Walter was so busy trenching in his garden, one late autumn afternoon,

that he paid no attention to any thing that passed on the other side of

the hedge. Train after train of coal-waggons slid by on the rail-road

from the pit to the staithe, and from the staithe to the pit, and he

never looked up, till a voice from one of the vehicles shouted to him

that he was a pretty ferryman to let a passenger stand calling for his

boat, for minutes together, while he gave no heed. Walter just turned to

the cottage to shout, in his turn, “Father, the boat!” and then went on

with his trenching.

The days were gone by when Walter used to uprear himself from his

weeding or pruning, or stand resting on his spade, to watch his father

putting off for the opposite bank, or speculate on who the passengers

might be, whence they came, and whither they might be going. His garden

was a tempting place whence to overlook the river, sloping as it did

down to the very bank; but Walter had now too much to do and to think

about to spare time for the chance amusements of former days. His father

had duly and perpetually assured him in his childhood that “the hand of

the diligent maketh rich,” and that “if a man will not work, neither

should he eat;” but, though these quotations had their effect, there

were thoughts in Walter’s mind which were yet more stimulating to his

exertions.

He threw down his spade in no little hurry, however, when, in a few

minutes, he heard himself called from behind. His cousin Effie was

running up the slope of the garden, crying,

“Walter! Walter! is my father here? You need not be afraid to tell _me_.

Is my father here?”

“Your father, no! I have not seen him since church, last Sunday.”

“Well, uncle Christopher said just so; but I got him to set me over, I

was so unwilling to believe you did not know where my father was. O,

Walter! cannot you give the least guess where he is? I dare not go back

to my mother without news.”

Walter’s grieved countenance showed that he would afford news if he had

any to impart. He hesitatingly mentioned the public-house.

“O, there is not a public-house between this and Newcastle, nor all over

Shields, where one or other of us had not been before twelve o’clock

last night. I did not know whether to be glad or sorry that he was not

in one of them. Now I should be glad enough to see him in almost any

way.”

“Before twelve o’clock last night! How long have you missed him?”

“He quitted the keel, they say, just at dark, when she came alongside

the collier,—only because he had broken his pipe, and went to get

another; but he did not come back.”

Walter was silent; but Effie could interpret his thought.

“It is certain the press-gang was out last night,” she observed.

“Where is the tender stationed?” asked Walter, pulling down his shirt

sleeves, and looking round for his coat.

“Just in the river’s mouth; but there is no getting at her. Half the

boats in Shields have been hanging about her; but, there being only

women in them, they do but make sport for the officers. Nobody but an

officer or two is to be seen on deck——”

“Ay, ay; the other poor creatures are kept close enough down below. I

suppose, if there are few but women in the boats, her business is done,

and she will make little further stay.”

“There is not a seaman to be seen in all Shields since the day before

yesterday, they say; and so the jail has been half emptied to make up

the number. Walter, you must not think of going to look for my father.

There has scarcely a keel passed all this day, because the men will not

venture to the port any more, while the tender is there. You will not

think of going, Walter? I am not quite sure that it is safe for you to

be working here, full in sight from the river. From the other side I saw

you as plain as could be.”

“Why, Effie, what do you think they could make of a gardener on board a

king’s ship?”

“What they make of other landsmen, I suppose. ’Tis certain they have got

some who never were on ship-board in their lives.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes, indeed. So I do wish you would work, in you must work, under the

hedge, or behind that plot of hollyoaks. Do you know I saw you stop and

take off your cap, when you came to the end of this ridge, and then

stoop——”

“What! while your head was full of your father; bless you!” murmured

Walter, in a low fone, and with a blush of satisfaction.

“Is not it my duty to think of you first?” asked Effie; “and if it was

not, how could I help it?”

Walter was in no hurry to answer this, and Effie went on.

“As to saying it, I cannot help that either; and why should I? It makes

me wonder to see Bessy Davison pretending that her lover is the last

person in the world that she thinks of or cares about, when she knows

what a sin and shame it would be to pretend the same thing when he is

her husband—which he is almost—for they are to be married next week.”

“I am sure we are much more like being husband and wife than they are,

Effie; I wish we were going to be married next week.”

“I cannot talk about that, Walter, till I have heard something of my

father, and made out what is to become of my mother, if he is really

gone; but he may get back. There have been some set ashore again two

days after they were carried off.”

Walter did not say what he knew, that those who were thus returned to

their homes were persons unfit for the king’s service:—a poor tailor who

might, by long training, have become a sail-maker, but would never be

capable of more arduous service; a ploughman, who was gaping with

amazement at the first sight of the sea, when he was surprised and

carried off; and a pedlar, who seemed likely to die in a week for want

of a wider walking range than the deck of a tender. Eldred was too good

a man for the king’s purposes, as Walter knew, to be set at liberty

again on the same footing with such helpless creatures as these.

“What will your mother do, Effie, if your father should really be away a

year or two, or more?”

“Eh! I cannot say. There has been no time——Walter, if you could have

seen her, all last night, it would have half broke your heart.”

“I am sure it has half broken yours. You look sadly worn, Effie.”

“O, I am used to her—to her ways of feeling and doing. But she did sob

and complain so grievously, we were wholly at a loss what to do with

her—poor Tim and I, for Adam was not to be found. I sent to his master’s

to beg leave for him for a few hours, but he was out of bounds, and so I

had no help. For a long time she kept blaming my father, till I was

pained that Tim should hear all she said. When I had got him to bed, I

left off trying to reason with her, which I know I am too apt to do.

But, Walter, I am afraid to meet her again; and that is why I am

lingering here, doing no good.”

“But what will she do?” Walter again inquired.

“I suppose we must all get work, as those do who have no father to work

for them,” replied Effie.

“We had better marry at once,” said Walter, who seemed quite able to

prove his point, that it would be a relief to Mrs. Eldred to see her

daughter settled at once, instead of having to go back to the pit-mouth,

where she had worked in her childhood, and where all parties had

believed she would never need to work again.

“It never came into my mind till now,” said Effie, after considering her

lover’s proposal for a moment; “but I will think about it as I go home,

and try to find out what we ought to do.”

Walter’s blush of satisfaction returned while he said something about

his wonder how people had any comfort of each other who were off and on,

and pretending, like Bessy and her lover, not to understand each other,

instead of being straightforward, and agreeing on what was right and

fit, so that they might depend on each other without drawback. It was

difficult enough sometimes, at best, for people that had consciences to

settle their minds so as to be at peace; and to perplex one another

further was, in his opinion, but a poor sign of love. He might feel this

the more strongly from his being too timid and undecided. He knew he

was; and if Effie could but be aware what a blessing it was to him to be

never made sport of—never put off with false reasons——

Effie coloured with indignation at the idea of any one taking advantage

of Walter’s modesty to make sport of him. In her own heart she daily

felt, (and sometimes she relieved herself by saying so,) that there was

no one virtue she should like so much to have as Walter’s modesty, and

that there was no one thing she feared so much as learning to abuse it,

by accepting the supremacy he was willing to allow her. Walter’s

objection, as far as he chose to make any, was that she was too

tractable; while his father entertained an idea much more serious. He

doubted whether they had grace enough between them to secure a blessing

upon their union.

“Uncle Christopher seems too busy to speak to me to-day,” observed

Effie. “He has always been engaged with his invention when I have come

lately; but I thought to-day he would have come out to advise with me

what we must do about my father.”

“He is bringing his invention to a point,” replied Walter, “and he will

soon be ready to take it to London, and look after a patent for it. This

fills his mind at present; but you need not doubt his feeling very much

for you all, as soon as he can listen to what I shall tell him.”

“But what will he say to your notion of marrying next week—of your

marrying while Adam is not out of his apprenticeship yet?”

“He can only say that Adam is an apprentice, and I am not. You and I may

be as glad as we please, between ourselves, that I am a gardener, and

not a rope-maker.”

“Ah! you would have had another year to serve, from this time, and then

to set up for yourself. But, surely, gardening is a much more difficult

business to learn than rope-making. Why should Adam be obliged to spend

seven years in learning to twist hemp into ropes, when you learned long

ago a great deal about the seasons, and the soils, and the nature of

different kinds of plants, and how to manage a vast number of them? I

should have thought that it would take more time and pains to learn to

produce fine peaches, and such capital vegetables as yours, than to

become a good rope-maker.”

“So should I; but all works of tillage have been mixed up together under

the name of unskilled labour; and all that belong to manufactures, as

skilled labour, which requires apprenticeship; so that the man who grows

the finest grapes that care and knowledge ever produced, is held by the

law to be a less skilled workman than one who dabs brick-clay into a

mould all the summer through. If I were to turn pippin-monger instead of

pippin-grower, I should have inquiries in plenty after my seven years of

apprenticeship, and should be liable to suffer for not having served

them. But I am a gardener, and never was bound to a master, and am now

free to turn my hand to any occupation that comes near my own, if my own

should fail, which is a sort of security for you, Effie, that it gives

me pleasure to think of.”

“Security!” said his father, who had at length found time to come out

and inquire into the afflictions of his niece and her family. “It is the

notion of young people, who have not seen God’s ways in his works, to

talk of security. Of what use is the watchman’s waking, unless the Lord

keeps the city?”

“Indeed, uncle,” said Effie, “we want no teaching to-day about change

and danger. Yesterday at this time we were looking for my father home

from work, and now I much fear——”

“Fear nothing, child. Fear is sinful.”

“O, but, uncle, do you think you yourself could help it if Walter was

gone, and you did not know where? Would not you fancy him shut down in

that horrible tender? And could you help being afraid that he was

miserable, being afraid that he would be ill, being afraid that you

would be unhappy for many a long year, for want of him?”

“I dare say you think,” said uncle Christopher, seeing that Effie bit

her lip to repress her tears,—“I dare say you think that I am a cruel

old man, who has no compassion for what other people are feeling.

Worldly people would say——”

“O, never mind what people would say who do not see and hear us: but I

do not think you cruel, uncle. Only——”

“Only what?” inquired uncle Christopher, setting his lips in a prim

form, as he always did when he expected to hear something unacceptable

about himself.

“Only,—very pious people expect other people to feel exactly as they do,

and make out that every difference is a difference of trust in God. Now,

I trust in God that my father will be supported, and my poor mother——”

She was obliged to stop a moment, and then went on,

“But all this trust does not make me the less afraid that they will have

to be unhappy first.”

Uncle Christopher shook his head with a condescending smile and sigh.

This was what he called trust with a reservation; but prayed that the

true faith might grow out of it in time. He could suggest nothing to be

done, Eldred’s recovery being quite hopeless, he considered, if he was

on board the tender. All that uncle Christopher could promise, was to go

and pray with the widowed wife, on the Sabbath morning;—the day that he

could not conscientiously give to his own engrossing pursuit,—the

invention for which he hoped to take out a patent.

Walter had no intention of waiting till Sunday. He was going now, but

that Effie would not allow it. The press-gang was before her mind’s eye,

whichever way she turned; and she had no apprehension so great as of her

lover falling in with it. Nowhere could he be so safe as in his father’s

premises,—ferrymen being everywhere exempt from impressment. He parried

her request of a promise not to show himself in his garden so as to be

an object of observation from the river, and now saved his father the

trouble of depositing Effie on the other side. He had a few words to say

to her while they were crossing. His advice was not to harass herself

with running about from place to place in search of her father, (who

could have no motive for concealing himself from his family,) but to

acquiesce in his being made a defender of his country against his will,

and to hope that he would prove a faithful and valiant seaman amidst the

perils and honours of war.

Effie thought that the very way to prevent this was so to treat a man as

to make him hate the government he served, and to paralyze his arm by

that sickness of heart which must come over him as often as he thought

of his deserted wife and unprovided children. She believed a ready will

was the soul of good service, on sea or land.

She had no very ready will to go home to her mother without tidings. She

lingered to see her lover recross the river, being aware that he was an

inexperienced ferryman, and that the tide was now running very strong. A

barge was coming up, in fine style, and it seemed likely that Walter

would have landed in time to watch its course, like herself, and perhaps

to suspect, as she did, that certain of his Majesty’s agents were in it,

seeking whom they might entrap. But Walter mismanaged his boat, causing

it to make a zig-zag course, till he brought it very near the barge, and

then seeming to lose his presence of mind so as to put himself directly

in the way of being run down. Effie was in momentary expectation of

witnessing the clash, and there was a movement on board the barge which

terrified her no less.

“They have found him out to be no ferryman,” was her agonized thought.

“They will carry him off too, and then my mother and I shall be widows

together!”

She ran to the water’s edge, and would probably have tried to walk

through it, if the boats had not parted so as to allow her breathing

time again. She was then struck with the improbability of the gang

offering violence to the manager of a ferryboat, while in the actual

discharge of his office; but this conviction did not at once restore

strength to her shaking limbs, or remove the deadly sickness from her

heart.

She was usually fond of this walk,—for other reasons than that Walter

was at one end of it: but to-day everything appeared disagreeable. The

rustling of the autumn wind in the leafless clump of trees under which

she had to pass teazed her ear. She tried to find a path where she might

walk without making a commotion among the dead leaves. When it became

necessary to cross the rail-road, it seemed to her that it was the most

difficult thing in the world to escape the trains of waggons. She felt

pretty sure of being run over before she got home. The smoke from the

colliery half stifled her, and the voices from the rows of cottages were

more shrill and unfeeling than she had ever heard them before. The river

side had been cold; the colliery was too warm; and the wind, or

something else, prevented her getting forwards. She could almost have

declared that her feet were tied.

While she was toiling on, somebody touched her shoulder. She turned, in

attitude to run away; but it was only her eldest brother.

“What! did I frighten you, lass?” cried Adam, gaily.

“O, Adam! It would be well if you never did worse than frightening me in

this way.”

“Hoot, toot! you are coming round to the old story of my having my

indentures broke. Let them be broke, if my masters so please! I know my

business well enough,—I knew it three years ago well enough to make my

bread like another man; and so it is no wonder I am tired of working so

long for another, when I am as fit as I ever shall be to work for

myself.”

“But the disgrace,—the loss,—if you have your indentures broke!”

exclaimed she. “How are you to get on a footing with those who have

served their time properly, if you cannot submit to the law?”

“I wish I had been born where there is no such law,” declared Adam. “If

I had been a Manchester or a Birmingham man, my apprenticeship might

have been as long or as short as my business requires. Or if I had been

an American, I might have learned rope-making without being bound at

all.”

“In America, I have heard tell,” replied Effie, “the people are mostly

well to do in the world, and can take their manhood upon them earlier

than the youths here may do. They can set up for themselves, and marry,

and have their rights earlier than here, where there are so many in

proportion to the means of living. As to Birmingham and Manchester,—I do

not know what is the character of the working youths there,—but I have

heard it said that long apprenticeships are good for the morals of the

young people.”

“Then I must be a much more moral person than Walter—Eh, Effie? But I

should like to know what there is in my being bound to tread the length

of the rope-walk so many times a-day, for my master’s profit, that is

good for my morals. I hardly think that it is good for one’s morals to

be running off as often as one can slip the noose, and sulky and

grumbling all the while one is under a master’s eye.”

Effie did not see the absolute necessity of either playing truant or

sulking. She thought a well-disposed youth should be grateful for being

under the eye of a master at a time of life when guardianship was

peculiarly needful.

“All very well two hundred years ago, Effie,—at the time of such

apprenticeships as our great grandfather used to tell us of,—when the

apprentices used to sit in the same room, and eat at the same table with

their masters, and walk behind them to church. But times are changed

now. I could tell you such things as you little dream of, if I chose to

prove to you how much management our masters have over our pleasures and

our morals. What is it to them what we do with ourselves when work is

over? And as for the time that the wheels are turning, the masters must

be clever men if they get half as much work out of their oldest and best

apprentices as out of any one of their journeymen?”

“How were apprentices so different in our great grandfather’s time?”

“I dare say it might be more difficult to learn arts at that time; and

so a longer apprenticeship might be wanted. Neither was there such a

rush to get one’s bread as there is now; nor, consequently, so much

provocation at being kept out of it, at a great expense to everybody,

when one is capable of shifting for one’s self. You cannot wonder,

Effie, at my flitting from time to time, when a chance offers of winning

a penny, or when I can amuse myself, instead of toiling for nothing.”

“But I do wonder, Adam. You forget what you owe your master for teaching

you your trade; and you forget what you forfeit, if you have your

indentures broke.”

“Not I. I paid my master long ago for everything but the meat and drink

that I would rather earn for myself. And you need not begin to talk of

how foolish we should all be in marrying too early if our being bound

till twenty-one did not prevent it. It may chance that worse things than

early marriages happen when high-spirited apprentices are led or driven

into a disposition for idleness. In my mind,—the best way to keep a

young man steady and sober is to let him work, as soon as he is fit for

it, with the hopefulness which comes from working for one’s self. You

will see how steady I shall be as soon as I have something to work for.”

“And if your master casts you off, mean time?”

“Then I must go somewhere away from yon great town, where one can do

little without a title of apprenticeship. When the Deep Cut is made,—as

they say it certainly will be,—ropes will be wanted there in plenty, for

ships that will put in. I’ll go and settle near the Deep Cut.—’Tis a

fine place,—that sluice that is to be. Tommy Thorn and I got over to see

it in one of our trips; and there was——”

“Tell me nothing about it now,” said Effie: “but go home to your master,

that I may tell my mother that you are there; and so carry her some

little comfort in her misery.”

“Misery! what misery?”

“Ah! Now you are almost the only person within five miles that does not

know what an affliction has befallen your own kin. I kept putting off

the telling you, being at last hopeless——”

“And I saw how you had been crying, but thought Walter might have been

either rough or particularly tender. But O, Effie, what is it? Is poor

little Tim——”

Tim was well again: and Adam was horror-struck at finding the family

misfortune so much greater than he had anticipated. When he learned that

Cuddie was absent,—making his first voyage in a collier to London,—he

was full of remorse that his mother had been left without the support of

either of her elder sons on such an occasion. Instead of going home to

his master, he must first see his poor mother; and when Effie

recollected that such a visit might serve as a plea of excuse to his

master, and give his indentures another chance, she made no further

opposition.

Effie found little promise of comfort on approaching home. About the

spout or staithe, whence coals were shot from the waggons into the keels

on the river, were gathered groups of people telling and hearing of one

and another neighbour who had not returned when expected. This news

rendered Eldred’s restoration less probable than ever, and all that

could be hoped was that Mrs. Eldred was already prepared for this.

If she was, she did not look out the less eagerly for her daughter, or

show less disappointment when she found there were no tidings.

“It was silly of me to trouble you for any,” she declared. “I am the

last person ever to get tidings that I want. I am the last person to be

helped by anybody.”

“Do not you think——”—Effie began, but checked herself, in consideration

of the trouble of spirit that her mother was in. The poor woman went on,

“One would think the time was gone by for your father to have the notion

of deserting his family. He had better have done it years ago, when I

was more fit for the charge. I am worn out now. But I always said there

would be no rest for me till I was in the grave.”

“Is there no one who asks us to come and he will give us rest?” inquired

one who was sitting beside the hearth, with little Tim on his knee. It

was Mr. Severn, the clergyman, one of poor Tim’s best friends. Tim was

only six years old; but he had lost his sight by an accident at the

coal-pit, two years before. He was not an unhappy child at any time; but

he was seldom so happy as when Mr. Severn’s cheerful voice and steady

step came near, or when there was something new to be told or taught,

which required that Tim should stand between the gentleman’s knees, or

sit with an arm over his shoulder. He heard Mr. Severn’s question now,

and asked who made that promise. The answer brought his mother to tears;

but whether they were tears which would do her good seemed doubtful to

those who watched with alarm the force of her emotions.

“Mother, you cannot think,—surely you cannot think that my father has

left us of his own accord?” remonstrated Adam.

“If he has, it is you that have helped to send him away. No man was

prouder than your father that no vagabond ever belonged to him; and many

a time of late has he prophesied that you would turn out a vagabond;—

many a time, I can tell you, Adam, when he has heard of your being

missed from your work. I hope you will take it to heart, Adam.”

“Mother! mother! this is not the time,” said Effie, in a terror lest

Adam should quit the cottage, never to return. “Mother, my father never

spoke harshly about Adam, I am sure.”

“Harshly! no. He never spoke harshly to anybody in his life, and always

let any one talk him over, and do what they would with him; and that is

the case now, I’ll answer for it. I thought I had brought up my sons

free from his fault; and now they are to break my heart in another way,

I suppose. Well! among one and another, I shall soon be in my grave.”

“How is Cuddie to break your heart, mother? I wonder what is the matter

with him, good lad!” said Adam, with an affectation of coolness.

Effie cast an imploring look at him, and at the same moment Tim began to

make his voice heard,—

“O, don’t go! don’t go! Sir, sir; don’t go!”

“I must, my dear boy. I will come back again when——”

“When my mother does not insult me before you, sir,” said Adam. “But you

will hardly find me here next time, after what you have heard to-day.”

“Yes, Adam, I trust I shall. I shall forget what I have heard, because

it was said in a moment of irritation; and you will remember, I trust,

that your mother is in deep affliction, and that her words should not be

reckoned too strictly against her,—least of all by her son.”

“I cannot be spoken of in this way,” cried Mrs. Eldred. “I have been

accustomed to have people against me, all my days; but I cannot hear

myself so spoken of to my children, by anybody, Mr. Severn.”

“Tell us, then, how we shall think of you,—how we shall pray for you in

your sorrow?”

“As one that was able to bear whatever it might please God to lay upon

her,” she replied. Her violent weeping did not interrupt her

declarations that she could go to the pit-mouth, and work for her

living, and preserve the independence and good name she had always

sought for herself and her children. She spoke proudly of her family,

though she had just before been bitter against them. She talked of her

strength, though she had so lately declared herself worn out. She did

not want any comfort but what her own mind could supply her with, well

as people meant, she did not doubt, by coming to comfort her. She forgot

how she had complained, just before Mr. Severn entered, that nobody

cared for her, and that she might bear her troubles as well as she

could, without sympathy.

Mr. Severn, who abhorred officious interference, kindly wished her

strength and comfort according to her need, and was departing, when

little Tim, who had bustled after him to the door, reached out a hand to

catch the gentleman by the skirt of his coat, missed his aim, and fell

from the door-step. He merely slipped on his hands and knees; but the

boy was first startled by the fall, and then thoroughly alarmed by his

mother’s passion of terror. Any child must have concluded himself very

much hurt, while his mother was sobbing over him so piteously.

“Indeed, mother, I don’t think he has hurt himself.”—“Do but let him

walk across the room.”—“He does not seem to be in any pain,”—urged the

son and daughter, in vain. Mr. Severn touched Adam’s arm, and made a

sign to let the paroxysm exhaust itself. Effie quietly placed a cup of

water within reach, and closed the door against any prying eyes that

might be near. The time had been,—but it was now long past,—when her

mother’s emotions had invariably opened the flood-gates of her own

tears. Her heart was still heavily oppressed when she witnessed passion;

but it was now only quiet grief that touched her sympathies. When the

sobs were hushed, and only gentle tears flowed over poor Tim, Effie

could refrain no longer, but became the most sorrowful weeper of the

two. Adam did not know what to do with himself, and therefore did the

best thing that remained. He took his mother’s hand, and signified a

hope of being a greater comfort to her than he had been. He mentioned

Cuddie; and here was something pleasant for every one to speak of. Mr.

Severn considered Cuddie one of the most promising lads in the parish.

Mrs. Eldred told how early she had discovered and pointed out to his

father what Cuddie might become; but plaintively added a supposition of

his being impressed during the voyage. All, with one voice, reminded her

how young he was, and how unlikely it was that his Majesty should pick

out lads of seventeen for impressment, when an ample supply of

full-grown men might be obtained. Tim had his little story to tell of

what Cuddie was to do for him when he came back; and his mother smiled,

and blessed the boy aside for forgetting his terrible fall so easily. In

ten minutes more, Mr. Severn left her, fully convinced that it would be

much easier to count her troubles than her blessings; that Providence

has a wise and kind purpose in all that it inflicts; and that the best

welcome she could offer her husband on his return would be the sight of

what she had done in his absence for his sake.

CHAPTER II.

NEWS FROM THE PORT.

Mrs. Eldred did not give too good an account of herself when she

declared herself able to do for her family whatever circumstances might

require of her. Within five days of her husband’s disappearance, she

might be found in a situation which she had not expected ever to fill

again. She was sorting and screening coals at the mouth of the

neighbouring pit. She would not hear of Effie joining her in her

labours. Her great desire was that Effie should marry Walter as soon as

she pleased. This would be one care off her mind, she declared,—one duty

discharged to her absent husband, whose only daughter should not suffer

by the unhappy chance which had taken him away. The only argument was as

to what should be done with Tim, during working hours. Effie was for

keeping him beside her,—not only at present, while she was still in her

mother’s cottage, but when she should have removed to Walter’s. She

thought it more seemly that the child should play among the flower-beds

than among the coal-heaps, and hinted the possibility of his falling

down the pit, or into the river, while no one was heeding him. But the

plea of danger would not do. No child of his age could be more fit to

avoid danger from the pit and the river than Tim. His ear served him

better than the eyes of little ones who do not think of taking care; and

Tim might always be trusted to discover, by stamping on the ground, how

near he was to hollow places. He might always be trusted to calculate

the certainties of crossing the waggon-way before the train should come

up, and to find his own path down the sloping bank to the stone which

formed his favourite seat by the river-side—where he might sit, and pull

rushes, and hear the water ripple. His mother hinted that he would run

more risk among Walter’s bees than anywhere else. It was left, at last,

to the child’s own taste; and he decided to go with his mother. Of all

people, he knew least of the hastiness of her temper; for he rarely or

never had to feel it himself, and could not yet understand its

manifestations to others. He was very fond of Effie, but there was a

charm about the corner of his mother’s apron which eclipsed all the

blandishments of any one else. Besides this, Tim loved society,—not only

as being a child, but as being blind. He quitted even the corner of his

mother’s apron when he heard young voices, and pushed into the midst of

every group of children he could find his way to. He had an ambition to

work as other little ones worked, and to play as they played; and his

mother’s occupation afforded him the opportunity. The sorting coal may

be done by the touch as truly though more slowly than by the eye; and

the work which Tim would not have been set to these five years, if he

had had his sight, he was already permitted to do for amusement, because

he was blind. His mother rectified his mistakes when he chanced to carry

his contributions to the wrong heap; and his companions learned to be

patient with him when he unwittingly spoiled their little arrangements,

throwing down their coal-houses, trudging straight through their

coal-gardens, and stumbling over their coal-mountains. No one seemed to

enjoy the burning of the refuse coal more than he, though to him it was

no spectacle. He always carefully ascertained the situation of the heap

to be burned, and stood opposite to the conflagration, shouting when his

companions’ shouts told that the flame was spreading, and rather

courting than avoiding the heat and the smoke. There was some question

among observers whether the glare did not excite some sensation through

the veil of his blindness. He could give no account of it himself; and

the point was left to be decided at some future time, when he should be

better able to understand his own pleasures.

Mrs. Eldred was at the pit, as if nothing had happened, the morning of

Effie’s marriage, within a fortnight of Eldred’s disappearance. There

was nothing to stay at home for when Effie was gone; and no one ever

shrank from being alone more painfully than the widowed wife did at

present. She plied her labour busily at the pit’s mouth,—now helping to

receive the coal which was brought up by the gin, now screening it, and

depositing the large pieces for the London market in one place, and the

small for other uses, or for destruction, in another place.

“Eh! bairn, what makes you turn that way, and listen so?” she asked of

Tim. The boy jumped and clapped his hands as a distant shout arose. It

spread nearer and nearer; and the sound of a carriage,—of several

carriages,—was heard. What could it be? It turned out a very fine

procession indeed,—the wedding-party in whose honour the bells of St.

Nicholas, Newcastle, were ringing, as had been observed by several

people about the colliery this morning. The Rev. Miles Otley, a

neighbouring rector, had married the daughter of the rich Mr. Vivian of

Newcastle; and everybody near was thinking a good deal about it,—not

only because the marriage of the rector was a matter of real importance,

but because it was a curious thing to the elderly folks to see such a

boy as Miles Otley had but lately been, grown into so important a man as

he now was. He had had extraordinary luck they thought, in respect both

of education and preferment;—luck greatly exceeding that of Mr. Severn,

his curate, who was much more popular on all points but one;—the one

which constituted the rector’s chief importance at present to the people

about him. Mr. Otley’s sporting was admired, his equipage praised, his

preaching was a matter of question, his parties a matter of notoriety;

but that which found him favour in the eyes of his neighbours was his

opposition to a scheme for a public work which they thought would do a

great injury to their colliery,—a scheme of which Mr. Severn could not

be brought to say any harm.

Some way up the coast there were materials for a colliery which would

have been opened long ago, if it could have competed with those which

had superior advantages of carriage. A waggon-way to the river, or at

once to the port of Shields, might have been made; but it was thought

likely to be less expensive, and much more advantageous to the whole

district to make a short cut through the rock of the coast, just at

hand, and build a small pier, to aid the loading and unloading of

vessels. This opening might also afford a shelter for small vessels on a

very exposed coast; and there seemed to impartial persons no conceivable

objection to the undertaking, if the company who proposed it were

satisfied that it would yield them a profit. There was a jealousy about

it, however, among some coal-owners who did not desire the opening of

new works; and this jealousy, of course, spread to their dependents. It

was taken up by the gay young rector with an earnestness which could not

be accounted for otherwise than that this was the first object out of

himself which had ever been known to interest him, and it might

therefore have the charm of a new pursuit. He had talked of getting the

bill thrown out in Parliament, had visited the proprietors of the land

in the line of the Deep Cut, to endeavour to gain their dissent from the

measure, and had been thought to come very near the matter in the last

sermon he had preached (on innovations) previous to his marriage.

Mr. Severn was so far from seeing that the scheme was objectionable,

that he firmly believed it would benefit all the parties concerned in

its discussion. He knew that more coal was wanted in the south,—not that

the people in the south could purchase more of the article, burdened as

it now was with duties and unnecessary charges of various kinds,—but he

knew that many manufacturers were pining for want of an abundant and

cheap supply of fuel, and that thousands of poor creatures were

shivering in their chilly homes, while an inexhaustible deposit of coal

lay in the ground; and there were plenty of hands to work it, and an

abundance of ships to transport it, if its charges could but be reduced

to such a level as that those who needed might obtain. Every means by

which a larger supply could be brought into the market would prove, he

believed, a stimulus to the whole trade, and tempt more consumers to the

purchase. Not only, therefore, would the land proprietors on the line of

the Deep Cut, and the labourers, and the ship-builders, and the

rope-makers, and the pitmen, be benefited in a direct way, but all

connected with other coal-works in an indirect manner. It was true that

other means existed of supplying the people more amply with the fuel

which they wanted; but those means could not at present be made use of.

It was true that coal enough,—and no little of a prime quality,—was

destroyed at the pit mouth to afford warmth to crowds of those who pass

the dreary winter night in darkness and in cold, in many of the cities

of England. It was true that this destruction was sorely grudged by the

coal-owners, and complained of by the dwellers in the neighbourhood, to

whom these wasteful fires were a terrible nuisance; but it was also true

that, while the corporation of London had the privilege of measuring the

coal which was to warm London, and would admit none which was not in

large pieces, there was little probability that the small coal would

have any chance yet awhile; and the best hope was in the supply of large

coal being increased, so as to lower the price, as far as it was

possible for it to be lowered under the officious management of a

corporation. As for the means of carrying the projected improvement into

effect, as it was a work too expensive for individual enterprise, a

company, privileged by Government, seemed the right instrument. Such

companies are the fitting subjects of royal and parliamentary favour,

when their undertakings serve to promote instead of impeding the

industry of the many, and the rewards of that industry. A company to

monopolize the production of coal would have been a curse against which

Mr. Severn would have protested with all his might; a company to open a

new channel for the distribution of coal was a public servant, whom he

thought deserving of all honour and encouragement. Inasmuch as

government would be bound, by its duty of protecting the industry of its

subjects, to discountenance the former, it was bound to countenance the

latter: therefore Mr. Severn exerted himself to subdue the prejudices

against the scheme which existed in his parish; and, furthermore, did

what in him lay to disabuse Parliament respecting the misrepresentations

of the counter-petitioners. It is so much more easy, however, and so

infinitely more entertaining, to join in a clamour against a proposition

than to listen to reason in favour of it, that Mr. Severn was not at all

surprised to hear the shouts which followed the bridegroom’s carriage,—

“Otley for ever!” “He has cut up the Deep Cut!” “No new piers; the old

ones will do.” “Don’t let the Cut go out of your mind, Otley. We’ll

stand by you.”

Mr. Severn was visiting a poor man who was laid up with a hurt received

in the pit. He turned to the window with a smile as the gay cavalcade

passed, consisting of carriages, in which appeared to be all the

relations of the bride, and half those of the bridegroom. Her father,

the great Mr. Vivian, perhaps struck the most awe into the beholders,—he

was such a very great man!—though he himself seemed less aware of the

fact than other people. He had once sat next the Duke of Wellington, and

been asked a question by him. He had given a luncheon to the Duke of

Northumberland; and the Duchess had taken his arm in the Assembly-room

at Newcastle. He was a very powerful man in the Trinity-house; and had

had an audience of the First Lord of the Admiralty once upon a time in

London. Mr. Vivian himself would have been surprised to know what a

great man he was. One sort of proof of the fact was now offered him. The

surgeon of the colliery,—also a great man in his way,—arrived in the

distance just in time to learn what an event was taking place on the

road below, in the passage of the bridal party. This gentleman had an

earnest desire to be appointed surgeon to the Trinity-house, and had

long wished to distinguish himself in the view of Mr. Vivian. He did so

now, though not exactly in the way to secure a presentation to the

office he sought. He urged his grey pony forward, that he might be

within reach of Mr. Vivian’s notice, if the carriages should stop to

allow the rector to make his acknowledgments to the people. The pony did

not want urging, except when it was in one peculiar position, of which

it was by no means fond—in the middle of a waggon-way, bestriding the

twirling cable by which the waggons are worked. While standing thus, as

horses in that neighbourhood are sure to do occasionally, it required no

gentle persuasion to induce the pony to draw its hind-legs after its

fore-legs over the rope; but that effort once made, it was sure to go on

its way rapidly enough to satisfy the most impatient rider. So it was on

the present occasion. The animal leaped down the ridge, dashed over the

black level which lay between it and the colliery, and ended by shaking

off his master, and giving him a roll in the dust, in full view of the

wedding party. The surgeon’s purpose was doubly answered. Not only had

he distinguished himself before Mr. Vivian, but the carriages stopped,

and opportunity was thus afforded for requesting the patron’s interest

at the Trinity-house. Poor Mr. Milford was, however, too dusty, too much

out of breath, too anxious about his runaway pony, to give a very clear

account of his wishes and his claims; and the matter ended with his

handing his card to the patron, and receiving permission to call on him

in Newcastle.

Three men now appeared with the recovered pony, holding its head as

carefully as if it was likely to start off without the rest of the body.

Four women held open their doors, with an invitation to the gentleman to

walk in, in order to being dusted and brushed; and a score of children

gathered round to point out a torn coat-flap, a burst elbow, and a bent

hat. Somewhat annoyed and ashamed, the gentleman turned into the house

of the patient he came to visit, where Mr. Severn was still standing,

looking upon the bustle before the door.

“Sit down, sir, pray do; and don’t think of me yet,” said the patient,

looking compassionately on the panting Mr. Milford. “My wife will get

you a glass of gin, sir, to cheer your spirits.”

“And if,” said the wife, “you would take a word of advice, sir, you

would turn your left-leg stocking, to prevent any more harm coming of

the affair.”

Mr. Milford gravely accepted both the gin and the advice. It was a great

object with him to make himself popular with the people, even when the

curate was by. He protested that he did not regard the misadventure, as

it gave him the opportunity of paying his respects to the bridegroom,

whom he honoured for his public spirit about the Deep Cut.

“When he was a lad at school,—and none of the brightest, sir,—how little

anybody thought what a great man he would be in the church! It was his

father’s being ruined that destined him to the church. Nobody would have

thought of it else.”

“Indeed! I should have supposed the long and expensive education

necessary to a learned profession would have been the last a ruined man

would have thought of for his son.”

“If he had had to pay the expense himself, certainly, sir. But so much

is provided already for a church education, that, if a gentleman has

interest, it is one of the cheapest ways that he can dispose of his

sons, they say. But for this, they would never have thought of making

Master Miles a clergyman, to judge by what I used to see of him as a

boy. The big boys used to plague him, as he plagued the little ones; and

the master and he plagued each other equally. If Miss Vivian had seen

what I saw once, she would hardly have married him, altered as he is.

The boys had buried him up to his chin in the middle of the play-ground,

and when he screeched and roared, they let him have one arm out to beat

the ground with. He did not then look much like a youth thinking of

giving himself up to holy things.”

“Nor many another school-boy, who has yet turned out a good clergyman,”

observed Mr. Severn gravely. “I have often thought that much harm is

done by expecting ministers of the gospel to be different from others

when they are men; but I never before heard that they must be a separate

race as boys.”

“Nor I, sir. I only mean that one would not expect a stupid boy, with a

bad temper, to choose the church, if left to himself; and its being all

settled just when his father fell into difficulties makes one doubt the

more whether it was pure choice.”

“Certainly,” observed the surgeon, “there are helps to a clerical

education which we, in other learned professions, should be very glad

of;—a great many pensions, and exhibitions, and bursaries, and such

things, which we poor surgeons never hear of.”

“These are all evidently designed,” Mr. Severn observed, “to provide for

religion being abundantly administered in the land. It is piety which

founded all these helps to a clerical education.”

“No doubt, sir; but that does not lessen the temptation to enter a

profession where so much is ready to one’s hand. It is plain to me, sir,

that many are drawn into this department who would not otherwise think

of it; and nothing will persuade me that they do not, so far, stand in

the way of those whose hearts incline them to make the gospel their

portion. I do not scruple saying this to you, Mr. Severn, because you

are one of those who have not profited, but lost, by the plan. You will

hardly deny, sir, that after all your toil and expense at college, one

that cares less about his business than you has stepped into the living

which you might have had if there had been no other rule of judging than

fitness for the work.”

Mr. Severn could not allow this kind of remark, even from an old friend

of his family. How was the broken arm? When did Mr. Milford suppose the

patient might be allowed to go to his work again?

“I beg your pardon, I am sure, sir,” observed the old friend of the

family; “but I meant no offence to you or to Mr. Otley. All I was

thinking of was, that in the church, as everywhere else, the best rule

for having everything done well is ‘a fair stage and no favour;’ and,

indeed, I know no case where favour is likely to do so much harm and so

little good: for those that have their profession most at heart are just

those who are most likely to struggle on, gleaning only what the

favoured ones have left them, and giving up half the fruits of their

labour to those who would not have thought of coveting them, if the

piety of which you were speaking had not offered them a bribe.”

“I am afraid you think the gospel in a bad way in this country,”

observed Mr. Severn.

“I am afraid of something worse,” interposed the surgeon: “I am afraid

you are a dissenter, my good man.”

“By no means, sir. I am such a friend to the church, that it vexes me to

see spurious labourers bribed into her, and true labourers shut out, or

kept under. I believe that there is so much need of the gospel, that the

need will always be naturally made known and supplied; and that it is

only sported with when it is made a pretence for getting people on in

the world who are much more fit to get on in inferior ways. I do not

much admire the piety of those who call in strangers to take shepherds’

hire, and doom the true pastor to be only a shepherd’s dog.”

“A dog!” cried the surgeon, excessively scandalized. “My good man,

consider what you are saying: it actually amounts to calling Mr. Severn

a dog.”

“There are two ways of calling a man a dog,” observed Mr. Severn,

smiling: “the one in the sense of fidelity, and the other of

brutishness. It is the compliment, and not the offence, that our friend

means.”

“And there is a third sense,” pursued the old friend of the family. “The

dog is fed from the leavings in his master’s wallet, and who will say

that the curates have any thing better for their care of the fold? Has

not the law again and again ordered that the curate should be made at

least equal in condition with the common mechanic? and has the law ever

availed?—And why has it not? Not because the higher clergy are by nature

a hard-hearted set of men; not because the people disregard the

interests of the keepers of the fold; but because theirs is one of the

cases which no law can reach. We should see the folly at once of the law

ordering that every pitman should have good wages, if there were twice

as many pitmen as there is a natural call for; but we wonder at the

plight of our poor clergy while we tempt idle and foolish men into the

profession, to engross the hire of those who take 20_l._ a year because

they must starve if they waited for 100_l._; though 100_l._ would be a

grievously scanty recompense for the toil and expense of an education

like theirs.”

“It would be all right if there were no dissenters,” observed the

surgeon, who had now satisfied himself respecting the sit of his coat

flap, which had been mended by the silent and thrifty hostess. “These

dissenters are shocking people. They ought to be put down,—interfering

with the church as they do.”

“Friend Christopher, over the water there, would tell you that the

church interferes with the dissenters, seeing that they have two

churches to support, while we have only one.”

“But only conceive how they interfere with the religious administration

of the country! Do you mean to say that if all their dissenting clergy

were swept off, there would not be more room for our clergy?”

“As there is no reason to fear any such desolating plague as that must

be which would sweep off so great a body of men,” observed the

clergyman, “our endeavour should be to bring our operations into harmony

with theirs, that——”

“Harmony with dissenters! And this from a clergyman!” cried Mr. Milford.

“Why opposition?” asked Mr. Severn. “To say nothing of the folly of

opposition to a body which outnumbers ourselves, the times are past for

men supposing that the interests of religion can be served by strife, or

opinions changed by opposition. Since nobody thinks of getting the

dissenters back into the church by fighting, it only remains for all

professing Christians so to co-operate as that they may not interfere

with each other, to the scandal of their common faith.”

“If every church supported its own clergy, Mr. Milford, and if no one

church held out inducements to double the number of clergy wanted——”

“But we hear perpetually that there are too few of the established

clergy for the number of souls to be taken care of.

“See if there would be, if every clergyman by interest were transformed

into a clergyman by choice. All I ask is, that there should be no

interference in the matter,—no coming between the religious wants of the

people and the ministering to those wants;—whether that interference be

on the part of government, or of a corporation, or of pious people who

unconsciously curse the church as often as they offer a premium upon

false pretension and interested service.”

“Come, come, my good patient, let me examine your arm, now I have

recovered my breath a little. It will be a kindness to get you back to

your work in the pit, if this is the manner you talk when out of it. We

shall have the rector coming to call you to account for flat blasphemy.”

“Is it blasphemy to complain that Christ’s church is not tended as

Christ would have it? Is it blasphemy to point out how it is that he has

not due honour? Is it——”

“No, no,” said Mr. Severn. “Mr. Milford knows, as few out of his

profession can know, where dwells blasphemy, and where piety: in how few

places the one; under how many roofs the other. He sees men under the

severest trial,—that of varied suffering; and if the natural language of

complaint sometimes meets his ear, he will tell you how much oftener

looks of patience and words of resignation are to be found in the sick

chamber. He knows that if you sometimes say what he may think unwise,

you have not, in your suffering, given vent to that which is

irreligious.”

Mr. Milford was ready to testify to his patient’s Christian bearing

under his late trial. When he spoke of blasphemy, it was only in the

sense in which he often heard it used about those who speak against the

church.

“One would think,” said Mr. Severn, “that if any were jealous for the

church, it should be myself, to whom the church is my all, in every

sense. Yet I declare that what we are wont to call blasphemy is much

seldomer any irreverence to God than discontent with man’s doings. As

soon as any of man’s established ways of honouring God are found to be

faulty, the cry of blasphemy is raised against the fault-finder, though

the glory of God may be his aim as well as his plea. It was once

blasphemy to blame the Pope. It is now blasphemy to hint that poor

curates might be better used. This sort of blasphemy may now, however,

be found in every other house within these realms; while the real

blasphemy is rare, very rare. Milford, how many blasphemers have you met

with among your patients? I, for my part, never saw one,—out of the

gin-shop. Within it, two legged creatures are no longer men, however

they may still use their tongues to bless or curse at haphazard.”

Mr. Milford tried to recollect. He could remember only two instances;—

one of a man in the extremity of pain, suddenly blinded by a horrible

accident in the pit. This was no case, as sanity was lost for the time;

but it made the beholder’s blood run cold so that no other such instance

could ever occur without his remembering it, he was sure. The other was

also a case of agony,—of the agony of disappointed hope. A very poor

man, with a sick wife, had been promised work, and the promise was

broken. He reviled heaven and earth when he saw his wife sinking from

want. But at the first moment of her revival he repented, and the last

of his sorrows to be got over, was remorse for his impiety.

“You would find it less easy to reckon the cases of piety you meet with,

in and out of the pale of the church.”

“There are so many degrees of piety, one hardly likes to say that any

body is wholly without. It is my lot to be much with sufferers; and

while there are some aged folks, and strong men laid low, who give

themselves much to psalms and prayers, it is rare to meet with parents

who do not tell their children that it is God’s hand which is upon them

for good, or with children who do not more or less strive to lie still

under their sickness, ‘like a dumb lamb before the shearer,’ as their

parents say.—There is one such, sir, one of those patient little ones,—

as you can testify, for I know you have held him in your arms for many a

half hour.”

“What! little Tim? I have often wondered what is passing in that poor

child’s mind, when he has lain breathing his feverish breath on my

bosom. Other children, while thus lying still from feebleness, turn

their eyes from the clock to the kitten, and from the flickering fire to

follow their mothers’ or sisters’ doings about the house. This child’s

eyes roll in vain, but not the less patiently does he watch his pain

away. I often wonder what is working in his little mind.”

“The thought of my pony will work in his mind the next time he is ill, I

fancy,” observed Milford. “Do but see how he pats him, and feels out the

mane, while his mother lifts him up?”

The hostess remarked that the best smiles seen on Mrs. Eldred’s face of

late had been won from her by this little lad.

Mr. Milford gave Mr. Severn leave to indulge the child with a ride

backwards and forwards, while he finished his business with his patient.

Mrs. Eldred could not be persuaded to make herself quite easy about the

pony’s quietness, and go back to her work. She lingered, and turned, and

watched, as the animal sauntered to and fro, with a man at the head, a

dozen boys at the heels, Mr. Severn holding on little Tim, and Tim

himself now quietly laughing, now encouraging his steed as he heard

others do, and for ever turning his head from side to side, as if

gathering by that motion all the floating sounds which could tell him

what was passing.

A sound soon came rushing instead of floating through the air, so

vehement as to make the still restless pony rear bolt upright, jerking

the child into Mr. Severn’s arms, and calling upon the man at the head

for all his energies. The cry, loud as it was, came from some distance,—

from the spout or staithe where a waggon was at the moment being emptied

into a keel. A crowd soon collected on the spot, and it became certain

that the shouts were of a joyous character. There was talk of “the

gang,” “the tender,” “the pressed men”; but the tone was one of triumph,

and cries of “Welcome!” were intermingled.—Mrs. Eldred heard part, and

believed every thing,—every thing that in another moment would have been

absurd;—that the king had had mercy upon her,—(as if, alas! he knew her

heart-sorrow;) that peace was made on purpose to restore a father to her

children; that Eldred had bid successful defiance to the gang, and was

upheld by the whole people; that the world had been, somehow or other,

turned upside down for her sake. She pushed her way, with an exulting

countenance, among the crowd. She met Ned Elliott, the lame pitman, and

passed him by; and she passed by several other returned captives;—

Croley, with the weak right arm, and Pullen, the sickly steersman, and

Gilbert, the half idiot, who was allowed to lounge about the works. All

these she pushed past, and, from the extreme end of the little pier,

looked down into the boat which had landed them. There was no one else.

Eldred was neither a cripple, nor sickly, nor foolish; he was of the

first order of labourers, and therefore snatched from his voluntary

occupation, and made a slave. Most who had leisure to observe their

heart-stricken neighbour gazed in silence; but the half idiot snapped

his fingers, and blurted out that her husband was far down towards the

south by this time, but he sent his love, and——

With a long moan,—the cry which conveys a refusal to endure, the poor

woman pushed her informant from her with a force which startled him. She

wrenched hands, shoulder, apron, from all who would have held her to

comfort her, and cast herself against one of the waggons,—not to wrestle

with her sorrow, but to let herself be overcome by it. Mr. Severn and

one or two others kept themselves in readiness to aid her when it should

not be an insult to speak to her. Her passion was moving,—but far less

so than that of another sufferer who silently walked away with face

unhidden, and steady step,—unable to join in the feelings of those about

her, but not expecting them to regard hers. She quickened her pace, but

showed no sign of anger when laughter overtook her,—noisy mirth which

her heart loathed.

“A fine bargain his Majesty had of you! Eighteen pounds a piece you cost

him. I wish him joy of you.”

“They might have let us have some of it, though.”

“Never mind that, now you are back. Come, lads, wish the king joy of

catching cripples at eighteen pounds a piece, just to be let go again!”

“I wish the gang may be within hearing. Give them a shout, lads! Now for

it!”

“Whisht! whisht! O whisht! I cannot bear it!” shrieked the miserable

wife. “O, you barbarous——you mocking wretches——O, whisht, I tell ye!”

Shrill as her voice was, it was not heeded by many, who were all too

much used to its shrillness. Her fellow sufferer regarded it, and turned

back to beckon her away.

“Leave them alone! They don’t heed. Why should they?”

“Heed! Nobody heeds me. Nobody ever cared for me but one, and he is

snatched from me. Nobody heeds me——”

Something fumbling with her apron caught her attention at this moment.

Little Tim clung to her knees, trembling, and his face convulsed, as she

had seen it before, when her voice took a certain tone, of which she was

not otherwise conscious. She parted his hair on his forehead, lifted the

child, and put his passive arms around her neck, and went home as mute

as he.

CHAPTER III.

GROWN CHILDREN’S HOLIDAY.

Though it was not true that nobody heeded Mrs. Eldred and her interests,

her querulous complaint to that effect was in some degree excused by the

substantial injuries she underwent, through interference with, and

mismanagement of, the industry of all who were most dear to her. Nothing

was further from the thoughts of society than injuring this poor woman

and the thousands of others who suffered with her; yet it is certain

that if an account had been drawn between her and the administrators of

public affairs, her charge against them would have been a very heavy

one.

Her husband was carried off by force to pursue a calling which he

dreaded and detested, instead of one which was his choice, and in which

he had been prospering in the bosom of his family. Instead of standing

at his oar while passing up and down the placid Tyne, he was compelled

to face the belching cannon, and encounter toils and wounds, or death,

on the tossing sea. Instead of going forth to his chosen labour with a

jest, and returning with a whistle, he was driven reluctantly to his

enforced duty, where he brooded over his wrongs till his countenance

grew unaccustomed to a smile. Instead of catching up the chorus of the

loyal songs he was wont to hear among the shipping at Shields, he now

preserved a gloomy silence as often as King George was mentioned, seemed

to have lost much of his scorn of the French, and turned a quick ear to

any word that was dropped about America.

Adam felt himself interfered with, too. If he fulfilled the

apprenticeship made by law the necessary condition of advantages which

should be the right of every industrious man, if of any, he must not

only be denied the power of working for himself for three years after he

had become as capable of working as he could ever become, but the very

advantages to be obtained by the sacrifice must be forfeited if he

carried his labour to any market but one, where it might or might not be

wanted. If he did not fulfil his apprenticeship, he had no chance in the

same town with those who did, and must go somewhere else to work out the

rights of citizenship by like arbitrary means. His privileges were also

as precarious as they were arbitrarily gained. If he lost a limb,—and

all the limbs are needed in rope-making,—he could not turn to another

trade without forfeiting his rights. It was believed that he could not

even take his place at the wheel, instead of walking along the line;

for, as it had been decided that turning a grindstone was not cutlery

work, it might be proved that turning a wheel was not rope-making. There

was no knowing what he might give his hand to, however resembling his

regular employment; since the law told saddlers that the girths were no

part of a saddle; that cutting the hoofs of a horse was the business of

neither the farrier nor the smith; and that though a wheelwright may

make a coach, a coachmaker may not make a wheel. What he did know was,

that, however frequently and skilfully the law of apprenticeship might

be evaded, he could not, under that law, obtain a settlement, be a

master, take apprentices, or exercise his calling in his native place,

without having served an apprenticeship of seven years. Many and many a

time he wished that rope-making had been a business unknown to Queen

Elizabeth; or that he had not been born in a market-town; or that the

inventors of trade-corporations had been carried out of the world before

completing their invention; or that he had been early transplanted to

Manchester, or Birmingham, or some other of the happy places he had

heard of, where the trammels by which he was bound are never spoken of

but as a matter of marvel. He just contrived to have patience to finish

his term of apprenticeship, that he might possess himself of the rights

it would secure. His temper and character had suffered much under the

pretended control and actual license of the latter part of his term; and

fluctuations of health or trade might rob him of his privileges any day;

but he was wise enough, by Effie’s help, to take them while they could

be had. While doing so, he could have treated any inquirer with a good

deal of rough eloquence about the policy and the duty of leaving free

scope to all labour to find its field of exercise and its reward.

Cuddie had his list of grievances, too—some actual, and others

prospective,—all arising from his being meddled with by powers whose

duty it was to take care that he was let alone in his industry. Cuddie

was just seventeen; and, young as he was, he was liable to be taken from

a peaceful to follow a warlike occupation on the seas. In the present

day, he would have been safe till twenty-one: then, he was the lawful

prey of any pressgang he might happen to encounter. When he should

become capable of earning wages, there were many impediments to his

working freely and being freely paid. There is actually an Act of

Parliament to enforce all colliers in the Tyne being loaded in the order

in which they arrive,—as if the coal-owners were not fit to judge for

themselves of the state of their trade, and to proportion the number of

ships employed to the demand for coal. Thus, if there were too many

ships occupied, instead of some being laid by till they were wanted,—all

being favoured by law with a certain portion of employment,—it must

often happen that the depression falls upon the whole trade. Cuddie

would thus be exposed to wait for his turn, however many colliers might

be in the river, while his master was losing by the detention in port.

No such regulation is found necessary in the Wear. The masters there are

exempted from the irritation of being trammelled under the pretence of

protection. Then, again, Cuddie must not presume to throw an ounce of

coal from his ship into the lighter in the Thames. This office is the

privilege of the coal-whippers or heavers, to whom the good people of

London are obliged to pay 90,000_l._ a-year for a service which, in the

outports, is performed for nothing. Everywhere but in the Thames the

crews of colliers discharge the cargo; but within the dominion of the

corporation of London they are not at liberty to undertake the work,

even though they would do for 2_d._ what a privileged coal-heaver asks

1_s._ 7_d._ for doing. Cuddie must not only see the coal-trade

discouraged by the enormous unnecessary charges laid upon the article by

the Corporation of London, but he must be prevented selling his labour

in discharging the cargo, to those who would be eager to purchase it, if

they were allowed by those who have naturally no business to interfere

in the bargain.

The evil of such meddling extended also to another member of the family—

Effie, in her dwelling by the river side. Out of the interdiction to

sell coal by weight came manœuvring and bargaining as to the mode in

which coal should be measured. As it was found that large coal measured

one-third more when broken to a certain extent, and nearly double when

broken small, it became the interest of the shippers to buy coal large,

and break it down before delivering it to the retail dealers in London,

who, in their turn, broke it down further, to the injury of the

consumer. Out of this management came the arrangement of screening the

coal at the pit mouth; and out of this arrangement came the accumulation

of small coal, which, instead of spreading comfort through a thousand

dwellings, spread smoke and ashes over the neighbouring fields, injuring

the harvests, and ruining some of Walter’s plants and vegetables. The

owners had no choice but of choking up their own works, or subjecting

themselves to the penalties of a nuisance, incurred by the very act of

wastefully destroying their own property. Thankful would they have been

for the services of some such strong-backed demon as the ancient stories

tell of, who would have cleared off at night the refuse of the labours

of the day, transporting it three or four hundred miles to those to whom

this refuse would have been wealth. Happily, this long-protracted

absurdity has been abolished. It has at last been agreed no longer to

sacrifice the interests of the original producers and the consumers of

coal to that of the carriers and middle dealers, and coals may be sold

by weight. But, for long after Effie married, her husband had sad tales

to tell at his dinner-hour,—sad sights to show in the summer evenings of

the devastation which the neighbouring burnings had caused in his

garden. Compensation, scanty and capricious, was given; but it was asked

with trouble and pain, and bestowed unwillingly. It seems strange that

while ruling powers are laudably anxious about the execution of public

works,—to make their roads level and their pavements smooth,—they should

so industriously perplex the paths of industry, and roughen the media of

commerce. It is a bad thing to lame horses, and break carriages, and

weary human feet; but it is infinitely worse to discourage industry, and

to compel men to jostle and injure each other where there is naturally

room for each to greet his neighbour kindly, and pass on.

Uncle Christopher looked one evening with concern, on a hedge which as

much deserved the name of verdure as the shrubs in certain small squares

in London, the morning after a fire in the neighbourhood. He was on the

point of setting out on his long talked-of voyage to London, on the

business of his patent; and he wished to take a parting view of the

premises he had not quitted for twelve hours together, since the day he

was made a ferryman many years before. Strongly as he was persuaded that

Walter and his young wife were, as yet, in danger of a much fiercer fire

than any of the vast number which could be seen round the horizon on a

dark night, he preserved such an affection for the results of their toil

that he was full of wrath that mortal hands should kindle a fire against

them. As he here shook his head mournfully over a row of shrivelled

anemones, and there groaned at seeing the young asparagus waving grey

instead of green, any brother leaders would have supposed that they were

children of grace to whom all this sympathy was given. At the bottom of

his grief lay the thought that, if this nuisance continued, Walter would

be compelled to carry his gardening skill elsewhere. He could not carry

the ferry with him, and then would come a sore struggle to choose

between his son and his occupation. Walter would have been highly

flattered if he could have looked into his father’s heart, and seen how

equally the struggle was maintained.

“I see the boat coming for you, with Cuddie in it—below the bend of the

river there,” said Effie; “but you will have time to look at my young

apricot, and tell me whether you think there is any chance of its

bearing.”

She received a very broad hint about setting her heart upon favourites,

but was comforted notwithstanding, by an encouraging opinion about the

apricot: Walter was further told that he might just mention the

asparagus and the apricot together in the first letter he should write

after hearing of his father’s arrival.

“Why, father! do you really mean to write to us?” cried Walter, in

joyful surprise.

“No, no,” said Effie. “He means that we shall hear from Cuddie of his

getting to London.”

“I mean that if, by grace, I get safe through the dangers of the deep

waters, I shall give you the opportunity of being thankful for me.”

“And when will it be, father?”

“The times are not in our own hands. Effie, you say the boat is to be

chiefly your charge.”

“Yes, father, you know I have practised ferrying a good deal lately, on

purpose.”

“She is more sure of her oar than I,” observed Walter.

“What of that? Why do you puff her up? Except One guide the boat, as

well as build the house, we labour in vain, with our weak arm of flesh.”

“Indeed I am not puffed up about ferrying,” said Effie. “I know I cannot

do it half so well as you. But I hope to improve before you come back.”

“May my office be given you in full! My outward oar is only a sign,

child,—a type of the corresponding office which I hold, of setting souls

safe over the abyss where they are like to be drowned, without some

servant of mercy, like myself, to lodge them on plain ground. Think of

this, my dear, as you pass to and fro.”

Effie could honestly promise not to forget this new interpretation of

her office. Cuddie’s skiff was now very near, and he was seen waving his

hat as a signal; and immediately his uncle Christopher began assuring

his son and daughter of the strength in which he went forth, and the

faith with which he looked for protection by the way, and a safe return.

There was a tremor of the hands, however, and a quaver of the voice

which belied what he said, and gave an idea that he felt much as other

quiet, elderly people feel on going forth, after years of repose in

their own habits, to be startled by new objects and jostled amidst a

busy new world.

“I believe he would give both of us for Cuddie at this moment,” observed

Effie to her husband, as they stood in the ferry-boat from which the

skiff had just pushed off, with the would-be patentee sitting bolt

upright, nursing the model of his invention, and looking the picture of

resignation. “I do not know what he thinks of Cuddie’s spiritual state;

but it is my belief that he would part with us both rather than give up

Cuddie just now. However little he thinks of young people, he looks up

to Cuddie as his main dependence in the ship and on landing. I am sure

he does; and I doubt whether he would have gone at all without Cuddie at

his elbow.”

Walter thought so too, but wondered what was to be done about the matter

of the patent, if his father should still be nervous. Cuddie could not

help him there. It was to be hoped he would get warmed for the sport,

when he should be once more mounted on his hobby.

“Come, let us go up into the garden,” said Effie. “We can watch them

longer there.”

Much longer,—past the bend of the river, and then once more at the next

curve, till nothing was to be distinguished amidst the grove of masts.

“Gone! gone!” cried Effie, putting her arm within her husband’s, and

tripping up the slope with a step much more like a dance than any she

had ever indulged within the notice of uncle Christopher,—as she had not

yet cured herself of calling him. “Now, Walter, tell me. If we have to

remove, where shall we go?”

“You seem to like the idea of flitting, Effie.”

“Fond as I was of this place before I came to live in it, you are

thinking. Why, as for the place, I love it as much as ever, as we see it

now,—with these laburnums hanging in this corner, and the acacia growing

up to be a veil and not a blind. When I saw the moon through it last

night, I thought it would be a sin ever to leave the place. But——”

“But there is something about it still that prevents your being happy

here.”

“O no, no. Nothing to prevent my being happy. I am very happy,—happier

than you will ever be, I am afraid, Walter; for, try as you will, you

always find something to be fretted and anxious about, though you take

more and more pains to hide it, even from me.”

“I am sure,” said Walter, very seriously, “I grow less and less anxious

and distrustful;—ever since——not exactly ever since I knew you, for we

knew each other before we could talk; but ever since I knew——”

“Very well; I understand what you mean; and you began describing that

moment to me one day, just as if I knew nothing of it myself. O, Walter,

do you really think there are any people that have passed through life

without knowing what that moment was,—that stir in one’s heart on being

first sure that one is beloved? It is most like the soul getting free of

the body, and rushing into Paradise, I should think. Do you suppose

anybody ever lived a life without having felt this?”

Walter feared it might be so; but if so, a man missed the moment that

made a man of one that was but an unthinking creature before; and a

woman, the moment best worth living for, and that which joined her past

life to the nothing that went before, and her future life to the heaven

of realities that was to come after. But one thing he grieved to be sure

of;—that this moment was not received as the token from God which it was

designed to be; but in far, far too many cases, put away and denied. If

this was done as a duty, and altogether as an act of the conscience, it

only remained to be sorry that such a putting away was a duty,—but he

was more than sorry,—he was ashamed and angry to witness the expectation

in so many that they could bring back this moment whenever they

pleased;—that they could call upon God to breathe into their hearts as

often as they could bring their worldly interests to agree with His

tokens.

“It seems to me,” said Effie, “that though God has kindly given this

token of blessedness to all,—or to so many that we may nearly say all,—

without distinction of great or humble, rich or poor,—the great and the

lowly use themselves to the opposite faults. The great do not seem to

think it the most natural thing to marry where they first love; and the

lowly are too ready to love.”

“That is because the great have too many things to look to, besides

love; and the lowly have too few. The rich have their lighted palaces to

bask in, as well as the sunshine; and they must have a host of admirers,

as well as one bosom friend. And when the poor man finds that there is

one bliss that no power on earth can shut him out from, and one that

drives out all evils for the time,—one that makes him forget the noonday

heats, and one that tempers the keen north wind, and makes him walk at

his full height when his superiors lounge past him in the streets,—no

wonder he is eager to meet it, and jogs the time-glass to make it come

at the soonest. If such a man is imprudent, I had rather be he than one

that first let it slip through cowardice, and would then bring it back

to gratify his low ambition.”

“And for those who let it go by for conscience’ sake, and do not ask for

it again?”

“Why, they are happy in having learned what the one feeling is that life

is worth having for. They may make themselves happy upon it for ever,

after that. O, Effie, you would not believe,—nothing could make you

believe what I was the day before and the day after I saw that sudden

change of look of yours that told me all. The one day, I was shrinking

inwardly before everything I had to do, and every word of my father’s,

and everybody I met; and was always trying to make myself happy in

myself alone, with the sense of God being near me and with me. That

other day, I looked down upon everybody, in a kindly way;—and yet I

looked up to them too, for I felt a respect that I never knew before for

all that were suffering and enjoying; and I felt as if I could have

brought the whole world nearer to God, if they would have listened to

me. I shall never forget the best moment of all,—when my mind had

suddenly ceased being in a great tumult, which had as much pain as

pleasure in it. I had left my father getting up from breakfast, and I

was just crossing yonder to take up my rake, when I said distinctly to

myself, ‘she loves me;’ and heaven came down round about me that

minute.”

Effie could have listened for aye; but the cry was heard from below—

“Ferry!”—and she must go. Her husband “crossed to take up his rake,” and

found occasion to remark at the instant that Effie tripped along as like

the Effie of _that_ day as if no day had intervened. Only her face

showed the difference; and that was as if a new and higher spirit had

come down to dwell in her.

On her return, the question recurred,

“If we have to leave this place, where shall we go?”

“Somewhere near the Deep Cut, it is my opinion. There will be much

custom of all sorts there, when it is opened as a place of trade.”

“But there will be collieries near, and more burnings.”

“Not so as to trouble us, for some time to come. The proportion they

have been in the habit of burning here, you know, is about 20 per cent.

It will be some time before this becomes of much consequence in a new

situation; and we will choose our place carefully. Besides, I cannot but

think that, before long, everybody will see the folly of making such

waste, for the sake of selling coal by measure instead of weight. If so,

there will soon be an end of the burning.”

“And you think garden stuff will be much in request in the Deep Cut.”

“No doubt. There will be such a settling of people about that beautiful

sluice, that there will be room for more gardeners than one.”

“And for ropemakers, among other craftsmen. I think Adam had better go,

and make new ropes for the new ships that will carry away the new

coals.”

“Ah! if he was settled down with us in a place where he might work

prosperously for himself, he might prove steadier than his mother

expects he will.”

“Beside us,—not with us,” said Effie. “You would not think of having any

one to make a third again, would you? How comfortable every thing is

this evening, while we are alone!——But how do you think your father will

get on by himself?”

Walter had never entertained the idea of being of much consequence to

his father, from the day of his childhood, when he was surprised at

being searched for, at night-fall, among the haycocks, to this very

afternoon, when he was full as much astonished to learn that his father

meant to write to him. He agreed, however, that his parent ought not to

be left, unless the destruction of the garden should make the removal a

matter of necessity.

“If we must go, it will be a happy chance that such an opening offers in

the neighbourhood.—What could the rector mean by throwing difficulties

in the way?”

“He knows best; but I suppose he has some such fears as I have heard

certain gentry had when turnpike roads were first introduced into this

country. There were petitions in those days from the proprietors of land

near London, that turnpike roads might be forbidden in distant counties,

for fear there should be too much competition in articles of

agricultural produce.”

“They have managed to have their own way, and regard their own interests

pretty well since, for all the competition and the roads,” said Effie.

“They seem to have been of the same mind with Queen Elizabeth, when she

sent out orders to put a stop to the increase of London. They all seem

to have fancied that whenever some people gain, others must certainly

lose.”

“If this is not our rector’s notion, I do not know what is. But the fact

is, whatever this company may gain by opening the Cut is neither more

nor less than what is given them in return for the benefit they bestow

upon the payers. As for the coal-owners on the Tyne, they are as safe as

they ought to be. If a demand rises up for all the coal both parties

send out, every body will prosper. If not, those who can send out coal

cheapest will have the most custom, as is perfectly fair.”

“And there is not the same reason for jealousy as there might be if one

great rich man had opened this Cut at his own expense, to serve himself

alone, and get all the coal trade to himself. I do not say that he would

not have the right; but it would account for a jealousy which would be

ridiculous when shown towards a company.”

“No man in our borders is rich enough to do such a work as this. It is

the proper undertaking for a company; and I am heartily glad parliament

has given them all the leave they asked for. In my opinion, it is the

business of a company to do that which individuals have not wealth or

power to achieve; and it is the duty of government to smile on

undertakings which favour the industry of the people, as much as to

frown on the selfish who would get its grace to enrich themselves at the

expense of others. In this view, I think parliament as just and kind in

countenancing the Deep Cut, as Queen Elizabeth was unjust and unkind in

giving patents to her courtiers for the sale of soap and starch, and

other things that everybody wanted.”

“Courtiers selling soap and starch! What sort of courtiers could they

be?”

“Why, not exactly like the gentlemen who are about the king in these

days. But those courtiers did not sell their soap and starch with their

own hands. They sold their patents to companies of merchants, who, of

course, laid a pretty profit on the articles, as the patentees had done

before; and so the people were cheated.”

“Cheated indeed! we are better off than they, to be sure.”

“Yes, indeed; it cheers one’s heart to think how free our industry is

left in comparison with what it was, and how the fashion is passing away

of enriching the few at the expense of the many. Great things have been

done for the people, indeed; and it almost makes one ashamed to complain

of the restraints on their industry that yet remain, when one thinks of

what they once were.”

“Nay, I do not see why that should be, as long as there is any mischief

which may still be done away. If it is really a hardship that

handicraftsmen in particular places, and of particular kinds, should be

tied down to a seven years’ apprenticeship, and that masters, in certain

crafts, should be allowed to take only a certain number of apprentices,

and that the Corporation of London should make the London people pay

shamefully dear for their coals, and hurt our fields and gardens, and

that men should be taken from a prosperous occupation to follow one that

they hate, like my poor father,—it is our duty to complain till the

government sets these things right, however grateful we may be for what

they have already done, and however we may be better off than our

fathers. It would be a sad thing indeed to have to pay any price for our

starch that our Duke of Northumberland might choose to sell it for.”

“And the practice spread to so many articles! When the list of them was

read over, (I have heard my father say,) in Queen Elizabeth’s parliament

house, some gentleman called out to ask if bread was not among them: and

when everybody stared, he said that unless the matter was looked into,

there would be a monopoly of bread before the next parliament.”

“And was there? I suppose nobody dared.”

“Nobody: but wondrous things were dared in the reigns that came after.

King Charles, who managed to offend his people in more ways than almost

any king I ever heard of, took 10,000_l._ from some soap-merchants for

allowing them to manage the soap manufacture all their own way, and put

as high a price upon it as they pleased. They gave him further eight

pounds for every ton of soap they made, so you may guess how dear it

came to the people.”

“That was a very different sort of company from the one which has

managed the Deep Cut. This last is making coals come cheap to the

people. I suppose you think they have a fair right to any profits they

may make, however large.”

“This particular company, certainly; because they do not offer

advantages which people must have, and which cannot be had in any other

way. There being so many other coal works, and such outlets as the Tyne

and the Wear not far off, will prevent the company making such

over-grown profits as the people would be right to grudge: but the case

is different in different sorts of undertakings. If a company opens a

road, and charges too high a toll, another company may open another

road, and cause a competition; but if a company opens waterworks, and

possesses all the springs within a certain distance, almost any price

may be put upon the supply: and therefore I think government should,

while giving privileges, take care that they do not overgrow just

bounds. A man cannot change his water-merchant as he can change his

baker or brewer; and therefore, if government makes him a customer of

the mighty water-merchant, it should take care that he is not

overcharged. I have heard my father talk a good deal about these things.

He has looked much into them,—not only because he particularly dislikes

being overcharged, but because his thoughts of taking out a patent have

led him to learn all he could about privileges given by governments to

trade and to ingenious undertakings.”

“Ah, I was thinking of him when you talked about those patents. I never

found out, from your manner, that you thought ill of what he is gone to

seek?”

“Nor do I, if it answers its purpose. There is all the difference in the

world between a patent to sell what lies before everybody’s industry,

and a patent to sell what a man has invented by his own ingenuity, and

perfected at his own trouble and expense. If a patent could secure to a

man the sale of his own article till he has reaped the reward society

owes him, I should think very highly of a patent: and it is only because

it is so difficult to secure this, that I have any doubts about my

father’s trip to London. But it is a hard thing to manage. A world of

difficulties are sure to crowd in whenever legislation is brought to

bear directly upon industry. There are so many interests to be

considered, and it is so impossible to foresee how and where they

interfere, that my wonder is how governments can like to meddle as they

used to do. One would think that they would be glad to let industry

alone, to find its own channels and nourish its own harvests. Indeed the

time does seem to be coming when legislatures will leave off troubling

themselves to meddle with those whose interest lies in being let alone.”

“Do you think it really signifies very much to so many trading people as

there are in this country whether government lets them alone, or meddles

here and there?”

“Why, Effie, it signifies altogether,—as much as possible. How many

trading families do you fancy might be affected by government

interference, in one way or another?”

A few hundred thousand, Effie supposed.

“Do you know that there are not more than 160,000 families in Great

Britain deriving any income at all from trade, manufactures, and

professions?”

“No more than that? And, to be sure, many of these must be so rich that

they can very well bear such interference.”

“Not so many,” replied her husband, smiling. “Fewer than 4000 have more

than 1000_l._ a year; and not more than 40,000 have an income above

150_l._ a year.”

“Leaving 120,000 with an income below 150_l._ a year. These last must

feel the effect of restraint very much; and I think, if there are no

more than you say, that all must feel it more or less.”

“And through them many that have nothing to do with trade,” observed

Walter, looking sorrowfully at a favourite shrub which was already

dropping its yellow leaves. “What a mistake it seems, Effie, to be

lighting those red and yellow fires within sight of this brimming blue

river, and the sloping banks, that look so green in the evening sun!

What a cruelty it seems to be sending puffs of smoke over the water to

touch and shrivel this hanging laburnum, that you put into the ground!”

Effie well remembered the planting of that laburnum. When she and Walter

were children, and used to bring wild strawberries from the wood, and

plant the roots at noon, shading them from the hot sun under a suspended

pinafore; when Effie used to dig a pond which would hold no water, and

Walter a grave in which he used to lie down to see what being buried was

like; when they mounted the wheel-barrow to look over the hedge, and

count how many left legs were jerked backwards as the keelmen pulled the

oars in the keels that passed;—in those old days, somebody had given

Effie a few lupin seeds, which Walter carefully planted, while Effie

stuck in a twig—dead, as she thought—to mark the spot. This twig burst

into leaf, and grew into the tall laburnum which was now waving its

branches against the blue sky; and every time that Effie had looked upon

it, a feeling of complacency had come over her, as if she had performed

a feat—given life to a tree, or been the occasion of a miracle. There

was scarcely a growing thing in Walter’s beautiful garden that she would

not have devoted to the smoke in preference.

The smoke looked surly and encroaching as it rose and spread itself in

the darkening sky, after the sun had gone down. It did not, however,

deter Effie from going into the midst of it, when it was really too late

for Walter to work any more, and he could attend to the ferry while she

just ran to tell her mother that uncle Christopher was gone; that Cuddie

and he had been watched in safety a good way down the river, and that

tidings of their further voyage might be soon expected by letter.

CHAPTER IV.

EPISTOLARY GODLINESS.

The letter arrived quite as soon as expected.

“My dear son and daughter,

“By the blessing of Providence we got safe down the river, though the

press of vessels near the port is very awful. I strengthened my heart

when we crossed the bar, and the port and the shipping seemed to be

going back from us, and to leave us in the arms of the Lord on the wide

sea,—now growing very chilly. My eyes were mercifully directed to

Tynemouth for comfort,—not from the light in the light-house, which

however began to wax bright, but from seeing how many goodly red houses

have sprung up on the cliff, while the dusky priory stands a ruin;—red

houses where there are some who take God’s word rightly to heart,—while

in the priory (where this blessed work never went on) there is martial

music sent forth over God’s sea, as sure as ever the moon rises out of

it. This music of horns I myself heard, and I saw the bonnets of women,

and the uniforms of fighting men, over the parapet of the castle yard.

But when the word has rightly spread from the new meeting-house, there

will be no place left in Tynemouth for scorners. It pleased Providence

to try us much during the rest of the voyage. I found the night very

cold, even before I was wallowing in the fearful sickness which was laid

upon me. The wind also failed, which was a more merciful appointment

than if it had blown a great storm. Nevertheless, when we were pitching

about, and making no way, I found the collier but a poor, narrow place,

and very dismal from the strewings of coal, insomuch that I turned my

face to the wall, and found no comfort; but was strengthened to keep an

eye on my invention, which, owing to good packing, received none of the

harm which I desired might be averted from this apple of mine eye. I was

in deadly fear for it during the adventure in which Cuddie was——”

“Cuddie was——something or other. I can’t read the word, Effie,” said

Walter. “I wish it was written a little plainer.”

“And I wish he would say a little more about Cuddie,” observed Effie.

Her husband went on reading.

“But though hinderances were planted round about us, they did not touch

my invention, to destroy it. The time spent in going up the river seemed

long, especially from Cuddie not being at hand.”

“Why, there again!” exclaimed Effie, “What can he mean? I declare it

frightens me, Walter.”

“No need, Effie; see how the letter goes on about business matters, and

working up the river! Ah! here it is accounted for,—Cuddie’s not being

with him.”