WENDERHOLME.
_A STORY OF LANCASHIRE AND YORKSHIRE_.
BY
PHILIP GILBERT HAMERTON,
AUTHOR OF "THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE," ETC.
"It takes a deal o' sorts to make a world."
_Popular Proverb_.
BOSTON:
ROBERTS BROTHERS.
1876.
_Author's Edition_.
_Cambridge:
Press of John Wilson and Son_.
TO AN OLD LADY IN YORKSHIRE.
You remember a time when the country in which this story is placed was
quite different from what it is to-day; when the old proprietors lived
in their halls undisturbed by modern innovation, and neither enriched by
building leases, nor humiliated by the rivalry of mighty manufacturers.
You have seen wonderful changes come to pass,--the valleys filled with
towns, and the towns connected by railways, and the fields covered with
suburban villas. You have seen people become richer and more refined,
though perhaps less merry, than they used to be; till the simple,
unpretending life of the poorer gentlefolks of the past has become an
almost incredible tradition, which few have preserved in their memory.
When this story was first written, some passages of it were read to you,
and they reminded you of those strong contrasts in the life of the North
of England which are now so rapidly disappearing. Wenderholme is
therefore associated with you in my mind as one of its first hearers,
and I dedicate it to you affectionately.
PREFACE
TO THE AMERICAN EDITION.
It happened, some time before this story was originally composed, that
the author had a conversation, about the sale of novels, with one of the
most eminent publishers of fiction in London.[1] The result of his
experience was, that in the peculiar conditions of the English market
short novels did not pay, whilst long ones, of the same quality, were a
much safer investment. Having incurred several successive losses on
short novels, my friend, the publisher, had made up his mind never to
have any thing more to do with them, and strongly recommended me, if I
attempted a work of fiction, to go boldly into three volumes at once,
and not discourage myself by making an experiment on a smaller scale,
which would only make failure a certainty. The reader may easily imagine
the effect of such a conversation as this upon an author who, whatever
may have been his experience in other departments of literature, had
none at all in the publication of novels. The practical consequence of
it was, that, when the present story was written, commercial reasons
prevailed, as they unhappily so often do prevail, over artistic
reasons, and the book was made far longer than, as a work of art, it
ought to have been.
The present edition, though greatly abridged, is not by any means, from
the author's point of view, a mutilated edition. On the contrary, it
rather resembles a building of moderate dimensions, from which
excrescences have been removed. The architect has been careful to
preserve every thing essential, and equally careful to take away every
thing which had been added merely for the sake of size. The work is
therefore at the present time much nearer in character to the original
conception of the designer than it has ever been before.
Notwithstanding the defect of too great length, and the difficulty which
authors often experience in obtaining recognition in a new field,
_Wenderholme_ was very extensively reviewed in England, and, on the
whole, very favorably. Unfortunately, however, for the author's chances
of profiting by the suggestions of his critics, it so happened that when
any character or incident was selected for condemnation by one writer,
that identical character or incident was sure to be praised
enthusiastically by another, who spoke with equal authority and
decision, in some journal of equal importance. The same contradictions
occurred in criticisms by private friends, people of great experience
and culture. Some praised the first volume, but did not like the third;
whilst others, who certainly knew quite as much about such matters,
considered that the book began badly, but improved immensely as it went
on, and finished in quite an admirable manner, like a horse that has
warmed to his work. These differences of opinion led me to the rather
discouraging conclusion that there is nothing like an accepted standard
of right and wrong in the criticism of fiction; that the critic praises
what interests or amuses him, and condemns what he finds tiresome, with
little reference to any governing laws of art. I may observe, however,
that the book had an artistic intention, which was the contrast between
two classes of society in Lancashire, and that the militia was used as a
means of bringing these two classes together. I may here reply to one or
two objections which have been made as to the manner in which this plan
was carried out.
Most of the local newspapers in the north of England at once recognized
the truth of local character in the book; but one Manchester critic,
with a patriotism for his native county which is a most respectable
sentiment, felt hurt by my descriptions of intemperance, and treated
them as a simple calumny, arguing that the best answer to them was the
industry of the county, which would not have been compatible with such
habits. I have never desired to imply that all Lancashire people were
drunkards, but there are certain nooks and corners of the county where
drinking habits were prevalent, in the last generation, to a degree
which is not exaggerated in this book. Such places did not become
prosperous until the energy of the better-conducted inhabitants produced
a change in the local customs; and I need hardly say that the hard
drinkers themselves were unable to follow business either steadily or
long. Downright drunkenness is now happily no longer customary in the
middle classes, and in the present day men use stimulants rather to
repair temporarily the exhaustion produced by over-work than for any
bacchanalian pleasure. In this more modern form of the drinking habit I
do not think that Lancashire men go farther than the inhabitants of
other very busy counties, or countries, where the strain on human energy
is so great that there is a constant temptation to seek help from some
kind of stimulating beverage.
The only other objection to the local truth of _Wenderholme_ which seems
to require notice is that which was advanced in the _Saturday Review_.
The critic in that periodical thought it untrue to English character to
represent a man in Colonel Stanburne's position as good-natured enough
to talk familiarly with his inferiors. Well, if modern literature were a
literature of types, and not of persons, such an objection would
undoubtedly hold good. The typical Englishman, when he has money and
rank, is certainly a very distant and reserved being, except to people
of his own condition; but there are exceptions to this rule,--I have
known several in real life,--and I preferred to paint an exception, for
the simple reason that reserve and pride are the death of human
interest. It would be possible enough to introduce a cold and reserved
aristocrat in a novel of English life,--such personages have often been
delineated with great skill and fidelity,--but I maintain that they do
not excite sympathy and interest, and that it would be a mistake in art
to place one of them in a central situation, such as that of Colonel
Stanburne in this volume. They may be useful in their place, like a lump
of ice on a dinner-table.
On the first publication of _Wenderholme_, the author received a number
of letters from people who were quite convinced that they had recognized
the originals of the characters. The friends and acquaintances of
novelists always amuse themselves in this way; and yet it seldom
happens, I believe, that there is any thing like a real portrait in a
novel. A character is suggested by some real person, but when once the
fictitious character exists in the brain of the author, he forgets the
source of the original suggestion, and simply reports what the imaginary
personage says and does. It is narrated of an eminent painter, famous
for the saintly beauty of his virgins, that his only model for them was
an old man-servant, and this is a good illustration of the manner in
which the imagination operates. Some of my correspondents made guesses
which were very wide of the mark. One lady, whom I had never thought
about in connection with the novel at all, recognized herself in Mrs.
Prigley, confessed her sins, and promised amendment; an illusion
scarcely to be regretted, since it may have been productive of moral
benefit. A whole township fancied that it recognized Jacob Ogden in a
wealthy manufacturer, whose face had not been present to me when I
conceived the character. A correspondent recognized Dr. Bardly as the
portrait of a surgeon in Lancashire who was never once in my mind's eye
during the composition of the novel. The Doctor was really suggested by
a Frenchman, quite ignorant of the Lancashire dialect, and even of
English. But, of all these guesses, one of the commonest was that Philip
Stanburne represented the author himself, probably because he was called
Philip. There is no telling what may happen to us before we die; but I
hope that the supposed original of Jacob Ogden may preserve his sanity
to the end of his earthly pilgrimage, and that the author of this volume
may not end his days in a monastery.
P. G. H.
CONTENTS.
PART I.
Chapter
I. MANNERS AND CUSTOMS OF SHAYTON 1
II. GRANDMOTHER AND GRANDSON 5
III. AT THE PARSONAGE 16
IV. ISAAC OGDEN BECOMES A BACKSLIDER. 29
V. FATHER AND SON 42
VI. LITTLE JACOB IS LOST 52
VII. ISAAC OGDEN'S PUNISHMENT 59
VIII. FROM SOOTYTHORN TO WENDERHOLME 69
IX. THE FUGITIVE 87
X. CHRISTMAS AT MILEND 94
XI. THE COLONEL GOES TO SHAYTON 106
XII. OGDEN'S NEW MILL 119
XIII. STANITHBURN PEEL 130
XIV. AT SOOTYTHORN 136
XV. WITH THE MILITIA 143
XVI. A CASE OF ASSAULT 150
XVII. ISAAC OGDEN AGAIN 155
XVIII. ISAAC'S MOTHER COMES 161
XIX. THE COLONEL AT WHITTLECUP 170
XX. PHILIP STANBURNE IN LOVE 174
XXI. THE WENDERHOLME COACH 179
XXII. COLONEL STANBURNE APOLOGIZES 185
XXIII. HUSBAND AND WIFE 193
XXIV. THE COLONEL AS A CONSOLER 201
XXV. WENDERHOLME IN FESTIVITY 212
XXVI. MORE FIREWORKS 225
XXVII. THE FIRE 229
XXVIII. FATHER AND DAUGHTER 238
XXIX. PROGRESS OF THE FIRE 241
XXX. UNCLE JACOB'S LOVE AFFAIR 249
XXXI. UNCLE JACOB IS ACCEPTED 252
XXXII. MR. STEDMAN RELENTS 258
XXXIII. THE SADDEST IN THE BOOK 265
XXXIV. JACOB OGDEN FREE AGAIN 273
XXXV. LITTLE JACOB'S EDUCATION 280
XXXVI. A SHORT CORRESPONDENCE. 284
XXXVII. AT WENDERHOLME COTTAGE 286
XXXVIII. ARTISTIC INTOXICATION 290
XXXIX. GOOD-BYE TO LITTLE JACOB 301
PART II.
I. AFTER LONG YEARS. 303
II. IN THE DINING-ROOM 318
III. IN THE DRAWING-ROOM 322
IV. ALONE. 327
V. THE TWO JACOBS 331
VI. THE SALE 336
VII. A FRUGAL SUPPER 340
VIII. AT CHESNUT HILL 345
IX. OGDEN OF WENDERHOLME 354
X. YOUNG JACOB AND EDITH 357
XI. EDITH'S DECISION. 366
XII. JACOB OGDEN'S TRIUMPH 374
XIII. THE BLOW-OUT. 380
XIV. MRS. OGDEN'S AUTHORITY 389
XV. LADY HELENA RETURNS 393
XVI. THE COLONEL COMES 400
XVII. A MORNING CALL. 404
XVIII. MONEY ON THE BRAIN 409
XIX. THE COLONEL AT STANITHBURN 418
XX. A SIMPLE WEDDING 425
XXI. THE MONK 431
WENDERHOLME.
PART I.
CHAPTER I.
MANNERS AND CUSTOMS OF SHAYTON.
It was an immemorial custom in Shayton for families to restrict
themselves to a very few Christian names, usually taken from the Old
Testament, and these were repeated, generation after generation, from a
feeling of respect to parents, very laudable in itself, but not always
convenient in its consequences. Thus in the family of the Ogdens, the
eldest son was always called Isaac, and the second Jacob, so that if
they had had a pedigree, the heralds would almost have been driven to
the expedient of putting numbers after these names--as we say Henry
VIII, or Louis XIV. The Isaac Ogden who appears in this history may have
been, if collateral Isaacs in other branches were taken into account,
perhaps Isaac the fortieth; indeed, the tombstones in Shayton churchyard
recorded a number of Isaac Ogdens that was perfectly bewildering. Even
the living Isaac Ogdens were numerous enough to puzzle any new-comer;
and a postman who had not been accustomed to the place, but was sent
there from Rochdale, solemnly declared that "he wished all them Hisaac
Hogdens was deead, every one on 'em, nobbut just about five or six, an'
then there'd be less bother about t' letters." This wish may seem hard
and unchristian,--it may appear, to readers who have had no experience
in the delivery of letters, that to desire the death of a
fellow-creature merely because he happened to be called Isaac Ogden
implied a fearful degree of natural malevolence; but the business of a
postman cultivates an eagerness to get rid of letters, whereof the lay
mind has no adequate conception; and when a bachelor Isaac Ogden got a
letter from an affectionate wife, or an Isaac Ogden, who never owed a
penny, received a pressing dun from an impatient and exasperated
creditor, these epistles were returned upon the postman's hands, and he
became morbidly anxious to get rid of them, or "shut on 'em," as he
himself expressed it. Some annoying mistakes of this kind had occurred
in reference to _our_ Mr. Isaac Ogden at the time when he was engaged to
Miss Alice Wheatley, whose first affectionate letter from her father's
house at Eatherby had not only miscarried, but actually been opened and
read by several Isaac Ogdens in Shayton and its vicinity; for poor Miss
Alice, in the flurry of directing her first epistle to her lover, had
quite forgotten to put the name of the house where he then lived. This
was particularly annoying to Mr. Ogden, who had wished to keep his
engagement secret, in order to avoid as long as possible the banter of
his friends; and he sware in his wrath that there were far too many
Isaac Ogdens in the world, and that, however many sons he had, he would
never add to their number. This declaration was regarded by his mother,
and by the public opinion of the elder generation generally, as little
better than a profession of atheism; and when our little friend Jacob,
about whom we shall have much to say, was christened in Shayton church,
it was believed that the misguided father would not have the hardihood
to maintain his resolution in so sacred a place. He had, however, the
courage to resist the name of Isaac, though it was pressed upon him with
painful earnestness; but he did not dare to offend tradition so far as
to resist that of Jacob also, though the objections to it were in truth
equally cogent.
On his retirement to Twistle Farm, an out-of-the-way little estate up
in the hill country near Shayton, Mr. Ogden, who was now a widower,
determined, at least for the present, to educate his child himself. And
so it was that, at the age of nine, little Jacob was rather less
advanced than some other boys of his age. He had not begun Latin yet,
but, on the other hand, he read English easily and with avidity, and
wrote a very clear and legible hand. His friend Doctor Bardly, the
Shayton medical man, who rode up to Twistle Farm very often (for he
liked the fresh moorland air, and enjoyed a chat with Mr. Ogden and the
child), used to examine little Jacob, and bring him amusing books, so
that his young friend had already several shelves in his bedroom which
were filled with instructive histories and pleasant tales. The youthful
student had felt offended one day at Milend, where his grandmother and
his Uncle Jacob lived, when a matronly visitor had asked whether he
could read.
"He can read well enough," said his grandmother.
"Well, an' what can he read? can he read i' th' Bible?"
The restriction of Jacob's reading powers to one book offended him.
Could he not read all English books at sight, or the newspaper, or any
thing? Indeed, few people in Shayton, except the Doctor, read as much as
the little boy at Twistle Farm; and when his uncle at Milend discovered
one day what an appetite for reading the child had, he was not
altogether pleased, and asked whether he could "cast accounts." Finding
him rather weak in the elementary practice of arithmetic, Uncle Jacob
made him "do sums" whenever he had an opportunity. Arithmetic (or
"arethmitic," as Uncle Jacob pronounced it) was at Milend considered a
far higher attainment than the profoundest knowledge of literature; and,
indeed, if the rank of studies is to be estimated by their influence on
the purse, there can be no doubt that the Milend folks were right.
Without intending a pun (for this would be a poor one), Uncle Jacob had
never found any thing so interesting as interest, and the annual
estimate which he made of the increase of his fortune brought home to
his mind a more intense sense of the delightfulness of addition than any
school-boy ever experienced. But arithmetic, like every other human
pursuit, has its painful or unpleasant side, and Uncle Jacob regarded
subtraction and division with an indescribable horror and dread.
Subtraction, in his vivid though far from poetical imagination, never
meant any thing less serious than losses in the cotton trade; and
division evoked the alarming picture of a wife and eight children
dividing his profits amongst them. Indeed, he never looked upon
arithmetic in the abstract, but saw it in the successes of the
prosperous and the failures of the unfortunate,--in the accumulations of
rich and successful bachelors like himself, and the impoverishment of
struggling mortals, for whom there was no increase save in the number of
their children. And this concrete conception of arithmetic he endeavored
to communicate to little Jacob, who, in consequence of his uncle's
teaching, already possessed the theory of getting rich, and was so far
advanced in the practice of it that, by keeping the gifts of his kind
patrons and friends, he had nearly twenty pounds in the savings bank.