! the scaffolding 
 was almost level -with the window. It was a fine day, 
 but no one came to work there all that morning. In 
 the afternoon she heard some one moving on the plat- 
 form. The window was open, and there was only a 
 small space between them ; and yet she did not look to 
 see who was there, but looked down at her task and 
 worked faster than ever ; for, somehow, she knew that 
 it was Hendrich at work there, and she was troubled 
 about the necklace, which was still upon her neck. 
 
 I ought to have told him of his mistake at first,^^ she 
 thought j but now it is so late that I do not like to 
 speak to him about it.^^ She wondered how it was that 
 she had not done so before. Had she secretly de- 
 cided that he had changed it purposely ? She did 
 not know herself ; but she was afraid to see him again. 
 She felt embarrassed. She was tempted to steal away, 
 and work downstairs that day. But Hendrich said 
 
 Good day, neighbour,^^ and she was obliged to look 
 up and give him good day also. 
 
 ^^We find some work to do out of doors this fine 
 
THE WANDERING MASON. 
 
 28 
 
 weather^ Nenette/^ he said. ^^AU this winter we 
 have been working in the dusty church. It is a 
 pleasure^ after that^ to work out here on a sunny- 
 day.- 
 
 ^^The winter was very long and dreary/^ replied 
 Nenette. 
 
 ^^It is colder sometimes in my country/^ said the 
 mason ; but the spring is pleasant there too. Do you 
 always work indoors 
 
 ^*^Not always; sometimes in the summer I take 
 my work and sit till dusk in the garden of the Hotel 
 de ViUe.- 
 
 It is hard to work so much in youth/^ said Hend- 
 rich. Your mother has many a time told me how 
 you worked for her in the winter, and what a blessing 
 you were to her.- 
 
 '^1 worked hard then/^ said Nenette, '^because 
 I was compelled. Now I work even harder; my 
 task seems to me lighter because I work to please 
 myself.- 
 
 "And yet you will have worked to please others 
 also, if you make such pretty designs as I have seen 
 from your hands.- 
 
 "I hope so,- replied Nenette. "These patterns 
 hanging here are to be shown for sale at the Easter 
 fair, at the stall of Pierre, the hawker ; and this one 
 that I am making now is the richest, and, I think, the 
 prettiest, for I have taken pains with it. It is almost 
 too good to wear, but it will do to show.- 
 
 She held it up in her hand, and Hendrich surveyed 
 
24 
 
 THE WANDERING MASON. 
 
 it attentively, and said she was quite an artist/^ 
 Nenette laughed, and said not many would allow her 
 such a title for having made a pretty pair of slippers. 
 ^^But they should, Nenette/^ replied Hendrich; 
 for an artist is one who knows how to make with his 
 hands an image of the beauty in his mind ; and this 
 also is an art-work.^^ 
 
 So, if I make a pretty design you will give it the 
 same name as those statues of the saints and angels, and 
 the beautiful pictures that I have seen in the museum 
 
 ^^The rose may be called a rose, and the daisy a 
 daisy,^^ replied Hendrich ; and yet each will be 
 called a flower.^^ Nenette looked up and wondered to 
 hear him speak like this ; but she understood him. 
 
 After that, they became as two friends who have 
 known one another a long time ; for Hendrich continued 
 to work there. Sometimes there were other workmen 
 with him, and then he only said Good day, neighbour 
 but when he was alone he gossiped with her often as 
 before. He talked to her of his native town of 
 Holstbroe, on the Store, where his old mother lived ; and 
 described so well his home, that Nenette knew it, with 
 its inmates, as if she had been there. 
 
 I would have liked to stay with my mother all her 
 life,^^ he said one day ; but mine is a vagabond trade. 
 I have worked in many great cities, and spent my life 
 in wandering. There is no home for me.^' 
 
 What a good man Hendrich the mason is, mother/^ 
 said Nenette, one night as they sat together in the room 
 below. ^^I never knew anyone who talked like he. 
 
THE WANDERING MASON. 
 
 25 
 
 A child can understand Mm j and yet there is a great 
 deal in what he says^ as there is in a child^s saying 
 sometimes. It is beautiful to hear a strong man talk 
 as he does/^ 
 
 The fair-time came; and the stall of Pierre with 
 Nenette^s slippers looked as gay as any on the Boule- 
 vard. The first day was an anxious one for the 
 widow and her daughter. They had walked through 
 the fair at noon^ but nothing had been sold then ; and 
 in the evening they expected Pierre to bring them the 
 news of the day^s fortune ; and he came as they expected. 
 Pierre had previously determined that they should not 
 anticipate the news which he brought^ and tried to look 
 neither grave nor gay. Nenette met him on the 
 threshold^ and asked impatiently how he had thriven.^^ 
 But Pierre entreated her ^^to give him breathing 
 time;^^ and flinging himself in a chair^ said ^^he had 
 never had such a fatiguing day in his life.^^ The 
 widow knew Pierre^s habit^ and that it was useless to 
 press him to tell his news^ while he had determined to 
 keep his audience in suspense ; so she set his supper 
 before him_, and listened patiently to his account of the 
 fatigues of the day^ till^ at lengthy he came to the fact^ 
 that he had sold the greater part of Nenette^s work. 
 
 And what is stranger/^ he added^ the best pair of 
 slippers^ which was to hang there to be looked at^ was 
 the first thing I sold.^^ 
 
 Nenette^s cheek turned crimson^ as she asked if he 
 knew who had bought that pair. 
 
 A stranger/^ replied Pierre. He bought 
 
26 
 
 THE WAXDEEIXG MASON. 
 
 nothing else ; but gave me the price I asked^ and 
 took them away/^ 
 
 She did not dare to ask him if he spoke with a foreign 
 accent ; but the conviction^ or rather the hope^ that it 
 was Hendrich became stronger as she thought upon it ; 
 and out of this fancy grew other fancies no less pleasing, 
 as she sat with her mother that night. There was a 
 pleasure in the thought, that it was he to whom they 
 were indebted for their prosperity, and that he was con- 
 stantly watching to aid and protect them in secret, far 
 greater than if he had openly befriended them — a 
 pleasure akin to the faith that some invisible power is 
 always with us, watching over us alone, and guarding 
 us from e^il, even while we sleep. Now, like a magic 
 tree, this thought put forth new branches, and clothed 
 itself in leaves and blossoms. The stranger who had 
 followed her so often by night without harming her 
 could be none but Hendrich, who, knowing that she 
 went alone, had taken that way to protect her ; he it 
 was who had watched for her in the church porch ; he it 
 was who, following at a distance, had seen her brother 
 Phillipe stop her, and thinking that it was a stranger 
 who had molested her, had come up and released her. 
 How^ in the worst days of their privation, he had helped 
 them by his purchases in the shop, she knew, and that 
 there was a blessing on his money, so that every silver 
 piece had turned to gold. How different from all 
 other men he is,^^ she thought, for some are grave, 
 and some are cheerful, but Hendrich can be both by 
 turns. He works and sings; he talks wisely and 
 
THE WANDERING MASON. 
 
 27- 
 
 kindly ; he does good for others secretly^ not only with 
 his money^ but by active kindness^ and looks for no 
 reward/^ Thus, in her pure imagination, he became 
 the type of a perfect man, and she came to reverence 
 him more than she knew herself. 
 
 Nenette was not surprised, the next morning, to find 
 that the scaffolding was gone, for Hendrich had told 
 her that their work was nearly done there; but she 
 missed his Good day, neighbour,^^ and felt dull that 
 day. The next day was Sunday, but she did not see 
 him in the church, though very early in the morning 
 after, she saw him walking down the street, as she was 
 standing at the shop-door. She saw that he did not 
 wear his working-dress, except his cap of black velvet, 
 and his belt, in which he thrust his tools sometimes 
 when at work. 
 
 Good morning, Nenette,^^ said Hendrich, as soon 
 as he came near to her. ^^I was awake before you 
 this morning. An hour ago I passed here, but the 
 shutters were not open.^^ 
 
 '^It was only half-light in my bedroom, when I 
 rose,^^ replied Nenette. You are walking early.^^ 
 
 Yes ; I leave Rouen this morning. I came to bid 
 you farewell. My work is done in the church, and 
 I go back to Holtsbroe, after five years^ absence.^^ 
 
 You will want to see my mother ? She will be 
 come downstairs presently.^^ 
 
 Hendrich said he would not go till he had seen her, 
 and came into the shop and sat down. Nenette dusted 
 the shelves again and again, and wished that her mother 
 
28 
 
 THE WANDERING MASON. 
 
 would come ; but she was later tlian usual that morning. 
 She felt that she could not talk with Hendrich as 
 before. She did not dare to say much^ lest her voice 
 should fail. She busied herself with her task^ and only- 
 answered him briefly when he spoke to her. She knew 
 that her movements were awkward^ and she felt vexed 
 with herself. Once or twice she thought to look him 
 boldly in the face and make some remark^ that would 
 show unconcern^ but her courage failed her every time. 
 It was a relief when her visitor began to hum a tune, 
 for she did not feel compelled to speak then. She 
 would say something about old Esther. No; about 
 the fair. But that would be inviting him to speak 
 of the slippers. Then suddenly changing her mind, 
 at a point where Hendrich seemed to be wholly en- 
 grossed by the air that he was humming^ she said, 
 while dusting one of the drawers more busily than 
 ever ; 
 
 You will then never come back to France 
 
 I do not know/^ he replied. After a holiday at 
 
 home, I must look for work again and go wherever I 
 
 may find it.^^ 
 
 There was nothing forced in his tone. Its indif- 
 ference seemed so natural, that Nenette could not 
 help feeling hurt. She knew then what hopes she had 
 cherished, and remembered of what matter her dreams 
 had been, and she felt humbled in her own thoughts. 
 She strove hard to think proudly about it, lest the tears 
 should come into her eyes. Shall he see me crying, 
 and pity me she thought, striding to imagine strongly 
 
THE WANDERING MASON. 
 
 29 
 
 how humiliated she must feel in such a position. But 
 at this moment she heard her mother^s footstep on 
 the stair. 
 
 Hendrich remained with them some time^ talking of 
 the widow^s prospects for the next winter^ and at length 
 rose to bid her farewell. You will not fail to prosper 
 now, Nenette/^ he said as he kissed her cheek on the 
 threshold. Such goodness as yours will not go any- 
 longer unrewarded.^^ 
 
 "We have lost a good friend in the Danish mason/' 
 said the widow when he was gone. 
 
 Nenette made no answer, but went up to her chamber 
 and shut herself in there alone until noon. 
 
 IV. 
 
 All the summer months Nenette worked alone in her 
 room from early morning till night. She never took 
 her embroidery-frame now to sit and work in one of 
 the public gardens in the city, as was the custom ; and 
 as she herself had always done before. She said, " It 
 would not do to lose time now ; the winter was coming, 
 and though they were not so poor as before, the lesson 
 of the last year must not be forgotten.^^ Her brother 
 Phillipe had not molested them, and her store of money 
 increased. In the autumn there was another fair held 
 along the Boulevards, beginning on the Sunday, called 
 the Fete des Morts, and lasting for three days. For 
 
so 
 
 THE WANDERING MASON. 
 
 this Nenette spent nearly all her capital in buying 
 materials for slippers; and when the time came^ she 
 sold them aU as before ; but this time the richest pair^ 
 which were only meant for show^ came back unsold. 
 Nenette was glad of this in her hearty for she still felt 
 a pleasure in her first belief, that Hendrich had bought 
 them before^ and taken them with him as a keepsake. 
 She was more cheerful than usual that day. It was at 
 the beginning of November ; but the leaves fall late in 
 Normandy^ and the weather was then fine and warm. 
 The widow did not often go out ; but her daughter per- 
 suaded her to walk with her a little way, and ended her 
 hesitation by putting on her cap with her own hands. 
 Bonnets were then unknown in Rouen ; and although 
 Nenette, having a taste of her own, had adopted the 
 little cap of the Parisian work-girl, her mother clung 
 to the traditional costume of the country. Age and 
 weakness had bent her a little, but she was taller than 
 her daughter; and the grotesque Norman cap added 
 something to her height. She wore wooden sabots; 
 and her stockings of blue worsted, knitted with her own 
 hands, were like a network of fine meshes under her 
 short gown Over her shoulders she wore a large cape 
 of plain, white linen, stiffly starched ; and over this, a 
 long chain of pure gold, strung through an old silver 
 coin, a locket, and a jet cross, which reached to her 
 waist. In her ears she wore earrings in the form of 
 parallelograms, also of pure gold, plain and heavy. 
 Most women of her country wear these trinkets, many 
 of which have descended to them through many genera- 
 
THE WAINDEEING MASON. 
 
 31 
 
 tions. Others have been purchased by years of 
 economy^ and are held equally sacred. Whence are 
 found in the Place du Cathedral^ and other parts of 
 Eouen^ long rows of jewellers^ shops as dazzling as any 
 upon the Boulevards of Paris. Nenette had none of 
 these gauds^ but she was vain enough to exchange 
 sabots and knitted hose for a pair of shoes and clean 
 white stockings ; and the white cape_, which^ as well as 
 her mother^ she had worn when a child^ for a cape of 
 the light-blue linen of which her dress was made^ 
 makings with her cap of blonde^ a toilet which, in spite, 
 of all the revolutions of taste^ would not excite ridicule 
 if she could be seen in it in these days^ walking at noon 
 in the streets of Paris. 
 
 They walked slowly down the straggling street^ 
 stopped at every corner by some one who knew the 
 widow and her daughter. Most expressed surprise to 
 see them walking abroad ; all spoke kindly to them^ 
 though few knew how worthy they were of kind words^ 
 beyond the fact that they were poor and industrious. 
 They soon came to the fields, and walked along the 
 road in the direction of Eauplet. Beside them rose 
 the lofty range of hills towards Bloville, with its 
 woods still thick with leaves ; and across the river 
 the flat meadows stretched out leagues away, with 
 cattle grazing. They stayed at a little cabaret by the 
 roadside, to drink some wine and eat the dinner they 
 had brought with them ; coming back into the city a 
 little after sunset. This was Nenette^s first and last 
 holiday that year. The winter set in soon after, and 
 
32 
 
 THE WANDERING MASON. 
 
 all the ancient many-angled houses were covered with 
 snow, and the snow lay deep in the streets. 
 
 One night the widow and her daughter were sitting 
 together in the room behind the shop. It was late, 
 and they were about to retire to rest. The widow 
 had fastened the door. It was a dark night, and the 
 snow was falling when she had looked out. A heap 
 of snow, that had accumulated on the threshold, fell 
 into the shop when she opened the door. Nenette 
 still lingered, warming her hands over the embers, 
 when they heard a tapping upon the shutters, and both 
 stood still to listen. They did not hear it again ; and 
 the widow said, It was perhaps the watchman as he 
 passed.^' But Nenette knew that the watchman always 
 cried the hour; and she went to the shop door and 
 inquired who knocked. 
 
 Hush replied a voice without. I need not say 
 my name ; you know my voice.^^ 
 
 It is Phillipe exclaimed the widow. The 
 door must not be opened. He comes, perhaps, to 
 murder us.^^ 
 
 I came to bid you farewell,^^ said Phillipe ; " but 
 I dare not stand to talk here. If the door is not opened 
 I must begone.^^ 
 
 Nenette did not wait for her mother's consent ; but 
 opened the door and Phillipe entered. She shut the 
 door behind him, and shook the snow from his clothes. 
 He was so changed in appearance that Nenette would 
 not have known him in the street. He wore a work-^ 
 man's belt and linen blouse, and looked neat and clean 
 
THE WANDERING MASON. 
 
 3S 
 
 The widow shrunk from him^ when he advanced 
 towards her^ but Nenette went and leaned upon his 
 arm. 
 
 It was always so/^ said Phillipe. Nenette^ speak- 
 ing kindly to me^ has touched me many a time with 
 shame^ because I knew how little I deserved it ; but 
 yoU; mother — your harshness made me harder than I 
 should have been/^ 
 
 Harshness replied the widow. Who could 
 love Nenette^ and be otherwise than angry against 
 you ? None know^ but Nenette and myself^ what she 
 has suffered through you.^^ 
 
 Phillipe sat in a chair^ and bending forward covered 
 his face with his hands. The widow went over to him^, 
 and took him by the arm. 
 
 I go away to-morrow/^ said Phillipe. Many 
 months ago the kindness of a stranger put me in the 
 way to gain my livings and since then I have been an-> 
 other man. But I cannot live in secret like a thief all 
 my life because I have once offended against the law. 
 I have thought sometimes to give myself up to take 
 my punishment and begin life anew. But there is no 
 mercy for political offences. The friend who helped 
 me before has found me out again^ and by his help I 
 hope to get away to-morrow nighty perhaps never to 
 return to France.^^ 
 
 There was a full reconciliation between the widow and 
 her son that night before he left. She was to see him 
 no more ; but Nenette arranged to meet him the next 
 night; to bring some articles necessary for his voyage^ 
 
 3 
 
34 
 
 THE WAXDEEIXG MASON. 
 
 and to bid him again farewell at a little creek in the 
 meadow^ just outside the city^ on the Dieppe road^ 
 whence one of the small vessels trading on the Seine 
 was to convey him to Havre. 
 
 Nenette set out the next night with her bundle, 
 exactly as the clock was striking eight. She was re- 
 minded of the nights in the previous winter, when she 
 had started in like manner to take home her work ; 
 and she almost expected again to see her strange 
 pursuer, watching for her in the church porch. The 
 snow had ceased to fall, and it did not lie deep on 
 the ground, but it made the streets silent, and once 
 or twice she ventured to look back ; but no one fol- 
 lowed her. She had some distance to walk, and she 
 chose a circuitous way^ where the streets were less fre- 
 quented. She was not discouraged, but felt herself 
 more than ever a woman under her new trial ; and she 
 hastened on, only anxious for the success of Phillipe^s 
 plans, for she knew that he could not lead a better life 
 ■^hile in his own country. She saw the dark shape of 
 a vessel across the meadow, though she could not see 
 the water from the roadway. A by-road led down 
 from the ship -builder's yard to the wharf, where it lay. 
 The shipwrights, in landing wood from a vessel in the 
 creek, had trodden down the snow, which would have 
 been over her ankles in the meadow. 
 
 There was no one on the deck of the vessel when she 
 came to the creek. Its sides grazed the wharf with the 
 movement of the tide, and a little funnel was smoking 
 near the tiller. She gave no sign of her being there. 
 
THE WANDEUING MASON. 
 
 35 
 
 Ibut waited awMle till a man came up from below^ with a 
 lantern. He called to her by name^ and she knew that 
 it was Phillipe^ and answered him. Phillipe placed a 
 plank from the vessel to the shore^ and taking her by 
 the hand^ guided her aboard. 
 
 God bless you said Phillipe^ kissing her fervently. 
 You should not have come here alone if I had been 
 a free man ; but such as you are in better hands than 
 mine.^^ 
 
 Nenette only answered that she did not fear^ and 
 strove hard to keep from crying. I have brought you 
 some few things in this bundle/^ she said. There was 
 no time to make you anything, but I have done what 
 I could.^^ 
 
 The men were hauling up the mainsail, and the 
 vessel was preparing to depart, when some one came up 
 from the cabin, and Phillipe brought him to Nenette, 
 saying he was the friend to whom he was indebted for 
 his prospect of a happier life. The light of the lantern 
 was turned from him, but Nenette knew him instantly, 
 and exclaimed — 
 
 ^^Hendrich!'' 
 Yes ; Hendrich.^^ 
 
 We thought you were far away from Eouen,^^ said 
 Nenette. She was much agitated, and scarcely knew 
 what she had said. 
 
 ^^I came back to France only yesterijay,^^ replied 
 Hendrich ; and learning the danger in which your 
 brother was, I would not rest a moment till I had ex- 
 tricated him.^^ 
 
36 
 
 THE WANDERING MASON. 
 
 ^^You will take my sister home in safety said 
 Phillipe^ as soon as they had taken their farewell^ and 
 stood upon the wharf. 
 
 Hendrich promised that he would; and Nenette 
 stood there leaning on his arm^ while the vessel was 
 loosened from her moorings^ and began to sail slowly 
 down the creek. When it floated into the river, 
 they could still see the lantern on the deck for some 
 time. When this was gone, Nenette burst into tears. 
 Her companion did not interrupt her, but led her 
 back gently across the meadow, the way that she had 
 come. 
 
 ^^We have a long walk, Nenette,^^ said Hendrich, 
 as soon as she had dried her tears ; but I have much 
 to say to you to-night."*^ He waited awhile, but 
 Nenette was silent, and he continued, — I am going 
 to talk to you of old times. I must go back to the 
 time when I first came to Eouen, in order that you 
 may understand what I am going to say. At that 
 time, when I knew you only by sight, I learned much of 
 your history from old Hester. I grew interested in 
 you. I learned how you went by night to the slipper- 
 dealer^s ; and I thought that it was dangerous for a young 
 girl to traverse the streets so late alone ; and it seemed 
 to me only a kind thing, and such as any man might 
 do, to watch you secretly, and be near you, in case of 
 harm coming to you.^^ 
 
 And it was you who parted my brother from me 
 exclaimed Nenette. Now I think of how frightened 
 I was at times with the conviction that some one fol- 
 
THE WANDEEING MASON. 
 
 37 
 
 lowed me^, it seems to me very foolish. When no harm 
 came to me night after nighty I might have known that 
 it was no one who wished me ill/^ 
 
 ^^I did not know whether you noticed me; but 
 sometimes I fancied that you did^ and being afraid of 
 frightening you^ I changed my place of watching, or 
 kept further away_, though I never omitted to watch till 
 you ceased to go out at night. When I struck Phillipe, 
 I thought that it was a stranger who molested you ; 
 but when he told me he was your brother, I let him go. 
 Afterwards, I met him again, late at night, and he told 
 me his history, — for he had been drinking as before. 
 For your sake and your mother^s sake, I counselled 
 him to change his way of life, and got him work ; but 
 I did not know till yesterday why he kept concealed. 
 
 ^^Poor Phillipe,^^ said Nenette; ^^I knew that he 
 might become a different man. O Hendrich ! what do 
 we not owe to you 
 
 I will not have you talk of owing anything to me,^^ 
 said Hendrich; ^^when I have ended, you must put 
 aside all such thoughts, and answer me freely, as if 
 none of these things had happened. That day when 
 I parted with you in the shop to go back to my native 
 place, I might have known that I should return. I 
 might have known how deeply I loved you ; for why 
 did I treasure up the little necklace that you had worn, 
 and why did I purchase at the fair the pair of slippers 
 that I saw you making at the window when I worked 
 upon the scaffolding outside the church, and look upon 
 them as more precious than anything a thousand times 
 their value ? Nay, I knew it ; but knowing also the 
 
38 
 
 THE WANDEEING MASON. 
 
 wandering life I led^ I thouglit myself unfitted for you f 
 and I would not seek to take you from your mother in 
 her old age. I kept my secret and deceived myself, 
 thinking I could make the sacrifice. But I have not 
 ceased to think about you since^ and now you see me 
 again in Rouen. To-morrow I may sign a contract for 
 work in the church of St. Ouen that will last a year or 
 two. Whether I sign it or go away again from France 
 for ever depends on you.^^ 
 
 Nenette had hung down her head while he had been 
 speaking ; but she looked up when he had done^ and 
 answered^ — I have no shame before you^ Hendrich. 
 You are so wise ; and good^ that I do not fear to tell you 
 that I have loved you also. What woman would not 
 love you as much as I do ? Another day I will tell 
 ♦ you more^ and you will know how happy you have 
 made me.^^ 
 
 It was late now_, and the streets were deserted- 
 Hendrich kissed her on the forehead^ but they did not 
 speak again till they reached the widow^s home. 
 Nenette told her mother what had passed^ except, 
 what Hendrich had said to her ; but her companion 
 told the rest. 
 
 Early the next year Nenette became the wife of 
 Hendrich^ and they lived together still in the old house. 
 Long after^ when the widow died^ she was buried in the 
 cemetery of St. Maclou^ a long way from the church on 
 the eastern side of the city^ and Hendrich carved a 
 memorial-stone for her with his own hands. After- 
 wards^ Nenette left the city with Hendrich^ and lived 
 with him in Holtsbroe. 
 
THE GOLDEN RAM. 
 
 I. 
 
 Nearly two centuries ago^ my ancestor^ Eoger Day^ 
 purchased of the Fishmongers^ Company of London a 
 certain close/^ or piece of land^ called UfFord^s 
 Acre/-* in the town of Holt^ in Norfolk. He erected 
 upon it^ soon afterwards^ a spacious building for the 
 better carrying on of his business of a brewer ; in which 
 he continued to brew and make money till he died. By 
 his will^ he gave to his eldest son the stock and pre- 
 mises of the brewery^ and a small sum of money; 
 dividing the rest of his property among his other 
 children. This arrangement was scrupulously followed 
 by every one of his successors^ until my father^ who 
 was I believe the seventh proprietor of the Golden 
 Ram/^ succeeded to it about the beginning of the pre- 
 sent century. 
 
 The Golden Ram had undergone but little altera- 
 tion since the time of Roger Day ; for buildings were 
 made to last in his time. The elms beside the gateway 
 were the same that he had planted. The crows who 
 built their nests in a little square turret^ with belfry 
 
40 
 
 THE GOLDEN EAM. 
 
 ivindows on all sides^ tlirougli wMcli tlie steam escaped, 
 had taken up their abode there (as I know from an old 
 picture of the place) long before his death. The high, 
 solid, red-bricked front, facing the roadway, with cranes 
 and warehouse-floors above, was just as he had directed 
 it to be built. Over the gateway, where the farmers^ 
 carts backed in to load with grains, the massive beam 
 was bent downwards with the weight that it had borne 
 for two centuries. Just above this, my ancestor had 
 caused a stone tablet to be let into the wall, bearing the 
 date, ^^1656,^^ a rude weather-worn carving of a ram, 
 and the initials R. D.,^^ separated by a twisted orna- 
 ment, such as is found on the title-pages of some old 
 books. The red-bricked front of our house, which 
 adjoined the brewery, had grown green and yellow with 
 weather-stains and the crusts of a minute species of 
 lichens ; and the swallows, emboldened by long enjoy- 
 ment of their privileges, built under rain gutters and 
 ledges within arm^s reach of the windows. Roger Day 
 thought more of utility than beauty when he built the 
 place ; but there was no prettier object in our old town 
 than the brewery of the Golden Ram.^^ 
 
 I was educated at Sir Thomas Gresham^s Grammar 
 School, in the town of Holt. I was an only child ; and 
 it was supposed that my father intended to bring me 
 up to continue his business. Every one had told me 
 that I was to be a brewer ; and I knew the tradition 
 of Roger Day^s recommending that his successors should 
 dispose of their property as he had done. But one 
 evening, my father, being alone with me in his counting- 
 
THE GOLDEN RAM. 
 
 41 
 
 liouse^ asked me ^^what profession I should like to 
 learn I remember that I answered immediately, I 
 would like to be a brewer ; for I thought that he ex- 
 pected me to say so. But my father shook his head, 
 and looked grave and thoughtful, and went on with 
 the casting of some rows of figures. 
 
 Anything but that, Ned,^^ said he, as he closed his 
 book. The old tree is worn out, and will not bear 
 fruit much longer. The brewery has been the support 
 of our family for many years ; but it will not last another 
 lifetime. No occasion to cry, my boy. You^U do better 
 than I have done, if you try.^^ 
 
 I would rather be in business with you, father,^^ said 
 I. I should like to live here all my life.^^ 
 
 It can^t be, Ned,^^ said my father ; so make up 
 your mind to that. Ifou must expect a more active 
 life than 1 have led. We are not compelled to live 
 here till everything goes from us, because old Koger Day 
 recommended us to carry on the business from father to 
 son. I would that my father had thought so ; but this 
 old tradition has been accepted as if there was no help 
 for us — no other way i^ the world but to follow it. A 
 kind of slothful resignation has found its way into our 
 very blood. It is time to get rid of this, and look 
 abroad a little. Men were not made to stand still. 
 Time changes everything about us; and unless we 
 change, too, we become useless to our age.^^ 
 
 I thought my father's language very strange. He 
 had never spoken to me so seriously before. He sat 
 with his arm resting on the book, without speaking, for 
 
1 
 
 42 THE GOLDEN EAM. 
 
 some time after that; while I stood at the opposite 
 side of the desk_, looking into his face^ and wondered 
 what it was that vexed him^ for I thought there mnst 
 be some secret which he had not told me. He rose at 
 last^ and bidding me follow him^ led me through the 
 brewery. 
 
 Plenty of room here^ Ned/^ he said^ somewhat 
 mournfully^ as he opened the door of a grain-room^ 
 and looked in. ^^The rats don^t have such a merry 
 time of it as they did. Look at this floor/^ he con- 
 tinued^ unlatching a wooden shutter^ and letting in the 
 daylight. Note how it is sunk in about the middle^, 
 from the weight of the sacks of malt that used to be 
 stored here in old times. In my great-grandfather^s 
 dayS; there would be sackfuls continually going up by 
 the pulleys outside the house^ to every floor. Look at 
 our stock now 
 
 My father closed the door again^, and went out with me. 
 
 I began to perceive his meaning ; but I followed him 
 in silence^ for he seemed to be showing me these things 
 more for the indulgence of his own humour than on my 
 account. 
 
 This is old Peter Day^s great vat/^ said he — the 
 Blenheim Vat^ as he christened it ; for it was built in 
 the Duke of Marlborough^s time. It was in this same vat 
 that John Edridge and Andrew Smithy two of his men_^ 
 were killed by the foul air^ after tapping its contents^ 
 having neglected to let down a lighted candle to try it 
 before they went in. No need to let down a candle 
 there noWj I fancy. As many as seven persons have- 
 
THE GOLDEN EAM. 
 
 4S 
 
 sat down to dinner together in this vat^ after drawing it 
 oflp ; hut we have not had occasion for any such rejoicings 
 as that for many a day. Listen 
 
 My father struck the side of the huge vat with the 
 palm of his hand^ and it gave a duU^ hollow sound that 
 impressed me with awe. Quite empty, Ned/^ he 
 continued^ shaking his head, and hung inside with a 
 most mournful drapery of cobwebs/^ 
 
 I recollect it being full once/^ said I. 
 
 You were quite a child then. The last occasion was 
 eleven years ago. You will never see that time again."*^ 
 
 Don^t we brew at one time more than enough to 
 fiU this vat?'' said I. 
 
 Sometimes ; we don't want such vessels now. But 
 come along. The atmosphere here oppresses me. 
 Don't you feel as if the old, dark, dusty place were 
 stifling you ?" 
 
 ^'^No, father," I answered, much surprised at his 
 question. There seems to me quite a cool current of 
 air just here." 
 
 Come along !" repeated my father, holding me by 
 the arm and not heeding my reply, this way." 
 
 He mounted a ladder, and opening a low door, went 
 out upon the roof of the brewery, where we could see 
 the whole town, and the country round about. One of 
 our men had made a kind of garden here on a small 
 place on the leads, which he had filled with shrubs 
 planted in the halves of old barrels. " This is old 
 Baxter's garden," said my father ; it is not of much 
 use to anybody up here ; but he said he could not bear 
 
44 
 
 THE GOLDEN RAM. 
 
 io be idle. I was obliged to discharge bim yesterday, 
 poor fellow ; he had been with me thirty years.^^ 
 
 Baxter used to carry me about when I was a child/^ 
 I said. 
 
 Why, yes/^ said my father ; I was sorry to part 
 with him ; they have all been good servants^ but there 
 is no help for it. I can^t keep more than three men 
 now^ and I have a hard matter to find employment for 
 them. Sit down here, and let us talk about this. You 
 see, Ned, our business is not as it used to be. It has 
 been dwindling away these hundred years past. Other 
 breweries have been established in towns round about, and 
 their proprietors have been more active to push a trade 
 than we have been. The Days never had much energy ; 
 we have been content to go on in the old way, to depend 
 upon old customers without seeking for new, until our 
 connection has almost died out. We have become a 
 byword among the new firms for being out of date in 
 everything.-'^ 
 
 But can^t we do as they do ? I interrupted ; can't 
 we set to work, and do something to make our trade 
 flourishing again 
 
 Just what I said when I first succeeded to the busi- 
 ness ; for I, like you, clung to the place and dreaded 
 going out into the world. But I deceived myself. It 
 was not energy, but the want of energy, that made me 
 linger here, instead of striking out a new path at once. 
 It is too late. The business is dead already, and can 
 never be revived. I have done much to save it. I 
 have not let it go without a struggle ; but there is some- 
 
THE GOLDEN RAM. 
 
 45' 
 
 thing in tlie place itself against us. When did I suc- 
 ceed in anything I ever undertook? They say that 
 when I had formed a project I did not follow it up. 
 But they don^t know what I have done. If they had 
 been in my place^ they could have done no other. No^ 
 Ned^ I tell you it will not do to think of carrying on 
 the old business. There is much of the nature of the 
 Days in you too; but you must shake that off. This 
 lack of self-reliance has been growing on us from gene- 
 ration to generation^ and would bring us at last to ruin 
 and beggary. I never knew this fact till lately ; but I 
 see it clearly now. For two centuries past we have 
 been accustomed to find a home and business ready for 
 us^ till all those qualities of the mind that are brought 
 out in a struggle with the world have perished in us^ 
 as our limbs would perish if we ceased to use them. 
 Look at my brother John. When my father died he 
 thought me fortunate to get the brewery, instead of 
 being apprenticed to a surgeon, as he was ; but who is 
 the fortunate man now?^^ 
 
 Uncle John said to me one day, that I should do 
 better as a surgeon than by staying here, and he said 
 he would offer you to take me as a pupil, but that he 
 knew you had determined that I should remain in your 
 business.^^ 
 
 If you would like to be a surgeon,^^ said my father, 
 catching eagerly at the idea, I will write to London 
 about it ; but take your own time to consider, and do 
 not speak to me about it till you are quite determined.''^ 
 It was getting dark and cold before we descended 
 
46 
 
 THE GOLDEN EAM. 
 
 again. My father bade me keep secret from my mother 
 what had passed between us^ until my determination 
 should be made. 
 
 11. 
 
 My father never seemed to me in health after that 
 day. My mother spoke to me about him^ and said that 
 she was afraid that the business made him anxious^ and 
 that he had grown very reserved of late. I told him 
 soon afterwards that I had resolved to take to my ancle^'s 
 profession. It was determined that T should leave the 
 Grammar School and start for London^ as soon as my 
 articles could be agreed upon. So in the winter of that 
 year I bade my old home farewell^ vowing in my boyish 
 thoughts to be very studious and industrious^ and imitate 
 those great men who^ by their single exertions^ 
 have restored the fallen fortunes of their families. Such 
 vows musthavebeen oftener made^ I fancy^ than theworld 
 has ever been aware of : but I made great progress in 
 the first two years^ and my uncle was well satisfied with 
 me. My father^s letters to me were mostly about the 
 brewery — sometimes desponding^ sometimes more hope- 
 ful^ and hinting at schemes for stimulating the business 
 into activity again. Once when I came home on a visit 
 I founds to my surprise^ that he had taken on several of 
 our old hands again_, and that everything about the place 
 wore an air of business. My father was more cheerful. 
 He spoke of some purchases of malt that he had made, 
 and^ walking with me through the brewery^ showed me 
 that he had converted the great Blenheim vat into a cis- 
 
THE GOLDEN RAM. 
 
 47 
 
 tern for water^ and everywliere pointed out to me tlie 
 new signs of life. 
 
 I have better liopes of the trade^ Ned/^ he said^ 
 "^"^than I ever had. It was more capital that I wanted; but 
 I have got that now and I can serve my customers cheaper 
 than ever. Baxter is to travel about the country for 
 orders^ and he is very sanguine. Wait a year or two, 
 and, if I am not mistaken, you will find things have 
 taken a happy turn. You will stay, of course, with your 
 nncle, and follow your profession, when your articles 
 have expired.^^ 
 
 I think it would be better,^^ said I ; I have no 
 desire to be a brewer now.^^ 
 
 I am not quite sure of that,^^ said my father, as if 
 piqued by my ready acquiescence. You might perhaps 
 find it worth while to return to the old business after all. 
 My great-grandfather made forty thousand pounds in 
 this old place, and we have space for a much larger 
 business than his.^^ 
 
 My father had at this time become very intimate with 
 a Mr. Wrothesley, a banker in our town. I knew him 
 and his family very well. His son, Charles, was a school- 
 fellow of mine, and his daughter used to come to the brew- 
 ery sometimes with her father. The son was of a proud 
 disposition, and of a temper that made him both hated 
 and feared among the boys at school. We had never been 
 companions ; indeed I believe he made no acquaintances 
 in the school. I had heard that he had once spoken 
 contemptuously of me on account of my father^s business, 
 which gave me perhaps a greater dislike to him than the 
 
48 
 
 THE GOLDEN RAM. 
 
 others felt. This son^ I knew^ was now engaged in the 
 banking-house. 1 met him sometimes in the street; 
 but he always passed me haughtily^ and affected not to 
 know me. I told my father of this^ but he endeavoured 
 to excuse him. 
 
 Say nothing against the "Wrothesleys^ Ned/^ said 
 he ; they are the best friends I have. They have 
 saved me from ruin.''^ 
 
 I did not understand these words at the time. I met 
 the old banker soon afterwards walking with his son^ 
 and he spoke to me this time^ though with restraint^ as 
 if the presence of the old man alone compelled him to 
 recognise me. I visited at their house after that^ where 
 the banker often pressed me to come. He told me that 
 he had seen my nucleus letters to my father^ and com- 
 plimented me on my application to my new profession. 
 My holiday was longer than usual this time^ and I 
 became a constant visitor at the banker's house. The 
 father would send up for me in the evening when I 
 failed to go^ and would tax me good humouredly with 
 my neglect. The son was rarely one of our party^ for 
 he had a friend in our neighbourhood who had re- 
 turned from college for a vacation^ and with whom he 
 was an inseparable companion on such occasions. 
 Ellen Wrothesley^ the banker^ s daughter^ was always 
 therC;, as well as the chief clerk^ who lived in the house. 
 We played forfeits ; and sometimes the banker would 
 tell stories of old times connected with banking. The 
 daughter sang now and then^ accompanying herself on 
 the pianoforte ; and the old man^ although he acknow- 
 
THE GOLDEN EAM. 
 
 49 
 
 ledged that lie had no taste for music^ would listen 
 with great gravity and attention. I began to feel a 
 kind of affection for the banker^ and as my time drew 
 near^ I became more and more unwilling to give up those 
 cheerful evenings at his house. One night I told them 
 I was about to return to London on the following day. 
 
 We would all desire your stay/^ said the old man^ 
 but we know your uncle cannot do without you. Let 
 us hope you will not forget us before next holiday.^^ 
 
 Indeed I shall not^ sir/^ said I ; never did I go 
 away with more regret.^^ 
 
 I am sure we shall all miss you/^ said Ellen. 
 
 I do not know how it is that we^ who are such old 
 neighbours^ have not come together more/^ said the 
 banker. We have lived a little too secluded here.^^ 
 
 The worthy old banker shook my hand cordially when 
 I left that night. 
 
 I saw the daughter at his window early on the fol- 
 lowing mornings as I passed there on my way to the 
 coach. The sharp^ intelligent little child that I had 
 known in my boyhood had grown into a maiden so 
 timid and retiring^ that I had scarcely made friends 
 with her yet. But now^ as I walked on^ I thought with 
 pleasure of the next holiday, when I should visit her in 
 the character of an old friend, and no one would feel 
 any more restraint than if I had lived there all my life. 
 1 felt strongly tempted to return and say that, having 
 seen her at the window, I would not pass without bid- 
 ding her good-bye again. But on consideration, I 
 perceived that my conduct might be misconstrued. The 
 
 4 
 
50 
 
 THE GOLDEN RAM. 
 
 banker was believed to be much wealthier than my 
 father^ and notwithstanding his kindness to me I had 
 not forgotten the old feeling of respect with which I 
 had been accustomed to regard his family. Ellen 
 Wrothesley^ I knew_, could be no match for me — the 
 heir of a bankrupt business, with nothing but head and 
 hands^ except a determination to struggle with the 
 world which had yet to be tried, and which I sometimes 
 doubted myself, when I thought of my father^s words. 
 Nevertheless, I found a pleasure in thinking of the 
 banker's daughter, in speculation upon whether I should 
 find her much changed when I came back, and whether 
 it would be long before I should have gained such a 
 position in life as to make her not so far above me as 
 she seemed then. 
 
 I had never felt much confidence in my father^s hopes 
 of reviving his business ; and his letters, sanguine at 
 first, soon began to show that I was right. The travel- 
 ling scheme of Baxter, he told me, had not succeeded 
 as he expected. He had made some unfortunate spe- 
 culations — his health was not good,^^ he said, and 
 lie could not attend to the business as he mshed — 
 nothing ever prospered with him.^^ His accounts of the 
 business and the state of his health became more and 
 more serious, till one day I received a letter in my 
 mother^s handwriting with the news that my father was 
 dangerously ill. Next morning I started for home. It 
 was in the winter time^ and I arrived at Holt late at 
 night. The farmer^s cart, in which I came from Norwich, 
 left me a little way from the town, and I proceeded on 
 
THE GOLDEN EAM. 
 
 51 
 
 foot. Our house stood on the other side of the town^ 
 and as I walked through the main street I heard voices 
 at a distance^ and the footsteps of some one approaching 
 me. As they came nearer I recognised the banker^s 
 voice^ as well as that of his daughter. 
 
 He will not be here till to-morrow/^ said the 
 banker. 
 
 Poor fellow said his daughter. 
 
 Mr. Wrothesley/^ I said as we met^ W^Jy 
 I the truths how is my father 
 
 Very ill_, my dear friend^ I am sorry to say^ very 
 ill ; and Ellen has been with your mother all day_, and 
 we have been waiting there^ thinking you would come 
 to-night. Good bye ; we will not keep you now. 
 Ellen shall come to you in the morning and do what 
 she can.^^ 
 
 I scarcely waited to bid them good nighty but has- 
 tened on till I came to the brewery. My mother opened 
 the door. 
 
 He has just been asking for you^ within this hour 
 past/^ she said. ^^The doctor thinks him a little 
 better^ and has now left him for the night.^^ 
 
 My mother led the way upstairs into the sick-room. 
 Hush she said^ he is asleep.^^ 
 
 I took the candle from her^ and holding aside the 
 bed curtains^ watched him for a moment^ and then sat 
 down to wait till he awakened. Some hours passed 
 thus before he spoke. He asked in a weak voice for 
 my mother^ but she had left the room^, and I begged 
 him to tell me what he wanted. 
 
52 
 
 THE GOLDEN EAM. 
 
 Ned/^ said he^ without betokening any surprise at 
 finding me there^ I have been lying here a long time;, 
 thinking about the brewery. If I could get a little 
 more money^ we would have the great vat filled again. 
 It will not do to give up the struggle yet. Was not 
 Wrothesley here just now? 
 
 He was here some hours since^ father/^ said I. 
 He is gone now.^^ 
 
 Wrothesley must get me more money/^ he con- 
 tinued. ^' I donH like to apply to him again^ but how 
 am I to pay him what I owe already,, if the brewery 
 does not work better 
 
 Pray^ do not think of the brewery now, father,^^ I 
 replied, trying to soothe him. 
 
 " I have been much harassed of late, Ned/^ said he, 
 more than I have told you. You shall know all by- 
 and-by.^^ 
 
 He fell asleep again after that, and spoke no more 
 till daylight. From what he said, I learned, for the 
 first time, the secret of the changes which I had noticed 
 some time before. I had no doubt, now, that he had 
 borrowed a sum of money from the banker, in the 
 hope of improving his business and repaying him; 
 and that it was the failure in this which had weighed 
 upon his mind. I hinted this to my mother afterwards ; 
 but I saw that she knew nothing of it. The old 
 banker visited him every day, and his manner was 
 always kind and soothing. Sometimes I fancied that 
 my father^s mind must be wandering when he spoke to 
 me, for he would often talk incoherently afterwards; 
 
THE GOLDEN HAM. 
 
 53 
 
 Ibut tlie fact tliat lie had revealed explained too well the 
 circumstances of the last twelve months^ for me to 
 doubt it. Ellen Wrothesley stayed with my mother 
 every day till nighty when her father came to take her. 
 And so we went on for a fortnight^ when my father's 
 complaint began to increase. He had never spoken 
 again on the subject of the brewery ; but one night I 
 heard him muttering, as before^ about the great vat 
 and the fortune that Peter Day had made. I put my 
 ear down to listen^ but his voice grew fainter^ and he 
 sighed. He never spoke afterwards. Soon after the 
 doctor had gone he sighed heavily again^ and then lay 
 so quiet and motionless that my mother^ knowing more 
 of death than I did at my age^ burst into tears^ and 
 Ellen Wrothesley led her out of the room. 
 
 III. 
 
 I thought loiig and anxiously about the future that 
 night. I had still a year to serve to my uncle^ and I 
 did not know exactly the state of my father's affairs, 
 nor how far it might be practicable to carry on the 
 business. I thought that my father had but few debts, 
 except the money that he had borrowed of the banker, 
 which I knew was considerable. On the day of the 
 funeral I spoke to him about it ; and begged him to 
 tell me the sum which he had lent. 
 
 ^^Your father's estate owes me fifteen hundred 
 pounds/^ he said, which is secured, with interest at 
 four per cent., on the stock and premises of the brewery. 
 
54 
 
 THE GOLDEN EAM. 
 
 But do not let this trouble you. I hope I shall not be 
 in want of my principal for a long time to come. 
 Things may go better before then. Baxter^ I am sure^ 
 could manage the business^ and make it more profitable 
 than it has been.^^ 
 
 ^^'^Our family have lived here for many years/^ I 
 said ; and though I would not ask you to forego one 
 sixpence of your credit^ I should feel deeply grateful 
 for an opportunity of repurchasing our home. Till 
 then^ I must consider it as yours ; and that we hold it 
 only by your favour.^^ 
 
 The whole of the next month was devoted to placing 
 my father^s affairs in order. After frequent delibera- 
 tions with Baxter^ it was resolved that he should con- 
 tinue to manage the business for my mother. We had 
 still many of our old customers — chiefly wealthy 
 families and farmers in the county. With these^ I 
 found it would be possible to pay the interest of the 
 banker^ s defct^ and leave such a sum as^ with economy^ 
 would suffice for my mother^ s support. For the repay- 
 ment of the principal^ I could look to nothing but my 
 own energy and good fortune. I knew that it might 
 be many years before I could accomplish this ; but I 
 did not doubt of being able to do it^ if the banker 
 gave me time,, as he had promised. 
 
 At the worsts mother/^ I said^ when I parted with 
 her to return to London^ we can give up the old place. 
 
 My labour^ if it will not pay off this debt^ will suffice 
 to keep us both ; so do not be anxious about the 
 future. And if I leave you now^ with no one to keep 
 
THE GOLDEN RAM. 
 
 55 
 
 you company except old Margaret^ and do not come 
 home so often as before^ remember that this purpose is 
 before me night and day; and that I cannot spare 
 time for aught else/^ 
 
 I bade the banker farewell^ before I left there ; but 
 I carefully avoided seeing Ellen again. If^ a year 
 before^ I thought myself poor in comparison with her, 
 how much further did she seem removed from me 
 now ? Some years must elapse before I could pay off 
 the debt which my father had contracted ; and, even 
 then, I should be no nearer to my object than I had 
 seemed before. How could I reasonably hope against 
 all this ? I resolved to banish her, if possible, from my 
 mind — to shut out from my thoughts everything but 
 this one purpose of freeing my home from the debt 
 that hung over it. The banker might die ; and the 
 son, who would be his heir, would, I knew, show me 
 little favour. I must therefore lose no time,'^ I 
 thought ; and so, with a kind of fanaticism, I evei$ 
 denied myself enjoyments that would in no way have 
 hindered my design at that time. I grew greedy of 
 money, and miserly, even to the hoarding of pence. 
 The object of my life seemed to me to justify all — to 
 exempt me from every other claim upon my sympathy. 
 Such claims seemed to me like strange voices tempting 
 me to stop, when I had sworn to go on. I would not 
 listen to them. True or false, had I not also my 
 burden to bear? perhaps greater than theirs who ig- 
 norantly thought me more fortunate than themselves ; 
 differing, perhaps, only from them, inasmuch as I bore 
 
56 
 
 THE GOLDEN EAM. 
 
 jpj trouble patiently^ and asked for no one's com- 
 miseration or advice. Some^ I knew^ who had learned 
 the secret of my savings^ and would have taken from 
 me a portion of them^ had been idlers/ spendthrifts, 
 men who never dreamed of self-denial while they had 
 money. The poverty that they pleaded to move my 
 pity was not worse in its eflPects than what I willingly 
 enduredo How, then, could I feel for them ? Had 
 they always been generous and full of sympathy for 
 others — having no duty like mine to harden them to 
 all else ? I knew they had not. In the height of their 
 prosperity — let them have what they would — they 
 never had more than enough. They fancied ever that 
 they had too little to give ; that the more fortunate 
 must spare something. They never dreamed of de- 
 priving themselves of one object they chose to con- 
 sider necessary. They had not gone, as I had been 
 accastomed to go, ill-clad in winter, and in summer 
 sometimes in clothes ridiculously unsuitable to the 
 season, because I happened to have no others, and 
 would not buy more. I lived at that time in a back 
 street, near the hospital, in the Borough ; a narrow, 
 gloomy turning, with only one outlet, and constantly 
 filled with smoke, beaten down by the wind from a 
 low factory chimney in the neighbourhood. I had 
 gradually given up the friends and acquaintances I had 
 made before my father died, and my life was dull and 
 hard enough ; but I bore up against it, and thought 
 sometimes, with pride, how my father had mistaken me, 
 when he charged me with wanting energy of purpose. 
 
THE GOLDEN EAM. 
 
 57 
 
 But this way of life made me some enemies. I had 
 never revealed^ even to my uncle^ the state of our 
 affairs ; nor did I ever hint to him my object in living 
 ^o penuriously. He would rally me sometimes upon 
 my miserly ways ; and seeing at last that I persisted in 
 them^ he spoke to me seriously of the difference be- 
 tween a moderate degree of care^ and that avarice 
 which he said was unnatural in a young man. My 
 uncle was a good-hearted man^ and if I had told him 
 the truth he would^ I believe^ have commended me ; 
 l)ut 1 felt only the injustice of his remarks^ and was 
 unreasonably angry with him. So we quarrelled^ and 
 scarcely spoke to each other till the end of my term. 
 I passed my examination^ and having some capital^ I 
 purchased the small business of a retiring surgeon in 
 London. 
 
 My father had now been dead three years^ and I had 
 only returned to Holt twice during that time. Travel- 
 ling was expensive then^ and I had no time to spare. 
 Each time I had only stayed a few days^ and had gone 
 away again without seeing any of the Wrothesleys. On 
 the last occasion^ my mother told me that they had treated 
 her coolly of late. The gossip of the town told of 
 great changes at the banker's. The son had returned 
 from Germany^ where he had been staying^ more proud 
 and extravagant than ever. Parties were given at the 
 banker's house^ to which all the wealthiest residents in 
 the neighbourhood were invited, and it was said that 
 the sen was the real host on such occasions^ and that 
 he had gained a complete ascendancy over the banker 
 
58 
 
 THE GOLDEN EAM. 
 
 ill all his affairs. The son was becoming somewhat 
 notorious in the county. I saw his name frequently 
 in the local newspaper^ as making speeches at meetings 
 and public dinners^ and as connected with a plan for 
 improving the harbour of a town on the coast^ and 
 other schemes. One evening I was sitting in the 
 surgery alone^ when I heard the clatter of a horse^s 
 hoofs in the street^ which seemed to cease at our door^ 
 and a moment afterwards I learned that a stranger 
 desired to speak with me. It was Charles Wrothesley. 
 I did not recognise him till he spoke,, for he looked 
 many years older than when I had seen him last^ and 
 he wore a moustache. 
 
 I have had considerable trouble to find you^ Mr. 
 Day/^ he said. I could meet no one who knew of a 
 surgeon of your name in this neighbourhood.^^ 
 
 Probably not/^ I answered. ^^I know no means 
 of making myself known but patience and industry.^^ 
 My visitor looked a little disconcerted. He tapped his 
 foot lightly with his riding-whip^ and without looking 
 up^ said — 
 
 My father begged me to call upon you while in 
 town^ upon a matter of business : women do not under- 
 stand these things^ or he would have spoken about it 
 to your mother. I believe you have the management 
 of her affairs 
 
 I presume it is in connection with your father^s 
 mortgage upon the brewery ? I said. 
 
 ^^'^Yesj in connection with our mortgage. My 
 father has just now in view a most advantageous invest- 
 
THE GOLDEN RAM. 
 
 50^ 
 
 ment for money ; in sliort_, he would be glad to know if 
 lie may expect that the mortgage will be soon paid off/^ 
 
 ''Mr. Wrothesley/' I said, ''I will tell you the 
 truth. I am at present quite unable to pay this sum. 
 I had hoped, from your father^s kindness, that he would, 
 have been satisfied for some time to come with the 
 regular payment of the interest. In a few years I 
 might be able to redeem our property, which has been 
 the dearest object of my life. But if your father 
 insists upon this, there is no help for it. The place 
 must be sold.^^ 
 
 '' I suppose there is no other encumbrance ? he 
 inquired. 
 
 ''None.'' 
 
 "I have been looking at the old place lately,'' he 
 said, yawning, and stretching himself in his chair with 
 a forced air of unconcern. " I have been over it, and 
 it strikes me that it would bring, with the stock, much 
 more than our debt, and leave, perhaps, a considerable 
 balance for your mother. Now they tell me that it 
 does n't pay as a brewery — that the trade is all gone, 
 and that only a proprietor with large capital would 
 have any chance of making it flourish again. I should 
 advise you to consent at once to a sale." 
 
 " I have already told your father," I replied, " that I 
 considered we held our home only by his favour. The 
 time appointed for the payment of his debt has long 
 passed, and I acknowledge myself already much in- 
 debted for his forbearance. He will, of course, do with 
 it as he pleases. I will ask only one more favour,. 
 
THE GOLDEN RAM. 
 
 namely, tliat lie will give me at least a month to com- 
 municate this to my mother, and to make arrangements 
 for her leaving Holt/^ ' 
 
 My visitor readily assented to this, and took his leave 
 with some formal apologies for pressing his demands. 
 
 IV. 
 
 I considered all my resources that night, saw the 
 utter impossibility of preventing the sale of our 
 old house, if the banker insisted on his debt. The 
 purchase of my business had left me with scarcely a 
 hundred pounds, and I had no friend of w^hom to 
 borrow, except my uncle, with whom I had quarrelled. 
 But I could not think that the banker could have so 
 far changed in his sentiments towards me as to demand 
 his debt so peremptorily. I know that it must be my 
 old enemy, Charles Wrothesley, who had persuaded 
 him to this ; indeed I suspected that the father might 
 as yet be ignorant of the step he had taken. I re- 
 membered his previous friendship for me ; and though 
 I thought that my ceasing to visit him without assign- 
 ing any cause might have offended him, I could not 
 believe that he would take this way of showing his 
 anger. I resolved at least to see the father before 
 communicating the matter to my mother, and shortly 
 afterwards I returned to Holt for that purpose. 
 
 I called several times at the banking-house without 
 l)eing able to see Mr. Wrothesley. Sometimes he was 
 absent, and at others his clerk brought me some excuse 
 
THE GOLDEN EAM. 
 
 61 
 
 for not seeing me. On another occasion_, the son met 
 me at the door^ and haughtily demanded to know what 
 was my business. I told him that I had come to learn 
 from his father what he intended to do with my 
 mother^s property. His manner convinced me more 
 strongly that he had an object in preventing my 
 seeing him^ and I told him that I would not return 
 to London till I had accomplished my purpose. His 
 face flushed with anger; he hesitated for a moment^ 
 but finally bade me sharply follow him. He led the 
 way upstairs^ and without announcing me opened the 
 door of the drawing-room in which I had been accus- 
 tomed to spend the winter evenings^ and bade me 
 enter. The banker was sitting in a low chair^ with his 
 head resting on his hand^ looking at the fire as if in 
 thought^ for he did not hear us at first. EUen^ who 
 was reading by a lamp at the table^ rose at once and 
 said^ ^^Mr. Day_, father.^^ The old man started and 
 stared at me^ shading his eyes. He held out his hand 
 to me^ and seemed much agitated. 
 
 Come ! you know Mr. Day/^ said the son sharply. 
 
 Oh_, yes/^ he said; ^^I have not seen him for a 
 long time ; but I remember him. Sit down. I am 
 very unwell to-night.^^ 
 
 In truth/^ said Charles Wrothesley^ my father^s 
 health has lately been such that he cannot bear the 
 excitement of business. I hope you will not detain 
 him long.^^ 
 
 I was not aware of Mr. Wrothesley^s illness/^ I 
 said. I will not intrude upon him at present.''^ 
 
€2 
 
 THE GOLDEN RAM. 
 
 Stay/^ said the old man^ as I was preparing to 
 •depart. ^^I know what you come about^ and would 
 prefer that you should stay and settle it now. EUen^ 
 leave us^ my dear girl/^ 
 
 She came over to shake hands with me^ and bade 
 me good night in a voice so tremulous that I thought 
 nshe knew my business^ and felt compassion for us. She 
 lingered some time lighting her candle^ and when at 
 the door glanced at me again with a look of anxiety. 
 The altered manner of the banker^ and the abruptness 
 of the son^ in that house where I had so often been a 
 welcome guest^, struck me deeply. 
 
 I have not come to make any complaint^ Mr. 
 Wrothesley/'' I said^ after a silence of some moments. 
 
 I merely desired to know when it will be necessary 
 for us to give up possession of the brewery. 
 
 I don^t want to press you/^ he replied. I have 
 known your family many years. I thought it would 
 be better for all parties^ but I don^t want to press 
 you.'' 
 
 I will wind up my mother's affairs as quickly as 
 possible/' said so that you may proceed at once to 
 a sale." 
 
 '^^Do not think I do this in anger/' replied the 
 father. I desire that we should be still good friends^ 
 as we have always been. This sale vriU do you no 
 injury. Your father told me the state of his business, 
 I know that it is even worse now than then. Why, 
 then, hesitate to give up what should have been given 
 up years ago ? Your father lost all there, and but for 
 
THE GOLDEN EAM. 
 
 63 
 
 his reluctance to take to some other pursuit, he would 
 never have needed this money/^ 
 
 The time for payment of your debt has been past 
 several years/^ interrupted the son, who had been 
 walking to and fro in the room during our conversation; 
 
 I am sure Mr. Day will feel that this step needs no 
 apology/' 
 
 I will speak/' said the old man. Mr. Day shall 
 know that this is no vindictive act on my part. I 
 never in my life have wilfully oppressed any man, much 
 less would I behave harshly towards the wife of my 
 poor deceased friend. I tell you, that if I were not 
 sure that this would benefit her I would wash my hands 
 of the matter.'' 
 
 ^^My father is much excited to-night," said the son. 
 I knew this would be too much for him. Do you not 
 see that he is extremely ill ? It is cruel to trouble him 
 with business matters at this time." 
 
 Charles," said the banker, I have desired Mr. 
 Day to stay, and I will not be told that I am too ill to 
 speak upon this matter. I am glad that he has come 
 here to-night, and that he has afforded me an opportu- 
 tunity of explaining my motives. I know something 
 of your career, Mr. Day, and of how meritoriously you 
 have striven to redeem your home ; though I think 
 your object a mistaken one. Why burden yourself 
 with this task, when all your energies are required to 
 gain you a footing in the world ? This sale will relieve 
 j^ou from a debt, and put your mother in possession 
 of a sum of money of greater value to her than this 
 
64 
 
 THE GOLDEN EAM. 
 
 wreck of a business^ which is worse than profit- 
 less/^ 
 
 Perhaps you are right/^ I replied. But it wa& 
 natural to cling to a home which our family have held 
 so long/^ 
 
 A delusion^ Mr. Day ; and one that ruined your 
 poor father. By-and-by you will think I have done 
 well to arouse you from it. But whatever may be my 
 motive for pressing this sale^ do not believe that my 
 determination had aught to do with ill-feelings or with 
 a greedy desire to get back my money .^^ 
 
 I will not do you such an injustice/' I said. 
 
 I cannot say more now/^ he continued. I will 
 talk to you again about this one day. Good night.'^ I 
 shook hands with him^ and left him still sitting before 
 the fire in the attitude in which I had found him. His 
 son followed me out^ and stopping me at the foot of the 
 stairs^ said, My father cannot bear these scenes. You 
 see he's no longer fit for business. He will soon retire 
 from it altogether ; but these afi'airs must be settled 
 first.^^ 
 
 You will meet with no opposition on our part/^ I 
 said_, as I quitted him. 
 
 I had now become familiarised with the idea of 
 abandoning our old home^ and had begun to regard it 
 with less regret than before. I felt that there was much 
 truth in what the old banker had said ; and I thought 
 of what my father had sufi*ered there^ and of his half- 
 superstitious belief in the connexion between his mis- 
 fortunes and the traditions of the place. It was^ indeed^ 
 
THE GOLDEN RAM. 
 
 65 
 
 a relief to me^ that some power_, over which I had no 
 control^ was about to sever our connexion with it for 
 ever. I told my mother what had passed at the banking- 
 house^ and brought her gradually to see that it was 
 better to relinquish the place cheerfully^ and to trust to 
 my business^ and to my efforts^ now unshackled by this 
 duty_, for our support. In a short time we had finished 
 the settlement of the affairs of the brewery^ save the 
 collecting of a few debts; and I gave notice to the 
 banker that we were ready to give up possession. I re- 
 ceived in reply a letter from Charles Wrothesley^ 
 thanking me for my promptness^ and the Golden Ram 
 was advertised for sale in the county paper. The old 
 man called upon me one day_, and walked over the 
 brewery with me. His manner was strange and nervous. 
 He told me that he had issued another advertisement^, 
 fixing the sale at an earlier day. We talked of what 
 sum the place was likely to sell for ; and he examined 
 the stock and utensils with an eagerness which sur- 
 prised me. He repeated to me frequently that the sale 
 would benefit us all^ and took his leave of me afterwards 
 with something of his old friendship. 
 
 It was in the winter time^ and it had been snowing 
 that afternoon. In the evening I went to see Baxter^ 
 my mother's late manager^ who lived at a short distance 
 from the town_, and I returned some hours after dusk. 
 It was dark^ and very cold that night,, and the snow was 
 beginning to fall slightly again. As I was crossing the 
 road to our house I saw some one resting under the 
 trees. It was a woman^s form. I paused a moment, 
 
 5 
 
66 
 
 THE GOLDEN EAM. 
 
 and saw her pass and repass tlie liouse^ looking up at 
 the windows. The second time she stopped at the door, 
 as if listening for some soimd, and then walked on_, and 
 stood under the trees again^ The snow on the ground 
 deadened the noise of my footsteps^ and she did not hear 
 my approach till I came close to her^ when she turned, 
 and, after hesitating a moment, addressed me by 
 name. 
 
 ^''Miss Wrothesley I exclaimed, for I recognised 
 her voice. 
 
 Hush V' she said, ^'^I wish to speak to you — to you 
 only. I have passed here several nights, but I had not 
 courage to knock. It is so long since I have seen your 
 mother that it would be painful to me to meet her now. 
 Does she not wonder at my unkindness 
 
 ^[ She cannot, indeed, guess the cause of this change,^^ 
 said I. 
 
 "It is not my fault,^^ she said, earnestly. "I had 
 scarcely a friend in Holt, save her ; but I did not come 
 to speak of that. Tell me if my father is not about to 
 sell this house for a debt v/hich your father owed him 
 
 " He is.'' 
 
 " I only learned this the other day, when I heard my 
 father and my brother talking together. I knew that 
 my father could not have told you why he had taken 
 this step ; and I knew also that in a short time you 
 would have left Holt with the belief that he had harshly 
 and wantonly refused your mother the continued 
 possession of her home.'' 
 
 " I have never complained of your father," said I. "I 
 
" 1 took her hand when she offered it."— Page 67. 
 
THE GOLDEN EAM, 
 
 67 
 
 am even convinced that it is a benefit to my mother to 
 give np the brewery at once/^ 
 
 I knew you wonld say this/^ she interrupted^ be- 
 cause you feel he has the right to do it ; but I would 
 not have you think that my father had used this right 
 unkindly, I cannot tell you what I have learned by 
 accident ; but I come to entreat you to believe that he 
 is driven to this step. I would I could say more^ for I 
 have much need of a friend just now ; but I dare not. 
 I can only beg you^ if you guess my meanings not to 
 speak of it to any one. Do you promise me this?^^ 
 
 You may trust me^ Miss Wrothesley/^ I said. I 
 know the kindly motive that has brought you here to- 
 night^ and I will never speak of your visit to any 
 person/^ 
 
 ^^Now^ good night/^ she said. I may^ perhaps, 
 never see you or your mother again^, but it will be a 
 consolation to me to think that you will not judge my 
 father^s conduct uncharitably.^^ 
 
 I took her hand when she offered it^ and held it in my 
 own a moment, very loth to let her go. I knew by her 
 manner that she had some trouble of which she would 
 not speak to me ; and I longed to beg her to tell me 
 what it was, and to help her with my counsel or 
 assistance. All my old affection for her returned in 
 that moment. I felt tempted to tell her then the secret 
 that I had kept for years — why I had concealed it, and 
 how I had sought to repress my feelings until then. 
 But the moment passed, and she was gone. 
 
 I had thought upon her words, and endeavoured to 
 
68 
 
 THE GOLDEN EAM. 
 
 trace in them the nature of the trouble she had hinted 
 at. I suspected that it was her brother who had com- 
 pelled her for some reason to cease visiting at our 
 house ; and that all her sorrow arose from his conduct. 
 He it was^ I knew^ who had persuaded the father to 
 demand his mortgage money ; and I could not doubt 
 that he had by some means attained to a domination in 
 the banker^s household^ which enabled him to tyrannise 
 over her also. I resolved to endeavour to ascertain the 
 truth of this^ and^ if I failed,, to see her again^ and ask 
 her directly to confide in me. 
 
 V. 
 
 The day of the sale was approaching, and the old 
 banker came now almost every day to the brewery. 
 Sometimes he was accompanied by the auctioneer^ who 
 marked the numbers of lots^ as the banker directed him^ 
 upon vats and other things. At other times he came 
 alone^ and wandered about the place^ as if restless and 
 anxious for the sale to be past. The business was quite 
 stopped now^ and he had the keys^ with which he would 
 let himself in^ and afterwards lock the doors on going 
 away. 
 
 One evenings as I was walking in the garden at the 
 back of our house^ I noticed the light of a candle at one 
 of the upper windows in the side of the brewery. The 
 glass was patched and dirty^ so that I could not see any 
 object through ; but I concluded that it was the banker 
 there again. I lingered for more than an hour^ and as 
 
THE GOLDEN EAM. 
 
 69 
 
 I was going in-doorsl noticed the light still glimmering 
 there. The light remaining in the same place so long 
 struck me as remarkable ; and I resolved to go into the 
 brewery^ and ascertain who was there. 
 
 I took no light with me. The little door cut in the 
 great folding gates under the trees was open^ and 
 swinging to and fro. I entered there^ closing the 
 door behind me^ and walked across the yard to 
 another door_, opening to a flight of stairs that led to the 
 floor above. The staircase was very broad^ and as I 
 groped my way along the wall on one side^ I fancied 
 that some one had passed me in the darkness ; for I 
 heard a movement as if some person was descending 
 behind me^ without shoes on. I listened ; and thinking 
 I heard it stilly I called aloud — 
 
 ''Mr. Wrothesley V 
 
 Immediately after^, I heard the door at the bottom 
 of the stairs shut to. I could not be deceived in this^ 
 although it might have been the efl'ect of a current of 
 air. I turned back^ and^ descending as fast as I could 
 in the darkness^ went out again into the yard. I called 
 again^ and looked about there^ without seeing any one^ 
 till^ finding the little door in the gate open^ I re- 
 membered that I had shut it fast^ and knew by this 
 that some one must have passed through since me. I 
 got through^ and looked up and down the street ; but I 
 saw no one near^ and I returned and felt my way up 
 the stairs again. I found the candle that I had seen 
 from without still burning in an iron candlestick hooked 
 to the wall^ as the men used to hang them when at work 
 
70 
 
 THE GOLDEN EAM. 
 
 there. Some one Lad lately removed tlie wick ; for I 
 smelt the snuff that was still smouldering on the floor. 
 Beside the candlestick^ I found the keys^ that had 
 been in the banker^s possession. I took the lights and 
 visited all parts of the brewery^ searching everywhere^ 
 and calling out for a long time ; but I found no one. 
 Afterwards I went out^ and locked the doors. 
 
 The circumstance was remarkable ; but^ on reflectidn^. 
 I became convinced that it must have been the old 
 banker himself who had passed me so stealthily on the- 
 stairs. His eccentric manners and absent moods of 
 late had induced me to suspect that his reason was be- 
 coming affected. I had knov/n him do things almost 
 equally unaccountable^ and did not doubt that he would 
 come again on the morrow^ or the day after^ and talk as 
 if nothing remarkable had happened. On considering 
 my position on the stairs^ and endeavouring to recall the 
 precise mom^ent at which I suspected that I heard a. 
 footstep^ I thought that he must first have heard me 
 opening the door below^ and having stood perfectly still 
 upon the stairs until I had passed him^ have begun im- 
 mediately to descend again. Vv hy he should do this^ or 
 why he should have hastened so precipitately to depart, 
 on hearing me approach, as to leave his candle still 
 burnings I could not imagine ; but I determined, when 
 he came to me again to ask for the keys, to endeavour 
 to ascertain the motives of his singular conduct. 
 
 Several hours had passed after this. My mother had 
 retired to rest, and I was lingering in our retiring-room 
 reading alone, when I was startled by a loud knock at 
 
THE GOLDEN RAM. 
 
 71 
 
 the door. It was then near midniglit ; and we had 
 rarely any visitors there^ even at early hours. I took 
 the candle^ and^ listening for a moment^ demanded 
 through the door who was there. 
 
 ^^It is Mr. Day/^ said the voice of Charles 
 Wrothesley. Pray, open the door at once.''^ 
 
 I unfastened the chain^ and^ moving back the bolts, 
 threw open the door. My visitor^s face^ as the light 
 fell on it^ looked pale and anxious. 
 Is my father here he asked. 
 
 ^^I have not seen him to-day/^ I replied. 
 He left home this afternoon^ a little before dusk, 
 and has not been seen since. I had hoped that he had 
 been with you^ or in the brewery. He is very rarely 
 absent so late^ and we are all anxious about 
 him.^^ 
 
 I bade him wait there a moment, while 1 went in and 
 put on my hat ; and taking a lighted lantern and the 
 keys of the brewery, I went out with him, and shut the 
 door gently, so as not to awaken my mother. 
 
 " This is very strange/^ I said. Several hours ago, 
 I found the door in the gate open ; and, going upstairs 
 discovered a candle burning, and no one there.''^ 
 
 Did you make no search? He might have been 
 taken ill in some part of the place.^^ 
 
 I visited every room/^ I replied ; and called to 
 him for some time.^^ 
 
 You heard nothing - 
 A tremulous hesitation in his voice and manner at 
 this moment instantly awakened a strange suspicion 
 
72 
 
 THE GOLDEN EAM. 
 
 in my mind ; and I instinctively held my tongue upon 
 the subject of the incident upon the stairs. 
 
 I found no one/^ said and could get no reply to 
 my calls 
 
 Give me the lantern/^ he said^ as I opened the 
 door in the gateway^ and we went in. 
 
 He walked round the yard, calling out his father's 
 name, and then returned, and we went up the stairs to- 
 gether. He kept before me wherever we went, still 
 calling, and turning the light of the lantern into dark 
 corners. 
 
 Let us look where you found the candle burning,^^ 
 said he. A thrill of horror passed through me as I saw 
 him turn quickly towards the very place, and suddenly 
 check himself. Where was it he asked. 
 
 " This way,'^ I said, taking the lead. 
 
 Something in his manner — an eagerness overacted, 
 perhaps— or an evident propensity to search in many 
 places before coming to this — or some other signs 
 which I instinctively noted, impressed me with the 
 feeling that, up to this point, his search had been in- 
 sincere. We looked about in the room where I had 
 found the candle. Seeing nothing, he paused a moment, 
 and, looking me steadily in the face, said, We must 
 not give up the search while there is a hole un- 
 examined.^^ 
 
 On one side of this room there was a double row of 
 oblong troughs let into the floor, in which the wort'' 
 used to be left to cool. Some of these were half filled 
 with water ; but they were too shallow to drown any 
 
THE GOLDEN EAM. 
 
 73 
 
 one. My companion_, however^ walked across the 
 planks laid over these, and examined them with the 
 lantern_, kneeling down. At the back of this place was 
 a stone paved ante-room^ with a water-pipe and tap^ and 
 a great vat^ the rim of which was only a little above 
 the floor. This had been used for a cistern ; but it was 
 only half filled with water. I had examined this before ; 
 but I lighted the candle at my companion's lantern and 
 looked down into it again. I dropped in a piece of 
 wood that I had founds in order to ascertain the height 
 of the water ; and^ waving my light to and fro, could 
 see the circles which it made upon the surface. 
 
 What is that said my companion^ pointing down- 
 wards. 
 
 Shading my eyes with my hand, I could see, by the 
 additional light of the lantern, some dark object near 
 the side. I took my handkerchief, and tying the corner 
 of it round the candlestick, let it down as low as I could 
 into the vat. My companion knelt at the same moment 
 and stared in the direction he had pointed. Im- 
 mediately afterwards, he sprang upon his feet, and ran 
 from the place, at first calling aloud for help. 
 
 I felt sick and faint, and I dared not look into the 
 vat again. I heard my companion open the door below, 
 and go out. He did not call again; and I waited 
 anxiously, thinking that he had resolved to seek as- 
 sistance somewhere, instead of giving an alarm. The 
 terrible suspicion that had entered my mind when on 
 the stairs would not leave me. I walked out of the 
 little room across the troughs again, and listened for his 
 
74 
 
 THE GOLDEN RAM. 
 
 return for some minutes. It was a dark nigM out of 
 doors. I pushed the window back^ and looked out. 
 The bells of the church were ringing for some joyous 
 occasion — droppings and breaking out again^ as the 
 wind_, which was blowing hard^ brought a full peal^ and 
 then carried the sound away. A quarter of an hour 
 seemed to me to have elapsed ; and I resolved to go in 
 quest of him. He had left the lantern upon the ground ; 
 \ and I returned to exchange my candle for it^ in order 
 that my light might not be extinguished by the wind 
 when I passed into the yard. As I entered the little 
 chamber again^ something glittering on the ground^ 
 caught my eye. I stooped^ and picking it up^ fouiid that 
 it was a small^ gold shirt-stud. I put it in my pockety 
 and was returning^ to descend the stairs^ when I heard 
 footsteps beloAY. I distinguished the voice of Charles 
 Wrothesley^ bidding some one hasten. Two men^ who 
 lived in the neighbourhood were with him^ carrying 
 ropes and a ladder. He looked pale and wild^ and 
 begged me to come with them^ and witness their search. 
 
 I was too much occupied in watching the proceedings 
 of the men to observe the countenance of Charles 
 Wrothesley during their descent into the vat. I noticed^ 
 however^ that he busied himself in assisting them ; and 
 that he never suggested any step^ but let them precede 
 him in everything. In a few moments the men brought 
 up the body of the old banker,, quite cold. One of the 
 men remarked^ that the water in the vat was scarcely 
 sufficient to drown him. 
 
 ^'^He must have fallen in suddenly/^ said Charles 
 
THE GOLDEN EAM. 
 
 75 
 
 Wrotliesley. Has he no mark of a bruise upon the 
 head?^^ 
 
 He spoke in a firm voice^ and seemed calmer ; but he 
 turned aside^ and did not look upon the corpse. 
 
 No^ master; not a scratch/^ said the man^ examining 
 the body with the light. 
 
 Mr. Day_,^^ said the banker^ s son to me, as he called 
 me aside, we have a deep interest in keeping our mis- 
 fortune as secret as possible, for a few hours. The 
 authorities must be apprised of this, of course ; but we 
 must be prudent. This is no suicide. Everything con- 
 vinces me that it is the result of an accident. 1,1 
 father^s affairs are not embarrassed ; nor had he any 
 trouble npon his mind, to make the supposition of suicide 
 probable. I have the consolation to know that our 
 house is perfectly solvent ; but this event was, of course, 
 unforeseen, and it would, if known, lead, no doubt, to a. 
 run upon us that no firm could withstand/^ 
 
 I made him no reply, but kept my eye fixed upon him. 
 
 It is useless to give way to sorrow,^^ he continued, 
 as calmly as before. I have my sister^s interests to 
 think of, as well as my own. This must be kept quiet, 
 until it can be shown that my father has not destroyed 
 himself. If we can do this, our house may be saved : 
 but otherwise we are ruined. I trust to you to explain 
 to these men, whom you know better than I do, the 
 necessity of silence. I myself will go to ]Mr. Pratt, 
 the magistrate."'^ 
 
 I will do my best to have your wishes complied 
 with,^^ said I ; but everything here must remain as it 
 
76 
 
 THE GOLDEN EAM. 
 
 is. The doors must be looked,, and the keys must be 
 in my possession.'^ 
 
 As you please/^ he said^ shrinking slightly from my 
 lookj at last. Let us go now.''^ 
 
 It was some time after midnight when he left us. I 
 fastened all the windows^ and locked the doors ; and 
 having explained to the men the reasons for their keep- 
 ing secret what they had seen^ for a few hours^ and 
 promised them a reward^ I let myself into our house 
 again with a key^ and found all silent there. 
 
 VI. 
 
 I did not go to bed that night. The excitement of 
 these events had left me feverish and restless. The 
 terrible suspicion that had struck me when searching in 
 the brewery grew stronger as I recalled all the circum- 
 stances^ up to the finding of the body. The footsteps 
 on the stairs, evidently of som^e one who knew the place, 
 from the rapidity with which he had been able to find 
 his way out in the darkness and escape ; the subsequent 
 arrival of Charles Wrothesley himself, to inquire after 
 his father ; his catching at my account of finding the 
 light ; his clumsily acted search in every place before 
 coming to the true one; but, above all, his sudden 
 movement towards the room where I had found the 
 lights when proposing to search there, although I had 
 not yet told him the situation of this room, followed by 
 his hastily turning and inquiring where it was all 
 seemed to me to point to him as a murderer. His 
 proud and vindictive character^ his known extrava- 
 
THE GOLDEN RAM. 
 
 77 
 
 gance^ the harsh tones in which I had heard him speak 
 to his father^ and the mysterious changes in the 
 banker^s house during the last year or two^ appeared 
 to me all to have some connection with the fate of the 
 old man. I had heard rumours that the son had lived 
 on the Continent^ and in London,, in a style of great 
 magnificence^ and that the father had supplied him with 
 large sums of money^ until he refused to send him 
 more^ and insisted upon his return to Holt. I had 
 always suspected that he had urged the sale of our pro- 
 perty with the idea of getting a portion of the proceeds ; 
 and 1 fancied that the late Mr. Wrothesley might at 
 last have repented of his determination^ and^ by show- 
 ing some hesitation^ have exasperated him. He knew 
 the strange fancy of the banker for wandering about 
 the old brewery ; and the thought might easily have 
 occurred to him^ when brooding over the advantages 
 which would result to him from his deaths to follow 
 him thither^ and watch for an opportunity of murder- 
 ing him^ and disposing of the body in such a way that 
 his death might appear to have been caused by accident. 
 He mighty I thought^ have happened on this occasion 
 to accompany him there^ and finding himself standing 
 with him near the edge of the great vat^ have been 
 seized with a horrible temptation to strike him down. 
 This would account for no bruises being seen upon him ; 
 but I remembered the extraordinary fact of my having 
 noticed the light in the same place for more than an 
 hour before my curiosity was excited. What could he 
 have been doing during this time^ supposing my hypo- 
 
73 
 
 THE GOLDEN RAM. 
 
 tliesis to be correct? And why should he leave the 
 keys there^ and the light still burning ? 
 
 Though I could not answer these queries^ the convic- 
 tion that the old man had been murdered^ and that the 
 murderer vfas his ovm son^ grew firmer in spite of my- 
 self. The gold shirt- stud^ which I had forgotten until 
 this moment^, mighty I knew^ furnish me v/ith a clue 
 still surer than any I had yet discovered. I determined 
 to endeavour to ascertain if the son had worn such a 
 stud. If I learned that this had belonged to him^ the 
 spot in which I had found it would leave no doubt of 
 his guilt. I should know then that he must have seized 
 his victim on the brink of the vat^ and that this must 
 have been dropped^ unperceived^, in the struggle. 
 
 I sat before the fire for many hours^ thinking over 
 these things. I heard the watchman try the shutters 
 several times^, and then walk on_, crying the hom% till I 
 lost his voice and footsteps in the distance. I heard 
 him cry four o^ clock before I fell asleep^ and began to 
 dream confusedly of the events of the night before, 
 mingled with the circumstances of my father^s struggles 
 to keep up the brewery, and of his unhappy end. 
 Once I was in my old lodging in the Borough again, 
 much troubled with the thought that I had neglected 
 and lost my business, and been compelled to return to 
 my previous life of solitude and privation. But all this 
 changed suddenly, and I was standing in a great crowd 
 in a court of justice. Several years before, I had once 
 given medical evidence on a trial for murder, and all 
 this was passing through my mind exactly as it had 
 
THE GOLDEN EAM. 
 
 79 
 
 liappenecl^, till I caught sight of the face of the accused, 
 and saw^ to my surprise, that it was Charles Y\^rothesley. 
 Afterwards, I was standing in the street outside the 
 court — Ellen was there, imploring me not to go in— 
 till I suffered her to draw me along, and we began, 
 to hasten through by-streets in the rain, only anxious 
 to get farther and farther away. 
 
 When I awoke, there was a little daylight in the 
 room. I put back the shutters, and looking out saw 
 the day dawning through slate- coloured clouds, with 
 n very wintry look. The clocks in the town struck 
 six, as I shut down the window again. I took my 
 hat to go out and refresh myself in the cool morning 
 air, when I heard a gentle tapping, as of some one^s 
 finger-nail upon the window pane. I hastened to the 
 door, and to my surprise found Ellen Wrothesley 
 there. She wore a thick veil, so that I could not 
 see her face. Not doubting that she knew of the 
 events of the night before, I motioned to her silently 
 to enter; but she held me by the arm and begged 
 me to walk with her. She had much to say to 
 me,^^ she said. The calmness of her manner sur- 
 prised me ; but I closed the door gently, and walked 
 with her through a lane beside the house. 
 
 Mr. Day,^^ she began, as soon as we had walked 
 a short distance, I am in great trouble. I know 
 not what to do unless some friend will advise me. 
 I am quite alone now.^' She wept; but I was con- 
 vinced by her manner she did not know yet the 
 extent of her misfortune. 
 
80 
 
 THE GOLDEN HAM. 
 
 You can speak to me frankly^ Miss Wrotliesley/^ I 
 said. You have a firm friend in me. From this day 
 I hope we shall know each other better. I have never 
 dared to tell you how dear you are to me ; but why 
 should I hesitate now when this may give you confi- 
 dence in me ? To the utmost of my power I will pro- 
 tect you while I live.''^ 
 
 I will tell you everything/^ she said. How I 
 would that I had dared to do so before ! But it is 
 too late now. My father is ruined and fled. He went 
 away last night. My brother told me he might never 
 come back here; but he would not say where he is 
 gone. Oh ! I implore you to help me ! I must find 
 him ; I must go to him/^ 
 
 I knew of this/^ I said^ striving to conceal my 
 agitation. You must be patient and believe that I 
 am doing all I can to help you. It is not well that I 
 should tell you all now.^^ 
 
 Mr. Day/'' she continued^ quite hoarse with emo- 
 tion^ my father is an old man ; he cannot bear these 
 things ; he has been ill for some time. He will die in 
 some distant place with strangers. I must go to him^ 
 and live with him. You do not^ you cannot^ know all. 
 My brother has not dared to tell you that it is he who 
 has ruined him and driven him from his home in his 
 old age. I have borne much from him myself^ and 
 have not complained. I have given all that I pos- 
 sessed cheerfully to save my father^s name : we 
 are all ruined. But to let my father go away like 
 this^ a poor^ weak^ friendless old man^ to wander dis- 
 
THE GOLDEN EAM. 
 
 81 
 
 graced and beggared^— oli ! I cannot forgive Mm for 
 
 this r 
 
 I implored her again to trust in me to do all for her 
 for the best ; but she continued — You do not know 
 my father/^ she said. He is gentle and affectionate, 
 hut* he is proud ; he will not be able to bear this dis- 
 grace. The thought of it alone has made him almost 
 mad. I know what he has suffered. The hope of 
 putting off this day by getting in a few debts has sustained 
 him hitherto. This was why he urged you to sell your 
 mother^s property, and was so anxious for it to be done. 
 Up to two days since he had hope ; but he told me 
 himself that everything had failed/^ 
 
 When was this 
 
 Only yesterday.^^ 
 
 Can you remember well all that happened at your 
 house yesterday 
 
 Everything. I have been so anxious and unhappy 
 lately that not a movement in the place has been 
 secret from me.^^ 
 
 Strive then to recollect at what hour your father 
 left you : I have a purpose in wishing to know this,^^ 
 
 It was in the afternoon.^^ 
 
 Before dark?'' 
 
 Oh, yes ; it was quite daylight then. He came to 
 me and kissed me strangely several times, saying scarcely 
 a word, and afterwards he went out without bidding me 
 good-bye.'' 
 
 Did he ever act like this before ?" 
 
 . 6 
 
82 THE GOLDEN RAM. 
 
 Never. I thought he was thinking of his affairs. 
 I did not say anything for fear of grieving him/^ 
 
 Did he not say then where he was going 
 
 No. I looked through the window^ and saw him 
 walk down the street towards your house.^^ 
 
 Did your brother go with him 
 
 No ; he went out some time after .^^ 
 
 After dark?'' 
 
 Yes j the lamps had been lighted. I saw him go 
 down the street the same way.'' 
 
 And did you hear him come back ?" 
 
 Yes ; he let himself in with a key^ nearly an hour 
 after. I met him on the stairs^ and gave him a candle 
 with which he went up to his room." 
 
 Did he speak to you then?" 
 
 Yes ; he looked pale^ and I asked him whether he 
 was ill. He answered me angrily^ and bade me go back 
 to my room^ and keep there^ threatening me if he found 
 me on the stairs again." 
 
 ^^Did he ever threaten you before?" I said^ burning 
 with indignation. 
 
 She made me no answer^ but leaned upon my arm 
 and sobbed afresh. 
 
 ^^The villain !" I exclaimed^ interpreting her silence, 
 
 I would that you had told me this before ; but thank 
 Heaven ! this can never be again. Henceforth I will 
 be your protector. But you must keep heart. You 
 have need of all your strength and fortitude. Recollect 
 again, and tell me if you can remember whether he 
 went out a second time ?" 
 
THE GOLDEIS HAM. 
 
 83 
 
 He did. I heard him go. T sat up late at work 
 in the drawing-room^ alone. I heard him walk down 
 stairs again about midnight and go ont^ shutting the 
 door gently. I wondered where he had gone^ and was 
 becoming very anxious at my father^s absence. I sat 
 in the dark^ looking through the window^ I know not 
 how long — it seemed to me a very long time. When 
 he came back again he told me that my father was gone 
 away to escape from his difficulties^ and bade me go to 
 bed^ and speak to no one of his absence. I went up 
 to my room^ and sat there until it began to get light, 
 and I had determined to seek you. I scarcely hoped 
 to find you ; but I stole downstairs and came here to 
 look at the house, and see if any one was up yet. I 
 saw you from a distance put back the shutters of the 
 lower room and look out.^^ 
 
 Look at this/^ I said, showing her the gold stud 
 that I had found in the brewery. Tell me if you 
 have ever seen it before 
 
 It belongs to my brother/^ she said, after examining 
 it. ^' I know it by this double rim. He had missed 
 one last night, and was searching for it.^^ 
 
 EUen,^^ I said, you must have all faith and confi- 
 dence in me, and do exactly as I tell you. You must 
 not go home again. I will take you at once to my 
 mother. She will receive you as her own child, and 
 love you for my sake. But your own home is no place 
 for you now. By and by you will know why I say this, 
 and see that I asked it only for your good.^^ 
 
 She suffered me to lead her back, as T proposed. 
 
84 
 
 THE GOLDEN EAM. 
 
 My mother was up wlien we returned. I told her that 
 a domestic trouble had made it necessary for Ellen to 
 remain with us for a short time. I would not tell her 
 more then^ lest her anxiety should betray the truth. 
 
 VII. 
 
 On the morning of my interview with EUen^ I 
 received a note^ marked private/^ from Charles 
 Wrothesley, informing me that he had given notice of 
 the circumstances of his father^s deaths and that an 
 inquest would be held on the afternoon of the following 
 day. I shuddered as I read the cold and formal style 
 in which it was written^ and the few customary phrases 
 in which he alluded to the calamity which had befallen 
 his family. I had scarcely reflected until now upon the 
 position in which I was placed^ by being the first to 
 discover the proofs of his guilt. In my eagerness to 
 ascertain the truths I had not thought of the obligation 
 that would rest on me to divulge these facts^ and thus 
 to become the instrument of procuring his condemna- 
 tion. I knew that, on the following day, I should be 
 called upon to give my evidence as to the finding of 
 the body ; and that even if I were disposed to conceal 
 what had come to my knowledge, it would be impos- 
 sible. I began to repent that I had voluntarily sought 
 after these facts — that I had not rather stifled my sus- 
 picions when they first arose, as absurd and unnatural, 
 and shrunk from seeing or hearing anything which 
 might tend to confirm them. And, parricide as I 
 believed him, he was the brother of Ellen, and some-* 
 
THE GOLDEN EAM. 
 
 85 
 
 thing of the shame of his guilt must rest upon her. The 
 particulars of her father^ s death could not long be kept 
 secret from her. The remarkable circumstances^ and 
 the atrocity of his crime^ would spread it abroad. At 
 whatever distance we might be^ or however long a time 
 might have elapsed^ some persons would probably dis- 
 cover that she was the sister of the murderer; some 
 taunt or sneer would remind her that^ through my in- 
 strumentality^ her brother had been brought to a 
 shameful death. How could she regard me with other 
 than feelings of horror? The judgment of men^ and 
 of my own conscience^ would condemn me^ if I concealed 
 these facts^ having once known them — much more if I 
 prevaricated and shuffled in a court of justice^ where 
 I should be sworn to divulge all that I knew : but 
 how could I plead these things to her ? In her thoughts 
 I must be present for ever ; not as I had boasted — as her 
 friend and protector — but as the destroyer of her brother, 
 and the cause of her sorrow and disgrace. 
 
 The day after the death of the old man passed away 
 slowly. I sat till evening in the room where I had 
 spent the nighty alone, for I could not bear the presence 
 of Ellen while these things were in my thoughts. In 
 the evening, Charles Wrothesley came again as I ex- 
 pected. I heard his knock, and let him in myself, 
 so that we were alone together. He looked pale, and 
 said he was fatigued. I got him a chair, and he sat 
 by the firelight while I walked to and fro in the 
 room. He spoke of the affairs of the bank, so con- 
 fidently, that I began to doubt the correctness of 
 
86 
 
 THE GOLDEN RAM. 
 
 EUen^s belief in her father^ s difficulties. What could 
 have tempted him to the crime of murder^ but the hope 
 of getting his father^s property? He sat for a while 
 with his face buried in his hands without speaking. 
 
 I have kept up my courage till now^ Mr. Day/^ said 
 he in a tone that seemed perfectly natural ; but I 
 can hold out no longer.^^ 
 
 The apparent sorrow in his tone^ and in the expres- 
 sion of his features_, as the firelight flickered on them^ 
 overpowered my suspicions for a moment. I poured him 
 out some wine^ and begged him to drink. By the 
 way/^ said he^ as he took the glass from me^ it is 
 very strange that my sister Ellen has been out since 
 the morning.^^ 
 
 Your sister is here/^ I said. She called here 
 this morning ; and I thought it well^ under the circum- 
 stances_, to advise her to remain here for a while. 
 His hand fell with the glass before it had touched his 
 lips. I saw an uneasy movement throughout his whole 
 body. He rose from his chair^ at last_, and demanded 
 in a sharp tone my reason for advising her to leave her 
 home at that time. 
 
 I have ample reason/^ I said ; but I will state 
 none at present. Your sister is here by her own free 
 will^ and she will remain here/^ 
 
 There is some plot against me in all this/^ he 
 said. I will see her myself^ and ask her what all this 
 means.^^ 
 
 Stay/^ said \, passing between him and the door ; 
 as yet your sister does not know my real motive for 
 
THE GOLDEN RAM. 
 
 87 
 
 advising her to remain here; but if you force me^ I 
 will tell the truth in her presence/^ He seemed to 
 falter for a moment ; and I drew from my pocket the 
 shirt-stud that I had founds and held it before him^ in 
 the strong firelight^ between my thumb and finger. 
 
 I found this small gold shirt-stud in the brewery 
 last night/^ I said. Your sister tells me it is yours.^^ 
 
 He inclined his face towards it_, and scrutinised it 
 closely for a moment. His face was ghastly pale^ and 
 his eyes looked hollow^ like those of a man who has been 
 ill for many months. He stammered out a denial that 
 the shirt-stud was his^ and with a weak semblance of 
 anger^ took his hat^ and hurried out of the place. 
 
 On the following morning the two clerks of the bank - 
 ing-house^ coming to their business at the usual hour^ 
 found the shutters still fastened^ and the blinds of all 
 the windows closely drawn down. Charles Wrothesley 
 had fled^ and it was quickly rumoured through the town 
 that the servant had been sent home the night before^ 
 in order to give him an opportunity of departing with 
 all the available money in the place^ and thus to defraud 
 the creditors of thebank. The news of the old man^s death 
 had spread abroad^ and many began already to accuse 
 the son of the murder. The coroner^, upon my evidence, 
 adjourned the inquest, in the hope of his being arrested ; 
 but althoughhewas advertised in the ^^Hue andCry/^and 
 a strict watch was kept upon vessels leaving the towns on 
 the coast, no trace of him was discovered. It became 
 absolutely necessary that Ellen should give evidence on 
 the adjourned inquest as to her brother^s absence on 
 
88 
 
 THE GOLDEN EAM, 
 
 the night of the murder,, and^ for this purpose^ my 
 mother conveyed to her gently the circnmstances of her 
 father's death, and the suspicion that had fallen upon 
 her brother. It was a terrible ordeal ; but she passed 
 through it bravely. Stronger proof still vras found in 
 the evidence of the servant girl who had opened the 
 door to him the first time of his return, and, as it was 
 supposed, immediately after the murder. She deposed, 
 that after he had gone out a second time, she found, on 
 going into his room, that he had changed his boots and 
 trousers, and that these were saturated with some 
 brewer's stufi*, as if he had accidentally stepped in a 
 trough of yeast ; and such a trough was discovered, in 
 truth, between the spot where I had found the candle 
 and the chamber in which was the mouth of the great 
 vat. All this, together with his flight, decided the jury. 
 The surgeon, indeed, who made the examination of the 
 body, evinced some doubts, from certain signs, whether 
 drowning had been the real cause of death, notwith- 
 standing the fact that the body had been first found in 
 the water ; but no traces of poison — the only possible 
 cause remaining (for there were no marks of evidence on 
 the body), could be discovered, nor could any bottle, such 
 as might have contained poison, be found upon a care- 
 ful search. But the hesitation of the surgeon, who was 
 a local practitioner, weighed but little in the minds of the 
 jury, who returned a verdict of Wilful murder against 
 Charles Wrothesley.^^ 
 
 Weeks, months, and at length years, rolled away, and 
 no tidings whatever of the supposed murderer had been 
 
THE GOLDEN EAM. 89 
 
 obtained. The facts had faded from the public mind, 
 except in the neighbourhood of their occurrence. Ellen 
 had since become my wife^ and we had long taken 
 up our residence in London^ where my mother resided 
 with us. My business had prospered^ and by degrees 
 we had ceased to speak of old sorrows ; though now and 
 then some accidental circumstance^ recalling the name 
 of her brother^ would throw a gloom over our comfort. 
 The old brewery had been sold by the creditors of the 
 bank^ and had twice changed hands since we had left 
 Holt. At length I read in a newspaper that the build- 
 ing had been disposed of in lots^ and that it was intended 
 at once to pull it down. 
 
 VIIL 
 
 One evenings not long after I had read this announce- 
 ment^ I was surprised to receive a note in an unknown 
 hand^ begging me to come, to the writer^ who stated 
 that he knew me well, and that he had need of medical 
 assistance. The words were scribbled in pencil and half 
 effaced. The note contained neither name nor address, 
 but stated that the bearer would accompany me to point 
 out the place. The man who brought it was an ill-look- 
 ing fellow, with a countenance bruised and battered, 
 like that of a prize-fighter. I interrogated him as to 
 the writer of the note ; but he persisted in saying that 
 it had been given to him by the woman of the house, 
 and that he did not know anything further. The 
 address which he gave, however, was in a remote part of 
 the town, and from the writer sending for me at that 
 
90 
 
 THE GOLDEN RAM. 
 
 distance^ and mentioning my name^ I felt sure that it 
 was some one who knew me personally. A faint sus- 
 picion that it might be Charles Wrothesley passed 
 through my mind ; but the handwriting was that of an 
 illiterate person_, and the words were misspelt here and 
 there. It is not uncommon for a surgeon to receive 
 such mysterious messages^ and the long time that had 
 elapsed since his disappearance seemed to have made 
 the possibility of his return too remote to be entertained^ 
 without some stronger reason than I had. I had never 
 doubted that on the very night of his departure^ he 
 had contrived to embark from one of the near coast 
 towns^ by some small vessel sailing for the Dutch or 
 Belgian coast. If so^ I knew that he would rather 
 beg for bread there^ than incur the risk of returning 
 to England. Only a short time previously^ a man had 
 been hanged for a murder^ committed in England thirty 
 years before. The accounts of this had been in all the 
 papers^, and the circumstances were too interesting to 
 him to have escaped his attention, in whatever part of 
 Europe he might be hiding. The facts of this case 
 would have effectually warned him of the vigilance of the 
 police, and of the danger of his returning with the 
 hope that time had obliterated the record of his crime. 
 
 It was nearly ten o'clock, and rain was falling, as I 
 saw from the shining appearance of the messenger's 
 patched and greasy apparel. I despatched him to a 
 neighbouring stand for a hackney-coach, and, putting 
 on my greatcoat, prepared to accompany him. The 
 street that he had named was in the neighbourhood of 
 
THE GOLDEN EAM. 
 
 91 
 
 Wapping. The driver found it with, difficulty. It was 
 ^ narrow^ winding lane_, chiefly of dilapidated ware- 
 houses^ along the side of the river^ of which I caught 
 a glimpse now and then at the bottom of an alley, 
 running between dead walls,, and lighted by a solitary 
 lamp. He stopped at last before a little chandler^s 
 shop, at which they sold beer, for it had a signboard, 
 with the name of some unknown brewer over the 
 windows, and several men were inside, drinking. The 
 place was lighted by two thin candles ; the roof was 
 low, and hung with balls of cord, and other things, 
 that touched my hat as I stood upright there, and a 
 woman was drawing beer from one of a row of barrels 
 ranged against the wall. 
 
 I told her that I came to the writer of the note 
 which the man had brought. Her manner indicated 
 that she expected me, and knew my errand. She 
 opened a door at the back of the shop, and called 
 
 Burrows '/^ in a shrill voice, up the stairs. A haggard- 
 looking man, in rusty black, made his appearance, with 
 a rushlight in his hand, and asked who wanted him. 
 
 ^^It's the lodger^s doctor come,^^ said she. 
 
 The man beckoned to me to follow him ; but, as I 
 was mounting the stairs, the woman called me back. 
 
 If you^re a friend of Mr. Cole,^^ she said, perhaps 
 you^U give the man something for carrying the letter. 
 The gentleman upstairs is very bad off, I know.^^ 
 
 I judged it prudent to pay the man, as suggested, 
 without inquiring further respecting my patient then. 
 I bade the man stay for me in the shop, and not leave 
 
THE GOLDEN EAM, 
 
 there till he saw me again. How long has your 
 lodger been here?^^ I asked of the man in black, 
 as I followed him up the creaking and broken staircase. 
 " Better than a month/^ replied the man. 
 
 Stay/^ I said^ as we stood upon the landing. Do 
 you happen to know where your lodger came from? 
 
 He come from France^ I think/-' replied the man. 
 He landed at the wharf by the Tower^ where I stand, 
 and hired me to carry his trunk. He was very ill, 
 and did not seem to have anywhere to go to ; for he 
 asked me if I knew of a lodging, and, as I happened 
 to have a snug little room to let, I brought him here/' 
 ^^And is he still iU?'^ 
 
 Ay, indeed ; in a very bad state. I tell him he 
 should try to walk out a little ; but he won^t stir from 
 the house.'' 
 
 The inmate of the room must have overheard some- 
 thing of our conversation; for I heard a noise, as if 
 some one had sprung out of bed ; and, the moment 
 after, the key of the door turned in the lock. 
 
 Who's there ? " cried a hoarse voice within. 
 
 It is I, Mr. Day, the surgeon," I said ; but, while 
 I was speaking, I heard a groan, and the noise as of 
 something falling on the floor. We listened for a 
 moment ; but the room had become silent. I rapped 
 at the door again and again, but received no answer. 
 And the room was dark, so that we could see nothing 
 through the keyhole. 
 
 We must break open the door !" I exclaimed. 
 The man has Mien down in a fit." 
 
THE GOLDEIi RAM. 
 
 9S 
 
 Of course the friends he belongs to will pay any 
 damage said the man. 
 
 I turned the handle in my hand^ and flung the weight 
 of my body against it. The door flew back immedi- ^ 
 ately ; but it met with some resistance that prevented 
 its opening wide. 
 
 Give me the light/^ I said. 
 I took the miserable rushlight from his hand ; and 
 lowering it gently^ so that the wind might not blow it 
 out^ found a man lying on the floor in his shirt. The 
 features were thin and sharp ; his hair was half gray^ 
 and his whole body seemed horribly emaciated. I 
 looked at him for some moments^ before I could feel 
 sure that it was the face of my old enemy_, so greatly 
 was he changed. The room^ excepting an old table and 
 chair^ and the bed he had just quitted_, was quite bare 
 and filthy. The plaster walls were crumbling away ; 
 and only one small window — a square hole^ high above 
 the bed — gave an entrance to light or air. As I knelt 
 down and felt his pulse^ I could hear the industrious 
 gnawing of a rat under the boards. I ^ bade the man 
 help me to raise him on the bed. 
 
 He don^t want bleeding/^ said he ; he wants food ; 
 he aint ordered anything this two days.^^ 
 
 I sent at once for some brandy ; and begged him to 
 bring a pan of hot water^ or to make a fire in the room. 
 He began to revive before the man returned ; and the 
 application of these restoratives brought him round at last. 
 
 I am glad you came alone^ D^y/^ said he^ when the 
 man had left the room. I don^t mind your seeing 
 
THE GOLDEN EAM. 
 
 me here ; but I wouldnH have Ellen know what a rat- 
 hole I have been living in^ for a twelvemontVs peace 
 and rest/^ 
 
 You must be removed from here at once/^ said I. 
 This unwholesome place is destroying you/^ 
 
 When I go out of here/^ he replied^ with a ghastly 
 smile^ the undertaker's men will carry me. It doesn^t 
 much matter^ so that the law will let me die in peace. 
 I have lived rather fast^ over the water. I was pretty 
 strong once^ but it has quite broken me up at last. 
 They might have let me rest where I was ; but those 
 curious French police spy everything. One morning 
 they ferret me out in my lodgings ; tell me I have no 
 regular way of living ; accuse me of habitual gambling ; 
 and show such an intimate knowledge of my history on 
 the Continent as quite strikes me dumb. It is of no 
 manner of use disputing with them. I must pack up 
 at once^ and proceed to the coast in company with my 
 friend^ the spy^ who undertakes to see me aboard the 
 steamboat for England ; and so^ though they did not 
 know it^ they thrust me again right into the lion's jaws.'' 
 
 A terrible story this/' I said^ shocked to find him 
 so hardened ; more fearful still in what it suggests 
 than what it tells." 
 
 Why^ so it is^ Day/' he answered^ in a more serious 
 tone; ^^and yet^ if I have had faults^ I have suffered 
 more than enough to outweigh them a hundredfold. It 
 is you who have occasioned my misery; but I forgive you." 
 
 Nay/' I said ; pause^ and consider if there was 
 no other cause.'^ 
 
THE GOLDEN EAM. 
 
 95 
 
 No other ; or not the cause that you suspect^ as I 
 am living V he exclaimed^ sitting upright in the bed, 
 " except my own folly. It is you who obliged me to 
 fly — who tempted me to defraud my father^s creditors — 
 who had me branded as a parricide — who forced me to 
 plunge into that terrible whirlpool, which now casts me 
 up again, such a shattered, miserable wreck as you 
 behold/^ 
 
 He spoke rapidly, and with an earnestness too deep 
 to be mistaken. 
 
 This is a mystery that I cannot fathom,^^ I said. 
 Did not your flight alone bring suspicion on you 
 
 When you showed me what you had found in the 
 brewery,^^ he answered, I saw that you believed me a 
 murderer. I knew that you must consider me your 
 enemy, and I hoped for no mercy from you. I saw, 
 indeed, by your removing my sister from our house, 
 and openly defying me, that you had determined to 
 crush me. To stay was almost certain destruction. 
 What wonder, then, if I resolved to fly ? And having 
 made this resolution, is it strange that I yielded to the 
 temptation of furnishing myself with funds at the ex- 
 pense of my father^s customers 
 
 Would that I had rather believed you innocent I 
 exclaimed. Not from malice, as I hope for mercy, 
 did I pursue you, but with horror at finding myself 
 compelled to be your accuser. Show me that I was 
 mistaken, and I may yet do something to repair my 
 error. Show me this, and you will relieve my mind of 
 a load greater than any that my regrets may bring.^^ 
 
96 THE GOLDEN EAM. 
 
 It is a long story_, and I am weak to-niglit/^ said 
 he ; but I will try to go through it. You need not 
 tell it to Ellen yet. By and by.^^ 
 
 IX. 
 
 I propped the sick man in the bed with pillows^, and 
 wheeled the bedstead nearer the fire. He was silent for 
 some time^ gazing at the fire as if recalling thb events 
 he was about to narrate. 
 
 When I was quite a youth/^ he began — ah ! 
 what a time it seems since ! — I had an idea that^ by 
 a bolder plan of business^ my father might speedily 
 acquire greater riches,, and come at last to rival the 
 wealthiest men in the county. Whether this idea 
 grew out of my own pride^ or whether it was this 
 that made me proud^ I do not know — so early had 
 it taken possession of my mind. I used to look on 
 my sister EUen^s pretty face^ and vow that she should 
 marry some rich^ great man. When first I began to 
 feel myself a man^ I laid this thought aside for a while 3 
 but it was always with a kind of stifled self-reproach for 
 my indolence. I resided in Germany for some time^ and 
 lived freely^ with other young Englishmen. One day — 
 it was in Heidelberg — I visited the theatre^ and saw 
 the play of Hamlet performed in German. The trans- 
 lator had rendered it almost word for word. When the 
 actor came to that soliloquy^ in which the young prince 
 analyses so curiously the workings of his own mind, 
 and marvels at himself for delaying his purpose^ his 
 
THE GOLDEN EAM. 
 
 97 
 
 words struck me as strangely adapted to my case. The 
 next day I started for England to take my place in my 
 father^ s room. I was steady and industrious^ and my 
 father had confidence in me. By degrees I unfolded 
 my piojects. I persuaded him to adopt them cautiously 
 at first ; but at last there was no other course but to go 
 on. We became embarrassed^ and strove to retrieve 
 ourselves by more desperate measures. Our business 
 had thus grown so complicated that none but myself 
 knew its extent. My father gave it up^ and took to a 
 careless melancholy way of life that increased my 
 troubles. All this made me morose and irritable^ I 
 know ; but I never had great patience with misfortune. 
 How^ among other things^ I advised my father to recall 
 the mortgage money of your mother^s house/ you re- 
 member j and also^ how my father^ in his strange de-^ 
 spondent humours^ liked to wander about every part of 
 the old building.^^ 
 
 ^^I have often seen him there/^ said I. I used to 
 be surprised at his altered manners.^^ 
 
 He brooded over these troubles night and day. He 
 could not endure the prospect of ruin before him. I 
 had a dread of leaving him alone^ and often followed 
 him when he went out. One day/^ he continued^ 
 lowering his tone^ and speaking more slowly — ^^one 
 day I missed him in the house for some time^ and be- 
 came alarmed. I knew of his habit of visiting the 
 brewery^ and I naturally went there first to seek him. 
 It was some time after dusk : the little door in the 
 gate was open and I went in. In the room where you 
 
 7 
 
98 
 
 THE GOLDEN HAM. 
 
 found the light burning, I discovered Mm,, lying on the 
 ground^ beside the wort troughs^ quite dead. I found 
 a bottle^ labelled ^ poison/ near him^ and there was a 
 smell of almonds in the place. I knew by this that 
 he had taken prussic acid^ and must have been dead 
 some time. I was struck with horror at firsts and was 
 about to give an alarm; but some evil spirit in that 
 moment put it into my head that it would be an eternal 
 disgrace and ruin to us to let the world know that he 
 had died by his own hands. I had still a hope of re- 
 trieving our fortune by some lucky speculation^ and I 
 might have done it^ perhaps^, had things gone on j but 
 this secret once known^ I knew that a sudden run 
 would ensue^ and reveal, in a few hours, the state of 
 our affairs. I did not hesitate long ; I took the bottle 
 first, and thrust it in a crevice between the rickety 
 frame of the vvdndow, and the wall where the candle 
 stood.^^ 
 
 He paused a moment, and shuddered so strongly 
 that I felt as if the thrill passed swiftly from him to me. 
 " It was a horrible, unnatural thought,'-' he continued ; 
 
 but there are times when a casuistry will tempt us^ 
 though it is weak to palliate when the thing is done. 
 I looked about the place, and found the little room 
 where the pump and the great cistern were. The sight 
 of this determined me. I dragged the body along the 
 floor to the side of the vat, and thrust it in.^^ 
 
 I shrunk from him involuntarily, as he came to this 
 terrible confession. He noticed my movement and 
 stretched out his fleshless arm from under the bed- 
 
TPIE GOLDEN EAM. 
 
 99 
 
 clothes and held me by tlie wrist with tlie gripe of a 
 drowning man. Large sweat-drops gathered on his 
 forehead^ and a strong unnatural colour had come out 
 upon his cheeks. I know how this must sound in 
 your ears/^ he continued ; but the punishment that I 
 have suffered has made me bold and repentant. I have 
 awakened to a sense of my reckless and sinful career, 
 and my words come from a bruised heart. From the 
 moment that I heard the loud splash of the body falling 
 into the water below^ my misfortunes have never 
 ceased a moment or relented. I did not dare to take 
 the light and look down into the vat. I would have 
 braved the consequence of his death a hundred times to 
 have been able to undo this act ; but I had no choice 
 now^ but to put on a bold front and play my part natu- 
 rally. While I was hesitating at this moment^ I heard 
 the noise of the shutting of the gate across the yard. I 
 knew that some one was coming in^ and determined to 
 meet him at once ; but in my haste my foot slipped, 
 and I trode in one of the troughs. I was agitated and 
 confused^ and I dreaded meeting any one before I had 
 had time to compose myself. The thought that I 
 looked guilty^ and that another moment^s hesitation 
 would betray me,, made me desperate. I kicked off my 
 shoes^ and, taking them in my hand, glided half-way 
 down the stairs and waited in a little recess upon the 
 lower landing. Some one passed close to me ; I did 
 not then know that it was you. What happened after- 
 wards you know. On the morrow I became con- 
 vinced that you possessed a knowledge of circum- 
 
100 
 
 THE GOLDEN EAM. 
 
 stances sufficient to convict me of murder^ and I 
 fied/^ 
 
 It was late when I parted^ promising to visit him 
 again on the morrow. The story which he had told me 
 made a deep impression on my mind. During my 
 journey in the coach I had scarcely observed the 
 features of the neighbourhood^ which I now saw was of 
 the worst description — narrow lanes between high 
 walls ; alleys of deserted houses,, with broken windows^ 
 lighted with dull oil lamps^ at long distances ; wretched 
 little public houses^ closed^ but noisy with people inside j 
 yards with great crazy gates^ in which all kinds of un- 
 wholesome trades were carried on — I noticed now^ as I 
 passed through the deserted streets on foot. A sailor was 
 crying murder at the corner of a court — unheeded 
 by the police^ who were too well used to such alarms to 
 believe in them. The rain had ceased ; but the roads 
 were deep with mud^ and the night was dark. I walked 
 on^ musing upon the strange circumstances of that 
 nighty and upon the danger to which Wrothesley was 
 exposed by remaining in such a place. I began to 
 regret that I had not taken measures for removing him 
 at once^ till the thought of leaving him there for another 
 night made me more and more anxious. I had got as 
 far as Tower Hill^ before I found a hackney coach^ 
 which I hailedj and bade the man drive back to the 
 place I had left^ resolved to persuade Wrothesley^ at all 
 hazards^ to accompany me back. 
 
 I had scarcely been absent half an hour^ when the 
 lumbering vehicle drove into the street again^ and drew 
 
THE GOLDEN EAM. 
 
 iOl 
 
 np at the door of tlie beer-shop. The place was closed 
 when they had let me out before ; but now I found the 
 door open^ and saw a light in the shop^ and heard some 
 persons talking. I looked up at the sign above the 
 lamp; and being assured that this was the house^ I 
 alighted. The woman was in the shop^ in her night- 
 cap^ with several strangers; and the man who had 
 shown me up stairs was with them^ holding the light. 
 They stared at me as I appeared on the threshold. The 
 man with the light rushed forward and said^ ^^Have 
 they found him 
 
 Found whom said I. 
 
 Oh I I suppose you donH know your friend^s 
 bolted 
 
 How is this?^^ I exclaimed^ beckoning to the 
 €oachman to come in^ for I began to suspect foul play. 
 He was too weak to stir.^^ 
 
 ^^He has stirred though/^ said the man. ^^Come 
 and see.^^ Wondering what could be the meaning of 
 his words^ I followed him again up the rotten staircase. 
 Opening the door of his room^ I found it pretty nearly 
 as I had left it^ except that he was gone. My chair 
 was near the fire_, beside the table ; and the bedstead 
 stood still as I had slightly turned it^ with the foot to 
 the wall: but the bedclothes were thrown back in 
 disorder. 
 
 ^'^That^s the way he went/^ said the man, nodding 
 his head sideways towards the window above the bed- 
 stead. We found this sheet and counterpane tied 
 together, and fastened to the sash-cord/^ 
 
102 
 
 THE GOLDEN HAM. 
 
 I sprang upon the bed^ and clutcliing the opening^ 
 with my hands^ raised myself and held on for a moment,, 
 looking out. 
 
 Good God ! This is the river V I exclaimed. 
 
 ^^Ay/^ said the man; ^^and the tide^s just on the 
 ebb^ too.'^ 
 
 I could see the lights^ here and there, along the low 
 dusky line of the opposite shore, and on some vessels 
 creeping down in the dark night. The wind blew 
 fresh; and the waves kept moving along under the 
 wharf, with a dull sucking noise. 
 
 What space lies between here and the water 
 Hardly footing for a cat. Unless he knowed of 
 some boat there, he^U never turn up alive again.^^ 
 
 There is a mystery in this which I will fathom,'^ 
 said I. If there has been any foul play, the guilty 
 shall not escape V 
 
 ^^There^s no foul play, that I know of,^^ said the 
 man. It happened just this way. George Savage, 
 the man that took the letter to your house, thinks 
 there^s something wrong, and peaches, in hopes of a 
 reward. The officers come soon after you are gone. 
 He hears ^em — ^your friend, I mean — speaking to me 
 in the shop, for his ears were very sharp ; and, as quick 
 as lightning, he ties these things together, takes them 
 in his hands, and slips out of the window. I saw him 
 looking out there the other day ; and I dare say he 
 thought he could do it safely on a pinch.^^ 
 
 I understood in a moment all that had happened. I 
 took the candle from his hand, and hastening down into 
 
I ^ 
 
 THE GOLDEN EAM. 103 
 
 the shop again^ asked the woman for a link^ and begged 
 one of the men to come with me. There was a narrow 
 alley between walls^ beside the house, at the bottom of 
 which was a landing-place for boats. I lighted the 
 link ; and, standing on the wet and slimy steps, which 
 the water kept sweeping over, looked up at the back of 
 the house, and the window where I had lately been 
 looking out. I found it, as the man had told me, 
 almost flush with the wall of the wharf, which was of 
 wood, and quite perpendicular. Tufts of grass and 
 weeds grew out of the rotten timber, which looked 
 slippery with moisture. 
 
 Not much chance there,^^ said my guide, unless 
 the gentleman could swim. Whaf s that T' 
 
 We listened, and heard the noise of voices in a boat 
 close by. It^s the police dragging,^^ said the man. 
 
 I know every kind of sound you^U hear on the river .^^ 
 I listened to the noise, till it died away, as if the boat 
 was floating down with the tide. 
 
 They haven^t found him,^^ said my companion ; I 
 can hear that.^^ 
 
 On the third day after these events, some fishermen 
 near Barking Creek found the corpse of a strange man, 
 half sunk in the mud, at low water. It was subse- 
 quently buried in the churchyard at Barking — only 
 myself and a medical friend being present as mourners. 
 
 A few days later, Ellen and I started on a journey to 
 Holt. There were too many sad associations with our 
 life there, for ours to be a journey of pleasure ; and the 
 weather was rainy and windy. We passed through 
 
104 
 
 THE GOLDEN RAxAI. 
 
 the main street of the town unobserved^ though 
 noticing^ ourselves^ many changes there^ until we came 
 to the brewery. Bills^ announcing the sale for that day, 
 were on the doors ; and the walls were marked with 
 the numbers of lots ready to be pulled down by the 
 purchasers. The doors were open, and several persons 
 were entering to view the premises, intending^ probably, 
 to become bidders. We entered with the rest, and 
 •sauntered about the yard for a while. 
 
 Come,^^ said I, at last, let us go up the stairs.^^ 
 Ellen clung to my arm^ trembling; but I bade her 
 take courage, and go with me. Two strangers were in 
 the room where I had found the candle burning, one 
 night, ten years before. I fancied, by their gestures, 
 that they were speaking of the supposed murder, and I 
 kept at a distance till they were gone. This was the 
 place,^^ I said, approaching the window, as soon as we 
 were alone. I found a crevice between the window- 
 frame and the wall; and thrusting my hand in, I 
 pulled out at first only dust and morsels of touchwood ; 
 but plunging my arm deeper, and feeling about for 
 •some time, I brought up a small phial. Having blown 
 and wiped the dust oflF, I discovered a label outside with 
 the word poison^^ printed on it. Ellen wept ; for she 
 knew now the true story of that night, and all that had 
 happened since. 
 
 Let us go now,^^ I said, and bid farewell to this 
 3)lace for ever. I knew that I should find this, and be 
 able to show it to you. For Charles's sake I did it, 
 and as some atonement for my unfortunate error. 
 
THE GOLDEN RAM. 
 
 105 
 
 Come ! dry your eyes^ for we have done now with the 
 past/^ 
 
 We stayed at our inn^ waiting for the coach^ for some 
 hours. As we passed the Golden Kam/^ on our way 
 back^ we saw that the sale was ended. Some men 
 were already on the roof, beginning to pick away the 
 brick- work of the front wall. Our name was already 
 forgotten there. My father was the last who had ful- 
 filled the Tradition of the Golden Ram. 
 
MILTON^S GOLDEN LANE. 
 
 An old Lincolnsliire clergyman^ who used to visit 
 Milton^ has preserved a pleasing picture of the blind 
 poet sitting in the summer evening to enjoy the fresh 
 air at the door of his house near Bunhill Fields^ 
 
 where he would sometimes receive the visits of people 
 of quality or distinguished parts/^ At that time the 
 Artillery Ground was not shut in with houses. There 
 were the grounds next to it planted by the City with 
 shady walks for the recreation of the citizens. There 
 were gardens and a windmill or two. Bunhill Fields^ 
 were fields then ; so were Spitalfields ; so were Moor-^ 
 fields ; so were Spafields. Hereabouts_, from old times, 
 was the favorite resort of the citizens of London. In 
 Henry the Eighth^s reign^ the people — jealous of an 
 attempt to stop pastimes in the fields on the north side 
 of the city wall by digging deep trenches in various 
 parts — sallied forth in a mass^ and filled them up 
 again. 
 
 I had been thinking of these things one day not • 
 long ago ; of the flowery rivulets and noise of water- 
 
MILTON^S GOLDEN LANE. 
 
 107 
 
 wheels/^ which an old writer describes^ on the north 
 side of the city wall/^ of certain springs about the 
 neighbourhood once bubbling up clear and bright in 
 the midst of fields^ and credited with many cures. I 
 had been wandering on the north side of the city wall^ 
 or rather of the site on which that wall formerly stood. 
 I had bidden the streets with the carts and coaches and 
 the busy crowd all vanish^ and the meadows come 
 again. I had replanted vineyards^ restored trees^ 
 gardens^ and public walks. I had particularly restored 
 three windmills which stood close together on a certain 
 mount near here. Dirty sewers I had turned again 
 into the flowery rivulets of the old writer^ and with my 
 mind^s ear I had listened for the drowsy murmuring of 
 water-wheels. 
 
 Over this ground^ hallowed by the memory of Milton^ 
 I had been idly wanderings, in shorty upon a summer^s 
 day ; and^ setting aside what I had fancied^ I wrote 
 down^ when I got home^ exactly what I had seen. 
 Here it is : 
 
 Within ten minutes^ walk from the Post-office I 
 turned^ in the first place^ down Golden Lane. It is a 
 thoroughfare which serves as a High Street to the 
 neighbourhood of which I am about to record my ex- 
 perience. Most people know Golden Lane. It is a 
 thoroughfare with gin-shops at each end ; and^ generally, 
 a few strangers passing through it^ except when the 
 fever is unusually busy there, and then a barrier is 
 placed at the entrance, with policemen stationed by it 
 to warn off the public ; as I remember once to have 
 
/ 
 
 108 MILTON^S GOLDEN LANE. 
 
 observed. Whether the residents of Golden Lane^ and 
 its vicinity^ were also warned to stay at home^ and keep 
 the fever to themselves^ I do not know. 
 
 The thermometer being at seventy-five degrees in 
 the shade,, I found the Eed Bull at the corner doing a 
 roaring trade. Within five minutes fifteen persons 
 went in^ and only six came out. I do not reckon those 
 who carried beer away in their own jugs ; I only 
 noticed the bar customers. I observed that few seemed 
 to go in by predetermination. I did not see anybody 
 make a short cut from the opposite side of the way 
 direct to the doors. 
 
 A bricklayer^ s labourer^ for example^ had no thought 
 of workings that hot afternoon ; but^ on the other hand, 
 he had no thought of getting drunk ; he was merely 
 lounging with his hands in his pockets. He suddenly 
 stopped short — a touch at the doors^ so easy to push 
 open with their leathern band and nicely balanced 
 weights behind^ and in a second he found himself before 
 the shining taps ! Two women coming up the lane, 
 talking loud and fast, had little baskets^ and came out 
 no doubt to buy small quantities of grocery. But the 
 noisiest of them — still talking under the bonnet of her 
 friend — knew instinctively that she was abreast of the 
 Red Bull. Without turning her head she also pushed 
 at the door, and drew in her companion — not unwilling. 
 Then again the sallow little cabinet-maker. He was 
 .going to the timber yard to buy a bit of veneer ; he 
 certainly didn^t come out to stay at the Red Bull. He 
 passed it, he had reached the utmost extremity of its 
 
MILTON^S GOLDEN LANE. 
 
 109 
 
 attraction before he was sensible of its influence. He 
 wavered. I fancy that he carried with him just enough 
 money to pay for the veneer he wanted^ and no 
 more ; he turned back^ and was sucked in by the Eed 
 Bull. 
 
 In the lane^ right and left^ for a quarter of a mile 
 each way^ the inhabitants get all their wants supplied. 
 On each side dark entrances to courts and alleys look 
 like rat-holes^ through which dwellers in the rotten 
 maze creep in and out^ like rats^ in quest of such food 
 and fresh air as Golden Lane affords. Amusement 
 might be found there also. In Golden Lane there is a 
 good dry skittle-ground ; in Golden Lane there was to 
 be a i^ffle for a handkerchief^ and at the same house^ 
 after the raffle^ the proprietor and the winner were each 
 to contribute something in order that dancing might 
 commence at nine o^ clock ; in Golden Lane there is 
 the Hall of Harmony^ where Mr. Quivers^ the celebrated 
 patter singer^ proposed^ on Saturday evening week^ to 
 commence his miscellaneous entertainment of singings 
 dancings and other novelties ; and to this pleasure^ the 
 charge for admission was one penny only. The Hall 
 devoted now to harmony has seen some changes in its 
 day. It was a chapel once. On an old board — which 
 the harmonist has not gone to the expense of removing 
 from the wall — I read^ in half-obliterated letters^ Star 
 Coffee-house.''^ Then^ on the door there was still a slit^ 
 with the words letters and bills for acceptance 
 legible above it_, although I can^t imagine^ just now^ 
 any capitalist who would care to have a business 
 
110 
 
 MILTON^S GOLDEN LANE. 
 
 residence in Golden Lane. It is a place for pleasure 
 now. In Golden Lane there is tlie Temple of Arts^ 
 divided by a thin screen from the poor man^s confec- 
 tioners^ the baked potato shop. Certain nights are 
 devoted otherwise to rational amusement. The friends 
 of dancing were invited to attend that evening, when a 
 live pig and a silver snuff-box would be given away. 
 There was a printed declaration in the window, in 
 which the undersigned John Sullivan begged to state, 
 that, having been the holder of the prize ticket for the 
 sow and litter latterly announced to be given away; 
 and, having omitted, for three days, to call for them, 
 the proprietor had disposed of the same; but that, 
 upon application, he had been compensated to the 
 utmost of his expectation. After this, who could 
 refuse faith in the live pig and silver snuff-box ? Golden 
 Lane blends charity with pleasure. If a tale of human 
 suffering could prompt a man to dance, let him come 
 forward and dance on Tuesday next at the Hit or 
 Miss beer-shop, for the benefit of ''''Thomas Tibbs, 
 alias Deaf One, who has lost is license ;^^ or on Thurs- 
 day, for the benefit of Emma Hill and Sarah Bunney, 
 who are pithily said to be in trouble ;^^ or, if suffer- 
 ing begets a love of song, Saturday next, at the same 
 house, there will be singing for all who sympathise with 
 Jerry Allen, better known as Swivel. He states^ 
 without punctuation, and with all the incoherence of 
 real trouble, that having been out of plaice for sum 
 time his landlord is going to distress him of his home 
 if some assistans cannot be obtaned through the median 
 
MILTON^S GOLDEN LANE. 
 
 Ill 
 
 of this trial he hopes to retain it the convivial meetin 
 will be under the direction of Thomas ScuUey and Ned 
 the Nummer and the cheer will be taken at eight 
 o^clock.^^ 
 
 If an inhabitant of that neighbourhood desired to be 
 shaved — the desire was not common there^ if I might 
 judge from the faces I met — it would be done with ease 
 for him in Golden Lane at the charge of one hal^enny ; 
 a red and blue pole stands forth to proclaim it. Did 
 he want his hair cut ? Hear Mr. Frizz^ his verses : — 
 
 " I cut you hair, and brus it too, 
 A halpenny is all i chardge to you." 
 
 Was he scrupulous about his personal appearance? 
 Hear Mr. Frizz^ again : — 
 
 " To cleen you shoos ; brus coat and hat, 
 A halpenny is all i chardge for that." 
 
 The rag-shop keeper illustrated his lesson upon wasting 
 nothing, with a picture of plum-pudding and of ribs of 
 beef. The chimney-sweep — ^whose house had a bright 
 brass knocker, and is the cleanest in the lane — ^was a 
 patron of both these fine arts ; he spoke both by poetry 
 and painting. He it was who, 
 
 " by desire, 
 
 Extinguises chimleys when on fire,'* 
 
 as his picture witnessed, in which a man and a boy, in 
 a very well-paved, but deserted street, were hastening to 
 
112 
 
 MILTON^S GOLDEN LANE. 
 
 a tremendous fire in the cliimney of number seven. 
 There was a boldness in his conception of the relative 
 sizes of man^ bo}% and house : the man and boy^ being 
 the heroes of the scene^ were represented in a massive 
 and colossal way. 
 
 Sun Court. Premature twilight came upon me as I 
 passed under the roofed way into Sun Court ; with its 
 inky-pools ; its rag- stuffed windows ; its four miserable 
 bean-stalks^ whose leaves ran up^ hunting for the sky_, 
 from that high window-sill ; its long rows of yellow 
 stockings and unmended shirts stretched out upon a pole 
 from a garret window over me. They were all damp^ 
 cold^ and cheerless. Could they speak they would all 
 swear that never could a blessed ray fall^ slant or per- 
 pendicular^ into Sun Courts to produce a shadow of 
 justification for its name. 
 
 Sun Court ! Gloom Courts Filth Courts Cholera Court. 
 If those rills and puddles in between the stones^ whose 
 odour hurt my nostrils^ were not dried up in the summer 
 weather^ could I think that they were ever dry ? I 
 might have heard the truth of them from a child^ or 
 man (I don^t know which)^ who — in the cast-off trousers 
 of a giant held to him by one brace^ and tucked up to 
 his knees — was amusing himself by stamping in the 
 biggest and foulest pool until its contents flew against 
 doors and windows right and left ; but what intelligible 
 answer to a question could I have got from him ? I 
 might as well have catechised his friend the hungry- 
 looking hen^ whose skin was bare in many places ; and 
 whOj since her eyes were always bent upon the sickly 
 
MiUrO^^S GOLDEN LANE. 
 
 113 
 
 ground^ must liave a very bad opinion of tMs world of 
 ours. Here was another court; and there^ another 
 beyond that. Two or three branching out of them ; 
 and all alike — all with rills and puddles^ heaps of oyster- 
 shells and putrid cabbage-leaves scattered in defiance of 
 boards at every corner threatening with penalties^ in 
 the name of the churchwardens^ and in pursuance of 
 acts of Parliament^, any one who should deposit any 
 nuisance upon any part of those roadways. Each court 
 had its own rotten water-butt and single dust-hole^ 
 for general use — while in all^ the open doors and 
 windows swarmed with men^ women^ and children^ 
 gasping after air. 
 
 Presently I came to something different. A place^, 
 not less^ but rather more bestrewn with oyster-shells 
 and cabbage-leaves ; not less watered with filthy 
 puddles. A square — a yard,, of which I could not learn 
 the name — belonging to a class. In Belgrave Square 
 dwell lords and ladies; in this square dwell coster- 
 mongers only. Their wares of every kind — shell-fi^h^ 
 or fruity or vegetables^ or the traces of the refuse of 
 these — were at every door. Here was to be heard such 
 a braying of donkeys ! Some costermongers with hand- 
 barrows^ and some with donkey -carts were^ with re- 
 plenished stores^ preparing to go forth. In one harrow 
 there was a brown mass of confectionery^ like a 
 Christmas puddings decked out with flags of blue and 
 yellow calico. At one halfpenny a slice^ a miserable 
 creature was prepared to vend Jamaica pine-apples. 
 
 The houses had all been whitewashed once^ although 
 
 8 
 
114 
 
 MILTON^S GOLDEN LANE. 
 
 I think not within the memory of anybody here. Every 
 door was opened back into the single ground-floor room^ 
 where man^ wife^ children^ donkey^ and vegetables^ were 
 at night shut up together. Through every window^ I 
 could see the same unwholesome colour of the faces^ the 
 same turn-up bedstead with the patchwork quilt^ the 
 same rickety deal table and chair^ the same kind of 
 glaring coloured prints upon the walls. At one door^ a 
 donkey harnessed to a long board upon wheels^, was 
 waiting while his master was employed in peeling oflp the 
 withered leaves to give a livelier appearance to a pile of 
 yellow cabbages. The withered leaves were dropped at 
 his own door-way^ where they would lie and rot. At 
 some windows there were men in shirt-sleeves smoking, 
 and looking on with an air of lazy satisfaction. The 
 donkey took advantage of his opportunity to munch 
 the outside of a cabbage that had just been trimmed ; 
 z.ndy being unluckily caught in the act_, was checked by 
 a sharp jerk of the bit, and three hard blows over the 
 head. Not the log which Giant Blunderbore belaboured 
 in the bed, could have been more patient under blows 
 than that unhappy animal. Only a faint twitch of one 
 ear betokened that he was a living donkey. His master, 
 irritated, no doubt, with what looked like a defiance of 
 authority, cried ^*^Er-r-r-h, you brute I and giving it 
 an extra kick in the ribs, watched for the effect with a 
 stern eye. 
 
 There were three outlets to this square. It mattered 
 not which I took. It was my whim to wander in this 
 labyrinth, asking no one to direct me, until I should 
 
Milton's golden lane. 
 
 115 
 
 emerge once more into the light of day. I got into 
 long passages between higli walls of houses without any 
 windows to them^ except here and there a hole ; and 
 here and there I passed under a narrow archway^ leading 
 into other courts and rookeries interminable. Strange 
 beings met me here. A shuffling woman passed me^ 
 with a face that was born miserable^ in clothes as jagged 
 as a saw^ carrying a bundle of rushes to be knotted and 
 plaited for the wicks of night-lights. It was the time 
 for coming home from work. A tiny boy — so set in 
 shape that any one might see that he would never grow 
 bigger^ ragged of course^ and covered with bits of flock 
 and feather — was on his way home from the bedding 
 factory at which he worked. Shouting out the last cant 
 phrase^ of which he did not know the meaning,, and 
 stamping as he went to keep alive a constant ring and 
 echo of his steps between the walls^ he did not seem to 
 grumble at his lot^ or to think it hard. Then^ I met a 
 man with long^ blacky greasy ringlets^ in an old-fashioned 
 great-coat that had a marvellously greasy collar ; he was 
 looking downward^ hurrying on with a strange nervous 
 step^ as 'though he had been used to pick his way bare- 
 foot over sharp flints. Next^ I met an old man^ with 
 thin grey hair — so old^ that I think he must have livedo 
 when he was youngs in some more wholesome place — 
 thin^ tall^ hollow- chested^ but not decrepit^ with his 
 skin so tightly stretched upon his face and forehead, that 
 it seemed a very deatVs head that peeped out above his 
 shoulders. He carried leaves of deal^ cut in Avafery 
 thinness, to make bonnet-boxes. 
 
116 
 
 MILTON^S GOLDE^^ LANE. 
 
 It Y/as an awkward corner into wliicL. I liad got my=' 
 self. I liad to go back. Everybody wondered why I 
 ever came. I noticed tbat they called the place 
 
 Leech's E-entsj^' and in my heart I did not bless 
 Leechj nor envy his rents. But less cause to bless him 
 had that bricklayer's labourer who had been laid up for 
 six mxonths^ and unfit for work. His complaint was in 
 the lungs. He had been very bad lately^ he said^ and 
 was now getting better. I should not like to tell him 
 so_, but I feared those loosely-hanging clothes of his 
 would never fit him properly again. They were all 
 labouring men like himself up here^ he said. He agreed 
 with me that it was a filthy hole^ not fit for a dog to 
 live in^ and then his bit of energy set him coughing : 
 when the cough ceased^ he went on to say — Lord 
 bless you^ sir ! what you see now is nothing.-" He 
 didn't know why they lived up here^ except that it was 
 cheap j perhaps they might get cleaner places as cheap^ 
 if they tried ; but they didn't think about it. Most 
 of ^em don't mind it^ sir." He couldn't say who Leech 
 was. The place belongs now to Skinner^ the builder." 
 
 There were not many shops. Now and then there 
 was a dingy beer-shop^ with doors from which the 
 paint had been rubbed off by dirty hands — the haunt of 
 myriads of flies^ who got intoxicated on the sloppy 
 counter^ and then staggered against the sticky fly-papers 
 about the walls. There were no shining taps; no 
 cabinet work ; no vats ; no portraits in the window of 
 an enormous fat man explaining to lean blue teetotallers 
 how he too was lean and blue-visaged before the happy 
 
MILTOI^^S GOLDEN LANE. 
 
 117 
 
 -day when he discovered that establishment^ and drank 
 of its pure malt and hops ; no programme of a goose- 
 club^ showing the members of a discontented family at 
 dinner^ who^ having bought their goose at a poulterer's 
 were forced to carve it with a saw; and side by side 
 with them the cheerful family^ congratulating each other 
 upon having joined a goose-club; there was no judge 
 and jury club; no harmonic meeting, admission free;, 
 there were no vans to start to Hampton Court or High 
 Beech at two and threepence each person_, to be paid for 
 beforehand by weekly instalments. Nothing was there 
 to allure the passer-by_, or to tell him what cheer might 
 be found within ; but, a short red curtain^ and a row of 
 beer barrels inside, from which the beer was drawn di- 
 rect. No wonder that the ^^Educational Institute,/' 
 seeing the enemy so weak just here, should stick up a 
 bill over the way offering for trifling sums to instruct 
 young men and women every evening in Tonic Sol Fa 
 Singing,^' as well as in French, and Model Drawing ! 
 But who that could sing (tonically, or otherwise), talk 
 French and draw, had fixed his miserable habitation 
 there ? 
 
 The burial-ground, whose iron grate I accidentally 
 discovered in a corner of a yard, had an active, business- 
 like appearance. A list of very moderate fees, and an 
 attempt to claim relationship with the famous Barebone 
 Burial Ground, at Stepney, by calling this the City 
 JBarebone Burial Ground, showed an eye wide awake to 
 worldly interest. Peeping in, I saw, in the midst of a 
 Tank garden full of large sunflowers, and parted off with 
 
118 
 
 MILTON^S GOLDEN LANE. 
 
 a railing from the grave-yard_, a little-house^ with the 
 word Office^^ over the door^ and at the door a man in 
 faded black and with a white neck-cloth — obviously the 
 head clerk if not the manager of the concern. The 
 grave-yard itself was full of crevices, and was, in 
 most places, worn quite bare of grass, with frequent 
 digging up. Nowhere did I see the faintest trace of 
 care and neatness. I saw seven graves open ; and, at 
 one of them, a gravedigger — his hands and clothes 
 covered with clay — talking with a woman who had 
 brought him bread and butter, and some tea in a tin 
 bottle. Around the walls, numbers from one to ninety 
 odd were painted in white upon a black ground, and 
 beyond, in every way, the overhanging roofs of wooden 
 houses closed around the dismal spot. 
 
 Pursuing my walk, I passed many more courts like 
 Leeches Hents ; more colonies of costermongers ; more 
 dark and filthy reproductions of Sun Court. Alleys, 
 where women, sitting of a row on door-steps, were 
 stitching braces ; black nooks, where sweeps lived to- 
 gether and kept stores of soot ; noisome sheds, where 
 butchers, not disposed to cleanliness, were slaughtering 
 their sheep while boys looked on with greedy interest. 
 Afterwards, I passed along a narrow way of antique 
 gabled houses, having stuccoed fronts ; these once were 
 the dwellings of a better class ; although there is no 
 pane of glass in all their leaden-framed windows bigger 
 than my hand. Now, these houses are let out in single 
 rooms ; their outer doors are gone ; they are filthy and 
 dilapidated. Through one of the windows I saw, in a 
 
MILTON^S GOLDEN LANE. 
 
 119 
 
 great room, some cobblers at their work ; table and 
 stools were all the furniture; but I noticed behind 
 them a high mantelpiece, curiously carved. One of 
 these houses once upon a time was the abode of old Sir 
 Simon Curll, who, from a poor barber's apprentice, 
 became Lord Mayor of London and Master of the 
 Wig Makers^ Company. He it was who bequeathed 
 a kilderkin of ale and a bushel of oaten biscuit, such 
 as mariners do eat,^^ to be distributed annually amongst 
 twelve poor toothless old men and women (not being 
 Arians), who could repeat the creed of St. Athanasius; 
 which charitable bequest the Wig Makers^ Company 
 (having five hundred pounds per annum for that pur- 
 pose), with a pious respect for the wishes of the testator, 
 do, to this day, upon the aforesaid conditions regularly 
 offer. I wondered what this place might have been 
 like, in those days when the builder, bearing in mind 
 the rule that no sentence can be complete without a 
 verb, caused the words, This is Figtree Row,'^ to be 
 cut in a tablet over one of the doorways. 
 
 I wondered, too, how all that part would look from 
 the car of a balloon, hovering not far above the house- 
 tops. One or two brighter spots would strike the eye 
 amidst the dark jumble of roofs ; spots where there are 
 purer homes, and purer natures, too, if there be truth in 
 the old proverb, which makes cleanliness and goodness 
 to dwell together. In one of those clean spots I noticed 
 a poor mangling-woman^s home, her hearth-stoned door- 
 step, and her tidy room. She might well have excused 
 herself if she had been dirty, having to work for a 
 
120 
 
 mLTOX's GOLDEX LANE. 
 
 poor crippled boy^ sitting in a chair beside the door- 
 way^ and another younger child within. I stopped to 
 ask of her my way back into Golden Lane. 
 
 The woman, who had not caught my question, re- 
 buked her child — ^not the poor cripple — with Quiet, 
 Bill ! I can^t hear my own voice for you and then, 
 turning to me, said, " I beg your pardon, sir 
 
 I asked again, and she directed me to go straight 
 on. Golden Lane^s close by.''^ 
 Is the boy ill, ma^am 
 
 No, sir. He^s been lame from his birth/^ 
 How old is he?'' 
 "Fifteen, sir.'' 
 
 " Fifteen ! I thought him younger. Can he walk 
 ataU?" 
 
 The woman had turned to count some clothes just 
 taken from the mangle, and the cripple answered 
 for himself. 
 
 No. I never shall now, sir, as long as I live." 
 The mother, still counting the clothes, " Six, seven, 
 eight, nine," stopped, and caught at his words eagerly, 
 as if great weight were due to the sufferer's own 
 opinion of himself; and repeated. 
 
 You think you'll never walk, dear ?" 
 The boy, seeming to be afraid that he had disheartened 
 her, said, " It wiU be a long time first, I think, mother, 
 if I do at aU." The woman answered, Never mind. 
 He sorts the clothes, and does many little things for 
 me. He's very useful to me, sir, though you wouldn't 
 
MILTON^'S GOLDEN LANE. 121 
 
 think it/^ No^ indeed ! I slionld need a mother^s 
 iove and tenderness to think that ! 
 
 Dusk came on while I was loitering about. There 
 was a strange change in the aspect of Golden Lane as I 
 issued into it again. Where, in the hot day-time, I 
 had scarcely met a soul, I found now crowds of people : 
 women sitting on the pavement, men smoking, and 
 standing in groups. At all the beer-shops and public- 
 houses there were lights in the windows, and sounds of 
 singing and dancing. From every hole and corner 
 round about, the inhabitants seemed to have crept out 
 into Golden Lane for a pleasant change. 
 
 Threading my way through the crowd until I found 
 myself once more in a purer atmosphere, I thought 
 again of the time when all the neighbourhood was a 
 sweet rural place, and when the harvest moon I saw 
 shining down upon it could glitter on its broolis, and 
 cast a shadow from the form of Milton on its paths 
 among the pleasant grass. 
 
ONE NEW YEARNS EVE. 
 
 I. 
 
 A FEW days before Christmas^ Mr. Crabberley had 
 calculated the exact amount which he ought to receive 
 from his rents and mortgages that quarter. By a 
 judicious disposition of his capital^ — a watchful eye 
 upon his tenants^ to increase their rents as soon as he 
 saw that they had improved his property^ — he had 
 brought his quarterly revenue to the sum of £320 
 sterling. Except Sir Harry Meltall — whose hopeful son^ 
 lately provided with a commission in the Guards^ bade 
 fair to turn the whole Meltall estate into wine and 
 horses before he came of age — Mr. Crabberley was the 
 richest man within, a circle of ten miles round the 
 town of Chobley. He knew that ; and musing upon the 
 circumstance^ and all its pleasing associations^ as he 
 retired to rest^ he had gradually dozed and fallen into a 
 delightful slumber. To be aroused from this repose to 
 receive his Christmas rents would have put him out of 
 temper ; but to be rudely awakened by a wretched band 
 of minstrels^ playing and singing a Christmas carol 
 under his window in the dead of the nighty was past 
 endurance. He sprung out of bed^ and flung up his 
 
OlSE NEW YEAE^S EVE. 
 
 window ill a moment. To his utter astonishment^ they 
 had positively found means of opening his front gates^ 
 and were serenading him^ standing over their ankles in 
 snow upon his grass-plat. 
 
 You scoundrels V roared Mr. Crabberley^ I know 
 you : 1^11 have you all taken up. You shall be treated 
 as vagrants — you shall be whipped^ worked at the tread- 
 mill^ set to pick oakum and break stones ; fed on bread 
 and water^ and cuffed about by such taskmasters as you 
 never had in your lives.^^ 
 
 Mr. Crabberley paused^ completely out of breath by 
 this harangue ; but the fiddles continued to scrape_, and 
 the musicians to sing^ utterly regardless of his words. 
 The noise of their voices and instruments had prevented 
 their hearing him ; and his window being overshadowed 
 by the old-fashioned roof of his dilapidated mansion^ 
 they did not see him. To be kept standing in his night- 
 shirt at the open window^ on that biting frosty nighty, 
 and to be set at defiance by a band of lawless dis- 
 turbers^ wrought his anger to a frenzy. 
 
 " Oh ! you won't go^ won^t you?^^ said he. We^ll 
 see about that V' And he felt about over the mantel-shelf 
 for his blunderbuss; but he recollected that hehad removed 
 it only the day before. The delay made him furious ; he 
 could not wait to dress himself, and go round to the back 
 garden to turn loose his mastiff, Growler. Running both 
 his hands along the window-ledge^ he gathered together 
 a heap of snow^ pressed it into a hard ball^ and flung it 
 at them with all his force^ — but it fell short. He was 
 nearly mad with rage. He seized a wash-ball from his^ 
 
124. 
 
 ONE NEW lEAE^S EVE. 
 
 dressing-table^ a bmsli^, an iron shaving-pot^ a stone 
 knife-sharpener from his mantel-piece^ and a lump of 
 coal from his grate^ and discharged them^ in a rapid 
 volley^ at his disturbers. 
 
 The enemy^s fire was speedily silenced under this 
 continuous discharge. The Song of the Shepherds 
 stopped shorty and the band looked towards the 
 window. 
 
 ^'^ You villains ! what do you do there roared old 
 Crabberley^ leaning as far as he could out of the window. 
 
 They scarcely understood his words yet; but the 
 spokesman of the party advanced^ and addressed Mr. 
 Crabberley in a set speech,, which young Mr. Chilcote, 
 the schoolmaster^ had written out expressly for them. 
 
 According to ancient custom^ at this festive season 
 of the year/^ began the speaker^ waving the flageolet in 
 his right hand like a field-marshaFs baton^ we^ your 
 most humble and devoted servants^ the musicians of 
 East Chobley^ have taken the liberty of entertaining you 
 with an old English song^ descriptive of the watching of 
 the shepherds in Bethlehem. Animated by a sincere 
 desire — 
 
 Stop roared Mr. Crabberley. You are Godby, 
 aint you ? I thought I knew you. Now^ Godby^ as 
 sure as you are a living man^ if you don^t get out of my 
 grounds, with all those rascals^ within five minutes^ you 
 shall spend your merry Christmas in the county jail 
 
 Poor Godby stopped short in his magnificent ha- 
 rangue^ muttered some apology^ and slunk away^ fol- 
 lowed by the remainder of his band. Mr. Crabberley 
 
ONE INEW YEAE^S EVE. 
 
 125 
 
 crept shivering into bed again ; where lie lay awake for 
 some time^ meditating a scheme for putting an effec- 
 tive stop to the nuisance of carol- singing in the town 
 of Chobley from^ and after, the following Christmas- 
 tide. 
 
 Mr. Crabberley woke before daylight on the following 
 morning; but his daughter Alice was down before him. 
 She had been at work by candle-light, with their old 
 serving-v/oman Margaret, decorating the mantel-shelves 
 and windows with sprigs of holly, and endeaYouring to 
 give some token of Christmas to their gloomy old 
 house. The fire was blazing, and the breakfast ready 
 on the table, when her father came down. 
 
 ^^Did those musicians wake you?^^ inquired Mr. 
 Crabberley. 
 
 No, father,^^ said Alice. I kept awake to hear 
 them ; though I could not distinguish their words from 
 the back of the house. They have learned a new speech^ 
 which Mr. Chilcote has written for them.^^ 
 
 Chilcote had better mind his school,^^ said Mr» 
 Crabberley. His new-fashioned ways of teaching 
 give little satisfaction with some who have sent their 
 sons to him.^^ 
 
 Alice blushed deeply, unperceived by her father, and 
 sat for some time, looking at the blazing fire. 
 
 I have a number of calls to make to-day, Alice,^^ 
 said the old man; ^^I shall not be back before 
 dusk.^^ 
 
 Alice hardly heard him, till he begged her to help 
 him to put on his great-coat. Now be a good girl,^^ 
 
126 
 
 ONE NEW YEAU^S EVE. 
 
 lie said^ kissing her upon tlie threshold; get about 
 your household matters^ before I return/^ Alice pro- 
 mised to obey him. 
 
 Mr. Crabberley was in no pleasing mood that morn- 
 ing. The sight of his missiles, which he gathered up 
 from the lawn^ reminded him again of the annoyance 
 of the previous night. The sharp frosty morning suited 
 his humour. He determined first to go round and 
 collect some rents due from his weekly tenants. It was 
 a task he liked ; though he invariably said that it was 
 the most troublesome duty that he knew. As he went 
 along the High Street, the sight of the preparations 
 for Christmas was an annoyance to him. At the cheese- 
 monger's, the butter in the halves of firkins was marked 
 with devices and letters formed by red holly-berries, 
 wishing a merry Christmas and a happy New Year to 
 all their customers. 
 
 " Ha he said, of course, a merry Christmas to 
 any who will buy their butter without weighing it 
 afterwards.' 
 
 As he passed the grocer's, a huge coloured picture of 
 a red-faced father and mother, helping a large family of 
 young children to roast beef and plum-pudding, caught 
 his eye. He stopped, and examined it a moment. 
 
 Look at it !" he exclaimed, to a few loiterers at the 
 mndow. " Is not that enough to tell you what Christ- 
 mas is ? Mark their faces — their great unwieldy shapes 
 — more like pigs than men ! Is that a sight to make 
 human nature proud, or not 
 
 The strangers eyed him curiously^ and then slunk 
 
ONE NEW yT]AIl^S EVE. 
 
 127 
 
 away^ as if they felt that they ought to be ashamed of 
 themselves for loitering about such a picture. 
 
 Buy my holly ! — holly ! — holly \" cried a man with 
 a donkey-cart loaded with holly, laurel, and mistletoe, 
 at the corner of the street. Buy my holly and green 
 shrubs ! Holly O !— holly O V 
 
 Give me sixpen^orth/^ said a neat, fresh-coloured ser- 
 vant girl, standing at the garden-gate of a private house. 
 
 Poor, ignorant creatures muttered Mr. Crab- 
 berley. They think they honour Christmas with this 
 old Pagan custom. 
 
 Mr. Crabberley continued his way through the frozen 
 snow, till he came to the butcher^ s, where fat sheep and 
 oxen, decorated with blue ribbons, hung about the 
 doors. Here, meeting a friend of his, he took advan- 
 tage of the occasion to give his opinion upon such ex- 
 hibitions, in a tone loud enough for the butcher to hear 
 him in his little back counting-house. What do you 
 think of this. Skinner he said. His friend Skinner, 
 who was the town lawyer, shook his head. 
 
 This is the coarse food that makes our doctors so 
 busy after Christmas,^^ said Mr. Crabberley. They 
 may well decorate it with blue ribbons. It is not fit 
 for dogs to eat. It^s a shame they should be allowed 
 to sell it. Ugh V 
 
 The chandler^s shop, the poulterer's, the pastry- 
 cook's, the baker's, the fruiterer's, all showed some token 
 of Christmas, as he passed. So the people waste,'^ 
 said old Crabberley, and starve for it afterwards. Or, 
 if they don't, there are plenty who do, who'd be glad 
 
128 
 
 \ 
 
 ONE NEW YEAE^S EVE. 
 
 of what they throw away in this manner/^ He stopped 
 at last before an old red-bricked house ; the door was- 
 ajar^ and he pushed it open^ and entered. Anybody 
 at liome said he^ tapping at a door in the passage. 
 '^ Anybody at home^ here ? Nobody in^ of course. Some 
 people scent a landlord coming for his rent V He stooped, 
 and looked through the keyhole; but, seeing no one 
 there, and getting no answer to the loudest rap he could 
 give with his crabbed walking-stick, he went grumbling 
 up to the next floor. ^^AU out here, too he cried,^ 
 tapping at the door above. 
 
 ^^No, Mr. Crabberley ; at home, and at your ser- 
 vice,^^ said a thin, middle-aged, and gentlemanly-look- 
 ing man, who opened the door. Pray, walk in.^^ The 
 floor of the room was bare, and a very low fire was. 
 burning in his grate ; but the walls were hung with 
 paintings, and an easel stood against the window. Mr. 
 Crabberley noted the nakedness of the place, and the 
 remains of a frugal meal upon the table. 
 
 ^*^You are always punctual, Mr. Oliver,^^ said his 
 landlord. I might have been sure of finding you, if 
 I had thought.^^ 
 
 I know that the payment of my rent is not a thing 
 to be put ofi",^^ said his tenant, slily. 
 
 I wish all people thought so, Mr. Oliver,^' said his 
 visitor, as he wrote him a receipt. ^^This plan of 
 letting one house to several tenants, though it may 
 bring in a little more money, is more trouble than the 
 thing is worth. My little houses in ^ Crabberley Pas- 
 sage^ don^t cause me half the annoyance.''^ 
 
ONE NEW YEARNS EVE. 
 
 129 
 
 I suppose you go to the great sale the last day of 
 the month said the artist. 
 
 I do/^ said Mr. Crabberley. Old Captain Curwen 
 had some valuable property^ if I remember. I hope to 
 be able to get one or two bargains there.^^ 
 
 Here is a catalogue/^ said the artist. You don^t 
 bid for pictures^ do you?^^ 
 
 No^ never/^ replied his visitor^ sharply- 
 ^^Then I don^t mind telling you/^ said the artist^ 
 that there is a little picture there which I have very 
 good hopes of getting. If they don't bid it up higher 
 than five pounds^ I can buy it. Here it is_, modestly 
 called in the catalogue^ ^ No. 281^ Landscape.^ 
 
 I see it/'' grunted Mr. Crabberley. 
 
 That picture/^ said the artist^ evidently expecting 
 to startle his visitor, — that picture^ sir^ is a genuine 
 Cornelius Schuyt 
 
 Is it said Mr. Crabberley, scanning another part 
 of the catalogue with knitted brows. 
 
 It is, sir/^ continued the artist, warming with his 
 subject. ^^And, moreover, one of the prettiest things 
 that ever entered that artistes head — a sweet,, tran- 
 quil bit of country, that does you good to look at 
 it. I would not lose it for a baronetcy.^^ 
 
 ^^Wouldn^t you?^^ said Mr. Crabberley, carelessly^ 
 as he continued to scrutinise the catalogue. 
 
 I wouldn^t,^^ said the artist ; but I have been 
 so anxious lest any one else should get it^ that 
 I positively have not been able to sleep. I know I 
 shall not get a night^s rest till the sale is over. 1 
 
 9 
 
130 
 
 ONE NEW YEAE^S EVE. 
 
 must have it, Mr. Crabberley. Look ! that^s where I 
 mean to place itJ^ 
 
 Mr. Crabberley looked up mechanically to the spot 
 he indicated on the wainscot^ and then continued his 
 perusal of the catalogue. 
 
 " I shall hang it there/^ continued the artist, just 
 where the early morning sunlight falls. It will be a 
 pleasant thing to greet my eyes on waking.^^ 
 
 You don^t bid for anything else inquired his land- 
 lord. 
 
 ''No/' replied Mr. Oliver; ''I will bid for that, to 
 the utmost extent of my purse; but for nothing 
 else.'' 
 
 '' Then we shall not interfere with each other/' said 
 his visitor ; " for I would not give sixpence for your 
 Cornelius Schuyt. Good day, Mr. Oliver." 
 
 ''Good day, sir," said the artist, as he closed the 
 door, and turned to his palette and easel again. 
 
 Mr. Crabberley continued his walk while thinking of 
 the Captain's sale, and of the bargains he might get 
 there, till he came to the passage which was named 
 after himself. It was a double row of small tenements 
 facing each other, with a very narrow, ill-ventilated 
 space between. There was no thoroughfare through it, 
 and a little channel for dirty water, traced by a black 
 line through the snow, ran midway down the passage. 
 These houses were occupied chiefly by working men 
 and their families, and Mr. Crabberley, going from door 
 to door, with book in hand, had little difficulty in col- 
 lecting his rents. 
 
ONE NEW YEARNS EVE. 
 
 131 
 
 Any one at home^ here?^^ he said^ knocking at the 
 last house he had to call at. 
 
 ^^YeSj Fm here^ Mr. Crahberley/^ said a woman^s 
 voice. I am always here ; I never go out^ from one 
 yearns end to another. My work^s never done. It^s 
 too much confinement^ it is^ indeed ; and this place is 
 built so bad^ you can^t breathe in it.^^ 
 
 ''Pooh! Mrs. Slacker/^ said Mr. Crabberley. '^I 
 marked out the plan myself. There is not a snugger 
 little place in the town.^^ 
 
 I can^t bear it/^ said Mrs. Slacker. 
 
 Are you ready with that three weeks^ rent ? in- 
 quired her landlord^ sharply. 
 
 Well^ Tm not quite ready, sir/^ said Mrs. Slacker ; 
 my husband has got some piecework; and he won^t 
 get his money till next week.^^ 
 
 Mr. Crabberley might have been willing to accept 
 this plea ; but unfortunately his eye rested upon a fat 
 goose and a black bottle upon the sideboard. 
 
 So you can^t find money for rent^ but only for 
 waste and gluttony, like your neighbours ? said Mr. 
 Crabberley. 
 
 Waste and gluttony, Mr. Crabberley ! exclaimed 
 his tenant. Do you call a goose and a bottle 
 of ginger- wine at Christmas-time, waste and glut- 
 tony ? 
 
 I do,^^ replied the landlord. I call it waste and, 
 gluttony, and dishonesty, too, while your rent is 
 unpaid.^^ 
 
 ''Well, sir,^^ said Mrs. Slacker, '^^'we have many a 
 
132 
 
 ONE NEW YEAE^S EVE. 
 
 time been poor enough at Christmas^ but we have always 
 managed to get a comfortable dinner that day^ and I 
 hope we always shall/^ 
 
 ^^I hope you always will^ Mrs. Slacker/^ said her 
 landlord^ maliciously^ as he turned away. 
 
 On Christmas Eve a broker entered Mrs. Slacker^s 
 home ; and having taken an inventory of her goods^ 
 left a ragged stranger^ with an habitual scowl^ to spend 
 his Christmas with the family. 
 
 Mr. Crabberley was rather tired before he reached 
 his home again. The shops^ with their Christmas dis- 
 play^ were lighted up as he passed. He wished in his 
 heart that their proprietors were all tenants of his, 
 who could not pay their rent. Not far from his own 
 gate he met a shivering ragged woman, standing with 
 bare feet in the snow, in the middle of the roadway, 
 and singing the identical Christmas carol that the 
 musicians of East Chobley had annoyed him with on 
 the previous night. A gentleman stepped forward 
 and gave her some coin. It was the Rector of East 
 Chobley. 
 
 Mr. Hawthorne,^^ said the old man, touching the 
 alms-giver on the shoulder, do you know who that 
 woman is ? 
 
 ^^Ido,^^ replied the Rector; ^^it is Mary Eoker.-'^ 
 She has just come out of jail, where she was sent 
 
 for stealing wood,^^ said Mr. Crabberley. 
 
 Very true,^^ said the Rector; ^^but she must not 
 
 starve. 
 
 Chobley people had better look after their pro- 
 
ONE NEW YEAE^S EVE. 
 
 133 
 
 perty^ if sucli folks are to be encouraged/^ said Mr. 
 Crabberley. 
 
 I don^t know what excuse sbe may have for her 
 crime/^ said the Rector ; but if she were ten times 
 the sinner that she is^ I would not refuse her a trifle 
 this frosty Christmas time. Listen^ Mr. Crabberley/^ 
 continued the Rector ; I know you better than you 
 know yourself. You are not a happy man^ in spite of that 
 money which you have spent your life in getting. You 
 have chosen to be harsh and uncharitable towards your 
 fellow-men^ and a heavy punishment has fallen upon 
 yourself. You cannot bear the sight of a good action^ be- 
 cause it is against your own nature to do one. The 
 cheerfulness of this season troubles you — not because 
 you despise it^ as you affect to do ; but because^ in your 
 secret hearty you contrast it with your own isolation 
 and gloomy humours^ and envy it. From the bottom 
 of my heart I pity you^ and would help jt^ou if I could : 
 for you have never known the pleasure of doing a kind- 
 ness to another. Try it^ and you will have found a 
 new world. Depend upon it; it is easier to be happy 
 than you think 
 
 The Rector^ having delivered this speech^ went on 
 his way_, and left the old man so much surprised at 
 the suddenness of his rebuke^ that he had not a word 
 to answer. 
 
 ^^Very pretty/^ he said^ sneeringly^ as soon as the 
 Rector was out of hearing. These parsons think 
 themselves at liberty to rate us all.^^ But Mr. Crab- 
 berley felt the truth of his words^ and remembered 
 them. 
 
134 
 
 ONE NEW YEAE^S EVE. 
 
 Christmas at Crabberley House had passed awajr 
 drearilyas usual. It wanted very few days to the New Year. 
 Mr. Crabberly had been out the whole day, collecting 
 the rents of his quarterly tenants. A fog had been 
 creeping up from the marshes all that afternoon, and 
 was gradually getting deeper in the streets of Chobley. 
 
 Crabberley House was on the high road at the en- 
 trance to the town ; and as its surly proprietor left the 
 lights of the shops behind him it grew so dark that 
 he could scarcely see the miserable oil lamps on 
 the other side of the roadway. His house was 
 hidden from passers-by by a buttressed wall, topped 
 with bushy ivy. The green-painted gate, which the 
 Chobley minstrels had contrived to open on the night 
 when they had annoyed him vAth the Song of the 
 Shepherds/^ had a small square grating in the middle, 
 through which a tall man might get a glimpse of the 
 house and grounds. As Mr. Crabberley was feeling about 
 for the latch, or for the pear-shaped handle of the bell- 
 pull, he heard voices through this opening. H-e recog- 
 nised them in a moment. 
 
 ^^Oh, oh!^^ he muttered to himself^ ^^it^s young 
 Chilcote, the schoolmaster, talking to my daughter. 
 Now, I wonder what he wants here again.^^ 
 
 I must tell my father,^^ said Alice, in a low voice ; 
 " and if he is angry with us, you must never come- to 
 see me again/^ 
 
 ^^And what will he say. Miss Alice asked the 
 schoolmaster, anxiously. Will he not say that I am 
 not rich enough to love his daughter 
 
" I must tell my father," said Alice. — Page 134. 
 
ONE NEW YEARNS EVE. 
 
 135 
 
 I do not know/^ said Alice. He spoke of you the 
 other day^ and was vexed because you had written a 
 speech for the carol-singers. How I wish that you had 
 never told me of this.'^ 
 
 ^^Oh_, Alice exclaimed Chilcote ; ^^this will be the 
 saddest New Year in my life.^^ 
 
 I think it will/^ muttered old Crabberley_, as he 
 drew aside to escape observation. He heard the gate 
 open_, and saw the form of a man come forth_, and dis- 
 appear in the fog. Mr. Crabberley waited a moment^ 
 and then rang the bell. Old Margaret opened it. He 
 passed through the hall into his dining-room^ where he 
 found Alice^ sitting thoughtfully before the fire^ with 
 her work lying half-finished on a little table beside her« 
 Her father noted traces of weeping on her face ; but he 
 said nothing. Alice spoke little at dinner-time^ and 
 the old man resolved not to speak of what he had heard^ 
 but to wait for her to tell him of the schoolmaster^s de- 
 claration. 
 
 ^^Has any one called^ Alice he said at length_, by 
 way of reminding her of her determination. Poor Alice 
 wanted no reminder. She had been thinking of it all 
 the dinner-time^ and trembling for the issue. 
 
 ^^No one but Mr. Chilcote^ father/^ said Alice^ tre- 
 mulously. 
 
 Chilcote is always callings lately/^ said her fathere 
 What does he want 
 
 He came to speak to you about recommending his 
 school to Sir Harry Meltall/^ replied Alice^ still tem- 
 porising. 
 
136 
 
 ONE NEW YEARNS EVE. 
 
 Was that all?^^ inquired her father. 
 
 No^ my dear father^ that was not all/^ said Alice, 
 summonihg courage for her confession. I will hide 
 nothing from you. He told me that he loved me.^^ 
 
 And what answer did you return replied the old 
 man, pale with anger. 
 
 Alice hung down her head, and burst into tears. 
 
 Chilcote shall receive such a letter from me/^ said 
 the old man, as shall make him repent of his insolence. 
 Give me a candle 
 
 Alice did so, and her father left her, still weeping, 
 and looking at the blazing fire. 
 
 Crabberley House ^' had originally been occupied as 
 a school, and had passed into Mr. Crabberley^s hands 
 on the failure of its proprietor. At the bottom of a 
 narrow passage on the ground-floor was a door leading 
 into the old schoolroom, which had been added to the 
 house some years after it had been built. This room 
 was very large and lofty ; but its new proprietor only 
 made it a kind of office, using the old schoolmaster's 
 desk, in one corner, as a writing place. The boys^ 
 desks and forms had been long since removed ; but the 
 room still bore traces of having been a schoolroom. A 
 few dusty and discoloured roller maps were suspended 
 around the walls; and long cobwebs hung from the 
 ceiling. Here Mr. Crabberley would sit for hours 
 alone, poring over his account-books, by a solitary 
 candle, that left all but the corner where he sat, in 
 darkiici:3. 
 
 On this night he shut himself in as usual, put a light 
 
ONE NEW YEARNS EVE. 
 
 137 
 
 to the wood in his German stove^ and sat down to write 
 a letter to the unfortunate schoolmaster. He had 
 finished his task to his own satisfaction^ and was enter- 
 ing the receipts of rent for that day in his ledger, when 
 his servant^ Margaret^ announced to him that young 
 Mr. Meltall_, the son of Sir Harry^ desired to speak 
 with him. Mr. Crabberley rose to meet his visitor ; 
 but he was already on the threshold. 
 
 ''Walk in, Mr. Meltall/' said he. ''It is rather 
 dingy here ; but I like to be quiet.^^ 
 
 " Not at all/^ said the young officer ; " it is a 
 very lively and agreeable retreat. In a few hours I 
 would turn it into as pretty a ball-room as you ever 
 saw. I would stick a dozen or two of candles about, 
 sweep all the cobwebs down, and hang mistletoe in 
 their place. I would have such a merry party here on 
 New Yearns Eve as should put our people^s festivities 
 at Meltall House to shame/^ Young Meltall generally 
 rattled on in this manner ; but Mr. Crabberley was the 
 land-agent of his father, Sir Harry, and he was unwilling 
 to offend his son by showing displeasure. 
 
 "What can I do for you, Mr. Meltall,^^ inquired 
 the old man, rubbing his hands over the German stove. 
 
 " Mr. Crabberley,^^ said his visitor, bestriding a chair 
 with his face to the back, " I believe there are a good 
 many poor persons in Chobley?^^ 
 
 " I dare say there are,'^ said Mr. Crabberley. 
 
 " Decent, deserving sort of people, eh?^^ 
 
 "An idle, improvident set, mostly,^'' replied Mr, 
 Crabberley. 
 
138 
 
 ONE NEW YEAE^'S EVE. 
 
 Ah, well, never mind/^ said Mr. Meltall ; " I must 
 give away a little in the town. I shall be of age soon, 
 and it makes one popular.'''' 
 
 Of course, you^ll do as you please/^ grunted the 
 old man. 
 
 1^11 tell you frankly, Mr. Crabberley,^^ resumed the 
 young man, "that I have every desire to do these 
 people a service ; but I haven^t the time to go looking 
 about for them. Upon my honour, I have so much to 
 do, that I have never been able to get a day^s shoot- 
 ing since I have been down here. I assure you that 
 is a fact,^'' continued Mr. Meltall, with the air of a 
 martyr. 
 
 "And how can I help you?^^ inquired Mr. Crab- 
 berley. 
 
 "I will tell you,'' said Mr. Meltall; "you know 
 Chobley people better than I do. Now, if you will 
 find out some notorious cases of distress — somethings 
 you know, that all the town talks about — and will 
 just give an order to my banker, signed with your 
 name '' 
 
 " Upon my word, Mr. Meltall,'' interrupted the old 
 man, "I don^t know how to set about such a task. I 
 don't, indeed." 
 
 "You can do it," said the young man, springing 
 from his seat ; " and I shall depend upon you to 
 manage the thing well. Give away twenty pounds, or so, 
 judiciously, and you will really be doing me a service.'^ 
 
 " But, sir " remonstrated Mr. Crabberley. 
 
 "Pooh!" interrupted his visitor. "I know what 
 
ONE NEW YEAE's EVE. 
 
 139 
 
 you are going to say. You are quite mistaken. There 
 is not a man in Chobley^ save you, that I would care 
 to ask such a favour. You need not say whom the 
 money comes from. The gossips are sure to find out 
 in the long run ; and it looks well to seem to want to 
 hide it. I like to ^ do good by stealthy and blush to 
 find it shame^ — or fame ; what is it?^^ 
 
 In vain did Mr. Crabberley remonstrate. His visitor 
 overwhelmed him with words every time that he at- 
 tempted to speak, and at length cut short the inter- 
 view by wishing him good-night/^ and suddenly 
 disappearing. 
 
 ^''An idiot said Mr. Crabberley, after carefully 
 closing the door. A prodigal fool, who never earned 
 a sixpence in his life 
 
 A little before dusk on the following day, Mr. Crab- 
 berley went out to execute his strange commission. 
 
 The people will think me mad,^^ he muttered to him- 
 self. I wish I had refused that silly young fop from 
 the first. I really don^t know what to do about giving 
 people orders for his money. I feel that I shall make 
 myself ridiculous. I never gave away a shilling in my 
 life. I don^t approve of giving away money — I object 
 to it on principle ; and yet here am I obliged to be the 
 tool of that young spendthrift. Mr. Hawthorne was 
 right, when he said that I never knew the pleasure of 
 giving. I am afraid I never shalL I wish he had sent 
 any one but me on such an errand. And here is snow 
 beginning to fall again ! I wo^old sooner have given 
 three or four pounds than undertaken such a task. I shall 
 
140 
 
 ONE NEW YEARNS EVE. 
 
 know better another time. I^m rather too old to be 
 made a fool of in this manner^ I think. Give me a 
 sensible^ manly duty^ and I will do it ; but I am not 
 going to be made the butt of everybody at Meltall 
 House. If he had given me the money^ I think I 
 should have found a better use for it^ — and who would 
 have been entitled to laugh then? I wish this task 
 vrere ended. I will give something to the first beggar 
 I meet : that shall be my plan.^-* 
 
 Holding down his hat^ to protect himself against a 
 line sleet which the wind was driving in his face^ Mr. 
 Crabberley went on grumbling in this way^ till he ran 
 against some one at the corner of a street. 
 
 Hulloa he cried. ^'^ Is that you^ Mary Boker? 
 Stop ! Come here^ I say ! But the woman recognised 
 his voicCj and dreaded him too much to stop. 
 
 Come here^ I say ! roared Mr. Crabberley^ walk- 
 ing after her. Nobody^s going to kill you.^^ The 
 woman stopped,, and stood for a moment^ looking towards 
 him* while the wind fluttered her ragged shawl^ and 
 showed her bare blue arms. 
 
 Here/^ said Mr. Crabberley^ you are a thief^ I 
 know j but honest folks are. scarce. Take that card, 
 and go to the Chobley Bank with it to-morrow, and 
 somebody will give you ten shillings for it.^^ 
 
 If that young fool wants his money squandered, 
 FU manage it muttered Mr. Crabberley, as he hurried 
 on, leaving the woman holding the ticket in her hand, 
 and staring after him in astonishment. 
 
 Mr. Crabberley stopped at the gate oC the workhouse. 
 
ONE NEW YEARNS EVE. 
 
 141 
 
 It was getting dark,, and there was no lamp near ; but 
 he noticed some dark forms huddled up against the 
 wall. ^^Who are you there said Mr. Crabberley. 
 '^Paupers going into the house 
 
 One of the men looked up^ and said^ We^re tramps^ 
 master.^^ 
 
 What are you doing there said Mr. Crabberley. 
 We^re going to turn in here^ for the nighty master/^ 
 said the spokesman ; but they won^t let us yet.^^ 
 
 ^^Now then^ you tramps roared Mr. Crabberley. 
 
 Get up^ all of you. There are three tickets for any 
 one who can get them. Come^ scramble ! They are 
 as good as money^ if you take them to Chobley Bank 
 to-morrow.^^ The tramps did as he bade them^ falling 
 over each other^ and fighting in the darkness^ to Mr. 
 Crabberley's great satisfaction. 
 
 Mr. Crabberley chuckled so much over the thought 
 of this incident^ that his bad humour had somewhat 
 abated before he came to the door of the Chobley Free 
 Dispensary." FU go in here/^ said he. I dare say 
 I shall find some one to give a ticket to.^^ He pushed 
 open the door^ and went down a narrow passage^ into 
 the apothecary^s room. It was a little octagon chamber^ 
 in which the apothecary^s assistant stood at a counter^ 
 and his patients sat upon a bench round the wall^ waiting 
 for their turns. A lacquered metal lamp hung by a 
 chain from the ceilings and its flickering lights falling 
 upon the faces of the sick people^ gave them so ghastly 
 a look that the new-comer shuddered^ and his anger and 
 excitement passed away. 
 
ONE NEW YEAE^S EVE. 
 
 ^^You are busy^ Mr. Eundal/' lie said to the 
 apothecary^s assistant. 
 
 Rather^ sir/^ replied tlie man. We take tlie con- 
 sumption cases to-day. There^s a good deal of such 
 complaints about.^^ 
 
 A death-like stillness reigned in the place — only 
 T3roken by the occasional hollow cough of one of the 
 patients. They were too weak and spiritless^ most of 
 them_, to converse^ even in a whisper. The loud ticking 
 of the time-piece against the wall seemed to be number- 
 ing the minutes of their lives; and the smell of the 
 medicines made the room like a sick-chamber. Mr. 
 Crabberley began to repent of having entered such a 
 dismal place. 
 
 Now then said the apothecary. No. 40^ bring 
 bottles V 
 
 A thin^ pale^ hollow-eyed young man^ in a faded black 
 dress coat^ closely buttoned across his chesty walked 
 feebly up to the counter^ and placed a black wine-bottle^ 
 and a small phial^ before the apothecary. 
 
 Whereas your prescription said the apothecary, 
 sharply. 
 
 The man fumbled in his pockets ; he had not brought 
 
 it. 
 
 ^'Leffc it behind said the apothecary, coolly. 
 it^Very well. No. 41, bottles this wayP^ The con- 
 sumptive young man made no reply, but walked slowly 
 out. 
 
 Seems in a bad state said Mr. Crabberley. The 
 apothecary leaned over the counter, and whispered, — If 
 
OIvIE NEW YEAE^S EVE. 
 
 113 
 
 lie lives to see the New Year we shall be surprised. Sad 
 case ; but no family^ fortunately.^^ 
 
 Mr. Crabberley made no answer^ but turned av/ay^ 
 and instinctively followed tlie consumptive young man. 
 
 I may as well give him a trifle as those rascally 
 tramps/^ thought he — especially when it costs me 
 nothing.^^ He soon overtook him^ creeping along like 
 a decrepit old man. 
 
 "^^Hi! Mr. What^s-your-namel^^ cried Mr. Crabberley. 
 
 Have the goodness to stop^ will you The man 
 turned^ and halted for a while^ in the falling snow, 
 trembling with the cold. 
 
 You are very ill, are you not 
 
 Yes/^ said the man, in a deep, hollow voice. But 
 much better than I was, thank God 
 
 Better, are you asked Mr. Crabberley. 
 
 Yes,^^ said the man, getting round again — tliougli 
 slowly, very slowly .^^ 
 
 Mr. Crabberley knew, by what the apothecary had told 
 him, that the sick man deceived himself, with the strange 
 infatuation of consumptive people drawing near their 
 end. There was something terrible in that ignorance 
 of his approaching fate. Mr. Crabberley felt somewhat 
 of the awe with which men address a condemned 
 criminal. 
 
 Here are a couple of tickets,^^ said he. If you send 
 to the Bank with them to-morrow, they will give you a 
 ponnd.^^ 
 
 The man took them mechanically: he seemed stupified. 
 These will get you something,^^ continued Mr. Crab- 
 
ONE NEW YEAE^S EVE. 
 
 berley. Mutton-broth is a good things I believe. I 
 don^t know. Haven^t you a great coat?'^ The consump- 
 tive patient shook his head. 
 
 ^'^Ah! that^s bad/' said Mr. Crabberley. ^^You 
 ought to have saved when you were in health. There 
 are thirty shillings more. This winter night air can^t 
 be good for you^ I^m suxe.^^ 
 
 The man took them^ fervently thanking his benefactor. 
 Mr. Crabberley experienced a strange sensation as he 
 turned away. He had never done an act from pure 
 compassion before. He never thought of doing any one 
 a kindness till the task was given him by another. He 
 marvelled at his own earnestness. An irresistible im- 
 pulse compelled him to turn back again. 
 
 Hi ! Mr. What's-your-name V said he. If you 
 want anything again^ just call or send up to me. My 
 name^s Crabberley. Any one in Chobley will tell you 
 my house.^^ The man thanked him again^ and went 
 on. Mr. Crabberley stood looking after him. The 
 words of the rector on the night before smote him in a 
 moment. — ^^''You have never known the pleasure of 
 doing a kindness to another. Try it^ and you will have 
 found a new world.-^^ The bells of the church pealing 
 forth at that moment seemed to ring the words in his 
 ear — repeating them again and again. He was ashamed 
 to own to himself that they were true. He would not 
 believe that he had been mistaken all his life — that the 
 mere distribution of this young spendthrift^s mock 
 charity had taught him the secret of what is true hap- 
 jjiness. But the long-frozen channels to his heart were 
 
ONE NEW YEARNS EVE. 
 
 145 
 
 a little thawed. He felt a pleasure in the thought of re- 
 turning to the dispensary^ and giving away some more 
 money among the patients there — a pleasure so great that 
 his feet naturally took him'there^ and in five minutes 
 he found himself in the apothecary^s room again. He 
 questioned the patients all rounds learned their cir- 
 cumstancesj and took down the name and address of 
 each. The apothecary^ who knew him^ looked on with 
 astonishment. Mr. Crabberley was almost ashamed to 
 be caught acting so much out of character. He told 
 the apothecary^ by way of apology^ that it was not his 
 own money^ and left a sum with him for the benefit of 
 the charity. 
 
 Mr. Crabberley sallied forth again^ like a knight- 
 errant of old in search of distress. A strange excitement 
 bore him on. He half suspected that he must be going- 
 mad. He had never experienced anything like it before. 
 The wind and driving sleet only made him the more ob- 
 stinately determined to go forward. Louder and louder,, 
 with every gust^ came the pealing bells^ repeating^ again 
 and again^ the rector^s words. He scarcely knew 
 whither he was going; but his rapid walk quickly 
 changed into a run. Flinging his arms across his chest 
 for warmth^ he hurried along a lane parallel with the 
 High Street^ and came out into the road again^ on the 
 other side of the town. An undertaker's shop stood at 
 the corner of the lane^ and the quick tapping of the 
 cofiin-maker's hammer caught his ear. Mr. Crabberley 
 stopped and looked in^ leaning on a gate across the 
 threshold of the entrance to the shop. 
 
 10 
 
146 
 
 ONE NEW YEAH^S EVE. 
 
 " A dull task for this holiday time/^ he said to the 
 man, who was whistling a cheerfal tune. 
 
 Very true/^ said the undertaker, without giving his 
 hammer a pause. But if paupers die at holiday time, 
 they must have coffins. 
 
 Who^s it for inquired Mr. Crabberley. 
 The man looked carelessly at the lid, and read, upon 
 a white tin plate nailed upon the bare wood, the words, 
 John Bowditch, aged 53.^' 
 
 ^^Iknow,^^ said Mr. Crabberley. ^^It^s the brick- 
 maker down the lane. So he^s dead, is he? Poor 
 fellow ! Good night.^^ He turned down the lane again, 
 and, opening a gate, took a path across the fields. It 
 was very dark ; but he guided his course by the fires in 
 the brickfields, till he came to a low white cottage, 
 thatched with straw. He heard no voices within, and 
 he rattled the latch to make himself heard. The brick- 
 maker^s wife opened the door. 
 
 ^^Is that you, Mrs. Bowditch?^' inquired her 
 visitor. 
 
 Yes, sir,^^ replied the woman. Walk in.^^ Mr. 
 Crabberley shuddered at the sight of the corpse, that lay, 
 covered with a sheet, upon a shutter against the wall. 
 He saw its rigid outline and sharp angles through the 
 covering, and a strange vision of his own death seemed 
 to arise before him. A feeling of awe compelled him 
 to speak low. 
 
 " I heard you were in trouble,^^ said he. The woman 
 sat upon a chair, and, covering her features with her 
 large coarse hands, burst into tears. " Cheer up. 
 
ONE NEW YEAE^S EVE. 
 
 147 
 
 <ma^am V' said Mr. Crabberley. " I come to help you, 
 as far as it is in my power. You shall have a little 
 better funeral. The parish shall have nothing to do 
 with it.'' 
 
 " God bless you_, sir said the woman, brightening 
 up. This was my greatest trouble. I'll never forget 
 it, as long as I live." 
 
 Don't thank me, Mrs. Bowditch," said her visitor. 
 I am only giving away other people's money. Have 
 jou any children ?" 
 Three, sir." 
 
 Well, we'll see what can be done. My name is 
 Crabberley. Come to me after the funeral. There are 
 a couple of cards. If you take them to-morrow to the 
 Chobley Bank, you'll get two pounds. Good night !" 
 And Mr. Crabberley, under the influence of his new 
 excitement, suddenly vanished, and made his way across 
 the fields again. As he had passed it before, he had 
 guided his course by the brickmakers' fires, but on his 
 way back he was obliged to trust to chance, for his foot- 
 prints in the snow had been obliterated by the falling 
 sleet and the wind sweeping the ground. He had 
 walked for some time, and was beginning to be sur- 
 prised that he did not come to the gate at which he had 
 entered, when a voice at a distance behind him caught 
 his ear. He stopped and listened, till he distinguished 
 his own name. 
 
 Here !" cried Mr. Crabberley, making a speaking- 
 trumpet with his two hands. Who is it ?" He saw 
 3i light coming towards him, and heard the footsteps of 
 
148 
 
 ONE NEW YEAE^S EVE. 
 
 some one running. It was tlie brickmaker^s widow^. 
 whom he had left so suddenly^ and who had followed him 
 with a lantern. 
 
 0\ Mr. Crabberley said the woman ; I was 
 afraid you had missed your way! Where were you 
 going V ^ 
 
 Back to the gate in Hanger^s Lane^^^ replied Mr. 
 Crabberley. 
 
 Deary-me ! said the woman. You^d have been 
 drowned in another moment ! Look here She held 
 out her lantern^ and there^ within a few feet of where 
 he stood^ Mr. Crabberley saw a large and deep excava- 
 tion^ made by the brickmakers in getting clay. At a 
 considerable depth below^ he saw what seemed to be 
 water^, slightly stirred by the wind. 
 
 cc There^s ten feet of water there/^ said the woman. 
 
 It was just here that Jem Woodard and his horse 
 were drowned when the cart fell in.^^ 
 
 ^*^Your voice just stopped me in time/^ said Mr. 
 Crabberley. It is like a Providence. Show me the 
 way j for I have more business to do to-night.^^ 
 
 Mr. Crabberley^s excitement was increasing. His 
 lucky escape seemed to him a miracle. He had already 
 expended the young officer^s twenty pounds; but he 
 determined to continue his charitable wanderings. All 
 this was another^s charity/^ he muttered. How do I 
 know yet that I have really felt what it is to do a dis- 
 interested kindness The bells were still repeating the 
 rector^ s words^ pealing out and dying away^ as the wind 
 rose and fell. He urged the woman several times to 
 
ONE NEW YEAH'S EVE* 
 
 149 
 
 make haste/ till slie was obliged to keep up a running 
 walk beside him. All right V' he said^ as he came to 
 the gate. I know my way now. Keep up your spirits, 
 Mrs. Bowditch. Good night P^ 
 
 At the undertaker's door he stopped again; the man 
 was still rapping the little round-headed tacks into the 
 lid of a coffin. Any more coffins making, Mr. Nay- 
 ler said he. 
 
 Only a woman and a child that died in the house/^ 
 said Mr. Nayler. Business is uncommonly slack, just 
 now/^ 
 
 Thank God for it said Mr. Crabberley, as he 
 bade him good night again. At the corner of a street 
 he paused to consider whither he should go. His brain 
 was in a whirl, and he could scarcely collect his thoughts 
 sufficiently to deliberate. Let me see,'^ said he. IVe 
 been at the workhouse, and the dispensary, and the 
 undertaker's. Who shall I seek next ? I would like to 
 do some real act of charity before I go home. It must 
 not be mere money giving. I must do something. I 
 have it ! There is poor Mrs. Slacker with that distress 
 still in her home for my rent. It is a long way, but I 
 will walk over, and turn that man out. A broker's man 
 is not exactly the kind of company to begin the New 
 Year with. It was getting late before Mr. Crabberley 
 had discharged the man in possession, and got back to 
 the main street of Chobley. He passed the old red- 
 bricked house which belonged to him, and noticed a 
 light at the artist's window above. He thought of the 
 painter's anxiety about the purchase of the picture, at 
 
150 
 
 ONE NEW YEAE^S EVE. 
 
 the sale on the last day of the month. Um V' said he,- 
 I must go and find out Skinner, the lawyer.^^ 
 He had passed Skinner^s house at some distance ; but 
 Mr. Crabberley did not heed that. He turned back 
 immediately, and knocked at the lawyer^s door. Skinner 
 himself appeared, after demanding who was there, and 
 unfastening many bolts. 
 
 Skinner V said Mr. Crabberley. Do you go to 
 Captain Curwen^s sale to-morrow 
 
 ^^I do/^ replied the lawyer; ^^and so do you, don^t 
 you 
 
 No,^^ replied his visitor shortly ; I^m too busy. I 
 don^t care to go to sales this holiday time. But I 
 want you to execute a little commission for me.^^ 
 
 ^^What is it?^^ grunted the lawyer, who began to^ 
 have doubts of his friend^s sobriety. 
 
 There^s a little picture in the catalogue, ^ No. 281_y 
 Landscape.^ If any one bids more than five pounds for 
 that picture, don^t let them have it. I want it. It^s a 
 real Cornelius Somebody, I forget whom. I must have 
 it. I can^t sleep for want of it. Do you hear 
 
 Mr. Skinner eyed his visitor curiously, holding his 
 candle up to his face. 
 
 Are you well?^^ said he. 
 
 Well exclaimed Mr. Crabberley. I never was^ 
 so well, in body and mind, in my life. Come to me in 
 tlie morning, and I'll give you a cheque. I can't stay 
 now.'' 
 
 Very good," said the lawyer. If you're in the 
 same mind to-morrow, I will do it. Good night 
 
ONE NEW YEARNS EVE. 
 
 151 
 
 The clocks were striking eleven, and all the shops 
 closed in the town^ as Mr. Crabberley hurried home- 
 wards. He could think of many more charitable pro- 
 jects^ but it was too late to continue his wanderings 
 that nighty and he was faint and weary. "When he stood 
 at his own gate again, he seemed to have awakened 
 from a long dream. The church bells had ceased, as if 
 they could no longer reproach him with not knowing the 
 pleasure of doing a kindness to another. I have found 
 out the secret at last/^ said he, though I have lived to 
 sixty years of age without knowing it. And all this 
 through young MeltalPs odd commission 
 
 Old Margaret opened the gate, and Alice met him on 
 the threshold of the door of his house. 
 
 We have been in alarm about you, dear father,^^ she 
 said. You went out before dinner.^^ 
 
 Very true, Alice,^^ replied Mr. Crabberley, kissing 
 his daughter. ^^I have been so busy, that I have 
 thought of nothing. I can^t tell you where I have been 
 How, nor what has happened. But we must all be awake 
 early to-morrow. I mean to haye a party on New 
 Yearns Eve. Such a merry company as these old walls 
 never held. We will begin the New Year with a dif- 
 ferent life, please God. I am not the same man I was. 
 I mean to show people that I can make merry, too, at 
 proper seasons 
 
 Alice laid her head upon his shoulder, and burst into 
 tears of joy. 
 
 Go now to bed,^^ said her father. You will have 
 much to do to-morrow. And Alice — I will not have 
 
ONE NEW YEARNS EVE. 
 
 you unhappy another night — Chilcote shall come to our 
 party. There is not a better fellow in Chobley than 
 Chilcote^ I^m convinced of that/^ 
 
 Alice rose earlier than usual the next morning. She 
 had been dreaming all night of preparations for the 
 party^ and would have slept till late if Margaret had not 
 awakened her. She dressed herself hurriedly^ and de- 
 scended with as much trepidation as if it had been her 
 wedding-morning. It was the first time in her life that 
 her father had thought of celebrating a New Yearns Eve, 
 and she was as joyful at the circumstance as a young 
 child. 
 
 How I wish Mr. Chilcote knew about it thought 
 Alice. If I could only let him know. He might run 
 away, and go for a soldier or a sailor this very morning, 
 before my father sends to him.^^ 
 
 But Alice had no time for anticipating evils. She 
 busied herself in helping Margaret with her household 
 duties, till she heard her father^s footstep on the stairs. 
 
 A happy New Year, father V said Alice, running to 
 meet him. To-morrow is the last day of the old 
 one.^^ 
 
 I know it,^^ said Mr. Crabberley ; and I feel that 
 to-morrow night will begin my first happy year, Alice ; 
 but you will have seen many a joyful New Yearns Eve 
 before you are half as old as I am. Come along, we 
 must not loiter. I will help you myself, and I will 
 bring poor Mary Boker. She^s honest enough, though 
 she did carry off* a stick of wood out of Farmer Springers 
 hedge. She will assist us^ and so we shall all be busy.^^ 
 
ONE NEW YEARNS EVE. 
 
 153 
 
 After breakfast, Alice went to the poulterer^s,, and 
 butetier's, and grocer^ and fruiterer^ and other shops, 
 and gave such orders for Crabberley House that the 
 shopkeepers asked her twice, to be sure that they were 
 not mistaken. Mr. Crabberley sent to the bookseller's 
 for a cookery-book ; and read aloud the directions, while 
 Alice and Margaret made the mincemeat pies and tarts. 
 
 Alice said her father, as if suddenly struck with 
 an idea; young Meltall said the old schoolroom 
 would make a good place for a large party V 
 
 So it would,^^ said Alice. I never thought of that. 
 How strange ! We will have all the cobwebs swept 
 down, and the wall ornamented with green shrubs.^^ 
 
 We'll make a handsome ball-room of it,^^ replied 
 Mr. Crabberley. Gridley, the decorator, shall name 
 his own price, if he can make it look well in one day.^^ 
 
 ^^It would do admirably for dancing,^^ said Mar- 
 garet. 
 
 So it will,^^ returned Mr. Crabberley. We^U have 
 a platform and musicians. Godby and his set shall 
 come, if they are not engaged. I hope I did not offend 
 him at Christmas.^^ 
 
 But who will dance, father said Alice. 
 
 Chilcote and his two sisters, and Cole, his assistant, 
 and a host of people I can think of, if I can get them to 
 come,^^ observed Mr. Crabberley. 
 
 That afternoon Mr. Crabberley went out again, to 
 invite his friends to his party. He apologised for the 
 shortness of his invitation ; and, though some were en- 
 gaged, yet many promised to come. The butcher, whose 
 
154 
 
 ONE NEW YEARNS EYE. 
 
 fat oxen lie liad declaimed against only a few nights pre- 
 viously^, was surprised to receive an order to send pieces 
 of beef to a number of persons^ whose names lie gave 
 him on a list ; foremost among whom stood that of Mrs. 
 Slacker. Mr. Crabberley did not forget his friends of 
 the night before ; and he even found time to seek for 
 more objects of compassion. On that single day he did 
 more acts of real charity than he had ever done in his 
 life before. 
 
 Mr. Gridley^s temporary decoration of the old school- 
 room was completed that evening. The walls were hung 
 with mirrors^ and ornamented with gilt gii'andoles^ on 
 which wax candles peeped out of green boughs. ]\Ir. 
 Crabberley surveyed the preparations with complete 
 satisfaction ; and he was standing on the top of a ladder, 
 fastening some dried flowers to the candle-holders,, when 
 the schoolroom door opened half-way, and a face 
 peeped in. 
 
 ^^Done to a mii^acle, Crabberley/^ said young Mr. 
 Meltall, advancing. Tm glad you took my ad- 
 vice; though, upon my honour, I did not mean it. 
 I hadn^t the least idea of finding such a change. I 
 just looked in to thank you for your trouble. Did, not 
 I say you could do it ? You could not have spent the 
 money better — all real, genuine cases of distress. My 
 banker was besieged to-day; and everybody found 
 whose account paid it. Fm quite famous in the town. 
 What can I do for you in return 
 
 Come and join our party to-morrow,^^ said Mr. 
 Crabberley, from the top of the ladder. Some of the 
 
ONE NEW YEAE^S EVE. 
 
 young ladies will want partners^ when we come to 
 dance/^ 
 
 FU come, Mr. Crabberley shouted the young 
 man. I should be the most ungrateful fellow in the 
 county if I refused. I will excuse myself at home. 
 1^11 tell them I am trying to get popular in the town.^^ 
 How strange V' said Mr. Crabberley, at breakfast 
 the next morning — '^1 forgot to invite Mr. Oliver, 
 the artist ; I must go to him immediately.^^ 
 
 The artist was sitting in his room alone, brooding 
 over a low fire, when Mr. Crabberley entered. 
 
 ^^A happy New Year, Mr. Oliver said his land- 
 lord. 
 
 Thank you said the artist. I^m cheerful 
 enough.^^ 
 
 ^^No, you are not,^^ said Mr. Crabberley, sharply. 
 You are moping.^^ 
 
 ^^I have had a great disappointment, Mr. Crab- 
 berley,^^ said the artist. ^^I have lost my Cornelius 
 Schuyt this morning.^^ 
 
 How was that inquired Mr. Crabberley, who had 
 the identical painting at home, and knew all about it. 
 
 ^^A fellow out-bid me, Mr. Crabberley — an old 
 lawyer, who no more knew its value than a savage 
 knows the use of a watch.^^ 
 
 Never mind said his visitor. Come to our little 
 party this afternoon, and I will make you a present of 
 a painting that you will acknowledge to be as valuable- 
 as your Cornelius Schuyt.^^ 
 
 The artist smiled faintly, and shook his head. But 
 
156 
 
 ONE JsHEW YEAE^S EVE. 
 
 Mr. Crabberley pressed him so long^ that he promised 
 at last to come. 
 
 A little after dark^ the Chobley musicians^ headed 
 by Mr. Godby — whose harangue had been so unce- 
 remoniously arrested a night or two before Christ- 
 mas — arrived in such neat apparel^ that old Mar- 
 garet took them for a party of guests. They placed 
 themselves upon the platform ; and Mr. Godby^ turn- 
 ing up his wristbands^ prepared to direct them. Mr* 
 Chilcote and his sisters arrived next^ followed by his 
 assistant. Then came Mr. Wrench^ the medical student^ 
 with his aunt. Mr. Meltall arrived last^ having had 
 much difficulty in escaping from what he called the 
 humdrum set at Meltall House.'^ Mr. Oliver^ the 
 artist^ was there^ looking somewhat serious. Mrs. 
 Boker had been respectably attired^ and enlisted in 
 the band of supernumerary servants. All the com- 
 pany had arrived at nine o^ clocks and the feasting 
 and dancing had made great progress before mid- 
 night. Mr. Chilcote danced with Alice so many sets^ 
 that everybody foresaw a more lasting partnership 
 between them. Mr. Meltall employed all his London 
 arts to fascinate the company; and Mr. Crabberley 
 was indefatigable in promoting the happiness of his 
 guests. He tendered a public apology to the mu- 
 sicians of East Chobley^ for his churlish interruption 
 of Mr. Godby's harangue^ and delighted that exqui- 
 site performer on the flageolet by requesting him to 
 continue his speech at the point where he broke off. 
 In the course of the evenings he drew the artist aside 
 
ONE NEW YEAE^S EVE. 
 
 157" 
 
 to look at the picture which, he had mentioned ; and 
 when he removed the veil, Mr. Oliver saw that his 
 present was the very Cornelius Schuyt that he had 
 coveted ; after which, Mr. Oliver became more 
 cheerful, and danced many quadrilles and country 
 dances with the medical student^s aunt. Listen 
 exclaimed Mr. Crabberley, throwing up the windows^ 
 as the clock was on the stroke of twelve. The violins 
 and flageolets ceasedt — the dancers stopped in the 
 middle of a tune — and every one stood listening, as if 
 one magic word had suddenly fixed the whole scene, 
 silent and motionless as a great picture. Softly drop- 
 ping and swelling out, as on the night when Mr. Crab- 
 berley relieved the poor consumptive patient, the merry 
 bells began to peal. To every one, they seemed to 
 speak of their dearest and most secret hopes. 
 
 Mr. Crabberley listened attentively till the dancers 
 clapped their hands, the windows were closed, the violins 
 and flageolets began, and the great picture started 
 into life again. And thus, for many an hour after mid - 
 night, the musicians of East Chobley played ; and the 
 company danced and sang, and played forfeits, and 
 cracked jokes, and made witty speeches, and drank the 
 health of the host and his daughter, wishing many 
 a happy return of that New Yeau^s Eve ! 
 
 t 
 
A NIGHT OF TORTURES. 
 
 Sir Josiah Child^ a wise and great man in liis ge- 
 neration^ sending out instructions from the East India 
 Company^ in the reign of King Charles the Second^ 
 imperiously told Mr. Vaux that he expected his orders 
 were to be his rules^ and not the laws of England; 
 which were a heap of nonsense compiled by a few igno- 
 rant country gentlemen^ who hardly knew how to 
 make laws for the government of their own private 
 families^ much less for the regulating of companies and 
 foreign commerce. 
 
 Other persons^ not so learned or so wise as Sir 
 Josiah^ came to a similar conclusion for cogent reasons. 
 The farmers of Sussex^ for instance^ found it simply 
 impossible to live unless they were allowed to export the 
 wool of the sheep that fed upon their great downs ; and 
 even the most respectable of them became participators 
 in a very peculiar kind of smugglings which consisted 
 in getting prohibited goods out of the kingdom. This 
 owling trade^ as it was called^ became regularly or- 
 ganised in defiance of the law^ and was carried on to a 
 vast extent in Romney marshes and along the Sussex 
 coast. The smugglers trusted the farmers^ and the 
 farmers trusted the smugglers. A kind of code of 
 
A NIGHT OF TORTURES. 
 
 Page 158. 
 
A NIGHT OF TORTUUES. 
 
 159 
 
 honour^ or local morals^ was established among them, 
 and was rarely infringed on. In such a state of things 
 — the direct creation of a foolish legislature — the re- 
 venue-officer who interfered with their business became 
 naturally, in the people^s eyes, the evil doer ; while the 
 free trader, as he was then generally called, was con- 
 sidered the friend of all. So widely and deeply had 
 these feelings taken root in these parts a century and 
 more ago, that there was scarcely a farmer, a tradesman, 
 a clergyman, or a gentleman, who had not actively sym- 
 pathised with the unlawful trade. 
 
 A curious and instructive evidence of the degree in 
 which this spirit had spread and corrupted the minds 
 of the people, is to be found in the history of the 
 murder of Daniel Chater and William Galley, which 
 occurred in the neighbourhood in the year one thousand 
 seven hundred and forty- seven, and which I will now 
 relate with strict adherence to the facts, as sworn to at 
 the trials of the murderers. 
 
 In September of that year, one John Dymond^ a 
 shepherd, and, no doubt, an agent for others, agreed 
 with a number of smugglers to go over from the Sussex 
 coast to the island of Guernsey, to smuggle a large 
 quantity of tea. The smugglers named their price, 
 and proceeded, like business-men, to execute their com- 
 mission ; but unusual ill-luck befel them. On the way 
 back, they fell in with a revenue cutter, which gave 
 chase. They were forced to run their vessel ashore, and 
 abandon her; and the revenue-officers, though they 
 captured no men — ^and were not likely to capture any 
 
160 
 
 A NIGHT OF TORTURES. 
 
 men while a farm-house or other Im^king place could 
 be found in the country— carried the vessel into the 
 port of Poole in Dorse tshire_, and lodged its cargo in 
 the custom-house there. 
 
 Such an interference with the trade of the neighbour- 
 hood did not fail to cause considerable excitement. The 
 ladies^ lace_, the landed gentleman^s claret^ might be 
 cut off next ; nay^ the very rents of his tenants might 
 be wanting ; for_, though at every burial the deceased 
 was declared on oath to be buried in woollen dead clothes^ 
 Sussex farmers could still find no sufficient demand 
 for their fleeces without sending them abroad. Some- 
 things it was clear^ ought to be done; and^ although 
 the respectable portion of the population were disin- 
 clined to be the first to move^ the bold smugglers of 
 the county might safely reckon upon public sympathy^ 
 in any reasonable attempt to administer a lesson to the 
 common enemy. 
 
 Towards the end of the month, a body of smugglers, 
 to the amount of sixty and upwards, held a night meet- 
 ing by torchlight in a solitary part of Charlton forest. 
 All were well provided with fire-arms, and Dymond, the 
 nominal proprietor of the seized cargo, was there. At 
 this meeting a plan was arranged. Accordingly on the 
 night between the 6th and 7th of the next month they 
 X^roceeded to act. They appear to have had little fear 
 of anything save a company of soldiers ; who, being but 
 lately posted in the neighbourhood, might be supposed 
 to be wanting in sympathy with the general feeling of 
 the inhabitants. To meet this difficulty, portions of 
 
A NIGHT or TORTUEES. 
 
 161 
 
 the gang were stationed at different places on tlie road 
 to secure a retreat ; and about thirty of the number^ 
 well armed^ marched boldly into the town of Poole^ 
 seized and pinioned the revenue-officers^ and broke into 
 the custom-house. Here^ to their great joy^ they found 
 the whole of their cargo of tea — about thirteen or four- 
 teen hundred weight — a quantity in those days of very 
 large value. This^ in the midst of a large town^ and by 
 a bright moon^ they loaded on pack-horses^ and then 
 rode leisurely away through the streets and along the 
 high-road. Nor could anybody afterwards find the 
 men^ or guess their names^ or say whose were the 
 horses^ or trace one ounce of the tea_, or discover any 
 onC;, far or near^ who had seen anything or knew any- 
 thing whatever of these proceedings. The lawyer 
 shrugged his shoulders; the farmer laughed a horse 
 laugh ; the landed gentleman winked over his claret at 
 his guest. His Majesty^s proclamation^ posted up at 
 toll-gates and on fences^ was torn down or daubed with 
 mud. The local code of morals was honorably observed. 
 Somebody may have had information to give^ but no 
 mouth was opened to give it. 
 
 Yes ; there lived at that time at Fordingbridge^ in 
 Hampshire^ close adjoining^ a shoemaker named Daniel 
 Chater ; one of those unsocial men who are out of tune 
 with the spirit of their time and neighbourhood — or^ 
 let us not be too hard — he may have been poor^ a dis- 
 traint for rent may have been hanging over him ; money^ 
 by a certain day and hour^ may have been absolutely 
 necessary to save him from ruin and disgrace. This 
 
 11 
 
162 
 
 A NIGHT OF TORTUllES. 
 
 man knew Dymond ; and it happened that the smug- 
 gling escort passed at daylight^ after the breaking open 
 of the custom-house, through Fordingbridge. How 
 little Dymond imagined that any one man in that vil- 
 lage would be so base as to betray the party is evi- 
 denced by a touching circumstance. Seeing Chater 
 standing in his little garden by the roadside, Dymond 
 stopped one of the horses, dismounted, and shaking 
 hands with his acquaintance over the fence, conversed 
 with him for a moment. Dymond then drove on with 
 the rest of the gang. After the king^s proclamation 
 was out, a suspicion had, somehow or other, arisen 
 against Dymond ; Chater then recalled this fact, and 
 felt no doubt that he was one of the party. Chater ac- 
 cordingly opened a correspondence with the custom- 
 house officers, one of whom, a Mr. William Galley, was 
 despatched with a letter to Major Batten, a Sussex 
 justice of the peace, with instructions to pass through 
 Pordingbridge, and take Daniel Chater with him, keep- 
 ing their business secret, as they hoped to escape the 
 vengeance of the neighbourhood. 
 
 The shoemaker and his companion rode away quietly 
 through the Sussex lanes, taking counsel with no one, 
 till they came to Chichester, where they were forced to 
 inquire after Major Batten. Here they heard that the 
 justice of the peace was at Stanstead, near Rowland 
 Castle. To this place they accordingly set out, going 
 through Leigh, where they met some respectable men 
 named Austin, and asked of them their way. The 
 Austins were going in the same direction, and offered 
 
A NIGHT OP TOETUEES. 
 
 16S 
 
 to direct them. All this had caused delay; and, in 
 asking after Major Batten, they had been compelled to 
 reveal their destination to several persons — a revelation 
 which^, if the officer should happen to be known to any 
 one in that part, would have been dangerous. But the 
 officer had come from Southampton, many miles off, 
 and had no apprehensions. Their prudent course, 
 however, was clearly to go on without delay upon their 
 business; but, coming into the village of Rowland 
 Castle on the Sunday about noon, and being hot and 
 weary, they stopped at the White Hart, a good inn kept 
 by Elizabeth Payne, widow, who had two sons, black- 
 smiths, in the same village. Payne is still a common 
 name in these parts, and Widow Payne^s family had no 
 doubt too deep a root in the neighbourhood to be 
 without the common feeling of the place and time. 
 She had her misgivings about these men. One of them, 
 at least, was a good judge of rum. While the two new 
 comers were eating and drinking, she called Austin, 
 their recent guide, aside, and told him she was afraid 
 they were come to do the smugglers hurt.^^ This 
 offensive suspicion had never crossed the mind of 
 Austin. He told her they were going to Major Batten^s 
 — that he did not suspect any harm, for they were 
 merely carrying a letter to the Major.^' 
 
 This, however, only convinced Widow Payne of the 
 correctness of her surmises, and she privately sent one 
 of her blacksmith sons, who was then in the house, for 
 two men named William Jackson and William Carter, 
 who lived hard by. While the son was gone Chater 
 
164 
 
 A NTGHT OP TOUTURES. 
 
 and Galley wanted to be goings and asked for their 
 horses; but Mrs. Payne told them that the man was 
 gone out with the key of the stables_, and would be home 
 shortly^ which^ it is supposed^ was but a trick of hers to 
 occasion delay. As soon as Jackson came in he called 
 for a pot of hot/^ and while that was getting ready, 
 Carter arrived. Mrs. Payne immediately took them 
 aside_, and told them her suspicions concerning the two 
 strangers, who were going with a letter to Major Batten. 
 She then advised George Austin to go away about his 
 business, telling him as she respected him, he, had 
 better go, and not loiter about, lest he should come to 
 some harm.^^ Upon this hint he promptly went away. 
 
 Things soon began to look still more ominous for the 
 ofl&cer and his friend ; but, with a strange infatuation, 
 they lingered, drinking while waiting for the stable key. 
 So far from taking alarm at the number of men who 
 now came dropping in one after the other, they con- 
 gratulated themselves on finding so much good com- 
 pany, and smoked and drank till their business almost 
 faded from their minds. Dusk was coming on, and, 
 although not drunk, they were hardly in a fit condition 
 to deliver themselves on important business to a mili- 
 tary gentleman, and a justice of the peace. Chater 
 grew sleepy-eyed, and talked foolishly about himself 
 and his own cleverness, and of what great men had been 
 shoemakers. Jackson, taking advantage of this, walked 
 with him into the garden, and asked him how he did, 
 and where Dymond, the shepherd, was. Chater said he 
 believed he was in custody, but where or how he did 
 
A NIQHT OF TORTURES. 
 
 165 
 
 not know ; adding like a fool^ as indeed the drink had 
 made him^ that he was going to appear against him^ 
 which he was sorry for^ but could not help it/^ 
 
 Galley soon after came into the garden^ suspecting 
 that Jackson was persuading him not to persist in 
 giving information against the smugglers^ and upon 
 Galley^s desiring his friend to come in^ J ackson said, 
 ^'^ What is that to you and, being a powerful man^ he 
 struck the unfortunate revenue -officer a blow, which 
 set his mouth and nose bleeding, and knocked him down. 
 Galley then incautiously said he was the king^s officer. 
 Jackson replied, with another oath, " You a king^s 
 officer! 1^11 make a king^s officer of you; and, for 
 another gill, 1^11 serve you so again/^ Offering to 
 strike him again, one of the Paynes cried, Don't be 
 such a fool j do you know what you are doing 
 
 The two strangers now became uneasy, and wanted, 
 at all risks, to be going; but Jackson, Carter, and the 
 rest of the smuggling party persuaded them to stay, 
 and drink more rum, and make it up ; for they were 
 sorry, they said, for what had happened. Night having 
 now overtaken them, it would be very inconvenient to 
 go on to their destination. They decided to stay, and 
 the party sat down again together. 
 
 It was near the time for closing the door of the 
 White Hart, but the whole of the guests remained. 
 Their number had increased — and this fact alone ought 
 to have alarmed the officer and his companion still 
 more ; but they were now fast losing all fear. Chater 
 bragged of being the only friend of the Government in 
 
166 
 
 A NIGHT OP TOETUEES 
 
 the whole neighbourhood^ and talked of bringing down? 
 the smugglers very soon ; and^ sometimes^ in his foolish 
 eyes^ the room became a court of law^ in which he held 
 forth^ to a misty-looking judge and jury^ upon the 
 wickedness of smuggling ; for, blinded by his drunken 
 folly, he did not see the darkening faces of the men 
 about him, nor note the ominous silence in which they 
 listened to his vague words. Nor was Galley more 
 sober, although, with the habitual prudence of his pro- 
 fession, he nudged his friend from time to time, and. 
 bade him hold his tongue. In this state, the two were 
 at last led up to bed. 
 
 And now the White Hart doors are closed ; the place 
 is silent, and the lights are out, save in one room — the 
 room in which the strangers had been sitting — where 
 the company that they had left there still lingered, 
 not a man of them offering to stir. Something was in 
 the minds of all; although, perhaps, even the most 
 daring knew not exactly what was to be done. Nor 
 did any vision visit the two strangers, with a sudden 
 shudder through the blood, to rouse them from their 
 drunken sleep, or warn them of the horrors of that night. 
 
 After a while, two of the gang stole upstairs, listening; 
 at the door. Hearing the snoring of the sleeping men,. 
 they entered the room. Here they found Galley and 
 Chater, lying in their clothes upon their bed ; and, 
 gently moving Chater, who was much too sound asleep 
 to heed them, they took from his pocket the letter to 
 the justice. This was quietly brought down, and read 
 in the kitchen to the smugglers, to whom it revealed 
 
A NIGHT or TOETTJllES. 
 
 167 
 
 exactly the bearer^s errand. This inflamed their rage 
 still more ; and they held a consultation as to what was 
 to be done. One proposed to take them both to a well 
 near the house^ to murder them_, and to throw them in. 
 One^ more humane^ offered to take them prisoners^ and 
 send them over to Prance ; but that was objected to, as 
 there was a probability of their coming back and 
 betraying everything. Another said, if the company 
 agreed, he would take them away to some place, where 
 they should be confined till it was known what should 
 be the fate of Dymond, the shepherd ; and, in the mean- 
 time, all should allow threepence a week to support 
 them ; determining that whatever might be Dymond^s 
 fate, theirs should be the same. But the majority were 
 in no mood for such tenderness or trifling. The wives 
 of both J ackson and Carter were present, and Jackson^s 
 wife sprang up, and, with a furious gesture, exclaimed, 
 " Hang them like dogs ! Don^t they come to hang us 
 But even this was far from satisfying their cruel pur- 
 pose. 
 
 Jackson began the movement. He went up into the 
 room in which the two men were lying, and having 
 deliberately fastened a large pair of spurs on his 
 horseman^s boots, he sprang upon the bed, and began 
 to strike the sleepers on the face and forehead with the 
 rowels, till they were covered with blood ; beating them 
 at the same time with a short, thick horsewhip, and 
 calling upon them to get up. The unfortunate men 
 sprang out of bed, and found themselves seized at once, 
 and dragged down into the room below. Prayers for 
 
168 
 
 A NIGHT OP TORTURES. 
 
 mercy brought them only oaths and blows, and warnings 
 to be silent. The smugglers then took them out of the 
 house ; but one of their number returned^ with a pistol 
 cocked in his hand^ and swore that he would shoot 
 through the head any person who should mention what 
 he had seen or heard. 
 
 Meanwhile^ having taken their horses from the stable^ 
 and stripped the two men of their coats (which were 
 found afterwards stained with blood by the roadside), 
 they placed them both upon one of the horses^ tying 
 their legs together under his belly ; Jackson having 
 asked particularly for a belt, or a cord for that pur- 
 pose. In this condition they proceeded a little way, 
 when Jackson, who was like a furious maniac, cried 
 out, Whip ^em, cut ^em, slash ^em, damn ^em.^^ And 
 then all fell upon them with whips, save the one who 
 was leading the horse ; for the roads were so bad that 
 they were obliged to go slowly. Thus they tortured the 
 men till they came to Woodash, which was only half a 
 mile from the place where they began. Here their 
 victims, writhing with the pain, fell oflP, with their heads 
 under the horse ; their legs, which were tied, appearing 
 over the back. When their tomentors found this, they 
 set them upright again, and continued whipping them 
 over the head, face, and shoulders, till they came to 
 Dean, about half a mile further ; the horse still going 
 at a very slow pace, and stumbling over the rutty-broken 
 roads, which increased their agony. Here they slipped, 
 and fell under the horse, as before^ with their feet in 
 the air. 
 
A NIGHT OP TOETUEES. 
 
 169 
 
 This time^ however^ they were too weak to sit upon 
 the horse at all ; upon which their tormentors separated 
 them^ and two of the smugglers mounted upon the 
 horses^ one took Chater^ and the other Galley^ on his 
 back^ where the torture was continued^ till the two 
 smugglers^ themselves receiving some of the blows^ 
 called out to the others to desist. All this time Jackson 
 rode beside the two men^ with a pistol cocked^ swearing 
 that if they groaned loudly_, he would blow their brains 
 out. They then agreed to go up with them to Harrises 
 well_, in Ladyholt Park_, which was the property of John 
 Caryll^ a Catholic gentleman^ and a friend of the poet 
 Pope. Here they took Galley from the horse^ meaning 
 to throw him down into the well. The wretched man 
 rejoiced at this^ begging them to dispatch him at once. 
 But the fiend Jackson said^ with a fearful oath^ No ! 
 If that^s the case^ we must have something more 
 to say to you.^^ They then put him on the horse 
 again^ and whipped him over the downs^ till he fell off 
 once more^ and they laid him across the saddle with his 
 breast downwards^ as a butcher does a calf^ and one 
 squeezed him in a way so horribly cruel^ that the poor 
 fellow groaned very much_, and cried aloud that he could 
 not bear it; and at last said^ '^I am fallings I am 
 falling.^^ One of the gang^ giving him a push_, he fell 
 heavily, and some thought he had broken his necky 
 and was dead ; although^, from a horrible circumstance 
 afterwards discovered^ it was known that he was not. 
 
 It should not be forgotten, in considering these bar- 
 barities as an indication of the feeling against the 
 
170 
 
 A NIGHT OF TORTURES. 
 
 revenue-officers in those days^ that not one of these 
 men had any direct interest in the case of Djrmond 
 and the smuggled tea^ which had been taken out of 
 the custom-house at Poole, a place further distant from 
 them than London, and separated by a whole county. 
 Nor were they, in the usual sense, smugglers, or im- 
 porters of smuggled goods ; but were only persons in- 
 terested in smuggling more or less. 
 
 Supposing Galley to be dead, they then laid him 
 upon a horse ; and, as they were going up a dirty lane, 
 one said, Let us seek a place to carry them to.^' So 
 little were they afraid of witnesses, that they went to 
 the house of one Pescod, and, knocking at the door, 
 the daughter came down ; when they said they had got 
 two men whom they wanted to bring into the house. 
 The gui told them her father was ill. But they insist- 
 ing that she should go up and ask him to let them in ; 
 she did, and brought down word that her father would 
 suffer nobody to be brought there ; and the men re- 
 turned to their companions. 
 
 It was now some hours past midnight ; the weather 
 being very raw and cold. Coming to the tillage of 
 Keeke, they went boldly and knocked up the landlord of 
 the Red Lion there, and his family, who came down 
 and made them a fire, and got them food. They told 
 the landlord that they had had an engagement with 
 some officers, had lost their tea, and were afraid that 
 several of their people were killed. The body of Galley 
 they kept concealed in a brewhouse at the back of the 
 premises, ^^hen they had refreshed themselves, they 
 
A NIGHT OF TORTURES. 
 
 171 
 
 went away ; but one of them shortly afterwards came 
 back to the landlord and asked him if he could find out 
 a place hard by where he had before concealed some 
 goods. The landlord said he remembered it,, but he 
 could not go with them. The smugglers insisted he 
 should ; and they then took a candle^ a lantern^ and a 
 spade, and went away together, and joined the rest. 
 Coming to the spot they were in search of — a miry 
 hollow, deep down among briars and withered leaves — 
 they began to dig a hole, the landlord of the Red Lion 
 working with them. His excuse afterwards was, that 
 
 it being a very cold morning, he helped, and did not 
 think what it was for.^^ Into this hole they hastily 
 thrust the body of Galley, all cut and bruised, and in 
 his blood-stained clothes — dead, as they thought him ; 
 but a terrible evidence was afterwards found that, even 
 now, some life remained, for his hands were discovered 
 held up to his face, as if to keep the dirt, as they 
 shovelled it upon him, out of his mouth and eyes. 
 
 Thus did poor Galley at length find release from hi& 
 barbarous enemies. Terrible as was his fate, however, 
 it was milder and more merciful in its speedy end than 
 that which befell the shoemaker, who had bragged at 
 the White Hart so boldly of his deeds. When they 
 had buried Galley, all the party, save two, returned to 
 the Eed Lion, and there sat eating, drinking, and 
 smoking the whole of the day. The two that had not 
 joined them were sent in charge of Daniel Chater, their 
 remaining victim ; who being the informer, and the 
 chief cause of the betrayal of the tea-smugglers, they 
 
172 
 
 A NIGHT OF TORTURES. 
 
 determined to submit to even worse torture than his 
 companion had endured. Mills^ an old man^ and his 
 companion^ accordingly took Chater to a place called a 
 skilling, or turf-house^ belonging to Mills^, in a solitary- 
 place on the border of a wood. Here they fastened 
 their prisoner by a heavy iron chain^ about three yards 
 long ; where^ all day long^ the smoke of burning peat 
 curling under his eyes and nostrils^ save when a breath 
 of wind came to his relief^ made him grievously sore^ 
 and almost choked him. On the Wednesday^ being the 
 third night after the outrage at Eowland^s Castle^ the 
 whole gang met again at the Red Lion^, to consult what 
 further cruelties to inflict on Chater^ who was still 
 alive. One of the number said^ Let us load a gun^ 
 clap the muzzle to his head^ and we will tie a long 
 string to the trigger^ when we will all of us lay hold of 
 it and pull it ! But this was rejected^ as it would 
 put him out of his pain too soon.^^ Finally^ they came 
 to the resolution of carrying him up to Harris^ s^ in 
 Ladyholt Park^ there to treat him as they had intended 
 to treat Galley. 
 
 All this while Chater was suflPering the most horrible 
 torture ; being continually visited by one or other of 
 his enemies^ who swore at him and struck him cruel 
 blows. When at length the whole party came down to 
 the turf-house^ Tapner^ one of them^ pulled out a huge 
 clasp-knife^ and dancing and gesticulating like a mad- 
 man^ rushed at the unhappy man^ who was still chained, ^ 
 crying^ Down on your knees to prayers ! The poor 
 shoemaker accordingly knelt down slowly and feebly 
 
A NIGHT OF TORTURES. 
 
 173 
 
 on the turf, and began to pray ; but^ while he was so 
 eng-aged_, one of their number went behind him and 
 kicked him^ upbraiding him for being ^^a preaching 
 villain/^ and sayings ^^We have done for Galley^ and 
 we will do for you ! Then Tapner^ without any pro- 
 vocation from the poor man — who was^ indeed^ now too 
 weak and wretched even to complain — rushed at him 
 again^ and drew his knife across his nose^ whereby he 
 almost cut both of his eyes out. Still_, the wretched 
 creature only uttered a groan^ and bent his head ; but 
 Tapner^ not yet satisfied^ rushed at him in another fit 
 of frenzy^ and struck him again^ but this time a little 
 higher^ so that the knife made a deep gash across his 
 forehead. 
 
 They then placed him on a horse,, and set out for 
 Harrises "Well^ Tapner whipping him all the way^ till 
 seeing that he was bloody^ he went up to him^ and 
 swore if the blood should stain the saddle he would 
 destroy him instantly. Thus^, in the dead of the nighty 
 they came up to the well in the park^ which was between 
 twenty and thirty feet deep^ and paled round to keep the 
 cattle from falling in. Tapner then pulled a cord out 
 of his pockety and tied it with a noose round the neck of 
 their victim^ and bade him get over the pales to the well. 
 The poor man^ scarcely unwilling to obey^ seeing an 
 opening occasioned by some decayed pales^ would have 
 gone through this^ but was prevented by the others, 
 who swore he should get over, having all the while the 
 rope round his neck, and being extremely weak. 
 
 As soon as he had got over the pales, Tapner took 
 
174 A manT op toetuees. 
 
 one end of the rope and tied it round the rail in the 
 opening where the pales were broken^ there being no 
 roller to the well^ which was dry and abandoned. They 
 then pushed him into the well; but the length of the 
 rope would not suffer his body to hang above knee-deep 
 in it^ so that the upper part appeared above the low 
 brick parapet^ hanging by the rope about the neck. 
 Here^ however^ as his body leaned against the wall^ the 
 weight did not strangle him ; and^ after a quarter of an 
 hour_, they got over^ cut the rope^ and dropped the 
 body^ head foremost^ down. They then listened, and 
 could still hear him groan. At this they went to 
 a man who was a gardener^ and woke him up^ and 
 asked him to lend them a ladder and a rope^ which he 
 did ; but they could not move the ladder^ and returned 
 without it to the well^ where they could still hear the 
 unfortunate Chater feebly moaning. At this^ they pro- 
 cured two old gate-posts that were lying on the ground 
 within the park^ which they cast down^ together with 
 some heavy stones ; when^ listening again^ they could 
 hear nothings and were satisfied that he was dead. 
 After this they killed the horse that they had stolen^ 
 took his hide off, and cut it into small pieces^ and made 
 away with them to prevent any discovery. Galley^s body 
 was not found till long after. Chater^ when discovered 
 in the well^ presented a piteous spectacle^ with the 
 rope about his neck. His eyes appeared to be cut or 
 picked out ; his boots and spurs were on^ but one of 
 his legs came short off when they lifted the body. 
 At least fifteen persons were actively engaged in these 
 
A NIGHT OF TOETURES. 
 
 175 
 
 laorrible proceedings. Many otliers had been openly 
 spectators of much that had been done^ and had ren- 
 dered assistance to the murderers^ while^ for three days, 
 they had gone about the country but the Government 
 could obtain no tidings whatever of the missing men. 
 Galley^s coat being found all blood-stained by the road- 
 side^ as we have stated, it was imagined that they had 
 been either murdered or carried abroad by the smug- 
 glers; but how no one appeared to know. A pro- 
 clamation was issued, with a large reward; but, for 
 seven months, no information was received as to who 
 were the murderers. At length, however, in the usual 
 course of such histories, a magistrate received a letter 
 from one who had witnessed some part of their pro- 
 ceedings ; and, shortly afterwards, one of the murderers 
 coming in, and voluntarily surrendering himself, pro- 
 bably from fear of the rest, he became king^s evidence, 
 and the greater number were tried and sentenced to be 
 hanged — some of them in chains. 
 
 While awaiting their execution, being all ironed and 
 stapled down and well guarded, most of them behaved 
 with extreme levity, eating and drinking regularly with- 
 out any seeming concern, and talking freely to the people 
 who, according to the custom of the time, were allowed 
 to come in and see them. One of the prisoners, an old 
 man of sixty, asked the clergyman, gaily, when he 
 thought they should be hanged. Being reproved, he 
 answered that^ According to the common course of 
 nature, he could not have lived above a year or two 
 longer ; that, as to the murder, it gave him little trou- 
 ble, as he had but small hand in it. As to the charge 
 
176 
 
 A NIGHT OF TOETURES. 
 
 of smugglings lie owned he had been concerned in that 
 trade for a great many years^ and did not think there 
 was any harm in it/^ His son said^ He was not pre- 
 sent when the murders were done ; though, if he had, he 
 should not have thought it any great crime One said, he 
 
 had had many engagements with the revenue- officers, 
 and been wounded three times/^ Another^ when told they 
 must go up to receive judgment, What a devil do they 
 mean by that ? Could not they do our whole business 
 last night, without obliging us to come again, and wear 
 out our shoes ? But there were some less hardened ; 
 and Jackson, one of the crudest of the number, was 
 no sooner measured for the chains in which he 
 was to be hung, than he was struck with such terror 
 that he died in two hours after. The old man. Mills, 
 however, was unchanged to the last. He cursed the 
 executioner for making him stand on tiptoe, and bade 
 him not hang him by inches/^ 
 
 We live in a better age ; but many foolish customs 
 are still entered into our revenue commissioners^ book, 
 violating great principles, and needlessly perpetuating 
 the smuggler's trade— duties upon articles of two or 
 three times greater amount than the value of the goods 
 themselves, most of these articles comprising, like tea 
 and brandy, a large value in a small bulk. The risk of 
 carrying such things, like all other risks, may be exactly 
 estimated and insured against, at a certain price. When 
 this price is less than the duty, smuggling, in spite of 
 custom-houses and coast-guards, will go on, the revenue 
 will be cheated, and the bold smuggler retain some 
 shadow of his old popularity. 
 
GOING HOPPING. 
 
 Loitering upon the old stone bridge over tlie 
 Medway^ in the town of Maidstone^ early in a misty 
 autumn mornings I miss the ancient church and row of 
 poplars^ which I know should be somew^here near upon 
 the left. They will not come out of their white shroud 
 until noon ; and if then^ perhaps^ only to enfold them- 
 selves in it again an hour or two later. The water 
 flows on^ smooth and noiseless^ till it splits upon the 
 sharp wedges of the piers,, and runs away whispering 
 under the arches ; but beyond this^ not a ghost of a 
 noise is abroad. AH "Maidstone is asleep^ except a 
 railway porter^ a man driving a cow who went over the 
 bridge a minute or two ago^ and myself. There may be 
 somebody up at the baths behind me : I cannot see. 
 But the old^ braised^ and battered coal-barge, moored 
 alongside the wharf, in which I believe live a man ana 
 his wife^ seems to have nobody aboard — for no smoke 
 ascends from the stove-pipe at the helm. Slowly 
 creeping down this way — a thin ghost at firsts then a 
 dusky spectre, then a green and yellow barge — comes 
 the Sarah Ann, of Aylesford. Down drops the huge 
 tawny mainsail as she steers for the middle arch, just 
 above which I am standing, leaning upon the parapet : 
 
 12 
 
178 GOING HOPPING. 
 
 and now^ with all her wings close folded, she shaves 
 to a nicety the sides of the arch. She is gone : but 
 what is this rich odour she has left behind? Not 
 spikenard nor olibanum could be more grateful to 
 my nostrils, than that rich, balmy, healthful, bitter 
 smell that floats about me now, and makes this place no 
 common bridge of stone. The Sarah Ann is freighted 
 with Kentish hops : many a precious pocket of that 
 noble plant lies down in the dark, beneath a yellow 
 tarpauling spread over her hatchway. But, like the 
 thoughts of a good man, who suff*ers imprisonment for 
 the whole world^s sake, its subtle essence steals abroad, 
 and lives in the free air. 
 
 Hops coming into my head in this manner, remind 
 me of the business of to-day : for though I have the air 
 of a veritable lounger, and though the overtasked 
 railway porter, going to his work at this early hour, 
 looked at me enviously and thought I led a nice lazy 
 life of it, I, too, have a task to accomplish. The railway 
 porter, if he knew anything of signals off the line, might 
 have known that to be astir thus early does not mean 
 idling. I have a letter in my pocket for Mr. Day^ the 
 hop-grower of East Farleigh, charging him, in the 
 sacred name of friendship, to show and make clear to 
 me everything connected with the cultivation and pre- 
 paration of hops. So, after more loitering on the 
 bridge, and more sauntering in the town (for I deem it 
 well to let my mind lie fallow a few hours, before 
 receiving that broadcast of facts with which it is to be 
 sown), I come to the bridge again, and cross the river 
 
GOING HOPPING. 
 
 179 
 
 winding through the brown and yellow woods up to 
 East Farleigh. 
 
 There are in all England some fifty or sixty thousand 
 acres of hop plantations ; and of those one-half at least 
 are in this county alone. In the oldest book I know 
 about hops (Reynolde Scot^s ^Perfite Platforme of a 
 Hoppe Garden^)^ dated 1574^ and printed in black 
 letter^ with many prefaces terminating in inverted 
 pyramids of type^ Kent is spoken of as the county of 
 hops. The system of cultivation appears to have little 
 -changed since then ; and the book^ if it were not 
 written in the style of an Act of Parliament^ and inter- 
 larded with moral reflections and allusions to every 
 poet and orator of ancient times^ might have been 
 written in the present day. Yet hops^ at that date^ 
 were but of recent cultivation. For ages^ while our 
 ancestors were wont to flavour their ale with ground 
 ivy, and honey, and various bitters, a weed called 
 " hop^^ had been known about the hedges of England ; 
 but no one thought to cultivate it for brewing until the 
 beginning of the sixteenth century. Some say the cul- 
 tivated plant came first from Flanders, where it was 
 certainly used before our brewers knew its virtues. 
 The Chinese, of course, are supposed to have known all 
 about it ages before that. In France, hop-gardens are 
 very ancient. Mention is made of them in some of the 
 oldest records, though what their hops were used for 
 does not appear. In England it had many enemies to 
 contend with at first. Slanderers said it dried up the 
 body and increased melancholy ; and though the very 
 
180 
 
 GOING HOPPING. 
 
 reverse is tlie fact^ this belief so far prevailed,, that we 
 find in the household regulations of Henry the Eighth 
 an order to the brewer not to put any more hops in the 
 beer : and at a much later period^ the Common Council 
 of the City of London petitioned Parliament against the 
 use of hops^ in regard that they would spoil the taste 
 of the drink^ and endanger the people/^ 
 
 There are not five parishes in Kent— large or small 
 — that have so many acres of hops as this little parish 
 of East Farleigh^ where I am going. There is no place 
 in all England whose hops will fetch a better price — not 
 excepting Earnham^ in Hampshire^ whose patch of hop 
 plantation^ standing almost alone in the county^ has 
 slightly lost its reputation as the queen of hop-gardens^ 
 since its limits have been extended into a less favorable 
 soil. At East Farleigh dwelt t^ie Rothschild of hop- 
 growers^ whose hop-poles alone were said to be worth 
 fifty thousand pounds ; and there dwell his descendants 
 stilly though their grounds are little more than a 
 tithe of his. The luxuriance of hops about here is a 
 puzzle to theoretical agriculturists. Though rich 
 mould^'^ .says Bannister, generally produces a larger 
 growth of hops than other soils, there is one exception 
 to this rule, where the growth is frequently eighteen or 
 twenty hundred per acre. This is the neighbourhood 
 of Maidstone, a kind of slaty ground with an under- 
 stratum of stone. There the vines run up to the top of 
 the longest poles, and the increase is equal to the most 
 fertile soil of any kind.^^ 
 
 Hops, in England, invariably grow up poles. In the 
 
GOING HOPPING. 
 
 181 
 
 north of Prance tliey are sometimes made to creep upon 
 copper wires^ ranged horizontally, like the lines of the 
 electric telegraph; but Kentish farmers, when they hear 
 of it, shake their heads. These poles stand in groups 
 of three or four, at a distance of about six or seven feet 
 apart ; and nearly three thousand (worth, if good ones 
 about seventy-five pounds) are required for an acre of 
 ground. In some coimties, hops are set between fruit 
 trees in orchards ; and penny wise and pound foolish 
 growers will plant vegetables between the poles ; but 
 Kentish growers know that the hop requires all the 
 strength of the soil, and rigidly exclude everything that 
 could impoverish it, except in the first two years after 
 planting, when the bines never produce any flowers worth 
 picking. The only plant cultivated is the female hop ; 
 the male species, sometimes called blind hop,^^ being 
 of no value ; though it is said that if the male hop were 
 excluded from the garden, the flowers throughout the 
 ground would be wanting in that yellow powder called 
 the ^^farina,^^ or condition,^^ which is their chief 
 virtue. For this reason, one male hop plant in every 
 hundred groups is generally planted. Of the hop cul- 
 tivated there are eight or ten varieties, of which that 
 called /^Goldings^^ is the best; but this, from its very 
 luxuriance, is subject to diseases which poorer but more 
 hardy kinds will escape. Some of each sort are, there- 
 fore, generally planted ; though the spirit of gambling 
 which pervades this branch of farming will induce 
 others to run the risk of growing only the better 
 kind. After that well-known Natural History, in 
 
183 
 
 GOING HOPPING. 
 
 whicli Mr. Mavor shows how the horse^ from his mane 
 to his hoofs^ is ^Wery useful to man/' I may here men- 
 tion that the young shoots of the hop plant are eaten 
 as a substitute for asparagus ; that an infusion of its 
 flowers will dye wool yellow; and that from the stalks, 
 dressed in the manner of flax^ a strong cloth is made 
 in Sweden ; so that some genius among hop-growers 
 may one day turn the bines which are now wasted into 
 hop-pockets; and may make the stalks carry the 
 flowers to market. An enthusiastic writer^ who calls 
 it a very elegant balsamic bitter/^ declares that it 
 may be employed medicinally in the shape of powders, 
 tinctures, extracts, infusions, decoctions, conserves, 
 plain and compound pills, juleps, and apozems; and 
 that under one or other of those forms, it will infallibly 
 cure hypochondria, cleanse kidneys, restore livers, 
 purify blood, remove spleen, stop colic, kill worms, 
 dispel jaundice, eradicate scurvy, and destroy gout, 
 regular or atonic. If only half of this is true, no one 
 can deny that the hop plant is very useful to man.^^ 
 Its flowers, however, are known to be a powerful sopo- 
 rific. A pillow of hops recommended for the late King 
 George the Third, in his illness of 1787, was found to 
 produce sleep when all other means had failed : a secret 
 which was not known to his ancestor King Henry the 
 Fourth, when he uttered that beautiful soliloquy upon 
 sleep which was heard by some good spirit in the lonely 
 sick chamber, who afterwards whispered it to the poet 
 that it might not be lost. 
 
 Emerging from the woods, just as the mists ar& 
 
GOING HOPPING. 
 
 183 
 
 creeping away, and the sun is turning from a dull red 
 ball of fire to something like itself again, I see nothing 
 but hops on each side of the river. All up the sides of 
 the valley their heavy clusters, topping the high poles, 
 peep one over the other, like spectators^ heads in the 
 pit of a theatre. And now I spy the stone bridge with 
 its four pointed arches, where water, running down the 
 wooden flooring of an inclined plane, foams and roars 
 all day and all night ; though a little girl at a cottage 
 tells me she cannot hear it at times — losing it by long 
 habit, as you lose the ticking of a clock in a room, by 
 listening to it. And there, a few yards above the bridge, 
 struggling for a place among the hop-grounds, stands 
 the old church of East Farleigh, like three barns with a 
 pointed spire. And here I stop, and leave the river to 
 wind away and hide itself in a perfect forest of hop 
 plantations. 
 
 While my host runs his eye along the lines of my 
 letter, I read in his face that the sacred name of friend- 
 ship will not have been invoked in vain. He does not 
 think of hinting that Saturday is a busy day ; but, on 
 the contrary, congratulates me upon having chosen that 
 day, as presenting some features in hop-picking not to 
 be seen on any other. So we walk together through 
 the hop-garden, where the strong bitter odour and the 
 bright yellow of the clusters, tell that they are ripe, till 
 we come to a stubble-field, and find the pickers at work 
 upon the borders of the plantation. Men, women, and 
 children all pick hops. This is why this employment is 
 preferred by those wandering bands who cut hay in the 
 
184 
 
 GOING HOPPING. 
 
 spring and corn in the summer^ and in the winter 
 live^ or die^ no one knows where. But these are 
 by no means the only class that come hopping. 
 Labom*erSj costermongers^ factory girls^ shirt-makers^ 
 fishermen^s boys^ watermen^ and^ they tell me^ even 
 clerks out of employment^ all throng the Kentish high- 
 ways at this time^ attracted by the opportunity of 
 earning a couple of shillings per day ; and still the cry 
 is more ; and the farmer^ in plentiful seasons^ is fre- 
 quently embarrassed for want of hands. 
 
 Pickers of hops escape their soporific influence. 
 There is no going to sleep with them; though they 
 handle and smell and breathe hops from dawn till 
 sunset. The man who^ with his instrument — which he 
 calls a hop-dog, because it is a hook on one side and 
 a knife on the other (he cannot tell me any better 
 reason) — cuts the bine about the roots, and then hooks 
 up pole, bine, and all, and lays it across the pickers^ 
 bins, has enough to do to keep ten pickers supplied. A 
 sullen-looking girl — her hair growing low down her 
 forehead — grumbles at being kept waiting a moment. 
 So does another young woman, who has brought her 
 infant family with her in a covered child^s waggon — 
 urged on by a surly murmur from a wild young man, 
 with white hair and eyebrows, who speaks a brogue 
 which is neither Irish, Scotch, Yorkshire, nor West 
 country, and who, being asked, What countryman are 
 you replies with a noise in his throat sounding like 
 Gurz^n,^^ and then grins ; and being asked again. 
 Where that is answers Gurz^n,^' and grins again : 
 
GOING HOPPING. 185 
 
 after which the questioner gives up all hope of dis- 
 covering what countryman he is. But a merry old 
 woman^ with a red face^ says something which I did 
 not catchy and everybody laughs^ and good humour is 
 restored. Meanwhile the cutter makes a desperate 
 attack upon the poles ; felling them so fast that he has 
 time to pull out a handkerchief and rub the perspiration 
 from his forehead ; and the surly young woman admits 
 that he is keepin' the pot a-bilin and now everybody 
 is busy. Down comes a hop-pole^ and away goes a 
 swift hand up it^ plucking the flowers into a canvas bin 
 upon a wooden frame^ carefully avoiding the leaves till 
 it gets near the top of the pole^ when with one stroke it 
 rubs off all that remain,, the few little green leaves at 
 top doing no harm. The pole^ with the bine stripped 
 of its flowers^ is then thrown aside^ just as the cutter^ 
 who has served eight or nine in the interval^ drops 
 another pole across the bin. Each of these bins^ I am 
 told^ holds fifteen or twenty bushels^ which is as much 
 as the fastest hand can pick in a day. The lower parts 
 of the poles — which are rotted by being in the earth — 
 are then cut away^ and the poles will be carefully 
 stacked to serve for shorter plants next year. 
 
 Here are the oast-houses — most of them brick-built 
 and perfectly circular up to a height of fourteen or 
 fifteen feet^ whence they terminate in a cone^ sur- 
 mounted by a cowled chimney^ peculiarly shaped^ to 
 allow the vapour from the hops to escape. To what 
 shall I compare them (for form^ though not for size) if 
 not to those curiously clipped holly-trees in the front 
 
186 
 
 GOING HOPPING. 
 
 garden of my friend Lilypaynter at Twickenham, 
 which, he says (being a little eccentric), were meant to 
 represent peacocks. If they had been peacocks, who 
 should say how he would have clipped their plumage to 
 represent holly-trees? But that has nothing to do 
 with hops. Some of the oast-houses are square — but 
 ^hat shape is old-fashioned — and some are long ; for no 
 two farmers agree in any one particular as to the treat- 
 ment of hops. Even as to furnaces opinions are so 
 diverse, and are supported by such well-balanced testi- 
 mony, that T find all kinds of stoves here. Entering at 
 a narrow aperture, and darting past the fire, through a 
 heat that would roast me if I stood still in it, I find 
 myself in a circular chamber about eighteen feet in 
 diameter. In the midst, or rather, nearer to the aper- 
 ture, a clear fire of coke and charcoal burns with thin 
 hovering flames, melting into air. Dipping his hand 
 into a barrel, my conductor brings up some rolls of 
 brimstone ; and, casting them on the fire, a bright blue 
 glare lights up the chamber and the faces of all present. 
 This is found to give a livelier colour to the hops, and 
 is everywhere, except at Farnham, adopted; colour — 
 although it is said to be not really a sign of strength — 
 being arbitrarily insisted on by the purchaser. He 
 knows you do it with brimstone, but he does not care 
 how you do it, so that the hops look bright. With a 
 slightly disagreeable taste in the throat, I escape into 
 the next oast-house. Here the fire is enclosed in a 
 sort of oven, quite hidden from sight. In anotlier, I 
 find it in a brick stove with apertures for the escape 
 
GOING HOPPING. 
 
 187 
 
 of heat; contrived by omitting a brick here and 
 there. These apertures are called horses but^ 
 like the bine-cntter^s hop-dog/' the origin of the 
 name is doubtful. Here is a different kind of stove^ 
 in which the fire is closely shut up^ and the heated 
 air is confined and carried up to the drying-floor by 
 an inverted hollow cone^ formed of laths and clay, and 
 lined inside with smooth tiles. 
 
 Walking out into the open air again, we mount a 
 ladder to the cooling-room attached to the oast-house. 
 On a circular floor, about fifty-six feet in circumference, 
 formed of strong wire netting, and covered with coarse 
 hair cloth, through which the warm air ascends, the 
 hop-flowers lie to a depth of two or three feet. One 
 thousand and fifty pounds^ weight of green hops are here 
 drying at once ; but through the little aperture at the top 
 of this sugar-loaf chamber, some eight hundred and fifty 
 pounds of this weight will evaporate into air, so that a 
 day^s work of the fastest picker, weighing a hundred 
 pounds when green, will scarcely weigh twenty when 
 dry. The air is only moderately warm; but the 
 grower, by long experience (for nothing else will make 
 a hop-drier), knows without any thermometer that it is 
 exactly the proper heat — considering the weather, the 
 state of the hops, and a dozen other things. The 
 drying never ceases during the time of picking, and is 
 one of the most difficult branches of the preparation. 
 A man must watch them day and night, turning them 
 frequently, until the stalks look shrivelled, and burying 
 his arms deep in the hops, he feels them to be dry* 
 
188 
 
 GOING HOPPING. 
 
 This is generally after eight or twelve hours^ ^^^yi^ig^ 
 after which they are shovelled through the little door 
 on to the adjoining eooling-floor to make room for 
 more. 
 
 On the cooling-floor^ I find a man stitching liop- 
 pockets_, whom the method of my narrative compelled me 
 to overlook when I passed him just now. He is working 
 on canvas hung over a line^ with needles that would 
 not go through any button-hole in the world. These 
 hop-pockets are not so coarse as an unjust proverb 
 would have them. Into these pockets the hops are 
 tightly wedged ; and — dusted from head to foot with 
 the yellow powder of the hops — a man in a blouse 
 (which used to be blue before hopping beganj is con- 
 tinually passing to and fro^ wheeling a single pocket at 
 a time upon a long trucks from the steps of the cooling- 
 loft to a pair of great scales in an open shed. Here 
 stands the supervisor^ the representative of Her Ma- 
 jesty^s Board of Inland Revenue. He is a very stout, 
 red-faced man, with a white hat, and a brown velvet 
 shooting-jacket, and carries a small bunch of hops in 
 his mouth. He holds a book in his hand full of lines 
 and figures, red and black, and looks very cross ; as one 
 who, by the stern expression of his features, would warn 
 off all attempts at bribery of any kind. Not so his 
 lean, but equally red-faced assistant ; though, perhaps, 
 not less incorruptible because he twits the farmer 
 with making his fortune out of hops, and calls himself 
 a poor devil, laughing very heartily, as if he liked 
 being a poor devil, and only pretended to envy the 
 
GOING HOPPING. 
 
 money-making hop-grower. He generally comes alone^ 
 but now and then^ as a check upon kim^ the stout 
 superior drops in^ unexpectedly^ and re-weighs what 
 he has booked. One by one^ the great pockets are 
 rolled into the scale and rolled out again^ and laid 
 all in a row like bloated porpoises — the handles at 
 the corners being the two short sprawling fins. Then 
 my conductor^ to expedite matters (though this is 
 the exciseman's business)^ bestrides one of the por- 
 poises^ and with a basin of ink in one hand^ and a 
 small painting brush in the other^ cries out^ Num- 
 ber The supervisor refers to his book^ and answers^ 
 
 One hundred and fifty and those three figures are 
 drawn upon the animal's back^ a little above the snout. 
 
 Weight ^^One^ two^ twelve.''^ Down goes one 
 hundred weighty two quarters^ twelve pounds. Next^ 
 in letters four inches long (according to the statute)^ 
 he adds his own i^ame and parish^ and the date^ with 
 an indignant allusion to an act intended to be passed 
 last session ; which^ abolishing this part of the cere- 
 mony^ would have robbed Farleigh hops of their glory 
 in the market. Next comes one hundred and fifty- 
 one : — weighty one^ two^ ten. One hundred and fifty- 
 two : — weighty one, two, eleven. Tinally, the supervisor 
 (checking the figures) takes the brush, and iparks a 
 cross upon the seam of the mouth of the sack, to pre- 
 vent frauds on the Government by afterwards squeezing 
 in more hops. This is called sealing,^' which being 
 done, he closes his book with the intention of calling 
 in six months' time for a duty of one penny and twelve 
 
100 
 
 GOING HOPPING. 
 
 twentieths of a fartMng per pound weight. This is 
 called the old duty. The new duty of three farthings 
 and eight twentieths of a farthing (making up twopence), 
 and the additional duty of five per cent., will not be 
 applied for till long after next yearns hops are picked. 
 
 Not yet, however, is the grower sure of his profit. 
 The hops may remain on his hands for a twelvemonth, 
 when they will be considered as old hops,^^ and lose 
 much in value. Nor can the abundance of one season 
 find a balance in the deficiency of others. In a year or 
 two, if kept, they will be worthless — as odourless and 
 flavourless as mere chafi*. Thus the steadiest of hop- 
 growers — although he may never buy standing crops, 
 selling them and buying them again (like court cards in 
 the game of speculation), on the perilous chance of 
 their improving or deteriorating ; although he may grow 
 hardy and luxuriant kinds ; and although he may deter- 
 mine never to bet a sixpence on the probable amount of 
 the duty — must look upon his business as a species 
 of gambling, rather than as a legitimate branch of hus- 
 bandry. Woe betide the man who, with too small a 
 capital to carry him over reverses, sets up as a hop- 
 planter ! Not hooping-cough, nor measles, nor all the 
 several ills that infant flesh is heir to, can be compared 
 with the dangers that have threatened this crop from 
 the time when first its tender shoots were guided to the 
 hop-pole, till now, comparatively safe, the flowers are 
 picked, and dried, and weighed. In the warm nights 
 of early summer, when the bine will grow an inch 
 within an hour^ fleas and fireblasts threatened it. When 
 
GOINa HOPPING. 
 
 191 
 
 the clusters hung so large and fuU^ that everybody (but 
 the wary) prophesied the duty would reach an enormous 
 figure^ Egyptian plagues of green or long-winged flies, 
 coming from no one knows where, might have settled on 
 it, and, in a single night, turned flower and leaf as black 
 as if they had been half consumed by fire. ^^Honey-dew,^^ 
 that frothy kind of saliva which a little insect gathers 
 round itself, might fall upon it, and prove no less 
 destructive. Eed spiders, otter moths, and the ver- 
 min^^ which spring from their eggs, might any day sit 
 down, uninvited, to a banquet costing a couple of 
 millions sterling to the Kentish growers alone. Any 
 cold autumn night, '^when the breath of winter comes 
 from far away,^^ might blight them ; and, finally, mould 
 might suddenly eat up every vestige of flower while the 
 hops were waiting for the picker. Ah ! if a tithe of the 
 care and culture that are bestowed upon this tender 
 plant could be devoted to some of those children of the 
 poor classes, whose sad want of mending has been so 
 often pointed out ; if you would take a single child, 
 as Sterne took his single captive ; as tenderly provide 
 him with a healthy spot ; as carefully train his young 
 ideas as the sprouts and tendrils of this plant are 
 trained; as watchfully strive to keep him from all 
 blights and harms — might you not here expect a crop 
 more sure, and not less golden ? 
 
 Throughout the year wagers are extensively laid in 
 the counties of Kent and Sussex (but particularly in the 
 former), upon the amount of duty annually declared by 
 the Excise, in respect of all the hops gathered through- 
 
192 
 
 GOING HOPPING. 
 
 out the country. Long before anything like data 
 whereon to found a calculation can be obtained^ large 
 sums are staked upon the result of the crop. In Can- 
 terbury^ Rochester^ and Maidstone^ are the Kentish 
 Tattersalls/^ which,, together with a few of the ancient 
 inns in Southwark (where the hop factors live^ and hold 
 their principal market), comprise the head-quarters for 
 hop betting : although this gambling is not confined to 
 the trade, but extends to all classes in the hop districts. 
 Almost every tradesman and boy has, or till lately had, 
 his book,^^ or his chance in some hop club.^^ On the 
 publication of the amount of the duty, many thousands of 
 pounds change hands, and every possible scheme is re- 
 sorted to throughout the summer to procure the latest in- 
 telligence of the condition of the plant in the chief dis- 
 tricts, so as to enable the more wary to increase their 
 stakes or " hedge,^^ as the case may be. The system is 
 to give what is called a '^^scope,^^ the extent of which 
 depends upon the time of year. In the winter quarter, 
 the betting man will perhaps give a scope^^ of twenty 
 thousand pounds ; that is to say, will bet that his adver- 
 sary will not guess the amount of duty to be declared on 
 the next yearns crop within that amount. But as the year 
 advances, and the hop has escaped the dangers that beset 
 its progress, the scope is reduced. Clerks in the account- 
 ant's department of Inland Revenue are much sought 
 after, and the slightest hint greedily devoured as to the 
 gross quantity of hops weighed ; which certain men 
 pretend to know, in much the same way as sporting 
 prophets boast of their office'^ or tip,'^ for the Derby. 
 
GOING HOPPING. 
 
 193 
 
 The period between the picking and the declaration of 
 duty is usually a full month of excitement to the parties 
 wagering ; the duty is known about the end of October. 
 
 We have something else to see. The pickers are 
 waiting to be paid in the hop garden ; for it is Saturday 
 night. Our shadows are strangely angular and long 
 as we walk along the stubble field again ; the pickers 
 leave off before sunset^ to allow time for carrying away 
 the hops by daylight. Their work has to be measured 
 first. The cutter leaves off battling with the rows of 
 poles^ and comes to measure with a wicker bushel 
 having a black line round it^ outside^ about half way 
 up. For any one of these bushels^ filled as lightly as 
 possible — never quite up to the top — the picker receives 
 twopence. When only a few hops remain at the bottom 
 of the bin^ he watches most anxiously ; for if the re- 
 mainder reaches beyond the black line it counts a 
 bushel : while if it falls shorty it counts as nothing-* 
 There is a delay at the sullen-looking girFs bin^ for she 
 has dropped in too many leaves^ and must pick them 
 out^ one by one. Cutter wonders she didnH put in 
 bines^ poles and all and bids her look alive.^^ When 
 everything is done^ the farmer brings his money bag, 
 attended by a boy, who reads the amounts to be paid 
 from a book. Most of the hands have been drawing 
 money in the week — they don^t know how much exactly, 
 nor when ; but the book assists their memories. No- 
 body can recollect, either, how much he has earned, 
 but contents himself when he is informed by saying, he 
 thought it was evel* so much more,^^ by way of show- 
 
 13 
 
194 
 
 GOING HOPPING 
 
 ing that lie is on the alert^ and not to be cheated easily. 
 The merry old woman takes her money^ gaily. The 
 sullen girl grumbles. Eager faces are crowded around the 
 payer. There is a man with a very savage^ heavy look^ 
 which has been all along fixed intently upon the money 
 bag. How much you V 
 
 ^^Oh! you know/^ Book is referred to^ and the 
 savage man pounces upon fifteen shillings. ^^Now^ 
 then; is everybody paid?^^ There is a tidy, quiet, 
 freckled-faced girl standing a little way ofi*, whom the 
 merry old woman spies, and says to her, What ! ainH 
 you got no money ? Why didn't you go up The 
 girl replies, I didn^t like to ask for it.'^ On this, the 
 merry old woman drags her up to the farmer, and she, 
 too^ is paid. The pokes are wheeled off ; and the cutter 
 drains the great stone beer bottle; and the merry old 
 woman encumbers herself with many bundles and two 
 umbrellas ; and all go talking and laughing across the 
 field, followed by the woman drawing her infant family 
 in the covered child^s waggon. 
 
 There is a great stir and a strange noise of voices 
 over East Farleigh to-night. In this little out-of-the- 
 way village of some twenty houses scattered about, and 
 with only one beer-shop, three thousand hop-pickers 
 (chiefly Irish) are assembled. Hundreds of fires in the 
 open air look from a distance like the encampment of 
 an army. In huts, and stables, and out-houses ; in 
 abandoned mills ; in crumbling barns and dilapidated 
 oast-houses, whose cracks are ineffectually stuffed with 
 straw and clay; under pents; against walls ; in- tents. 
 
GOING HOPPII^G. 
 
 195 
 
 and under canvas awnings^ this multitude cook^ eat, 
 drink^ smoke, and sleep. No wonder that in the ground 
 of the old church I find a row of grass-grown mounds, 
 with an inscription on wood, In memory of forty -three 
 strangers, who died September, 1849. E. I. P. {Re- 
 quiescant in pace) P A parishioner tells me they were 
 all Irish hoppers ; and only a portion of those who 
 died of the cholera here in the season of that year. No 
 inhabitant of the parish was attacked; and to the 
 credit of the clergyman it is said, that he turned his 
 house into a temporary hospital, and with his wife 
 attended them night and day. 
 
 At the bridge, some are washing clothes ; women, 
 and girls, and boys, wild, ragged, uncouth people, 
 most of them standing bare-legged in the water rinsing 
 shirts in saucepans, and dabbing them against the 
 smutty edges as fast as they are cleaned ; boiling other 
 clothes in cauldrons ; and hanging garments that have 
 more superficies of hole than cotton, upon the hedges. 
 There, too, are hideous old Sycoraxes smoking and 
 crouching over fires this warm day, and shouting unin- 
 telligible sounds to fat children, sprawling in the mud 
 upon the shelving bank of the river. Everybody has 
 been paid to-night, and most are off to buy provisions for 
 the week. There is a solitary butcher^s shop up the lane, 
 with trees in front, which is besieged. Nearly all round 
 it — for it is open on three sides — a hungry mob hustle 
 and push and clamour to be served ; and the butcher, 
 who all the year round has not a whole sheep in his 
 shop, now chops his way out of heaps of meat. Then 
 
196 
 
 GOING HOPPING. 
 
 there is a lonely grocer^ s — lonely no more — wliere as 
 great a crowd clamours for bacon^ and breads and beer^ 
 and tea^ and sngar^ in a great gloomy shop lit by two 
 wretched candles. The only beer-shop overflows with 
 disappointed customers^ and the wild howl of Irish 
 singers. Hundreds are encamped at the cross-road. 
 Here is a double row of huts^ built expressly for the 
 hoppers^ each about ten feet square^ with a shelving 
 roofj where half-a-dozen men^ women^ and girls^ sleep 
 together upon straw^ and have a fire. There are bread 
 stalls^ and stalls of herrings in brine^ and stalls of such 
 pastry as I never beheld before. One of the huts is 
 open on one side^ and converted into a shop or stalls 
 where you may buy breads and candles^ and such small 
 quantities of tea and sugai% all ready done up in paper^ 
 as never were sold at any other time or place. This 
 is the private speculation of Mr. Bleary^ who is encou- 
 raged by the great hop-growers to sell provisions here 
 at this time ; they having a good opinion of his mode 
 of doing business. 
 
 Mr. Bleary is said to be a man of property^ and I am 
 introduced to him. He is a very stout Irishman^ with 
 a moist eye^ and a treble chin lapping over a white 
 cravat^ and has a chronic cold in the head ; calls him- 
 self Purvey -her in gin-ral to the strangers in Farrer- 
 leigh f and is neither drunk^ nor the worse for liquor, 
 but what Frenchmen familiarly call ^'emu'^ He is 
 very glad to see me, and how are you V — bids me 
 follow him into his hut, or shop ; and describes an 
 arbitrary division of its only room into kitchen, par- 
 
GOING HOPPING. 
 
 197 
 
 \oi\Yy and bed-room. The furrerniture isn^t all come 
 down yet ; but no matter/^ Mr. Bleary is full of anec- 
 dotes^ with wrathful parentheses of disorderly doins^ 
 and shemful robbin^ of poor creeturs^^ by his prede- 
 cessors in the business. But^ coming forth and seeing 
 his lines of customers^ all sitting at long tables^ drink- 
 ing soup in the light of the moon^ the poetry of his 
 whole being overflows ; 
 
 Look at me happy children ! All livin^ in harrer- 
 mony one with another ; all drinkin^ soup and bread, 
 and discoorsin^ together, like ladies and gentlemen, 
 about politics and the late Juke o^ Willinton. Look at 
 me happy children ! You remimber how it used to be, 
 Misther Day ? How they used to fight like so many 
 wolves, and lie about the ground like a flock o^ pigs. 
 Therer^s soup for a halfpenny a basin ! Taste it. Here 
 I stand in defiance of all docthors. Let ^em all come 
 down to East Farrerleigh and examine it. Oh, the 
 days before I came down here ! I remimber ^em well. 
 What shindies ! There usen^t to be never a sound head, 
 nor a sound winder in all East Farrerleigh parish. And 
 only look at ^em now. Ask ^em thimselves if they don^t 
 feel morer like Christians, and a little morer happy- 
 minded.^^ 
 
 And thus Mr. Bleary continues till he bids me good 
 night ; and then calls me back again, and puzzles me 
 by asking, ^^What I might guess, now, to be the 
 greatist number o^ sacks o^ potairtoes he ever sold in 
 one night but immediately removes my difficulty by 
 mentioning that twenty-six was the number. 
 
198 
 
 GOING HOPPING. 
 
 Good niglit^ Mr. Bleary ! My road lies Maidstone 
 way^ beside the river shining in the fall moon ; and I 
 would^, for your sake,, I had started an hour earlier. 
 Then should I not have been compelled to tell how wild 
 disorder broke out in that happy family, that night ; 
 how sticks and stockings loaded with stones were 
 flourished, and heads and windows broken, just as in 
 the days of old, how drunken hoppers sprawled about 
 as if you had never come to East Farleigh, and had 
 never sold sugar there, nor soup ; and how your mild 
 paternal admonitions were laughed to scorn. 
 
EUTSTEAD. 
 
 Page 199. 
 
TWELVE MILES FROM THE ROYAL 
 EXCHANGE. 
 
 There is a story of a soldier who once heard the 
 great clock of St. PauFs strike thirteen times^ from 
 his post some twenty miles oflP, and^ being accused of 
 sleeping at midnight^ was enabled entirely to clear him- 
 self by proving that the clock of St. PauFs did actually, 
 in some eccentric fit, strike thirteen times upon the 
 night in question. But however this may have been, 
 no one ever heard the clock of St. PauFs in our 
 village, let the air be ever so humid, or the wind from 
 that quarter ever so gusty; and we are quite sure that 
 Bow bells are out of the question. There is not a boy 
 in all Rutstead parish who would not fight upon this 
 question, and the old people have a horror of metro- 
 politan habits, which no man out of Rutstead could 
 rightly understand. We have a figurative expression 
 that the Londoners live by cutting one another^s 
 throats, which principally refers to their commercial 
 rivalries; but Miss Bunbury, for one, does literally 
 believe it. At the Guy Earl of Warwick, which we 
 call familiarly the Guy, you may generally hear some 
 one in the parlour discoursing of our intercourse with 
 the metropolis in pre-railwayite days, when as many as 
 
200 
 
 TWELVE MILES EEOM 
 
 thirty coaches^ besides vehicles of other kinds^ used to 
 pass our doors within the twenty-four hours^ startling 
 the inhabitants with noisy horns^ or the cheers of 
 schoolboys going home. But they have dwindled down 
 into a single carrier^ s cart — a creaking^ dawdling^ bony- 
 horsed things which rings a cracked bell as it passes 
 through the place^ evidently on its last wheels. Our 
 last stage coach only ceased running a few winters ago. 
 It was a remarkably comfortable conveyance^ when it 
 did not turn over upon the brink of the chalk-pits 
 (which the parish^ by large majorities^ declines to rail 
 in) ; and if the railway had come near us^ instead of 
 stealing all our traffic^ and leaving us at last in the 
 lurch^ it would have had no chance against it. I am 
 quite sure of that ; and why ? Because we all knew 
 the coachman^ and would never have dreamed of with- 
 drawing our support (we never regard any of our 
 dealings but in the light of a support to somebody or 
 something), while the man was civil ; and he was in- 
 variably civil ; and, moreover, had a large family. He 
 was a thin man, with a wrinkled face, and short, grey hair, 
 who did duty sometimes as a post-boy, in a blue jacket 
 and white cords, and drove people at weddings; but 
 was as unlike my idea of a jolly old coachman as 
 any one I ever saw ; though he was not out of keeping 
 with the faded and contracted aspect of coaching in 
 those latter days. He was related to two well-known 
 jockeys, and would have gone into that line himself if he 
 had been a trifle lighter, or had been capable of any re- 
 duction in flesh by the usual process of sweating down. 
 
THE ROYAL EXCHANGE. 
 
 201 
 
 But he was a real coachman^ full of the traditions of 
 the road^ and as ignorant of what time of day you 
 might mean by eight forty-five^ as if you had spoken 
 of a decimal fraction. His time for starting was a 
 quarter before nine ; but if any passenger happened to 
 be shaving at that moment^ what gentleman could 
 reasonably refuse to wait about a little ? John Jarvis 
 was his name upon that road which knoweth him no 
 more ; for he is dead^ and Mrs. Jarvis has got into an 
 almshouse ; and the large family have gone out to ser- 
 vice; and even the coach^ after a struggle with the 
 heavy roads and high prices of one winter^ now lies 
 abandoned in a wheelwright^s yard, cracked, paintless, 
 broken-windowed, and with a rich crop of moss and 
 houseleek upon its mouldering roof. 
 
 When the railway proposed to come near, we passed 
 resolutions at the Guy, and instructed a lawyer to oppose. 
 The coaching interest, which comprised one-half of the 
 inhabitants, said, of course, that there was abundant 
 accommodation already ; and the rector said that the 
 railway would bring down all the loose characters in 
 London on Sundays, and take all the respectable people 
 in the village up to town : and Mr. Grinstone, the great 
 landed proprietor, declared that scarcely any sum of 
 money could compensate him for the injury and annoy- 
 ance he would have to suffer if the hateful scheme were 
 carried out. We raised such a cry, that I verily believe 
 our village was the cause of the railway engineer sud- 
 denly striking out a new course through the marshes, 
 on the other side of a ridge of hills. Nobody repents 
 
202 
 
 TWELVE MILES FEOM 
 
 of that opposition^ except Mr. Grinstone^ wlio is now 
 known to have been all along willing to capitulate on ad- 
 vantageous terms. But the country itself is staunch and 
 true. Gentlemen in the House of Commons^ in whom we 
 were once proud to recognise an exalted embodiment of 
 our opinions^ have deserted our cause again and again ; 
 but we are unchanged. What those opinions are^ no man 
 who is skilled in the interpretation of hints and signs 
 could fail to know^ after remaining an hour among us. 
 Ask old Nelby^ the job-master, and proprietor of the 
 solitary fly that stands for hire in these parts_, and who 
 has the gouty and lame completely at his mercy. He 
 is not saucy (nobody in our village is), but he knows 
 what is usual, and consequently what is right. Four 
 shillings has been the fare from the corner of Guttle- 
 bury Lane to the Black Lion in Swillstead, ever since 
 he can remember ; and he has repeatedly said, in the 
 parlour of the Guy, and in the presence of a strongly 
 sympathising audience, that he would not take his own 
 father for a sixpence less. No more he would ; for I 
 have seen him, even when driving back empty, and 
 without the hope of another ofifer, refuse to take up a 
 dusty Londoner, who ignorantly tendered him three- 
 and-six as an ultimatum. A chit ! chit ! to his highly 
 respectable old gray horse was the only answer which 
 he deigned to make to that ill-advised proposal. 
 
 If this does not give you an idea of our opinions, you 
 can ask Chaffers, who had the folly and impudence to 
 come over from Buffborough (a good three miles), on 
 purpose to set up a branch grocery-store in our village^ 
 
THE EOYAL EXCHANGE. 
 
 203 
 
 where lie was neither born nor reared,, and had no 
 influence nor connections whatever. He tried to wean 
 ns from dealing with Pidden (as kind-hearted a crea- 
 ture as ever breathed^ and worth money)^ by writing 
 up Town Prices in his window^ and putting up a sun- 
 blind^ and having the footway in front of his door 
 watered every day. He had the meanness to offer to 
 undersell Pidden in everything. He put in his window 
 pinker ham than Pidden^s — having found out that 
 ham was Pidden^s weak point — and showed loaf-sugar 
 at sixpence^ of a dazzling purity. He offered new-laid 
 eggs at a shilling a-dozen (Pidden^ who keeps fowls^ has 
 let many a dozen get musty^ rather than do it) ; and 
 pretended to grind his coffee fresh every day^ because 
 he had heard that Pidden^ who knew there was a time 
 for all things^ always ground his for the week, on 
 Monday mornings. He tried to outdo poor Pidden in 
 everything^ and has had as many as four candles all 
 burning at once in his shop. But a universal sympathy 
 grew up for Pidden. We could not tamely see him 
 crushed by a stranger^ who had no business there. It 
 was cruel^ scandalous ; it was mean^ despicable^ untrades- 
 manlike; it was anything and everything but staunch and 
 true. We found out Chaffers^ paltry little handbills stuck 
 up on the sides of barns^ and on fences and posts all along 
 the highway^ and we daubed them out^ or wrote offensive 
 remarks beneath them. We taunted him with wanting 
 to take the bread out of Pidden^s mouth, and would be 
 glad to know (and we felt it to be our business to inquire^, 
 and Chaffers^ to explain,) how Pidden was to keep his 
 
204 
 
 TWELVE MILES PEOM 
 
 two urLmarried daugliters in respectability^ and pay rent 
 and taxes upon town prices ? Chaffers only came ov^r 
 from Buffborough tbree times a week; some said he 
 was ashamed to show his face there. People made ob- 
 servations upon his personal defects^ and said that he 
 looked a sneaky and that you could generally tell. We 
 found out that his wife had an income of her own 
 (Pidden^s late wife had not a farthings and cost him a for- 
 tune in doctors) ; so we said it was plain that he did not 
 do it from necessity^ but evidently from downright gree- 
 diness. I am sure we were much more concerned about 
 it than Pidden himself, who disdained to employ the 
 arts of his opponent^ but left himself confidently in the 
 hands of his neighbours and customers ; and no wonder ; 
 for he flourished under it amazingly. Everyone grew 
 extravagant in grocery, to give Pidden a turn. Even 
 old Miss Bunbury, who had learnt frugality in the 
 days of the East India Company and convoys, would 
 shake a third spoonful into the tea-pot, with a remark 
 that trade would be the better for it, meaning, of 
 course, Pidden^s trade. Chaffers^ representative was a 
 ^illy=looking, florid young man, who wetted his red 
 hair, and brushed it all off his forehead. Our boys 
 used to look through the window, and make faces at 
 him, and he always laughed, in a weak, sheepish manner, 
 i^hich showed that he was ashamed of his position there. 
 We did not dislike the young man at all ; but when 
 V7e heard he was miserably underpaid we pitied him, 
 and learned to distinguish between him and Chaffers. 
 He told us frankly that he did not like the place, and 
 
THE EOYAL EXCHANGE. 
 
 205 
 
 Chaffers was no better than a negro-driver ; thongli he 
 was always so afraid that the tyrant would drop in upon 
 him from BuflFborough^ that it was quite painful to 
 talk to him. But it did not last long. One day^ Chaffers 
 suddenly discharged the florid young man ; and Pidden^ 
 with a calm dignity^ unalloyed with the smallest atom 
 of vindictiveness^ saw^ from his shop- window^ all the 
 unsold stock go back to Buff borough^ in a van. 
 
 After this_, I need scarcely say that we have the 
 strongest dislike to meanness or shabby dealings of any 
 kind. Nobody likes Spokes^ the wheelwright^ for ex- 
 ample^ who employs a number of boys^ while men with 
 families continually ask him for employment ; and who 
 is always taking in people who never served their time 
 to the trade. And what do you suppose we thought 
 of Mr. Simmer^ the new curate^ who actually (it was 
 when the bread was so dear) told John Hitchman^ a 
 poor labouring man^ down the lane^ with nine children, 
 to let his wife know that stinging nettles boiled down 
 with a little dripping, made a very wholesome and palat- 
 able dish ? John Hitchman told them all about it at 
 the beer-shop, and it came to the ears of everybody, 
 and we said it was infamous. It was telling a Christian 
 man, who had brought up nine children for his coun- 
 try's benefit, to betake himself to the food of brutes. 
 Nay, the very donkeys on the common shrank from con- 
 tact with the odious weed which a Christian minister 
 had not hesitated to recommend as a fit nourishment 
 for the bodies of his poor parishioners. Was the fleshy 
 tenement of an immortal spirit to be kept up upon 
 
208 
 
 TWELVE MILES FEOM 
 
 stinging nettles? "We asked how the Eeverend Mr. 
 Simmer would like to have his tongue^ and palate^ and 
 throat irritated to inflammation by stinging nettles ? 
 and did not care a pin for his answer^ that he had tried 
 and found them very good. We know how grandees^ like 
 the Eeverend Mr. Simmer^ having made an appointment 
 to taste the workhouse soup^ always find it excellent^ 
 and talk lightly of the labours of bricklayings after set- 
 ting first stones with a silver trowel. We made obser- 
 vations on his conduct in a loud voice when he hap- 
 pened to be near. We stared so hard at him^ when he 
 accidentally alluded to Nebuchadnezzar in his sermon^ 
 that he drew out his delicate white cambric handkerchief, 
 and made such a long pause, that everybody thought the 
 sermon was done. John Hitchman happened to be 
 there that day (he attended church regularly dming the 
 excitement), sitting in one of the free seats, wiping his 
 forehead with a tattered, blue, cotton rag; and everybody 
 was struck with the contrast, and made his own reflec- 
 tions. Public opinion chalked itself upon the walls of Mr. 
 Simmer^s house ; till one day the rector told him, that 
 without any reference whatever to the merits of the 
 case, it was unfortunately evident that he was not 
 popular in the parish, and that he must, therefore, see 
 the necessity of resigning. So he went away ; and his 
 true character came out afterwards, when he published 
 a book on population, which competent judges residing 
 in the parish have pronounced to be a disgrace to him 
 as a minister and a man. 
 
 Spry, the policeman, who lives upstairs, at the shoe- 
 
THE EOYAL EXCHANGE. 
 
 207 
 
 maker^s^ is equally the object of our contempt and de- 
 testation. It is nothing to us that the mere presence 
 of Spry makes our property as safe as if it were under 
 guard in the Tower of London. We will grant you that^ 
 under the protection of old Cumpton^ the late constable 
 of the parish^ the very doors of our houses^ and the 
 gates of our gardens^ have been unhinged and carried 
 away for fire- wood ; and nobody dared to go down Gut- 
 tlebury Lane after dark; for self-interest does not 
 blind us to what is mean and unmanly. We all hate 
 Spry_, and never miss an opportunity of reviling him 
 as a pitiful fellow^ and a sneak. He never looks you in 
 the face^ like an honest man ; and has a nasty^ shufflings 
 sidelong walk^ which particularly annoys Miss Bunbury, 
 who always speaks of him as that reptile Spry^ and 
 who^ though she did reluctantly call him in one night, 
 turned him out again the moment she had discovered 
 that there were no thieves in her back kitchen, but 
 only a stray bantam from the next garden. We have 
 ^een him in plain clothes peeping through the crevice 
 of the tap-room door of the Guy ; and have watched 
 him standing in the sun, with his back to a wall, lazily 
 cutting a whistle out of a bit of reed, and everybody 
 knew that the artful fellow had some business in hand. 
 We have come upon him in out-of-the-way places, and 
 have suddenly found him walking beside us, in a manner 
 that makes your blood run cold. There is not a boy in 
 our part that would associate with Spry ; but he does 
 not care for that. Since he managed to get noted for 
 promotion as an active and intelligent officer, he 
 
208 
 
 TWELVE MILES EEOM 
 
 calls US all civilians^ and seems to enjoy his own 
 isolation. 
 
 But we have another quarrel with Spry, which I will 
 just mention, in further illustration of our opinions. 
 Spry was originally no more a policeman than you are. 
 He is by trade (as we always express it) a cooper. His 
 father was a cooper; his grandfather was a cooper; 
 and the Sprys have all been coopers (except one, who 
 went to sea), ever since they came into the village. 
 But this Spry actually deserted the calling of his an- 
 cestors, and, on the shabby excuse that coopering wasn^t 
 what it used to be, entered the police force, and lost 
 caste among us for ever. Now, if Spry^s father had 
 been a policeman — if he had been the son of Cumpton, 
 the late constable, who died childless, at an advanced 
 age — or if he could have shown the slightest relation- 
 ship with any person whose business it had been to 
 prowl about, and take his neighbours into custody, we 
 might have endured it, and come to look upon him as 
 a necessary institution in a corrupt state of society. 
 But Spry had no such excuse, or did not care to men- 
 tion it, if he had. He does not care a fig for the example 
 of the coaching interest, who are true to their calling, 
 to a boy. They hang about the steps of the Guy, and 
 loiter round its moss-grown, broken-windowed out- 
 buildings, still clinging with a fanatical faith to the 
 hope of the final disappearance of railways, and trium- 
 phant restoration of four-in-hands. Their linen jackets 
 are in tatters, and their shoes are soleless ; but there 
 they lie, on sunny days, basking under the red-brick 
 
THE ROYAL EXCHANGE. 
 
 209 
 
 wdlly or fast asleep in shady corners. But see them if 
 a cart or chaise should stop there ! Only a fortnight 
 ago^ there drove up to that door a dusty^ four-wheeled 
 vehicle, containing one lean gentleman, who, to the 
 wonderment of all, desired to stay there for the night. 
 Then the coaching people sprang upon their feet, and 
 came about him ; and four of them unharnessed his 
 rough, shaggy pony, and led him tenderly in j and two 
 held the traveller's carpet-bag, and one his whip ; while 
 the traveller himself went in, and was swallowed up in 
 the gloomy vastness of that ancient hostelry. He must 
 have been a strange man, for he decided to stay there 
 a whole week, giving, by his single presence, an un- 
 wonted stimulus to the tirade of our village. Great, 
 therefore, was the grief of all when he went away. 
 The coaching interest looked after him till the dimi- 
 nished forms of pony, chaise, and man, disappeared 
 over the hill-top, and the sound of his wheels died 
 away. Will he ever come again ? Some think he will ; 
 but others shake their heads, and say it may be many 
 a day first. But they will wait patiently, and so will 
 the Guy. Its bar has contracted, and its whole life 
 shrunk into one dismal corner of the building. But 
 its fifteen beds are still made up, and, we are proud to 
 say, that its extensive accommodation for man and beast 
 has never been reduced. 
 
 I do not know whether it be a natural consequence 
 of our steady adherence to those principles, which I 
 have faintly indicated ; but it appears to me that all 
 the inhabitants of Eutstead either make money and 
 
 14 
 
210 
 
 TWELVE MILES EEOM 
 
 die well oflP, or else live in great poverty and depend- 
 ence^ till, after going into the union and coming out 
 again, and hovering about that splendid building, like 
 dazzled moths, they are finally drawn into it, and slowly 
 consumed. Our chemist, who sells human-medicine and 
 horse-medicine, besides tobacco, pepper, and other ar- 
 ticles of domestic use, is publicly known to have made 
 money in that dusty and deserted shop of his. He is not 
 an active man; he spends more time in examining 
 pimples on his face, than in anything else ; and he has 
 a wife who gets dirty dog^s-eared Minerva Press novels 
 from a sweet-stuff shop across the road, and reads them 
 again and again ; and, addressing the unknown author of 
 ^ A Year and a Day,^ in four volumes, writes in pencil, at 
 the foot of his most eloquent chapters, Oh, why wert 
 thou not a poet ! ^' She is no help to him in the busi- 
 ness, and he mildly observes that some people like a 
 shop, while others never take to it ! How he made 
 money with such notions, I know not, but everybody 
 knows he has. So has Grimshaw, the butcher, though 
 I never saw four joints hanging up at once in his clean- 
 swept shop, which, with the tree before the door, and 
 its footway paved with pebbles, is as pretty a place as 
 you will find in our neighbourhood. He never ventures 
 to expel the vital spark — which he professionally regards 
 as a something which keeps sweet the flesh of sheep or 
 beeves — until he has gone round on horseback to all 
 his customers, and satisfied himself that their united 
 orders amount to a whole animal. Again, there is 
 Groyn, the builder, who owns half the houses within 
 
THE HOTAL EXCHANGE. 
 
 five miles rounds and wlio is a staunch upholder of our 
 principles — as sturdy a defender of his right to build for 
 every one within that distance as the heart of our vil- 
 lage could desire. He smokes^ and plays at bowls and 
 skittles^ at the Guy^ and boasts in his cups that he can 
 buy and sell Grinstone^ the landed proprietor^ and 
 shouts it out loud enough to be heard by Grinstone^ in 
 his pillared mansion over the way; and I have no 
 doubt he could^ though he never cared a pin for poor 
 Richard^s maxims^ and, as far as I can see^ ought to 
 have been bankrupt long ago. He is a notorious gor- 
 mandiser, though only for the public benefit. Live and 
 let live, he says, is his notion ; and, when he is stuffing 
 more than usual, he will keep repeating that noble 
 maxim, and will give it you on every occasion with 
 such an air of being then struck with the idea for 
 the first time in his life, that if any one at the same 
 table hurled one of the dishes at his head in a moment 
 of rage, I could understand it. There is such a dis- 
 agreeable self-possession about him, when he is not 
 eating — such an embarrassing air of knowing what you 
 are going to say, and smiling deprecatingly before you 
 say it, that I abhor him from my soul. Why should 
 that man flourish, and have the gout for weeks together, 
 when Spokes, the wheelwright, works early and late, 
 and cannot make both ends meet ; and poor, old Mrs. 
 Weeks has forty-three direct descendants, all living, 
 who could not, altogether, prevent her selling her old 
 walnut chest of drawers, and antique piece of needle- 
 work, and going into the union at eighty-five ? 
 
212 TWELVE MILES FROM THE EOYAL EXCHANGE. 
 
 But if I were in the mood for asking peevish ques- 
 tions about what I see and know in our village^, this 
 paper would never come to an end. I might desire to 
 know why beggars enjoy so sacred a character among 
 us^ and know it so well^ that we dare not say our 
 gardens are our own. They open our gates^ and come 
 round and bully us at our back doors^ and even quote 
 Scripture at us until we tremble in our shoes. Why 
 does a tyrannical public opinion compel us to bear this 
 meekly, and forbid us to send them up the lane to Mr. 
 Colewort, the market gardener^, who is generally in want 
 of hands. I might ask why we have four chapels and 
 a Mormonite cobbler^ s^ where the elect meet nightly, 
 and whence, in long processions, singing merry hymns 
 to vulgar tunes, they go forth to publicly baptize grown 
 men and women in a horse-pond by the roadside, and 
 not a solitary school within two miles. And if I did 
 not know this last fact to be true, I might ask why we 
 are so prejudiced and ignorant — so proud of being out 
 of the sound of Bow bells, and so united to resist all 
 projects of improvement — ^why, within twelve miles 
 from the Koyal Exchange in Cornhill, London, we 
 nail horseshoes over doors, and .have a public excite- 
 ment about a ghost now and then — or why poor 
 widowed Mrs. Cottle, when the Mormon elders met 
 together and formally cursed her for some trifling dis- 
 obedience, went melancholy, and tried to hang herself, 
 and failed at first ; until, after moping about for months, 
 she hung herself eflFectually ; whereon, the wrathful elders 
 met again, and were much edified, but unappeased. 
 
THE PORTEAIT OP A SPY. 
 
 Englishmen who hear of treasons and conspiracies 
 abroad ; of societies of the Marianne and societies of 
 the tenth of December ; of midnight visits from gen- 
 darmes or Italian sbirri; of sudden discoveries of 
 muskets or grenades in mouldy cellars or poverty 
 stricken garrets; of police spies, in white neckcloths 
 and glazed boots^ mingling in private soirees^ and look- 
 ing stray nods or shrugs^ or half-heard whispers ; of 
 warrants^ of banishment from the prefet under lots de 
 suspects, of secret denunciations and mysterious disap- 
 pearances of incautious talkers — even Englishmen who 
 have lived amid these things,, and got away (as wise men 
 do) as soon as they can^ would have some difficulty in 
 imagining the enactment of such scenes at home. 
 Something like them^ however^ has been seen^ even in 
 England^ before now — times of plots and conspiracies, 
 and distrust, when no man^s life or property was safe. 
 It is not without its uses, at this time, to go back and 
 regard some of the features of such periods in the 
 under-currents of their history. All readers of English 
 history know the stories of Gates, and Bedloe, and 
 Dangerfield ; and all know that one of the most terri- 
 
2M 
 
 THE POETEAIT OE A SPY. 
 
 ble symptoms of the civil troubles in wHch they 
 flourished is the prevalence of false witnesses^ who^ ta 
 shelter themselves^ or for the gratification of old hatreds, 
 or more commonly for the sake of gain, or of favour with 
 those in power^ forge evidence against the lives and 
 liberties of others. One of the latter class — one of an 
 infamous school — Mr. William Fuller, may be taken as a 
 fair example. His adventures are briefly touched on by 
 Lord Macaulay in his ^ History of England/ who de- 
 scribes him as having done all that man could do to 
 secure an eminent place among villains. That Fuller's 
 plot is less celebrated than the Popish plot/' he says, " is 
 rather the fault of historians than of Fuller.'' But 
 though now forgotten, he must once have secured a con- 
 siderable amount of public interest^ if I may judge from 
 the bundle of pamphlets concerning him which I have 
 lately stumbled upon in an old library. I find many 
 lives of him. Here is ^ The whole Life of Mr. William 
 Fuller, being an Impartial Account of His Birth, 
 Education, Relations, &c.^ Together with a true Dis- 
 covery of the Intrigues for which he now lies confined ; 
 with his hearty Bepentance for the Misdemeanours he 
 did in the late Reign, Impartially writ by Himself, 
 1 703 / and to this is prefixed an engraved portrait of 
 William Fuller, Gent, (the engraver has left out the e 
 in gent, but being afterwards better informed, has con- 
 scientiously inserted it with a caret). And truly he 
 does appear here an honest, simple, country gentleman, 
 of a very open and pleasant countenance. Then, I have 
 the ^ Life and Unaccountable Actions of William Fuller, 
 
THE PORTRAIT OF A SPY. 
 
 215 
 
 alias Esq. Fuller^ alias Colonel^ &c. ; the notorious Cheat;, 
 &c. The Second Edition^ with large Additions ;^ also the 
 ' Life of William Fuller^ alias FuUee^ alias Fowler^ alias 
 Ellison^ &c. ; by original^ a Butcher^s son ; by educa- 
 tion a Coney- woolcutter ; by inclination an Evidence ; 
 by vote of Pariiament an Impostor ; by Title of his own 
 making a Colonel, and by his own Demerits, now a 
 close Prisoner in the Fleet, 1702/ I have a number of 
 other pamphlets ; from all of which, giving him the 
 benefit of his own explanations as far as they go, I will 
 endeavour to sketch his story. 
 
 Fuller was born at Milton next Sittingboume, in 
 Kent, in sixteen hundred and seventy. His father, he 
 says, was a grazier, and supplied the fleets and navies 
 during the Dutch wars with cattle; but the hostile 
 biographers say a butcher, and declare that he could 
 only have fed the fleets and navies by a miracle. His 
 mother, he also informs us, was the daughter of Charles 
 Herbert, cousin-german to the Marquis of Powis, who 
 married his father without the knowledge of any of her 
 relations and friends ; and although this, too, is denied, 
 it appears from circumstances to be probable. His 
 parents died when he was young, but they had placed 
 him at a good school at Maidstone, where, says Fuller, 
 whose humility and repentance had not by any means 
 lowered his self-esteem, I scorned common sports, 
 and had always an aspiring mind.''^ His guardian, Mr. 
 Cornelius Harfleet, however, does not appear to have 
 observed any of these indications of future greatness ; 
 for he apprenticed him to Mr. J ames Hartley, a skinner. 
 
216 
 
 THE PORTRAIT OF A SPY. 
 
 in Shoe Lane^ London ; but Fuller felt tliat he could 
 not ^^be company for a parcel of silly, unpolished 
 fellows and wenches,, pulling and cutting of beaver and 
 coney-skins." He fretted in his new employment ; and 
 meeting one day with a relation of his mother's,, Sir 
 John Burrows^ a Eoman Catholic^ he was introduced 
 by him to Lord Powis, and taken into that nobleman'^s 
 family, and afterwards became page to Lady Melford, 
 the wife of another Catholic nobleman at the court of 
 James. Here, Fuller saw much of court-life, and when 
 the Revolution came, fled to France with his master. 
 
 The queen had already taken refuge at St. Germains, 
 but the king still lingered in England ; and one day 
 Fuller was despatched with letters from the queen to 
 her husband. Though I was young," says Fuller, 
 
 being born in Kent, I had a perfect knowledge of 
 those roads, and having been used to travel, the queen 
 adjudged me a proper person." The account of this 
 part of his life is necessarily drawn from his own narra- 
 tive ; but it is probably substantially correct ; for it is 
 impossible to account for some portions of his known 
 career, without assuming his intimate acquaintance 
 with the Courts of Saint James and Saint Germains. 
 Fuller discharged his commission to the satisfaction of 
 his employers, and was thenceforth frequently sent 
 upon such perilous errands. Letters to various persons 
 in England were elaborately sewn into the buttons of 
 his coat, and Fuller undertook, at imminent risk of the 
 hangman^ to deliver them. Sometimes he came boldly 
 up the river, and went ashore near the Tower, and set 
 
THE POETEAIT OF A SPY. 
 
 217 
 
 about Ms business unobserved; or^ a French sloop 
 landed liim at night on the beach between Deal and 
 Dover; but at other times the smugglers were his 
 friends. At that time our forefathers^ in their wisdom^ 
 had forbidden the export of wool from this kingdom^ 
 and the consequence was a large smuggling trade in 
 that article upon all the southern coast. The men 
 engaged in this Owling trade^ as he calls it_, frequently 
 conveyed Fuller over^ and landed him in the marshes 
 near Lydd^ whence he got to London as well as he 
 could. Once after landings he groped his way over 
 the slippery shingles — the smugglers having given him 
 good-nighty and put out to sea again — and climbed up 
 the sea-bank of the great Romney Marsh. A heavy 
 wind was blowings which threatened to carry him over 
 into the salt ditches on the other side^ and the place 
 was very dreary,, no habitation being near save the 
 lighthouse at a distance ; and to this Fuller got with 
 much difficulty^ the night being extremely dark. Two 
 old men occupied the lighthouse^ who must have been 
 astonished to find a stranger in that dismal spot on 
 such a night. They entertained him with the best fare 
 they hady and a dirty bed; but Fuller was wet^ and 
 wearied^ and could almost have slept out upon the 
 bleak marsh. He told them^ for his invention rarely 
 failed him^ that he had been aboard an English ship 
 bound westward^ but that^ having received letters 
 from London in the Downs^ he had come ashore there ; 
 that the sea running very high^ they had found no calm 
 place^ save at the point where the ship^s boat had 
 
218 
 
 THE POETRAIT OF A SPY. 
 
 landed him ; and that he had relations near Tenterden. 
 The story was believed^ and the following morning 
 early. Fuller got to the next farm-house, and took 
 horse, and rode away through the Weald of Kent and 
 Tunbridge to London. 
 
 This kind of business grew more and more danger- 
 ous. Invasions were expected. Conspiracies were 
 abroad, and traitors, if discovered, found little mercy. 
 FuUer^s connection with Saint Germains had become 
 known to King William^s Government, and a warrant 
 was out against him for high treason ; but though the 
 authorities had his name correctly, yet the description 
 of his person was not accurate, for they had taken him 
 by his name to be a brother of one Mr. Fuller that 
 served the Queen Dowager ; who, instead of being an 
 active stripling, was a man well in years, lusty, and 
 tall. Notwithstanding the warrant. Fuller, being youngs 
 and having a simple, honest-looking face, even obtained 
 admission to prisoners in the Tower, with whom he 
 had instructions to communicate ; but he was obliged 
 to find new means of returning to France, and so 
 bought a suit of sea-clothes, besmeared his hands and 
 face with pitch, tar, and dirt, and took passage aboard 
 a fishing-vessel. Fuller, however, made several more 
 journeys, with new frights and narrow escapes. Once,, 
 he daringly took a lodging in Westminster, near Mr. 
 Eowland Tempest, the late king^s private secretary, 
 who had then lately come from Ireland, with treasonous 
 letters. The messengers,^^ says Fuller, were all the 
 time searching for us. So we kept close, and when we 
 
THE POETRAIT OF A SPY. 
 
 219' 
 
 had occasion to speak to each other in the nighty, 
 without our shoes we tramped over the houses^ and 
 consulted how we should get off, behind a large stack 
 of chimneys/^ Subsequently, Fuller went to Ireland, 
 to Lord Powis at the camp of King James ; and came- 
 next by an Irish smack to Bristol on further treasonable 
 business. Here his adventures had nearly come to an 
 end ; for the authorities captured him, and took him 
 before a justice of the peace, who ordered him to be 
 searched ; but his papers were well concealed, made up 
 in the moulds of his buttons, and so covered over with 
 silk or silver, while some letters were sown up in his 
 boots within the linings ; and Fuller made so plausible 
 a story, that the simple justice discharged him. 
 
 At length, however, FuUer^s treasonable tours were 
 brought to an end. For the twelfth time, according to 
 his account, he set out for England, with many letters 
 concealed in buttons, keys, and all manner of ways 
 that could be contrived. Having arrived in England, 
 and delivered some of his commissions to some persons 
 who met him by appointment at the Half Moon 
 Tavern in Cheapside, Fuller was leaving the tavern,, 
 about nine in the evening, when he met, upon the 
 threshhold, his old guardian, Mr. Harfleet, with his 
 nephew, a Major Kitchell. These gentlemen were 
 zealous for the cause of King William, and, recognising 
 him by the light of their footman^s flambeau, they 
 compelled him to accompany them in a coach to Lord 
 Shrewsbury's house in St. James's Square, where he 
 was threatened with Newgate, irons, and the Tower.. 
 
220 
 
 THE POETEAIT OE A SPY, 
 
 Fuller was not proof against these threats^ altliough 
 his papers defied tlie searcliers. He was confined for 
 some weeks^ during whicli lie turned Protestant^ was 
 taken to tlie king^ and betrayed Ms employers. That 
 he was after this time used by the Government is ad- 
 mitted by his enemies. He was commanded to keep 
 secret his arrest^ to make some excuses for his delay, 
 and return to France, which he did, bringing back 
 other papers, which were regularly copied by the 
 Government, and then delivered ; an act of treachery 
 which he repeated several times, until at length his 
 fear of returning to France was greater than his old 
 dread on English ground. He resolved on one open 
 act of treachery, which must bring his journeys to an 
 end. Being employed on a mission from St. Germains, 
 in concert with one Mathew Crone, an Irish priest, he 
 resolved to betray his companion. Crone was seized, 
 as he supposed, with Fuller ; but, being under exami- 
 nation at Lord Shrewsbury's office, where he denied all. 
 Crone, by chance, the office door being open, observed 
 Fuller pass with his sword on and without any keepers ; 
 which so struck him, says Fuller, that he was hardly 
 able to speak. Fuller became evidence against him on 
 the trial, and he was condemned to death. 
 
 The business of a spy seems at that time to have 
 been an attractive one. The uncle and Major Kitchell 
 having betrayed Fuller, immediately laid with him a 
 scheme for the ruin of Colonel Crayford, Governor of 
 Sheerness. Major Kitchell, says Fuller, living at 
 Jlilton, had, I suppose, a design to get Mr. Crayford's 
 
THE PORTRAIT OF A SPY. 
 
 221 
 
 place j and it is prettj'' evident^ from Fuller's own 
 account^ that this was the truth. The plan was cun- 
 ningly devised. A letter was forged from Colonel 
 Crayford to the queen at St. Germains^ calculated to 
 draw from her such a letter as suited their designs. 
 Fuller delivered the forged letter^ and brought from the 
 queen an answer considered likely to try the loyalty of 
 Crayford^, or to compromise him in some way. Crayford^ 
 however^ by his honesty^ foiled their plans. When I 
 carried him the letter/' Fuller says^ he received me 
 civilly ; but started when I named a letter from the 
 queen in France,. He took it_, but told me he must 
 confine me as a prisoner^ until he had sent it to the 
 Secretary of State. Then I showed him a warrant 
 from my Lord Shrewsbury^ requiring all officers^, 
 military and civil^, to permit me to pass in any part of 
 this kingdom without control ; and I was not to be 
 confined on any account whatever^ without first giving 
 notice to the Privy Council. I made a true report of 
 my reception when I came to the king^ my business 
 having made a great noise in the worlds and abundance 
 of persons being put into the Tower^ and all other 
 prisons in England.'^ 
 
 Thus did Mr. Fuller continue to testify his loyalty to 
 King William ; but the best of men in public life make 
 enemies. Having to give evidence against a friend 
 whom he had betrayed^ he suddenly fell ill before the 
 trial. Dr. Lower,, he says^ and others^ gave their 
 opinion that he was poisoned^ and he lay seven weeks 
 without moving hand or foot. His hair came oflP, and 
 
THE PORTRAIT OF A SPY. 
 
 his nails also changed their colour. And after all^ Mr. 
 Thomas White confessed that he^ for a large bribe,, gave 
 him the dose in a dish of Scotch porridge^ to prevent 
 his giving evidence. Mr. Fuller complains bitterly of 
 other underhand tricks devised to prevent his old friend 
 from being hanged. One of the jurymen had the 
 -amazing wickedness to object to Fuller as a witness^ on 
 the ground that no man being in a plot should be an 
 evidence against any other of the conspirators ; and this 
 pretence he maintained in defiance of Chief Justice 
 Holt and other judges^ who rebuked him. This fellow 
 held out for forty-eight hom^s ; and two or three of his 
 brother jurymen^ being ancient^ subsequently died of 
 the effects of their fast — though he himself, as he after- 
 wards admitted^ was provided with a store of sweet- 
 meats^ one Madam Clifford being actually taken in the 
 act of flinging him papers of good things in at the 
 court-house window. 
 
 Mr. Fuller^ the evidence^ as he was called^ being very 
 busy in this way^ now began to flourish amazingly. He 
 had a handsome allowance from the Government^ and 
 being a good-looking fellow^ as his portrait testifies^ he 
 started as a man of fashion. He set up his coach^ and 
 had servants clothed in rich liveries : he lodged in Pall 
 Mall^ going to court every day. I lived/^ says he^ 
 
 in hopes of mighty things^ and spent the devil and all 
 in following the court — followed all fashions^ and^ like 
 others^ run into tradesmen's debts. Every birthday or 
 ball night I had all new. I was a good benefactor to 
 the playhouse^ and never missed an opportunity of being 
 
THE POETRAIT OP A SPY. 
 
 223 
 
 amoiigst the ladies/^ When the king went to Ireland, 
 Mr. Fuller followed thither with a handsome equipage, 
 consisting of several servants, horses, and the like, and 
 was every way richly accoutred. His purpose was to 
 obtain a captain^s commission ; but though he did not 
 succeed in this, his journey appears to have paid its 
 expenses, for he made a good deal of money by per- 
 suading unfortunate prisoners of his power and influence, 
 and promising for a consideration in ready money to 
 obtain their freedom. By such means, and by a skilful 
 knack of borrowing money of strangers upon false pre- 
 tences, Mr. FuUer^s journey became a profitable one, 
 but he spent all his gains in riotous living. When the 
 king went to Holland, Fuller followed him again. I 
 made me twelve suits of clothes,^^ he says, and my 
 waistcoats were the worst of them of silver stuff of about 
 forty shillings the yard, so that at the Hague I made no 
 small figure.^^ 
 
 All this was a much finer thing than cutting coney- 
 skins at Mr. Hartley^s dingy warehouse in Shoe Lane : 
 but there came a change. Mr. Fuller's affairs were 
 embarrassed. One day, as he was going to Court 
 through Pall Mall, eight bailiffs stopped his chairman, 
 and arrested him. It was not customary then, as it is 
 now, to yield as a matter of course to the officers of the 
 law; ^'but,^^ says Fuller, ^^I had but two footmen there, 
 and the bailiffs being so many in number, I was carried 
 to a spunging-house/^ Finally, he removed to the 
 King^s Bench prison; but by giving security to the 
 Marshal, with twenty guineas, he obtained his release. 
 
224 
 
 THE POETEAIT OF A SPY. 
 
 and took lodgings in Axe Yard^ witliin the liberty of tlie 
 Court. 
 
 This was a dismal change indeed. Spying and in- 
 forming had had their day. Imitators had sprung up 
 on all sides^ and the trade had gone to wrack and ruin : 
 but Fuller did not despair. Single traitors were no 
 longer worth a guinea. A plot — a good plot^ involving 
 the lives and fortunes of a hundred or so of unsuspecting 
 English gentlemen — was the thing to revive the business. 
 Fuller determined to discover one ; and took some pains 
 to settle what sort of a plot was likely to suit the public 
 taste. Indeed^ it is pretty evident^ from his own story, 
 that he removed to Axe Yard for no other purpose than 
 to take lessons in this new branch of his profession 
 from the infamous Doctor Titus Gates, who had himself 
 become too well known some years before, to enable 
 him to practise in person. 
 
 Fuller's account of his connection with Gates affords 
 a curious picture of the times. Whilst I lodged in 
 Axe Yard/^ says he, ^^I became acquainted with Doctor 
 Gates, who had seen me before, as I had him, puffing 
 about the court ; but now, being neighbours, we began 
 to grow very intimate. He invites me to his house to 
 dinner, and there I met with Mister John Tutchin, and 
 a great many that talked mightily against King J ames 
 [this was the safest sort of talk at that time], and the 
 best name they could afford that prince was rogue and 
 scoundrel-rascal. I never heard such invectives uttered 
 before, as by these men. They began to tell me I must 
 be hearty in my cause ; it was a glorious thing to dis- 
 
THE PORTRAIT OE A SPY. 
 
 225 
 
 cover a plot^ and he that would serve a nation must fear 
 nobody^ but strike at all that stood in his way. They 
 preached up liberty and property^ and spoke very despi- 
 cably of all kings^ not sparing him on the throne. They 
 said he employed rogues [how could Mr. Fuller deny 
 it?] and Tories^ men that would betray and ruin the 
 Protestant religion^ the king himself, and the civil rights 
 of the people [was Mr. Fuller likely to hesitate after 
 that?]. They exclaimed mightily against the noble 
 family of the Finches^ and by their malice^ said a 
 thousand horrid things against the greatest of that name^ 
 and told me it was impossible that any of that family 
 should love me^ and it was a pity I did not know some- 
 thing against them^ so as to bring them so into the plot 
 as to have them cut off root and branch. These things 
 startled me at first ; but some considerable men^ as 
 John Arnold^ Esquire,, John SavillC;, Esquire^ and others 
 it is not fitting to name^, appearing amongst them^ and 
 saying the same things^ telling long stories of what they 
 had done to serve and save the nation^ what they had 
 suffered for the same^ and what danger England was 
 yet in — these things made me look on them as saints 
 and mighty patrons for the public good. In a short 
 time the reverend doctor invites me to come and lodge 
 in his house^ and having his first floor very handsomely 
 furnished^ I accepted his offer^ and had room for my 
 servants also.^^ 
 
 Thus^ according to Mr. Fuller^ did the wicked Doctor 
 and his party corrupt him. But their villany went 
 further still. When he was in Oates's house^ Fuller 
 
 15 
 
226 
 
 THE POETRi^IT OF A SPY. 
 
 says, lie and his friend Tutcliin, whom he almost kept, 
 with the rest of the gang, prevailed with me to let them 
 see a copy of my information of the whole plot, and 
 when they read it they shook their heads, blessing 
 themselves, and said what a pity it was that so good a 
 plot should be mangled, and spoiled, and no better 
 used. ' Gadzooks ! ^ says the Doctor, ^ I wouldn^t be 
 served so. You are a fool. Fuller, and a coxcomb. 
 God^s life ! I could beat you for having no more wit. 
 Why, I would go to Charles and tell him his own, nay, 
 swear he was in the Popish plot himself, only he knew 
 not that part designed against his own life. I made 
 him afraid of me, and his lords, Lowtherdale and the 
 rest. I called them rogues to their faces, but you are 
 afraid to speak to them.^ At this kind of rate I was 
 baited by him and his crew, until to avoid them I 
 returned to my former lodging over against him, for I 
 could not bear his continual foul language."'^ Another 
 reason, however, for avoiding Doctor Gates, which 
 Fuller calls a good pretence, peeps out in his narrative. 
 
 Mr. Aaron Smith,^^ he says, seeing the Doctor and 
 me together one day, at a tavern in the city, he fell a 
 swearing at me for being with the Doctor in public. 
 ^ Look you, Mr. Fuller,^ said he, ^ the Doctor is a good 
 and an honest man. He saved his country, and deserves 
 well from all good men ; but there be many at Court 
 who hate him, and so they will you, if you keep him 
 company. Besides, the Jacobites will say he tutors 
 you ; and if Mister Crone should confess, he would be 
 set up as a witness against a great many great men, and 
 
THE POUTEAIT OE A SPY. 227 
 
 this being with Doctor Oates will bring such reflections 
 upon you that the Tories will take advantage by it. So 
 you must leave off being seen publicly in his company^ 
 or I shall complain of you^ to your damage/ I was not 
 sorry for all this/^ says Fuller^ and though I left the 
 Doctor^s house^ yet he would visit me frequently^ as did 
 /his retainers.^^ 
 
 FuUer^s plot was as yet but a cock-and-bull story, 
 an^i he pretended that he required time and money to 
 bring the whole matter to light. In such times, how- 
 ever, parties cannot afford to neglect a warning, how- 
 ever doubtful, and he appears to have persuaded many 
 of the truth — among others the Archbishop of Canter- 
 bury, who promised to forward the matter with the king 
 and queen. Fuller got an order for money out of the 
 treasury ; nor was this all ; the marshal, hearing that he 
 was about to start for Flanders, where the king was, 
 captured him again, and kept him close in the prison. 
 Upon this he says, I sent to my good Lord of Can- 
 terbury presently, and he the same night acquainted 
 the queen. So the next morning early, Mr. Dalone, 
 tlfie queen^s secretary's servant, came to my chamber- 
 door, and entering, brought me a present of two hun- 
 dred pounds in silver, which was very welcome.^^ With 
 this, and the help of innumerable swindling tricks, 
 Fuller travelled to the camp in the Low Countries, in 
 his old state of a coach and six. His confidence and 
 effrontery were unbounded. Meeting with the notorious 
 Colonel Kirk, who was with the army, he boldly 
 asserted to him that he was a relation of Lord Sydney, 
 
228 
 
 THE POETRAIT OP A SPY. 
 
 who was actually then in the camp. This Fuller con° 
 fesses. The hostile biographers tell us that Lord Sydney^ 
 hearing the story, and being shown the person^ asked 
 him what country he was of, and which way his relation 
 to my lord came in? Fuller^ in no wise abashed^ 
 replied that truly he had the happiness to be some- 
 what related^ though not so near as a nephew ^twas 
 true^ as he much feared it was his misfortune to be at 
 present unknown to his lordship ; however,, he hoped 
 his lordship would pardon his boldness in laying claim 
 to so high an honour^ it being impossible for him to do 
 less than pride himself, though in the most distant 
 affinity^ to a family of that worth and glory as his 
 lordship^s.^^ ^^His lordship/^ says the biographer^ was 
 not altogether satisfied with this answer; but '^^was 
 pleased to signify that he desired him to forbear laying 
 further claim to his kindred ; for if he did not^ he would 
 have a paper pinned to his back^ and have him thrashed* 
 by his footmen through the camp^ that it might be 
 known how little affection or respect he had for his own 
 nephew.^^ This seems to have alarmed Fuller^ who at 
 the next town abandoned his story^ though afterwards 
 he says : ^^1 must own that I passed for a nephew of 
 the Archbishop of Canterbury .-^^ The king appears to 
 have been too busy to examine his story. He com- 
 manded him to go to Brussels^ and wait for further 
 instructions ; and^ finally^ he returned to London 
 without obtaining a hearing. 
 
 Time was precious, and plots will not keep. On the 
 tenth of November, sixteen hundred and ninety-one,, 
 
THE PORTRAIT OP A SPY. 
 
 229 
 
 Puller^ finding the Government slow to believe^ boldly 
 petitioned the House of Commons to be heard. He 
 undertook to produce five hundred original letters and 
 papers on behalf of King James^ and to support them 
 by four witnesses^ each men of property^ of five hundred 
 pounds per annum. Names were mentioned^ and many 
 trembled at the threatened disclosures ; but Fuller had 
 no letters or papers. His object was to obtain money 
 as long as he could delay exposure. When ordered to 
 appear before the House^ he pretended to have been 
 poisoned; but a committee being appointed to visit 
 him^ he declared that one Mr. Thomas Jones was the 
 real discoverer of the business ; but neither Jones nor 
 any other parties named could be found. After much 
 shuffling of this kind^ Fuller was indicted for libel^ and 
 condemned to stand twice in the pillory, and pay a fine 
 of two hundred marks to the king, or go to prison. 
 These punishments, however, did not cure him. In a 
 «hort time he obtained his release, and set up again in 
 his old business with as great success as ever. At one 
 time he had a groom, three horses, and a footman, and 
 lodged on Ludgate Hill. Some noted Whig gentlemen 
 employed him with Doctor Kingston, who, now and 
 then reporting that he knew where a traitor was to be 
 found, received orders to track him out at once in 
 company with Fuller. This, with every variety of 
 ^swindling, served to repair FuUer^s broken fortunes ; he 
 kept an establishment at Twickenham ; and making the 
 acquaintance of a lady of property, inveigled her into 
 promising to marry him. Fuller calls her a young 
 
230 
 
 THE POETEAIT OF A SPY. 
 
 lady with twenty thousand pounds^ but Narcissus Lut- 
 trell^ in his Diary^ under date of August^ sixteen hun- 
 dred and ninety-six, records the fact of her being a. 
 widow with fifteen thousand pounds. They were so- 
 lemnly contracted, and were to be married, when a 
 troublesome brother went to Tunbridge Wells ; but the 
 lady suddenly fell sick of the smallpox and died. I 
 was a faithful mourner/^ Mr. Fuller touchingly observes y 
 
 for if I knew my own heart, I valued her person more 
 than her fortune, but both together were too great a 
 blessing for me.^^ 
 
 Thus Mr. Fuller, sometimes up, sometimes down^ 
 frequently in the Fleet or its liberties, and occasionally 
 in splendid lodgings, contrived to pass a year or two. 
 Through his invisible friend Jones, he was constantly 
 hearing of a traitor, and he was always ready, for any 
 Whig gentlemen who wished it, to prove strange and 
 treasonable practices committed by somebody in the 
 interest of France. When the trade flagged a little, he 
 set up as a literary gentleman — published accounts of 
 various trips to Hampshire and Flanders, in search of 
 traitors. Curious glimpses of his literary associates 
 are obtained in his narratives and prefaces. There was 
 Mr. John Tutchin, already named, the editor of the 
 ^Observator,^ whowas sentenced (for libels) to be whipped 
 through every town in England. Also Mr. Robert 
 Murray, who lodged within the liberties of the Fleet,, 
 at a coffin-maker's in the Old Bailey, where ^^Jack 
 Tutchin,^' being out of credit, came to live with him ; 
 antil Mr. Murray complained urgently of his fellow- 
 
THE PORTRAIT OF A SPY. 
 
 231 
 
 lodger^s unfortunate inability to change his linen. 
 Besides these^ were Mr. Pettis^ a scandalous^ drunken 
 fellow, and a number of other bold writers and poli- 
 ticians, including Doctor Kingston, who, said Fuller^ 
 when he quarrelled with him, served his time with 
 one Sprig, a tailor at Northampton, and afterwards sold 
 gingerbread and cardmatches in the old Artillery ground, 
 and jumped into orders by copying an instrument he 
 found in a parson's old breeches that came to him to be 
 mended, and since that was obliged to quit those orders^ 
 to which he never was justly entitled/^ 
 
 Fuller proved himself a worthy member of this fra- 
 ternity, by putting forth a constant succession of libel- 
 lous pamphlets, which he impudently dedicated to 
 various persons in high position in the state — the 
 principal of them tending to show that the pretender 
 was not the child of King James or the queen, but of an 
 Irish woman, named Mrs. Grey. Fuller pretended that 
 the queen^s supposed confinement was a trick, and that 
 the child of Mrs. Grey had been taken from her to 
 support the cheat. He gave the most circumstantial 
 narratives of what he had seen in Saint Jameses Palace 
 when a page to the Marchioness of Powis, and after- 
 wards in France, where he alleged that the real mother 
 had been murdered. The tracts were read with avidity. 
 They favoured a popular belief, which was not without 
 its use to the Government, and as long as he libelled 
 none but Catholics and Jacobites, they were allowed to 
 circulate. But Fuller was again emboldened by his 
 success. When his readers began to tire, he pretended 
 
232 
 
 THE PORTEAIT OF A SPY. 
 
 that his old informant J ones^ who once left him in the 
 lurch so cruelly^ had again turned np, and had handed 
 over to him a wonderful collection of treasonable docu- 
 ments. Fuller now began to forge wholesale^ and 
 print letters of King J ames^ the queen^ Father Corker^ 
 Mrs. Grey^ the Earl of Tyrconnel^ and the Duchess of 
 Powis^ with a number of formal depositions of persons 
 of quality and worth. These he declared to be from 
 the originals^ as they were intercepted and delivered to 
 his present Majesty."'^ The letters were formal and 
 circumstantial^ and with the depositions and other 
 documents had every appearance of genuineness. They 
 were dedicated to the Earl of Romney^ to the Lord 
 Mayor^ and to others. Each publication was recom- 
 mended to the consideration of both Houses of Parlia- 
 ment^ and one bore on its titlepage the words ^^Pub- 
 lished by Command/^ Not content with these startling 
 publications^ he once more petitioned both Houses of 
 Parliament to be allowed to substantiate his charges. 
 Fuller^ who admits the forgeries^ says that he was 
 assured by his party that nothing could hurt him. I 
 was promised/^ he says^ by several persons of figure 
 and note that I should have forty witnesses to stand by 
 me^ and be brought off with honour.^^ Many persons 
 of high rank were compromised by his statements^ and 
 the House of Lords were compelled to order his atten- 
 dance. Fuller then began the old trick of shuffling. 
 He pretended that Jones would not come^ until he had 
 protection from the House. When this was granted^ 
 he took the messengers into the country for twelve 
 
THE PORTEAIT OF A SPY. 
 
 233 
 
 days in search of Jones^ who never could be found. 
 Sometimes^ the Jacobites had threatened to murder 
 Jones if he came to the House; sometimes^ Jones was 
 hiding at the house of Mr. Ingelsfield^ who was as airy 
 and unsubstantial as Jones; and sometimes both of 
 them had promised to be at the Three Tuns Tavern^ at 
 Ludgate Hill^ or some other place^ and did not come^ 
 Jones having taken fright again and vanished. The 
 House at last got tired of this ; and in spite of letters 
 to the Chancellor^ and the Speaker^ and the Chief 
 Justice^ solemnly attesting the genuineness of the 
 documents^ and promising to produce Jones if they 
 would only grant him time and money^ and in spite of 
 actual letters from Jones himself promising to come — 
 Fuller was again indicted^ and convicted^ still calling on 
 the name of Jones^ and offering to produce him within 
 eight hours. 
 
 The sentence was^ that Fuller should go to all the 
 Courts in Westminster with a paper pinned upon him, 
 expressing his crime ; that he should stand three days 
 in the pillory, two hours at a time, at Charing Cross, 
 Temple Bar, and the Royal Exchange ; that he should 
 be whipped at Bridewell, kept to hard labour, and fined 
 a thousand marks — all of which was executed, as 
 appears from a lamentable account by Mr. Fuller him- 
 self: 
 
 ^^Never,^^ he says, ^^was man amongst Turks or 
 barbarians known to be worse used. I was sadly 
 abused at Charing Cross ; but at Temple Bar I was 
 stifled with all manner of dust, filth, and rotten eggs ; 
 
234 
 
 THE POETEAIT OF A SPY. 
 
 and my left eye was so bruised with a stone flung, that 
 it swelled out of my head immediately, the blow de- 
 prived me of my senses, and I fell down (not wilfully^, 
 as some say), and hung by the neck. Three times was 
 I served in that kind, losing all manner of sense, 
 though I fell down but twice, and being almost dead, I 
 was by order taken out ; but felt not my release, nor 
 was I sensible of anything for some hours after. I was 
 a miserable object to behold, and hardly any that saw 
 me thought it possible for me to survive. I was all 
 over bruised from head to heel, and on the small of my 
 back ; as I stood stooping, a stone struck me, which,^ 
 being taken up, was found to weigh more than six 
 pounds. On Monday in the City I was more tenderly 
 used, after having made my complaint to Sir James 
 Bateman, then sheriff. On Friday, when I was carried 
 to Bridewell, I was very sick and weak ; but nothing 
 availed. I must suffer, and had thirty-nine lashes. 
 Being ironed with heavy fetters, I was sent down imme- 
 diately to hard labour, and not so much as allowed to 
 be dressed ; insomuch that when I came from work at 
 night, the blood had dried my shirt and skin together, 
 so that both came off. I had a violent fever, but must 
 to work the next day by six. I was barbarously used 
 by some of the petty officers of the place, and was in- 
 humanly beat and bruised by one of the arts-masters. 
 I am now,^^ Fuller concludes, a prisoner in the com- 
 mon side of the Queen's Bench; lodged under ground 
 in close^ nauseous holes, such as a gentleman would 
 hardly put a dog into that he loved. We have no air^ 
 
THE PORTEAIT OF A SPY. 
 
 235 
 
 nor is tliere anything but misery to be seen. I have 
 been also kept in irons^ though now only a prisoner for 
 debt^ and all my usage in the execution of my sentence 
 has been barbarous beyond comparison^ which make& 
 me^ with holy Job^ cry out : Pity me ; pity me^ O ye 
 my friends ; for the hand of the Lord is upon me V' 
 
 A dismal termination this — a woful change from 
 livery servants^ and coach and six_, and lodgings in Pall 
 Mall^ and waistcoats of stuff worth forty shillings the 
 yard. Nor was there now any hope of recovery. The 
 hundreds whom Fuller had accused^ had suffered im- 
 prisonment and paid their fines^ till governments were 
 tired — and good Queen Anne was on the throne. In- 
 forming was out of fashion^ and Fuller was at last toa 
 much damaged for the business. 
 
 To end my days in solitude/^ he piously says in a 
 postcript^ and prepare for a blessed eternity^ is the 
 utmost extent of my wishes.^^ 
 
 But he appears to have got out of prison again. 
 Fifteen years afterwards^ we obtain a momentary 
 glimpse of him^ getting a living by a petty roguery^, 
 which tells haw much he had fallen — persuading poor 
 tradesmen of his power to get them small Government 
 appointments_, and inducing them by his bold talk to 
 give him sums of money ; for which he was committed 
 to Newgate in seventeen hundred and seventeen. After 
 this he drops into an obscurity in which we have failed^ 
 in spite of much searching, to track him. It is not 
 difficult to imagine him, after many visits to Newgate 
 and Bridewell, condemned for some petty forgery, and 
 
£36 
 
 THE POETUAIT OF A SPY. 
 
 making his last appearance one morning at Tyburn^ or 
 in front of his old friend Jack Tutchin^s lodgings — 
 slinking out of the world with an alias which sheltered 
 him from the fierce howlings of the mob^ and concealed 
 his fate for ever. 
 
LOITERING BY THE WAY. 
 
 4 
 
 I KNOW there are men who boast that they have 
 cured themselves of the habit of loitering at bookstalls. 
 I hope they have exchanged it for no worse habit. I 
 would no more give them credit for their self-conquest 
 than I would join in their foolish boast. I am not a 
 snuflF-taker^ a slave to opium^ a gambler^ or a drinker 
 of strong drinks. Nevertheless^ J do acknowledge 
 myself to be guilty of all such moral weakness^ as 
 may be implied in a love of lingering at bookstalls. 
 Surely^ if there be an innocent and unobtrusive plea- 
 sure^ I may cry Eureka^^ here. I am not aware 
 of any one ever getting a disease of the brain by 
 indulging in it; or waxing glassy- eyed^, or sallow- 
 cheeked^ or getting slothful, or cruel. I never heard 
 of any man ruining his family, or blowing out his 
 brains, who had previously written a note, in which he 
 laid the blame of his untimely end upon bookstalls, 
 and charged the young and thoughtless to take warning 
 by his fate in time. I do not remember a case of gout 
 or dyspepsia being attributed to the same cause. There- 
 fore, thou Bacchanalian or Tobacconalian, pick the 
 
.238 
 
 LOITEEING BY THE WAY. 
 
 mote out of thine own eye, and let me loiter when I 
 will. 
 
 Here is the autobiography of Benjamin Franklin : 
 he knew the worth of time, if ever any man did ; yet 
 he never begrudged ten minutes at a bookstall. The 
 books he speaks of as his earliest favorites are all the 
 very sort you find at bookstalls. That odd volume of 
 the ^ Spectator/ for instance, which he says he bought. 
 You do not buy odd volumes of the ^ Spectator ^ at 
 regular booksellers. Across a hundred and odd years 
 of wars and revolutions I see him plainly now — a stout 
 and healthy looking boy in homely dress — eagerly 
 scanning the slender stock of some dealer in odd, 
 tattered volumes, in that clean-kept and shady Quaker 
 city, where he landed penniless. He runs over the 
 authors ; thinks, perhaps, that one day the New World 
 vrill have her great names too, when she has time to 
 blend the beautiful and useful, like the trees and houses 
 in Penn^s new capital. He notes ^The Art of Thinking,^ 
 by Messieurs du Port Royal, Lockers ^ Essay on the 
 Human Understanding,^ Cotton^s ^ Montaigne,^ ^Plu- 
 iarcVs Lives,^ and sighs, feeling some few loose coppers 
 in his pocket. Suddenly his eye catches a little dirty 
 book, denuded of one cover and weather-beaten in a 
 Toyage across the sea J a solitary volume, parted from 
 its kin and sold into exile, like a slave by a bad master, 
 never to join company again with its lost brethren, in 
 any book-case in the world. Taking it up, he is straight- 
 way introduced to Sir Roger de Coverley, Knight, 
 in whose pleasant company he forgets the passers by, 
 
LOITERING BY THE WAY. 
 
 239 
 
 and the bookdealer inside^ who begins to suspect him 
 of a shabby design to read that book through in twelve 
 visits^ and is about to point out to him the trifling 
 price^ by way of hint^ when the youth draws forth his 
 hand^ and depositing the coppers^ takes the little book 
 away. Stay^ loyal and obedient subject of His Majesty 
 King George of England^ who shall be great hereafter ! 
 Stay ! I would look upon your honest face again. 
 Walk not away so fast. I have wondrous things to tell 
 — secrets of which you or your fellow countrymen^ who 
 number yet not quite a million^ do not dream. I could 
 tell you all about the tea that shall be wasted in the 
 waters of Boston Harbour^ and what will come of it. 
 Startling news I have of things that shall be seen in 
 France one day ; whereof even now the seeds are sown. 
 But he does not look back^ nor to right or left^ till he 
 is at home^ where for many a day he will pore over 
 that little book^ learning whole essays by hearty and 
 versifying ^ Vizions of Mirza/ with a delight which only 
 bookstall books can give. 
 
 I have no sympathy with grubbers after very old books. 
 Black-letter has no charm for me^ and superfluous final 
 e^s are an eyesore. It rejoices not me to see that my 
 book was printed at the sign of the Black Boy^ over 
 against St. Bede^s.^^ I have no pleasure in that mass 
 of prefaces^ addresses to the reader^ prologues^ exordia, 
 marginal notes, epilogues, and envoys, in which our 
 forefathers delighted to bury an author. If I am to 
 have my choice between white paper and dingy yellow, 
 I choose white ; and I have a decided preference for 
 
240 
 
 LOITERING BY THE WAY. 
 
 octavo over folio^ as being more portable. I do not 
 care to have a portrait of my author^ made by ruling a 
 straight line for a nose^ and striking semicircles for 
 forehead and eyebrows; like that libellous effigy of 
 Shakespeare which I have never forgiven,Ben Jonson for 
 certifying to. In vain for me does the cunning book- 
 seller mark dirty^ broken-backed,, title-pageless^ little 
 books — trash with which the priest and barber in Don 
 Quixote would have made short work — as quaint^ 
 curious^ or very scarce. Verbiage^ and pedantry^ and 
 silly conceits^ do not^ to my thinking, improve by age ; 
 nor are they, unhappily, so very scarce, that I should 
 pay more for them than for wiser books. Bridget Elia 
 might have trusted me with our last half-crown, secure 
 that no rare old copy of anything should ever tempt me 
 to return with an inedible substitute for the expected 
 supper j nor would I have refused forgiveness to that 
 meek and faithful maiden, though she had seized upon 
 old Mateo Aleman^s ^ Spanish Eogue,^ and cast him, 
 fluttering like one of those belligerent tomes in the 
 frontispiece to Boileau^s ' Lutrin,'' into the street below. 
 Such books are properly sold with fine old paintings 
 and rudely carven and worm-eaten old violins, in Soho. 
 Their sellers are harpies, vampires, fosterers of human 
 frailty for their own profit ; they sit like spiders ready 
 to dart out of their secret ambush, and pounce upon a 
 victim before he has time to put on his spectacles ; not 
 like mild, unobtrusive philanthropists, who spread their 
 feast of knowledge for all to taste, and taste again, 
 before they buy. 
 
LOITERING BY THE WAY. 
 
 241 
 
 But tliough I steer clear of this Scylla^ the curiosity- 
 shop^ yet do I hold in equal horror that Charybdis^ the 
 popular bookstall^ whose books are all bound in gaudy- 
 cloth^ and are vaguely stated on the title-page to be- 
 
 printed for the booksellers/^ There is no excitement 
 here ; no search for bargains ; no curiosity to see what 
 their authors are. I kliow them all beforehand^ and 
 their prices. That clumsy little row of novels^ from 
 the ^ Farmer of Inglewood Forest ^ down to the ^ F^ed 
 B/Over/ look cheap at ninepence each; such print or 
 paper never came perhaps to Leipsic book-fair ; but I 
 know too well by what simple method all novels^ long 
 or shorty in that series^^are brought into one compass 
 to have any interest in them. ^ Clarissa Harlowe was 
 wont to be a little bulkier than Dr. Johnson^s ^liasselas/ 
 if I am not mistaken. My Arabian Nights^ Enter- 
 tainments ^ were a continuous feast^ and not a wretched 
 mouthful;, as I find them here. Three days I wept^, 
 in my youth^ over the sorrows and perplexities of 
 Amanda and Oscar Fitzalan^ while here I may find 
 those virtuous Children of the Abbey made free and 
 happy in as many hours. That inexhaustible stereo- 
 typed edition of Shakespeare in one volume^ I do 
 believe^ is honest. The text, perhaps^ is mangled by 
 the players, yet I think all the plays are there. But I 
 abhor that edition. I hate its creaking back, its press-- 
 worn portrait of the author, its faint and smudged 
 type. I would not read it out of an Austrian dun- 
 geon. No exception do I make in favour of that 
 waistcoat-pocket edition of Burns, prose and poetry^^ 
 
 16 
 
242 
 
 LOITEEING BY THE WAY. 
 
 with its skeleton engravings, its memoir, notes, and 
 laudatory verses, all complete ; nor do 1 love Young^s 
 ^ Night Thoughts ' enough to run the risk of getting 
 nearsighted in reading them. There was a time when 
 I looked enviously at those very blue and crimson 
 books, with their backs and edges glittering with gold, 
 which the popular bookshop calls suitable for birthday 
 presents, &c. They used to be arranged upon a table 
 in our school-room when we broke up for the holidays, 
 that all might see them before* we drew lots. How I 
 coveted once that ^ Paul and Virginia ^ and the ' Indian 
 Cottage^ (those inseparable companions), with a copper- 
 plate engraving of Paul, naked-footed, carrying Virginia 
 over the brook, done upon thick whitey-brown paper, 
 on which the ink would run so, if you tried to write 
 your name on the back of it, that the letters all came 
 together, and a blot would spread like a fire in the 
 prairies. Mr. Gloss, my schoolmaster (who was on the 
 whole such a good schoolmaster, as far as his limited 
 powers and still more limited knowledge went, that I 
 would not for the world call him old Gloss), held up 
 that very ' Evenings at Home,^ by Dr. Aikin and Mrs. 
 Barbauld, once when we were alone, and asked me 
 how I should like to have it; I fondly regarding 
 the question as an earnest that the book would fall to 
 me ; but it didnH. Master Barlow got it and prized 
 it not — offering it to me, soon after the holidays, for 
 a complete string of livery buttons, which he had set 
 his heart upon, and wouldn^t hear of any substitute. 
 There was a little book — I do not see it here, and 
 
LOITEEING BY THE WAY. 
 
 9A3 
 
 indeed I do not think it properly belonged to the 
 popular bookstall — which was my prize^ and which I 
 should like to meet again. It was called the Dangers 
 of Dutchland.'' How euphoniously did that alliterative 
 title strike my ear^ as the prize list was read over. I 
 had a presentiment that I should win it^ and I did win 
 it. It was a little drab volume in boards^ neat enough ; 
 but not so delicate as my Cowper^ which I had never 
 been able to read with comfort for fear of soiling it^ 
 and which I had at last come to regard^ not as a book 
 to be readj but as a something to be kept clean. 
 
 I have read some circulating libraries through since 
 then^ and a few hundreds of other books^ of which^ I 
 fancy^ I might now read a good many and never suspect 
 that I had seen them before ; but I am quite ready to 
 go through an examination on the Dangers of Dutch- 
 land now^ though I lost it somehow years and years 
 ago. Ask me about the diligence that overturned^ 
 and what the travellers said about the roads generally^ 
 and how the Dutch boatmen measure distances by the 
 number of pipes they smoke. Request me to relate 
 that affecting little episode of the young woman who 
 went mad about tulips; or beg me^ in the style of 
 Mrs. MangnalFs questions^ state generally my recol- 
 lections of that work. If I had but found that little 
 book here^ I could not have perhaps been so hard on the 
 popular bookseller. 
 
 And here^ proceeding like a cautious philosopher^ 
 further to define and circumscribe my cardinal term, I 
 entirely exclude from my idea of a bookstall those 
 
244 
 
 LOITEEING BY THE WAY. 
 
 dusty repositories of sallow calf-bound volumes^ to be 
 found about Chancery Lane and the Inns of Court. I 
 never stopped at one of them save once_, to buy a 
 Delolme on the Constitution of England^ because Junius 
 praised it^ and once again to get an old Blackstone with 
 Mr. Christianas notes^ which foUov/ed as a matter of 
 course. Threadbare lawyers^ clerks hang about them, 
 and buy second -hand ^ Introductions to Law Studies and 
 Advice to Young Students/ with which they work 
 themselves into temporary fits of enthusiasm, and think 
 seriously of living on oatmeal porridge, in order to 
 afford money for law books, which they intend to study 
 all night — having previously given a fareweU supper 
 to all rackety friends and associates who might drop? 
 in and interfere with their design. ^ But Fearne on 
 Contingent Remainders^ does not stir the spirit like 
 allusions to the extraordinary rise of Chancellor 
 Yorke ; the first gust of determination dies away, and 
 the sails soon begin to flap against the mast. There 
 are some shops — generally near the hospitals — that sell 
 nothing but second-hand medical works, where the 
 whole of the last season^s crop of books upon the 
 German Spas, aU addressed To the Editor of some- 
 thing (torn out), with the Author^s compliments,^' 
 are sure to be found. In like manner there are shops 
 whose staple is books upon divinity, most of which 
 are not of the sort I care to take into the country with 
 me, and read under a spreading beech tree, but, never- 
 theless, worth looking at when you are in the humour. 
 These shops generally have a black bust of somebody 
 
LOITERING BY THE WAY. 
 
 245 
 
 over the door. Their volumes are almost all folios or 
 quartos^ and are always in a good state of preservation, 
 their thick-ribbed backs being newly varnished, and 
 their lettering fresh as if just from the binder. 
 
 Stalls exclusively of school-books are not exactly 
 in my way, but they, too, remind me pleasantly 
 of school days, and so deserve five minutes. All of 
 the good old school of school-books are here, and bound 
 in sheepskin. None of your new-fangled numbers one, 
 two, three, four, published by the Commissioners for 
 that, or the Society for this. This ^ Bonnycastle^ was my 
 tutor ; this Pinnock was my historian ; this ^ Carpenter^ 
 was my spelling assistant. From this ^ Goldsmith^s 
 Geography^ it was that I learned that the Spaniard is ^^ar- 
 rogant to his inferiors, proud to his equals, and submis- 
 sive to his superiors," and that the Frenchman is ^4ight, 
 inconstant, and excessively vain." From this ^ Speaker ' 
 of Enfield, of Warrington Academy, I was taught to 
 prefer cheerfulness to mirth, and to despise those patri- 
 cians who would have endeavoured, by indirect means, 
 to depreciate the noble Marius in the esteem of the 
 people. Here, in this sixpenny box — where the pro- 
 prietor has cast in an odd volume of Euripides, in the 
 absurd hope of inducing some one to buy it, not exactly 
 because he understands Greek, but because it is so 
 cheap — I find an old, coverless, dog-eared, pen-and-ink 
 illustrated Virgil, precisely like mine was, and open it 
 just at that tiresome passage in the Georgics about a 
 peasant who, for some secret purpose connected with 
 .agriculture, delighted to drive home his sluggish ass with 
 
246 
 
 LOITERING BY THE WAY. 
 
 a millstone or a load of black pitch, which^ however^ 
 was no tronble in my estimation compared with that 
 description of a plough a few pages earlier. Ah^ that 
 plough ! Could any but a misanthrope with a particular 
 spite against boys — foreseeing that his language would 
 soon be defunct^ and handed over for eternal dissection 
 in all grammar schools and gymnasia throughout the 
 world — have ever dreamed of giving directions in a 
 score of hexameters for the construction of a plough ? 
 How I strove to reset its dislocated parts, which 
 would not be brought together by any rules of syntax 
 that I knew of ; and finally gave it up_, convinced that 
 it never could be a description of any plough, unless it 
 were the rude, ignorant contrivance of some soldier of 
 the tenth legion, to whom that pattern of all the dedi- 
 catory virtues, Augustus Csesar, had given the house 
 and land of some unlucky Mantuan farmer, for his 
 share of the plunder. Ah, well ! school-books are a 
 subject by themselves ; and I did not set out to talk 
 about them. 
 
 A man who confesses to being fond of a bookstall 
 might be supposed, a fortiori, to be quite happy in 
 Holywell Street, London, where the old, worn-out, 
 pauper class of books have gained a permanefat settle- 
 ment. He might be pictured as ready at any time to 
 brave the dangers of the narrow pass between the 
 churches of St. Mary-le- Strand and St. Clement^s 
 Danes, so stoutly defended at its mouth by dealers in 
 old clothes (who sally out and compel the passer-by to 
 listen, though he may be as anxious as the wedding 
 
LOITERING BY THE WAY. 247 
 
 guest to be at the feast) ^ in order to spend a whole 
 sunny afternoon in that wild garden of seedy literature. 
 But such places are only a bewilderment to him. It is 
 as if you should set an active sportsman to shoot in an 
 aviary. He does not^ to be sure^ care to stay at sale- 
 shops^ where he is jostled by carpenters bidding for 
 slop-made tools^ for the sake of a few books which are 
 always to be found there^ imbedded among planes^ and 
 saws^ and fishing-tackle^ and rusty old pistols. There 
 is nothing to speak of there^ but Guthrie^s ^ Geography/ 
 Walker^s ' Gazetteer/ 1793^ and some old, odd volumes 
 of the ^ Edinburgh Review.^ Nor at rag-shops^ to over- 
 haul that small salvage from the waste -paper stocky 
 consisting of old hymn books^ ^ Annual Registers/ Dods- 
 ley^s selections of fugitive pieces, by several hands, 
 dirty, spotted, imperfect volumes of Smollett or 
 Fielding which no cheesemonger could use, without 
 offending his customers. Their proprietors have an ex- 
 aggerated notion of the worth of old rubbish, founded, 
 I believe, upon traditions of little dirty volumes having 
 been picked up at such places, and after much scrub- 
 bing being found to have valuable autographs on their 
 covers, about which the seller subsequently went to 
 law, and was sternly adjudged to abide by his bargain : 
 or perhaps they have heard that there are bibliolater^ 
 addicted to the worship of fetishes, appearing to the 
 vulgar eye to be equally unworthy of adoration ; and 
 so, in despair of ever getting at the secret of what con- 
 stitutes their value, have resolved to protect themselves 
 in a general suspicion of bookbuyers, and a determination 
 
:248 
 
 LOITERING BY THE WAY. 
 
 to ask tliat ma.xiiniiin price wliicli^ as a buyer itself^ it 
 is the rag-sliop^s prondest boast to give. 
 
 All these ninth parts of a bookstall my bibliophile 
 passes by ; for he is no literary glutton. Any book- 
 stall whose outside stock a man^ with moderate haste, 
 might glance at in ten minutes^ will content him. One 
 "Such I kncw^ which is my oldest favorite^ and which 
 €omes up exactly to my ideal of what such a loitering 
 place should be. Not wholly in the City^s stir and 
 noise^ nor quite beyond it^ is this my beloved bookstall. 
 It is in a narrow passage^ considerably frequented during 
 the day ; but it lies snugly in a little nook, so that any 
 person approaching it must do so deliberately^ and 
 because he has determined it beforehand. This is good ; 
 for there are some who will linger just because the 
 place lies in their way, and who, as they would have 
 preferred a picture-shop themselves, never dream that 
 they are keeping away more serious devotees. 
 
 It was a smaller place when I first knew it — just 
 such a stall as Lackington or Hutton -might have begun 
 with ; but I was less fastidious then. An old shoe- 
 maker had it first — a thin, lame old man, with gray 
 whiskers. He had renounced his legitimate business, 
 in defiance of the solemn warning of the Roman satirist, 
 and betaken himself to the cobbling and patching of 
 old books, in the hope of getting his livelihood that way ; 
 and if living on bread and water, washing his own 
 shirt, and mendmg his own boots, would have enabled 
 him to hold out, I believe he would have maintained 
 the siege to this dav. I used to see him in the little 
 
LOITERING BY THE WAY. 249 
 
 sliop^ readings witli a pair of spectacles with broad 
 Mack rims^ wliicli lie wore very low down Ms nose. I 
 bought of Mm Defoe^s ' Account of the Plague/ which I 
 read and liked very much ; till I found out that the 
 author's part in it was all a fiction — a discovery 
 which made the whole seem to me so much like 
 a string of falsehoods^ that I could hardly reconcile 
 it with my ideas of ethics. The old shoemaker, 
 to my astonishment, asked me about it next time 
 I stopped there; and answered my objections, de- 
 fending the author with very subtle casuistry ; but 
 though I could not answer him, I was not convinced. 
 I always felt myself free to loiter there after that — 
 whether I bought anything or not — for I had doubt in 
 approaching a new place, whether I looked sufficiently 
 like a buyer of books to test a bookstall keeper's 
 patience ; and not without reason, for I had not for- 
 gotten an insulting bookseller, who once snatched out 
 of my hand a copy of Mungo Park's ^ Travels,^ and 
 bade me go on about my arraut,^^ adding in the vain 
 hope of soothing my wounded pride, the words there's 
 a good lad.^^ I told him, to annoy him, that I was 
 just thinking of buying it, as indeed I was ; but that 
 I wouldn't have it now at any price, at the same time 
 holding up half a crown in proof of my power to do so, 
 if I had pleased. But he did not believe me, and only 
 repeated his ofifensive admonition, which stung me to 
 the quick, insomuch that I never went down that street 
 again, till a spy informed me that the bookseller had 
 gone away, and that his shop was now devoted to 
 
250 
 
 LOITEEING BY THE WAY, 
 
 cutlery and hardware; a circumstance tliat induced me^ I 
 am afraid,, to liope tliat lie had failed^ or that his goods had 
 been seized for rent. My old cobbler was very patient ; 
 but the enemy was patient too^ and pressed him closely. 
 Want of capital was his trouble. He had a board 
 outside with the words Old Books Bought and Ex- 
 changed/^ but when people came to offer him bargains^ 
 he was frequently obliged to decline them. Some of 
 them told him^ saucily^ that they didnH believe he 
 bought books at all^ and one (to my knowledge) to 
 whom he had offered a ridiculously low price^ in the 
 certainty that it would be rejected^ took him at his 
 word^ and compelled him to admit that he had been 
 trifling with him. I bought of him^ all in one week^ 
 Falconer^s ^ Shipwreck^ — from a picture in which I 
 learned the names of parts of a ship in order to astonish 
 an old sailor whom I knew — Quarles^s ^ Emblems/ and 
 the ^ Lives of Washington and Lafayette ' in one 
 volume^ and a portable Cyclopaedia. These purchases^ 
 I believe^ enabled him to stave off his bankruptcy for 
 another fortnight. But he gave in at last^ and went 
 back into Huntingdonshire ; beings as he told me the 
 first time I talked with him^ a Huntingdonshire man^ 
 and (as he invariably added^ for he was not ashamed 
 of his craft) a shoemaker by trade.^^ 
 
 I was sorry when he was gone^ and hoped that the 
 shop might be let for the same business again. We 
 had no cheap and good magazines then. There was 
 a number of twopenny publications called the ^ Olio/ 
 the ^ Scorpion/ the ^Casket/ the ^Gleaner/ the ^Spy/ 
 
LOITEEING BY THE WAY. 
 
 251 
 
 and so forth ; but they were very dull readings being 
 only extracts from biographies and histories^ meagre 
 descriptions of places^ and odds and ends from moral 
 writers to fill up the space at the end. Then there 
 were penny ^ Lives of Notorious Pirates and Highway- 
 men/ ^ Tales of the Wars ^ (each number containing 
 two great battles and a skirmish at least) ^ ^ Calendars of 
 Horrors/ ^ Accounts of Eccentric and Wonderful Cha- 
 racters/ none of which I cared for. Of the circulating 
 libraries^ I had read all the best works ; and my taste 
 was getting too fastidious for Miss Hannah Maria 
 Jones^ though her ^ Rosaline Woodbridge ' had seemed 
 to me once an enchanting production. But there is 
 no compassion for literary favorites when we get too 
 proud to know them any longer. We never hesitate to 
 speak contemptuously of them^ no matter how much 
 they formerly laboured to the best of their ability to 
 amuse us. So I used to say^ proudly^ that I could 
 not read such trash as that/'' and to feel that the book- 
 stalls must furnish me with something more befitting 
 my improved taste. The shop did open as a book- 
 seller^s again ; and with a much better stock than 
 before. The new proprietor was a German^ and he 
 had always a number of foreign books for sale^, which 
 made me feel very much ashamed of having studied 
 French for four years at Mr. Gloss^s^ without having 
 learned a word of it; but I made amends for that at 
 last. I carried ofi" one day a little London edition of 
 Voltaire^s ^ Henriade/ which Herr Midler (the new 
 proprietor), having but an imperfect notion of the 
 
252 
 
 LOITEEING BY THE WAY. 
 
 value of Englisli words^ liad labelled Poetry^ very 
 nice but I thought it a dull book^ even after I had 
 found out the secret of reading French verses. Rous- 
 seau^s ^ Nouvelle Heloise/ of which I bought for a trifle 
 a neatly printed Paris edition^ in bright green covers 
 with red labels at the back^ wearied me out before I 
 got through the first volume. So did some plays of 
 Eacine^ which I had been tempted to buy in conse- 
 quence of reading a glowing eulogium upon them by 
 an English author^ though I tried hard to like them. 
 I began to suspect that there was some secret compact 
 among writers to pretend to like French literature, 
 though they didn^t. I gave it up ; and^ for a while, 
 took to Italian^ and bought a cheap copy of Goldoni^s 
 -best comedies^ which were a real treasury of humour, 
 when I had got the key to them. 
 
 Herr Miiller stopped there some years^ smoking all 
 the time^ and doing nothing else^ as far as I could see. 
 He sold his business at last^ and went back^ like his 
 predecessor^ to his native place. His principal grievance 
 against England was the high impost on tobacco; by 
 reason of which I believe he had been contributing to 
 the revenues of the British Government considerably 
 more than his fair proportion. 
 
 Bookseller number three is there stilly and is a real 
 man of business. He is always binding books_, to 
 augment their value^ in a back-room ; and he writes 
 such ornamental labels as would rejoice the heart of a 
 Chinese. He classifies books ; always knows what he has; 
 and prints now and then a little catalogue raisonnee^' 
 
i 
 
 LOITEEING BY THE WAY. 253 
 
 of his stock. His shelves and boxes of books have 
 gradually extended themselves around the walls of the 
 little nook in which his shop stands — an encroachment 
 that is winked at by the Commissioners of Pavements. 
 In that peaceful haven a few bookwoi>ms may always be 
 found; some turning over the leaves of the several 
 illustrated folios on architecture or topography^ and 
 others laboriously diving into shilling and sixpenny 
 boxes. 
 
 Are they simply bargain hunting ? Perhaps so. For 
 myself, although I am not fond of haggling^ yet I 
 never wish to become so rich as to be indifferent to a 
 decided bargain, when I meet with one at a bookstall. 
 
THE ABBOTTS GARDEN. 
 
 , If there be any moment in all the four-and-twenty 
 hours of the nightless days of summer solstice^ in which 
 the traffic and turmoil of this mighty city of Lon- 
 don may be said to cease — at which that turbulent 
 stream^ which is never quite run out^ might seem 
 to linger for the turn of flood — perhaps it would 
 be found on the dial,, not very far from the hour of two 
 ante meridian. There is an interval of comparative 
 stillness about that time^ which any patient disciple of 
 Bacon^ standing with watch in hand^ might mark to a 
 minute or two. It is neither perfect silence nor intelli- 
 gible sound. It is the momentary rest in the grand sym- 
 phony of life^ which^ before the chords have ceased to 
 vibrate^ will gradually break again into the crash and 
 rush of instruments. 
 
 Since the clocks struck two^ I have walked through a 
 fall mile of streets where^ in the day-time^ I am jostled^ 
 elbowed^ and bewildered by a noisy crowds and have 
 found them all deserted ; for I do not count policemen 
 for anything ; nor an occasional proprietor of a breakr 
 fast stall going loaded to his stand ; nor an Irish family 
 sleeping on the church steps of St. Andrew's^ Holborn; 
 nor a jolly angler whom I met trudging along an hour 
 before daybreak^ with rod and basket ; nor a row of 
 
THE abbot's OARDEN. 
 
 Page 254. 
 
THE ABBOTTS GARDEN. 
 
 255 
 
 scavengers sweeping the wood pavement ; nor the only 
 cabman on the stand_, dozing on his box^ with chin sunk 
 in his coat collar. All these^ if I were about to com- 
 pose^ in imitation of the writers of the last century^ 
 '^A City Night Piece/^ I might use from their associa- 
 tion with early mornings to prepare the mind of the 
 reader for a picture of solitude and silence. Nor 
 would I hold the drunken man^ whom I encountered 
 tacking^-' in Middle Row — and with whom I came in 
 collision^ in spite of a careful attempt to adapt my steer- 
 ing to his — to be less suggestive of the hour. But 
 Lincoln's Inn Fields should be my culminating point. 
 There is no sign of life there : not a glimmer of light at 
 any attic window : not one policeman : not a sound but 
 my own footsteps and the rustle of leaves in the great 
 enclosure. 
 
 Great Queen Street^ too^ is silent ; but I hear a noise^ 
 like the tic tac of a water wheels from a waggon crawl- 
 ing up Drury Lane^ and confused sounds of carts and 
 men greet my ear in Long Acre. A slow movement 
 has already broken out in the neighbourhood of Covent 
 Garden Market. Rows of carts and vans and coster- 
 mongers' barrows are beginning to form in the middle 
 of the roadway in Bow Street. Lights are in the upper 
 windows of public houses — not of inhabitants retiring 
 to rest^ but of active proprietors preparing already for 
 the new day. Files of horses^ jingling chains at their 
 heels^ go down to stables in back streets. Women and 
 men with hampers hurry on^ all in one direction. The 
 early bird is not awake yet^ nor^ perhaps^ is the worm^ 
 
256 
 
 THE ABBOTTS GARDEN. 
 
 but the preparations for the great market-day are 
 already begun^ and my friend Mr. Trench is at his 
 post. 
 
 Mr. Trenches waggons have been here since mid- 
 night. Speculators have been already bargaining with 
 him for the purchase of whole loads of cabbages for 
 Spitalfields and the Borough Markets. Capitalists who 
 buy vegetables as a stock-jobber will buy scrip^ have 
 been tempting him before daylight with offers to take 
 upon themselves the risk of a fall in the market^ by 
 buying the whole of his stock at once : but he judges it 
 better to hold it for the regular dealers. Many wag- 
 gons^ filled too high to go through Temple Bar^ have 
 been already sold in this way ; their horses^ that had 
 gone down to the stables for a quiet nighty turned out 
 and harnessed again to take their load away without 
 breaking bulk but the gaps they have left have 
 been filled up again^ and more waggons are coming in 
 from every side. The roadway is already blocked up, 
 and the by-streets are rapidly filling. Light vans are 
 unloading in order to hasten home and to fill again. Flo- 
 rists^ carts are setting down their pots in every nook 
 and corner ; and pavement and kerb and gutter blossom 
 with balsams and geraniums. Work will begin in 
 earnest at daybreak. 
 
 Four hundred years ago^ before the battle between 
 Town and Country gave any token of ever reaching as 
 far west as this ; when the struggle was so slow and 
 spiritless^ that kings and queens had not yet deemed it 
 necessary to espouse the country cause^ and endeavour 
 
THE ABBOTTS GAEDEN. 
 
 257 
 
 by solemn Acts of Parliament to check the alarming 
 increase of houses in this city^ and restrain the number 
 of the inhabitants thereof within reasonable bounds^ this 
 spot was already famous for kitchen vegetables — not^ 
 indeed^ as the market where they were sold^ but as a 
 garden where they grew. Sturdy monks^ who y/ere the- 
 only cultivators of vegetables in those troublous times, 
 doffed their gowns,, and dug the ground^ and planted 
 here^ in their own rude way^ radishes^ skirrel^ pom- 
 pionsy cabbages^ and such things^ for the use of the Abbot 
 and Convent of Westminster ; whence this place was 
 known as Convent Garden^ or in French from the time 
 of the Normans^ Convent Garden. But the monks were 
 not allowed to enjoy their garden long after that. A 
 terrible storm swept them^ with all their costumes and 
 properties^ from the face of the land. The Crown took 
 possession of the monks^ garden, and afterwards gave it 
 to the Duke of Somerset. The Duke himself fell into 
 trouble five years after, and Edward the Sixth revoked 
 his gift and gave it to the Bedford family, who have 
 kept it ever since. The new possessor built immediately 
 a house upon his own ground ; a modest wooden edifice 
 beside the Strand, from the back windows of which he 
 looked across meadows to a long shady avenue of treeS;, 
 called St. Martinis Lane. 
 
 About this time, our kitchen vegetables^ which had 
 so fallen into disuse in the times of the wars as to be 
 almost totally unknown^ began to come again into 
 fashion. Peas and cabbages, grown stale and withered 
 in a long sea voyage, fetched extravagant prices ; until 
 
 17 
 
258 
 
 THE ABBOTTS GARDEN. 
 
 men sent abroad for roots and seeds no longer to be 
 found in England^ and began to plant tbem near London* 
 Master Samuel Hartlib/^ to whom Milton addresses 
 his gigantic scheme of education^ knew some old men 
 (he says) in his time^ who recollected the first gardener 
 who came into Surrey to plant cabbages and cauli- 
 flowers^ and to grow turnips^ carrots^ parsnips^ and early 
 ripe peas,, all of which were great wonders then. These 
 earliest of market gardeners looked about for certain 
 convenient spots in London and Westminster^ where 
 they might be allowed to stand and sell their produce 
 unmolested. A small space^ just under the Duke^s gar- 
 den wall;, at the back of the new mansion^ was one of 
 these places; and thither the buyers^ finding out on 
 what days of the week they would be sure to find them 
 there^ soon began to come. 
 
 Covent Garden Market^ like the English constitution, 
 was not founded in a day. Many markets with spacious 
 accommodation for any kind of trade have been planned 
 and built ; first stones have been laid and silver trowels 
 wielded by lily hands ; solemn grants of charters have 
 been obtained ; grand banquets and inaugural proces- 
 sions have proclaimed to the worlds amid the beating of 
 drums^ that the great market was open. But the public 
 will not come to a market^ be it ever so grand. The 
 market must come to them ; consequently^ the passages 
 of these architectural marts sometimes fall into the 
 hands of mangling-women^ and cobblers^ and working 
 cabinet-makers. Lenders of trucks^ and removers of 
 goods in town and country^ retailers of coals and greens. 
 
THE ABBOTTS GARDEN. 
 
 259 
 
 reside in their shops — a world too wide^^ for them to 
 hope to make a show there with their slender stock. 
 Their pumps have been turned to alien uses ; their great 
 half-finished public-houses^ which were to do a roaring 
 business for ever after the grand inauguration^ have 
 dwindled into wretched beer-shops ; their Bye-laws of 
 this Market have become a mockery and a byword. 
 Not one of them has flourished like this Covent Garden, 
 the monarch of green-markets, whose inaugurator was 
 the first market-gardener who approved of the spot, and 
 set his burden down against the wall. 
 
 Soon after this, the proprietor of the land, not caring 
 particularly about the rural prospect from his back win- 
 dows, determined to build a church, and a grand square 
 with a colonnade around it, in the Italian fashion, to be 
 called the Piazza — not the colonnade which has now 
 monopolised the name, but the square itself — that word 
 signifying, in the Italian tongue, an open place or 
 square. For this purpose, he consulted Inigo Jones, 
 who drew the designs. The church and the square 
 were built soon after ; although the colonnade was only 
 finished on two sides. This was then the only square 
 in London, and was considered the very head-quarters of 
 fashion. Noble and wealthy families dwelt under the 
 colonnade, and in mansions round about. Idlers of high 
 degree, of both sexes, flocked thither ; playwrights laid 
 their scenes of intrigue and humour there ; every com- 
 edy of town life had allusions to the Piazza ; and so 
 deeply had that word impressed itself on the minds of 
 the parish authorities, that for nearly a century, as the 
 
260 
 
 THE ABBOTTS GAEDEN. 
 
 cliurch. registers will show^ all children found in the 
 neighbourhood were christened John^ or James^ or 
 Mary Piazza, 
 
 Meanwhile nobody noticed the progress of the obscure 
 little market^ behind the Duke^s wall. No hardy gar- 
 dener had dared to carry his wares into the haunt of 
 fashion. Cabbages or onions had not yet been brought 
 between the wind and their nobility. But^ one day^ 
 the modest wooden edifice was pulled down ; the brick 
 wall was demolished^ and surveyors with haughty con- 
 tempt for vested interests began coolly to lay down 
 plans for new streets upon the very ground of the vege- 
 table market. The market gardeners were driven back 
 into the very centre of the great square^ where they 
 turned and made a stands and compelled the idlers to 
 idle elsewhere. The wealthy and noble families fled 
 further west^ never to return^ leaving their houses to 
 vintners^ coffee-house keepers^ actors^ and artists. The 
 triumph of the market was complete. There were^ in- 
 deed^ lovers of the sublime and beautiful who grie^'ed 
 still over the desecration of the once-fashionable Piazza 
 — a magnificent square/^ says ]Maitland^ a hundred 
 years ago^ wherein (to its great disgrace) is kept a 
 herb and fruit market^ two charity schools^ one meet- 
 ing-house^ a parish workhouse^ a cold bath^ and a play- 
 house/^ Very offensive^ indeed^ to a poetical eye! 
 Nevertheless^ the artists were content to dwell here. 
 Under the colonnade^ Sir James Thornhill kept his 
 school for artists, and in his house immortal Hogarth 
 (that terrible moralist) painted and exhibited gratis his- 
 
THE ABBOTTS GARDEN. 
 
 361 
 
 Manage k la Mode. Somewhere in the square lived 
 bearish Wilson^ and money-getting Sir Peter Lely^ and 
 Sir Godfrey Kneller^ great in the portraiture of batons 
 and flowing periwigs ; besides Zoflfany^ the actors' por- 
 trait painter^ and Lankrink^ and Closterman^ and a host 
 of others less known to fame. The charity schools are 
 gone. So are the meeting-house and the workhouse. 
 The playhouse has turned its back upon the place. The 
 cold bath is not what it was ; but the market^ after 
 being winked at in all its encroachments for a couple of 
 centuries,, has been finally recognised. 
 
 Daylight has come on since I have been musing 
 here. The night coffee-house down the street^ whose 
 painted blind is drawn up all awry^ has just turned out 
 its last customer^ and shut the door. Objects at a dis- 
 tance are growing more and more distinct^ and now a 
 man with a ladder hurries on from lamp to lamp and 
 puts the lights out. The illuminated clock of St. PauFs^ 
 Covent Garden^ waxes pale^ and strikes three. Pro- 
 prietors of waggons^ who have been sleeping in public- 
 houses and coffee-houseSj in order to be in time for 
 business^ are out ; the crowds the bustle^ the hum of 
 Saturday morning have begun. Business never stops 
 here/^ says an old man at my elbow. ^^^T aint only 
 the three regular market days^ but every day^ from 
 morning till night — come when you will^ something -^s 
 a-doing.^^ Prom all the five inlets to the great square 
 — choked to the throats with every description of thing 
 that goes on wheels — • costermongers with baskets, 
 porters in knee-breeches, hagglers/^ fruiterers, green- 
 
263 
 
 THE ABBOTTS GAEDEN. 
 
 grocers^ eating-honse keepers^ salesmeiij and carters^ 
 swell the restless multitude. They invest the building 
 on all sides; they duck and bob under upturned 
 shafts ; they pour in^ denser stilly through narrow pas- 
 sages^ and circulate in the maze of stalls within. Fruit- 
 sellers^ perched upon boxes^ empty out their cornucopias 
 on the crowd below. Sacks of peas and potatoes glide 
 down from waggon tails upon the backs of porters^ who 
 grapple their burdens with hooks of steely and plunge 
 with them into the crowd. I see crews of boarders who 
 dash into waggons and cast their cargoes overboard ; 
 men who clamber to the summits of towers of cabbages 
 and begin to level them to the shafts ; gangs — ^whom 
 the crazy Spanish knight would at once have taken for 
 robbers plundering a caravan — sacking spring- carts ; 
 wholesale buyers who commit tremendous ravages in 
 the ranks of flower-pots ; amazons in drab great-coats- 
 with metal buttons^ and flattened bonnets^ who lay 
 violent hands upon hampers ; brawny giants straining 
 and bending under deal cases. How they swarm and 
 jostle each other ! How they dive into and cleave a 
 way through the multitude^ regardless of every man^s 
 business but their own I Now then ! travel on/^ is^ 
 the cry. What is this tall wicker column^ like that 
 terrible Saxon idol which the priests were wont to cram 
 with living people and set fire to ? This way it comes ; 
 four feet ten of human thew and muscle and fifteen 
 feet perpendicular of circular baskets fitted one upon 
 the other. Gone ! and the furrow in its wake closed 
 up in an instant. Hold^ my friend Hindbad^ with the 
 
THE ABBOTTS GARDEN. 
 
 263 
 
 one eye ! Not Argus himself might hope to carry those 
 fuchsias through this mob^ without loss or damage to 
 their delicate pendant bells of crimson and purple ; and 
 wilt thou think to guide them scatheless^ and to run 
 too^ O less happy than the Cyclops, whose solitary organ 
 of sight is conveniently placed in the precise middle 
 of his forehead ? Yes^ he does hope to do it^ and will 
 do it ; more dexterous than that waiter from the coffee- 
 house near by^ whose spoons rattle in his cups as the 
 crowd buffet him here and there ; whose saucers are 
 flooded with coffee ; whose white bread and butter has 
 become a brown sop. He rears his tray aloffc^ and 
 tries to balance it on the tips of the fingers of one 
 hand_, and vents angry words upon the crowd that heeds 
 him not. Look at this grizzly black man with the 
 strawberry-pottles under his arm. Easily he gets 
 along^ grinning with his rows of ivory teeth^ because 
 the sellers from their little fortified citadels call him 
 Uncle Tom. Not a single one will he lose of those 
 large toppers/^ blushing under the dark-green leaves. 
 Also at this cheerful old man^ who has walked all the 
 way from Croydon this mornings with a sweet-smelling 
 basket of white flowers which he calls double rocket/^ 
 and all (as he tells me afterwards) for the sake of 
 earning half a crown^ less tenpence market fees for his 
 stand under the church. Also at the thin young widow 
 woman in a short gown^ and with a baby under her 
 shawl, who has come to lay out her miserable capital 
 in some sort of vegetable stock to sell again — nearly all 
 coppers — which she holds screwed up in paper in her 
 
264 
 
 THE ABBOTTS GAEDEN. 
 
 hand. She wins her way along by meekly begging 
 them to mind her little ^un — strong in her weakness. 
 Not like that Irish giant^ whom I saw just now pitch 
 clown and damage a load of canliflowers_, because the 
 owner haggled about the porterage^ and who now essays 
 to force a passage through the crowds by turning his 
 sacks of peas crosswise, and knocking people down with 
 them. A watchful officer of the market stops him, and 
 warns him to carry his wares according to established 
 rule ; whereon the Irish giant is fain to apologise and is 
 absolved. 
 
 Thinner and less bustling is tlie crov/d under the 
 Piazza ; as, in obedience to custom, we are compelled 
 to call it. Hawkers of account-books, dog-collars, 
 whips, chains, curry-combs, pastry, money-bags, braces, 
 tissue-paper for the tops of strawberry-pottles, and 
 horse-chestnut leaves for the garnishing of fruit-stalls ; 
 coffee-stalls and stalls of pea-soup and pickled eels; 
 basket-makers; women making up nosegays; girls 
 splitting huge bundles of water-cress into innumerable 
 little bunches ; and men who write with their toes, — 
 possess the Piazza from Great Russell Street to the 
 entrance to the underground saloon of the superior 
 Vocal Entertainment. The poor, light-haired, sun- 
 burnt young man with the broken boots and dusty 
 appearance, whom I saw before daylight, sleeping with 
 his stick and bundle in a blue handkerchief in the midst 
 of the market, has been driven from his refage, and has 
 flung himself down upon the stone pavement here and 
 gone to sleep again. Eefore, he had for neighbours 
 
THE ABBOTTS GAUDEN. 
 
 265 
 
 a thick-set^ sturdy=looking beggar^ with a black beard 
 of three weeks^ growth^ and a pale^ dirty gent^ who sat 
 back to back upon a heap of baskets^ and dozed and 
 nodded with their hands in their pockets ; fondly 
 trusting to a tradition of other times^ that here the 
 unfortunate might find a sure sleeping-place^ without 
 fear of disturbance. They too must have been driven 
 out ; but I don^t find them here. I think I saw the 
 beggar slinking down Tavistock Street in the direction 
 of the Adelphi dark arches some time ago ; but the 
 gent is gone I know not whither — perhaps to wander 
 about the great squares further west — feeling himself 
 very much like Cain or the wandering Jew. The sun- 
 burnt young man is too fast asleep to hear anything of 
 the noise about him_, or to heed the row of water-cress 
 girls ; one of whom stops now and then from her task 
 to tickle his ear with the point of a rush. I fancy he 
 is dreaming of having enlisted in the army ; being on 
 a long march somewhere^ and feeling very foot-sore^ 
 and anxious for the word to halt. The police inspector 
 with the narrow waist and padded bosom looks at him 
 and kindly passes on. 
 
 The clock of Saint PauFs^ Covent Garden^ is striking 
 four ; as^ mindful of my appointment with the Clerk of 
 the Market^ I mount the granite staircase^ towards the 
 famed conservatories on the roof. That gentleman is 
 in his little counting-house^ giving an audience to a 
 few old Irishwomen^ all anxious to obtain a badge and 
 number qualifying them to act as porters in the Market. 
 One shilling and sixpence they have to pay for this^ not 
 
266 
 
 THE ABBOT S GAKDEN. 
 
 as a fee^ but by way of deposit, to be returned to them 
 when the badge is given up. ^^When we have got 
 this, and satisfied ourselves that they have given a true 
 address/^ says the Clerk of the Market, we have some 
 hold upon them. No one will trust them with goods 
 without seeing a badge. There are some hanging 
 about the market now unable to obtain a job, because 
 they have left their badges as a deposit for drink at 
 some public-house or beer-shop. We can^t prevent 
 that.^^ 
 
 I am conducted higher up the granite staircase to 
 the roof ; whence, leaning on the stone balustrade, we 
 (I and the clerk) contemplate calmly the bustling crowd 
 beneath. This side (the eastern) is called the Essex 
 side, to our right is the Surrey side ; the waggons from 
 those parts stopping always at the nearest point. The 
 crowd is busier here than at any other part. But not 
 so much confasion as there used to be," says my com- 
 panion. We compel the waggons in the markets, as 
 well as the carts in the adjoining streets, to keep a pas- 
 sage clear, as you see, on each side of the roadway. A 
 few years ago they would block up the way entirely, and 
 dealers were often afraid to venture in far, lest they 
 should be compelled to wait until the market was nearly 
 over, to get released. For this reason, some would buy 
 of the nearest waggons without troubling themselves 
 to go further. When the buyers complained, and we 
 proposed to introduce a better system, many of the 
 sellers opposed it. They had a notion that the difficulty 
 of circulation ^ made good for trade ^ in some way^ 
 
THE ABBOTTS GARDEN. 
 
 267 
 
 But I think they are beginning to be convinced now of 
 the contrary/^ 
 
 An old story^ and very like an allegory in the his- 
 tory of two great political parties/' 
 
 My conductor catches my meanings and smiles. 
 
 As to Free Trade/' he says, it is a mere habit with 
 our market gardeners to grumble at it. Perhaps it 
 may hurt them a little in the bringing of early sup- 
 plies. Our people don't get now such extravagant 
 prices for the first lots sent to market ; but these high 
 prices were never paid for any great quantities. For 
 the rest, business is better for all parties than it used 
 to be. Now, we have fruits and vegetables from alL 
 parts of the world. Peas, and asparagus, and new 
 potatoes, not only from the South of France, but from 
 Belgium, Holland, Portugal (though only a few years 
 ago the English residents there had to send to England 
 for their supplies), and the Bermudas ; wherever, in 
 short, they can grow them, if the distance or means of 
 transit will allow them to be in time for the early mar- 
 kets. Speculators buy these alongside the steam- 
 vessels at Blackwall or Southampton, and bring them 
 to market here. Our railways, too, bring us tons from 
 localities where people never dreamt of supplying the 
 London market. Years ago we talked of Deptford 
 onions and Battersea cabbages, Mortlake asparagus, 
 Chelsea celery, and Charlton peas. So we do now; 
 but immense quantities come to us from Cornwall and 
 Devonshire, the Isle of Man, Guernsey and Jersey, the 
 Kentish and Essex banks of the Thames, the banks of 
 
268 
 
 THE ABBOTTS GARDEN. 
 
 -the Humber^ the Mersey^ the Orwell^ the Trent^ and 
 the Ouse. The Scilly Isles^ which are almost totally 
 cultivated as market gardens^ and produce excellent 
 articles^ and always very early^ used to send their sup- 
 plies no further than Cornwall^ and barter them for 
 w^hat goods they wanted. Now^ the Cornish people 
 grow for themselves and London too ; and the Scilly 
 Isles find it better to send their produce by steamer to 
 Southampton^ whence it comes here. Yet^ notwith- 
 standing all these new competitors, the market gardens 
 around London are constantly extending. That car- 
 rier's waggon with the light iron wheels^ which you see 
 there just arrived^ comes from the Great Western 
 Railway station. Those long wooden cases are filled 
 with new potatoes^ and strawberries very carefully 
 packed. The strawberries are from gardens round 
 about Bath. The potatoes^ if, as I suppose^ they come 
 from Cornwall^ must have paid thirty-five shillings per 
 ion carriage. But the Great Northern and other 
 railways are beginning to see the new trade that may 
 be created^ and are lowering their rates. They must 
 put on more night trains^ too/' adds my informant^ 
 if they would be of service to us. The railway sup- 
 plies are apt to arrive late^ when trade begins to flag. 
 I have known a heavy arrival after the first buyers are 
 gone to bring the prices down fifty per cent, in a 
 moment — an obvious hardship to the earlier buyers.'' 
 
 In answer to my inquiries about the fluctuations in 
 prices at this market^ of which I have heard some 
 marvellous accounts^ my informant tells me that these 
 
THE ABBOTTS GAEDEN. 269' 
 
 have become comparatively rare of late years. Except 
 in a case such as mentioned above^ prices are generally 
 steady. The market gardeners on looking round the 
 market know what is the supply of the mornings, and 
 fix their prices accordingly — rarely departing from them. 
 They endeavour^ moreover,, by every means to fit their 
 supply to the demand^ so that a balance is generally 
 well preserved. They watch for any circumstances cal- 
 culated to create an extraordinary demand^ and will even 
 transmit a message by telegraph to various parts of 
 England^ to order or countermand a supply^ as 
 events may determine. Potatoes^ which are sold 
 almost exclusively on the southern side of the market^ 
 have of course greatly fallen ofl" in quantity since the 
 ravages of the disease. It is calculated that not one 
 half the amount of the original supply comes now to 
 market; although the extent of land cultivated with 
 potatoes has been increasing every year since the appear- 
 ance of the scourge. The potatoes that escape fetching 
 higher prices than they used^ the growers^ of course^ 
 find their cultivation no less profitable than before. 
 
 My guide^ with more peaceful intentions than a 
 French statesman when he can't persuade his friends to 
 his way of thinking, proposes to descend into the 
 street.^' Walking on^ somewhat bewildered with the 
 crowds I notice objects in the shifting panorama which 
 he points out, and listen to his remarks, until I know 
 instinctively all he tells me. He seems to have gifted 
 me with some subtle analytical power, by which, in 
 
270 
 
 THE ABBOTTS GARDEN. 
 
 smallest hints and signs^ I read tlie secrets of all things 
 about me. 
 
 I merely glance^ for example^ at yonder stout^ ruddy- 
 complexioned little man^ and know him at once to be 
 Mr. Squareit^ of somewhere down Dagenham way. I 
 know that he began life without a sixpence^ and is not 
 ashamed to own it^ and that he is now the largest market 
 gardener in England^ perhaps in the world ; for he has 
 five hundred acres of land on the banks of the Thames^ 
 all in the highest state of garden cultivation. I know 
 him to be filled with knowledge^ mostly gathered by 
 his own experiments^ in the use of manures — using such 
 odd out-of-the-way things for that purpose as no farmer 
 or other market gardener thinks of using. I know^ 
 moreover^ that he sends five times as much to this 
 market as any other single producer^ and that his things 
 are always earliest and best. 
 
 That coaxing old woman with the red nose,, who is 
 pulling Mr. Squareit by the arm^ and calling him a 
 ^^jeweP^ and ^^a dear boy/^ and many other tender 
 things^ all apropos of the price of a certain junket o^ 
 carrots about as big as marbles^ I am able at once to 
 recognise as the leader of that band of old women to whom 
 the benevolent Marquis of Cristal in an unlucky hour 
 gave half-a-sovereign ; being induced thereto by a 
 piteous story of hard frost and nothink doin\^' 
 I know that the hard frost referred to never broke 
 up^ and that his lordship^ being fond of a walk in 
 the Centre Avenue^ is now compelled to descend from 
 
THE ABBOTTS GAEDEN. 
 
 271 
 
 Ms carriage in the Strand^ and walk hither on foot. I 
 know also that this stratagem has been discovered^ and 
 that the coaxing old woman and her associates have 
 means^ little short of miracnlons^ for divining the 
 moment of his lordship^ s arrival. Knally^ I know that 
 the benevolent marquis has appealed to the police for 
 protection in vain ; and that nothing but a high sense 
 of his duty to society^ and of his dignity as an English 
 nobleman^ prevents his offering to compromise the 
 matter,, by pensioning off the coaxing old woman and 
 lier friends with a small annuity. 
 
 I know that yonder is the great pea-grower^ who will 
 send to one firm in a single day four hundred sacks of 
 from twelve to fifteen pecks each^ besides four or five 
 liundred sieves of a superior kind ; and that there are 
 other growers who will send to single dealers in one day 
 seven or eight waggons of cabbages^ or fourteen to fifteen 
 liundred bushels of sprouts. I am reminded by this, 
 of calculations made a few years since, that six or seven 
 liundred thousand pottles of strawberries, forty or more 
 millions of cabbages, two millions of cauliflowers, three 
 liundred thousand bushels of peas, seven hundred and 
 iifty thousand lettuces, and half a million bushels of 
 onions, are sold here annually. And that the annual 
 amount of money paid for fruits and vegetables in this 
 market cannot be less than three millions sterling. 
 
 I become aware that all this part of the roadway, 
 from the pit-door of the opera house to the corner of 
 James Street, is called Casualty Side, because the 
 waggons pay for their standings here by the day ; and 
 
272 
 
 THE ABBOTTS GAEDEN. 
 
 that yonder they pay a yearly rent for a small frontage, 
 -whether they come every market day or not. I meet a 
 peace oflficer^ and know that there are eight such in the 
 market ; and that the regular police never come here 
 unless called in to aid or to take a charge. He_, I see, 
 is thinking about the iron electro-plated florins, which 
 he knows are in circulation this morning; for coiners 
 bring such things here and dispose of them to utterers 
 whom they know by sight to be safe men.^^ Unlucky 
 sellers, having no counter to ring them on, take them in 
 the bustle and hurry of business ; and, hastening home, 
 congratulate themselves upon the rapid disposal of their 
 wares ; until, staying at some halfway house for refresh- 
 ment, they tender a bright florin, which is rejected. 
 They apologise and tender another, which is rejected 
 also. Whereupon, as has happened before now, the un- 
 fortunate market gardener, not being known, is detained 
 and searched, and his pockets being found to be filled 
 with the objectionable coin, is cast into a dungeon, and 
 kept there until he can clear his character, to the great 
 alarm of his family. My peace officer has just been 
 cautioning some persons of these things ; but they think 
 themselves much too sharp for anything of that, and 
 won^t heed what he says, till they ^re bit.'^ Which is 
 just how smashing flourishes. 
 
 I now begin to know that a great deal of pilfering 
 goes on in the market. Sacks and measures, as well as 
 baskets worth four pounds ten shillings a dozen, vanish 
 unaccountably when not looked after. Artful children, 
 looking much too young to do anything wrong, are 
 
THE ABBOTTS GAEDEN. 
 
 27S 
 
 regularly brouglit down here to steal by parents and 
 friends_, wlio wait and watch their movements from 
 under the Piazza. Their favorite plan is to carry a 
 stick with a pin in the end of it^ which they slily stick 
 into apples and oranges^ as they pass by^ transferring 
 them to their pockets with the dexterity of jugglers. 
 They know very well that market people content them- 
 selves with cuffing, and rarely give a thief into cus- 
 tody, whether young or old, which is why thieving 
 flourishes. 
 
 Gazing upon high piles of strawberry pottles, I per- 
 ceive that they are made by women and girls down in 
 Kent,^^ who get about a penny a dozen, and earn good 
 wages at that rate, while the season lasts ; aud I also 
 perceive that a pottle of strawberries would be algebrai- 
 cally represented by any of the last three letters of the 
 alphabet, being essentially ^^an unknown quantity .^^ 
 For there are strawberry pottles of all dimensions — from 
 those which hold twelve ounces (the legitimate and 
 traditional size) down to those that, having their slender 
 ends stuffed with leaves, will scarcely hold five ounces, 
 which, I am sorry to know, are the most common. I 
 know that it is at all times more satisfactory to buy my 
 strawberries in round flat baskets called Punnets,^' 
 about two inches deep, and of various diameter, to hold 
 a half-pound, one pound, and two pounds ; for in these 
 I cannot be tricked by tapering bottoms or leaves, or a 
 few outsiders covering a quantity of trash below. 
 
 "What is there in the face of that old man with the 
 bare throat and loose handkerchief, who wears knee 
 
 18 
 
274 
 
 THE ABBOTTS GAEDEN. 
 
 breeches and a jacket^ and carries on his head a close- 
 fitting cap with a small rim^ turned up all round like a 
 pewter bowl^ or the helmet of aVenetian soldier in a melo- 
 drama — which tells me that he may be taken as a type of 
 the regular Market porter ? I know that if I were to 
 ask him^ he could tell me stories in which he devoutly 
 believes^ of the days when the Prince Regent would come 
 down to the market very drunk^ and in disguise^ and 
 submit to be rolled into the baskets and carried about 
 on men^s shoulders^ as all real gentlemen did in those 
 days ; of how Mr. Sheridan and Mr. Fox would drop 
 into The FinisV^ after a late debate. Of how, in that 
 golden age, he could sometimes pick up a pound in the 
 morning, though now his jints is stiffer than they was, 
 and the yomig ^uns gets the advantage of him/^ In 
 these degenerate days, if I mistake not, he is glad of a 
 fourpenny or sixpenny turn^^ from the greengrocers — 
 though some engage him at half-a-crown or five shillings 
 per week to do all their work, much or little — and he is 
 compelled to eke out a living by carrying home goods 
 from the auction rooms, and serving as a scene-shifter 
 at one of the minor theatres. 
 
 Of a different race is this man with the long greasy 
 fustian coat with large-flapped pockets and gilt buttons, 
 with the green and red-brown silk pocket-handkerchief 
 round his neck, and the purple travelling cape turned 
 up at the ears. I know him for a thorough coster- 
 monger. He dwells in some court within a court, some 
 rookery^s inmost core near Drury Lane, or Red Cross 
 Street, Clerkenwell. Perhaps his father was a coster- 
 
THE ABBOTTS GARDEN. 
 
 275 
 
 monger ; or perhaps he doesnH remember his father or 
 mother ; in which case the market was no doubt his 
 Alma Mater. Or it is possible that he followed some 
 trade once; but^ being out of employment^ took to 
 costermongering a little^ and has remained a coster- 
 monger ever since. For I do not pretend to be more 
 explicit than another clairvoyant. I know for a cer- 
 tainty that there are about three thousand of his class 
 who attend this market in summer time^ and that they 
 buy one tenth of all that is sold here. I know that if 
 each has a barrow or a basket^ as he must have^ it is 
 not his j for why should he think of saving money to 
 buy one^ or ever living otherwise than on the old hand- 
 to-mouth eat-and-drink-in-summer-and-starve-in- win- 
 ter plan of costermongers in general ? If he wants a 
 common barrow^ or a barrow with a board, are there 
 not five thousand of them to let on hire in London for 
 a daily or weekly rent, averaging about a thousand per 
 cent, per annum upon their value? If he wants a 
 donkey he may borrow that too. He might buy a donkey 
 in Smithfield at any price between five shillings and 
 three pounds ; but why should he, when he can hire 
 one for three shillings a week ? He can have even his 
 stock bought for him by the barrow master ; or from 
 the same benevolent individual he can get the loan of a 
 capital of ten shillings, at the moderate interest ,of six- 
 pence a day. He can have a shallow basket worth a 
 shilling for a penny a day ; a battered pewter quart pot, 
 or a pair of scales, for two-pence a day; an honest 
 weight for a penny a day, or a slang one for two- 
 
276 
 
 THE ABBOTTS GAEDEN. 
 
 pence. What occasion then has he for any property 
 but his hands ? What need of any revenue but his own 
 good spirits ? 
 
 In the matter of drinking^ I only peep into one or 
 two public-houses^ and know at once that the old system 
 of drinking strong liquors on market mornings to coun- 
 teract the raw morning air has long been dying away. 
 The very public-houses look like a dissolving view of a 
 gin-shop slowly changing into the interior of a coffee- 
 house. I observe that there is still a lingering faith in 
 rum and milk as a morning draught ; but it is fading, 
 and I hear not the name of early purl. Market people 
 order coffee, and bread and butter^ and cold meat ; for 
 I do not confound with them a glassy-eyed young woman 
 in the parlour^ alone^ with a short thick little glass 
 empty beside her ; nor a pale shabby young man in 
 spectacles^ who sits with his back to the wall^ and his 
 legs resting on the bench^ and lingers there (having 
 nowhere particular to go to) on the ground of having 
 ordered something several hours ago. 
 
 Centre Row is awake and open now ; but what may 
 I find here that all the world does not know ? I have 
 been through Centre Row hundreds of times in summer 
 and winter, and wondered who were the wealthy luxu- 
 rious individuals who did not hesitate to pamper them- 
 selves with hothouse grapes at twenty-five shillings a 
 pound, with pottles of British Queens or Black Princes 
 at one shilling an ounce, with slender French beans at 
 three shillings a hundred, peas at two pounds a quart, 
 and new potatoes at four shillings and six-pence a pound 
 
THE abbot's garden. 
 
 277 
 
 and never knew till now that they are mostly bought by 
 kindly friends as a surprise for invalids and sickly and 
 afflicted persons. It was worth walking through here 
 to know that. I never knew till now that the fruiterers 
 here (who seem to be always having tea or coffee^ and 
 to divide their time between mugs^ account-books^ gold 
 fish and the vegetable world) can pay four or five hun- 
 dred pounds per annum for the rent of a little shop^ and 
 that their shops pass from father to son^ or to their 
 nominees by will^ on payment of a fine^ almost in the 
 same way as copyhold property. I did not know that 
 the late Mr. Johnquil — who did not know how to write 
 his name^ and was never anxious to learn — made thirty 
 thousand pounds in one of these little Ionic pens. I 
 was not aware that one back shop keeps sixty persons 
 during the season constantly shelling peas; nor that 
 nosegay-making has been an art since the Duchess of 
 Sutherland made it one ; nor that girls who practise it 
 skilfully can earn an easy living. Much less did I 
 suspect that a wedding nosegay will sometimes cost 
 two guineas ; or that those little bouquets in cut paper, 
 which the premiere danseuse picks up and sniffs and 
 smiles at, and presses to the rim of her corset, and 
 feigns to guard as inestimable treasures, have cost from 
 five to ten shillings each. 
 
 And now, having bid good morning to my guide, I 
 find myself alone, and am sensible of nothing but being 
 very tired, and feeling as if I could even sleep in any of 
 the hotels around the market in spite of the noise with- 
 out. The shady burial ground— behind the church (of 
 
278 
 
 THE ABBOTTS GAEDEN. 
 
 wUcli I caught a glimpse in passing a little grated door- 
 way in Henrietta Street)^ where the author of Hudibras, 
 Wycherley the dramatist^ Dr. Arne^ MackUn^ and a 
 host of writers still to be heard of in the ^ Elegant Ex- 
 tracts/ sleep under the sycamore trees — ^leaves a tranquil 
 image in the mind after all this crowd and bustle. 
 
THE ELIXIR OF LIFE. 
 
 If old Fitz-Baynard^ of tlie Old Fellows' lodge of 
 Odd Fellows^ would listen to my advice — old man as I 
 am — I could give him a hint how to make himself a 
 little less ridiculous to our club. He looks like the 
 choleric^ retired uncle^ in all the farces at the Hay- 
 market Theatre. Dosen^t he know that his camlet 
 roquelaire^ with a poodle collar^ has been superseded^ 
 five outer-garments deep ? Its only merit is_, that it 
 hides that absurd, sparrow-tailed, blue dress-coat, with 
 gilt buttons, which he is so fond of buttoning tightly 
 up to his chin. Five-and-twenty years ago he wore his 
 coat stuffed and wadded all over, like that, and close- 
 buttoned up, with the exception of the third button 
 from the top ; where, to this day, he stuffs in his crimson 
 pocket-handkerchief, which always hangs — accidentally, 
 of course — half out. But what is to hide that chimney- 
 pot hat, with a broad, turned-up brim ? or those boots, 
 coming to a point, like a pair of flat-irons ? His eye- 
 glass would be all right enough if he would keep it in 
 his eye, and look about him ; though that heavy bunch 
 of seals, with their stones the colour of anchovy sauce^ 
 dangling by a broad bit of black ribbon, is a positive 
 eyesore. Then why is he continually disparaging 
 
280 
 
 THE ELIXIR OF LIFE. 
 
 young people ? Let me tell him young men are the 
 blood of the nation ; they keep the world in motion. 
 
 Our club calls itself the Youthful Britons/^ not 
 because we are all young fellows^ but because our taste 
 and opinions are exactly opposed to those of old Fitz- 
 Baynard. Three-score years^ with us^ is no objection 
 to a man^ so long as he keeps his head up^ and does 
 not hold the belief that whatever is is right, and what- 
 ever is not oughtn^t to be. Our opinion is that things 
 generally might be a great deal better than they are; 
 and that, whether in fashions, politics, or social econo- 
 mics, when a man comes forward to do a little good^ 
 even though he should propose to disturb the existing 
 order of things a little, he is entitled to fair play. If 
 any member uses the word Utopian,^^ we fine him. 
 Not that we believe that there are many things well 
 deserving of that adjective ; but, first, because we have 
 seen so many Utopian schemes pass into realities, that 
 we are suspicious of it ; and, secondly, because the word^ 
 from the time of Sir Thomas More downwards, has 
 been so much abused that we think every honest man 
 ought to scratch it out of his dictionary. Why, the 
 very steel pen with which I write this, was once an 
 Utopian steel pen — a new fangled pen — a mere toy — a 
 thing that never could and never would supersede the 
 good, old, stout goose-quill, that you went cutting away, 
 and notching, and slitting up the middle, and pointing, 
 and nibbing every quarter of an hour. There was not 
 an old man in the three kingdoms — unless it was a 
 schoolmaster, sick of hearing little boys standing of a 
 
THE ELIXIR OF LIFE, 
 
 281 
 
 row beside his desk all day^ with the eternal refrain of 
 Pleasir^ will you mend my pen ? — who did not say 
 that they would not answer. In vain we pointed to the 
 increase of the number who were taught to write^ the 
 spread of literature^ and the insufficiency of all the geese 
 in the kingdom to the growing demand for feathers. 
 They shook their heads. You will do as you please^ 
 sir; but give me a good, strong-barrelled,, goose- quill.^^ 
 And so say their survivors to this day. They don^t 
 believe in the millions of grosses that are said to be 
 made in Birmingham every day. They don^t know. 
 They never see anything but quills wherever they go. 
 Where are they all, if such a number is made ? If 
 there had been none but old men, we should have had 
 no steel pens to this day. But the boys took them up. 
 They wrote the Creed with them in the size of a split 
 pea ; they did the Ten Commandments, and illustrated 
 them with spread eagles and cherubim, and set them up 
 in the windows of steel -pen makers, until there was no 
 shutting the eyes to their merits, and a revolution was 
 partially accomplished. We all use steel pens to a man.^ 
 I will add that when that admirable invention, a candle 
 that requires no snuffing, was universally decided to be 
 fandangle, we unanimously adopted it ; and have never 
 had a pair of snuffers on our tables since. 
 
 When Mr. Winsor lighted his house with gas, the 
 ^ Edinburgh Eeview^ said it wouldnH do ; and the Fitz- 
 Baynards of 1805 applauded, and thought that they 
 and the reviewers had put it out for ever. Now, even 
 Westminster Hall — the last place where a man would 
 
282 
 
 THE ELIXIR OF LIFE. 
 
 look for novelty — is lighted with it. When I look 
 around me^ and see the endless variety of new-fangled 
 things^ which it has been confidently said a thousand 
 times would never do/^ but which have now become fa- 
 miliar servants^ or absolute necessaries^ I am inclined to 
 propose that the word Utopian be reinstated ; and 
 that its employment^ in a youthful Britonian sense^ be 
 henceforth encouraged. Have we not Utopian Rail- 
 ways^ and Utopian Ragged Schools ; impossible Tele- 
 graphs ; ruinous Free Trade^ and dangerous Law 
 Courts — where plaintiff and defendant are admitted to 
 give evidence;, in direct opposition to one of the most 
 venerable law maxims in the immortal Latin language ; 
 all in full operation^ and the constitution as sound as 
 ever? Why^ then^ should we shrink from admitting 
 that the abolition of the Court of Chancery is somewhat 
 Utopian ; and that the demolition of Temple Bar^ and 
 removal of Smithfield and slaughter-houses^ are notions 
 a little tainted with fandangleism ? 
 
 Personally/ I do not mind acknowledging that I am 
 fond of novelty. I like to be up to the time. One or 
 two instances will suflBce to show what I mean. I can 
 remember the Kembles^ Cooke^ EUiston^ Kean^ and the 
 legitimate drama, for example ; but I never talk about 
 them^ because I like the opera. I believe the notes of 
 Mario, in the Prophete/^ to be at least as pleasing 
 to the ear as the rolling r of the late Mr. Kemble. 
 Many a pleasant day I have spent outside the stage- 
 coach ; but I do not grumble at railways. If any man 
 says you cannot enjoy a sight of the country from a 
 
THE ELIXIR OF LIFE. 
 
 283-. 
 
 railway carriage^ I differ with him. If he says you 
 have no time to observe a hedge or a post against your 
 nose^ I admit it ; but let him take a view of the coun- 
 try^ and I say he will, in most cases, remain long 
 enough in the same landscape to observe its beauties. 
 I am ready to try anything except patent medicines and 
 Protectionist Ministers. Attracted by an announce- 
 ment in the ^ Times ^ (for example) that Hadjee AUee, 
 the celebrated Indian cook, having arrived at the Bengal 
 Hotel, makes Indian Dupeajja, and Keorma, Jerdu and 
 Krooma Plow, Indian Coaptu, Kitcheree, Mancooly, 
 and Cawabs,^^ I sauntered into the Bengal Hotel some 
 years ago. I know the merits of old English fare, and 
 could live contentedly upon plain roast and boiled 
 but I determined to give Hadjee Alice a chance of con- 
 vincing me : so I called, if I remember correctly, for a 
 
 couple of cawabs,^^ by way of commencement. A 
 couple of cawabs, sir said the waiter ; cawabs is a 
 soup, sir.^^ Very good,'^ said I ; then bring me a 
 basin of cawabs.^^ I was not ashamed of my ignorance. 
 I came there to learn, and I did learn ; though I burnt 
 my mouth in the trial. These are my principles; and 
 I think I have said enough to show the difference be- 
 tween myself and Fitz-Baynard. 
 
 When I was a young man I wrote poetry. All young 
 men did not write poetry then, as they did afterwards, 
 when Lord Byron came more into fashion. I recollect, 
 when Lord Byron died, it was generally considered that 
 if he had not died, as he did, just on the right side of 
 forty, his reputation would have been materially dam- 
 
284 
 
 THE ELIXIR OF LIFE. 
 
 aged. I had held similar opinions when a youth ; and 
 had thought to ^^play the Roman fooP^ upon my 
 thirty-ninth birthday. But my ideas had undergone 
 some modification before that time. I was,, indeed, 
 within a short march of that poetical Rubicon^ at the 
 time of the noble lord^s decease. But 1 knew that the 
 sincerest of his admirers would cross the fatal line if 
 his turn came ; and I was sure that Lord Byron had an 
 intention of doing so^ if he had not been cut oflF in his 
 youth. I remember a stanza in Don Juan, in which an 
 allusion is made to the author^s intention of purchasing 
 a peruke ; with a speculation upon the probable appear- 
 ance of his hair at forty ; from which I infer, that with 
 a full consciousness of the fact that time was fast hurry- 
 ing him towards that critical period, he had taken the 
 resolution calmly to abide the event. And why should 
 he not ? Do such minds grow old ? 
 
 That / have contrived to keep something of my juve- 
 nility, I think is pretty well proved by the fact of my 
 being still the president of the Youthful Britons.^' 
 And how have I done this? Not by standing stock- 
 still, and bending my back for the years to play at leap- 
 frog over it ; and growling at everybody else because 
 they would not stand still in like manner. Neither was 
 it by constantly thinking of my grave,^^ as I over- 
 heard my pious, well-meaning old landlady say I ought 
 i;o be doing at my time of life ; but I am not ofifended. 
 Here am I in my sixty-sixth year, as youthful as ever I 
 was, and as cheerful, thank God ! Three stairs at a 
 time is my way of getting up stairs ; and, as to playing 
 
THE ELIXIR OF LIFE. 
 
 285 
 
 the fiddle^ I flatter myself I can tear my way through. 
 Beethoven^s ^^mad^^ quartette with the fiery vigour of 
 a much younger fiddler. I walked down to Rochester 
 one day last summer/ and got up the next morning as 
 fresh as a daisy. I don^t say I could stand such a life 
 as our friend Stow leads. My wild oats are sown. But 
 I can walk a match, or bowl a ball at cricket, with most 
 men. Ask any of our club if their hands have ever 
 tingled after blocking a ball from me. And do I owe 
 all this to nature ? I think not. 
 
 "What I have said, what I do say, and what I will say, 
 as long as I have health (and I flatter myself I have as 
 much of that article as most people), is, that ninety-nine 
 times out of a hundred a man need not grow old unless 
 lie likes. This is what you may learn from looking at 
 Fitz-Baynard, and then at me ; this is the moral of 
 what I have been saying. This is the important truth 
 which I have to proclaim — I believe that I have dis- 
 covered the true Elixir of Life. I am not fond of 
 making myself conspicuous, in print, or elsewhere ; but 
 my motives are philanthropic motives. I am ready to 
 do a little good where I can. I did not sit down to 
 write this for the mere sake of abusing Fitz-Bay- 
 nard, in a book that he will not read; but I say, 
 that if Fitz-Baynard senior, or any of Fitz-Baynard 
 senior^s class, feel themselves to be miserable old 
 fellows, they have none but themselves to blame. For, 
 let nle tell them, that it is not years, nor bald heads, 
 that constitute the right definition of old age. While 
 a man keeps up in the march, and does not stand still 
 
286 
 
 THE ELIXIR OF LIFE. 
 
 to look back^ he is as good as any of them. It is giving 
 in that does it ; it is being lazy and over-comfortable — 
 fancying that yon have marched far enongh ; that there 
 is no better land than that yon have come to ; and per- 
 suading yourself that yon do not envy those who have 
 gone on^ and left yon behind ; and^ when a man so 
 persuades himself^ and tries so to persuade others^ he 
 is become an old fellow^ and a Fitz-Baynard senior. 
 
 Now I consider our friend knocked under in the 
 year 1825. I regard his coat^ trousers^ hat^ and watch- 
 guard as so many outward symbols of that inward 
 stoppage which took place in that year. To any person 
 acquainted with the history of costume^ the fact is as 
 €lear as the date of a cathedral to a student of archi- 
 tecture. There he stands^ as perfect an embalmment of 
 the past as any Roman idler^ suddenly embedded in ashes 
 in the streets of Herculaneum. In the year ^25 he re- 
 belled against the great law of change and movement ; 
 and there he stands to this day^ grumblings and trying 
 to persuade us to rebel too. But we won^t. 
 
AN ENGLISHMAN'S CASTLE. 
 
 Though every English housekeeper is said to be^ and is, 
 in the eye of the law^ theoretically at least, the lord of a 
 castle, I should like to know how many times out often, 
 the lawful master of the house — the payer of rent and 
 taxes — may be the real lord, enjoying all the rights and 
 privileges, the security, the tranquillity, which might be 
 supposed to be comprised in the idea of a castle. And 
 how many times an exaggerated respect for the liberty 
 of another, to whom he has alienated a tithe of his 
 home, makes his house no longer his, but his lodger's 
 castle. And how often it is his wife's castle, or his 
 friend's, or relations' castle; and how often he is sub- 
 jected to such annoyances, from within and without, as 
 make it, in these days when the. law no longer recog- 
 nises the lord's right to project a domestic disturber 
 from an engine, or to stand at a loop-hole, and pick off 
 besiegers with a cross-bow, only a keen satire to remind 
 him of the maxim. If there were any chance of get- 
 ting them filled up honestly, I would like to have sche- 
 dules, with columns for every one of these questions, 
 left at every castle in the kingdom, on a certain day. 
 A blue book might be the result, which should give to 
 
288 
 
 AJS ENGLISHMAN'S CASTLE. 
 
 the foreigner a correct notion of the English homC;, 
 called_, with self-glorification^ a Castle. 
 
 Ask my old school-fellow^ Knightbell, who is in the 
 unhappy position of the hare in the fable — having many 
 friends — and who deserts a comfortable home (where 
 his own numerous family_, besides some of his relations 
 by marriage^ make his happiness their constant study) ^ to 
 consume the hours of night over ^ Thompson's Practice 
 of Obstetric Physic/ in an inhospitable chamber^ in a 
 house in E — cq — t Court. I have a sincere esteem for 
 Knightbell^ and I know what he has undergone. No 
 sum of money^ no friendly desire to remove the un- 
 founded suspicions of his amiable wife^ — no incentive^ 
 short of racks and thumbscrews^ applied in the darkest 
 dungeons of the Inquisition_, amid the shrieks and 
 demoniac laughter of other tortured victims^ — should 
 ever induce me to insert the three vowels which are 
 necessary to complete the name of his place of retreat. 
 Only myself^ and a trusty and devoted retainer — 
 who knows where to find his master when certain 
 events^ which take place at uncertain hours^ require 
 his prompt attendance — could make that name in- 
 telligible to the public. We are the sole depositaries 
 of his secret ; and^ unless Mrs. K. should, Dalilah-like^ 
 wheedle it from him in a moment of fondness and con- 
 fidence, or unless one of my friends most persevering 
 of button-holders, under the direction of a clairvoyant,, 
 and guided by a bloodhound, should track his footsteps 
 to R — cq — t Court, it will remain for ever unknown 
 to the world ! It is vain to say that my friend might;. 
 
AN ENGLISHMAN'S CASTLE. 
 
 289 
 
 by a determined exercise of the will^ have secured that 
 peace and tranquillity at home^ which he is now com- 
 pelled to seek beside a solitary hearth^ and in a 
 stranger's dwelling. If you do not happen to be one of 
 the many friends alluded to^ making that remark in 
 keen derision^ I reply that it is impossible to imagine 
 what you would do in any man's situation^ unless you 
 can fully identify yourself with that man^ and take into 
 account the whole of the circumstances in which he is 
 placed. Poor K.^ who endured much^ and long^ before 
 he suffered himself to be goaded into the step which I 
 have described^ is of a gentle and amiable disposition; 
 ' but his household^ I regret to say^ is not in that state 
 of order which can only be insured by unity in the 
 directorship. 
 
 Again ; I know another gentleman^ whose name I 
 am not at liberty to publish. If you were to call upon 
 him (supposing you knew his name and address)^ and 
 casually^ in the course of conversation^ were to say 
 (admitting you were sufficiently intimate with him to 
 make a familiar observation of the kind}^ an English- 
 man's house is his castle^ " would that seem to him 
 other than a bitter sarcasm ? Might we not expect 
 that his eye would fix itself upon you^ with the inten- 
 sity of a basilisk's ; that his nostril would dilate ; that 
 his lip would curl ; that his brow would darken ; in 
 shortj that his whole countenance would undergo a 
 rapid transformation ? His story is pretty wellknown^, 
 but it may be told in a few words. On a windy after- 
 noon, in the month of March, 1848, shortly after the 
 
 19 
 
wo 
 
 AN ENGLISHMAN'S CASTLE. 
 
 occurrence of those important events in France^ which 
 drove the King of the French an exile (with an assumed 
 name) to the shores of England^ a gentleman — whose 
 beard and moustache betrayed his foreign origin — pro- 
 ceeded_, followed by a porter bearing a carpet-bag^ 
 through a retired and quiet street in the neighbourhood 
 of Soho Square. From his glancing alternately at 
 every house on each side of the way, it might have 
 struck the casual observer that he was seeking for some 
 particular house, in a street whose doors had been num- 
 bered according to the independent whim of various 
 proprietors ; or that, knowing no number, he sought, by 
 an effort of memory, to recall the outward character- 
 istics of a house that he had visited long ago — perhaps 
 in the sunny time of boyhood. But, upon more care- 
 ful observation, it would have been seen that he did 
 not stay to look above the knockers, nor did he glance 
 upward to take into his eye the general appearance of 
 each house, but merely gave a hurried look at the 
 ground-floor windows, and passed on. 
 
 Such a course readily suggested to a thoughtful 
 mind that he was seeking a lodging. He stopped at 
 last before a house having the words Furnished 
 
 Apartments to let,^^ in the window, and Mr. , 
 
 architect,^' upon the door. He knocked, entered, and 
 saw the architect (whose name, I have before said, I 
 am not at liberty to publish) ; the apartments were 
 taken, references were given ; two months' trial showed 
 the lodger to be a man of quiet habits; and subse- 
 quently the architect's first floor was let to the foreigner 
 (who, by the way, was said to be a nobleman in his 
 
AN ENGLISHMAN'S CASTLE. 
 
 291 
 
 own country) for a term of three years certain. Up to 
 this point there is every reason to believe that the pro- 
 ceedings of the foreigner were taken in a bond fide 
 spirit. Time rolled on. They were now at the end of 
 June^ in the same year^ a period at which an unsuc- 
 cessful insurrection in the French capital^ besides cer- 
 tain reactionary measures in other parts of the Con- 
 tinent^ had sent another wave of foreign immigration to 
 break upon our shores. One afternoon another foreigner 
 knocked at the architect's door ; he was enveloped in 
 a singular garment^ which appeared to the English eye 
 to partake equally of the natures of a coat and a 
 cloak^ being fantastically braided in fronts and orna- 
 mented behind with a large hood^ shaped like a hearty 
 and lined with crimson. A tall man^ bearing a case, 
 which appeared to contain a violoncello, or some other 
 bulky musical instrument, was beside him. The foreign 
 nobleman met him upon the threshold, uttered a cry of 
 mingled surprise and delight, flung himself into his 
 arms, and embraced him with fervour, to the great as- 
 tonishment of an unmarried lady, who resided, with a 
 parrot, in the parlors of the opposite house. The rest 
 is easily narrated — it is an oft-repeated tale. The first 
 floor of the architect's (hitherto) unassuming home 
 was brilliantly illuminated every evening; numbers 
 of foreigners passed up the stairs, and were never seen 
 to come down again by the last person retiring to bed 
 in the architect's family. Mingled sounds of many 
 voices and instruments (in which the deep tones of 
 the violoncello were always predominant) were heard by 
 the architect, his family, and every one else in the street. 
 
292 
 
 AN ENGLISHMAN'S CASTLE. 
 
 The architect remonstrated with the foreign nobleman; 
 who declined to restrict the amusements of his friend^ to 
 whom^ he said^ he was indebted for the life of an only 
 sister, once saved by his intrepidity in stopping the 
 horses of her carriage^ which were fast hurrying her 
 towards a precipice. The landlord offered a compromise, 
 in vain ; wrote to the ^ Times ^ newspaper, and applied 
 to a magistrate^ The latter told him there was no 
 remedy, and the proverb about an Englishman's castle 
 turned out to be a mockery, a delusion, and a 
 snare.^' 
 
 The story may be a trite one ; but it is only the 
 more powerful against the proverb. I could multiply 
 instances of a less adventitious character. Moreover, 
 it is not because the Englishman does not live in a great 
 house, with a hundred other people, and consign the 
 key of his chamber to the hands of a prying porter, 
 that he enjoys more privacy or tranquillity than the 
 Erenchman. It is not because the Englishman has a 
 street door, and the Erenchman has none, that the 
 former is more free from disturbance and annoyance. 
 Nay, the street door is itself, instead of being a pro- 
 tection, a positive source of annoyance. If I had no 
 street door, could people come knocking and kicking 
 against it all day to know if I want a door-mat, a rope 
 of onions, a ^ History of England,' a ^ Family Devotion/ 
 ^ Views of Palestine,' coming out in sixpenny parts, 
 specimens of drapery which I needn't pay for, at pre- 
 sent," crockery, a box of steel-pens, matches, a Dutch 
 clock, a paper of needles y or to know whether I have 
 any old clothes to exchange for money, or plates and 
 
AN englishman's CASTLE. 
 
 293 
 
 dishes,, or geraniums (with no roots to them) ; or any old 
 umbrellas^ or bottles, or bones ? Or if I have any rags 
 to sell ; or knives or scissors to grind ? There is a good 
 deal of timber about my house, which conducts the 
 sound, and my hearing is painfully acute. No part of 
 my premises is sufl&ciently remote from the street door 
 to protect me from these noises. I sit upstairs, and 
 hear these calls : many a time clenching my teeth, and 
 muttering bitter things of my disturbers — things which, 
 methinks, they would hardly like to hear. 
 
 H. (whose case lately came under my notice) has to 
 thank his living in an English castle, with a massive 
 knocker, for being disturbed at his studies the other 
 nighty while his servant had gone for the trimestrial 
 holiday. Now if he had lived in France, and instead of 
 enjoying the hollow boast of being the master of the 
 house, he had been content to merge his individuality 
 in the joint tenantship of something like a castle, with 
 a porter to guard the gate, and to hold a preliminary 
 parley with all intruders, he would not have been 
 tempted to indulge in that hasty exclamation upon 
 throwing down his book ; he would have been spared 
 the humiliation of answering, in person, a summons at 
 his own street door ; he would not have been startled by 
 a blackened face, asking, in a hoarse mysterious whisper, 
 the singular question whether the master wanted such 
 a thing as a tun o^ coals he would not have had the 
 trouble of explaining, in his own good-tempered manner 
 (which has endeared him to all who know him), that 
 the purchase of a ton of coals is a grave matter, and 
 not usually negotiated with a stranger who knocks at 
 
294 
 
 AN ENGLISHMAN'S CASTLE. 
 
 your door at an unseasonable hour ; lie would not have 
 been tormented with the information that ^^the cart 
 was jist round the corner/' and that they could be put 
 in^ within five minutes^ for twenty-one and six. He 
 would not have been provoked to shut the door in the 
 intruder's face ; to force his foot from the threshold^ 
 where he kept it to prevent the shutting of the door ; he 
 would not have been compelled to hear such language 
 as Would eighteen bob break your back howled 
 several times through his keyhole ; which vulgar idiom 
 has been kindly translated for me by young Mr. Phast^ 
 of Somerset House^ into the politer terms of, Would 
 eighteen shillings be too much for you to pay, in the 
 present state of your means 
 
 I rather think the idea of a place where one can 
 repose, after the rude combat of daily life, as well as the 
 idea of strength and security, is meant to be included 
 in the expression, that an Englishman's house is hia 
 castle.'^ It is a mockery to tell me that nobody has a 
 right to attack my home, to break open my door, ta 
 bore a hole in my wall, to violate the sanctity of my 
 hearth, while they break my bell- wire, smear my door- 
 step, lift the ponderous iron ring in the mouth of that 
 animal on my door (who seems to grin at me in derision 
 every time I enter), and give such single and dorible 
 knocks as throb thunder through my castle floors," all 
 day, and especially in the morning. Any one whose 
 castle happens to be in the suburbs of London will 
 know that I am no fighter of shadows, no hypo- 
 chondriacal writer of letters to the newspapers ; but a 
 man with a genuine grievance. I am not only attacked 
 
AN englishman's CASTLE. 
 
 295 
 
 incessantly^ but subjected to insulting offers from the 
 enemy himself, to victual and furnish me for the siege. 
 It is nothing to me (I say this with all respect to those 
 public-spirited men who have spoken before me) that 
 these grievances have been stated before in public print. 
 So long as the annoyance is allowed to increase and 
 continue in a rampant state^ I swear by the waters of 
 Styx (lifting up my right hand)^ and under the penalty 
 of loss of nectar^ and forfeiture of one hundred years of 
 Elysian bliss^ not to cease to raise my feeble (though^ I 
 trust from the justice of my complaint^ strong) voice 
 against it. If I were practically^ instead of theoretically, 
 the lord of a castle, or in any position that would bear 
 a comparison with the lord of a castle, should I endure 
 one of these annoyances for a moment ? Should I 
 not arise from my slumber, and shake them off, as the 
 lion shakes the dew-drops from his mane ? Should I 
 not, in the former case, rather cause to be collared the 
 first intruder, and should I not have him brought before 
 me, like a poacher before a landlord? Should I not ask 
 him (like Duke Borgia, at Her Majesty^s Theatre), how 
 he dared to insult me in my castle-hall ? And waiting 
 (for formes sake) his reply, should I not immediately 
 communicate to the Dutch-clock man (supposing a 
 Dutch-clock man to be the first victim) that his hour 
 was come? Or to the onion man (with a like sup- 
 position) that I was about to return his officious offer 
 of a rope? Should I not, in short, have slung out 
 one, at least, of my invaders — a terrible example to 
 the rest — upon the topmost of my battlements, long 
 ago? 
 
296 
 
 AN ENGLISHMAN'S CASTLE. 
 
 I say^ wlien we boast to tlie Frencliman that we do 
 not pile our houses one upon another^ to the eighth and 
 ninth story^ but cut them into thin slices^ and spread 
 them over the green fields to such a stretchy that to say 
 that myself and my friend reside in London/^ does not 
 mean that we are within twelve cabman^s miles of each 
 other^ when half our days are wasted in walking from 
 place to place^ and all for the sake of the privilege of 
 each of us having a kind of castle to himself, with 
 a garden behind^ and the water laid on^ it is only 
 fair that he should be informed of a few of the 
 drawbacks. Are we to be going on for ever^ bragging 
 of not being over-partial to balls or theatres^ disliking 
 masquerades^ liking plain joints at home^ and detesting 
 restaurants y holding evenings at the cafe in detestation^ 
 hating the click of dominoes^ liking carpets^ and 
 abominating wood fires^ and saying not a word about 
 these things ? Did I not^ conceited J. B. ! who kept 
 me awake^ from Paris to St. Omers (you^ who have thrice 
 appeared to me since^ in dreams^ in very likeness of 
 Gog or Magog, I know not which) — did I not listen 
 to you^ for six mortal hours^ discoursing of England, 
 glory, hearthstones, and the like, to your moustached 
 neighbour, in French less intelligible to him than to 
 me; till (out of sheer exhaustion) he admitted the social 
 degradation of his native land, and dropped into 
 slumber about twenty minutes before a fresh smell of 
 sea-weed and a stentorian notice to prepare our tickets 
 came in at our carriage window ; and shall I not 
 introduce him to you beside that hearth, in the centre 
 of that castle, that he may see your weakness, as the 
 
AN ENGLISHMAN'S CASTLE. 
 
 297 
 
 valet espies that of Ms master^ according to a proverb, 
 which cannot be unknown to that long-suffering Gaul? 
 Was it strange (I ask), when I had taken a secret 
 determination to arm him against another such attack 
 from one of my counti^ymen, with a truer picture of the 
 interior of the Briton's castle, and had followed him 
 closely for that purpose, from the station to the steam- 
 boat, was it at all remarkable that he shrank from me ; 
 that suddenly finding my eye fixed upon him, he re- 
 coiled j that he resisted my attempt to commence a con- 
 versation, with less politeness than I had generally met 
 with from his countrymen ; that on three several occa- 
 sions he adroitly went round the funnel to escape me ; 
 and once fled to the forecastle, preferring its inferior 
 accommodation, for awhile (although he had paid chief- 
 cabin fare) ; or that when, heated with the chase, 
 and determined not to be baffled, I approached him, 
 with the intention of whispering in his ear, " Fear not, 
 I am your friend,'' he suddenly disappeared down the 
 companion-ladder ; and retired to bed ? If this should 
 meet the eye of J. B., he is earnestly requested to 
 answer this chain of questions in the affirmative (if he 
 can), and generally to ponder upon this article, and the 
 moral that it points. 
 
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 " A sensible, well-written book." — Glohe. 
 
 " We know of no work which will make a more acceptable present 
 than this extremely handsome and really useful book." — Bra. 
 
 •* As a present for boys, nothing can be better."— Daz7^ News. 
 
 " The anecdotes are told with a clearness and simplicity that cannot 
 fail to give pleasure." — Spectator. 
 
 GROOMBEIDGE & SONS, 5, Paternoster Row, London.