circumstance which would have awakened a better feeling in a softer
father’s heart. Nancy, the younger girl, since the dreadful catastrophe,
had seemed to grow gradually dull and defective in her intellect, she
had a slow and somewhat idiotic air and manner. Her mother perceived it,
and was struck with consternation by it. She tried to rouse her, but in
vain. She could not perform her ordinary reading and spelling lessons.
She seemed to have forgotten what was already learned. She appeared to
have a difficulty in moving her legs, and carried her hands as if she
had suffered a partial paralysis. Jane, her sister, was dreadfully
distressed at it, and she and her mother wept many bitter tears over
her. One day, in the following spring, they took her with them to
Ashford, and consulted the doctor there. On examining her, and hearing
fully what had taken place at the time of the brother’s death—the fact
of which he well knew, for it, of course, was known to the whole country
round—he shook his head, and said he was afraid they must make up their
minds to a sad case; that the terrors of that night had affected her
brain, and that, through it, the whole nervous system had suffered, and
was continuing to suffer the most melancholy effects. The only thing, he
thought, in her favour was her youth; and added, that it might have a
good effect if they could leave the place where she had undergone such a
terrible shock. But whether they did or not, kindness and soothing
attentions to her would do more than anything else.
Mrs. Dunster and little Jane returned home with heavy hearts. The
doctor’s opinion had only confirmed their fears; for Jane, though but a
child, had quickness and affection for her sister enough to make her
comprehend the awful nature of poor Nancy’s condition. Mrs. Dunster told
her husband the doctor’s words, for she thought they would awaken some
tenderness in him towards the unfortunate child. But he said, ‘That’s
just what I expected. Hou’ll grow soft, and then who’s to maintain her?
Hou mun goo to th’ workhouse.’
With that he took his maundrel and went off to his work. Instead of
softening his nature, this intelligence seemed only to harden and
brutalise it. He drank now more and more. But all that summer the mother
and Jane did all that they could think of to restore the health and mind
of poor Nancy. Every morning, when the father was gone to work, Jane
went to a spring up in the opposite wood, famed for the coldness and
sweetness of its waters. On this account the proprietors of the mills at
Cressbrook had put down a large trough there under the spreading trees,
and the people fetched the water even from the village. Hence Jane
brought, at many journeys, this cold, delicious water to bathe her
sister in; they then rubbed her warm with cloths, and gave her new milk
for her breakfast. Her lessons were not left off, lest the mind should
sink into fatuity, but were made as easy as possible. Jane continued to
talk to her, and laugh with her, as if nothing was amiss, though she did
it with a heavy heart, and she engaged her to weed and hoe with her in
their little garden. She did not dare to lead her far out into the
valley, lest it might excite her memory of the past fearful time, but
she gathered her flowers, and continued to play with her at all their
accustomed sports, of building houses with pieces of pots and stones,
and imagining gardens and parks. The anxious mother, when some weeks
were gone by, fancied that there was really some improvement. The
cold-bathing seemed to have strengthened the system: the poor child
walked, and bore herself with more freedom and firmness. She became
ardently fond of being with her sister, and attentive to her directions.
But there was a dull cloud over her intellect, and a vacancy in her eyes
and features. She was quiet, easily pleased, but seemed to have little
volition of her own. Mrs. Dunster thought if they could but get her away
from that spot, it might rouse her mind from its sleep. But perhaps the
sleep was better than the awaking might be; however, the removal came,
though in a more awful way than was looked for. The miner, who had
continued to drink more and more, and seemed to have almost estranged
himself from his home, staying away in his drinking bouts for a week or
more together, was one day blasting a rock in the mine, and being
half-stupified with beer, did not take care to get out of the way of the
explosion, was struck with a piece of the flying stone, and killed on
the spot.
The poor widow and her children were now obliged to remove from under
Wardlow-Cop. The place had been a sad one to her: the death of her
husband, though he had been latterly far from a good one, and had left
her with the children in deep poverty, was a fresh source of severe
grief to her. Her religious mind was struck down with a weight of
melancholy by the reflection of the life he had led, and the sudden way
in which he had been summoned into eternity. When she looked forward,
what a prospect was there for her children! it was impossible for her to
maintain them from her small earnings, and as to Nancy, would she ever
be able to earn her own bread, and protect herself in the world?
It was amid such reflections that Mrs. Dunster quitted this deep,
solitary, and, to her, fatal valley, and took up her abode in the
village of Cressbrook. Here she had one small room, and by her own
labours, and some aid from the parish, she managed to support herself
and the children. For seven years she continued her laborious life,
assisted by the labour of the two daughters, who also seamed stockings,
and in the evenings were instructed by her. Her girls were now thirteen
and fifteen years of age: Jane was a tall and very pretty girl of her
years; she was active, industrious, and sweet-tempered: her constant
affection for poor Nancy was something as admirable as it was singular.
Nancy had now confirmed good health, but it had affected her mother to
perceive that, since the catastrophe of her brother’s death, and the
cruel treatment of her father at that time, she had never grown in any
degree as she ought; she was short, stout, and of a pale and very plain
countenance. It could not be now said that she was deficient in mind,
but she was slow in its operations. She displayed, indeed, a more than
ordinary depth of reflection, and a shrewdness of observation, but the
evidences of this came forth in a very quiet way, and were observable
only to her mother and sister. To all besides she was extremely
reserved: she was timid to excess, and shrunk from public notice into
the society of her mother and sister. There was a feeling abroad in the
neighbourhood that she was ‘not quite right,’ but the few who were more
discerning, shook their heads, and observed, ‘Right she was not, poor
thing, but it was not want of sense; she had more of that than most.’
And such was the opinion of her mother and sister. They perceived that
Nancy had received a shock of which she must bear the effects through
life. Circumstances might bring her feeble but sensitive nerves much
misery. She required to be guarded and sheltered from the rudenesses of
the world, and the mother trembled to think how much she might be
exposed to them. But in everything that related to sound judgment, they
knew that she surpassed not only them, but any of their acquaintance. If
any difficulty had to be decided, it was Nancy who pondered on it, and
perhaps at some moment when least expected, pronounced an opinion that
might be taken as confidently as an oracle.
The affection of the two sisters was something beyond the ties of this
world. Jane had watched and attended to her from the time of her
constitutional injury with a love that never seemed to know a moment’s
weariness or change; and the affection which Nancy evinced for her was
equally intense and affecting. She seemed to hang on her society for her
very life. Jane felt this, and vowed that they would never quit one
another. The mother sighed. How many things, she thought, might tear
asunder that beautiful resolve.
But now they were of an age to obtain work in the mill. Indeed, Jane
could have had employment there long before, but she would not quit her
sister till she could go with her,—and now there they went. The
proprietor, who knew the case familiarly, so ordered it that the two
sisters should work near each other; and that poor Nancy should be as
little exposed to the rudeness of the workpeople as possible. But at
first so slow and awkward were Nancy’s endeavours, and such an effect
had it on her frame, that it was feared she must give it up. This would
have been a terrible calamity; and the tears of the two sisters, and the
benevolence of the employer enabled Nancy to pass through this severe
ordeal. In a while she acquired sufficient dexterity, and thenceforward
went through her work with great accuracy and perseverance. As far as
any intercourse with the workpeople was concerned, she might be said to
be dumb. Scarcely ever did she exchange a word with any one, but she
returned kind nods and smiles; and every morning and evening, and at
dinner-time, the two sisters might be seen going to and fro, side by
side,—Jane often talking with some of them; the little, odd-looking
sister walking silent and listening.
Five more years and Jane was a young woman. Amid her companions, who
were few of them above the middle size, she had a tall and striking
appearance. Her father had been a remarkably tall and strong man, and
she possessed something of his stature, though none of his irritable
disposition. She was extremely pretty, of a blooming fresh complexion,
and graceful form. She was remarkable for the sweetness of her
expression, which was the index of her disposition. By her side still
went that odd, broad-built, but still pale and little sister. Jane was
extremely admired by the young men of the neighbourhood, and had already
many offers, but she listened to none. ‘Where I go must Nancy go,’ she
said to herself, ‘and of whom can I be sure?’
Of Nancy no one took notice. Her pale, somewhat large features, her
thoughtful silent look, and her short, stout figure, gave you an idea of
a dwarf, though she could not strictly be called one. No one would think
of Nancy as a wife,—where Jane went she must go; the two clung together
with one heart and soul. The blow which deprived them of their brother
seemed to bind them inseparably together.
Mrs. Dunster, besides her seaming, at which, in truth, she earned a
miserable sum, had now for some years been the post-woman from the
village to the Bull’s Head, where the mail, going on to Tideswell, left
the letter-bag. Thither and back, wet or dry, summer or winter, she went
every day, the year round. With her earnings, and those of the girls’,
she went well with them, as the world kept a neat, small cottage; and
the world goes on the average with the poor. Cramps and rheumatisms she
began to feel sensibly from so much exposure to rain and cold; but the
never-varying and firm affection of her two children was a balm in her
cup which made her contented with everything else.
When Jane was about two-and-twenty, poor Mrs. Dunster, seized with
rheumatic fever, died. On her death-bed she said to Jane, ‘Thou will
never desert poor Nancy; and that’s my comfort. God has been good to me.
After all my trouble, he has given me this faith, that come weal come
woe, so long as thou has a home, Nancy will never want one. God bless
thee for it! God bless you both; and he will bless you!’ So saying,
Betty Dunster breathed her last.
The events immediately following her death did not seem to bear out her
dying faith; for the two poor girls were obliged to give up their
cottage. There was a want of cottages. Not half of the workpeople could
be entertained in this village; they went to and fro for many miles.
Jane and Nancy were now obliged to do the same. Their cottage was wanted
for an overlooker,—and they removed to Tideswell, three miles off. They
had thus six miles a-day to walk, besides standing at their work; but
they were young, and had companions. In Tideswell they were more
cheerful. They had a snug little cottage; were near a Meeting; and found
friends. They did not complain. Here, again, Jane Dunster attracted
great attention, and a young, thriving grocer paid his addresses to her.
It was an offer that made Jane take time to reflect. Every one said it
was an opportunity not to be neglected: but Jane weighed in her mind,
‘Will he keep faith in my compact with Nancy?’ Though her admirer made
every vow on the subject, Jane paused and determined to take the opinion
of Nancy. Nancy thought for a day, and then said, ‘Dearest sister, I
don’t feel easy; I fear that from some cause it would not do in the
end.’
Jane from that moment gave up the idea of the connection. There might be
those who would suspect Nancy of a selfish bias in the advice she gave;
but Jane knew that no such feeling influenced her pure soul. For one
long year the two sisters traversed the hills between Cressbrook and
Tideswell. But they had companions, and it was pleasant in the summer
months. But winter came, and then it was a severe trial. To rise in the
dark, and traverse those wild and bleak hills; to go through snow and
drizzle, and face the sharpest winds in winter, was no trifling matter.
Before winter was over, the two young women began seriously to revolve
the chances of a nearer residence, or a change of employ. There were no
few who blamed Jane excessively for the folly of refusing the last good
offer. There were even more than one who, in the hearing of Nancy,
blamed her. Nancy was thoughtful, agitated, and wept. ‘If I can, dear
sister,’ she said, ‘have advised you to your injury, how shall I forgive
myself? What _shall_ become of me?’
But Jane clasped her sister to her heart, and said, ‘No! no! dearest
sister, you are not to blame. I feel you are right; let us wait, and we
shall see!’
THE USES OF SORROW.
Oh, grieve not for the early dead,
Whom God himself hath taken;
But deck with flowers each holy bed—
Nor deem thyself forsaken,
When, one by one, they fall away,
Who were to thee as summer day.
Weep for the babes of guilt, who sleep
With scanty rags stretch’d o’er them,
On the dark road, the downward steep
Of misery; while before them
Looms out afar the dreadful tree,
And solemn, sad Eternity!
Nor weep alone; but when to Heaven
The cords of sorrow bind thee,
Let kindest help to such be given,
As God shall teach to find thee;
And, for the sake of those above,
Do deeds of Wisdom, Mercy, Love.
The child that sicken’d on thy knee,
Thou weeping Christian mother,
Had learn’d in this world, lispingly,
Words suited for another.
Oh, dost thou think, with pitying mind,
On untaught infants left behind?
FROM THE RAVEN IN THE HAPPY FAMILY.
I won’t bear it, and I don’t see why I should.
Having begun to commit my grievances to writing, I have made up my mind
to go on. You men have a saying, ‘I may as well be hung for a sheep as a
lamb.’ Very good. _I_ may as well get into a false position with our
proprietor for a ream of manuscript as a quire. Here goes!
I want to know who BUFFON was. I’ll take my oath he wasn’t a bird. Then
what did _he_ know about birds—especially about Ravens? He pretends to
know all about Ravens. Who told him? Was his authority a Raven? I should
think not. There never was a Raven yet, who committed himself, you’ll
find, if you look into the precedents.
There’s a schoolmaster in dusty black knee-breeches and stockings, who
comes and stares at our establishment every Saturday, and brings a lot
of boys with him. He is always bothering the boys about BUFFON. That’s
the way I know what BUFFON says. He is a nice man, BUFFON; and you’re
all nice men together, ain’t you?
What do you mean by saying that I am inquisitive and impudent, that I go
everywhere, that I affront and drive off the dogs, that I play pranks on
the poultry, and that I am particularly assiduous in cultivating the
good-will of the cook? That’s what your friend BUFFON says, and you
adopt him it appears. And what do you mean by calling me ‘a glutton by
nature, and a thief by habit?’ Why, the identical boy who was being told
this, on the strength of BUFFON, as he looked through our wires last
Saturday, was almost out of his mind with pudding, and had got another
boy’s top in his pocket!
I tell you what. I like the idea of you men, writing histories of _us_,
and settling what we are, and what we are not, and calling us any names
you like best. What colors do you think you would show in, yourselves,
if some of us were to take it into our heads to write histories of
_you_? I know something of Astley’s Theatre, I hope; I was about the
stables there, a few years. Ecod! if you heard the observations of the
Horses after the performance, you’d have some of the conceit taken out
of you!
I don’t mean to say that I admire the Cat. I _don’t_ admire her. On the
whole, I have a personal animosity towards her. But, being obliged to
lead this life, I condescend to hold communication with her, and I have
asked her what _her_ opinion is. She lived with an old lady of property
before she came here, who had a number of nephews and nieces. She says
she could show you up to that extent, after her experience in that
situation, that even you would be hardly brazen enough to talk of cats
being sly and selfish any more.
I am particularly assiduous in cultivating the good-will of the cook, am
I? Oh! I suppose you never do anything of this sort, yourselves? No
politician among you was ever particularly assiduous in cultivating the
good-will of a minister, eh? No clergyman in cultivating the good-will
of a bishop, humph? No fortune-seeker in cultivating the good-will of a
patron, hah? You have no toad-eating, no time-serving, no place-hunting,
no lacqueyship of gold and silver sticks, or anything of that sort, I
suppose? You haven’t too many cooks, in short, whom you are all
assiduously cultivating, till you spoil the general broth? Not you. You
leave that to the Ravens.
Your friend BUFFON, and some more of you, are mighty ready, it seems, to
give _us_ characters. Would you like to hear about your own temper and
forbearance? Ask the Dog. About your never overloading or ill-using a
willing creature? Ask my brother-in-law’s friend, the Camel, up in the
Zoological. About your gratitude to, and your provision for, old
servants? I wish I could refer you to the last Horse I dined off (he was
very tough), up at a knacker’s yard in Battle Bridge. About your
mildness, and your abstinence from blows and cudgels? Wait till the
Donkey’s book comes out!
You are very fond of laughing at the parrot, I observe. Now, I don’t
care for the parrot. I don’t admire the parrot’s voice—it wants
hoarseness. And I despise the parrot’s livery—considering black the only
true wear. I would as soon stick my bill into the parrot’s breast as
look at him. Sooner. But if you come to that, and you laugh at the
parrot because the parrot says the same thing over and over again, don’t
you think you could get up a laugh at yourselves? Did you ever know a
Cabinet Minister say of a flagrant job or great abuse, perfectly
notorious to the whole country, that he had never heard a word of it
himself, but could assure the honourable gentleman that every enquiry
should be made? Did you ever hear a Justice remark, of any extreme
example of ignorance, that it was a most extraordinary case, and he
couldn’t have believed in the possibility of such a case—when there had
been, all through his life, ten thousand such within sight of his
chimney-pots? Did you ever hear, among yourselves, anything approaching
to a parrot repetition of the words, Constitution, Country, Public
Service, Self-Government, Centralisation, Un-English, Capital, Balance
of Power, Vested Interests, Corn, Rights of Labor, Wages, or so forth?
_Did_ you ever? No! Of course, you never!
But to come back to that fellow BUFFON. He finds us Ravens to be most
extraordinary creatures. We have properties so remarkable, that you’d
hardly believe it. ‘A piece of money, a teaspoon, or a ring,’ he says,
‘are always tempting baits to our avarice. These we will slily seize
upon; and, if not watched, carry to our favorite hole.’ How odd!
Did you ever hear of a place called California? _I_ have. I understand
there are a number of animals over there, from all parts of the world,
turning up the ground with their bills, grubbing under the water,
sickening, moulting, living in want and fear, starving, dying, tumbling
over on their backs, murdering one another, and all for what? Pieces of
money that they want to carry to their favourite holes. Ravens every one
of ’em! Not a man among ’em, bless you!
Did you ever hear of Railway Scrip? _I_ have. We made a pretty
exhibition of ourselves about that, we feathered creatures! Lord, how we
went on about that Railway Scrip! How we fell down, to a bird, from the
Eagle to the Sparrow, before a scarecrow, and worshipped it for the love
of the bits of rag and paper fluttering from its dirty pockets! If it
hadn’t tumbled down in its rottenness, we should have clapped a title on
it within ten years, I’ll be sworn!—Go along with you, and your BUFFON,
and don’t talk to me!
‘The Raven don’t confine himself to petty depredations on the pantry or
the larder’—here you are with your BUFFON again—‘but he soars at more
magnificent plunder, that he can neither exhibit nor enjoy.’ This must
be very strange to you men—more than it is to the Cat who lived with
that old lady, though!
Now, I am not going to stand this. You shall not have it all your own
way. I am resolved that I won’t have Ravens written about by men,
without having men written about by Ravens—at all events by one Raven,
and that’s me. I shall put down my opinions about you. As leisure and
opportunity serve, I shall collect a natural history of you. You are a
good deal given to talk about _your_ missions. That’s my mission. How do
you like it?
I am open to contributions from any animal except one of your set; bird,
beast, or fish, may assist me in my mission, if he will. I have
mentioned it to the Cat, intimated it to the Mouse, and proposed it to
the Dog. The Owl shakes his head when I confide it to him, and says he
doubts. He always did shake his head, and doubt. Whenever he brings
himself before the public, he never does anything except shake his head
and doubt. I should have thought he had got himself into a sufficient
mess by doing that, when he roosted for a long time in the Court of
Chancery. But he can’t leave off. He’s always at it.
Talking of missions, here’s our Proprietor’s Wife with a mission now!
She has found out that she ought to go and vote at elections; ought to
be competent to sit in Parliament; ought to be able to enter the learned
professions—the army and navy, too, I believe. She has made the
discovery that she has no business to be the comfort of our Proprietor’s
life, and to have the hold upon him of not being mixed up in all the
janglings and wranglings of men, but is quite ill-used in being the
solace of his home, and wants to go out speechifying. That’s our
Proprietor’s Wife’s new mission. Why, you never heard the Dove go on in
that ridiculous way. She knows her true strength better.
You are mighty proud about your language; but it seems to me that you
don’t deserve to have words, if you can’t make a better use of ’em. You
know you are always fighting about ’em. Do you never mean to leave that
off, and come to things a little? I thought you had high authority for
_not_ tearing each other’s eyes out, about words. You respect it, don’t
you?
I declare I am stunned with words, on my perch in the Happy Family. I
used to think the cry of a Peacock bad enough, when I was on sale in a
menagerie, but I had rather live in the midst of twenty peacocks, than
one Gorham and a Privy Council. In the midst of your wordy squabbling,
you don’t think of the lookers-on. But if you heard what _I_ hear in my
public thoroughfare, you’d stop a little of that noise, and leave the
great bulk of the people something to believe in peace. You are
overdoing it, I assure you.
I don’t wonder at the Parrot picking words up and occupying herself with
them. She has nothing else to do. There are no destitute parrots, no
uneducated parrots, no foreign parrots in a contagious state of
distraction, no parrots in danger of pestilence, no festering heaps of
miserable parrots, no parrots crying to be sent away beyond the sea for
dear life. But among you!—
Well! I repeat, I am not going to stand it. Tame submission to injustice
is unworthy of a Raven. I croak the croak of revolt, and call upon the
Happy Family to rally round me. You men have had it all your own way for
a long time. _Now_, you shall hear a sentiment or two about yourselves.
I find my last communication gone from the corner where I hid it. I
rather suspect the magpie, but he says, ‘Upon his honor.’ If Mr. Rowland
Hill has got it, he will do me justice—more justice than you have done
him lately, or I am mistaken in my man.
ILLUSTRATIONS OF CHEAPNESS.
EGGS.