CHAPTER I.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Transcriber’s Note:

This version of the text cannot represent certain typographical effects.

Italics are delimited with the ‘_’ character as _italic_.

This volume contains three texts, each with its own title page and

pagination. There is a table of contents for all three at the opening of

the volume, The second and third both include a redundant table of

contents, which have been retained.

Minor errors, attributable to the printer, have been corrected. Please

see the transcriber’s note at the end of this text for details regarding

the handling of any textual issues encountered during its preparation.

ILLUSTRATIONS

OF

POLITICAL ECONOMY.

BY

HARRIET MARTINEAU.

——●——

LIFE IN THE WILDS.

THE HILL AND THE VALLEY.

BROOKE AND BROOKE FARM.

——●——

_IN NINE VOLUMES._

VOL. I.

——●——

LONDON:

CHARLES FOX, PATERNOSTER-ROW.

——●——

MDCCCXXXIV.

LONDON.

Printed by WILLIAM CLOWES,

Duke-street, Lambeth.

CONTENTS.

LIFE IN THE WILDS.

CHAP. PAGE

1. What have they left us? 1001

2. What is Wealth? 1022

3. Earn your Bread before you eat it 1030

4. Hand-Work and Head-Work 1043

5. Heart-Work 1055

6. Many Hands make quick Work 1070

7. Getting up in the World 1083

8. A bright Sunset 1099

9. Signs of the Times 1109

THE HILL AND THE VALLEY.

1. Every Man his Whim 2001

2. Much may come of Little 2017

3. The harm of a Whim 2030

4. Prosperity 2049

5. How to use Prosperity 2070

6. Disasters 2084

7. Discontents 2103

8. Uproar 2117

9. All quiet again 2133

BROOKE AND BROOKE FARM.

1. Brooke and its Politicians 3001

2. George Gray’s Way of Living 3016

3. George Gray in the Way to Prosper 3028

4. A Conversation under the Limes 3040

5. Past, Present, and to Come 3056

6. Sergeant Rayne’s Story 3072

7. Great Changes at Brooke 3083

8. Small Farming 3092

9. Great Joy at Brooke 3106

10. What Joe Harper saw Abroad 3114

11. What must come at last 3127

12. Prosperity to Brooke! 3132

PREFACE.

--------------

In an enlightened nation like our own, there are followers of every

science which has been marked out for human pursuit. There is no study

which has met with entire neglect from all classes of our countrymen.

There are men of all ranks and every shade of opinion, who study the

laws of Divine Providence and human duty. There are many more who

inquire how the universe was formed and under what rules its movements

proceed. Others look back to the records of society and study the

history of their race. Others examine and compare the languages of many

nations. Others study the principles on which civil laws are founded,

and try to discover what there has been of good as well as of evil in

the governments under which men have lived from the time of the

patriarchs till now. Others—but they are very few—inquire into the

principles which regulate the production and distribution of the

necessaries and comforts of life in society.

It is a common and true observation that every man is apt to think his

own principal pursuit the most important in the world. It is a

persuasion which we all smile at in one another and justify in

ourselves. This is one of the least mischievous of human weaknesses;

since, as nobody questions that some pursuits are really more important

than others, there will always be a majority of testimonies in favour of

those which are so, only subject to a reservation which acts equally

upon all. If, for instance, votes were taken as to the comparative value

of the study of medicine, the divine would say that nothing could be

more important except theology; the lawyer the same, excepting law; the

mathematician the same, excepting mathematics; the chemist the same,

excepting chemistry; and so on. As long as every man can split his vote,

and all are agreed to give half to themselves, the amount of the poll

will be the same as if all gave whole votes. There is encouragement,

therefore, to canvass, as we are about to do, in favour of a candidate

whom we would fain see more popular than at present.

Can anything more nearly concern all the members of any society than the

way in which the necessaries and comforts of life may be best procured

and enjoyed by all? Is there anything in any other study (which does not

involve this) that can be compared with it in interest and importance?

And yet Political Economy has been less studied than perhaps any other

science whatever, and not at all by those whom it most concerns,—the

mass of the people. This must be because its nature and its relation to

other studies are not understood. It would not else be put away as dull,

abstract and disagreeable. It would be too absurd to complain of its

being difficult in an age when the difficulties of science appear to

operate as they should do, in stimulating to enterprise and improving

patience.

Political Economy treats of the Production, Distribution and Consumption

of Wealth; by which term is meant whatever material objects contribute

to the support and enjoyment of life. Domestic economy is an interesting

subject to those who view it as a whole; who observe how, by good

management in every department, all the members of a family have their

proper business appointed them, their portion of leisure secured to

them, their wants supplied, their comforts promoted, their pleasures

cared for; how harmony is preserved within doors by the absence of all

causes of jealousy; how good will prevail towards all abroad through the

absence of all causes of quarrel. It is interesting to observe by what

regulations all are temperately fed with wholesome food, instead of some

being pampered above-stairs while others are starving below; how all are

clad as becomes their several stations, instead of some being brilliant

in jewels and purple and fine linen, while others are shivering in

nakedness; how all have something, be it much or little, in their

purses, instead of some having more than they can use, while others are

tempted to snatch from them in the day-time or purloin by night. Such

extremes as these are seldom or never to be met with under the same roof

in the present day, when domestic economy is so much better understood

than in the times when such sights were actually seen in rich men’s

castles: but in that larger family,—the nation,—every one of these

abuses still exists, and many more. If it has been interesting to watch

and assist the improvement of domestic economy from the days of feudal

chiefs till now, can it be uninteresting to observe the corresponding

changes of a state? If it has been an important service to equalize the

lot of the hundred members of a great man’s family, it must be

incalculably more so to achieve the same benefit for the many millions

of our population, and for other nations through them. This benefit

cannot, of course, be achieved till the errors of our national

management are traced to their source, and the principles of a better

economy are established. It is the duty of the people to do this.

If a stranger had entered the castle of a nobleman, eight hundred years

ago, and, grieved at what he saw, had endeavoured to put matters on a

better footing, how ought he to set about it, and in what temper should

he be listened to? If he had the opportunity of addressing the entire

household at once, he would say, “I have been in your splendid halls,

and I saw vast sums squandered in gaming, while hungry creditors were

looking on from without with rage in their countenances. I have been in

your banqueting-room, and I saw riot and drunkenness to-day where there

will be disease and remorse to-morrow. I have been in your kitchens, and

I saw as much waste below as there had been excess above, while the

under servants were driven into a cold corner to eat the broken food

which was not good enough for their masters’ dogs. I have been in your

dungeons, and I saw prisoners who would fain have labored for themselves

or their fellow-captives, condemned to converse in idleness with their

own melancholy thoughts, or with companions more criminal and miserable

than themselves. I have been among the abodes of those who hew your wood

and draw your water, and till your fields, and weave your garments; and

I find that they are not allowed to exchange the produce of their labor

as they will, but that artificial prices are set upon it, and that gifts

are added to the profits of some which are taken out of the earnings of

others. I hear complaints from all in turn, from the highest to the

lowest; complaints which I cannot call unreasonable, since it is equally

true that the poor among you are oppressed, and that the rich are

troubled; that the rulers are perplexed and the governed discontented.

These things need not be. There are methods of governing a family which

will secure the good of all. I invite you to join me in discovering what

these methods are.” What would be thought of the good sense of such a

household if they should reject the invitation,—if the rulers should

say, “We are much perplexed, it is true, to know how to govern; but it

is very difficult to change the customs of a family, and so we will go

on as we are;” if the sons and daughters of the house should reply, “It

is true the servants threaten us with vengeance, and we have more

trouble than enough with their complaints; but we should find the

inquiry you propose very dull and disagreeable, so do not let us hear

any more about it,” if the servants should say, “We have many grievances

certainly, and we can easily tell what ought to be remedied; but as to

what the remedies are, we are told we cannot understand the subject; so

instead of trying to learn, we shall redress our troubles in our own

way?” If this is folly, if this is neglect, if this is madness, it is no

more than as many people are guilty of as refuse to hear anything of

Political Economy, because it is new, or because it is dull, or because

it is difficult. No one could make any of these objections, if he knew

the nature, or saw anything of the utility and beauty of the science.

Half-civilized states were like the half-civilized household we have

described, eight centuries ago. We wish we could go on to say that

civilized states are managed like civilized households, that Political

Economy was nearly as well understood by governments as domestic economy

is by the heads of families. That it is far otherwise, our national

distresses too plainly show. The fault lies, however, quite as much with

the governed as with their rulers. Unless the people will take the pains

to learn what it is that goes wrong, and how it should be rectified,

they cannot petition intelligently or effectually, and government will

regard their complaints as unreasonable and their afflictions as past

help. However true it may be that governments ought to look over the

world at large for the purpose of profiting by universal experience and

improving their measures in proportion as knowledge advances, it is

equally true that the people should look abroad also, and observe and

compare and reflect and take to heart whatever concerns the common

interests of the millions of their countrymen. If many of them occupy

such a position as that they cannot do this, is it not at least their

duty, should it not be their pleasure, to listen to those who have

observed and compared and reflected and come to a certain knowledge of a

few grand principles, which, if generally understood, would gradually

remove all the obstructions, and remedy the distresses, and equalize the

lot of the population? Such ought to be the disposition of the people.

But the people complain, and justly, that no assistance has been offered

them which they could make use of. They complain that all they can do is

to pick up bits and scraps of knowledge of Political Economy, because

the works which profess to teach it have been written for the learned,

and can interest only the learned. This is very true, and it is the

consequence of the science being new. All new sciences are for some time

engrossed by the learned, both because preparation is required before

they can be generally understood, and because it is some time before men

perceive how close an interest the bulk of society has in every new

truth. It is certain, however, that sciences are only valuable in as far

as they involve the interests of mankind at large, and that nothing can

prevent their sooner or later influencing general happiness. This is

true with respect to the knowledge of the stars; to that of the

formation and changes of the structure of the globe; to that of chemical

elements and their combinations; and, above all, to that of the social

condition of men. It is natural that the first eminent book on this new

science should be very long, in some parts exceedingly difficult, and,

however wonderful and beautiful as a whole, not so clear and precise in

its arrangement as it might be. This is the case with Smith’s Wealth of

Nations,—a book whose excellence is marvelous when all the circumstances

are considered, but which is not fitted nor designed to teach the

science to the great mass of the people. It has discharged and is

discharging its proper office in engaging the learned to pursue the

study, and in enabling them to place it in new lights according to the

various needs of various learners. It is natural, again, that the first

followers of the science should differ among themselves, and that some

should think certain points important which others think trifling; and

it is a matter of course that their disputes must be tiresome to those

who know little of the grounds of them. It is perfectly natural that the

science should be supposed obscure and the study of it fruitless which

could thus cause contradictions and perplexities at the very outset. It

is perfectly natural that when certainty began to be obtained and

regularity to come out of the confusion, formality should be the order

of the day; that truths should be offered in a cold dry form, and should

be left bare of illustration, and made as abstract and unattractive as

possible. This is a very hopeful state of things, however: for when

truth is once laid hold of, it is easy to discover and display its

beauty; and this, the last and easiest process, is what remains to be

done for Political Economy. When it is done, nobody must again excuse

himself from learning, out of discontent at the way in which it is

taught.

The works already written on Political Economy almost all bear a

reference to books which have preceded, or consist in part of

discussions of disputed points. Such references and such discussions are

very interesting to those whom they concern, but offer a poor

introduction to those to whom the subject is new. There are a few, a

very few, which teach the science systematically as far as it is yet

understood. These too are very valuable: but they do not give us what we

want—the science in a familiar, practical form. They give us its

history; they give us its philosophy; but we want its _picture_. They

give us truths, and leave us to look about us, and go hither and thither

in search of illustrations of those truths. Some who have a wide range

in society and plenty of leisure, find this all-sufficient; but there

are many more who have neither time nor opportunity for such an

application of what they learn. We cannot see why the truth and its

application should not go together—why an explanation of the principles

which regulate society should not be made more clear and interesting at

the same time by pictures of what those principles are actually doing in

communities.

For instance: if we want to teach that security of property is necessary

to the prosperity of a people, and to shew how and in what proportion

wealth increases where there is that security, and dwindles away where

there is not, we may make the fact and the reasons very well understood

by stating them in a dry, plain way: but the same thing will be quite as

evident, and far more interesting and better remembered, if we confirm

our doctrine by accounts of the hardships suffered by individuals, and

the injuries by society, in such a country as Turkey, which remains in a

state of barbarism chiefly through the insecurity of property. The story

of a merchant in Turkey, in contrast with one of a merchant in England,

will convey as much truth as any set of propositions on the subject, and

will impress the memory and engage the interest in a much greater

degree. This method of teaching Political Economy has never yet been

tried, except in the instance of a short story or separate passage here

and there.

This is the method in which we propose to convey the leading truths of

Political Economy, as soundly, as systematically, as clearly and

faithfully, as the utmost pains-taking and the strongest attachment to

the subject will enable us to do. We trust we shall not be supposed to

countenance the practice of making use of narrative as a trap to catch

idle readers, and make them learn something they are afraid of. We

detest the practice, and feel ourselves insulted whenever a book of the

_trap_ kind is put into our hands. It is many years since we grew sick

of works that pretend to be stories, and turn out to be catechisms of

some kind of knowledge which we had much rather become acquainted with

in its undisguised form. The reason why we choose the form of narrative

is, that we really think it the best in which Political Economy can be

taught, as we should say of nearly every kind of moral science. Once

more we must apply the old proverb, “Example is better than precept.” We

take this proverb as the motto of our design. We declare frankly that

our object is to teach Political Economy, and that we have chosen this

method not only because it is new, not only because it is entertaining,

but because we think it the most faithful and the most complete. There

is no doubt that all that is true and important about any

virtue—integrity, for instance—may be said in the form of a lecture, or

written in a chapter of moral philosophy; but the faithful history of an

upright man, his sayings and doings, his trials, his sorrows, his

triumphs and rewards, teaches the same truths in a more effectual as

well as more popular form. In like manner, the great principle of

Freedom of Trade may be perfectly established by a very dry argument;

but a tale of the troubles, and difficulties, and changes of good and

evil fortune in a manufacturer and his operatives, or in the body of a

manufacturing population, will display the same principle, and may be

made very interesting besides, to say nothing of getting rid of the

excuse that these subjects cannot be understood.

We do not dedicate our series to any particular class of society,

because we are sure that all classes bear an equal relation to the

science, and we much fear that it is as little familiar to the bulk of

one as of another. We should not be so ready to suspect this ignorance

if we heard less of the difficulty of the subject. We trust it will be

found that as the leading principles come out in order, one after

another, they are so clear, so indisputable, so apparently familiar,

that the wonder is when the difficulty is to come,—where the knotty

points are to be encountered. We suspect that these far-famed

difficulties arise, like the difficulties of mathematical and other

sciences, from not beginning at the beginning and going regularly on. A

student who should open Euclid in the middle, could no more proceed from

want of knowing what came before, than a sawyer who should insert his

saw in a hole in the middle of a plank could go on sawing while the wood

was closed both behind and before. In like manner, any novice who wishes

to learn in a hurry the philosophy of Wages, and dips into a treatise

for the purpose, can make nothing of it for want of understanding the

previous chapters on Labour and Capital. This is the only way in which

we can account for the common notion of the difficulty of the science;

and as this notion is very prevalent, we are constrained to believe that

the ignorance we speak of is prevalent too. When, therefore, we dedicate

our series to all to whom it may be of use, we conceive that we are

addressing many of every class.

If we were to dedicate our work to all whom it may concern, it would be

the same thing as appealing to the total population of the empire. We

say this, of course, in reference to the subject, and not to our

peculiar method of treating it. Is there any one breathing to whom it is

of no concern whether the production of food and clothing and the

million articles of human consumption goes on or ceases? whether that

production is proportioned to those who live? whether all obtain a fair

proportion? whether the crimes of oppression and excess on the one hand,

and violence and theft on the other, are encouraged or checked by the

mode of distribution? Is there any one living to whom it matters not

whether the improvement of the temporal condition of the race shall go

on, or whether it shall relapse into barbarism? whether the supports of

life, the comforts of home, and the pleasures of society, shall become

more scanty or more abundant? whether there shall be increased

facilities for the attainment of intellectual good, or whether the old

times of slavery and hardship shall return? Is any one indifferent

whether famine stalks through the land, laying low the helpless and

humbling the proud; or whether, by a wise policy, the nations of the

earth benefit one another, and secure peace and abundance at home by an

exchange of advantages abroad? Is there any one living, in short, to

whom it matters not whether the aggregate of human life is cheerful and

virtuous or mournful and depraved? The question comes to this: for none

will doubt whether a perpetuity of ease or hardship is the more

favourable to virtue. If it concerns rulers that their measures should

be wise, if it concerns the wealthy that their property should be

secure, the middling classes that their industry should be rewarded, the

poor that their hardships should be redressed, it concerns all that

Political Economy should be understood. If it concerns all that the

advantages of a social state should be preserved and improved, it

concerns them likewise that Political Economy should be understood _by

all_.

As society is in widely different states of advancement in various parts

of the world, we have resolved to introduce as wide a diversity of

scenery and characters as it might suit our object to employ. Each tale

will therefore be usually, if not always, complete in itself, as a tale,

while the principles it exhibits form a part of the system which the

whole are designed to convey. As an instance of what we mean: the scene

of the first tale is laid in a distant land, because there is no such

thing to be found in our own country as Labour uncombined with Capital,

and proceeding through many stages to a perfect union with Capital. In

the next volume, which treats of the operation and increase of Capital,

the scene is laid in a more familiar region, because Capital can be seen

in full activity only in a highly civilized country.

As the necessaries and comforts of life must be produced before they can

be distributed, and distributed before they can be consumed, the order

of subjects seems to be determined by their nature.

We propose to show what Labour can effect, and how it is to be

encouraged and economized and rewarded: to treat of Capital, its nature

and operation, and the proportions of its increase; and to exhibit the

union of these two mighty agents of PRODUCTION. Under the second head,

DISTRIBUTION, occur the great questions of Rent, Profits, Wages, and

Population, the various modes of Interchange at home and abroad,

including the consideration of all Monopolies, domestic and foreign.

Under the third head, CONSUMPTION, are considered the modes of Demand

and Supply, and of Taxation. All these and many more will be exemplified

in sketches of society, in narratives of those who labour and earn and

spend, who are happy or otherwise, according as the institutions under

which they live are good or bad. There can be no lack of subjects for

such tales in our own country, where the pauper and the prince, the

beneficent landlord and the unreasonable tenant, the dissolute grandee

and the industrious artizan, are to be found in the near neighbourhood

of each other. If we look farther abroad into lands where different

institutions vary the interests of individuals, we are furnished with

rich illustrations of every truth our science can furnish. If we could

hope to supply the interest as abundantly as society does the

subject-matter of our tales, we should reckon upon their success and

usefulness as certain. We will do our best.

It is our design to affix to each volume a summary of the principles of

Political Economy which it contains. In this volume only we shall prefix

it, in order to lead the reader to a full understanding of the purpose

of the work as he advances with it.

_Summary of Principles illustrated in the first Volume._

Wealth consists of such commodities as are useful,—that is, necessary or

agreeable to mankind.

Wealth is to be obtained by the employment of labour on materials

furnished by nature.

As the materials of nature appear to be inexhaustible, and as the supply

of labour is continually progressive, no other limits can be assigned to

the operations of labour than those of human intelligence? And where are

the limits of human intelligence?

Productive labour being a beneficial power, whatever stimulates and

directs this power is beneficial also.

Many kinds of unproductive labour do this. Many kinds of unproductive

labour are therefore beneficial.

All labour for which there is a fair demand is equally respectable.

Labour being a beneficial power, all economy of that labour must be

beneficial.

Labour is economized,

I. By Division of Labour;—in three ways.

1. Men do best what they are accustomed to do.

2. Men do the most quickly work which they stick to.

3. It is a saving of time to have several parts of a work going on at

once.

Labour is economized,

II. By the use of machinery, which

1. Eases man’s labour.

2. Shortens man’s labour; and thus, by doing his work, sets him at

liberty for other work.

Labour should be protected by securing its natural liberty: that is,—

1. By showing no partiality.

2. By removing the effects of former partiality.

----------------------------

LIFE IN THE WILDS.

LIFE IN THE WILDS.

----------------------------

CHAPTER I.

WHAT HAVE THEY LEFT US?

There are few climates in the world more delightful to live in than that

of the south of Africa. The air of the mountains behind the Cape of Good

Hope is pure and wholesome, and the plains which stretch out towards the

north at a great height above the sea, are fertile in native plants when

uncultivated, and richly repay the toil of the farmer. The woods are

remarkable for the variety of trees and shrubs, and there are as many

animals which may serve for food or for beasts of burden as in this

country. These advantages would lead numbers of our countrymen to settle

in southern Africa, who now go elsewhere, if it were not for one great

drawback. It is not that there are beasts of prey; for lions, leopards,

and panthers, may be kept away from a settlement by the use of proper

precautions: it is that a race of men, more fierce than wild beasts, and

full of cunning, inhabit the mountains on the northern frontier of the

European settlements, and descend, from time to time, upon the lonely

farms or small villages scattered over the plain, and slaughter the

inhabitants, burn their dwellings, and carry off their cattle and their

goods. It is nearly impossible to guard against the attacks of these

savages; and as a considerable force is required to resist them, it is

no wonder that settlers are disposed to sacrifice many advantages of

climate, soil, and productions, rather than be subject to the continual

dread of a visit from the Bushmen, as these people are called. The

settlements towards the northern frontier are therefore few and small,

and consist of those whose poverty induces them to brave danger, and

whose courage is improved by constant exercise.

The Bushmen were the original possessors of much of the country about

the Cape, which the British and the Dutch have since taken for their

own. The natives were hunted down like so many wild beasts. This usage

naturally made them fierce and active in their revenge. The hardships

they have undergone have affected their bodily make also; and their

short stature and clumsy form are not, as some suppose, a sufficient

proof that they are of an inferior race to the men they make war upon.

If we may judge by the experiments which have been tried upon the

natives of various countries, it seems probable that if Europeans were

driven from their homes into the mountains, and exposed to the hardships

of a savage life, they would become stunted in their forms, barbarous in

their habits, and cruel in their revenge. They might, like the Bushmen,

visit the sins of the first invaders upon their innocent successors, and

cause as much undeserved distress as that we are about to relate.

It was in the month of September—a season of extreme heat in the climate

we have described—when the inhabitants of a small British settlement in

the north of the European territories of South Africa, met to consider

what should be done to relieve the want to which they were suddenly

reduced. The evening before, their village looked thriving, and its

inhabitants gay and prosperous; and now, just when morning had dawned,

they assembled to look on the ruin of their habitations, and the

nakedness of their meadows, from which all the cattle had been driven

away. The savages had carried off their tools and their arms, burned

their little furniture with the houses, and left them nothing but the

clothes they wore, and the seed which was buried in the ground. Happily,

but few lives were lost, for the attack had been so sudden, that little

resistance had been attempted: but yet some were gone whose services

could ill be spared, even if they had not attached their companions to

them by having shared the same toils, or by their several good

qualities. Williams, the carpenter, was found dead among the ashes in

the saw-pit; and Humby had been slaughtered on the threshold of the new

hut he was building on his little farm. Some of the children, too, had

perished in the flames; but the loss of life was found to be much less

than every one had supposed before the numbers were called over. The

most general and eager inquiries were for the safety of Captain Adams,

and of Mr. and Mrs. Stone and their child, who were all alive and

unhurt.

Mr. Stone was the best-educated man in the settlement, and was therefore

much valued as a chaplain and teacher, as well as in his character of a

practical farmer. His wife was an amiable, strong-minded woman, who

assisted her husband in his labours abroad and at home. She was, by

common consent, called the Lady of the settlement; but she refused the

title; not because she was not really a lady, but because she thought

there was no reason for such a distinction in a place where all were

obliged to exert their own power for their own subsistence. She had one

child, a girl of three years old.

Mr. Adams was called Captain only because he, in a manner, took the

direction of the affairs of the settlement. Having been long accustomed

to the climate, and acquainted with all the peculiarities of the

country, he was well qualified to advise respecting the proceedings of

his neighbours, who looked up to him as if he had really been what they

called him, and had a captain’s authority over them. It was he who now

assembled them under the shelter of a few trees which grew in a nook

between two hills.

When they met, they looked on one another, and no one seemed disposed to

speak. The captain was about to break silence, when the sobbing of one

of the women who had lost her child, and the wailing of the carpenter’s

widow, affected him so much that he could not command his voice. Mr.

Stone, who was remarkable for his self-command, next came forward, and

said that the friends around him had been called together that they

might determine what measures should be taken for their safety and

subsistence; and that it appeared to him that the right way to begin was

by addressing God in a spirit of resignation for what they had lost, and

of thankfulness for what remained. This was the readiest means of

consoling the mourners who were among them, and of so calming the minds

of all, as that they might deliberate soberly, and judge wisely in an

extremity so awful.

To this there was a general assent; and all heads were bowed, and all

sounds, except the voice of Mr. Stone, hushed in prayer.

When this was over, and a pause had succeeded, the captain observed that

the first consideration of every man among them must be to secure food

and shelter,—food for the present day, and shelter for perhaps one night

only, for the next question was, whether they should remain in the

settlement and build up its ruins as well as they could, or set out

southwards with the hope of finding a safer resting-place, or aid from

their countrymen. In the first place, then, he must declare his hope

that every individual would lay aside all selfish thoughts, and come

forward to say what provisions remained in his hands or upon his portion

of ground.

Mr. Stone offered an antelope which had been snared the day before, and

fastened within an inclosure which the savages had not entered. He

feared that but little was left of his first crop of fruit, and that the

next would not be ripe for some weeks; but said, that whatever remained

should be carried to any appointed spot. Campbell, the herdsman, said he

had not a beast left of all the flocks he had charge of; but he would

venture to follow on the track of the savages for a few miles, and if a

stray ox or sheep should be left behind, it should be in the camp before

nightfall. Upon this, two or three men offered to go out hunting if

weapons were furnished; and others proposed fishing, if they had but

tackle.

“This is all very well,” said the captain, who suspected that neither

weapons nor tackle were to be had; “but our object is to find out what

food is actually in our possession.”

Alas! this was soon made out. There was only Mr. Stone’s antelope, a few

oranges, grapes, and figs; some eggs which were found near the roosts,

and some fowls which began to appear again after having been scared away

by the fires. This was all the provision that could be collected for

fifty-four persons.

“It is clear, then,” said the captain, “that the greater number of us

must disperse in search of food, and that all considerations of removal

must be deferred till to-morrow, at least. We are in no condition to

travel this day. But our night’s shelter must also be thought of. Let

any one speak who has a plan to propose.”

Here again there was a pause, for every one was wishing that poor

Williams, the carpenter, was among them. At length, Robertson, a farmer

said,

“If we could find up tools enough, we might have a sort of roof over our

heads before night, for I believe there are several here who have been

used, like myself, to handle a hatchet, though not as a regular

business, like poor Williams who is gone. But if we cannot have tools, I

see nothing for it but to sleep under the open sky. It is damp in the

woods; and besides, the beasts would couch in our neighbourhood, and the

women and children would not sleep for their roaring, even supposing we

men could.”

“The nights are frosty,” said Mr. Stone; “it is dangerous to sleep

unsheltered after such hot days. Who has a hatchet to produce?”

Not one was forthcoming, and each looked at his neighbour in dismay.

A labourer then proposed that a party of two or three should explore the

pass of the mountains to the east, and see whether there were caves, or

any places in the rock which might be covered in with boughs and rushes

so as to make a convenient sleeping-place.

“Excellent!” cried the captain. “And lest this plan should fail us, let

another company go into the wood, and try whether we cannot get

possession of some stout branches, though we have no tools. Some must

have snapped in the wind last week, I should think; and so dry as the

weather has been for many weeks, some will yield to force, if we put our

strength into our hands. We must remember that our hands are our tools

to-day, and we must ply them well.”

“I do not see,” said Mr. Stone, “why the weakest should be idle. Cannot

the children pluck dry grass and brushwood to make fires round our

sleeping-place?”

“My child shall do her part,” said Mrs. Stone. “She shall look for eggs

about the roost; and some of the boys and I will gather the fruit and

cook the antelope, and whatever game may be brought in.”

“And I,” said her husband, “will see that the bodies of those we have

lost are buried without delay, and with proper respect. Let the mourners

of their families follow me.”

When Mr. Stone and about eight of the company had retired, the captain

proceeded to appoint to the others their various tasks. His office of

superintendent was enough for him. His advice and help were wanted every

moment; for it was no easy matter to perform tasks, all the materials

for which were wanting.

First of all, Campbell, the herdsman, was sent with two of Robertson’s

labourers to follow the Bushmen, and pick up any stray lamb or wearied

beast which might have been left behind. They looked round wistfully for

a noose, thinking that they might snare an antelope by the way; but not

a thread of cordage was left. They were obliged to be content with a

stout cudgel each, which they took from the trees as they passed.

Jack, the tanner’s man, set off with two companions up the pass in

search of a sleeping-place; while his master, who was accustomed to go

into the woods to obtain bark for tanning, guided a party of labourers

to a tree of remarkably hard and tough wood which he had barked and

stripped of its branches, of which he thought tools of a rude kind might

be made. It occurred to him also that the want of ropes might be

supplied by thongs of leather tanned and prepared according to the

manner of the natives; and he wished, therefore, to proceed upon the

antelope’s skin without delay. So his object was to obtain hard wood to

make a rude sort of tools, and bark for tanning.

Hill, the barber-surgeon, had explored the whole neighbourhood in search

of herbs for his medical purposes; and he told of a pool of remarkably

fine water, about two miles off, which abounded with carp. They had only

to pass a net through the water, he said, and they would soon catch

enough to feed their company. This might be true, but where was the net?

Hill could not furnish one; but he could tell how one might be obtained

within a short time. He could shew where flax grew in abundance; and if

two or three clever pairs of hands would help him, the fibres might be

dried and pulled out and twisted and woven into a net, and in three days

they might have a plentiful meal of fish. Hill’s wife and her sister

Kate, and the three children, went with him about this business.

“If they had but left us our dogs,” said Arnall, a great sportsman and

one of the partners of the store or shop where all the commodities of

the settlement were exchanged,—“if they had but left us our dogs, we

might have started game in abundance.”

“And much use it would be of to us,” replied his partner, Mr. Dunn,

“when we have no guns to bring it down.”

“I shot a partridge without a gun, the other day,” said George Prest,

the butcher’s son. “Mr. Arnall laughed at my bow and arrows then; but

perhaps he would like such an one now very well.”

“If you will bring me such an one to-morrow, my boy,” said Arnall, “you

shall have the first bird I bring down.”

“I am afraid your arrows are not strong enough to kill a hare,” said

Dunn. “If you help me to a hare, you shall have her skin to make a cap

of for your bare head.”

“If your dogs will run me down a porcupine,” said the boy, “you shall

have your hare and her skin into the bargain. A hedgehog’s bristles are

strong enough to wound a partridge, but nothing less than a porcupine

quill will reach larger game.”

So saying, George ran off to beg a string of the gut of the antelope

from Mrs. Stone, and to find a suitable slip of wood for a bow, and some

lighter pieces for arrows, with tufts of the soft hair of the antelope,

which must serve instead of feathers till a bird could be brought down.

Meanwhile, Arnall climbed a hill, and whistled shrill and long for his

dogs, one of which at length made his appearance, limping and wearied.

Jowler had, however, sport enough in him to turn out a hedgehog, which

was immediately killed, stripped of its bristles, and put away to be

cooked the next day, after the manner of the natives, if better food

should fall short.

The rest of the labourers, meanwhile, were employed under the captain’s

direction in various tasks. Some assisted at the burial of their

companions. As they had not the means of digging graves for the dead,

and as it was necessary, on account of the extreme heat, not to defer

the rite, the bodies were deposited together in the saw-pit, which was

afterwards filled up with sand and earth. Others of the men built a sort

of oven with stones; one large flat one being placed at the bottom of a

hole scooped out in the sand, and others placed upright round the sides

of the hole. This was filled with burning wood till the stones were

thoroughly heated; then the ashes were swept out, and the meat (which

had been skinned and cut up with fragments of granite) put in, and the

whole closed with a hot stone; and lastly, fire was heaped above and

round the whole.

“I wonder whether it will be good,” said one of the children, who

watched the whole proceeding. “There is no flour to sprinkle it with,

nor yet salt. There will be very little gravy.”

“And what there is will all run out between the stones into the sand,”

said another. “And what shall we eat our dinner off? We have no dishes

or plates. I never had my dinner without a plate.”

“If you cannot eat without a plate,” said Mrs. Stone, “suppose you try

to find or make one, instead of standing with your hands behind you. If

you and your brother go into that quarry which is just opened, I should

not wonder if you find a service of plates which will answer our purpose

very well.”

“There is nothing there but slates,” said the boy. “They are flat enough

for plates, to be sure; but they have no rim; and even Jowler’s trencher

had a rim.”

Being again reminded, however, that there was likely to be no gravy to

run over, little Harry set off in search of a dinner service. He looked

out a great many flat pieces of slate, and rubbed them so clean with dry

grass, that no dust remained. His brother, meanwhile, broke stones

against the hard rock, and picked out the sharpest bits to serve for

knives.

When they had done this, Mrs. Stone called them to help her to gather

fruit; and they climbed the trees in the orchard, where a few oranges

were still hanging among the dark leaves. Some plums and apples also

remained, and a purple bunch of grapes here and there upon the trailing

vines. Little Betsy, their sister, had a quick ear; and while she was

picking up oranges, she heard, some way off in the wood, the cry of a

bird which she knew very well. So she slipped away, without being

missed, to try whether she could not add something acceptable to the

dessert, by the help of this bird. The Honey-cuckoo, as Betsy’s friend

is called, lives on the honey which the wild bees store in the hollow

trunks of trees. It is sometimes called the Indicator, because by

uttering its peculiar cry whenever it meets with a stock of honey, it

points out the way to the honey-tree. Betsy had often followed this bird

from tree to tree, and when the bees were absent, (as wild bees usually

are on a sunny day,) it was her custom to place a leaf on the ground

with some honey on it for the bird, and then to carry off a part of what

remained. Nothing had been easier, hitherto, than to obtain and bring

away this honey, which was as clear and liquid as water. Betsy brushed

it out of the hollows of the wood with a painter’s brush which she kept

clean for the purpose; and she let it run into the white basin out of

which she ate her breakfast. But now, the brush was burned and the basin

gone; and when she had overtaken the bird in the wood, she did not know

what to do for want of her utensils, and her guide fluttered onwards and

did not like to be kept waiting. She twisted a wisp of dry grass, which

did very well instead of her brush: but after she had taken possession

of a leaf-full of honey, and found that it ran over and escaped between

her fingers, she found she must devise a better plan or leave the honey

behind. She had nothing on that she could make into a basket or

basin;—no hat, no pocket; nothing but her shoes, and those she could not

spare. At last, she bethought herself of marking the trees and returning

for the honey when the bird should be gone: so she picked up a piece of

red earth, and marked each honey-tree with a cross. When she had marked

six and began to be tired, she followed the bird no farther, but sat

down beside a pool of water where rushes grew in plenty, and began to

weave them into a sort of basket or basin. She had been accustomed to

make caps of rushes for her brothers in play, and was expert. She made

just such an one now, and lined it thick with the large leaves of the

fig-tree, and tied twigs crosswise over the top to keep it in shape. By

the time this was done, she was rested, and made her way back merrily

through the wood, delighted to find how abundant the honey was, and how

well her vessel held it. On the way, it occurred to her that it would

not be pleasant to eat honey by dipping the fingers into it when other

persons were doing the same; and no better mode seemed to be left. She

wondered whether she could make a _spoon-brush_, such as she had seen

the natives prepare and use for taking up liquids. The plant of which

this sort of brush is made grows in great abundance in those parts, and

she had no difficulty in finding it. Its stem is hard and fibrous, and

flat: being about two inches broad, and very thin. Betsy cut the stem

off in the middle with a sharp stone, and then beat it till it was

bruised so that she could separate the fibres with her fingers. When it

was done, she dipped it into the honey, and found that it took up quite

sufficient for a mouthful. She made six before she turned her face

homewards. As she took down her honey-basket from the bough on which she

had hung it, she was rather alarmed to see that the sun was getting low

in the sky, and pursued her way as fast as she could, lest she should

hear the roaring of wild beasts before she got out of the wood.

Just when she was quitting the shade, and going to cross the meadow, she

heard a rustling in the bushes close beside her. She did not scream, but

her limbs bent under her, for she expected to see a panther, or perhaps

a lion, ready to spring upon her. She looked behind her for the fiery

eyes which she supposed were glaring amidst the underwood. Her delight

was great to see that it was the herdsman’s dog—an old acquaintance,

whose bark now sounded cheerily, when she had listened only for a savage

growl. Campbell himself soon appeared with a lamb on his shoulder, which

he had overtaken feeding by itself upon the hills.

Betsy wished him joy of his prize; but he did not answer her, and looked

very melancholy.

“Has any new thing happened?” asked the little girl. “Are Will and

Richard safe?”

“Yes; they are behind, driving home a bullock; and Will has got a hare

that Keeper took by the ears for us.”

“O, what good luck!” cried Betsy. “But one would not have thought it by

your looks. What makes you look so gloomy?”

“Why, it seems ungrateful to say that it is this lamb,” said Campbell.

“It is not that I do not like to have it back again; but it makes me

pine for the rest. This morning, when I went out, I thought, as was fit,

less about the poor beasts than about the folks we are going to, seeing

how little prospect of food there was before them. But when I heard the

bleat of this lamb, and I saw it come skipping towards me, I thought to

myself, ‘Where are the rest?’ And then it seemed hard to see the very

traces of them in the track, and to know what a little way they were

before us, and yet to turn back and leave them to be slaughtered by

those savages. I little thought when I called home the cows, and penned

the sheep, last night, that I should never see one of all of them again

but this poor beast.”

Little Betsy did not know what to say; and so she plucked a handful of

grass for the lamb.

In a few minutes they reached the place where dinner was going forward.

Though it was the first meal that day, many of the people had eaten

sparingly, not knowing whether anything might be provided for the next

day. When they saw the lamb, however, and heard of the bullock, they

helped themselves again. They did not relish their hard-earned meal the

less for the clumsy manner in which they were obliged to eat it.

Campbell would not join them till he had disposed of his charge. The

fences were so injured that it was necessary to pile up all the wood

that could be laid hold of to stop the gaps. This done, the herdsman

cast a mournful glance at these poor remains of his droves and flocks,

and sat down to refresh himself.

Mrs. Stone, and Betsy’s mother, Mrs. Links, the smith’s wife, had grown

uneasy about the little girl, on account of her long absence: but they

could not blame her when they saw what she had been doing. They bade her

carry the honey and brushes to the captain, who acted as store-keeper,

and receiver-general of whatever was brought in. He patted her on the

head, and said she had done her part; and he moreover gave her his share

of fruit, without which she would have had none, for there was not

enough for everybody. The captain said that the honey should be for

those who came too late for the fruit, that all might have some kind of

vegetable nourishment. And as for the spoon-brushes, they were so useful

that everybody must have one. So little Betsy determined to make plenty

more the next day, and was quite happy.

“And now,” said the captain, “it is high time we were setting off to our

sleeping-place. Jack, kindle your torch and go first, and Hill and

Robertson will follow with lights. The rest of you must take care of

your own families, and see that none are left behind but the few who

have not returned from the woods. I will just stay to light the fire we

have piled for them, and then follow you. If they do not come by the

time that wood-heap is burnt, we shall not see them to-night.”

So saying, the brave captain took his stand, and hurried the people

away, first lighting his torch, and promising to follow soon. All the

way as they went, Mr. Stone looked back, in hopes of seeing his friend

advancing; but it was not till they had been settled at their

sleeping-place nearly an hour, that they saw the glimmering light of his

torch coming slowly up the pass between the rocks.

The sleeping-place was such an one as the whole party were very thankful

to have found, though its distance (two miles) from the settlement was

likely to add considerably to their daily toils. It consisted of two

caverns, one within the other, sufficiently dry and open to the air to

be wholesome, but not lofty enough to admit of a fire being kindled

within, or even of a torch being burned there for any length of time.

The inner cave, which was set apart for the women and children, had been

swept out with bundles of rushes, and the floor thick-strewn with dry

grass, by the men who had explored it in the morning. Mr. Stone entered

it first this night, in order to satisfy himself that there was no other

passage to it than from the larger cave; and when he came out, he

delivered the torch to his wife, desiring her to give it into no hand

less careful than her own, while her companions were laying themselves

down to rest, and to return it to him before she should herself retire;

for if a single spark should fall on the dry grass, they would

inevitably be driven from their shelter.

“What a beautiful room!” cried some of the little children, as they

opened their sleepy eyes, and saw how the sides and roof, glittering

with crystals, sparkled in the torch-light.

“If they do but keep up the fire on the outside,” said one of the

mothers, “we may sleep as safely and warmly as in our own houses.”

Perhaps she would not have said this if she had known what Jack could

have told, but wisely kept to himself, that he had found in that very

cave traces of a lion, which had perhaps couched there the night before.

Jack properly considered that this was not a sufficient objection to the

place, as there were few spots in the neighbourhood where lions had not

couched some time or other, and as a good fire at the entrance of the

cave was always a perfect security against the attack of wild beasts.

Lest others should not think so, however, he held his peace towards

everybody but the captain, taking care that brushwood enough was stored

to keep up a large fire till sunrise.

When the captain had joined his people, Mr. Stone offered to conduct

their devotions, as he had done this morning. Standing at the entrance,

between the two caverns, so that he could be heard by those within and

those without, he offered thanksgiving for their preservation during so

eventful and perilous a day, and besought protection during the night.

He and the captain then took their station as watchers just within the

outer cave, having promised that Robertson and Arnall should be called

up to take their place when half the night had passed.

CHAPTER II.

WHAT IS WEALTH?

“Well, my friend,” said the captain to Mr. Stone, as they sat watching

their fire, “how do you feel at the close of this strange day?”

“Very much as if I were in a dream. When I look round this place and

think of all that I have seen and done since morning, I can scarcely

believe that we are the same people, living in the same age of the world

as yesterday. We seem to have gone back in the course of a night from a

state of advanced civilization to a primitive condition of society.”

“Except,” interrupted his friend, “that the intelligence belonging to a

state of advancement remains.”

“True,” replied Mr. Stone; “and it is this which makes the present too

good an opportunity to be lost of observing what the real wealth of

society consists of, and what the unassisted labour of man can do

towards producing that wealth.”

“I wish,” said the captain, “that the people in England, who think that

wealth consists in gold, and silver, and bank notes, would come here,

and see how much their money is worth in our settlement. A thousand

sovereigns would not here buy a hat, nor a roll of bank notes a loaf of

bread. Here, at least, money is not wealth.”

“Nor any where else,” said Mr. Stone, “as we may see by putting a very

simple case. Put a man with a bag of gold into an empty house, in

England or anywhere else, and he will starve in a week, unless he is

allowed to give his gold in exchange for what will supply his wants. But

give a man, who has not a shilling, a room well stocked with meat, and

bread, and beer, and he has wealth enough to maintain him for a week or

a fortnight, or as long as his provision lasts. And this is a test which

holds good all the world over.”

“And yet gold and silver may be called riches,” said the captain, “while

they procure us things of greater value than themselves.”

“Certainly they are, as long as they can be made use of, a part of

wealth, though only one, and that not the greatest part. Wealth is made

up of many things—of land, of houses, of clothes, furniture, food, and

of the means (whether gold and silver, or anything else) by which these

things may be obtained. Whatever lives, or grows, or can be produced,

that is necessary, or useful, or agreeable to mankind, is wealth.”

“Then our settlement,” said the captain, “is not stripped of all its

property. We have some wealth left.”

“Poor as we are,” said his friend, “we are richer than if we were in the

midst of the sandy desert to the north of us, with a waggon full of gold

in our possession. We have here what gold could not buy in such a place,

food and shelter.”

“And other things too,” said the captain. “We have clothing, for flax

grows in the woods, and there are plenty of animals within reach, whose

skins can be dried and cleaned to make us cloaks or beds, or tanned for

shoes and caps and aprons for our workmen. We have furniture, for there

is plenty of timber in the woods to make tables and chairs. We have——”

“Stay,” interrupted his friend, “you are getting on too fast. All these

things are likely to become ours, I grant you; but before we can call

them our own,—before they become wealth to us, something must be added

which we have not yet taken into consideration. You forget that there is

no wealth without labour; and labour must be applied before the

commonest productions can become wealth.”

“True,” replied the captain. “The flax must be gathered, and dried, and

hackled, and woven, before it will make a shirt; and the animals must be

caught, and a great deal of labour be spent upon their skins before they

become fit for clothing or bedding; and the timber must be felled and

sawn, and the pieces put skilfully together, before we possess it in the

form of tables and chairs. But surely the case is different with food,

of some kinds at least. There is fish in the pond, and fruit on the

tree, ready made for man’s use. Man spends no labour on the fruit that

grows wild in such a climate as this; and yet we daily find that it is

wealth to us.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Stone. “There is the labour of gathering

it. An orange is of no use to any man living unless he puts out his hand

to pluck it. And as for the fish in the pond,—think of the carp that

Hill told us of this morning. They are no wealth to us till we can catch

them, though the pool is within reach, and they belong to nobody else.”

“We should have had them by this time if we had but got a net,” said the

captain.

“The net is one thing wanting, certainly,” said his friend, “but labour

is another. If the net were now lying ready on the bank, we should be no

better for the fish, unless some one took the trouble of drawing them

out of the water. I do not say that unassisted labour will furnish us

with all that we want; but I do say that nothing can be had without the

exertion of getting it; that is, that there is no wealth without

labour.”

“True,” said the captain. “Even the manna in the wilderness would have

been of no more use to the Hebrews than the carp in the pool to us, if

they had not exerted themselves to gather it up. Food was never yet

rained into the mouth of any man.”

“And if it had been,” said Mr. Stone, “he must have troubled himself to

hold back his head and open his mouth. So you see what conclusion we

come to, even in an extreme case.”

“But with all our labour,” said the captain, “how little we can do in

comparison with what is done for us! Labour may be necessary to make the

productions of Nature useful to us; but how much greater are the powers

of Nature in preparing them for us! To look back on farther than

to-day,—the antelope could not have been food for us unless human hands

had prepared it; but how much was done beforehand! It was nourished, we

know not how, by the grass it fed upon; it was made, we know not how,

fit food for our bodies: and our bodies were so formed as to be

strengthened by this food. Neither do we understand how fire acts upon

the flesh so as to make it tender; or even how wood in its turn

nourishes the fire. All that human labour has done was to bring together

the wood, and the fire, and the animal, and then to eat the food

prepared. Nature did the rest.”

“The case was the same with little Betsy’s treat of honey,” added Mr.

Stone. “The earth, and the air, and the dew, had nourished the flowers

from which the honey was collected: the bees were curiously formed and

animated, so that they could gather and store the honey; and the hollows

of the tree so made as to hold it. Then again, the rushes, and the

twigs, and the leaves, were all fit for the use Betsy made of them; her

business was to bring them together in a particular manner so as to make

a basket. And thus it is in every case. And even where we seem to make

the materials, we only bring together simple materials to make compound

ones. We say that the materials of a rush basket are not made by human

labour; but that the materials of a paper basket are made by human

labour; but though paper is made of linen-rags, those rags are made of

flax which grows out of the ground. So that Nature still works at the

bottom.”

“In the same way,” said the captain, “we say that the material of a

hare-skin waistcoat is not produced by human labour, but that the velvet

one of a gentleman of fashion is altogether made by human hands; but

still Nature works at the bottom, as you say; for velvet is woven of

silk spun by a worm.”

“True,” said Mr. Stone; “and thus far only is the labour of man

appointed to go. He works with Nature, and his only way of doing so is

by _motion_. He moves her materials together; but how they act upon one

another he does not know. You put your torch of wood into the flame, and

it blazes. Robertson lets the seed fall into the ground, and it sprouts;

he pulls up a root, and it withers. Hill applies certain herbs to a

wound, or gives certain medicines, and his patients are cured; or, if

they die, he does not know how to prevent it. Fulton dips and rubs his

leather in a certain preparation of bark, and it becomes soft and fit

for use. His mother puts flour and salt and barm together, and the dough

works; she places it in a great heat, and it becomes fit for food. So

man brings materials together; but Nature first furnishes them, and then

makes them act upon one another.”

“It seems but little that man can do,” said the captain; “but yet that

little is all-important to him.”

“Since it is _necessary_ to him,” said Mr. Stone, “it becomes great; and

indeed it may be said that there are no bounds to what man can do, since

there seem to be no bounds to the powers of Nature. Look what has been

done! There may have been, I doubt not there was, a time when the

founders of nations could do nothing more than gather the wild fruits of

the earth, and find shelter in caves; and now, the successors of these

very men produce merchandize, and build ships, and rear splendid

buildings, and make roads over mountains, and do a thousand things which

would have appeared miracles to their forefathers: and all this time,

the wisest men are aware that labour may be employed in a multitude of

ways of which we yet know nothing.”

“I should like our people to remain in this settlement,” said the

captain, “that we might observe how fast they will advance from the

primitive state to which we are reduced, to that in which their

countrymen are in England.”

“They will advance rapidly,” replied Mr. Stone; “because they know how

to apply their labour. They know what improvements they would aim at,

instead of having to try experiments. I hope we shall all stay, for I am

curious to see how much may be done by pure labour; and pure labour is

our only resource till we can get tools from Cape Town.”

“It will take a long time to do that,” said the captain: “but I am not

uneasy. The Bushmen know well enough that nothing more is to be had from

us; and we are therefore safe from another attack till we shall have

gathered some property about us again. Do you know, my dear friend,

nothing has given me so much satisfaction to-day as seeing your wife and

yourself in such good spirits. None of our people had so much to lose in

the way of property as yourselves,—for I, being a single man, do not

care much about those matters. You neither of you seem to be downcast

about your losses.”

“Nor are we,” replied Mr. Stone; “but you must remember how different it

is to lose everything in such a place as this, and in England. Here

there are so few inhabitants, and the natural productions are in such

plenty, that we know we have only to work, under the blessing of

Providence, to provide ourselves and our child with all that is

necessary now, and with comforts and luxuries by and by. Besides, there

is here no loss of rank, or sacrifice of independence, because all are

in the same condition. It could not happen so in England; and if any

calamity should there oblige us to descend to a lower rank in society,

or, worse still, to be dependent for our subsistence upon others, we

should try, I hope, to be patient, but we could not be so happy as you

have seen us to-day.”

“You have both good health, and industry, and contentment,” said the

captain; “and they are exactly the qualities we all have most need of

just now.”

“Thank God! we have always had cause for content,” replied his friend;

“and as for industry, the only difference is, that we must now work in

another way. We have always declared that none deserved to be maintained

who would not labour. Before, we worked most with our heads; now we must

work with our hands as well. And we are both willing.”

“And in order to be fit for labour,” said the captain, “you must sleep;

so let us pile some more wood on the fire, and then rouse our watchmen.”

So when they had arranged the time and place for a general consultation

on the affairs of the settlement, the next morning, the gentlemen gave

up their charge to Robertson and Arnall and betook themselves to rest.

----------------------------

CHAPTER III.

EARN YOUR BREAD BEFORE YOU EAT IT.

During the first day of the troubles of our settlers, before the

impression of their terror was worn out, and when it remained doubtful

whether their immediate wants could be supplied, there was a general

concern for the good of the community, and forgetfulness of petty

personal considerations. None but the little children were heard that

day to cry, “What will become of _me_?” One little boy complained, as we

have seen, that there was no rim to his plate; and it was said that one

baby girl lifted up her voice in weeping for her doll; but the grown

children of the society seemed to have laid aside their childishness on

so great an occasion. It was not long in appearing again, however; for

amidst the winding course of human life, character is sure to peep out

and show itself at every turn, however it may occasionally be hidden.

There was as great a variety of habits and dispositions among these

settlers as there is among the same number of persons all the world

over: and when the first fears and difficulties were surmounted, this

variety began to be quite as evident as before any misfortune had

befallen. It would have been a curious study to an observer,—it was so

to Mr. Stone,—to mark the different deportment of the people who

attended the morning’s consultation on the general state of their

affairs. Some were in high spirits, excited by the novelty of their

situation, and full of a spirit of enterprise. These were principally

labourers, who had had little or nothing to lose, or young men whose

activity was greater than their love of property. Some were gloomy and

panic-struck: the old and the weak, whose terrors made them equally

afraid to attempt, unprovided, a journey southwards, and to remain

within reach of the Bushmen. Some were more careful of their own dignity

than of all besides, ready to plead their rights, to refuse any

employment they might fancy degrading, and to resent any hint that the

less was now said of distinction of ranks the better.

At the head of these was Arnall, the storekeeper, who had always been

disliked for his haughtiness. He had complained of his partner, Mr.

Dunn, ever since their first connexion, for being on such familiar terms

with the customers of all ranks who came to their shop; and it spoke

well for Mr. Dunn that this was the only fault of which his fastidious

partner did complain. Arnall was as obsequious as any man to the public

as a whole. No petitions for custom were so full of compliments and

protestations as his; but he was not the less insolent for this. His

insolence was particularly evident this morning, when the captain was

offering his advice respecting the manner in which the various members

of the society should employ their industry. Arnall was anxious to be

sent out shooting, which he thought a very gentlemanly amusement; but as

he had no gun, and had never practised with bows and arrows, it was

thought best that he should yield the sport to the boys who were skilful

at it, and assist, with all the hands that could be spared from other

occupations, in carrying on the trenching, on which the growth of the

crops depended. In very dry seasons in that climate, there is no means

of preserving the young corn but by digging trenches from the

neighbouring streams through the fields. A large trench, from which

several smaller ones were to branch out, had been nearly finished in Mr.

Stone’s field when the savages made their attack; and as the spring

rains (for our autumn is their spring) were not expected for a month or

more, it was of the utmost importance that water should be conveyed to

the crops. Even if the settlers should wish to remove, they could not

stir till they had provision for their journey, as, in a country like

that, there was nothing to depend on by the way. Many were eager to be

employed in a work of such pressing importance: but not so Mr. Arnall.

“Do you actually mean, captain,” said he, “that I am to work in a ditch

with ploughmen and hedgers? I am as willing as any body to do my part;

but I assure you I have not been used to such companionship.”

“Nor have I,” said Mr. Stone, “yet I am going about my work without

delay.”

“But it is contrary to all my habits,” persisted Arnall.

“Not more so than to your partner, Mr. Dunn’s,” said the captain; “and

there he is at work already. He and Jack made a very pretty spade

between them this morning, of a piece of hard wood, which they sawed and

burnt into shape with the fragments of the saw left in the pit, and with

heated stones. They will give you that spade and make another, if you

will go and ask them. Then you can work by yourself, which will suit

your dignity better than helping those men who are turning out the clods

so cleverly by crossing the stakes they have taken from the fence.”

“You must excuse me, indeed,” replied Arnall. “I must beg some other

employment. Could not I be your messenger to Cape Town, and send out

tools and all that you want? I shall have pleasure in undertaking the

journey, and will represent your case forcibly to the Governor.”

“I am afraid, Sir, you are scarcely the man to be the representative of

a hard-working agricultural community as ours must be now. There is a

rival candidate in the person of Richard the labourer. We can ill spare

him; but he is a hardy traveller on foot, and is, besides, a good judge

of implements, which, by your own statement, you cannot be for want of

experience. Stand aside, Sir, if you please, for my time is precious

this morning. Choose your own occupation; but remember that you must

find your own food unless you do our work.”

“The tables are turned, you see,” said one of the labourers to Arnall as

he was retiring. “You held your head very high a week ago, because you

had a genteeler employment than ours, as you thought. And now that we

are all put to the test, see what a poor figure you make! I always said

a farmer ought to rank above a shopkeeper.”

“Hey-day! what is that I hear?” said the captain. “Let me tell you, you

are quite in the wrong, my friend. What our society is now, is no test

of the value of its members a week ago. Because we cannot have a shop

to-day, it does not follow that a shop was not a good thing when we had

goods to buy and sell. If Mr. Arnall transacted his business properly,

he deserved as well of society as the farmer who did his part honestly.

As far as their labour is concerned, they rank equally.”

“But farmers do not give themselves airs like some shopkeepers I have

known,” persisted the labourer; “and I see no gentility in such airs.”

“Nor I,” said the captain; “but I have seen farmers as haughty with

their men as any shopkeeper. All this has nothing to do with the

question. A man may make himself liked or disliked by his manners; but

they do not affect his rank as a labourer in the community.”

Arnall did not much relish being called a labourer in any sense, having

a very narrow notion of the meaning of the word. Some others who were

present fell into the same mistake, as we shall see by-and-by. Business

was so pressing just now, however, that there was no time for

conversation: but many minds were active that day in thinking over what

was happening, while the hands were busily employed in various tasks.

It was soon settled that no removal should be thought of till after the

rains, at any rate, as the settlers could not hope to establish

themselves elsewhere in the interval, and were unwilling to desert their

fields after all the labour which had been spent upon them. With heart

and good-will, therefore, men, women, and children set about improving

their condition, determined to try what industry could do to make up for

a scarcity of hands, and an almost total deficiency of tools.

Betsy’s father, the smith, was in high spirits at having found the

fragments of the large saw. Of one part he believed a serviceable

hand-saw might be made, and of another a hatchet, if he could but fix

handles to them. This he thought he could do by burning grooves in two

pieces of wood which he fixed at each end of the fragment, and tying

them on with thongs of the leather cordage we have mentioned, the thongs

being passed from one end to the other through holes also burned in the

wood. Fulton, the tanner, was, meanwhile, twisting and tanning his

thongs as expeditiously as possible, for as many were wanted as he could

prepare. They could not even make houses without his help, for cordage

must now supply the place of nails.

There was some deliberation about what these houses were to be made of.

They were to be only temporary sheds to sleep in, to save the extra

labour of walking two miles up the pass every night to their cave. It

was evident that they could not be built like their former habitations

with timbers. Till tools should arrive, this was impossible.—Harrison,

the brickmaker and potter of the settlement, (for in several instances

two somewhat similar employments were undertaken by one man,) was urgent

to be allowed to begin brick-making, as the clay-pits were open, and

stones and wood were all the implements he should require. But a quicker

method was devised, and Harrison was to build in a new fashion. The huts

of the natives were composed of reeds, bound together and plastered over

with clay, inside and out. The roofs were covered in with branches of

trees and dry grass. Such were to be the sheds of the settlers.

Thus there was work for everybody. The men were some digging, some

tanning, some smoothing a space among the trees for the sheds, for, as

no foundations could be dug, it was necessary to make the trees

themselves the corner-posts. The boys were busy scooping out and working

the clay, or making bows and arrows, or cutting reeds. The women were

preparing flax or cooking the dinner, or, with their little girls,

collecting brushwood and dry grass for the fires, and to thatch the

sheds with. The captain meanwhile went about from one party to another,

ready to advise, and encourage, and assist, wherever he could.

One little party, however, escaped his notice, and that of everybody

else. Little Betsy had taken her cue from what the captain had said the

night before about her spoon-brushes and her basket. She could teach her

little companions to make spoon-brushes, while she fancied that, with

help from her brothers, she could make what was wanted much more, a

strong substantial basket. There was a difficulty about carrying away

the earth from the trench; and it occurred to her that, in the absence

of barrows and all means of making them, it would be a good thing to

have baskets which would take it all away in time, though it would

certainly be slow work. Her brothers and she collected twigs in the

wood, and she went for rushes to the water-side, and then they sat down

to their work.

Having found, the day before, that she had no means of fastening the

bottom in firm, she did not attempt to make a basket that would stand.

She bent the twigs into the same shape she had been accustomed to make,

only on a much larger scale, so that the basket, when finished, would

look very like a sieve. She was particularly careful to fasten the ends

of the twigs firmly to the stronger ones that made the rim, and to twist

in the handles so that they would not easily give way. She tied the

twigs wherever they crossed with bands of rushes, and then wove in the

whole as closely as possible. This was not done in an hour’s time. She

and her companions made many attempts before they could get the twigs

into any shape at all, and their fingers were scarcely strong enough to

twist the rim firmly. Once, just when she thought she should succeed,

the little boys left hold, saying they were tired and hungry. She was

very near crying; but she thought the wiser way would be to let them

rest, and find them something to eat, when they would, perhaps, help her

again; for she little expected that any better assistance would come.

She desired one of the boys to watch her basket lest the monkeys, which

abounded in the wood, should destroy it; while, with the other brother,

she looked about for wild strawberries and chesnuts. There were a few

strawberries still left, and a great many chesnuts lying in the grass,

and more to be had by throwing stones at the monkeys in the trees, which

provoked the animals to pelt them with chesnuts in return. After a

hearty laugh at these mimics, Betsy returned with her treasure of fruit;

but the young gentleman who, the day before, was mourning for gravy,

could not, hungry as he was, eat his chesnuts unless they were roasted.

Betsy cared much less about eating than about her basket; but she was a

good-natured little girl, and ready to remember that her brother was

younger than herself. So she advised him to run home and roast his

chesnuts at the oven-fire; and told him not to come back again unless he

liked. She sent a message to her mother to say that she was quite safe,

and would be back before dark; but she charged Ned not to tell any body

what she was busy about. Then she sent her other little companion with

some chesnuts to the children who were making spoon-brushes some way

off; and as soon as he was gone, she looked at her basket and sighed;

for she feared she should not be able to finish it. Just then she heard

some one coming through the bushes, and looking up, she saw it was Mr.

Arnall. He had his hands in his pockets, and anybody would have thought

by his appearance that it was a holiday in the colony.

“So you are eating chesnuts; my little girl,” said he. “Can you spare me

some?”

“Yes, sir,” answered Betsy, pointing to the little heap beside her.

“Will you help yourself?”

Arnall went on eating for some time in silence. “Where did you get these

chesnuts?” he asked at length, when he had nearly made an end of them.

“Yonder, under the trees there.”

“They are very good. I dare say you will be my little maid, and get me

some more: and here comes your brother; I will send him to roast them by

the fire.”

“You must do it yourself, if you please, sir. We are very busy.”

“Indeed! What can children like you be busy about? Basket-making! Why,

that basket will never stand.”

“It is not meant to stand,” said Betsy, who began to wish her visitor

would go away and leave her to her business.

Arnall sat idly watching the little work-people, till seeing that

greater strength of finger was what they wanted, he offered his

services, which Betsy was very willing to accept. He became more

interested as the affair went on, and continued his assistance till the

framework was complete and the rim secure.

“And now,” said Betsy, jumping up joyfully, “now I will get you some

chesnuts and welcome. I can easily finish the rest, for the weaving part

will soon be done; and I should never have got so far without you.”

As soon as she was gone, Arnall took up the remainder of the twigs, and

began another basket. He was really ashamed of doing nothing, and was

glad to have found an employment which did not reduce him to toil with

labourers or to provide his own dinner. He flattered himself that Betsy

was saving his dignity by procuring his food; while she, in the

innocence of her heart, thought he was working as much for her as she

for him, and was grateful to him accordingly.

When it began to grow dusk, the little party in the wood made haste to

gather up their materials and be gone. Arnall was no coward, as some

very haughty people are. He had been long accustomed to the dangers of

the woods, and if he had had his gun, would have been as ready as any

man to make a defence against wild men or beasts: but it was only

prudent, as he was unarmed, to leave the shade before night-fall. He did

not choose to return to the settlement in company with the children;

neither would he carry any of their goods. He lingered a while, till

they were some way before him, and then appeared with his usual lounging

gait, and his hands in his pockets. Of those who had time to observe

him, some smiled at the unsuitability of his appearance to his

circumstances, and others were indignant at his seating himself to eat

that which they supposed he had done nothing to earn.

“Pardon me, sir,” said the captain; “but I hope you have your dinner in

your pockets, or I am afraid you will have none. Our provisions are the

right of those who work for them.”

“Mr. Arnall helped me to make my basket,” said little Betsy, “and he has

got a great way with another; so I hope he may have the dinner I should

have wanted if I had not found the chesnuts, and some for his own share

besides.”

“Hold your tongue, child,” cried the gentleman, who was quite above

owing his meal to the request of a little girl. “Who has any business

with what I have been doing? Things have come to a pretty pass when one

must account to anybody that asks for the use of one’s time and hands.”

“By sitting down to table, sir”——

“To grass, you mean,” said Arnall. “We are in a fair way to eat in

Nebuchadnezzar fashion, I think. Was ever a meal so served before?”

“If you will make us a table, we shall very thankfully accept it,” said

the captain. “Meanwhile, as I was saying, by asking food, you demand the

wages of labour, as we have agreed to live by the natural law, that food

cannot be obtained without labour. You are accountable to us in no other

way than all labourers are accountable to those who pay them wages.

Little Betsy has settled your account with us: allow me, therefore, to

help you to a lump (I wish I could say a slice) of lamb; or would you

prefer hare?”

While the gentleman was picking his bone in silence, wondering when he

should again be blessed with a knife and fork, Betsy placed beside him a

pretty dessert of wild strawberries on a leaf.

He seemed barely to thank her, but began to resolve that he would either

find some mode of being more useful, and thus feeling himself on equal

terms with other people, or take himself off, where he need be

accountable to nobody.

----------------------------

CHAPTER IV.

HAND-WORK AND HEAD WORK.

The heat of the weather was, we have said, very oppressive during the

middle of the day. It was hard work to dig in the trench, for the

badness of the tools more than compensated for the lightness of the

soil. The labourers, fully aware of the importance of conveying water to

the crops, toiled most diligently through all hours of the day, till it

became evident that such exertion was injurious to their strength. A new

regulation was made, according to which they began work two hours

earlier in the morning, and rested in the shade for two hours at noon.

Some slept, while others, who were stronger or more industrious,

employed themselves in some light occupation, either preparing flax with

the women, or looking for honey or fruit, or cutting the reeds of proper

lengths, and binding them in bundles ready for the builder, or helping

to make bows and arrows. This was the most pleasant and refreshing time

of the day. It was the only time for conversation; for in working hours

they were too busy, and at night too weary to enjoy it. Mr. Stone was

always ready for cheerful talk at these intervals, both because he was

sociable, and because he knew it to be a very important thing to keep up

the spirits of the people by all such natural and proper means. A few

days after the labours of the settlement were got into train, he was

sitting with a party of companions on the trunk of a tree which served

as a work-bench, and which was drawn within the shadow of a noble

chesnut. He was making sandals for some of the people whose shoes were

worn out, by fastening leather thongs to slips of wood made as nearly

the size of the foot as the saw could bring them. Some of the men had

been for walking barefoot; thinking shoes too great a luxury for the

present state of their affairs: but Mr. Stone would not hear of this, on

account of the venomous reptiles in the grass, from whose bite there

could be no security to the barefooted. He engaged to furnish each man

with sandals as his shoes wore out, till there should be leather enough

to make a sort of socks with wooden soles, which would serve the purpose

better still. While he was thus busied, his wife was beside him mending

his coat, which had received a terrible rent. It was amusing enough at

first to see her set about this new sort of tailoring; for she had

neither needle, thimble, nor scissors. George had furnished her with a

porcupine’s quill from the stock which had been placed in his hands for

his arrows. With this she pricked holes in the cloth, through which a

string of flax was passed; and thus, by slow degrees, the edges of the

rent were brought together. To be sure, it did not look much like a

gentleman’s coat after this; but, as all clothes were now worn for a

covering and not for ornament, it did not much signify. Next Mrs. Stone

sat Hill, sorting and picking the herbs and roots he had gathered, that

he might not be without medicines in case of sickness or accidental

bruises. He had also furnished a poison in which the points of the

arrows were dipped, as it was found that though the bristles wounded the

game, they were not strong enough to bring it down. Hill had discovered

how the natives procured, from a venomous snake, poison so powerful as

to destroy all animals which it could be made to reach; and having

provided himself with it, he suffered no one else to touch it, for fear

of accidents. George, who formed one of the party, was therefore obliged

to give up his arrows as they were made, and did not receive them again

till the venom was dried on their tips. All the game, as it was brought

in, was given into the charge of the butcher, who carefully took out the

parts round the wound the arrow had made. His wife was now plucking

partridges, which had become abundant since the best way of bringing

down game had been discovered. The feathers were carefully dried and

preserved to answer various purposes of clothing and bedding hereafter.

While the little party were thus busily employed and sociably

conversing, they saw Arnall at a distance, practising shooting with bow

and arrow at a mark.

“I wonder at the captain,” said Hill, “for calling that gentleman yonder

a labourer, as he did the other day.”

“Arnall himself was surprised,” said Mr. Stone; “and I do not wonder at

it: but I should have expected you would allow him the title. Remember

the captain spoke of him as he had been,—a shopkeeper.”

“He led a pretty genteel life as a shopkeeper,” replied Hill. “Look at

his delicate hands and his slight make, and it seems ridiculous to call

him a labourer.”

“Did he not buy his goods at Cape Town, and have them brought in his

waggon; and did he not purchase various productions of his neighbours in

large quantities and sell them by retail?” asked Mr. Stone.

“Certainly,” replied Hill; “but there was no hard work in all this. It

would have done him good to have driven his own team over the mountains,

and to have stuck fast among the rocks, as many a waggoner does, unless

he can put his own shoulder to the wheel.”

“I should have liked to see him kill his own meat,” added the butcher’s

wife, “or thresh the corn he used to sell. A heavy flail would be a fine

thing to put into hands like his.”

“We are not inquiring,” replied Mr. Stone, “what sort of discipline

would be good for such a man; but whether he can properly be called a

labourer. You seem to think, Hill, that there is no labour but that of

the hands, and that even that does not deserve the name unless it be

rough and require bodily strength to a great degree.”

“I don’t mean to say so,” replied Hill. “I consider that I work pretty

hard, and yet my hands shew it more by being dyed with these plants than

roughened by toil. And there are the straw-platters of my native town in

dear old England;—the Dunstable folks labour hard enough, delicate as

their work is.”

“And you, sir,” said Mrs. Prest, the butcher’s wife, “have done so much,

setting aside your farm, that it would be a sin to say you have not

toiled night and day for us. If there was a person sick or unhappy, or

if your advice was wanted any hour in the twenty-four, you were always

ready to help us. But you would not call yourself a labourer, would

you?”

“Certainly,” replied Mr. Stone. “There is labour of the head as well as

of the hands, you know. Any man who does anything is a labourer, as far

as his exertion goes.”

“The king of England is a labourer,” said Mrs. Stone. “If he does

nothing more than sign the acts of parliament which are brought to him,

he does a very great thing for society. Those acts cannot become law

till they are so signed; and the man, whoever he be, who performs a

necessary part in making laws, is a labourer of a very high order,

however little trouble the act of signing may cost him.”

“Arnall did take more trouble than that, to do him justice,” said Hill.

“He kept his books very well, besides purchasing and looking after and

selling goods: but still I cannot think he was so useful a man as the

ploughman who helps us to food; for food is the most necessary of all

things.”

“A great deal of harm has been done,” said Mr. Stone, “by that notion of

yours, when it has been held by people who have more power to act upon

it than you. In many states, it has been a received maxim that

commercial labour is inferior in value to agricultural; and agriculture

has therefore been favoured with many privileges, and manufactures and

commerce burdened with many difficulties. This seems to me to be a very

unjust and foolish policy; for the greatest good of society cannot be

attained without the union of both kinds of labour. The thresher, and

the miller, and the baker, do not help to produce food like the

ploughman; but they are quite as useful as he, because we could not have

bread without their help. They are manufacturers, and the retail baker

is engaged in commerce; but it would be absurd to say that they are on

that account to be thought less valuable than the sower.”

“But is not the case different, sir,” said Hill, “when things of less

importance than food are in question? Is not a weaver worth less than a

ploughman in society?”

“Suppose,” said Mr. Stone, “that in our society, consisting of

fifty-four persons, fifty-three were engaged in tilling the ground every

day and all day long, and that the other was able to prepare flax and

weave it into cloth and make it into clothes. Suppose you were that one;

do not you think you would always have your hands full of business, and

be looked to as a very important person; and that, if you died, you

would be more missed than any one of the fifty-three ploughmen?”

“Certainly,” said Hill, laughing. “But what a folly it would be to raise

ten or twenty times as much corn as we could eat, and to be in want of

everything else!”

“It would,” replied Mr. Stone: “and in such a case, we should be ready

to pass a vote of thanks to any man who would leave the plough and turn

tanner or weaver; and then we would spare another to be a tailor; and,

at last, when we had gathered a good many comforts about us, we would

thank another to set up a shop where we might exchange our goods. Now,

would it not be ungrateful and foolish, when we had reached this point,

to say that the farmers were, after all, the most valuable to us; and

that they must have particular honour and particular privileges?”

“To be sure,” said Hill. “The natural consequence of such partiality

would be to tempt the shopkeeper to give up his shop, and the weaver his

loom, and the tailor his sheers, to go back to the plough, and then we

should be as badly off as before.”

“This would be the consequence in larger states, as well,” said Mr.

Stone, “if the practice of the people were not wiser than the principles

of the policy by which they have hitherto been governed. People buy

clothes and furniture and other comforts as they have need of them,

without stopping to pronounce how much less valuable they are than

food.”

“All the world seems to have agreed,” said Mrs. Stone, “that the right

leg is worth more than the left; and if a man had the choice which he

would lose, he would probably rather part with the left: but it would be

a sad waste of time to argue about which is the more useful in walking.”

“All labour, then, should be equally respected,” said Hill, “and no one

kind should be set above another.”

“Nay; I was far from saying that,” replied Mr. Stone. “Our friend

George, there, makes beautiful little boats out of walnut-shells, and he

must have spent a good deal of trouble on his art before he could carve

the prow and stern and put in the deck as he does. If he were now to set

to work and make us each one within a week, he would no more have earned

his dinner every day than if he should lie down and sleep for seven

days. We do not want walnut-shell boats, and his ill-directed labour

would be worth no more than no labour at all.”

“The captain was telling me, though,” said George, “that if I were at

some place he mentioned in England, I might get a very pretty living by

those same boats. He said the quality would give me five shillings

a-piece for them.”

“Very likely,” said Mr. Stone; “and in that case your labour would not

be ill-directed. The rich, in any country, who have as much as they want

of food and clothes and shelter, have a right to pay money for baubles,

if they choose; and in such a state of things there are always labourers

who, not being wanted for necessary occupations, are ready to employ

their labour in making luxuries.”

“The lace-makers and jewellers and glass-cutters, and even those who

spin glass for the amusement of the wealthy, are respectably employed in

England, where there is a demand for their services,” observed Mrs.

Stone; “but they would be sadly out of place here, and very ridiculous.

All labour must be directed by the circumstances of the state of society

in which it is employed; and all labour, so regulated, is equally

respectable.”

“I am afraid, madam,” said Hill, “that your doctrine would go far

towards doing away the difference between labour that is productive and

that which is unproductive.”

“It is impossible,” replied Mr. Stone, “to do away that difference,

because it is a difference of fact which no opinions can alter. It must

always be as clear as observation can make it whether a man’s labour

_produces_ any of the things which constitute wealth. But the

respectability of labour does not depend on this circumstance. I hope

you do not think it does?”

“I have been accustomed, certainly, to think productive labourers more

valuable than unproductive.”

“It depends upon what you mean by the word _valuable_,” replied Mr.

Stone. “If you mean that productive labourers add more to the wealth of

the society, the very way of putting the question shews that you are

right: but we may see, in the case of every civilized state, that a

mixture of productive and unproductive labourers is the best for the

comfort and prosperity of society.”

“What would the English nation do,” said Mrs. Stone, “without household

servants, without physicians and soldiers, and clergy and lawyers,

without a parliament, without a government? If they were a nation of

farmers and graziers and builders, without any unproductive labourers,

they would have abundance of corn and cattle and houses; but no towns,

no commerce, no law, and no king. They would be a savage nation.”

“Ours was not a savage settlement,” said George, “and we had no

unproductive labourers. Everybody worked very hard.”

“However hard our people worked,” said Mr. Stone, “they were divided

into productive and unproductive labourers, as the people of every

civilized society are. If you will just run over a few names, we will

try to divide the two classes.”

“Let us begin with the lowest,” said George. “The labourers on

Robertson’s farm and on yours, sir, are productive labourers, because

they produce corn for ourselves, and hay for the horses, and flax for

our clothes. Then there are the other servants, who have wages paid

them,—the captain’s errand-boy, and your maid, ma’am, who nurses the

child, and kept the house clean when you had one, and Goody Fulton, who

attended to Arnall’s shop when he was out shooting——”

“Well: go on,” said Mr. Stone; “tell us what they produced.”

George laid down his bow to consider; but he could not think of anything

produced by these last-mentioned people. He owned that however

industrious and useful they might be, domestic servants were

unproductive labourers. Then he went on with his list.

“Fulton, I suppose, sir, produces leather out of what was only the hide

of a beast; and Harrison makes bricks out of what was only clay; and

Links——let me see, what does the farrier do? He puts on horse-shoes:

that is not making anything. He is unproductive, I suppose.”

“As a farrier;—but he is also a smith, and makes horse shoes and nails,

and implements of many sorts, out of what was only a lump or a bar of

iron.”

“Then he is a labourer of both kinds. That is curious. And so are you,

Mr. Hill. You make medicines; but when you give your advice, or bleed

your patients, or shave my father on Saturday night, you are an

unproductive labourer.”

“And at the same time, one of the last men we could spare,” said Mr.

Stone. At which, Hill rose and bowed low.

“I am afraid my father is an unproductive labourer,” said George. “I

cannot think of anything that a butcher makes.”

“Why should you say ‘afraid’?” inquired Mr. Stone. “Your father is of

the same class with the captain.”

“Why, that’s true,” cried George; “and there’s an end of all objections

to unproductive labour; for who works harder than the captain, and how

should we get on without him?”

“And how do you class yourself, my dear?” said Mrs. Stone.

“Unproductive in my pulpit and in the school-room,” replied her husband,

“and productive when I am working in my field. I leave it to my friends

to say in which capacity I am most useful.”

“You have cleared up the matter completely, sir,” said Hill. “We see now

that the words relate to wealth and not to usefulness. I am only sorry I

ever understood any reproach by the word _unproductive_; but I shall

never fall into the mistake again.”

“It is as well to observe, however,” said Mr. Stone, “that the

prosperity of a nation depends much on the proportion between these two

classes of labourers. If it would be a bad thing to have a population

that could do nothing but produce food, and clothes, and habitations,

with as many other comforts and luxuries as the industry of man can

supply, it would be worse by far to have more unproductive labourers

among us than the labour of the productive could maintain.”

“Our settlement would soon be ruined,” observed his wife, “if we had a

great many soldiers, and two or three clergymen, and four or five

surgeons, and several household servants in every family. However

skilful all these might be in their several ways, they would soon eat us

out of house and home. In the same way the welfare of an empire depends

on its productive resources being abundant enough to supply the wants

and reasonable wishes of the whole people. But, my dear, what noise is

that?”

The little party started to their feet as they heard the sound of a

horn. For a moment they were alarmed by the fear that an enemy was upon

them; but some labourers passing by informed them that the captain had

ordered the horns of the bullock which had been slain to be taken care

of; and had turned one to the best account by using it as a summons to

call the people together. It was, from this time forward, to be blown at

the hours of work, of eating, and of rising and going to rest. The two

hours of repose being now over, Mr. Stone went to his work in the

trench, and the little party broke up.

----------------------------

CHAPTER V.

HEART-WORK.

In a few days from this time, some of the most thoughtful of the

settlers began to ponder the necessity of increasing their supplies of

food. Prest, the butcher, sighed every day as he passed the ruined

paddocks and saw no cattle in them for him to exercise his skill upon.

“Heaven knows,” said he to his wife, “when I may have the pleasure of

slaying a beast again. And as for our ever having a drove or a herd,

there is no possibility of it unless we can get hides enough to make

thongs for snares. Fulton says he has used up every scrap of leather,

and unless we can get more, Campbell and I may both lay aside our craft,

for we shall never more have droves in our fields, or smoking joints on

the table.”

“We must live like savages, on roots and fruit and fish,” said his wife.

“Now, fish is very good in its way; but we have had so much lately, that

one might fancy it was to be Lent all the year round.”

While they were thus talking, a plan was being settled between Arnall

and the captain which promised fair to supply the butcher with

employment, and the paddocks with stock which might increase in time so

as to employ a herdsman on the hills. This magnificent plan entered

Arnall’s head one day when he was thinking how he might distinguish

himself in a genteel way, and shew himself a benefactor to the

settlement without sacrificing his dignity.

He had once passed a pit, dug in the middle of a plain and quite empty

and apparently useless. He could not make out at the time what it was

for; but now he remembered having read that the natives of some

countries dig pits for snaring wild animals, covering them over lightly

so as to look even with the rest of the ground, that the beast may fall

in unawares. He thought that he might secure antelopes in this way, or

even the buffalo—fierce and strong as it is, and more difficult to deal

with than the wildest bull of his own country. He could not prepare the

pit with his own delicate hands, of course; and was therefore obliged to

apply to the captain for leave to employ some labourers. Their help was

promised as soon as the trench should be completed, which was to be in

two days. Nothing must interrupt that important work, the captain said;

and in the mean while they must live as well as they could on what might

come in.

“Now is my time then,” thought the sportsman, “to try my new arrows, and

my skill in using them; and if I fail, nobody will know but George

Prest, and I can trust him for not telling. He will hold his tongue in

return for my shewing him how to get the eggs.”

Here were three different schemes,—the pits for buffaloes, a new sort of

arrows for smaller game, and a way of getting the enormous eggs of the

ostrich,—a rich and nourishing food. Truly Arnall had exerted his wits

to some purpose.

“If I succeed,” thought he, “I will give each man his due. I will own

that Harrison gave me these reeds, so much stronger and more fit for

arrows than the common sort. And I will thank Prest for pointing out how

sharp the thigh bone of the antelope is, though he did not think of

making an arrow-head of it; and Hill has the merit of the poison

altogether. And then,—if the captain should say that no other man might

have put these things together so ingeniously and made so good a use of

them,—why, then I need not mind their laughing at me as they did last

week, because I would not work in the trench. What a pity I cannot climb

trees! for then I might get these eggs without any body’s help.”

Thus thinking, Arnall went out into the plain in search of game. He hid

himself among some bushes till he saw a herd of buffaloes coming in

sight. They ran for some way, tossing their horned heads in the air and

lashing their tails; then some among them stopped to graze. Arnall

determined that if a stray one came within shot, he would take aim at

it; but it was long before any of the herd seem disposed to afford him

the opportunity, and when they did, they seemed likely to give him too

much of it. They all set off again at once, and exactly in the direction

of the bushes where the sportsman lay. He knew something of what it was

to be trodden and gored by a buffalo, as he had seen more than one man

who had been maimed by such an accident, and had heard of the deaths of

others: so when he saw the herd coming on in full trot, he had half a

mind to try whether he could not really climb a tree. If he had had

three minutes more, he would certainly have made the attempt; but it was

now too late; and all he could do was to crouch in the thicket, and take

his chance for escape. Only two entered the bushes, and they passed

quickly through, and left poor Arnall breathing space again. He soon

recovered from his terror; for, as we have said, he was not a timid man.

Looking out upon the plain, he saw that two of the herd were again

grazing, and now within bow-shot. Thinking this too good an opportunity

to be lost, he let fly one of his precious arrows. It struck the animal

in the flank, but was not strong enough to pierce the thick hide. It

broke and fell to the ground, while the startled beast, now tossing his

horns and now goring the ground beneath him, turned his flight first one

way and then another, and at length followed his companions at full

speed.

“There is one arrow gone to no purpose,” thought Arnall; “but I think I

can recover the head. I must aim at a thinner hide next time.”

He looked for and found the fragments of his arrow, and took his

station, waiting to see what game would next come by. In the course of a

few hours, several flocks of ostriches passed within sight, but at a

great distance. As Arnall watched these enormous birds, running swiftly

with their wings outspread in the wind, like sails to help their

progress, he longed to be near enough to fix an arrow in the tender part

beneath the wing where it is easiest to wound them; but they kept their

distance; and he was obliged to content himself with vowing a warfare

against them for the sake of their eggs, if they would not let

themselves be caught.

At last, he was rewarded by the approach of a troop of antelopes of the

largest kind, called Elands. As he looked at their majestic form, (like

that of the ox, only more slender,) and measured them with his eye, he

felt that if he could secure one, he would have made a good day’s work

of his hunting. Their length was, as nearly as he could measure by the

eye, seven or eight feet, and their height between four and five; and he

knew that the weight of each was seldom less than seven or eight hundred

pounds. He counted fifteen of them, and thought it would be hard if not

one of such a number should fall into his power. They came nearer,

sometimes trotting all together, sometimes dispersing on the plain, and

then collecting again. It seemed a wearisome time to Arnall, till, after

many freaks and gambols, the whole herd began to graze very near him. He

laid an arrow on the string, and disposed two more close beside him,

that he might shoot one after another as quickly as possible. Whizz!

went the first, and struck the nearest animal in the neck. While it was

staggering away to a little distance, and before the alarm had well been

given, he shot again and wounded another in the flank. The poor beast

took flight, but Arnall knew that if the poison did its work, the run

would be soon over. A third arrow which he despatched fell short, for

the troop were making their escape full speed. Arnall came out of his

hiding-place with the sort of stone-hatchet that he used for a knife,

and seating himself on the head of his victims, which were quivering in

the agonies of death, he cut their throats. As soon as they were quite

dead, he carefully cut out all the parts round the poisoned arrow-head,

and then prepared to carry home his trophies of victory. It was

necessary to lose no time, if the carcasses were to be housed before

night; so, severing the horns and gathering up his weapons, he hastened

home. There was great joy in the settlement at his success; and Prest,

the butcher, had soon formed his party, and prepared the hurdles on

which the prey was to be dragged home. They took torches with them, to

guard against the dangers of being benighted; and it was well they did;

for the procession did not reappear till two hours after dark, and

reported that the howlings of wild beasts were heard, not far off, the

whole way as they were returning. Not the youngest child in the

settlement went to rest that night till fires were lighted round the

carcasses and the dogs set to watch.

The next day, all hands that could be spared were employed in preparing

this new supply of meat for being preserved. There was a pool of very

salt water in the neighbourhood—such as occurs very frequently in that

part of the world—and the salt which had been procured from it by

evaporation was rubbed into the meat as the butcher cut it into strips;

and then the strips were hung up in the smoke of a wood fire till they

were quite dry; after which they were buried in a hole in the sand,

lined and well secured with stones. The honour of superintending the

preparation of this game was offered to Arnall; but he declined it,

asking, in preference, the favour of having George for his companion in

an excursion, and the loan of a hide-sack which had been made for

general use. George, who was not particularly fond of Arnall, and did

not know what they were going to do, had much rather have stayed to help

his father: but he felt that Arnall had earned the right of asking his

assistance, and therefore willingly accompanied him.

When they were out upon the plain, Arnall looked round upon the various

clumps of trees which grew here and there.

“Which is the highest, George,” said he, “yonder middle tree of that

copse, or the straggler to the west?”

“That to the west,” answered George, “but they are neither of them

fruit-trees, and they are not places likely for monkeys to lodge in.”

“I want neither monkeys nor fruit,” said Arnall. “They can be had nearer

home. I want ostriches’ eggs.”

George looked puzzled, for he knew ostriches laid their eggs in the

sand, far away from trees. His companion, however, explained that the

ostrich is so shy a creature, that it is impossible to learn where her

eggs are hid, unless she is watched from a distance, and even at that

distance it must be from some place of concealment, so sharpsighted and

timid are these singular birds.

“Do you get as high in the tree as you can,” said Arnall, “and watch for

ostriches on all sides. If you see any one run round and round in a

circle, mark the spot carefully, and when you are sure of it, come down.

If the birds choose to go to a distance of their own accord and to leave

the eggs (as they often do on so hot a day as this), we shall be obliged

to them for saving us a deal of trouble; but if one remains sitting, I

will go out with my dogs and make a hubbub, and put them all to flight.

While we are pursuing them, do you take the sack and go straight to the

nest, and carry off some eggs.”

“How many?” asked George.

“Why, I must tell you a little about the make of the nest. It is nothing

more than a large hole in the ground, with a little bank round it, made

by their scratching up the earth with their feet. Inside you will see

the eggs set up on end, to save room. If there should be half a dozen or

so, you may bring all; for then they can have been only just laid, and

must be good eating. If you find as many as fifteen, bring away the

outer circle, which will be eight or nine. If there are thirty—”

“Thirty eggs in one nest!” cried George. “I never heard of such a

thing.”

“Perhaps not, because you may never before have heard of a tribe of

birds whose habit is to unite in flocks that all the eggs of a flock may

be laid in one nest. As I was saying, if there are as many as thirty,

you will find some laid on the outside of the bank. They are the best

that can be got, so bring them all, and as many of the next outer circle

as you can carry.”

“And if I find any feathers,” said George, “shall I bring them too? The

time may come when we shall be able to sell them to advantage. Ostrich

feathers bear a good price in England at all times.”

“True,” said Arnall; “but when we deal in ostrich feathers, we must take

more pains to get them than just picking them up. You will find plenty

lying about the nest; but let them lie. They are good for nothing,

unless it be to stuff our pillows by and by, when we come to have

pillows again. The beautiful white feathers which English ladies wear

must be plucked from the male ostrich. The feathers of the female are of

a dark grey or black. When we get every thing comfortable about us, we

will have ostrich-hunts, and sell the feathers for three or four

shillings a-piece; but just now we want the eggs more by far.”

Arnall knew that a few snakes of the poisonous kind would be very

acceptable to Hill; so he employed himself in looking for them in the

copse, while George was swinging about at the top of the tree. There is

little or no danger of a bite when people are on their guard; and the

dogs having been trained to catch them, several were soon secured

without difficulty, their heads cut off for a present to Hill, and the

bodies put into the sack to be cooked for dinner, many people being as

fond of them as of eels. Arnall was just carrying a beautiful one,

lemon-coloured, and speckled with black, and five feet long, to the foot

of the tree, to show to his young companion, when he saw George coming

down in great haste.

“Off with you and your dogs,” said the boy.

“Which way?”

“Due east, to the left of yonder thicket, and I will follow and strip

the nest presently. They are not three hundred paces off. But where’s

the sack?”

Arnall pointed to the place in the copse where he had left it, whistled

to his dogs, and set off at full speed. As soon as the ostriches saw

him, they took flight; and as his pursuit was only a pretence, he was

not too eager to observe their motions. There was something laughable in

the way in which they sped along, one behind another, with their short

wings and tufted tails spread, and their long legs clearing the ground

as swiftly as a race-horse can follow. When they were out of sight, our

sportsman whistled back his dogs, and stood to wipe his brows and look

round for his companion. He could see no one, but supposed some rising

of the ground might conceal the lad, or that he might be stooping after

the eggs; so he walked leisurely back. Presently he came upon an

ostrich’s nest, crowded with eggs, and with so many lying round the

outside, that he was sure no one had meddled with it. He looked again

and again, and measured the space with his eye, and calculated the

direction, and after all could not make himself sure whether this was

the right nest. It was not usual, he knew, for two nests to be so near

together; but, if this were the one, he could not conceive the reason of

George’s delay.

“He is so ready-witted and so quick-handed,” thought he, “it is

impossible he should be groping for the sack all this time. I will carry

off as many as I can take, and come back with him for more. I will put

one of these feathers into my cap too, grey though they be, and give one

to him too, for a trophy. And I do not see why these skins should not

make us caps and waistcoats, under Fulton’s good management; so I shall

take these dead beasts into the shade and skin them.”

The beasts he spoke of were a jackal and two wild cats, which had

ventured near the nest for eggs in the night, and had apparently been

crushed to death by a blow from the foot of the cock-ostrich, whose

office it is to keep guard at night. Arnall tied them together by the

tails, and slung them over his shoulder, and carried also three eggs,

which were as many as he could manage without a sack; for they were each

as large as a pumpkin. All the way as he went, he whistled aloud and

shouted, but could see and hear nothing of George.

When he entered the shade of the copse, his heart misgave him, for at

last he began to fear some accident had happened. Before he had advanced

many paces, he saw the poor lad lying on his back, his face expressive

of great suffering, and one of his legs swollen to an enormous size. His

countenance brightened a little when Arnall appeared.

“I thought you would not go home without coming back to see what had

become of me,” he said.

“And what has happened to you, my poor boy?” said his companion. “Have

you been bitten by a snake, or a scorpion, or what?”

“By a horned-snake,” said George, “I did not see him till I was close

upon him, so that I could not get away: so I tried to kill him as the

natives do; but he struggled hard and slipped his neck from under my

foot; and before I could get him down again, he bit me in the calf of my

leg. I did kill him at last, and yonder he lies; but do you know, Mr.

Arnall, I think he has killed me too!”

Arnall was too much grieved to speak. He examined the wound, and tried

to ease the swollen limb by cutting off the trowser which confined it.

He gathered some leaves of a particular plant, and bruised them, and

applied them to the part, as he had seen the natives do on such an

occasion, and then told George that he would carry him home as fast as

possible.

“Can you carry me three miles?” said George. “I do not feel as if I

could help myself at all, but I will try. I should like to see father

and mother again.”

“They shall come to you if we cannot reach home,” replied Arnall; “but

let us try without losing more time. I want that Hill should see your

leg.”

“There would be little use in that,” said poor George, faintly, as, on

trying to sit up, he felt sick and dizzy.

“Put your arm round my neck, and I will lift you up,” said Arnall; but

George did not move. His companion put the arm over his shoulder; but it

fell again. George seemed insensible.—Arnall made one more trial.

“Will you not make an effort to see your mother?”

George opened his eyes, raised himself, and made a sort of spring upon

his companion’s shoulder, and then laid his head down, clinging with all

his remaining strength. Arnall used all the speed he could with so heavy

a burden, and was comforted by finding that either the air or the motion

seemed to rouse the poor patient, who appeared better able to keep his

hold, and even spoke from time to time.

“Mr. Arnall!” said he.

“Well, George.”

“There is a thing I want to tell you about making arrows. Bring me a

reed when you put me down, and I will shew you how the natives barb

them. I meant to have made the first myself, but as I can’t, I will

teach you.”

“Thank you: but do not tire yourself with talking.”

After a while, however, George began again.

“Do you know, Mr. Arnall, I think when the crops are got in, and the

houses built, and some cattle in the fields again, you will have the

Bushmen down upon you some night?”

“Well, we have sent for arms and powder from Cape Town.”

“I know: but they will be of no use if every body is asleep. I meant to

ask to be a watchman with as many as would join me, and to take it in

turn, three or four every night. I wish you would see it done, and have

all the boys taught to fire a gun.”

Arnall promised, and again urged him to be silent.

“I will, when I have said one other thing about my mother. I wish you

would tell her——”

Here his head drooped on Arnall’s shoulder, and presently, being unable

to hold on any longer, he fell gently on the grass, and his companion

saw with grief, that it was impossible to move him farther.

“The dogs will stay and take care of you, George,” said he, “while I run

for your parents and Hill. I will be back the first moment I can. Here;

I will put the sack under your head for a pillow. In less than an hour

you will see us. God bless you!”

“Stay one moment,” said George. “Tell little Mary the whistle I promised

to make her is just finished, and it lies in the hollow of the

chestnut-tree,—call it my cupboard and she will know.”

“All this will do when I come back,” said Arnall, who was impatient to

be gone. He wiped the boy’s moist forehead and kissed it. George pressed

his hand and whispered:

“Let me say one thing more, only this one. If my father had seen you do

that, he would never call you proud again; and if you would only play

with Mary Stone sometimes, and speak a little kinder to dame Fulton, you

can’t think what a difference it would make. Do, for my sake. I want

them to know how kind you are, and I do not think I shall live to tell

them. You are not crying for me, surely? No; ’tis for mother. God bless

you for those tears, then! Good bye, Mr. Arnall.”

Arnall looked back once or twice, and then George feebly waved his hand.

As many as were near enough to hear the sad news Arnall brought to the

settlement followed with those he came to seek. They made all speed; but

the whining of the dogs as they approached made them fear that they were

too late. It was indeed so, though at the first moment it seemed

doubtful whether George was not asleep. One arm was about the neck of

his favourite Rover. The other hand was over his eyes, as if the light

had been too much for him. He did not move when the dog was released. He

never moved again.

----------------------------

CHAPTER VI.

MANY HANDS MAKE QUICK WORK.

The death of George Prest was lamented as a public misfortune in the

settlement; for he was not only a dutiful son and an amiable companion,

but one of the most ready and industrious of the labourers for the

community. A sudden damp seemed to be cast over all the plans and doings

of the little society by this event, and the affairs which had been most

interesting in the morning had lost their interest by night.—The water

flowed into the finished trenches, and no one looked on but the one

labourer and Mr. Stone who finished the work; and when, the next

morning, the young corn which had been parched and withered began

already to show signs of revival, no one smiled at this promise of

fruitfulness. The little company walked in silence to their cave at

night, and seemed unwilling to be roused by the dawn. The fathers

grasped the hands of their children, as if some danger was at hand; and

it was long before any mother in the settlement would allow her little

ones to go out of her sight. It was an affecting thing to observe how

George was missed by every body;—a sure sign what a valuable member of

society he had been. His father and mother mourned him in silence, but

the little children, who could not be made to understand what had

happened, were continually asking for him.

“I want George. Where is George?” was the daily complaint of little Mary

and some of her playmates; and long after they had become accustomed to

his absence, and had ceased to mention him, his older friends felt the

same want, though they did not express it. The captain himself often

said in his heart, “I wish George was here.”

As the captain was going his rounds a few days after the funeral, he

stopped to look on while Harrison worked at the reed-house. Harrison

looked grave,—almost sulky.

“I’ll tell you what, captain,” said he, “it is too bad to expect so much

of me as you seem to do. Unless I have more help, I shall never get a

roof over our heads before the rains come. ’Tis a folly to expect it.”

“That is just what I was thinking about,” said the captain. “Mr. Stone

told me this morning that the wind has changed a little, and that he

thinks we shall be in for the rainy season ten days hence. What help

would you like?”

“As much as ever you can spare me,” answered Harrison. “If we had half a

dozen hands, the work would go on a dozen times as fast, for I lose much

of my time in turning from one thing to another, and so does my man.

Before he has brought reeds enough, I want them made up in bundles to my

hand; and before he has tied three or four bundles, he wants more

thongs. And then again the clay might be drying on the parts that are

done if it was ready, and somebody was here to plaster; and if I set

about that, I am directly told that the first thing to be done is to

cover in the part that is reared, in case of the rains coming; but then

the wood (whatever it is to be) for the roof is not ready, nor yet the

thatch: and so we go on.”

“I was sorry,” said the captain, “to call off the men I promised you at

first; but the trench was the great object, you know. Now that is

finished; and I hope the folks will be home from the hunt to-night, and

then you shall have as much help as you wish for.”

Harrison touched his cap, and hoped no offence from his manner of

speaking; but it wounded him, he said, to think how he had lost the

little help he had. It was poor George who had worked the clay, and who

had plastered the chief part of the wall that was done.

The captain himself took up the spade that lay idle, and watered and

worked the clay till he was called away; and this, and the prospect of

more help to-morrow, put Harrison into good humour again.

The hunt, of which the captain spoke, proved grandly successful. As

there were neither horses nor guns, and a very few dogs, it could

scarcely be called a hunt, in comparison with many which take place in

that country. All that could be done was to alarm the herds of buffaloes

and antelopes with noise, and so to echo the din as to drive the animals

towards the pits which had been dug and carefully covered over, that

they might not be observed by the prey. On they rushed; and though some

seemed to escape the traps by a hair’s breadth, others fell in: and when

one herd after another had been driven over the ground till dark, it was

found that out of seven pits which had been prepared, five had caught a

prey. The huntsmen then lighted their torches, and proceeded to examine

their gains; two or three of them with secret hopes that they might find

a stray horse or two out of a small number they had seen crossing the

plain in the morning. As it does not appear that there is now a breed of

wild horses at the Cape (though it is supposed there formerly was),

these were probably once the property of settlers in some neighbouring

district, who had either lost them after turning them out to feed on the

mountains, or had set them free on quitting their settlement. However it

might be, these horses appeared of so elegant a form, and so rapid and

even in their paces, that our hunters could not but long to have them in

possession; and their wishes were partly gratified. A fine grey mare was

found in one of the traps. The fear was that she might have been injured

by the fall; and great was the anxiety of the lookers on till, one noose

being securely slipped over her head, and another prepared for her

fore-legs, she was got out of the pit. She appeared to be unhurt, and

sound in every part, and began to neigh when she felt herself on open

ground again, as if she would have called all her companions round her.

One only answered her; her own foal, which came bounding to her,

fearless of all the enemies at hand. He was presently secured, and this

valuable prey led home. In three of the other pits they found three

antelopes, which were led home for stock, and in the fourth a buffalo.

He alone was destined for slaughter. He was slain and removed at once,

that the pits might again be covered over for the chance of a further

prey. It was very late before the whole was finished; but it was a

satisfaction that most of the hands thus employed would be at liberty

for other work the next day.

Before they slept, the captain and Mr. Stone had a consultation on a

matter of increasing importance.

“I am afraid,” said the captain, “we are on a wrong plan. Indeed, I hope

to find we are, for unless some change can be made in our mode of

operation, I shall be quite at a loss to know what answer to make to all

the entreaties for help in the works we have in hand. Our people seem to

think I can command labour to any extent.”

“All governors,” said Mr. Stone, “are supposed to have boundless

resources, and are doomed to disappoint their subjects. You only pay the

regular tax for your dignity. But do you think there is a proper economy

of labour in our society?”

“That is what I want to consult you about. I think not. I think we have

too many undertakings at once for our number of hands.”

“It has occurred to me,” said Mr. Stone, “that we should get on faster

by putting all our strength into one task at a time, than by having a

dozen at once on hand, with little prospect of finishing them. Look how

poor Harrison frets over his building; and well he may. The weather is

beginning to change, and instead of having three sheds, I doubt whether

we shall have one finished by the time the rains come on.”

The captain here interrupted him with an account of what had passed in

the morning; and it was agreed that building should now be the first

object.

“I could not help thinking,” said Mr. Stone, “that the women and

children set us a good example as to the wisdom of saving labour, when

they laid their own little plans for doing their appointed tasks. Have

you observed the boys making their bows and arrows, and other weapons?”

“I saw by the number they made that they must be proceeding on a good

plan. What was it?”

“The first day,” said Mr. Stone, “they sat down, each by himself under a

tree, to cut his piece of wood the right length and thickness for his

bow. It was weary work with any tool but the hatchet, which was lent

them while it was not wanted for other purposes. There was but one

hatchet among three, after all; so while Joe used it, little Tommy stood

by waiting. He would not go to seek reeds for arrows like John, because

he expected every moment that he might have the hatchet; so there he

stood, with the wood in his hand, winking at every stroke of the

hatchet, and looking disappointed as often as Joe shook his head and

began again. At last, he got possession of it; but he was very awkward,

and first chopped his wood too short, and then shaved it too thin; and

by the time he had spoiled one piece, John came up and wanted the tool.

‘Presently,’ said Tommy; and in his hurry he split the next piece all

the way up, so that it was fit for nothing. Then he lost his patience,

and cried out, ‘I wish you would look and see what Joe is doing, instead

of staring at me in that manner.’ So John turned to observe his friend

Joe.

“And what was Joe doing?”

“He was getting on little better than Tommy. The next thing to be done

was to twist the gut for the bow-string—an easy task enough: but Joe’s

hand shook so with using the hatchet, that he could scarcely fasten the

ends ready to twist. Besides this, it was all uneven and knotty, and not

fit to be used at last. ‘Dear me,’ said Tommy, coming to see, while he

fanned himself with his cap and took breath, ‘I can twist a bow-string

better than that any day.’ ‘Well, then,’ said Joe, ‘I wish you would do

my job for me, and I will do yours for you.’ ‘And while your hand is

in,’ said John, ‘you may as well do mine too, and I will make your

arrows; for that is a sort of work I am accustomed to.’”

“A good bargain,” observed the captain.

“Indeed, they found it so; for instead of wounding themselves and

spoiling their materials and losing time by going from one kind of work

to another, they each did what he could do best, and thus made a great

saving of time and labour. The three bows were finished so soon, that

the little lads were inclined to make more to change away for something

they wished for; and they have set up a regular manufactory under the

great oak. There is a block for Joe to chop upon; and a hook for Tommy

to fasten his bow-strings to; and a sharp stone fixed into a chink, for

John to point and barb his reeds with.”

“So with them the division of labour has led to the invention of

machinery,” said the captain.

“A certain consequence,” replied his friend. “Men, women, and children,

are never so apt at devising ways of easing their toils as when they are

confined to one sort of labour, and have to give their attention wholly

to it. That puts me in mind of what our ladies are doing.”

“What is that?”

“They have divided their labour according to their talents or habits,

and daily find the advantages of such a plan. My wife was telling me how

little she could get done while she had to turn from her cooking to her

sewing, and from her sewing to take charge of the children when they

strayed into the wood.”

“It was a new sort of sewing and a new sort of cooking,” said the

captain, “and I dare say it was some time before she got her hand in, as

we say.”

“To be sure; and it is clear that if each person had only one new method

to practise, and was not disturbed when once her hand was in, the work

of every kind would go on faster. My wife’s neighbours found that she

used the porcupine’s quill—her new needle—and the threads of flax more

handily than they; so they offered to do her other work, if she would

mend their own and their husbands’ clothes. She was very willing,

because she could thus keep our little girl always beside her. The child

is too young, you know, to play in the wood with the others.”

“And what becomes of them?”

“Kate goes with them to take care of them; and while she watches their

play, she plats dry grass to make hats for us all. She is a neat and

quick hand at this, and it is a work which can be done as she goes from

place to place. By the time the sun shines out again after the rains,

there will be a large light straw hat for each labourer—a very good

thing in such a climate.”

“I wondered,” said the captain, “what made Robertson steal away into the

wood so often, so steady a workman as he is; and I thought it was a new

fancy in him to have some pretty wild flower in his hat or his breast

when he came again.”

“I dare say the lovers do not turn off less work on the whole,” said Mr.

Stone, “for these few moments’ chat during the day. Did you not observe

that he is the first man in the settlement who has had a straw hat?”

“I did. Well: who undertakes the cooking?”

“Mrs. Prest; whose husband helps her with the management of the oven and

the more laborious parts of her business. Then little Betsy and her

mother are our housemaids. They stay behind when we leave the cave in

the morning, and sweep it out, and strew fresh rushes, and pile the wood

for the night fire. And between this division of labour and the little

contrivances to which it gives occasion, we are certainly better waited

on and taken care of by our wives and companions than if each had to do

all the offices of one household.”

“True: and as long as we cannot have the comfort of a private home to

each family, such a division is wise in every way. But it will not be

long before the state of things will change.”

“Even then,” said Mr. Stone, “it will be desirable to continue the same

plan till labour becomes less precious than it will be to us for months

to come. When each family has a house, let each family eat in private;

but why should not the cooking go on as at present? There will soon be

baking to do in addition, and an increase of labour in proportion to our

increased means of comfort: so that we must spare labour to the utmost

till we can get a stock of labourers who do not require to be fed and

taken care of.”

“You mean machines.”

“I mean, in the first place, the tools which will soon be on their way

from Cape Town, and which will be our simple machinery and, in the next

place, the more complicated machinery which those tools will make. When

we get such a fund of labour as this at our command, we may begin to

indulge in the luxury of having everything within our houses done for us

by those we love best, and according to our own fancy. Our society must

be much richer, one and all, than now, before I think of having one of

my wife’s Dorsetshire pies, made by her own neat hands, and baked in an

oven of our own.”

“There must be an extensive division of labour,” said the captain,

“before even that single dish can be prepared. To say nothing of what

has already been done in our fields in fencing, ploughing, sowing, and

trenching, there is much work remaining in reaping, threshing, and

grinding, before you can have the flour. Then the meat for your pie is

still grazing, and must be brought home and slaughtered and cut up. Then

the salt must be got from the lake yonder; and the pepper,—what will you

do for pepper?”

“The pepper must come from over the sea; and only think of all the

labour that will cost: the trouble of those who grow and prepare it in

another land, the boxes in which it is packed, the ship in which it is

conveyed, the waggon which brings it from Cape Town; all these things

are necessary to afford us pepper for our plainest pies.”

“And how much more would a plum-pudding cost! The flour and the butter

may be had near home; but the sugar must be brought from one country,

and the raisins from another, and the spice from a third, and the brandy

from a fourth. There could be no plum-puddings without such a division

of labour as it almost confuses one to think of.”

“No, indeed; for we must consider, moreover, the labour which has been

spent in providing the means of producing and conveying the things which

make a plum-pudding. Think of the toil of preparing the vineyards where

the raisins grow; of the smith and the carpenter who made the press

where the grapes are prepared, and of the miner, the smelter, the

founder, the furnace-builder, the bricklayer, and others who helped to

make their tools, and the feller of wood, the grower of hemp, the

rope-makers, the sail-makers, the ship-builders, the sailors who must do

their part towards bringing the fruit to our shores. And then—”

“Nay, stop,” said the captain laughing; “you have said quite enough to

show that it would cost more than the toil of a man’s whole life to make

a plum-pudding without the division of labour which renders it so easy a

matter to any cook in England. I have heard it said that the breakfast

of an English washerwoman has cost the labour of many hundred hands; and

I believe it. If we think of nothing but the tea and the sugar, we may

fairly say this; for the one comes from the East Indies and the other

from the West, and innumerable are the hands which have been engaged in

growing and preparing and conveying them to the table of an English

kitchen. Our countrymen little think how much the poorest of them owes

to this grand principle of the division of labour.”

“They little think,” added Mr. Stone, “how many kings and princes of

countries less favoured than theirs would be glad to exchange their

heaps of silver and gold for the accommodations of an English

day-labourer. Many a sovereign, who covers himself and his courtiers

with jewels, or who has absolute power over the lives and liberties of a

million of people, could not, if he would, have anything better than a

mat or a skin to sleep on: he could not, if he would, have anything

better than a wooden trencher to eat off, or the shell of a large nut to

drink out of; and as to what he eats and drinks, he might give the

wealth of his kingdom in vain for any thing so good as a plum-pudding,

or a Dorsetshire pie, or a breakfast of tea and toast. And all this,

because he and his people know nothing about the division of labour.”

“Well,” said the captain, “we are not yet in a condition to have tea and

toast; but we will try to-morrow what a division of labour will do

towards rearing a house over our heads.”

“And next,” said Mr. Stone, “in getting some earthenware utensils. I see

Harrison is in a hurry to begin his pottery. I tell him that we can eat

off wooden trenchers for a while; but I believe we shall be glad to have

a better draught than we can fetch with the palms of our hands.”

----------------------------

CHAPTER VII.

GETTING UP IN THE WORLD.

A rapid improvement took place in the affairs of the settlement within

three months. An abundant supply of food being secured by the getting in

of the harvest, the most efficient labour of the society was directed

towards the procuring of the domestic comforts for which every man,

woman, and child of them was beginning to pine. Their condition at this

time may be best described by giving a picture of a sick-room,

inhabited, alas! by Mrs. Stone, who had fallen ill of a fever in

consequence of over-exertion, and of anxiety for her husband and for the

poor little girl who had appeared too young and tender for the hardships

of a settler’s life. Mr. Stone, however, had suffered nothing beyond

temporary fatigue; and the little girl was taken so much care of by

every body, that she throve as well as she could have done under any

circumstances. The warmest corner of the cave and the softest bed of dry

grass had been set apart for this child. Little Mary was presented with

a straw-hat by Kate before her lover’s was even begun; and it was made

large enough to protect her delicate skin as well as to shade her eyes

from the glare of the sun. The first draught that was milked from the

antelope was brought to little Mary; and dame Fulton tied a charm round

her neck to prevent her being wounded by any venomous reptile. Nobody,

to be sure, thought this of any use but the dame herself; but as the

child was never stung by any thing worse than midges, the old lady

appealed triumphantly to fact in defence of her charm. The men used to

carry Mary on their shoulders to the wood and hold her up to gather an

orange or a bunch of grapes; and then the fruit was brought to the

captain or Mary’s papa as the little girl’s gift. Then the boys had a

tame monkey, and they taught Mary how to play with it without teasing

it; and they trained one of the dogs to carry the little girl while one

of the older lads held her on; and she generally took a ride every

morning and every evening, before and after work; and being thus

carefully tended and so well amused, little Mary grew fat and strong,

and her papa found, as regularly as Sunday came about, (for he could not

be much with her on other days,) that she had learned to do something

which she could not do the week before. At last, Mrs. Stone ceased to be

anxious about her child, and then she fell it herself. It was not a

dangerous illness; but it was a tedious time to herself, and a very

uneasy one to her husband, who sighed for many comforts on her account

that he would never have cared for on his own. She tried continually to

console him, and often pointed out her many blessings, and expressed her

thankfulness for the care that was taken of her. Mr. Hill who was not

very sorry to have a patient once more, was experienced as well as

attentive. He was a good deal put out at first at having neither phials

nor gallipots to send in to his patient, for he had been accustomed to

think them as essential to a sick-room as the medicines themselves: but

when he found that the lady slept as well after taking her draught out

of a coarse earthen pipkin as if it had been brought, duly labelled, in

a phial, he began to think, as she did, that it was a fine thing to have

medicine at all in such a situation, and that his importance was wholly

independent of the furniture of his surgery.

It was a happy circumstance that the removal from the cave had taken

place before Mrs. Stone’s illness began. She was lodged in the largest

of the three reed-houses which had been built, and each of which had

been partitioned off into apartments for the families of the settlement.

The invalid had the middlemost one, as being the coolest. A very good

bed had been made by sewing up a soft hide into a bag and filling it

with chaff. This was laid in one corner, on a frame supported by blocks

of wood, the second bottom being made of hide in the absence of sacking.

It is too dangerous to lie on the ground in places where venomous

insects may enter. The covering of the bed was a light, flexible mat,

woven by Kate’s neat hands. A shelf of wood rested on tressels, within

reach of the patient, on which stood a rude earthenware plate of figs

and grapes, and a basin of cooling drink pressed from the sweet orange,

and flavoured with its fragrant rind. There was a cupboard, stored with

little dainties sent in by the neighbours to tempt the appetite of the

sick lady:—sweetmeats, made of various fruits and honey; cakes of wheat

and other flour with orange peel, honey, and seeds of various flavour;

and abundance of broth, jelly, and other preparations of animal food.

The only comfort the lady wanted was that of books; but as she knew it

was impossible at present to procure them, she said nothing of her wish.

Her neighbours were very kind in coming to see her and amuse her with

accounts of all that was going on; and her husband spent by her side

whatever time his other duties allowed. She had also a well-stored mind,

and was thankful to be able to interest herself again in what she had

read when she had little idea that she should ever be debarred from

books. But with all these resources, she could not help sighing now and

then for one favourite volume or another that might improve her

knowledge and occupy her attention.

One day when she was sitting up, and when her husband was sure she was

so much better as to be able to see a new face without too much fatigue,

he brought the captain to pay her a visit.

“Why, really,” said he, when he began to look round him, “though this is

not exactly the way one would furnish a sick-room if one had the choice,

it is surprising how comfortable this place has been made.”

“I assure you,” said Mrs. Stone, “I have wanted for nothing really

necessary, and have had many luxuries. I do not believe I should have

recovered a day sooner if I had had the best room in the best house in

England.”

“Every thing needful for bodily comfort has been furnished,” said her

husband; “but it has been a daily regret to me that we could not supply

you with the independent enjoyment of books. If we could, you would have

been spared many a tedious hour when I was obliged to be away from you.”

“I have certainty felt enough of this,” said his wife, “to be more than

ever sensible that, though it is a most desirable thing that the

external comforts of life should be provided for every body, these

comforts are after all only means to a higher end. When we have all that

can be obtained in that way, we remain unsatisfied unless there be

pursuits to occupy the mind.”

“It is as a pursuit occupying the mind,” observed her husband, “that

productive industry is chiefly valuable. It has another object,—to place

us in a condition fit for a further and better pursuit: and if we stop

short when we have secured the requisite leisure and comfort, we stop

short of what we were made for.”

“I am rather afraid of our people mistaking the means for the end,” said

Mrs. Stone. “They know that they are doing their duty—that they are

employed to the best possible purpose at present, in providing for the

support and comfort of themselves and their families; and the pursuit

itself keeps their minds active, and therefore makes them happy. But I

am afraid of their going on to make this their only object, when they

ought to be reaching forward to something better. In a few months we

shall have stores of whatever we want; and it would be a pity to forget

all we have learned from books and seen in the world, for the sake of

heaping up more food and clothing than we can possibly use.”

“You need not fear, madam,” said the captain. “Our people are already

thinking of trading with the next settlement, and even with Cape Town. I

should not wonder if in five years we have a flourishing commerce,

exchanging our productions for the manufactures of England. If we should

go on working till we have a regular town of brick or stone houses, and

roads and bridges, and periodical conveyances to and from Cape Town,

with all the new objects which would be introduced by these means, you

would no longer fear our people’s not having a sufficient variety of

pursuits, would you?”

“Certainly not,” said Mrs. Stone, “because I know what is the natural

course of things where such improvements take place. We shall by that

time have a chapel and a school-house, and a library; and, however the

business of the society may be extended and varied, its members will

become more and more disposed to find leisure for the improvement of

their minds.”

“And this in its turn,” said the captain, “will tend to the improvement

of their temporal condition. We shall have new inventions and

discoveries which will help us to procure the comforts we have been used

to with more and more ease continually, and will supply us with new ones

which we little dream of at present. There are no bounds to what labour

can do when directed by knowledge.”

“We were saying one night over our fire, captain, (as I dare say you

remember,) that it is Nature that works, and that human labour only

brings her materials together. Now,—as we do not know nearly all the

materials that there are in nature, nor nearly all the different ways in

which they may be combined, we do not know nearly all that human labour

can do.”

“Witness what has been already done,” said the captain. “It is probable

that men were possessed of timber, and cloth, and ropes, and that they

had observed the power of the winds, long before they brought these

things together to make a ship. And see what human labour, working with

nature, has done in enabling men to cross oceans, and to traverse the

globe if they choose. And so it is with the steam-engine, and with all

the arts of life which raise the condition of man higher and higher.

Nature has furnished the materials ever since the day of creation; it is

human labour directed by knowledge, which makes more and more use of

them from age to age.”

“We can see no bounds to the improvements which will take place,” said

Mr. Stone, “because we see no bounds to the means which constitute them.

Nature appears inexhaustible; human labour increases with the increase

of population; to say nothing of a more rapid mode of growth.”

“What is that?” asked his wife.

“I will explain myself by and by. Natural materials and human labour are

inexhaustible, and the other thing wanted—the directing wisdom of

man—seems likely to grow forever. So where shall improvement stop?”

“Providence,” said the captain, “by which all these things are framed

and adapted, seems to work on a plan of perpetual progress, and to open

a prospect of growing brightness to all who will look far enough.

Providence points out one great truth respecting the temporal condition

of mankind which, if properly understood, would banish all fear for the

temporal prosperity of the whole race in the long run, and if duly acted

upon, would put an end to most of the partial distress which now

exists.”

“What is that truth?”

“That Labour is a power of which Man is the machine; and that its

operation can be limited only by the resources of Man.”

“And how do you mean to act upon your knowledge of this truth, captain?

You hold a very responsible situation; and I know you are not the man to

let a truth lie by idle when you have a firm hold of it.”

“I have been thinking a great deal about my duty in this matter, I

assure you,” replied the captain. “The more I consider the influence of

a government in guiding or perverting this vast power of human labour,

the more anxious I am to exercise my share of influence properly.”

“I thought,” said Mrs. Stone, “the only thing government had to do in

this matter was to let people alone, and leave labour to find its right

direction.”

“That is true,” replied the captain, “as far as the _different kinds_ of

labour are in question. It is no business of mine to pronounce a

farmer’s labour better than a shop-keeper’s, or to show favour to any

one class more than to another; but it is in my power to increase or

lessen the usefulness of labour by the policy I pursue.”

“For instance,” said Mr. Stone, “if you encourage the division of labour

to the utmost that our supply will allow, you increase its power

immeasurably. If, on the other hand, you were to use your influence in

persuading our people to work apart, each for himself, you would be

wasting, to the utmost, the chief resource of the settlement.”

“True,” said the captain; “and thus may the _energy_ of labour be

increased without bounds by encouraging the division of labour: for, by

such division, the same quantity of labour furnishes a more abundant

produce: and the same remark applies to the encouragement of machinery;

for machines shorten and assist all the operations of industry to a

greater degree than we can calculate. But I have it in my power also to

affect the _extent_ of labour. I must take care that the more mouths

there are to feed, the more industry there is in raising food. I must

allow no idleness, and see that the number of unproductive labourers is

not out of proportion to the productive.”

“You can do this in a little settlement like ours, captain; but surely

the rulers of an empire cannot?”

“It is not the duty of the English government,” replied the captain, “to

inquire who is idle in the kingdom and who is not, and to punish or

encourage individuals accordingly. This would be an endless task, and an

irksome one both to rulers and the ruled. But the same work may be done

in a shorter way. Governments should protect the natural liberty of

industry by removing all obstacles,—all bounties and prohibitions,—all

devices by which one set of people tries to obtain unfair advantages

over another set. If this were fairly done, industry would find its

natural reward and idleness its natural punishment; and there would be

neither more nor less unproductive labourers than the good of society

would require.”

“I see plainly,” said Mrs. Stone, “the truth of what you have last said,

but I want to know——”

Before she could explain what it was that she wished to learn, a message

was brought in that the gentlemen were wanted.

“Which of us?”

“Both, sir, I fancy. There has been a meeting held under the great

chestnut, and I believe it is a deputation from the meeting that is

waiting without.”

Mrs. Stone said that if her husband would give her his arm, she should

like to go and sit in the porch, and hear what was going forward. In

answer to his fears that she would be tired, she declared that

conversation, like a book, refreshed instead of fatiguing her, and that

she was quite disposed for more of it.

Hill, who was one of the deputation, was surprised to see his patient

advancing and appearing fully able to walk with her husband’s

assistance. Suiting his advice to the inclinations of his patient,

(which medical men know it is often wise to do,) he doubted not that she

would find the air reviving; and if she was strong enough to be amused,

nothing could be better for her. So the lady was soon seated in the

porch with her pillow at her back, and a log at her feet for a

footstool, and a straw hat, as large as a West India planter’s, on her

head. Little Mary saw from a distance that something was doing in the

porch, and came to look on. She had left her mamma on the bed an hour

before, and had no idea of seeing her anywhere else this day.

“Mamma! mamma!” cried the delighted child, trying to climb the seat.

“Take me up on your lap, mamma; I want you to kiss me.”

Her papa lifted her upon the seat, and she nestled with her head on her

mamma’s shoulder, and would not go to play again, though her companions

came and peeped and called her. They all looked in in turn, that they

might each have a nod and a smile from Mrs. Stone, and then they ran

away, and left Mary where she wished to be.

“Well, my friends,” said the captain to Hill, and Harrison, and Dunn,

who composed the deputation—“take a seat and tell us what is your

business with us.”

There had hitherto been very little observance of ranks in the

settlement, since the calamity which, befalling all alike, had reduced

all to one level. On the present occasion, however, the deputation

persisted in remaining standing and uncovered.

Their business was to report that a meeting of the people had been held

to consider what were their resources, with a view to providing a

permanent establishment for the captain as their chief magistrate, and

for Mr. Stone as their chaplain and the schoolmaster of the society.

They proposed to build a good house for each, as soon as the necessary

tools should arrive; and to set apart for each a specified share of the

productions of the place, till the introduction of money should enable

them to pay a salary in the usual mode. This offer was accompanied with

many grateful acknowledgments of the benefits which the society had

derived from the exertions of both gentlemen, and with apologies for the

freedom which had prevailed in their intercourse while poverty reduced

all to a temporary equality. Now that they were rising above want was

the time for each man to take his own station again, and the gentlemen

should henceforth be treated with the deference which belonged to their

superior rank.

“You are all in the wrong, my good friends,” cried the captain, rising

and throwing off his cap. “Upon my word, I don’t know what you mean. I

am the son of a tradesman, and therefore exactly on a level with

yourself, Mr. Dunn; for I have done nothing to gain a higher rank. And I

must differ from you so far as to say that such circumstances as we have

lately been in are the best test of rank, and that I, for one, would

give not a fig for that sort of dignity which disappears just when the

dignity of man should show itself. If I was on an equality with you when

we were all in danger together——”

“But you were not, sir,” said Hill; “and that was one thing which Dunn

was to have said, but I suppose he forgot it. It is because you guided

us then, that we want you to govern us now. It was because you showed

yourself superior to us then, that we want to honour you now.”

“Indeed!” said the captain. “Well, that is another matter. No man can be

more sensible than I am of the advantages of a gradation of ranks in

society, provided it be founded on a right principle: and I therefore

cheerfully accept the honours you offer me, as well as the office to

which it is right they should belong. It is for you and not for me to

judge whether I have deserved either the one or the other; and there

would be no true humility in questioning your decision. Will you be

pleased to make known to those who have sent you my gratification at

possessing their good opinion, and my acceptance of the office they

propose, and of their plan for maintaining the charges of such an

office?”

The deputation bowed low.

“I shall wish,” continued the captain, “to call a meeting of the whole

society, in order to explain the principles on which I shall proceed in

my government, and to obtain their advice respecting some regulations,

and their consent to others which I may wish to adopt for the public

good. This meeting, however, cannot be held till the return of our

messenger from Cape Town shall enable us to calculate our resources for

maintenance and defence.”

The three messengers bowed again, and then turned to Mr. Stone for his

reply. He thus spoke:

“I receive with much satisfaction your request that I will continue my

exertions as the guide of your religious services, and as the teacher of

your children. Such a request implies much that it is gratifying to me

to know. It implies that your interest in concerns of the highest

importance is not lessened by the anxieties which have pressed upon you

of late: and if not lessened, we may hope it is increased; for if

adversity does not harden the heart, it softens it: if it does not make

us discontented with Providence, it must draw us towards God.—Your

request also implies that the immediate pressure of your adversity is

past, or you would not be thinking of giving up the labour of your

children in order that they might be taught by me, or of sparing some of

your earnings for such a purpose.—Again: your request implies that you

have that opinion of my services which it has been my endeavour to earn,

and which I shall labour no less diligently to retain.—These

considerations leave me no inclination to object to your plan, except in

one particular.”

Here every body looked eager to know the nature of the objection. Mr.

Stone continued,

“The captain is right in accepting a salary for his office;—because the

benefit cannot in such a case be apportioned to individuals so that each

may afford a recompense for the good he receives. The blessings of a

good government are general in the society governed; and all ought to

pay their share for those blessings; and none can know what amount of

evil he escapes by living under such a government. But the case is

different with services like mine; and the reward should therefore be

differently given. Let every man who finds himself benefited by my

religious services bring me such a portion of his temporal goods as he

is inclined to offer. Let every father, whose children are taught by me,

set apart whatever he may think an equivalent for the pains I shall

bestow. If I find I am possessed of more than I want for present and

future purposes, I will return a part. If I have not enough, I will ask

for more.”

“If I might venture to speak, sir,” said Hill,—“this is all very well

between you and us who understand one another so well; but this is not

the rule to go upon with all pastors and schoolmasters, is it?”

“I believe you will always find,” replied Mr. Stone, “that the work of

any office is best done where the reward is proportioned to the labour,

instead of being given in the form of a fixed salary. In many government

and other offices, this cannot be done with any precision; but where it

can be, it should be; whether in the case of a pastor or a schoolmaster,

or any other labourer for the public. Magistrates, soldiers, domestic

servants, and others, must be paid by salaries; but in every office

where the benefit can be estimated in individual cases, let the payment

be made accordingly. This may be depended upon as the best way of making

the labourer exert himself, and exciting the benefited to make the most

of his exertions. May I trouble you to explain my views to your

companions?”

And then, after a few more expressions of mutual good will, the parties

separated.

When Mr. Stone turned to speak to his wife, he saw tears upon her cheek.

She was still weak-spirited, and the honour paid to her husband had

affected her. He calmed her by turning her attention to the improvement

which must be taking place in the affairs of the settlement, if its

inhabitants could thus meet to deliberate on its judicial interests.

“Yes, indeed,” said the captain, “the appointment of a deputation to

bring messages like these is a pretty good proof that we are getting up

in the world.”

----------------------------

CHAPTER VIII.

A BRIGHT SUNSET.

One fine evening, about the beginning of February,—that is, near the end

of summer at the Cape,—a very extraordinary sight was seen by our

settlers. The boys who were climbing trees for fruit perceived it first,

and made such haste down from their perches, and shouted the news so

loudly in their way home, that in a few minutes every one was out at the

door, and all formed in a body to go and meet the new arrival. This

arrival was no other than a loaded waggon, drawn by eight oxen; a scanty

team at the Cape, where they sometimes harness twelve or sixteen.

There was a momentary anxiety about what this waggon might be, and to

whom it might belong; for it did now and then happen that a new band of

settlers, or a travelling party from Cape Town, passed through the

village, and requested such hospitality as it would, in the present

case, have been inconvenient or impossible to grant. The young eyes of

the party, however, presently discovered that the driver of the team was

their friend Richard the labourer, their messenger to Cape Town, of whom

they spoke every day, but whom they little expected to see back again so

soon. It was Richard assuredly. They could tell the crack of his whip

from that of any other driver. The captain waved his cap above his head

and cheered; every man and boy in the settlement cheered; the mothers

held up their babies in the air, and the little ones struggled and

crowed for joy. The oxen quickened their pace at the noise, and Richard

stood up in front of the waggon, and shaded his eyes with his cap from

the setting sun, that he might see who was who in the little crowd, and

whether his old mother had come out to meet him. He saw her presently,

leaning on the captain’s arm, and then he returned the cheer with might

and main. A load of anxiety was removed from his mind at that moment. He

had left his companions in a destitute state, without shelter, or arms,

or provision beyond the present day. He had not received any tidings of

them; it was impossible he should; and a hundred times during his

journey home, he had pictured to himself the settlement as he might find

it. Sometimes he fancied it deserted by all who had strength to betake

themselves to the distant villages: sometimes he imagined it wasted by

famine, and desolated by wild beasts or more savage men. At such times

he thought how little probable it was that one so infirm as his mother

should survive the least of the hardships that all were liable to; and

though he confided in the captain’s parting promise to take care of her,

he scarcely expected to meet her again. Now, he had seen her with his

own eyes, and he saw also that the general appearance of the throng

before him was healthful and gladsome, and his heart overflowed with

joy.

“God bless you, God bless you all!” he cried, as he pushed his way

through the crowd which had outstripped his mother and the captain.

“Let him go; do not stop him,” exclaimed several, who saw his eagerness

to be at his mother’s side: and they turned away and patted the oxen and

admired the waggon, till the embrace was received and the blessing

given, and Richard at liberty to greet each friend in turn.

“Tell me first,” said he, in a low voice to Mr. Stone, “are all safe?

Have all lived through such a time as you must have had of it?”

“All but one. We have lost George Prest. We could ill spare him; but it

was God’s will.”

Richard looked for George’s father, who appeared to be making

acquaintance with the oxen, but had only turned away to hide the tears

which he could not check. Richard wrung his hand in silence, and was not

disposed for some time to go on with his tale or his questions.

The first thing he wanted to know was where and how his friends were

living.

“You shall see presently,” said the captain. And, as soon as they turned

round the foot of the hill, he did see a scene which astonished him.

Part of the slope before him, rich with summer verdure, was inclosed

with a rude fence, within which two full grown and three young antelopes

were grazing. In another paddock were the grey mare and her foal. Across

the sparkling stream at the bottom of the slope lay the trunk of a tree

which served as a foot-bridge. On the other side at some little distance

was the wood, in its richest beauty. Golden oranges shone among the dark

green leaves, and vines were trained from one stem to another. On the

outskirts of the wood were the dwellings, overshadowed by the oaks and

chestnuts which formed their corner-posts. Plastered with clay, and

rudely thatched, they might have been taken for the huts of savages but

for their superior size, and for certain appearances round them which

are not usual among uncivilized people. A handmill, made of stones, was

placed under cover beside one of the dwellings; a sort of work-bench was

set up under one of the trees, where lay the implements of various

employments which had been going on when the arrival of the waggon had

called every one from his work. The materials for straw-platting were

scattered in the porch, and fishing-nets lay on the bank of the stream

to dry. The whole was canopied over with the bluest of summer skies.

Dark mountains rose behind.

“We are just in time to show you our village before sunset,” said the

captain, observing how the last level rays were glittering on the

stream.

“And is this our home?” said Richard, in quiet astonishment. “Is this

the bare, ruined place I left five months ago? Who has helped you? Your

own hands can never have done all this.”

“Nature,—or He who made nature—has given us the means,” replied the

captain; “and our own hands have done the rest. Well-directed labour is

all we have had to depend on.”

“Wonderful!” cried Richard. “The fields are tilled——”

“By simple individual labour. There can be little combination in tillage

on a small scale where different kinds of work must succeed each other,

instead of being carried on at the same time.”

“These houses and so many utensils——”

“Are the produce of a division of labour as extensive as our resources

would allow.”

“There must have been wise direction as well as industrious toil.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Stone, smiling, “we have been as fortunate in our

unproductive as in our productive labourers.”

“And have you had plenty for all?”

“Abundance; because we have had no more unproductive labourers than we

really wanted, and not a single idle person in the society, except

infants in arms.”

“I don’t see that you want anything,” said Richard, laughing; “I might

have spared my journey, I think.”

“You will not say so,” replied the captain, “when you see how behindhand

we are in some things from a deficiency of labour.”

“Of labour!” cried Richard; “I can help but little there. I bring but

one pair of hands you know.—There are the oxen to be sure.”

“And much besides, full as valuable as either. The waggon will save many

a week’s or month’s work of all our people, if we consider the toil of

conveying goods from place to place with the hands only, or with such

poor contrivances as ours have been. This waggon would have saved a

store of labour if we had had it at harvest time. Many a long day’s work

did it cost us all to carry our corn in bundles, and on hurdles, or in

the few sacks we had. Such a waggon as this would have carried it in a

day, and we should have had all the rest of our labour to spare for

other things.”

“I hope,” said Mr. Stone, “you have brought the materials for a

water-mill. It is a pity such a fall of water as there is yonder should

be wasted.”

“I have brought all but such as we may get out of our wood,” replied

Richard. “It would have been folly to load the waggon with woodwork when

we have so much timber at hand. But I have brought all the necessary

tools.”

“We shall make a prodigious saving of labour there,” said the captain.

“We are obliged to keep three handmills constantly at work; and even so

can scarcely get flour enough for our daily wants. When our mill is up,

it will grind our whole stock in a week, and one man will be enough to

look after it.”

“As I had not room to bring everything,” said Richard, “I have been more

particular about a good supply of tools than about articles of

machinery. I thought we might make machinery with tools more easily than

we could make tools with machinery.”

“Very right. You brought the simple machinery by which we could make the

complicated: for both are machinery and both are tools. Tools are simple

machinery; and machinery is a complicated tool. So you have brought the

means by which we may get together the parts of a forge; and then the

forge will in its turn make and keep in repair our tools. But was the

Governor willing to advance these goods for us?”

“Perfectly; when he heard what a variety of things we hoped to send by

and by in exchange for them. I told him we were honest people, who hoped

to pay for the help we wanted: and when he heard how well we were doing

before we were robbed, he said he would trust us for the debt, for he

thought, for our own sakes, we should keep a better watch henceforth.”

“We must see to that without delay, Richard.”

“Yes, sir; and I have brought arms and powder; and we have made an

arrangement about exchanging. The Governor says it is hard upon our

settlement and others to have to send so far as Cape Town; so he is to

despatch a ship to an appointed place on the coast, only fifty miles

from hence, and there we and all the settlers between this place and the

mountains to the south are to send our fruit, and our corn, and our

hides, and ostrich feathers, and anything else we may have, to be

exchanged for powder, and iron, and any manufactured things that we

cannot get for ourselves. The convenience is so great, that among so

many settlements we can well afford to defray the expense of the little

voyage; and, when I look round me, sir, I have no fear of our not being

able to pay off our debt, if we can but keep thieves at a distance.”

When the waggon had crossed the stream (which was easy in its present

shallow state) everybody was eager to begin to unpack; but the captain

forbade any such proceeding till the morning. It was necessary that

Richard should superintend; and Richard was very tired; so, when the

oxen were taken out, the curious were obliged to content themselves with

peeping and prying under the leather covering. There appeared a tempting

store of packages, but so neatly done up, that nothing could be seen of

them but here and there the blade of a saw, or the edge of a

ploughshare, or the stock of a musket.

Some one asked whether watch should not be kept over their new wealth

during the night.—“No doubt,” the captain replied. “There was little

fear of another attempt from the Bushmen at present; but there could not

be too much care in watching.”

Arnall suggested that the watchers should be furnished with fire-arms,

and offered his own services in that case, as he was accustomed to

handle a musket. This seemed so reasonable, that Richard undertook to

produce two muskets and a small barrel of powder. Arnall was properly

thanked, while one said to another that his love of handling fire-arms

must be very strong to overcome the dislike of night-air and fatigue in

one who was so fond of his ease.

While Richard was busy upon the waggon, Arnall was seen to be talking

very earnestly with him, till Richard laughed aloud, when the gentleman

marched off with a very haughty step.

“What is the matter, Richard?” said the captain.

“Why, sir, Mr. Arnall came to beg me to transgress your orders so far as

just to unpack a razor and soap for him. He says he shall not feel

himself again till he is shaved, and I suppose that is the reason he

skulked behind so when I would have spoken to him at first.”

“He need not be ashamed of his beard,” said the captain, “for we are all

in the same plight. It is just five months since we have had a razor

among us.”

“But the best of it is, sir,” said Richard, “that I have got no razors.

It was that made Mr. Arnall so angry. I am sure I am sorry; but being

shaved myself only once a week, it never came into my mind how much

gentlemen think of being shaved every day.”

“We must forgive you an omission here and there,” said the captain, “if

we find you have had a good memory on the whole.”

“You will please to remember, sir, that I had no list, for want of paper

to make one. All the way as I went, I kept planning and saying over to

myself what I should get: and at last it occurred to me that if I could

not have pen and ink, I might find a slate: and so I did.”

“You picked one up by the road-side, I suppose.”

“Yes, sir; I found a flat piece and a sharp piece, and wrote down

whatever occurred to me that we should want; but I never once thought of

razors. There are scissors enough, however, and Mr. Arnall may clip his

chin, if he can persuade the ladies to lend him a pair.”

While Arnall was examining, and priming, and loading his piece, his

good-humour returned; and as he held up his head and paced backwards and

forwards beside the waggon, he presented a very good example to all who

wished to learn how a sentinel should look. It did not make him angry to

see the little boys imitating him in the morning, till one of them put

his hand to his chin in a way not to be mistaken. It was impossible,

however, to find out whether they were laughing at his beard or at his

wish to be rid of it.

----------------------------

CHAPTER IX.

SIGNS OF THE TIMES.

It was just such a bright morning as every body had hoped for. The

children, always ready to make a festival, had been stirring early, and

with two or three grown-up playfellows had gone into the wood for green

boughs, of which they stuck up some at the doors of the houses, made a

sort of canopy of others over the precious vehicle which contained their

treasures, and carried a waving grove about the settlement, singing and

tossing their hats. They gave three cheers to the captain when he came

forth to see what was doing; and they would have bestowed the honour of

three times three on Richard, had not his mother appeared, holding up

her finger as a signal for silence. Her son, over-wearied with his

journey, was still unawakened by the bustle before the door, and she was

unwilling that his rest should be disturbed. Eager as these boys and

girls were for the pleasure of the unpacking, they were considerate

enough to leave their hero to his repose, and marched off in silence,

resolved to wait patiently till noon, if need should be, for the

commencement of the grand ceremony of the day.

The gentlemen meanwhile were planning how this ceremony might be best

conducted. It was well worth consideration; for, as they agreed, the

introduction of machinery into a society which had depended on pure

labour was a far more rational occasion of public rejoicing than those

which, in larger communities than theirs, light up candles in the

windows and bonfires in the market-places. In rejoicings for national

victories, there is always much to trouble the spirits of many. Some are

mourning the death of friends, and others grieving over the woes of the

millions who suffer by war; and many feel shame and horror that so

barbarous a custom as war should subsist among those who profess a

religion of peace. But, on the present occasion, the joy of one was the

joy of all; and it was fully justified by the acquisition the society

had made. If some one had discovered a gold mine in the midst of their

dwellings, he would not have conferred such means of wealth as Richard

by his single waggon-load of wood and iron. Labour was that of which

there was the greatest deficiency in the community; and the means of

shortening and easing labour was therefore the most valuable present

which could be conferred. While the gentlemen understood this fully, the

children picked it up after their own manner. One had heard his father

say that if he could but lay his hand on a plough again, he should feel

as much at ease as a prince; for bread itself was hardly worth the

slavery of tillage without tools. Another had seen his mother sigh when

she looked at the tattered garments of her children and remembered that

she had not wherewith to repair the old or make new. Another had

observed the captain cast many an anxious look upon the frail walls and

slight roofs of their dwellings, and had learned, therefore, to dread a

summer tempest or a winter snow. And now the remedies for these evils

and fears had arrived. The fathers might drive the plough and rejoice in

their manly toil: the mothers might ply the needle and sing over their

easy task; and soon the thunder-cloud might burst overhead, or the

frosty winds sweep by, without fear that tender infants would be driven

forth from a tottering house into the storm. It was truly an occasion of

rejoicing; and none were more sensible of this than Richard, as might be

seen by the brightness of his countenance when he at length came out,

refreshed and full of apologies for having kept every body waiting.

The waggon had been drawn into the shade where there was open space

large enough to admit every body to a perfect view of what was going on,

for, the contents being common property, the captain desired that there

should be an equal knowledge among his people of what their riches

consisted of. The old people were seated in a row under the tree; and

the others ranged in a circle, with the exception of Richard and two or

three more, who were engaged in the centre, and Arnall, who, with a look

of prodigious importance, placed himself somewhat in advance of his

companions. He folded his arms and looked on in silence while the larger

articles were being unpacked, displayed, and carried to the place

appointed for them by the captain. But when some smaller packages

appeared, containing the carpenter’s lesser tools, or drugs, or linens

and woollens, or needles and hardware articles, &c., &c., he stepped

forward towards the captain, and proposed that, as the society was now

restored to a state of civilization, he should resume the employment for

which he felt himself most fit, and should take possession of these

articles in order to retail them to customers as before.

“By what right do you propose to take such possession?” asked the

captain, as much amused as he was astonished.

“By right of purchase, like an honest man.” replied Arnall, pulling out

a canvas bag from some corner of his apparel, and displaying a pretty

large amount of gold coin. “I did not presume upon this ground of

superiority to my companions while we had nothing among us to buy or

sell; but now that we are coming out of a state of barbarism, it is time

that we should be resuming our several stations.”

“I wonder you do not perceive, sir,” said the captain, “that a new test

of rank has been introduced by our late circumstances. Our members rank

according to the comparative utility of their labours; and many here

possess a better title than the having saved a bag of their own gold

from the flames. There are some, sir, who, while you were looking after

your gold, snatched infants from destruction, which is a somewhat

greater service to the community. Pray, to whom do you propose to pay

your gold in exchange for these goods?”

“To yourself, as governor.”

“This property is not mine. I am only the trustee in whose hands it is

placed. If you wish to trade with money, it must be in some other

society where money is valuable, which it will not be here for some time

to come.”

Observing that some of the people looked surprised at hearing that money

could be otherwise than valuable, the captain continued,

“Keep your coin, sir, and take care of it, I advise you; for I hope to

see the time when gold and silver will pass from hand to hand; but much

must be done first. We must have more productions before a regular

system of exchange can take place; and that exchange will be of the

productions themselves for some time before we find it convenient to pay

in coin: and before coin can come into common use among us, there must

be more of it than your bag holds, Mr. Arnall.”

“What is to be done then, captain? How am I benefited by the arrival of

these goods?”

“Your labour will be made easier, that is all. Labour is still the

purchase money of every thing here.”

Arnall had no heart to remain any longer. He walked away by himself,

vexed that he had let out the secret of his gold, and sighing for the

gentility of keeping a shop in preference to the drudgery of

hand-labour. Nobody looked after him, and nobody wished for his

money-bag while so many better things were spread before their eyes.

One package, directed to Mr. Stone, drew more tears from the beholders

than had been shed since the first day of their misfortune. The

governor’s chaplain at Cape Town having learned from Richard that every

book in the settlement had been destroyed with other possessions, had

sent a supply of such as he imagined would be most useful in their

circumstances. On the first day of the week the people had assembled

regularly for worship, when Mr. Stone, in addition to his addresses, had

recited such portions of the Scriptures as he could sufficiently

remember to convey the sense. It was not to be expected that his flock

in general should know and remember as much of the sacred books as

himself; but many an one was surprised and humbled to find how imperfect

and how unconnected were his own notions of the sense and design of even

the most important parts of the sacred volume. Finding amidst their

distresses the need of that which they had not hitherto sufficiently

prized, and having in Mr. Stone a friend ever ready to help them to what

they wanted, when, with a Bible at hand, they might, perhaps, have put

off the inquiry to a future day, it strangely happened that some learned

more of what was in the Bible when there was not a copy within many

miles, than they had done when there was one in every family. They were

much assisted by Richard’s old mother, whose memory was better stored

with some parts of Scripture than even Mr. Stone’s. When she found her

sight beginning to fail, she applied herself to learn that which she

could never more read; and, by the help of her good son, she

accomplished her wish. During his absence, it had been a frequent custom

for groups to gather round the aged woman in the porch, when the toils

of the day were done, to listen to a psalm, or a parable, or a

discourse, which would send them home to their rest full of calm and

serious thought. They were thus prepared to value the precious gift

which they received from the chaplain; viz. several copies of the whole

Bible, many more of the Testament, and some other works of a kind likely

to turn to the best account the impressions which late events could not

but have made upon them.

This gentleman had been thoughtful enough also to send a file of

newspapers, just arrived from England. They were by this time of old

date; but never did the most eager politician, the most anxious

speculator, open his wet newspaper at a London breakfast-table so

impatiently as the dullest and slowest of readers in our settlement

devoured every paragraph from the newest and most important to the very

advertisements of a year and a half before. Every thing was presently

forgotten for these papers; the accustomed labour, the unusual festival,

the new riches, all were nothing in comparison of news from England.

They even forgot their good manners towards Mr. Stone, peeping over his

shoulders and pressing upon him while he glanced over the intelligence

of the latest date. He was able to make allowance for their eagerness,

and with a good-natured smile gave up the sheet he held, and invited his

wife to walk with him, judging that his people might communicate more

freely, and enjoy their new pleasure with less restraint, in his

absence.

He had seen enough to fill his mind with thoughts of his own land; but

in a little while his interest returned to the society in which his lot

was cast, and he encouraged in his companion and himself the most

cheering hopes of the improvement of the social condition of all. He

directed her attention to the particular circumstances on which he

founded his hopes.

“See, my dear,” said he. “On that fall of the stream will be our mill;

in that nook our saw-pit; behind that inclosure our forge. The stables

for the bullocks are to be built yonder. I began to be afraid the sheep

and cows would arrive from the mountains before we had produce to give

in exchange for them, or a winter fold to secure them in: but there is

no saying how rapidly we may get forward now we have so many means of

saving our labour.”

“That reminds me,” said Mrs. Stone, “of what I was wishing to ask you. I

see clearly, and I suppose the most ignorant person in the settlement

sees, how useful machinery is in a case like ours, where the great

object is to save labour. But are those in the wrong who dislike the

extensive use of machinery in countries, such as England at the present

day, where the great object is to find employment for labour?”

“Clearly wrong, in my opinion,” replied her husband: “because, till the

human race reaches its highest point of attainment, there must be always

something more to do; and the more power is set at liberty to do it, the

better. Till all the arts and sciences are exhausted, till Nature has

furnished the last of her resources, and man found the limit of his

means of making use of them, the greatest possible supply of human

labour is wanted, and it is our duty to make the utmost possible saving

of it.”

“I remember,” said his wife, “what the captain said about labour being a

power of which man is the machine; and I see how it must be for man’s

advantage to economise this power to the utmost. But I cannot reconcile

this with the evils caused by the introduction of machinery where labour

is abundant.”

“I do not deny the evil,” replied her husband: “but I see that the

distress is temporary and partial, while the advantage is lasting and

universal. You have heard of the dismay of those who got their living by

copying manuscripts, when the art of printing was introduced?”

“Yes; and that many thousands now are maintained by printing to one who

used to copy for bread. The case is the same with cotton-spinning, I

know. Where one was employed to spin by hand, hundreds are now

maintained by spinning with machinery; and thousands of times as much

work is done.”

“Such a result in any one case, my dear, shows that the principle is a

good one; and if, in any other case, it appears not to be good, we may

be pretty sure of finding that the blame lies,—not with the

principle,—but with some check or other which interferes with it. Such

checks are imposed by the bad policy of some governments, and by the

want of union between the different parts of society. While the race at

large has still so many wants and wishes ungratified, it ought to be an

easy thing for any quantity of labour which is turned away from one kind

of work to find employment in another. That it is not easy, is the fault

of the constitution of society, and we should be far from remedying the

evil by repressing the principle and restricting the power of labour.”

“So you think that if labour had its free course, all over the world,

machinery might be extended to the utmost perfection without doing any

thing but good to the whole of the race?”

“I do.—And I see yet further evil in restricting the use of machinery in

any one country;—that it invariably increases the amount of distress on

the very spot. Since no power on earth can stop the improvement of

machinery in the whole world at once, it does nothing but mischief to

stop it in any one place. Wherever it is done, that place is thrown back

in the race of competition, and will soon suffer under a failure of

demand for its productions and manufactures; because, by the aid of

machinery, they can be furnished more cheaply elsewhere.”

“Then the only thing to be done is to open as many channels to industry

as possible, and to remove all obstructions to its free course?”

“Just so.—Those in power should do this by pursuing the ‘letting-alone’

course of policy; and private individuals like you and me, my dear, can

do no more than form right opinions, and when we are sure of them,

spread them. We can only influence by forming a fraction of that mighty

amount of power,—Public Opinion.”

“It will be long before we shall be wanted as advocates of the use of

machinery in this place,” replied Mrs. Stone. “I can scarcely imagine

that in our lifetime there will be any complaints of too great an

abundance of productive power.”

“When we can afford it, my dear, perhaps we may indulge ourselves with a

visit to England, and then we can judge for ourselves whether it has

been a good thing or not for our Yorkshire friends and neighbours that

improved machinery has been introduced there. If they have any trade at

all, it is owing to this cause, for they could never have supported a

competition with other manufacturing places by any means but this.”

“Your father seems well enough satisfied with his trade,” said Mrs.

Stone. “He and his people have suffered occasionally, as all do, from a

temporary glut in the market; but he has witnessed, through a long life,

a gradual and steady extension of trade with the gradual introduction

and improvement of machinery. I only wish that our settlement may have

the same experience on the small scale which will suit our numbers.

“Perhaps,” said her husband, “if we should live to see our

grand-children grow up in this place, we may be able to give them a

lesson out of our experience. I can fancy you, a venerable grandmother,

sitting at a window of a handsome stone house on yonder slope, and

saying to a grandchild,—

“‘I well remember cutting up our meat with stones, and cooking it in a

hole in the ground on the very spot where those tanpits are in use,

preparing leather enough to maintain a hundred people by its sale.

There, where the threshing machines turn out corn on which thousands are

to feed, stood our labourers with their flails, toiling to supply our

little band with a scanty provision. There, where that range of mills is

preparing dye-woods to be sent east and west, were hands which could ill

be spared once employed in chopping fuel for our nightly fires; and,

beyond, where the straw-platting and basket manufactory employs a

hundred and fifty of our population, sat little Betsy on the grass,

trying to make a frame-work of twigs. And, on that side, where the

brick-grounds and potteries extend over three acres, did our first

potter attempt his first basin, unsteady and crooked as it was, for want

of the machinery which now enables us to make such ware as we may well

be proud of. There is now not a house within a hundred miles that has

not some of our blue and white tea-ware, or a dinner service of our

yellow ware, or, at least, some of our brown basins.’”

“Some of our grand-children will surely be potters, if you be a true

prophet,” said Mrs. Stone, laughing.

“Very likely. And if they are, I hope they will be always on the watch

to introduce every mechanical improvement into their business, as a duty

to society and to themselves.”

Just then Kate was seen approaching. With many blushes, she asked

permission to speak with Mrs. Stone in private. Mr. Stone immediately

walked away, when Kate explained that her lover was gone to consult the

captain about his matrimonial plans, and that she wished to know whether

Mrs. Stone saw any impropriety in their marrying while the settlement

was in its present state. They did not mention it, she said, while every

thing was in a precarious condition, and nobody knew whether they should

remove or stay; but now that help had arrived, and there was a general

disposition to remain, her lover urged her to delay no longer, and

assured her that his work would be worth all the more to the society for

the help she could give him, as well as for the domestic comfort he

should enjoy.

Mrs. Stone was quite of Robertson’s opinion. As long as the young people

were sure of being able to provide for themselves so as to be no burden

to the society, nobody had any right to object to their marrying. In

England, at present, this was too often not the case: but in their

infant settlement, where there was more than work enough for every body,

she could see no possible objection to the parties pleasing themselves.

She offered to ask Mr. Stone’s opinion, for Kate’s further satisfaction,

though she knew very well what it would be.—Mr. Stone was within

hearing, and when the case was put to him, smiled, and said that he

should be happy to marry them on any day they might appoint. It was well

for the young people that that rule of the former Dutch government at

the Cape was given up, which obliged every body to go to Cape Town to be

married. It would have been a wearisome and expensive journey, and have

caused a great waste of time and much inconvenience to all concerned.

As it was, the affair was soon settled. The captain not only gave his

approbation, but insisted that a cottage should be built for Robertson

before the foundations of his own house were laid. Every body showed the

same good will, so that the young couple enjoyed the first-fruits of all

the mechanical labours of the settlement, taking care to repay them by

their own exertions. Harrison’s first bricks went to build their walls,

and the first pottery that came off his wheel graced their shelves.

Links and Richard (who had become a carpenter) furnished Robertson with

a complete set of farming tools, and the labourers employed their spare

hours in repairing his fences and laying out a pretty garden, which

Betsy and her young companions stocked with the gay flowers and rich

fruits which abounded in the neighbourhood. Mr. Prest furnished hides,

which were tanned by Fulton into a set of chair-bottoms and some

articles of bedding. Mr. Arnall and Kate’s brother-in-law, Hill,

ornamented the best room with some stuffed birds of rich plumage, and a

collection of the gay insects of that country. Kate was almost ashamed

of possessing ornamental luxuries, whilst so many comforts were wanting

to those who, she said, deserved better than herself; but Mr. Stone told

her that it ought to be gratifying to all lovers of the public good to

witness tokens of pure tastes as well as of good will. His present was a

range of beehives, both the stand and the hives being of neat

workmanship, and placed just above a bed of sweet-smelling herbs,

arranged and stocked by his wife. Kate determined in her own mind that

her first bottle of mead should be sent to the parsonage before the

return of her wedding-day.

The first week-day holiday in the settlement was on the occasion of

Robertson’s marriage,—a joyful day for all who were disposed to look

round and see what, under the protection of Providence, had been

effected, and what more was in prospect for the good of this united

little community.

“Let us still be united, let us still be industrious,” said the good

captain to one and another; “let us, as one man, discountenance crime,

if such a scourge should appear,—let us be tolerant of mere folly, and

honour wisdom and reverence virtue, and we shall be sure of enjoying all

the happiness a benignant Providence thinks good for us. Let us try

whether it be not true of societies as well as of individuals, that

Providence places their best happiness within their own reach.”

THE END.

London · Printed by W. CLOWES, Stamford-street.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

THE

HILL AND THE VALLEY.

=A Tale.=

BY

HARRIET MARTINEAU.

_FOURTH EDITION._

LONDON:

CHARLES FOX, 67, PATERNOSTER-ROW.

1833.

CONTENTS.

Chap. Page

1. Every Man his Whim 2001

2. Much may come of Little 2017

3. The harm of a Whim 2030

4. Prosperity 2049

5. How to use Prosperity 2070

6. Disasters 2084

7. Discontents 2103

8. Uproar 2117

9. All quiet again 2133

THE

HILL AND THE VALLEY.

CHAPTER I.

EVERY MAN HIS WHIM.

--------------

Among the hills, in a wild district of South Wales, stood a dwelling,

known to few and avoided by most of those whose curiosity had led them

to inquire concerning the inmates. This cottage was too humble in its

appearance to attract frequent notice, and there was so much difficulty

in reaching it, that no call but that of business was likely to bring

any stranger to its threshold. A narrow path led up the hills to the

foot of a steep flight of steps, made of rude stones, placed not very

securely. At the top of a slippery bank above these steps was a gate,

too high to be easily climbed, and too well tethered to be quickly

opened. When one or the other difficulty, however, was overcome, the

path lay direct to the porch of the cottage, on the bench of which lay

sometimes a newspaper or a tobacco-pipe, and sometimes a ricketty

work-basket, full of undarned stockings, according as the master or

mistress of the cottage had been sitting there to enjoy the air. No

place could be more retired than this porch, for it was nearly

surrounded by garden and orchard ground, and was screened by a thick

hedge of elder on the side where the gate was placed.

The master of this abode was John Armstrong, a hale man of seventy-nine.

Its mistress was Margaret Blake, his housekeeper, a middle-aged woman,

but as old-fashioned in her habits and appearance as her venerable

companion. They were both very strange people in the eyes of everybody

who knew them, being not only unsociable with strangers, but preserving,

as it appeared, an almost perpetual silence toward each other. They

never sat in the same room, except at meal-times. Old Armstrong avoided

the porch unless Margaret was busy within; and she looked out to see

that he was gardening, before she brought her work-basket out into the

sunshine. It was reported by the only person who had the opportunity by

invitation of witnessing their domestic habits, that Armstrong always

read the newspaper at breakfast, mused at dinner-time, and studied the

Farmer’s Journal at supper: so that Margaret did not forget her own

language was a wonder to everybody; especially as it was known that she

had parted with her parrot because Armstrong had as great a dislike to

tame birds as to dogs and cats. There was music enough, however, to

break the silence which Margaret’s own voice seldom disturbed. The

little orchard was full of singing-birds, whose notes were far

pleasanter than those of any chattering parrot. Armstrong played the

flute too; and it whiled away the time to hear him play airs that she

was taught to sing when a child on her mother’s knee. Then there were

other sounds as agreeable as music—the clinking of the chain when her

master was letting down his bucket into the well; and the creaking of

the roller on the smooth grass, and the whetting of the scythe in the

early morning. Now and then, too, Margaret had to go to the next town

for groceries and other things which were wanted; and then it was

necessary that she should speak and that people should speak to her; and

this practice, though it came very seldom, was enough to prevent her

growing dumb.

She generally went twice a year to the town, which was four miles off.

By her master’s desire, she kept so large a stock of all necessaries by

her, that there was no occasion to go oftener. He would not allow the

name of “necessary” to whatever would not keep so long as six months. As

to their food—he had the baking, and churning, and the rearing and

killing of fowls, done at home, that no baker or marketman need come

near his dwelling. His garden supplied his table, except that he

regularly brought home a joint of meat after morning service on Sundays,

the meat having been left for him at the house of an acquaintance on the

Saturday. He sometimes went out fishing, and thus varied his fare quite

enough for his own satisfaction: for he used to declare to a friend whom

he saw occasionally, that he knew not what a prince could have better

than good milk in the morning, potatoes, artichokes, peas and cabbages,

with sometimes fish, flesh, or fowl for dinner, and a well-seasoned

basin of gruel at night.

He was as easily satisfied as to clothing. The same blue coat with its

large yellow buttons, the same leather breeches, mottled stockings,

shoe-buckles, and cambric stock, had lasted him for many years, for he

only wore them on Sundays; and it was quite enough for Margaret to buy

his linen and the materials for his labourer’s frock when she purchased

her own stuff petticoat in the fall of the year, and laid in her stock

of winter oil. He would not even have more frequent intercourse with the

shoemaker, though he wore many shoes. He sent his worn shoes to town

twice a year, and new ones were always ready to be sent back by the same

messenger.

When people live so retired as Armstrong and his housekeeper, it is

always supposed that they have some reason for dreading intercourse with

their neighbours. It was believed, in the present case, that Armstrong

was a miser, and that he kept a quantity of gold by him, of which he was

afraid of any body getting a sight. It was prophesied, many a time, that

he and Margaret would be found some day with their throats cut for the

sake of this wealth. This was partly reasonable and partly false.

Armstrong did keep money by him, and it was therefore likely that he

would be robbed, if not murdered, living in so defenceless a way as his

appeared to be. But he was no miser. He had been in trade in early life,

and had lost money through the knavery of his partner. He immediately

took a disgust to business, turned all he had into hard gold, bought

this lone cottage and two acres of ground, and laid by two hundred

guineas in a chest which he kept under his bed. Not all the reasonings

of his friends about the uselessness of cash thus locked up, not all the

hints that his life was not safe, not all the petitions of his only

daughter that her husband might be allowed the use of the cash at a fair

rate of interest, could induce him to unlock his chest. He declared that

he would be cozened out of no more money; that he was resolved to leave

his child two hundred guineas, and would not put it into the power even

of her husband to lessen the sum; and as for thieves, he knew how to

fire a pistol as well as any man, and could undertake to defend himself

and Margaret and the cash-chest against more thieves than were likely to

attack him. Of course, this was taken to be avarice; but he was by no

means so careful in his expenditure as he might have been: he allowed

two-thirds of his fruit and vegetables to rot, rather than sell them or

let off any of his land; and what was more, he paid a boy for bringing a

newspaper every morning as far as the foot of the steps, where he went

to fetch it as soon as the lad had turned his back. No miser would have

done this. A small yearly income arose from some commercial concern

which was charged with an annuity to him. If any of this remained after

the expenses of repairs, clothing, &c., were defrayed, he gave it all

away the next Sunday to the poor whom he met in his way to the place of

worship, except a few shillings which he put into Margaret’s hands to

answer any sudden occasion.

One fine summer morning Armstrong went to his arbour at the bottom of

the garden to read the newspaper, preferring the smell of the

honeysuckles to the heat of the porch, where the sun was shining in. He

had left Margaret busy within doors, as usual at that time of day; and

was surprised, when he had done reading and went in for his

fishing-tackle, to find her dressed in her best, with her mob-cap and

beaver, such as the Welsh women wear, of the shape of a man’s hat. She

was putting a clean cloth into the basket which hung on her arm, and

preparing to set out.

“Why, Peg, is this the first of the month?”

“What has come to you, John Armstrong, not to know that?” said Margaret,

looking alarmed for her master’s senses. “That with the almanack hanging

there, and the newspaper in your hand, you should not know that it is

the first of the month!”

“I’ve mistaken a day, and I am sorry for it, for I had set my mind on

fishing to-day. It is too hot for work, and just the day for good luck

beside the pool yonder. You will have a cooler day and be more fit for

walking to-morrow, Peg. Suppose you let me go fishing to-day?”

Margaret stared more than ever.

“Did I ever hear such a thing before?” cried she: “I that have never

missed the first of the month since I kept your house, John Armstrong!

And what will the people in the town think? I shall have them up here to

see whether we are murdered; for they will say nothing else would keep

me at home on the first of this month. And me to have to tell them that

it is all because you have a fancy to go a fishing! And I have never

been used to be dressed this way for nothing; but it must be as you

please, John Armstrong.”

Margaret stopped to take breath; for she had not made so long a speech

since she was in the town six months before. On her master’s muttering

something about losing such a season for a good bite, she made the

exertion, however, to continue.

“If you must fish to-day, you need not keep me at home. You can lock the

door and put the key in yon corner of the porch; and then, if I come

back first, I shall know where to find it. It was my grandmother taught

me that way, when she went out and I did not want to be left behind; for

I was not fond of being lonesome then. Says she, ‘Stay at home as your

grandfather bids you, like a good girl: but if you must go out, be sure

you leave the key in the thatch.’ And so I did often and often, till

grandfather came home one day and found out my trick, and then——”

“Ay, Peg; somebody will find out our trick too; and if you come back and

find the chest gone, what will you say then? Off with you! but you will

have no fish when you come back, that’s all.”

Margaret smiled and shook her head and departed.

When she was out of sight, the old man felt restless and uncomfortable.

He was not accustomed to be crossed and put out of his way, and he

always accomplished, every day, exactly what he planned before

breakfast. He had never given up an intention of fishing before. He

wandered about the cottage. The beds were made, and everything was left

in such order that he could see nothing to find fault with, which would

have been a great relief. He sauntered about the garden, and cut off

some faded flowers, and tied up a few more, and wished it was evening,

that he might water such as looked drooping. He wiped his brows and said

to himself again that it was too hot to work. He got his telescope, and

looked seaward; but a haze hung on the horizon, and he could discern no

vessels. After a yawn, and a sudden thought that he could not dine for

two hours later than usual on account of Margaret’s absence, he began to

think of taking her advice and going to fish after all. He locked the

door, put the key into the hiding-place in the porch, walked round the

cottage to see that the windows were fast, tethered the gate doubly, and

marched off with his fishing-tackle. He turned to look back two or three

times; but no one was in sight the whole length of the little valley.

There was no sound of horse or carriage on the road below; and the

stream looked so clear and cool as it splashed among the pebbles, that

he was tempted to hasten on towards the pool above, where there was

shade and an abundance of fish. He thought no more of the heat now that

he had let himself have his own way; and proceeded whistling at a pace

which would have done credit to a man of half his years. Once more he

turned—at the top of the hill which was now to hide his dwelling from

him—and fixing his telescope, saw to his great satisfaction that all was

quiet; for the poultry were picking their food in a way which they would

not have done if a footstep had been within hearing.

The shadows were lying dark and cool upon the water; the trout were

unusually ready to be caught, and Armstrong had time for a comfortable

nap after he had caught the number he had fixed upon beforehand as good

sport. When he awoke, he resolved to hasten home that he might arrive

before Margaret and surprise her with a dish of trout, while she

supposed he had been at home all the morning. From the top of the hill

he looked again through his telescope, and saw a sight which made his

limbs tremble under him. The fowls were scudding about the yard in

terror of a dog which was pursuing them; which dog was called off by a

man who was making the circuit of the house, looking in at the windows

and trying at the door. Armstrong threw down all that he was carrying,

put his hands to his mouth and hallooed with all his might. But the

attempt was absurd. In the stillest midnight, no human voice could have

been heard from such a distance. Armstrong was soon sensible of this,

and cursing himself for all the follies he had been guilty of that day,

he snatched up his goods and ran down the steep path as fast as his old

legs would carry him. He caught a glimpse of the man and the dog

leisurely descending the steps, but when he arrived there himself, all

was as vacant as when he departed. As he stood hesitating whether to

follow the enemy, or go home and see what mischief was done, Margaret

appeared below. While she toiled up the steps, her master reproached her

bitterly with her morning’s advice, and said that if his money was gone

he should lay the loss to her charge. In the midst of her terrors,

Margaret could not help observing that it was rather hard to have one’s

advice laughed at, and then to be blamed for the consequences of

following it. She thought her master should either not have laughed at

her, or not have changed his mind; and then she should not have wasted

her money in buying him fish that he did not want. Armstrong was duly

ashamed when he saw how his housekeeper had tried to console him for

being left at home by bringing a dainty for his dinner. He helped her to

open the gate, her trembling hands being unable to untwist the rope, and

carried her heavy basket into the porch. The key was safe in its

hiding-place, as was the precious chest; and all within doors was in

perfect order. No fowls were missing; no flower-beds were trampled; but

it was certain that the newspaper had been moved from one bench to the

other of the arbour.

“How you flurry yourself for nothing!” said the housekeeper. “I dare say

it was nobody but Mr. Hollins come to play the flute with you.”

“He always comes in the evening; and besides he has no dog.”

“He is a likely man to read the newspaper, however, and I do not know

anybody else that would sit here and wait for you, as some one seems to

have done. Suppose it was your son-in-law come to ask for the money

again?”

“He would not have gone away without his errand,” answered the old man

with a sour smile; “and besides, you would have met him.”

“That puts me in mind, John Armstrong, I certainly saw a gentleman in

the wood just down below, and I remember he whistled to his dog that was

rustling among the bushes. A smart, pleasant-looking gentleman he was

too; and when I turned to remark him again, he seemed to be watching

where I was going.”

“A gentleman! Well, he is the first that ever came here to see me,

except Hollins. But now, Peg, what do you mean by a gentleman?”

“A gentleman? Why, you always know a gentleman, do not you? A gentleman

looks like a man—like a person—like a gentleman.”

“No doubt,” said Armstrong laughing. “But tell me now, would you call me

a gentleman?”

“Why, in as far as you are beholden to no one for your living——”

“No, no, I do not mean that. Look at me and say if I look like a

gentleman.”

Margaret hesitated while she said that she did not think any gentleman

commonly wore frocks of that sort; but that on Sundays, when she brushed

his coat before he went to the town, she always thought he looked very

genteel: but that this gentleman was dressed rather differently.

“Differently enough, I dare say,” said Armstrong. “I am sure I hope my

best suit will last my time; for there is not a shop within twenty miles

that would furnish me with such a waistcoat-piece as I should choose to

wear; and I like to button my coat with buttons that one can take hold

of, instead of such farthing-pieces as your Birmingham folks make now.”

“It is a pity,” said Margaret as she moved towards the cottage, “that

the gentleman did not stay to take a bit of fish, for we have more than

we can eat while it is good.”

For a month afterwards, Margaret’s prevailing idea was a superfluity of

fish. She had great pleasure in making an acceptable present; but she

could not bear to throw away money.

So much breath had been spent this day, that the inhabitants of the

cottage felt quite weary before night, and scarcely opened their lips

for many days, during which there was no further alarm.

One morning early, however, the sound of wheels was heard in the road

below—a rare sound; for though the road was good and had formerly been

much frequented when there were iron-works a few miles farther on, it

was now seldom used but by a solitary traveller. The astonishment of

Armstrong and his housekeeper was great to observe that carts laden with

materials for building, and attended by a number of workmen, were

passing by, and presently stopped at a level place at the foot of a hill

full in sight of Armstrong’s dwelling. He now, for the first time,

perceived that the ground was marked out by stakes driven in at certain

distances. Armstrong brought his basin of milk out of doors that he

might watch what was doing; and the whole day was one of idleness and

lamentation; for it was very evident, from the way that the labourers

set to business, that an iron-work was about to be established where the

wild heath and the green woods had flourished till now.

The next day made all clear. As the old man was drawing water for his

plants at sunset, two gentlemen approached the gate. As one of them was

Mr. Hollins, Armstrong advanced to welcome them.

“I have not brought my flute,” said Mr. Hollins, “for I am come on quite

a new errand this evening—to introduce to you a future neighbour, Mr.

Wallace, who wishes for the pleasure of your acquaintance.”

Mr. Wallace, the same whom Margaret had seen in the wood, explained that

he was a partner in the new iron-work, and that as his business would

lead him to be every day within a stone’s cast of Armstrong’s dwelling,

though he was at present inhabiting a house a little way off, he wished

to be on a neighbourly footing at once, and had therefore called the

week before, and was sorry to find the house shut up.

“I did not believe him at first,” said Mr. Hollins, “when he told me

that he read the newspaper for an hour in your arbour, in the hope of

somebody appearing. I never knew you and Mrs. Blake both absent at once.

How happened it?”

When the story was told, Mr. Wallace praised the garden and the

situation of the dwelling to the heart’s content of the owner, who was

always made eloquent by any allusions to his singular mode of life.

“Sir,” said he, “this plot of ground has produced to me something more

valuable than ever grew out of a garden soil. It has given me health,

sir. My own hands have dug and planted and gathered, and see the fruits

of my labour! Here I am, at seventy-nine, as strong as at forty. Not a

grain of any drug have I swallowed since I came here; not a night’s rest

have I lost; not a want have I felt: for I pride myself on having few

wants which my own hands cannot satisfy. I find no fault with other

men’s ways while they leave me mine. Let them choke one another up in

towns if they choose, and stake their money, and lose their peace in

trade. I did so once, and therefore I do not wonder that others try the

experiment; but I soon had enough of it. I am thankful that I found a

resting-place so early as I did.”

“You are very right, sir,” replied Mr. Wallace, “to judge for yourself

only; for while men have different tempers and are placed in different

circumstances, they cannot all find happiness in the same way. Even

supposing every man possessed of the means of purchasing such an abode

as this, your way of life would not suit persons of social dispositions,

or those who wish to rise in the world, or those who have families to

educate and provide for. I am glad to see you enjoy life; and I am glad

that you allow others to enjoy it in a different way.”

“As long as they let me alone, I said, sir. I own I cannot look with any

pleasure on what you are doing below; and I never shall, sir. It is very

hard that we tenants of the wilderness cannot be left in peace. The

birds will be driven from yonder wood, the fishes will be poisoned in

the streams, and where my eye has rested with pleasure on the purple

heath, I shall see brick walls and a column of smoke. I call this very

hard; and though I mean no offence to you, sir, personally, I must say I

wish you had carried your schemes anywhere else.”

“I am sorry our undertaking is so offensive to you,” said Mr. Wallace:

“but I trust, when you see some hundreds of human beings thriving where

there are now only woodcocks and trout, you will be reconciled to the

change.”

“Never, sir, never. Let your gangs of labourers go where there is no

beauty to be spoiled and no peaceable inhabitants to be injured. There

is space enough in the wide world where they will be welcome.”

Mr. Hollins touched the arm of the stranger as a hint to vex the old man

no further by opposition. Mr. Wallace therefore changed the course of

conversation, and soon won the regard of his host by admiring his

flowers and shrubs, and remarking on the fine promise of fruit, all

which he could do with perfect sincerity. When he went away, Armstrong

invited him to come whenever he liked, if—and here he sighed—he should

remain in the neighbourhood.

“What do you think of my old friend?” asked Mr. Hollins, as he descended

the hill with his companion.

“It gives one pleasure to see so fine an old man, and there are few who

enjoy life so much at his age: but it would not do to have many fall in

love with his way of living.”

“O no,” replied Mr. Hollins: “it is very well for one here and there who

can afford it to indulge his own fancy as to his mode of life: but I do

not know what the world would come to if our young men did no more for

society than Armstrong. He takes up more room to much less purpose than

could be afforded to people in general. I really grudge the quantity of

food I see rotting in his garden every year; and I am sure if he was

aware how many thousands are in want of it, he would give up his peace

and quiet for the sake of sharing it among them.”

“It would also be a great misfortune to any but so old a man to be cut

off from all the advantages of society. The young would be ignorant and

the aged prejudiced in such a state.”

“He is prejudiced,” said Mr. Hollins, “as you perceive. But we must make

allowance for him.”

“I can do more than make allowance,” replied his friend. “I sincerely

admire the activity and cheerfulness which are so unlike the temper we

often meet with at so advanced an age. But while we account for your

friend’s prejudices by the circumstances of his life, it is no less true

that men are not living in the right way who live to themselves alone.”

----------------------------

CHAPTER II.

MUCH MAY COME OF LITTLE.

Under the active management of Mr. Wallace, the establishment of the

iron-work proceeded rapidly. It was set on foot on rather a small scale

at first, there being but one furnace erected. There was a house built

for Mr. Wallace and a great many dwellings for the labourers, so that

the place presently bore the appearance of a village. It was reported

that Mr. Wallace would be married before long, and bring his lady to his

new house; and it was observed that if any of the other partners should

come to reside, the place would be a thriving and pleasant one to live

in. Though old Armstrong groaned at the mention of every new inhabitant,

everybody else thought it would be an advantage to have as many people

settled there as could be provided with employment.

There were several partners in this concern, though their names did not

all appear in the firm. Mr. Leslie, the richest of them, lived in London

and was a Member of Parliament. He advanced a great deal of money to

carry on the works, but took no trouble in the business, besides signing

his name to papers sometimes, and receiving his large profits when the

accounts were made up. Mr. Cole was also rich. He held about one-third

of the whole concern; and was far more interested in the proceedings

than Mr. Leslie. He came now and then to see what was doing, found fault

with everything, contradicted Mr. Wallace’s orders, and when he had done

all he could to put everybody out, went away, promising to repeat his

visit by and by, and if he was better satisfied, to send his son to

learn business and qualify himself to take a share in time. Mr. Bernard,

the third partner, had sons whom he wished to be instructed in the

management of an iron-work, and he resolved to settle himself and his

whole family on the spot, and to be an acting partner. Mr. Wallace was

very glad of this; for he was young and had not had much experience of

business, and felt the responsibility of his present situation very

great. He had a high opinion of Mr. Bernard in every way, and hoped that

if his own zeal and industry were supported by the talent and experience

of his partner, the concern would prosper. He was sorry that some time

must elapse before the Bernard family could come; but this afforded the

better opportunity for getting everything into order before their

arrival.

Mr. Wallace was possessed of less property than any of his partners; but

he held a good share of the concern in consideration of his devoting his

whole time and exertions to business. His great-grandfather had begun

the world without a shilling. He was a labourer, and by his skill and

industry he managed to earn rather more than was sufficient to feed and

clothe his family of four children. He thought within himself whether he

should lay by the surplus to set his young people forward in the same

way of life with himself, or whether he should give it them in the shape

of such an education as he could procure for them. He was too sensible a

man to think of spending money in indulgences for himself or them, for

no better reason than that he had it by him. He chose the wisest way: he

put out at interest a sum sufficient to secure him against want in case

of sickness or old age, and employed the rest in giving his children a

good plain education, which fitted them for a somewhat higher occupation

than his own. His eldest son was first apprentice and then shopman to a

linen-draper, and was at last made a partner, and left a little capital

to his son, our Mr. Wallace’s father, who stocked a shop and rose in the

world so as to be able to leave his son a few thousand pounds, which he

embarked, as we have seen, in an iron-work which promised large profits.

Mr. Wallace never forgot how his little fortune had come to him. He was

accustomed to say to his friend Mr. Bernard, that it arose out of labour

and grew by means of saving; and that if it was henceforth to increase,

it must be in the same way: so he was not sparing of his labour, and was

careful to spend less than his income that his capital might grow.

When he came to establish the iron-work, he did not bring all his own

capital or that of his partners in the form of money. Their capital was

divided into three parts—the implements of labour, the materials on

which labour was to be employed, and the subsistence of the labourers;

or—which is the same thing—the money which would enable the labourers to

purchase their subsistence. In the first division were comprehended the

blast-furnace, the refineries, the forge, and mill, with all their

machinery, and the tools of the labourers. All these may be termed

instruments of labour. In the second division were reckoned the iron

ore, the coal and limestone, which were purchased with the estate. In

the third division were included the wages of the work-people. This

division of the capital would have remained unaltered whether the people

had been paid for their labour in bread and clothes and habitations, or

in wages which enabled them to purchase these necessaries. It was merely

as a matter of convenience to both parties, that the wages were paid in

money; and indeed, in some cases, the men preferred having a cottage and

less wages, to more wages and no dwelling. However this matter was

settled, Mr. Wallace always considered that his capital consisted of the

three parts,—implements of labour, the materials on which labour is

employed, and the subsistence of labourers. Capital may exist in one

only of these forms, or in two, or, as we have seen, in three; but it

cannot exist in any form which does not belong to one of these three

divisions.

It gave Mr. Wallace great pleasure to go round the works and see how the

employment of this capital afforded subsistence to nearly three hundred

people, and to remember that the productions of their labour would

promote the comfort and convenience of many hundreds or thousands more

in the distant places to which the iron of this district was carried. He

made this remark one day to his friend Mr. Hollins, when he was taking

him round the works and pointing out what progress had been made since

his last visit. “It is indeed rather better employed than if it were

locked up in a chest,” said Mr. Hollins. “I wish we could persuade our

old friend on the hill to invest his two hundred guineas in your

concern. His daughter would be very glad of the proceeds; you would be

glad of the increase of capital; more iron would be prepared for the use

of society, and more labourers provided for here.”

“Two hundred guineas would certainly go some little way towards

procuring all these advantages, and the least of them would be

preferable to letting the guineas lie by as useless as so many pebbles.

Not one of all the owners of capital round us would be guilty of such a

waste of the resources by which society must live.”

“And, pray, how many capitalists do you reckon beside yourself?” said a

voice near.

The gentleman turned and saw a strange-looking figure standing just

behind them, whom Mr. Wallace remembered to have seen repeatedly, within

a few days. He was a strong, hearty-looking man of about thirty, with a

cheerful countenance, but a most destitute appearance. His clothes hung

in tatters about him; he had neither hat, shoes, nor stockings. He had

lingered about the place for some time; now seating himself on the hills

near and watching the labourers for hours, and then coming down to talk

with them till sent away by the overlooker.

“Pray who may you be, friend?” asked Mr. Wallace.

“If it suits you to call me Paul, that name will do as well as another,”

said the man. “And if you want to know my profession, I will tell you

that I am just about making my choice; and if you further inquire what

is my business here, I answer that I am come to suit myself.”

“Indeed! you seem to make very sure of suiting me,” said Mr. Wallace.

“But I would have you know we allow no idlers on our premises.”

“Show me the hardest labourer in your works, and I will engage to do

more than he.”

“In which department.?”

“Why, it would be bad policy to own oneself ignorant of all; so I came

down this morning to find out which sort of labour is best paid; and to

that I will swear myself equal. But I think I must begin humbly; so,

suppose I take a pick and work at the tunnel? I will tell you to-morrow

how my new way of life suits me. So good morning.”

“Stop, Sir. Let us hear a little of your old way of life, if you please.

I should like to know where you picked up so much assurance. I thought

you were a beggar and not a labourer. There is no difficulty in getting

employment in this neighbourhood, and the lowest wages that ever were

given would find you better clothing than that you have on.”

“Very true,” said Paul. “You are right in every particular. I have been

idle, as far as the labour of the hands is concerned, for nearly six

months; but I have all the time been busy observing and reflecting, in

which occupation my neighbours have been kind enough to indulge me, by

giving me food as often as I said I was hungry.”

“And pray what were you six months ago?”

“That I will leave untold, that you may have the amusement of guessing

how it is that I speak so little like either a beggar or a labourer. All

that you are concerned with is, what I am now. I am a man with a strong

pair of arms to work, and a strong mind to persevere.”

“I am afraid that you are too proud a gentleman to work under the eye of

the overlooker, which you must do if you work for me at all.”

“What matters it to me where the overlooker stands, as long as he does

not hinder my work? None but knaves fear being watched, and I am an

honest man.”

“If your account of yourself be true, it is a pity you should be a

beggar. I will call the overlooker and bid him set you to work.”

“First answer me, unless you have any objection, the question with which

I introduced myself to you. Remember how many of your inquiries I have

answered, and be pleased to observe that the tunnel-workmen are going to

dinner, so that I have nearly an hour before me, which might hang heavy

as I have no dinner to eat.”

The gentlemen were so amused at the oddity of this man, that they did

not walk away, as many would have done after such a speech. Paul’s

manner, though free, was not disrespectful, and his language testified

that he must have held a superior situation to that in which he now

appeared.

“Am I to refer your hint about a dinner,” said Mr. Wallace, laughing,

“to your old trade, or your new one? Are you begging your dinner, or do

you wish for it as wages in advance?”

“Neither the one nor the other, sir. I used to wait for my dinner till

seven for fashion’s sake; and now I can wait till six for honesty’s

sake. By that time I hope to have earned my meat; and from the moment

you promised me work, I gave up begging. I shall beg no more.”

Mr. Wallace thought, however, it would not be fair play to let Paul

begin his labours hungry. He called to Briggs, one of the cokers, and

asked if he had more dinner in his basket than he wanted. He had.

“Well, then, give this man some, and he will pay you to-night, and if he

does not, I will.”

“And now,” said Paul, after apologizing for eating in the gentleman’s

presence, “will you tell me who are capitalists here besides yourself?”

“Every man about the works might be so, except perhaps yourself, Paul;

and you may be a capitalist six hours hence.”

“That depends upon what we mean by the word,” said Paul, smiling. “Do

you mean by capital, something produced with a view to further

production, or any production which may be exchanged for some other

production? There is a vast difference between the two.”

“A great difference indeed,” observed Mr. Hollins. “Parry, the

overlooker, is a capitalist, for he has saved money enough to build

yonder cottage, which he lets at a rent of five pounds a year; but is

Briggs, the coker, a capitalist? He has property, I know; a bed, a

table, and a few chairs, and other articles of furniture; but as these

are not instrumental to further production, can they be called capital?”

“In a certain sense they might,” said Mr. Wallace; “for they might be

turned into money, which could be employed productively. Furniture is

one way of investing capital, though not a profitable one; but when I

spoke of all our people being capitalists, I meant that all earned more

than is absolutely necessary for them to spend; which is, I believe, the

case, in the present prosperous state of our trade. Every man does, I

believe, possess more than food for the hour, always excepting Paul: and

that possession whether it be a shilling or fifty pounds, is capital at

the time it is received, whether it be afterwards invested in furniture,

which might be sold again, or lent out at interest, or made productive

in any other way.”

“But if that only is capital which is produced with a view to further

production,” said Mr. Hollins, “I hope there are a good many among your

three hundred labourers who are capitalists in this sense.”

“Several,” said Mr. Wallace; “and such I reckon benefactors to society;

but there are also many who, having a roof over their heads and

something to cover them, are satisfied, and spend all their earnings as

fast as they get them in a way which brings no return. Such men become,

sooner or later, a burden to the community.”

A deep sigh from Paul made the gentlemen look at him, and they were

struck with the melancholy expression of his countenance. When he saw

that he was observed, he roused himself and put in his word again.

“I have heard people say you may see plants grow in a thunder-shower,

and that the sun sees a baby grow in a summer’s day; but neither is so

easy to be seen as the growth of capital. I should like to be by at the

opening of a new iron-work,—not with all the helps that we have about us

here,—but where people had only their wits and their hands to depend

upon. That would be the place to watch capital from its birth, through

all the stages of its nursing till it was full grown like yours.”

“Let us hear your notion of the process, Paul.

“I suppose it might occur to a shrewd man, finding a lump of the mineral

melted in a very hot fire and hardened again, that it would make better

tools than wood. He would heat his lump, and beat it with stones while

it was hot, and bend it and notch it and sharpen it in a rude way, till

he would be so much better off for tools than his neighbours, that they

would try to get some like his. If they could not find any more

ironstone, he would use his tools to dig or pick it out of the earth for

them.”

“Then, Paul, his tools would be his capital.”

“Certainly: his tools would be capital arising from labour, and tending

to further production. His neighbours would pay him well in such produce

as they could spare for furnishing them with iron, and then they would

all set about making tools. They would soon find that they could get on

faster and better by dividing their labour, and so one would keep up the

fire, and another would see that the ore flowed into the hole as it

should do; and another would beat it while soft, and another would notch

it into a saw, and another sharpen it into an axe.”

“Very well, then. As there must be labour before capital, there must be

capital before division of labour.”

“To be sure. There would be nothing for them to divide their labour upon

if they had not the ironstone, which is their capital as much as the

man’s first tool is his.—The more tools they make, the more ore they can

procure.”

“So the division of labour assists the increase of capital.”

“There is the beauty of it,” replied Paul. “They play into one another’s

hands. Labour makes capital; capital urges to a division of labour; and

a division of labour makes capital grow. When the people we are talking

of are all supplied with tools, (which have gone on improving all this

time in the quality of the metal as well as the make of the implements,)

they begin to traffic with the next district, bartering their

manufacture for whatever productions they may agree to take in exchange.

As their manufacture improves, they get more wealth; and then again, as

they get more wealth, their manufacture improves; they find new devices

for shortening their labour; they make machines which do their work

better than their own hands could do it, till an iron-work becomes what

we see it here,—a busy scene where man directs the engines whose labour

he once performed; where earth and air and fire and water are used for

his purposes as his will directs; and a hundred dwellings are filled

with plenty where, for want of capital, men once wrapped themselves in

skins to sleep on the bare ground, and cut up their food with

flints.—So, now that I have given you the natural history of capital as

I read it, I will wish you good morning and go to my work.”

“Paul, you astonish me,” said Mr. Wallace. “How is it that one who

understands so well the history of wealth should be so destitute?”

“Do not you know,” said Paul, turning once more as he was departing,—“do

not you know that the bare-headed pauper understands well what is meant

by a kingly crown? Do you not suppose that the hungry children who stand

round a fruiterer’s door see that a pine-apple is not a turnip? Then why

should not I, clothed in rags, be able to speak of wealth? I told you my

head had not been as idle as my hands. On yonder crag I have sat for

weeks, watching the busy crowd below, as the stray sheep marks from a

distance how the flock browses by day and is penned in the fold at

night. The stray sheep may come back experienced in pasturage, and not

the worse for its fleece being torn by briars; and I, for all my

tatters, may, by tracing the fortunes of others as on a map, have

discovered the best road to my own.”

As he said these last words, he held forth his hands, as if to intimate

that they were to be the instruments of his fortune, and then, with a

slight bow to the gentlemen, hastened to the tunnel where he was

appointed to work, leaving his companions to express to one another

their curiosity and surprise.

----------------------------

CHAPTER III.

THE HARM OF A WHIM.

The report that Mr. Wallace was going to be married was true. He

disappeared in course of time; and when his agent said he was gone to

London on business and would soon be back, everybody guessed that he

would not return alone. It was observed that the house appeared to be

very elegantly furnished, and the garden laid out as if for a lady’s

pleasure; and the curricle and pair of ponies, which took their place in

the coach-house and stables, were luxuries which Mr. Wallace would not

have procured for himself.

A murmur of surprise and pleasure ran through the place one Sunday

morning when this curricle was seen standing at Mr. Wallace’s door.

Nobody knew that he was home except the agent, who was now remembered to

have been particularly strict the previous night about having the whole

establishment in good order. Before many gazers could gather round the

carriage, Mr. Wallace appeared with a lady on his arm. She looked young

and elegant, to judge by her figure, but she was closely veiled, and

never once looked up to make any acknowledgment of the bows of the men

who stood hat in hand, or of the curtseys of the women. Mr. Wallace

spoke to two or three who stood nearest, and nodded and smiled at the

others, and then drove off, fearing that they should be late for church.

When a turn in the road had hid from them all traces of human

habitation, the lady threw back her veil and began to look about her,

and to admire the charms of hill, dale, and wood, which her husband

pointed out to her. She had much taste for natural beauties of this

kind; and to this her husband trusted for the removal of a set of

prejudices which gave him great concern. She was very amiable when among

persons of her own rank of life; but, from having associated solely with

such, she felt awkward and uncomfortable when obliged to have

communication with any others. The poor in her neighbourhood, who saw

her beautifully dressed and surrounded with luxuries, while she never

bestowed a word or a look on them, supposed her to be very proud, and

did not love her the more for all the money she gave away in charity;

but she was not proud,—only shy. This her husband knew; and as he liked

to keep up a good understanding with everybody about him, and was

familiar with the ways of his neighbours, whether high or low, he

trusted to bring her round to habits of intercourse with all in turn,

and to relieve her from an awkwardness which must be more distressing to

herself than to anybody else. While she was standing up in the carriage,

pointing out with eagerness the beauty of the situation of the town, her

husband checked the horses, and held out his hand to somebody whom they

had overtaken on the road. Mrs. Wallace instantly sat down, and drew her

veil round her face, and put but little grace into her manner when her

husband introduced his friend and neighbour, Mr. Armstrong, to whom he

had promised on her behalf that she should pay a visit to his cottage

some day. Mr. Armstrong replaced his hat when aware of the coldness of

the lady’s behaviour, and after one or two civil inquiries about her

journey, begged he might not detain her, and returned to the pathway.

She was considerably surprised to learn that she should see him again

presently at church, as he sat in the same pew. There was a corner in

this pew which had been his own for some years; and it was not the

intention of Mr. Wallace, or the desire of his lady when she heard the

circumstances, that he should be put out of his accustomed place for the

sake of a new comer.

The new comer scarcely knew, however, what to think or do when Armstrong

took his seat beside her after the service had begun. The clatter of his

hob-nailed shoes as he entered, the ease with which he flung down his

hat, and then stood a minute to smooth his hair and look round upon the

congregation before he composed himself in his snug corner, were all

strange to her: but she was most startled by the strength with which he

put forth his tremulous voice in the psalm. He was heard far above all

the other singers which would have been very well if he had been thirty

years younger, for he understood music and had a good ear; but

considering that his voice was cracked and quavering with age, it was

desirable that he should now moderate its power. When the psalm was

over, Mrs. Wallace drew a long breath, and hoped that she should grow

accustomed to this sort of music in time.

“I wish somebody would give Mr. Armstrong a hint not to sing so loud,”

said she, when again in the curricle, after having undergone some bridal

introductions.

“It does not disturb those who are used to it, as I am afraid it did you

to-day. I should have prepared you for it, but I forgot to mention it.

When you hear him play the flute you will pardon his singing.”

“What a wonderful thing for a man of eighty to have breath to play the

flute!”

“Every thing belonging to him is extraordinary, as you will see when we

pay him a visit, which we will do to-morrow.”

“Why not this evening? The sooner it is over the better, if we must go.”

“He will not be at home till dark this evening; and besides, I want you

to visit him and his housekeeper in the midst of their week-day

business. You can form no idea of his usual appearance from seeing him

in his Sunday trim.”

“I cannot tell what to expect, then, for I am sure he is like nobody

else to-day. But what a pleasant countenance he has, when one has

presence of mind to observe it!”

“I hoped you would think so.”

“But where will he be this afternoon?”

“Worshipping God after his own fashion, as he says. In the morning he

pays his devotions after the manner of society,—the last social custom

he has retained. In the afternoon, when the weather is fine, he climbs

yonder peak, with a microscope in his pocket and his telescope in his

hand, and there he by turns examines the heaths and mosses under foot,

and looks out for fleets on the far horizon, repeating at intervals with

the full power of his voice, the hundred and fourth—his favourite

psalm.”

“That is beautiful!” cried Mrs. Wallace. “O let us go to-morrow. Let us

go very often if he will let us.”

On the next evening, accordingly, they went. Armstrong was employed in

his garden, looking less like the owner of so beautiful a spot of ground

than the humblest of labourers. His hat was brown and unshapely, and his

frock earthstained. He stretched out his hard hand to the lady when she

appeared, and bade her welcome. The housekeeper did not show herself, as

her maxim was, that it was time enough to come when she was called.

As Mrs. Wallace was not tired, and as she perceived that the old man was

happier in his garden than any where else, she proposed that he should

show her on what plan he arranged and tilled it. It proved very unlike

any garden she had ever seen, having all the beauty of wildness, but

poorly cultivated and laid out in a wasteful manner. It consisted of

three distinct portions,—one, half-orchard, half-shrubbery, where lilacs

grew luxuriantly out of the turf, and fruit-trees bordered the green

walks; another half potato-field, half kitchen-plot; and a third which

might have been a lady’s pleasure-garden. This part was better taken

care of than the rest, and was the old man’s pride. It sloped towards

the south, and was hedged in so securely that none could overlook it,

and it was no easy matter to find its entrance. A well in the midst of a

plot of turf, was as picturesque an object as could have been placed in

the nook near the entrance. Strawberry beds occupied the sloping bank,

and borders crowded with rich flowers completed the beauty of the whole.

“These gravel walks suit a lady’s feet better than the grass in the

orchard,” said Armstrong. “I must find time to mow those paths some day

soon.”

“I should think you must be at a loss sometimes,” observed Mrs. Wallace,

“to know what task to set about first, as you will let nobody help you.”

“I assure you, madam, I often think of Eve’s dilemma of the same kind.

But if men had no worse perplexities than how to choose between a

variety of pleasant tasks, ours would be a very happy world.”

“But Eve would have been glad of help if she could have had it as easily

as you. She would have set one to train the branches, and another to

remove the fallen blossoms, and another to water the young shoots, while

she tied up the roses as before.”

“Not if she had known, as I know, the mischief that arises as soon as

people begin to join their labours. There is no preserving peace and

honesty but by keeping men’s interests separate. When I look down, sir,

upon your establishment there, I say to myself that I had rather live

where I am if I had only a tenth part of this ground and one room in my

cottage, than own yonder white house and be master of three hundred

labourers.”

Mr. Wallace smiled, and would have changed the conversation, knowing the

uselessness of reasoning about the advantages of society with one whose

passion was for solitude; but his wife’s curiosity and the old man’s

love of the subject soon caused them to return to the topic.

“I should like to know,” said Mrs. Wallace, “what is it that shocks you

so much in our doings below.”

She could not have made a more welcome inquiry. Armstrong was eloquent

upon the inelegance of smoke, and rows of houses, and ridges of cinders,

and all the appearances which attend an iron-work, and appealed to his

guest as a lady of taste, whether such a laying waste of the works of

nature was not melancholy. Mrs. Wallace could not agree that it was. It

was true that a grove was a finer object at this distance than a

cinder-ridge, and that a mountain-stream was more picturesque than a

column of smoke; but there was beauty of a different kind which belonged

to such establishments, and to which she was sure Mr. Armstrong would

not be blind if he would only come down and survey the works. There was

in the first place the beauty of the machinery. She thought it could not

but gratify the taste to see how men bring the powers of nature under

their own control by their own contrivances; how the wind and the fire

are made to act in the furnace so that the metal runs out in a pure

stream below; how, by the application of steam, such a substance as iron

is passed between rollers, and compressed and shaped by them as easily

as if it were potter’s clay, and then cut into lengths like twigs.

Armstrong shook his head, and said this was all too artificial for him;

and that granting (as he did not deny) that nature worked as much as man

in these processes, she worked in another way which was not so

beneficial,—in men’s hearts, making them avaricious, deceitful, and

envious.

“I was going to say,” replied Mrs. Wallace, “that there is another sort

of beauty in such establishments, which I prefer to that I was speaking

of. I know nothing more beautiful than to see a number of people fully

employed, and earning comforts for themselves and each other. If people

obtain their money as they want it, they are less likely to be

avaricious than if it came to them without exertion on their part;

because the energy which they give to the pursuit in the one case is

likely to fix itself upon its rewards in the other. I do not know of any

particular temptation to deceit or envy where all have their appointed

labour and a sufficient reward without interfering with one another.”

“I have seen enough of the tricks of trade,” said the old man.

“You have been unfortunate, as I have understood,” said Mr. Wallace;

“but it does not follow that there is knavery wherever there is social

industry, any more than that every one has such a pretty place as this

to retire to in case of disgust with the world. But as I was going to

add to my wife’s description, there appears to me not less beauty in the

mechanism of society than in the inventions of art.”

“That is you being a master, like to survey the ranks of slaves under

you.”

“Not so,” said Mr. Wallace mildly, for he was not inclined to resent the

petulence of the old man. “There is no slavery, no enforced labour, no

oppression, that I am aware of, in our establishment. Masters and men

agree upon measures of mutual service, and the exertions of each party

are alike necessary to the success of their undertaking.”

“It may be so just now, because your trade is flourishing more than it

ever was before, and labour is scarce, and your people are well paid;

but they will not be long contented. When prices fall and wages must

come down, they will discover that they are slaves.”

“Never,” replied Mr. Wallace, “for this reason: there is no bond of

mutual interest between master and slave, as there is between the

capitalist and the free labourer. It matters nothing to the slave

whether his master employs his capital actively or profitably or not;

while this is the all-important consideration between the free labourer

and his employer. It is the interest of our men and ourselves that the

productiveness of our trade should be increased to the utmost; that we

should turn out as much work as possible, and that therefore we should

improve our machinery, divide our labour to the best advantage, and

bring all our processes to the greatest possible perfection. All our

labourers therefore, who understand their own interest, try to improve

their industry and skill: while, if they were slaves and their lot did

not depend on their own exertions, they would probably be careless and

indolent. In such a case, I should have no more pleasure than you in

surveying our establishment, if indeed such an one could exist.”

“You are the first iron-master, the first master of any kind, whom I

ever heard declare that both parties in such a concern had a common

interest.”

“I am surprised at that,” replied Mr. Wallace, “for no truth appears to

me more evident. How many classes have you been accustomed to consider

concerned in production?”

Armstrong laughed, while he pointed significantly to himself, and then

looked about him.

“You unite in yourself the functions of Capitalist and Labourer,”

replied Mr. Wallace; “but yours is, I am happy to say, an uncommon

case.”

“You are happy to say?”

“Yes; for if all men had followed your mode of life to this day, there

would have been no iron-work nor any other sort of manufacture in

existence, and life would have been barbarous in comparison with what it

is, and there would have been few in comparison born to enjoy it. You

would yourself have been a sufferer. You would have had no spade and no

scythe, no bucket for your well, no chain for your bucket, no newspaper

in the morning, and no Farmer’s Journal in the afternoon. Since you owe

all these things and a thousand others to the co-operation of

capitalists and labourers, my dear sir, it seems rather ungracious to

despise such a union.”

“Well, sir, you shall have it your own way. How many classes of

producers do you reckon?”

“Speaking of manufacturing produce, I reckon two,—the two I have

mentioned; and I never listen to any question of their comparative

value, since they are both necessary to production.”

“I should have thought Labour more valuable than Capital,” said Mrs.

Wallace, “because it must have been in operation first. The first

material must have been obtained, the first machine must have been made,

by labour.”

“True. Capital owes its origin to labour; but labour is in its turn

assisted and improved by capital to such a degree that its

productiveness is incalculably increased. Our labourers could no more

send ship-loads of bar-iron abroad without the help of the furnace and

forge and machinery supplied by their masters, than their masters

without the help of their labour.”

“Then the more valuable this capital is, the more abundant the material

wrought, the more perfect the machinery, the better for the labourer.

And yet all do not think so.”

“Because those who object to machinery do not perceive its true nature

and office. Machinery, as it does the work of many men, or that which it

would take one man a long time to do, may he be viewed as _hoarded

labour_. This, being set to work in addition to natural labour, yields a

greatly-increased produce; and the gains of the capitalist being thus

increased, he employs a yet larger portion of labour with a view to yet

further gains; and so a perpetual progress is made.”

“Not without drawbacks, however,” said Armstrong. “Do not forget the

consequent failure of demand.”

“That is only a temporary evil: for when the market is overstocked,

prices fall; and when the price has fallen, more people can afford to

buy than bought before, and so a new demand grows up. If printing and

paper-making, for instance, were still unknown, we should have no

newspapers; if the machinery were very imperfect, they would be so

expensive as to be within reach of none but the wealthy; but, as the

produce of both arts is abundant and therefore cheap, we find newspapers

in every alehouse, and if it were not for a duty which has nothing to do

with their production, we should see them lying in many a cottage

window. Thus the public are equally obliged to the owners of printing

presses and their workmen. These workmen are obliged to the masters

whose capital sets them to work; and the masters are obliged to their

men for the labour which sets their presses going. All are gainers by

the co-operation of Labour and Capital.”

“I was very near doing a thing the other day,” said Armstrong, “which

would have made you suppose that I was going to adopt some of your

notions. I had observed a man lingering about the hills——”

“Is his name Paul?”

“I never asked; but he was a beggar, covered with rags who used to sit

for hours watching what went on below. I was so persuaded that he was of

my opinion about your doings, that I became quite interested in him.”

“You liked him for being neither a labourer nor a capitalist?”

“Not quite so,” said Armstrong laughing; “for I would not have the poor

become beggars. I was just going to ask him to help me to get my garden

into winter order, when I found he had secured a cell in your hive. I

was quite disappointed.”

“That the drone had become a busy bee, or that he had left you to gather

in your own stores?”

“My hands are sufficient for my own business, as they have ever been,”

said Armstrong. “But I was sorry that the man forfeited his

independence, which was the very thing I liked in him.”

“Will you continue to pity him when you see his tatters exchanged for

decent clothing, his bare head housed in a snug dwelling, and his

independent tastes gratified by the beauty of his flower-beds and the

luxury of a book to amuse his winter evenings? Paul seems to me a very

extraordinary man. I expect soon to see him circumstanced as I have

described, for he works with might and main, and I imagine has rather a

different notion of independence from yours.”

In order to give Mrs. Wallace a distinct idea of what his own passion

for independence was, Mr. Armstrong invited her into his house, and

shewed her all his plans for waiting upon, and employing, and amusing

himself. He was not satisfied with her admiring his fishing-tackle, his

fowling-piece, his flute, and his books; he wanted her to acknowledge

that there was more security and peace in his mode of life than any

other;—a somewhat unreasonable thing to expect from a bride whose

husband was so differently engaged. She could not in this respect

satisfy him; but she endeavoured to conquer the shyness she felt coming

on when Margaret made her appearance, and to converse with her in her

own style; and when the lady and gentleman at length departed, they

expressed with equal warmth their hopes that the old man would long

continue to find his mode of life secure and peaceful. They little

imagined, at the moment, what was soon to happen,—they little knew when

they discussed his favourite notions over their breakfast-table the next

morning, what had already happened, to overthrow his sense of security

for ever.

After parting with his guests, Armstrong stood for some time at the top

of the rocky steps, watching the two figures winding down the hill in

the twilight. Then he recollected that he had been interrupted in

watering some choice plants, and hastened to finish his task. When he

had hung up his bucket, and put away his tools, and seen that his gate

was fastened, he leaned upon it, watching the last fading of the sky,

and listening to the brook as it rippled along. His meditations took

their character in part from the preceding conversation: for while he

repeated to himself how much pleasanter it was to observe and love

nature than to gather wealth, he could not drive from his mind the

question which had been often asked him, of what use his gold was to

him; and when he thanked God for having given him enough for his simple

wants, it occurred to him whether he ought not to dispose of the wealth

he did not use for the benefit of others; especially as there was a way

of doing so,—by putting it out to circulate and bear interest,—by which

it might be useful without losing any of its value. While so many were

in want, could it be right in him to hoard? While so many could

advantageously employ capital, could it be right that any should lie by

idle?—Such thoughts were not at all out of place in a religious

meditation; for the best part of religion is to imitate the benevolence

of God to man; and every study to do this is a religious contemplation.

Armstrong’s mind was so full of this subject, that when the darkness

sent him in doors, he could not settle, as usual, to the Farmer’s

Journal. He stirred his evening fire, and played the flute a little, and

wound up his watch, and then, supposing he must be very tired with

seeing company, he went early to bed. He did not sleep, directly,

however; he heard Margaret for some time murmuring to herself, as she

often did when darning stockings alone; then she tried the fastenings of

the doors and windows, raked out the fire, and went into her own room,

where he heard her slip the bolt, as usual. The boasted security of the

master of this cottage did not prevent its inhabitants from using as

many precautions against enemies as the richest merchant in London. Nor

were these precautions needless.

About three hours after, when Armstrong was sound asleep, he began to

dream very uncomfortably of strange noises which he took to proceed from

the machinery of the iron-work, and of a cold blast which proceeded from

the furnace when he expected a hot one. This dream appeared to last very

long, though it had in reality passed through his brain in a few

moments, at the end of which time he was completely roused by a creak

and screech of the latticed window of his room, the cold air having

blown upon him as it was opened. He started up and saw a man leaning in

at the window as if on the point of entering. Armstrong seized the

pistol he always kept by him and fired. The man retreated, but

apparently not wounded; for after some whisperings without, a dark form

again appeared at the lattice, and others moved behind.

“I will shoot as many of you as dare to come to the window,” cried

Armstrong with his loudest voice, “I am well armed, so shew yourselves

at your peril.”

He fired again, but the figure had the instant before retreated. On

listening for a moment, Armstrong thought the thieves were gone round to

attack some other point of entrance. He hastily closed the window, and

upreared the chimney board against it that he might at least hear if

they returned to his chamber. He then thundered at Margaret’s door; for

which there was little occasion, as she was up and crying out to know

what was the matter.

“Thieves; but not in the house; so make haste and get a light.”

This was presently done, and it then appeared that Margaret had as much

courage as her master. She valiantly brandished the poker while he

reloaded his pistols; and they both made so much noise in the intervals

of listening, that unless the thieves were well informed that there were

only two people in the house, they might have supposed there were half a

dozen. It was impossible to find out whether they remained at hand or

not. Windows and doors shook and rattled many times before daylight; but

whether acted upon by human hands or by the autumn nightwind, was never

known. “Hark!” was said by one or the other of the watchers perpetually,

and they wandered from window to door and from door to window till dawn,

and then very naturally started at their own shadows in the twilight.

Upon examination, which they ventured at sunrise, footsteps were visible

all round the cottage; but there were no marks of blood, of which

Armstrong was glad, among other reasons, because he detested the idea of

a prosecution, and was willing that the thieves should escape

punishment, provided he could get over the affair quietly.

“What do you mean to do next?” Margaret ventured to ask when he had done

ruminating over his breakfast.

“I have made up my mind,” he replied, “and I do not mean to change it.

We are neither of us to say a syllable of what has happened.”

Margaret nodded, for this was what she expected.

“Can you fire a pistol, Margaret?”

She had never tried, but she had no doubt she could.

“Very well; then you will do to stay with me, if you choose to comply

with my conditions. If we tell what has happened, it will put it into

other people’s heads to attack us: and it will do no good to remove the

chest, now that I have the reputation of having one. It must be for that

they came. You and I will watch by turns this winter, one going to bed

at dark to sleep till midnight, and then watching while the other sleeps

till dawn. Now, Margaret, will you stay or go?”

Margaret asked a little time for consideration which was of course

given. By dinner-time she was ready with her assent to the plan. Not

many women would have given it; but attachment to her master and her

office prevailed over the few fears she had; and the condition of

silence would not be difficult to observe if, as she expected, she

should see nobody for some months, unless indeed it should be the

thieves themselves.

Armstrong was again haunted with the idea that it would have been better

to allow his gold to circulate so that it would be robbed of none of its

value to himself, than to risk its being obtained by others in such a

way as that he should lose the whole.

----------------------------

CHAPTER IV.

PROSPERITY.

The iron trade continued for some time after this to be so flourishing,

that Mr. Wallace found himself at length quite unequal to the pressure

of business which rested wholly on him. He wrote so repeatedly and

urgently to Mr. Bernard on this subject, that that gentleman hastened

the settlement of his affairs, that he might remove himself and his

family into Mr. Wallace’s neighbourhood. He owned that after his young

partner had found the management of an iron-work with one furnace as

much as he could manage, it was unreasonable to leave all the business

to him when there were four, and when the demand for iron was so brisk

that the utmost diligence could not enable them to answer all the orders

they received. Instead of three hundred, upwards of eleven hundred

labourers were now employed about the works. More and more capital was

daily employed in the concern: and it was abundantly supplied as capital

always is, where such speedy and profitable returns are made as in the

iron trade, at the time we speak of. Many a man who found himself

getting on but slowly in a manufacture of another kind, endeavoured to

obtain a share in the iron-work. Many a farmer threw up his farm, and

went into South Wales to find a more profitable settlement. Many a

capitalist withdrew his money from concerns in London, or elsewhere,

where he had received moderate interest for it, and invested it where

the highest legal interest was willingly given. Even ladies, who had

small properties in the funds, transferred them to the hands of any

iron-master they might happen to be acquainted with, and were much

delighted with their increase of income. Some experienced people who

observed this vast flow of capital towards one point, predicted

unpleasant results. The immediate consequences were agreeable enough,

they allowed. Iron-works were established, wherever a promising

situation could be found. Smokes arose from a hundred places where the

hills where all before had been a mountain solitude. The cottages of

well-paid labourers multiplied every day; and prosperity seemed, at

last, to have visited the working classes in an equal proportion with

their masters. But the quantity of iron prepared was so great, that it

seemed scarcely possible that the demand could long remain as brisk as

at present. Any one who observed the trains of waggons on the rail-roads

of the various works, or the traffic on the canals, or the shipments at

Newport and Cardiff, would have wondered where a market could be found

for such a quantity of metal; but as long as the masters found it

impossible to keep any stock by them, or even to supply their orders,

they were very sanguine about the continuance of their prosperity, and

went on fearlessly enlarging their works in number and extent,

regardless of the warnings offered them that a glut must be the

consequence.

Mr. Wallace and his partners were more prudent than most of their

neighbours. They were mindful enough of the probability of change to be

careful how much they invested as _fixed_ capital, which could not be

easily withdrawn or transferred in case of a change of times.

_Fixed Capital_, that is, money laid out in land, buildings, machinery,

and tools, is a necessary part of the property of every one who

endeavours to increase his wealth. The farmer must have not only land to

produce grain, but ploughs and harrows to prepare the soil, sickles to

reap the corn, waggons to carry it away, barns to store it in, &c., if

he means to make the utmost profit he can of his produce. He thus

increases his wealth by fixing his capital, though his tools and

buildings and horses do not directly afford him any profit like his

_circulating capital_. That which is commonly called _circulating

capital_ is the wealth laid out with an immediate view to farther

production; such as the farmer’s seed-corn, and the wages of his

labourers. But as nothing is said in the word _circulating_ about this

farther production, we had rather find a better word. _Reproducible_

seems to us the right term. Thus, the manufacturer’s raw silk and

cotton, the farmer’s seed-corn, or the sheep and oxen he intends to sell

again, the iron-master’s coal and iron-stone, and that which is paid by

all in the shape of wages, are _reproducible capital_, because it comes

back to its owner when it has fulfilled its purpose and procured a

profit. It is clear that the business which requires the least fixed

capital in proportion to the reproducible capital must be the least in

danger from a change of times. The wine-merchant, whose fixed capital

consists only of cellars, casks, hampers, and a cart and horses, has

less of his wealth locked up in a useless form in bad times than the

silk or cotton manufacturer, who has his factories, his steam-engine,

and all the machinery connected with it. Both may have a large stock,

the one of wine, the other of raw or wrought silk or cotton; both may

complain of having their reproducible capital made unproductive by a

failure of demand; but he is the worst off who has the largest

proportion of fixed capital locked up at the same time. On a smaller

scale, the basket-maker risks less in bad times than the baker. The one

has merely his shed, and his block, and knife for his fixed, and osiers

for his reproducible, capital; while the other has his bakehouse, ovens,

bins, yeast-pails, and many other articles as his fixed capital; and

flour and fuel for his reproducible capital. If a demand for baskets and

for bread should ever cease, the baker would have a much larger capital

laid by useless than the basket-maker.

A very large fixed capital is necessary in an iron-work, and of a kind

too which cannot be turned to any other account in bad times. Land may

generally be made to produce something which is in demand; sheds and

waggons and horses may be used for a variety of purposes, but

blast-furnaces and forges serve no object but that for which they were

erected. There is, therefore, a degree of risk in thus investing capital

which ought to make reflecting men very watchful in their calculations,

and very cautious in extending their works even in the best times. Mr.

Wallace and his partners were thus cautious, while some of their

neighbours, flushed with the present prosperous state of their trade,

erected their works in magnificent style, and to such an extent that one

would have thought they had a contract for supplying the world with iron

for ever. The firm thought themselves justified in erecting new furnaces

to the number we have mentioned; but a judicious economy was consulted

in the mode of building; an economy which was smiled at by many who

appeared as lavish of money and fond of splendour in respect of their

furnaces, as of their dwelling-houses.

Mr. Wallace’s impatience that his acting-partner should come and see and

approve what was done, was at length gratified. A letter was received

one day announcing that Mr. Bernard, his two sons, his three daughters,

and their governess, would arrive to a late dinner on the next

Wednesday. It was a winter day, and darkness had come on long before

there were any tokens of the approach of the party. The housekeeper (who

had come some time before) listened to the blustering wind, and then

looked at the clock, now trembling for the safety of her young masters

and mistresses, and then vexed that her good dinner should be spoiled by

the delay. Mrs. Wallace sent more than once to know whether the

travellers had arrived. A crowd of little children, who had gathered

together, unmindful of the cold, to cheer the carriage as soon as it

appeared, were called home to bed by their mothers. The overlooker

pronounced that there would be no arrival that evening, and every body

at last hoped there would not, as the roads among the hills were very

wild and dreary, and morning was the best time to pass along them. The

travellers were approaching, however, all this time. The last stage was

a very irksome one to horses and driver, and not very pleasant to those

inside. No care could keep out the cold wind which obliged the driver to

tie on his hat, and which terrified the child of three years old who hid

her face in her papa’s bosom every time the gust roared among the hills.

Another little girl pressed close to her governess, and the lads

themselves wished that it had not been so dark; for it was impossible to

keep the lamps lighted. Their father and Mrs. Sydney—the lady who

educated their sisters—tried to amuse them by talking cheerfully; but

whenever they stopped for a moment, some little voice was sure to ask

“How far have we to go now?” “Shall we get home to-night?” “How late

will it be when we get home?”

“How dark, how very dark it is!” cried Francis. “I cannot make out

whether there is a hill on each side of us, or whether it is the black

sky.”

“It is the sky,” said his brother John. “I see a fiery flush on this

side, which I suppose comes from some iron-work near. How it brightens

every moment!”

“Ah ha! we shall have light enough presently,” said his father. “We are

nearer home than I thought. That light comes from behind the hill, and

when we reach the turn of the road, we shall see a good fire, though we

shall not feel one this half hour.”

In a moment the carriage turned the corner, and the children started up,

forgetting cold and hunger and fear, to gaze at the extraordinary scene

before them. Strange sounds rose when the gust fell—a roaring like that

of a mighty wind, which their father told them was caused by the blast

of the furnaces; and a hissing and rumbling which came from the

machinery of the forge and mill. These buildings stood on a level

beneath a sort of terrace, faced with stone, on which were placed the

kilns where the ironstone is calcined ready to be put in at the top of

the furnace. On this terrace also was the coke-hearth, where the coal

was burning in a long ridge open to the sky. The flame blazed and

flickered, and shot up in red and white spires, and disappeared and

kindled again, as the wind rose and fell; and there were black figures

of men, brandishing long rakes, sometimes half-hidden by red smoke, and

sometimes distinctly marked against a mass of flame. At some distance

were rows of twinkling lights almost too faint to be seen after looking

at the furnaces. These were in the cottages of the work-people, Farther

off was a solitary light, so far raised as to give the idea that it came

from a house on a hill The children eagerly asked if this light shone

from their home. No; it must be Mr. Wallace’s house; but their own

really was near now. Accordingly, when they had passed another reach of

the road in utter darkness, and had heard a gate swing, and knew by the

crashing sound that the carriage was on a gravel road, they saw an open

hall-door, and knew the figure of the housekeeper as she stood ready to

welcome them.

The children grew sleepy as they grew warm, and forgot the irksomeness

of their journey; and having made a good supper from what was to have

been dinner, they crept to their beds and were presently asleep.

Mr. Wallace arrived before breakfast was over the next morning, to

welcome his partner and accompany him down to the works. He brought a

message from his wife that she hoped to call on Mrs. Sydney and the

young ladies during the forenoon. Accordingly, soon after the gentlemen

were gone, the little carriage drawn by a brace of sleek ponies, and

containing this elegant young personage wrapped up in furs, appeared

before the door. Mrs Wallace’s extreme shyness infected the young

people, who were just of an age to be reserved with strangers; and Mrs.

Sydney, who was always at her ease, found it very difficult to maintain

the conversation. Mrs. Wallace had seen no one high or low, in the

neighbourhood, except Mr. Armstrong. She did not appear interested in

the manufacture going on before her eyes. She admired those parts of the

country which remained green and wild, and this appeared the only

subject on which she had anything to say. Mrs. Sydney’s chief interest

was respecting the eleven hundred people, and the families to which they

belonged, who were placed in such near neighbourhood; but she presently

found that she must learn all that she wanted to know of them for

herself, instead of being guided by the lady who had lived among them

for so many months.

While Mrs. Wallace was blushing and rising from her seat preparatory to

taking her leave, the gentlemen returned. They had come to propose that,

as it was a clear, calm day, the party should view the works and become

acquainted at once with the place and people among whom they were to

live. Mrs. Wallace drew back, evidently wishing to be excused; but her

husband urged that it was a good opportunity for doing what she could

not be expected to do while she had no lady-companion; and Mrs. Sydney

seemed to think the proceeding so very desirable as well as pleasant,

that it was soon agreed that the whole party should go together and on

foot; the curricle being sent away with orders to return for its

mistress in two hours.

Mr. Wallace explained how the ironstone, or _mine_ as it is called, is

calcined in the kilns upon the terrace which we have described. He

shewed how this substance, cleansed in the kiln from clay and other

impurities, is put into the furnace at the top with the coke and the

limestone which are burned with it, the coke to keep the whole burning,

and the limestone to unite with the mixtures of the ironstone, so that

the ore may be separated pure. They saw the filler at his stand near the

top of the furnace,—at the tunnel head, as it is called, pouring in at

the doors the materials which were furnished from the terrace. They saw

the furnace-keeper below, as intent upon his work as if his life

depended on it, watching the appearance of the cinder as it was thrown

off, and regulating the blast accordingly. He took no notice of any body

being by, and never looked up or spoke or changed countenance.

“How intent that man is on his business!” said Mrs. Sydney to Mr.

Bernard. “I suppose his office is a very important one.”

“Very important indeed. The quality of the iron produced by this furnace

depends mainly on his care. It may be, and often is, ruined without his

being able to help it or even knowing why; but it would certainly be

spoiled without incessant care on his part.

“Is it from pure fear of spoiling his work that he is so engrossed with

it, or are his wages regulated by the produce of the furnace?”

“We find so much depends on the care of the men who break the limestone

and prepare the coke, and burn the mine, and fill and keep the furnace,

that they are all paid by the ton of iron produced, in order to secure

their mutual help and the proper regulation of the whole.”

“Well, I should be sorry if this man should suffer by the carelessness

of any of the people overhead; for I never saw any thing more perfect

than his own attention.”

“He is an extraordinary man,” said Mr. Wallace, who stood within

hearing. “I cannot discover the motive to such indefatigable industry

and frugality as his. He has worked his way up in a few months from

being one of our lowest order of labourers to his present situation. He

was a beggar when we first set him to work in excavating the tunnel; and

he looks like a beggar still, though he accomplishes more work and lays

by more money than any man among our people.”

“I wondered to see him so ill-dressed,” observed Mr. Bernard.

“I told him yesterday,” said Mr. Wallace, “that I expected to see him

decently clothed, knowing, as I did, that he earned a great deal of

money, and laid it all by in the Monmouth Savings Bank, except what is

barely sufficient to procure him shelter and daily food.”

“Has he neither wife nor family to support?”

“He seems not to have a relation or acquaintance in the world. He speaks

to nobody but the overlooker and myself.”

“And what sort of intercourse have you with him?”

“I converse with him as often as we can both spare time, and always with

pleasure; for he is well, I might say highly, educated, and has the

speech and manners of a gentleman.”

“How strange! And do not you know where he comes from, and what brought

him?”

“I know nothing of him but that he is a genius and a miser—two

characters which are rarely seen united. Paul keeps his own counsel so

perfectly as to who he is and whence he comes, that my curiosity is very

strongly excited, and I would take some pains to get at the bottom of

the mystery, if I did not feel that every man has a right to his own

secret. He is an industrious and faithful servant to me, and that is all

I have any business with.”

Mrs. Sydney ventured so far as to put a question to Paul; but he was

just going to tap the furnace, i. e. to let out the fused iron,—a very

important operation,—and was therefore too busy to answer her.

“I will bring you together after working-hours some day,” whispered Mr.

Wallace to her. “If we should meet him taking his ramble on a Sunday, or

when, as now and then happens, we put somebody in his place to relieve

him for a day, he will be more disposed for conversation than now. He is

sociable enough when he falls in with any one whom he thinks worthy of

being talked to.”

“I am afraid we shall be quite looked down upon by such a high and

mighty personage,” said Mrs. Sydney, laughing. But Mr. Wallace promised

to draw him out.

The party then proceeded to the refinery where the pig-iron is refined,

and to the forge and mill where it is formed into bars. They saw the

_refiners_ take it by turns to run out their moulds of metal; and the

_weigher_ who examines their work and keeps an account of it; and the

_puddler_ at the forge who improves the quality of the metal by another

refining process; and the _shingler_ who hammers the balls of metal into

an oblong form for going through the roll; and the _roller_ and his

_catcher_ who stand on each side of the rolling machine, and put the bar

into a smaller roll every time it is handed from one to the other; and

the _straighteners_ who straighten the bars while they are hot, and mark

them with the stamp of the works where they are made; and the

_bar-weighers_ who examine the finished work; and the clerks or

superintendents who conduct the whole. The youths were as much struck as

the ladies with the grandeur of the scale on which the manufacture was

carried on, and with the ingenuity of the contrivances for aiding and

saving labour.

“What a sum of money must have been laid out here!” cried Francis.

“And what a quantity of labour that money has brought into operation!”

observed Mrs. Sydney.

“Yes, but there is nothing so very remarkable in seeing eleven hundred

people at work, as in observing what comes of such an outlay of

capital.”

“It was not merely the labour of eleven hundred pairs of hands that I

was speaking of,” replied Mrs. Sydney, “but of the hoarded labour which

does what no unassisted human hands could do; the shears and the

rollers, and all the complicated machinery which enables us to treat

iron as it were wood or clay. I suppose, Mr. Wallace, you are free from

complaints about the use of machinery; as your works are of a kind which

cannot be done by hand?”

“At present we hear no complaints,” replied Mr Wallace, “because trade

is good and wages are high, and the great object with us all is to

prepare as much metal as machines and men can get ready. But if times

should change, I am afraid we should suffer as cotton and silk

manufacturers do. We should be told of this process, and that, and

another, which might be effected with less machinery and more labour.

Rolling and clipping must be done by wood and iron, because no bone and

muscle are equal to such work; but there is much labour in preparing

limestone, stacking and loading the mine, and other processes in which

we shall be assisted by machinery hereafter; and then I expect an outcry

against such an employment of capital, though it must produce good to

all in the end.”

“To be sure,” said Mrs. Sydney. “These works would never have existed in

their present flourishing state but for the improvements in the

manufacture of iron; and if they are to be yet more flourishing a

hundred years hence, it must be by further improvements.”

“Such improvements are much wanted, I assure you; for we have much to

learn before the iron manufacture becomes nearly as perfect as many

others in the kingdom. The silk and cotton manufactures are less

difficult and hazardous, and are more improved than ours. So, Francis,

you must have your wits about you, and be always thinking what

alterations for the better must be made when the times change: for we

cannot expect our present prosperity to last for ever.”

“I see great heaps of cinders that appear to be wasted.” said Francis.

“Look at that one which is more like a mountain than a pile of

furnace-refuse. Can no use be made of it?”

“That is a question which I have asked myself a hundred times,” replied

Mr. Wallace: “and I bear the thing in mind to be considered when the

demand for iron slackens, as I suppose it will some time or other. Now

our attention is fully occupied in supplying our customers by the usual

methods, and there is no leisure for trying experiments, and little need

of new methods of economy. They will come with a change of times.”

“What is to be done with these people of yours when those days come?”

asked Mrs. Sydney. “When I look at the ranges of cottages and see how

many children are playing before the doors, I wonder whether it will

always be easy to maintain so increasing a population.”

Mr. Wallace told her that it was his constant endeavour to impress upon

his people that it is the duty of well-paid labourers to become

capitalists if they can, as a security against a reverse of fortune. The

difficulty he always found was to persuade them that the earnings which

are only enough to maintain them for a few days, may, by being properly

disposed of, be made sufficient for the maintenance of years. He wished

his labourers to furnish themselves and their families in the first

place with food, clothing, and habitation, and then to put out at

interest, or invest in some other profitable way, their surplus wages,

that they might have something with which to begin a new employment, in

case of their present work being taken from them. Some had attended to

his advice and some had not. Some had money in the Monmouth Savings

Bank, which was a good way. Some laid out their earnings in stocking a

little shop at the iron-work, which was kept by their wives and

children. This was also a very good plan. Some laid by their notes and

silver in a stocking or glove in their own cupboard, which was a safe

method enough, but not so good as one which would have made the money

profitable. Others spent the whole as it came in, which was the worst

plan of all.

Some who had several children growing up, had them taught different

trades, that there might be a resource for the family in case of one

trade failing. There could be no better way of employing money than

this, for it was sure of a return in the profitable industry of the

young people,—a return which would be afforded exactly when it was most

needed. It also yielded an immediate return, not the less valuable

because it could not be estimated in gold and silver,—the peace of mind

which arose from the consideration that all the resources of the family

could not be cut off at once, and that if some were thrown out of

employment, there would be others in a condition to help them.

All that Mrs. Sydney heard made her wish to begin an acquaintance with

the families of the work-people. She proposed that the party should

return by way of their dwellings. Mr. Wallace gave his arm to his wife,

who had been in conversation with Mr. Bernard, and they all set forward.

Mrs. Wallace envied Mrs. Sydney the ease and kindness of manner with

which she conversed with people of all classes. The difference between

them was, that the one was ignorant of the habits and manners of all

ranks except her own, and that the other had mixed with each in turn,

and was therefore familiar with whatever concerned them. Both were

generous and kind-hearted, though they showed their kindness in

different ways. Mrs. Wallace would have given away all she had to a

neighbour in want; but when her neighbours, as now, were not in want,

she was at a loss to express her good-will, while Mrs. Sydney, by merely

conversing with them, made herself liked by them without trying to do

so, or ever thinking of anything beyond satisfying her own kind

interest.

Mr. Wallace had thought that Paul worked too hard; and as he was anxious

to make inquiries of Paul’s host about his health, he conducted the

party to the cottage of John Jones, with whom Paul lodged. Jones was

out, but his wife was within, preparing dinner for herself and two of

her younger children who were playing beside her. She thought, like Mr.

Wallace, that Paul had grown thin lately, and was not so strong as

formerly; and she did not wonder, considering how little food and sleep

he took. She never saw anybody so sparing of both, or so eager after

money. She had no reason to complain, she said; for he paid for his

lodging exactly and regularly every Saturday night, but it did make her

sorry to see him work so hard and allow himself so few comforts.—He was

up at four, summer and winter, doing his tailoring and cobbling work,

and would sit from six till eleven in the evening, cutting corks when he

had nothing more profitable to do.

Mr. Wallace looked astonished, for he had no notion that Paul had been a

Jack-of-all-trades.

Mrs. Jones explained that he seemed able to learn any employment he

chose when the inducement of money was set before him. With the first

wages he had earned at the works, he purchased a tailor’s and cobbler’s

implements, and patched and cobbled for half the neighbourhood at his

leisure hours. He still complained that he had not enough to do, and

went to the next town to look for some employment which he might bring

home. He brought a package of cork on his back, and a cork-cutter’s

knife in his pocket, and for many and many a gross had he received

payment from the druggists and others of the next town, and even of

Newport. The same bench and the same dirty clothes served him for his

cobbling and his cork-cutting; and another advantage of the latter

employment was, that a very little light would serve his purpose. He

usually burned a farthing candle at hours when he could not have the

advantage of the Joneses’ lamp.

Mrs. Jones shewed her guests how neatly Paul had partitioned off half

his little room to serve as a workshop: the inner half, where he slept

and kept his few clothes, was as neat and orderly as possible; for Paul

always said that there was good economy in cleanliness and older. The

workshop also was kept as tidy as the nature of things allowed.

Mr. Wallace was surprised to see a very pretty picture placed against

the wall of the inner room, and covered with a piece of muslin to keep

it from the dust. It had no frame, but appeared a good painting. It

seemed to be the likeness of a boy, handsome and well-dressed, with a

hoop in his hand and a greyhound beside him. The back-ground was a park,

with deer grazing, and a mansion seen among the trees.

Mrs. Jones said this picture had a very elegant frame when Paul first

put it up in his room, but that he had, after looking at it very often

and for a long time together, taken off the frame and carried it with

him when he went to the fair to sell his cattle.

His cattle! What cattle?

He seemed to be a very good judge of cattle, and had managed to buy a

cow and two or three sheep which he had sold to advantage at the last

fair. It had been curious to observe his caution in his calculations. He

sat on his bench with a piece of chalk beside him, reckoning and

reckoning his sums in the intervals of his work, till it seemed as if

all his thoughts were engaged on numbers. The same process had begun

again now; so the Joneses concluded he was going to buy and sell more

cattle.

Mrs. Sydney inquired whether he was a pleasant inmate and a kind

neighbour. So far as he was sober and regular, Mrs. Jones replied, he

was a valuable lodger; but he did not often speak or smile at the

children; which would, she said, have been the best way of gaining her.

He took no notice of the neighbours, whether they laughed at him for a

miser, or whether he might have laughed in his turn at their petitions

for a loan of money. Altogether, those who cared for Paul had as much

sorrow as comfort on his account; for if it was a pleasant thing to see

one who was once a beggar acquiring property every day, it was a sad

thought that he could not enjoy his earnings reasonably, but pinched

himself with want and care as much as if he had still been a beggar.

“However,” added Jones’s wife, “I have no right to find fault with his

way of disposing of his wages any more than my neighbours have with

mine. If I complain of their laughing at me and my husband, Paul may

complain of my finding fault with him. Only he does not mind these

things as I do.”

In explanation of this, Mr. Wallace told his companions that the Joneses

were ridiculed by some of their neighbours for not getting employment

for all their children at the iron-work, which would make the family

quite rich at present. Instead of doing this, at the risk of being all

out of work at once by and by, the parents had chosen to apprentice one

of their boys to a shoemaker at Newport, and another to a smith, while

only one was employed on the works. The neighbours boasted that no

expenses of apprenticeship were likely to fall on them, while at the

same time they were earning more than Jones’s family would ever be

making at one time; and were continually urging that the young shoemaker

should be brought home to be made a catcher, and the little smith to be

a straightener.

“Keep to your own plan, I advise you,” said Mr. Bernard. “If you do not

repent it now, you never will; for there can scarcely be better days for

our works, and there will probably be worse.”

Mrs. Wallace had all this time been playing with the children, for she

was not afraid of _them_. She had let the little one hide its face in

her muff, and had listened while the older one told her how mammy let

her help to make the bed, and how she was learning to hem her own

pinafore, and how she could thread a needle for Mr. Paul when he was

mending a coat. Mrs. Wallace had been laughing with the children, but

looked so grave the instant their mother turned round, that Jones’s wife

thought she was offended with the little ones, and chid them for their

freedom, so that they went and hid themselves. This was all a mistake;

but it was no fault of Mrs. Jones’s, for she could not possibly suppose

the lady liked to be treated with freedom while she looked so grave upon

it and said nothing.

----------------------------

CHAPTER V.

HOW TO USE PROSPERITY.

When the spring advanced, it was observed by many people that Armstrong

had not been at church for several Sundays. He had been seen alive and

well, during the week-days, by many people; so there were no

apprehensions about him; but Mr. Wallace was so curious to know the

reason of his absence, that he inquired very particularly of Mr.

Hollins, whom he often met.

“He has become a great theologian,” replied Mr. Hollins. “He tells me

that he now studies his Bible and religious books for six hours out of

the twenty-four. I cannot think how he manages it, for his garden looks

as well as usual, and we play the flute as formerly, only he sends me

away somewhat earlier in the evenings. I tell him I shall appear at his

window some night when the clock strikes twelve, to see if he is at his

books then.”

“Take care how you do that, Mr. Hollins. He will shoot you for a thief.

But has his study of the Bible made him leave off going to church? Such

a pursuit generally leads the other way.”

“He says he was always fond of worshipping in the open air, as Adam and

Eve did; and he finds so much in the Bible about the multitudes being

collected in the wilderness to hear the word, that having an opportunity

just now of doing the same, he is disposed to try this new, or, as he

says, very ancient method. Now, there is a company of Ranters near who

preach among the hills about two miles off; and he attends their

ministry every Sunday morning.”

“One would think,” replied Mr. Wallace, “that he had read nothing of

synagogues in the Bible, or of the Christians assembling under a roof

for worship. However, it matters little where a pious heart pays its

devotions; and Armstrong’s worship, pure and sincere, I doubt not, will

be acceptable whether it rises from the hill-side or the house of

prayer. Do you know how he likes his new practice?”

“He complains terribly of the psalm-tunes being new-fangled and

difficult to sing; but he enjoys having so much space to sing in, and

likes all the rest of the service very well, except now and then, when

he would fain dispute a knotty point with the preachers.”

“And how do the preachers like him?”

“They are no respecters of persons, you know: but they are naturally

pleased at having made such a convert, and never forget the observance

due to his age. I perceive he is always seated in a sheltered place on a

windy day, and that pains are taken to furnish him with the hymns, and

to make the service perfectly audible to him. All this is natural, and

right enough, and he has no objection to it.”

“You speak as if you went sometimes.”

“I do; and it would be worth while your going once or twice to witness

the Sunday customs of your people; for a great number attend these

Ranters.”

It was curious enough that Mr. Wallace’s curricle came in sight of the

mountain-path which led off from the road to the Ranters’ place of

meeting, just when Armstrong and Mr. Hollins were turning into it. They

stopped at the sound of the carriage.

“I wish,” said Mr. Hollins, “that you would allow me to drive Mrs.

Wallace, while you go with our good friend to the church he likes best.”

“Make haste either way,” said Armstrong, “for we are full late, I am

afraid.”

In a moment the gentlemen had changed places, and Mr. Wallace was

striding along the rough path, trying to keep up with his vigorous old

friend.

They were all full late. The silence, preparatory to opening the

service, was so profound, that Mr. Wallace was taken by surprise, when a

sudden turn brought them into the presence of a thousand people, seated

in ranks upon the grass, in a recess between two hills. A few idle boys

were playing hide-and-seek among the furze: bushes on the ridge of the

hill, and some spectators walked slowly round the outskirts of the

congregation; but all besides was as still as in a church at the time of

prayer. It seemed as if the service had been delayed for Armstrong; for

as soon as he and his companion had taken the seat which had evidently

been reserved, a movement took place in the waggon which served for a

pulpit, and a man stood up to address the assembled hearers.

This man explained that owing to the illness of the preacher who usually

conducted the service that duty devolved upon himself, who had hitherto

taken only a very humble part in the offices of the day. He trusted that

the word of grace would be acceptable, from whatever lips it came; and

had, therefore, taken upon him the preacher’s office, rather than

dismiss them without their accustomed worship.

“This person,” whispered Armstrong, “is more fit to preach than many a

trained clergyman, if I may judge by what I have heard. He generally

acts only as clerk; but I once heard an address from him, which makes me

very glad of an opportunity of hearing him again.”

Mr. Wallace was in too much astonishment to reply, for this man was

Paul.

This remarkable fact being once established, nothing very surprising

followed; for Mr. Wallace knew enough of Paul to suppose that his

service would be, as it proved, very good. He only could not help

guessing what the subject of his sermon would be, and hoping that his

text would be, “Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth.” It was,

however, one from which Paul could preach with more propriety, “Thou

shalt not steal.”

It was now Armstrong’s turn to do something which appeared strange. He

started when the text was given out, and listened with extraordinary

eagerness for some time. At length, when the preacher began to describe

the pangs of conscience which disturb the thief, even while no human eye

has seen, and no human heart suspected, his guilt, Armstrong rose,

mounted the waggon, took his stand beside the preacher, and looked again

and again round the assembled hearers, shading his eyes with his hand,

and gazing as if he would read every countenance. Paul himself paused

for an instant, and looked surprised; but probably supposed, like Mr.

Wallace, that it was merely a whim of the old man’s. It was no whim; and

the accidental choice of this text and subject was a fortunate

circumstance for Armstrong’s peace of mind; for he was now firmly

convinced that none of those with whom he was accustomed to worship on

the Lord’s-day, were those who had invaded his repose and his property

by night. Prejudiced as he was against all that was done, and against

everybody concerned in the iron-works, he had always suspected that the

thieves came from a different quarter, and that there were persons

better informed than any of Mr. Wallace’s labourers of the extent of his

wealth and the place where it was deposited.

Mr. Wallace watched what Paul would do when the service was over and the

people were dispersing. He took not the slightest notice of anybody by

word or sign, but stood leaning against a tree with his arms folded,

following the groups with his eyes as they parted off among the hills.

As the last of them disappeared, Mr. Wallace and his companion

approached the preacher and thanked him for his service, and asked if he

was about to proceed homewards. He was, and they took the same path in

company.

“You speak so seldom,” said Mr. Wallace to Paul, “that I suppose you

think a great deal; and the society we live in gives a reflective man

much to think about.”

“Indeed it does,” replied Paul. “We speak of society as one thing, and

regard men in the mass; but what a variety of interests there is among

them! Scarcely any two find their chief satisfaction in the same

pursuit; and it is this which makes it so difficult to get at the hearts

of men. For instance, there might be two or three who would be

interested in the subject of my sermon, but how many more would feel

they had no concern in it! What is the use and what the interest of such

an address to yourself and Mr. Armstrong, or to any others who are

thoroughly honest or placed out of the reach of temptation to steal?”

“Its interest seemed to be very great to Armstrong,” observed Mr.

Wallace.

“As an observer,” added Paul. “He looked to see how other people were

affected by it, which is a very different thing from being himself

affected. I was surprised at his eagerness too.”

Armstrong made no other reply than a smile to the inquiring looks of his

companions. Paul proceeded:—

“We should each have a sermon to ourselves, and one every day of the

week, if preaching is to balance its power against the other powers

which act upon us. There is Jones, my host; he is always thinking about

establishing his sons well in the world; that is his chief interest. As

for his wife, she is taken up with making her husband comfortable and

cherishing her babies.”

“What sort of a sermon would you preach to them?”

“I could only tell them what they feel already—that the pure in heart

are blessed. If any pursuits are pure, theirs are; and if any people are

blessed, they are this day, with their good, promising children about

them, and love and comfort within their door. Then there are their

neighbours, the Davisons; there pleasures are of a very different

kind,—a glass of spirits each at the end of the day, and a debauch at

the fair as often as they can get there. I would preach a very short

sermon to them. I would send them trooping, bag and baggage, instead of

letting them corrupt the morals and laugh at the sobriety of their

neighbours, and waste the capital which they ought to employ for the

good of society. The money they lay out in gin and gaming would stock a

shop.”

“And what sort of a sermon would you preach to me, Paul?” asked

Armstrong, “and what is my chief interest?”

“Your chief interest is yourself, and therefore my sermon would be a

pretty severe one,” answered Paul. “But it is a harmless, good-natured

self, so I would make allowance. But I can’t forgive your great sin

against society.”

“You mean my living by myself.”

“Live where you please: but how do you justify it to yourself to share

the benefits of society when you do nothing in return? You enjoy the

fruits of the labour and capital of others,—you drink your tea from the

East Indies and your coffee from the West; you read your newspaper,

which is the production of a hundred brains and pairs of hands; you—”

“But I pay for all I use.”

“You do, because you could have nothing without; but not a single

service do you render to society that you could avoid, while the means

are hourly within your reach. Every man in society ought to belong to

one class of producers or the other, or to stimulate production by

useful though unproductive labour. You are not like the labourer who

adds to his employer’s capital, nor yet like the capitalist who,

assisted by the labourer, increases the resources of society; nor yet

like the professional man who, by improving the social state, opens new

demands for the comforts and pleasures of life. You would be a better

citizen if you were a surgeon in the next town, or a partner in this

concern, or the humblest labourer about the works.”

“You would preach to me from the parable of the talents, I suppose?”

“Exactly so. You understand your own case, I see. I should tell you that

the unprofitable servant might be a man of very fine tastes. He might be

a star-gazer, or a musician, or a politician, or particularly fond of

gardening; but he would still be an unprofitable servant while he hid

the money committed to him. It matters little whether it was in a napkin

under the ground or in a chest under the bed.”

Mr. Wallace seeing that Armstrong looked troubled, asked Paul how he

would set about lecturing _him_.

“I have less fault to find with you than with most people,” replied

Paul, who put such perfect good-humour into his manner that it was

almost impossible to be offended with his freedom. “Your chief earthly

interest is,—what it ought to be,—your lady; and next to her, the

prosperity of the people about you. This latter you understand well, and

manage wisely.”

“And not the former?”

“I think you will wish, some time or other, that rather less of your

expenditure had been of the unproductive kind. I know you are too much

of a man of principle to spend the whole income of a fluctuating capital

in an unproductive manner; but I should like to see fewer ponies and

grooms and lady’s maids, and furs and cachemires and similar luxuries.”

“Surely,” said Mrs. Wallace, “when my income is the fruit of my own

capital, and my own exertions in employing it, I may fairly indulge my

wife and myself in a few luxuries which I can well afford.”

“Very fairly. The only question is, to what extent. If you think it

probable that you will continue to enrich society by the accumulation of

your capital in any proportion whatever, you are justified in laying out

the rest of your income as you and your lady please. But if less

prosperous days should come, and you must employ more capital for a less

return, your lady may find it a harder thing to walk than if she had

never had a carriage, and to dress her own hair than if she had kept her

hand in all this time.”

Mr. Wallace could not help smiling at Paul’s business-like way of

speaking of a lady’s toilet. Paul saw that he gave no offence and went

on.

“Mr. Bernard’s family seem to me to have found the right medium. The

lads show by the way they set about learning their business that they

have been used to put their souls into their pursuits, and the young

ladies and Mrs. Sidney were out on foot every day during the winter in

their cloth cloaks and stout shoes, and they seldom went back without

carrying a blessing with them. Not that they gave alms. Nobody here

wants any, thank Heaven! and if any one did, Mrs. Sidney knows there is

no real kindness in giving away money as alms. But they attached the

people to them, and put them in the way of managing better, and helped

to keep up good-will among neighbours, and incited many a one to

industry by proper encouragement. These are the personal services the

rich are called upon to render; and to this Mr. Bernard adds an

expenditure which can never be repented of. I was in his drawing-room

once, and I saw at a glance the nature of his luxuries.”

“What did you see?”

“Every thing that was useful and comfortable in the way of furniture,

and all that was handsome and genteel in the dress of the ladies. But I

was more struck with the books and the globes and the musical

instruments and the pictures.”

“Then you do not object to all luxuries?”

“O dear no. Whatever helps to inform the mind and improve the taste is a

proper object of pursuit to those who can afford it. It is a productive

expenditure in a very high sense. Mr. Bernard will, I hope, live to see

a fine return for the money he spends on his library in the talent and

knowledge which his sons will employ in the service of society. And the

accomplishments of his daughters will not only increase the domestic

pleasures of all connected with them, but stimulate production, if you

will have the whole matter before you. Harps and pianos are made up of

labour and capital as much as pig-iron.”

“What a romantic lover you would make!” said Mr. Wallace, laughing.

“What a strange figure you would cut in high life if you carried your

method of reasoning into an exalted station!”

“If more men did so,” said Paul with a deep sigh; “if, while the great

are possessed of their grandeur, they thought as much of its sources as

when they are stripped of it, there would be a more just gradation of

ranks than there is; there would be no starving paupers on the steps of

a palace; there would be no excess in the highest or riot in the lowest

classes of society. The worst faults of the extremes of society would be

done away if those extremes were brought nearer together. If the rich

were more thoughtful and the poor more clear-sighted, both might be

surrounded with the luxuries most proper for them: the great man might

have unreproached his assemblies of the learned and the gay, and the

labourer might refresh himself with his newspaper or his flute when the

task of the day is over, while the rose and the jessamine bloom beside

his cottage door.—And now,” continued Paul, while his companions

remained silent, “I have preached five sermons where I promised only

one, so you will be glad if I wish you good day.”

“Stay,” said Mr. Wallace, “you must give us our turn. Do you think you

need no admonishing?”

“I need it and I have it. My lot is my best admonition.”

“I see no evil in your lot but what you inflict on yourself. Short rest

and long toil, scanty food and warmth, solitude and care,—these are

severe evils, but they are your own choice.”

“They are, and therefore they are not evils to me. They are means to the

attainment of my great end, and that end is—wealth.”

His companions looked astonished at so bare-faced a confession. “What

can you mean?” “How do you justify it?” “What, then, are the evils of

your lot?” they asked impatiently.

“One question at a time,” said Paul quietly. “I mean, that as all the

good and all the evil of my life thus far have been connected with

wealth, and as I am so made that I must have one great interest, it is

natural that I should be passionately devoted to the pursuit of wealth.

I mean that I am a miser.”

“And how do you justify yourself for being a miser? For I suppose, as

you are not ashamed to own it, you think you can justify it.”

“I do not pretend to justify it, any more than the drunkard pretends to

justify the vice he cannot deny. I do not even make the allowance for

myself which you would make for me if you knew all that I could tell. My

first choice of an object in life was bad. It was snatched from me, and

I have chosen another equally bad. Heaven knows whether I shall be

baffled here too, and whether I shall have strength enough to make

another choice. Meantime, the misery of my lot is warning enough, if all

warning were not in vain.—You ask what this misery is. Sleepless nights,

when I lie cold and hungry and weary, fancying all the mischances that

may happen to my earnings: incessant self-reproach when I think I have

lost an opportunity of making profit; teazing thoughts of pounds,

shillings, and pence, when I would now and then think of other

things;—all these are evils, are they not? I cannot listen to a running

stream, or sit watching the fieldfares in a clear winter day, or follow

the sheep-track among the heath on a summer’s evening, with the light

heart I once had; for I always have the feeling that I am wasting my

time, since these things can bring me no gold. If I think of prayer, my

lips will say nothing but ‘Thou canst not serve both God and Mammon.’ Is

not this an evil? Could you preach me a better sermon than God speaks in

his word and in the mountain breeze?”

There was a long silence; for Paul looked so deeply moved by his own

self-reproaches that neither of his companions ventured to address him.

At length, he stopped as if he was about to leave them.

“Beware,” said he to Armstrong, “of despising my hints about your way of

life because I have condemned my own. Remember that however much I

injure myself, I serve society after a certain manner. Not by example, I

own. In this, I can only be of use as a warning,—a humbling thought to a

proud man.—But I not only pay my way honestly, like you, but I am

providing wealth for others. It benefits them already, for I put it out

to use. It will benefit them again when I am dead. May it never more

make any one so wretched as it makes me!”

“Are you a man,” said Mr. Wallace solemnly, “and do you yet submit to

such bondage? I could not acknowledge such slavery for an hour. Break

your habits of care, and enjoy the life a good God has given you. Think

of the days when your father’s smile was what you loved best, when your

mother’s voice was your sweetest music, when perhaps there were

playmates beside you whom you loved more than you now love gold. Be a

child again in heart while you are a man in understanding, and then you

will be at ease without and at peace within.”

Paul made no reply, but turned away to hide the workings of his face,

and with long strides crossed the ridge of the hill and disappeared.

----------------------------

CHAPTER VI.

DISASTERS.

The change of times of which Mr. Wallace was ever mindful came at last.

At the end of three years the price of bar-iron was just half what it

had been in the days we have described. There were many perceivable

reasons for this change. The political state of various countries was

unsettled, and trade in general therefore, disturbed. The quantity of

iron produced by the flow of capital and labour to that department had

more than met the immediate demand, and there was a glut in the market.

It was hoped that this glut was only temporary; but there was much doubt

whether the demand for bar-iron from South Wales would ever again be as

extensive as formerly, for the Welsh iron-masters had now rivals abroad.

In America and in various parts of Europe, establishments for the

preparation of iron were beginning to flourish at the expense of those

of longer standing in our own country. Where the iron-stone, coal, and

limestone were of good quality, and the works were situated near some

navigable river, their produce could be brought into the market at

little more than half the price for which the Welsh iron-masters could

afford to sell theirs.

This circumstance seemed to destroy the hope that the works in which we

are interested could ever more enjoy the prosperity which had been their

lot for a few years. Many a sigh escaped from their masters as they were

obliged to diminish their profits again and again; and many a curse did

the least wise amongst their people vent upon the French or the

Americans who took their trade from them; forgetting that as nature had

scattered her mineral treasures over various regions of the earth, all

their inhabitants have an equal right to use those treasures as the

interest of society may prompt. What men have to do is not to refrain,

or to expect others to refrain, from using the materials put within the

reach of all; but by industry and ingenuity so to improve the resources

of art as that the greatest possible number of men may share the

benefit; in other words, that the produce may be made as excellent and

as cheap as possible. To render any article of production more and more

cheap, and more and more excellent, is the only way to create a

permanent demand; as the competition among producers which has always

subsisted, and always will and ought to subsist, can only be met by

bringing the article into more general use. So that Mr. Wallace’s

labourers, instead of cursing their competitors on the other side of the

water, had better have aided their employer in devising means for

improving his manufacture, and thus becoming better able to stand a

competition which could not be prevented.

The affairs of the concern underwent perpetual and anxious consideration

by the partners. They thought apart, they consulted together, they

exercised the greatest possible care to promote the interest of all

concerned in all their measures. Knowing that it is an unfounded

prejudice that the interests of the two parties united in production can

be opposed to each other, they wished that their men should understand

the reasons of their measures and approve of them, and were therefore

ever ready to converse with such as made their complaints or proposed

their doubts in a reasonable manner. Some such there were, and some had

already informed themselves sufficiently respecting the fluctuations to

which trade is liable, to be more sorry than surprised at the present

state of things; but there were many more who were ignorant enough to

suppose that their earnings were never to be lessened, however the

fortunes of their masters might be suffering; and who made as heavy

complaints at every mention of a reduction of wages as if they had been

treated with injustice. It was hard for the partners, who were as

benevolent as they were discreet, to bear these complaints in addition

to their own change of fortune; but they would willingly have listened

to them, if the grumblers would in turn have heard their reply. This,

however, the men were unwilling to do. If they had chosen, they might

have known that the affairs of the concern stood thus.

The capital employed in this iron-work was made up, as we have seen, of

three parts,—the implements of labour, the material on which labour was

to be employed, and the subsistence, or wages, of labourers.—Of these

three parts, the first, comprehending the buildings, machinery, and

tools, came under the head of fixed capital. The second and third,

comprehending the mineral material of the manufacture and the wages of

the work-people who carried it on, constituted the reproducible capital

of the concern. The fixed capital had not itself brought in any profit;

its purpose had been to enable the reproducible capital to bring in a

profit: that is, the furnaces and steam-engine had yielded no money

themselves, but were necessary to bring the iron-stone into a saleable

shape. When the bar-iron sold well, it not only paid the owners the

interest of the money they had laid out as fixed capital, and whatever

they had spent in iron-stone and in wages, but a great deal over for

profit. This profit was called their revenue, and out of it they paid

the expenses of living, and then added what remained to their capital,

which enabled them to employ more labour, to produce more iron, and

therefore to increase again their revenue and their capital. If all had

proceeded smoothly, if there had been a continually increasing demand

and no foreign competition, it is clear that the wealth of the partners

and the prosperity of the concern would have gone on continually

increasing; but as it did not, a change in the employment of the capital

became necessary.

It is common to speak of two kinds of revenue. That which we have

mentioned,—the profits of capital,—is called neat revenue; while the

name of gross revenue is given to the whole return made to the

capitalist; that is, his reproduced capital and his profits together

make his gross revenue, and his profits alone make his neat revenue.

When the price of bar-iron fell, the gross revenue was of course less

than it had been; so that when the capital was replaced, a smaller neat

revenue than usual remained. The partners immediately did what all wise

men do in such a case,—they diminished the expenses of living. Mr.

Bernard dismissed two of his household servants, and did not indulge his

children with a journey that year, and bought very few books, and left

off many luxuries. Mr. Wallace laid down his curricle; and his lady sent

away her maid and got her hand in again, as Paul would have said, to

dress her hair. These retrenchments did not effect all the partners

wished, and, for the first time since they opened their concern, they

added nothing to their capital at the end of the year. The next year,

though they retrenched still further, their neat revenue was not enough

for their family expenses, and they were compelled to consider what

retrenchments they could carry into their business as well as their

domestic management. They knew that the grand point they must aim at,

for the sake of all, was to keep their capital entire; for the less

capital they laid out, the less labour they could employ, and the less

iron they would send into the market, and their gross and neat revenue

would dwindle away year by year.

It was evident that their fixed capital must be left as it was. Whenever

any change was made in that department, it must be to add to it; not by

building more furnaces, but by substituting machinery,—hoarded

labour,—for the labour which demanded wages; but this would not be done

till the effect of a reduction of wages had been tried. Whatever change

was made, therefore, must be with respect to the reproducible capital.

Could any economy be carried into the preparation of the iron-stone? The

different parts of the process were pondered frequently with this view;

and the result was, that no change could at present be made in the first

fusion of the metal, but that the cinder which came from the refinery

and the forge might, by being mixed with a particular kind of earth, be

made to produce an inferior sort of iron which would sell well for

certain purposes. The experiment was tried and succeeded to some extent,

though not so triumphantly as was expected by Francis and his brother,

who had turned their attention long and industriously to this point.

They had hoped that the piles of cinder which formed so ugly an object

in their view would disappear by degrees under their new process; but

they were obliged to be content with using up that which was daily

thrown off in the manufacture of the superior kinds of iron.

What was to be done besides? The outlay of reproducible capital in wages

must be lessened. It was so. The first reduction was taken quietly; the

second excited murmurs among the ignorant, and fear and sorrow among the

clear-sighted of the sufferers; the third occasioned threats of actual

rebellion. Some of the men refused to work for such wages. Their masters

explained to them the necessity of keeping the works going, and

continuing to produce as much iron as possible, at however low a price,

in order to retain their stand in the market as long as their capital

could be returned entire. The men once more submitted, but were not long

quiet.

It became necessary to diminish the cost of production still further, as

prices continued to fall. It was found that parts of the work which were

now done by hand could be done more cheaply by mechanical contrivances;

and some new machinery was therefore introduced, and some men and boys

dismissed. This created an outcry; but how could it be helped? There was

no other way of preserving the capital of the concern, and on that

capital every man belonging to it depended as much as the partners. The

work-people to be dismissed were, of course, chosen from among the least

industrious and able. It was hoped by their masters and neighbours that

they would carry their labour where it was more wanted, and leave the

place in peace; but instead of this they remained till their last

farthing was spent, trying to persuade others to throw up their work

unless higher wages were given, and swearing at the machinery, and

abusing the owners, to the great annoyance of all sober people. Some who

went away to find work, returned continually to spread discontent

wherever they could, and to aggravate the existing distress by adding

ill-will to poverty and anxiety. On pay-days especially, they gathered

round the doors when the people went to receive their wages, and laughed

at them for the smallness of their earnings, and tried to exasperate

them by reminding them how much was now done by wood and iron that was

till lately wrought by human labour, and how prosperous they had all

been once when less machinery was in use. Some were too wise to be taken

in by all this, and answered, that the new machinery was the consequence

and not the cause of the change of times; and that prosperous as they

were three years before, they might have been more so if these

mechanical improvements had been then in use. But many more, who were

ignorant or so dispirited as to be ready to take up any cause of

complaint, allowed themselves to be deceived and persuaded that their

employers were conspiring to oppress them.

It soon after happened, most unfortunately, that a boy, who had in

charge the management of some part of the new machinery, was careless,

and put himself in the way of receiving a blow on the head, which killed

him on the spot. There was no more reason to complain of the new

machinery than the old on account of this accident. If the filler had

allowed himself to fall into the furnace, or the keeper had put himself

in the way of being burned when he tapped the hearth, or the catcher had

thrust his arm in the way of being crushed by the rollers, no one would

have blamed anything but their own carelessness; and so it ought to have

been in the present case. But the new invention was now to bear the

blame of everything, and people were present when the accident happened,

who took advantage of the occasion to work upon the feelings of the

discontented. It was a sad scene.

A sudden cry brought the overlooker to the spot. He found four or five

people gathered about the boy, who lay quite dead, with his skull

fractured and his face distorted, so that he was a terrible object. One

man was holding forth in a great passion, demanding whether their lives

were to be sported with at the fancy of those who chose to enjoy their

luxuries at the cost of the poor; if they must submit, not only to have

their work done for them before their faces, but to be liable to be

wounded and struck dead by a power which they could not resist? A cool,

wary-looking man, who stood by, appeared to check the furious orator,

but in reality inflamed his passion.

“You forget, my man,” said he, “that it must be a pleasant thing to our

employers to have slaves that want nothing to eat and drink, and ask no

wages and make no complaints. They find us very troublesome, because we

tell them we and our wives and little ones must live. Wood and iron have

no such tales to tell, so no wonder they are preferred to us.”

“They have no such tales to tell; and the saying is, that dead men tell

no tales; but this boy,” cried the passionate man, pointing to the body,

“shall tell a tale that shall rouse the spirit of all the oppressed

within many a mile. I will carry him from one end of the district to the

other; and all that want redress shall follow in his funeral train.”

“How will you frame your complaint?” asked the other quietly. “Our

masters will laugh and ask if it is their fault that iron breaks bones.

They will tell you that if the lad had been out of work, as they want us

all to be, this would not have happened. They will tell you that if he

had been loitering about the baker’s door, longing for the food he could

not buy, instead of being quietly at work——”

“O, my boy, my boy!” cried a dreadful voice at this moment. “I will see

my boy, I will see who murdered him, I will have revenge on whoever

murdered him! O, you are cruel to keep me away! I will have revenge on

ye all!”

It was the unhappy mother, who had heard that her son was killed, but

did not know how. She was so possessed by the idea that he had been

destroyed by human force, that when she saw him she was not undeceived,

and continued to vow revenge.

“Revenge is not so easy to be had,” observed the quiet man. “You may

pull the machine to pieces, but it will feel nothing, and so do you no

good; and they that put up the machine are too high for the revenge of

such as we are.”

“They are not,” cried the passionate man. “If we pull their works to

pieces, we only take what is our right as wages; and do you think it

will not gall our masters to see us take our own? If it did not, would

they not give us our own? As for you, poor creature,” he continued,

addressing the mother, who was passionately wailing over the body, “take

your own. Take the cold clay that should have been alive and strong

before you this many a year. Close his eyes that always looked bright

upon you. Nay, never grasp his hand in that manner. Those hands should

have brought you bread when your own are feeble; they should have

smoothed your pillow when you could only have raised yours to his head

to bless him. Cover up his face, you that stand there! His mother will

forget his pretty smile, and this ghastly look of his will haunt her,

night and day, till she goes to her grave. It is well he cannot smile

again; it would make her forget her revenge.”

“Who dares talk of revenge? Upon whom do you seek revenge?” cried a

powerful voice from the outskirts of the crowd, which had, by this time,

assembled. It was Paul, who had arrived so as to hear the last words,

and had more courage than the overlooker to interfere.

“I demand revenge,” shrieked the mother, starting up with clenched hands

and glaring eyes, while her hair fell over her shoulders.

“Was it you?” replied Paul in a gentle voice, as he made his way to her.

“I thought it had been another voice. Come with me,” he added, drawing

her arm within his own; “I will take you home. _He_ will follow,”—seeing

that she was going to lay hold of the body. “They will bring him home,

and you will be quieter there.”

“Quieter! quiet enough when I shall have no son to speak to me night nor

morning,” cried the woman, bursting into another passion of grief.

“She does not want quiet, she wants revenge, and it was my voice you

heard say so,” exclaimed the passionate man.

“Then you did not know what you were saying,” replied Paul gravely.

“You shall say the same, you shall be one of us, or I will knock you

down,” cried the man.

“I will not say so, for nobody has been injured that I know of——”

Paul could not proceed for the outcry. “Nobody injured! Was it no injury

for a widow woman to have her son killed at his work by an _unnatural

accident_ like this? She was as much injured as if his throat had been

cut before her eyes by the masters’ own hands.” Inflamed more than ever

by this outcry, the passionate man rushed upon Paul, and tried to knock

him down. But Paul had the advantage of being cool, and was besides a

very powerful man. He stood the attack, and then floored his adversary.

It was a dreadful sight to see the mother, who should by this time have

been hiding her grief at home, helping the fight. The flush and sneer of

passion were on her face as she tried to raise and encourage the fallen

man. Paul had nearly lost his temper on so unprovoked an attack; but one

glance at the woman brought tears into his eyes.

At this moment the clatter of a horse’s feet was heard, and Mr. Wallace,

who had been absent from the works for some hours, rode up. The

overlooker now seemed to recover the use of his limbs and his senses. He

made way for his employer, who showed by his countenance more than by

words how much he was shocked that such a scene should take place on

such an occasion. He rode between the two fighters, and desired them to

depart by opposite ways, gave the unhappy woman into the charge of the

overlooker, and sent the bystanders about their business.

In half an hour, Mrs. Wallace, who had heard of the accident merely from

common report, and knew none of the succeeding circumstances, was

sitting beside the poor woman, endeavouring to comfort her and to keep

her quiet from the intrusions of her neighbours. This was construed into

a new offence by the discontented; and when the sufferer was found to

have changed her tone, to speak calmly of her loss, and gratefully of

the attentions that were paid to her, she was told that the lady only

came to speak her fair and make her give up her revenge. One said they

had got something by their discontent already, for it was a fine thing

to see an elegant lady come on foot to a labourer’s cottage and sit down

as if she lived in a cottage herself; and another asked what sort of a

story she had wheedled the mourner into believing about the new

machinery.

The woman replied that it was not the first time by many that Mrs.

Wallace had come down among them, to say nothing of the other ladies,

who spoke with one or another every day of their lives. Mrs. Wallace was

a tender-hearted lady, she would say that for her, though she seemed

high when nothing happened to make her take particular notice. She had

never so much as mentioned the new machinery, and knew nothing about it,

it seemed. It was not to be supposed that ladies were told all that was

going on at the works; and though the offence was not to be forgiven or

forgotten, it was to be brought home to the partners and not to their

families, to whom she, for one, should never mention it.

“’Tis all the lady’s art,” cried one. “She has gained you over by a few

soft words,” said another. “I wonder you let yourself be so taken in,”

added a third; so that the poor woman, who was of a changeable temper at

all times, and now weakened by what had happened, was persuaded to think

as ill of Mrs. Wallace as her neighbours would have her.

When the lady came early after breakfast the next morning, she observed

that the children ran out to stare at her, and that their mothers looked

scornfully upon her from the windows. This was very painful to her; and

she passed on quickly till she reached the house of the woman she came

to seek. The door was locked, and when she tapped to ask admittance, a

lattice above was flung open, and she was told by a saucy voice that the

person she wanted did not wish to be interrupted.

“Will you come down, then, and let me speak a few words to you about the

funeral?”

The neighbour above drew back as if to repeat what was said. In a moment

the mourner (who could not be interrupted) took her place, and screamed

out like a virago, as she looked,—

“Let alone me and mine at your peril. They that killed my boy shall not

bury him.” And she continued to pour out such a torrent of abuse that

the lady, who had never before heard such language, was ready to sink to

the ground. Her servant-boy, who had stayed a little behind on an

errand, now came up, and looked so fierce on those who dared to insult

his lady, that her fear of the consequences recalled her presence of

mind. When her spirit was once roused, no one had more courage or good

sense. Determining instantly what to do, she held up her finger as a

sign to John to be quiet, laid her commands on him to make no reply to

anything that was said, and stood at the window-sill to write a few

words on a slip of paper which she bade him carry to Mr. Bernard or one

of his sons, absolutely forbidding him to let her husband know, even if

he should meet him, how she was placed.

“I cannot leave you, ma’am, among these wretches,” cried John, looking

round on the mob of women and children who were collecting.

“Do not call them wretches, or look as if there was anything to be

afraid of,” said his mistress, “but make haste, and then come to me

under that tree.”

What she had written was, “Say nothing to my husband, but come and help

me to clear up a mistake of some consequence.” When John disappeared

with the note, which everybody had seen her write, the cry of abuse rose

louder than ever. It was hard to bear; but the lady felt that if she

retreated now, she should lose her own and injure her husband’s

influence for ever among these people. The thought came across her, too,

that she might owe some of this to the reserve of her usual demeanour;

and as a punishment also she resolved to stand it well. She therefore

only made her way to the tree she had pointed out, and sat down under

it; a necessary proceeding, for she could scarcely stand. There she

waited for John’s return with Mr. Bernard, longing to look every instant

whether they were coming, but carefully refraining from turning her head

that way, lest the people should see her anxiety.

“What is all this?” cried Mr. Bernard, when at length he arrived

breathless, with John at his heels, wiping his brows. “Have these people

dared to hurt you?”

“No: they have only railed at me, so that I could not make myself heard;

and I want you to help me to find out why. Keep your temper, I implore

you. I sent for you instead of my husband, because I was afraid he would

not command himself.”

John was eager to explain why he had been so long. Mr. Bernard was not

at the office, as John expected. Mr. Wallace was, and John had much ado

to avoid telling him; but he held his peace and went on his errand. It

seemed as if he had been gone for hours, he said, for he did not know

what might have happened in his absence.

Mr. Bernard knew more of the present disposition and complaints of the

people than Mrs. Wallace, and—what was on this occasion of as much

consequence—he had a stronger voice; so that he soon got to the bottom

of the matter.

He showed them the folly of supposing that the lady’s object was

different now from what it had been in many former cases where she had

shown kindness; and began to rate them soundly for their ingratitude and

savage behaviour, when the lady interceded for them. When he stopped to

listen to her, there was a dead silence. She said that she did not wish

them to be reproached more than she was sure they would soon reproach

themselves; that she did not come among them for the sake of making them

grateful to her, but in order to show her good-will at times when

good-will is worth more than anything else that can be given. As long as

her neighbours were willing to accept this good-will as freely as it was

offered, she should come among them, undeterred by the mistakes about

her motives which a few might fall into; but that no person was called

upon to encounter a second time such treatment as she had met with that

day; and therefore, unless she was sent for, she should not appear among

them again. If this should be the last time they should ever speak to

one another, she hoped they would remember it was not by her wish, but

their own.

The people were now in a condition to hear reason, and they believed the

lady’s assurance, that when she came down the day before, she knew

nothing whatever of the cause of the boy’s death, and was silent on the

subject of the new machinery only because she had no idea how much the

people were thinking and feeling on the subject. She was ready

henceforth to talk about it as much as they pleased.

When she stood up and took Mr. Bernard’s arm to go homewards, nothing

could exceed the attention of the people—so changeable were they in

their moods. One brought water, which the lady accepted with a kind

smile; and glad she was of it, for she was very thirsty. The mourner’s

door was now wide open; and, with many curtseys, Mrs. Wallace was

invited to enter and rest herself. This, however, she declined for the

present day. The mothers called their children off as a huntsman calls

off his dogs, and the hunted lady was at last left in peace with her

friend and her servant. When Mr. Bernard had left her safe at home, her

spirits sank. She did not fall into hysterics, nor alarm her household

with an account of what she had gone through; but she sat alone in her

dressing-room, dropping many a bitter tear over the blindness and folly

of the people whose happiness seemed quite overthrown, and unable to

keep down a thousand fears of what was to happen next.

----------------------------

CHAPTER VII.

DISCONTENTS.

The delusion that the improvement in machinery was the cause of a change

in the times, and not the consequence of the future remedy for such a

change, had become too general and too firmly established in this

society to be removed by a few explanations or strong impressions here

and there. Discontent grew hourly; and the complaints which had before

been divided between the American and French iron-works, the rivals in

the neighbourhood, the government of the country, and the whole body of

customers who would not give so high a price as formerly for their iron,

were now turned full upon the new machinery and those who had set it up.

Growlings met the ears of the partners whereever they turned; the young

men had to keep a constant restraint upon their tempers, and the ladies

directed their walks where they might be out of hearing of threats which

alarmed or murmurings which grieved them.

Two days after Mrs. Wallace’s adventure, her husband, on rising from the

breakfast-table, saw Armstrong coming in at the gate.

“It is a sign of the times that you are here,” said he, as he shook

hands with the old man. “How are we to read it?”

“As your discretion may direct when you have heard my story,” replied

the old man gravely.

Mr. Wallace looked doubtfully at him, as if to ask whether they had not

better save his wife from alarm by being private. Armstrong understood

him.

“Sit down, madam, if you please,” said he. “Women are not often so

cowardly as they are said to be, if they are but treated fairly, and

given to understand what they are to expect. It is too much to look for

courage from such as know that the worst they have to dread is often

kept from them. So you shall hear, ma’am, and judge for yourself. Only

do not turn pale before I begin, or you will make me look ashamed of

having so little to tell.”

Comforted by the end of this speech as much as she had been alarmed by

the beginning, Mrs. Wallace smiled in answer to her husband’s anxious

looks, and drew her chair to listen.

Armstrong related that he had observed from his garden, after working

hours the evening before, an unusual number of people sauntering about a

field at a considerable distance from his dwelling. He had called his

housekeeper out to look and guess what it might be. She had once seen

Punch in a field with a crowd; and her only idea, therefore, was that it

might be Punch; and when her master sent her for his telescope, she

fixed it at the window before she brought it, and was almost sure she

saw a stand with a red curtain such as she had seen when Punch appeared

to her. Her master, however, who was not apt to see visions through his

glass, could make out nothing but that all the people in the field

seemed to be now collected in one place, and that one man was raised

above the rest, and apparently haranguing them. He instantly resolved to

go, partly from curiosity, and partly because he expected to hear

complaints of the management of the neighbouring concern, complaints

which, kind-hearted as he was, he loved to hear, because they confirmed

his prejudices, which were dearer to him than even his friend Mr.

Wallace or Mr. Wallace’s gentle wife. He did not give the account of his

motives exactly as we have given it; but he conveyed it clearly enough

by what he said to make Mr. and Mrs. Wallace glance at each other with a

smile.

He arrived on the spot only in time for the conclusion of the last

speech, from which he gathered that the object of the meeting was to

consider what measures should be taken with their employers to induce

them to alter such of their plans as were displeasing to their men; and

that it was determined that a deputation should wait upon the partners

to demand that the quantity of labour which was displaced by machinery

should be restored to human hands. In order to try the disposition of

the masters, it was also to be demanded that every man, woman, and child

in the society, except the few necessary to attend to the furnaces,

should be allowed to follow the funeral of the deceased boy the next

day. If both requests were refused, the people were to take their own

way about attending the funeral, and another meeting was to be held

round the boy’s grave, as soon as the service was over. Armstrong’s

description of the vehemence with which this last resolution was agreed

to, convinced Mr. Wallace that it was time to take more decided measures

for keeping the peace than he had yet thought would be necessary. While

he was musing, Armstrong continued,—

“I hate your iron-work, and everything (not everybody) belonging to it,

as you know; but I had rather see it quietly given up than pulled to

pieces. So, if you will let me, I will go and tell the magistrates in

the next town the condition you are in, and bid them send a sufficient

force for your safety. I am afraid there is no chance of your giving up

your new-fangled machinery.”

“No chance whatever,” replied Mr. Wallace decidedly. “If we give up that

we give up the bread of the hundreds who depend on us for employment. By

means of this machinery, we can just manage to keep our business going,

without laying by any profit whatever. If we give up any one of our

measures of economy, the concern must be closed and all these people

turned adrift. I shall tell them so, if they send a deputation to-day.”

Armstrong contented himself with shaking his head, as he had nothing

wherewith he could gainsay Mr. Wallace. At length he asked what Mr.

Wallace chose to do.

“To refuse both demands, stating my reasons. I am sure my partner will

act with me in this. As to your kind offer of going to the magistrates,

I will, if you please, consult him, and let you know in an hour or two.

I have little doubt we shall accept your services; but I can do nothing

so important without Mr. Bernard’s concurrence. Where will my messenger

find you?”

“At home in my garden. But take care how you choose your messenger. Some

of the people saw me in the field last night, and if anybody goes

straight from you to me to-day, they may suspect something. I took care

to come by a round-about way where nobody could see me; and by the same

way I shall go back.”

“But why go back? Why not stay where nobody will be looking for you?”

“Because home is one stage of my journey to the town, and I can slip

away quietly from my own gate. By the way, your messenger must be one

who will not blab his errand to my housekeeper or to any one he may

meet. Peg is silent enough when there is no one for her to speak to; but

we cannot tell in these strange days who may cross her path.”

Who should the messenger be? Mrs. Wallace offered her services, thinking

that a lady would hardly be suspected; but her husband would not hear of

her stirring out that day.

“Why not use a signal?” asked Armstrong at length. “A white handkerchief

tells no tales, and I can see your windows plainly enough with my glass

from my garden hedge. So hang out your flag and I shall know.”

This was at once pronounced the best plan; and it was agreed that at

three o’clock precisely (by which time the temper of the deputation

would be known) Armstrong should watch for the signal. If he saw a white

handkerchief, all would be well, and he might stay at home; if a red, he

was to go to the magistrates and state the case, and leave them to judge

what force should be provided for the defence of the works. Mr. Wallace

furnished the old man with a written certificate that he was authorised

by the firm, and then bidding his wife hope for the best, hastened away

to business. Armstrong also took his leave; and the three meditated, as

they pursued their different occupations, on the ignorance and weakness

through which members of the same society, who ought to work together

for the good of each and all, are placed in mutual opposition, and waste

those resources in contest which ought to be improved by union.

During the whole morning the partners remained on the spot in

expectation of the message they were to receive from the great body of

their work people; but none came. All went quietly on with their

business as if no unusual proceeding was meditated; so that when two

o’clock came, Mr. Wallace went home to comfort his wife with the tidings

that she might hang out a white flag. There was no use in speculating on

what had changed the plan of the discontented; it was certain that no

pretence remained for sending for civil or military protection.

Relieved, for the present, of a load of anxiety, the lady ran up stairs

to prepare her signal with a step as light as any with which she had

ever led off a dance; while, on the distant height, Margaret wondered

what had possessed John Armstrong that he could not mind his work this

day, but must be peering through his glass every minute, till, after a

long, low whistle, he laid it aside and looked no more. She was almost

moved to ask him what he had seen; but habit was stronger than impulse

with her, and she held her peace.

When Mr. Wallace went down to the works again, he observed that Paul,

who, as furnace-keeper, was accustomed to keep his eye on his work as

steadily as an astronomer on a newly-discovered star, looked up as his

employer’s step drew near, and met his eye with a glance full of

meaning. Mr. Wallace stopped; but as several people were by, explanation

was impossible. “Paul, I want to know——but there is no use in asking you

a question while you are busy. You will be meddled with by nobody at

this time of day.”

“I had rather be questioned in broad day, when I am about my work,”

replied Paul with another quick glance, “than at night when I am snug at

home and think it is all over till the next day.”

“O ho!” thought Mr Wallace, “I understand. Well, but,” he continued,

“the question I was going to ask is not about your furnace-work, but one

of your other trades. If I came to you in the evening, I suppose you

would bolt your door and send me away without an answer.”

“Not so,” said Paul; “for I think every man that asks a fair question

should have a plain answer. Such a one I would give with all civility;

but when that was done, I should say this was no time for talk, and wish

you good evening.”

“And if I would not go till I had got all I wanted, would you call Jones

and his lads to turn me out by force?”

“Not the first time; but if you grew angry at being sent away, I should

take good care how I let you come near me again in a passion. If you put

a finger on my work-bench, I should call the Joneses to rap your

knuckles and cry ‘Hands off!’ So you see, sir, what you have to expect.”

“You are a strange fellow,” said Mr. Wallace; “but I thank you for

warning me how to behave.”

“It would be well if he behaved himself a little more mannerly,” said

one of the work-people near. “If any of us were to threaten a gentleman

in that manner, what an outcry there would be about it!”

“Paul is an oddity, and does not mind being thought so,” observed Mr.

Wallace. “But he shows us the respect of doing our work well, and taking

as much care of our interests as if they were his own. Blunt speech and

fair deeds for me, rather than fair words and rough deeds.”

“What do you think of rough words and deeds together?” said another

workman. “They seem likely to be the order of the day.”

“No man is bound to put up with them,” replied his employer. “Here, at

least, they shall not be borne.”

The man’s companion jogged his elbow, and he said no more.

The partners, in communicating with each other, agreed that it was

probable, from what Paul had said, that a tumultuous demand for leave to

attend the next day’s funeral would be made that night. As it was

scarcely likely that the people would proceed to violence before the

churchyard meeting they had appointed, it was determined that their

absurd demand should be refused.

The gates of both dwellings were early closed that evening, and the

doors well fastened. The ladies were not kept in ignorance of what was

expected; for their companions had confidence in their courage, and

remembered besides that it would add much to whatever confusion might

occur to have consternation within the house, at the same time as tumult

without.

It must be owned that Mrs. Wallace fell into a reverie more than once

while her husband read to her; and that the young ladies at Mr.

Bernard’s played their duet more by rote than con amore this night. In

all the pauses they listened for shouting or the trampling of feet; and

when they had done, their father himself opened the shutters, and looked

out and commanded silence. The moon had not risen, and there was no

light but from the furnace-fires below, which sent up a red cloud into

the sky; and there was no sound but the distant roar and rumble of the

works. It was a warm evening, and the family stood for some time at the

open window, talking little, but some trying to distinguish the stars

through the columns of smoke, and others wondering what would have

happened by the same hour the next night, while the little ones kept as

quiet as possible in the hope that their papa and Mrs. Sydney would

forget to send them to bed.

“Father!” cried Frank, “I saw a man leap the hedge,—there,—in that

corner.” All had heard the rustling among the shrubs.

“Who is there?” demanded Mr. Bernard.

“Shut your shutters, Sir, I advise you,” said Jones in a low voice.

“They are near, and they should not see your lights as they turn the

corner. I ran on first, and Paul is gone with the party to Mr.

Wallace’s. I must make haste and join them again before I am missed. I

only came to see that you were fast.”

“Will they proceed to violence to-night?” asked Mr. Bernard before he

closed the window.

“No fear if you are decided and civil-spoken; but I won’t answer for so

much for to-morrow.”

So saying, Jones ran off and climbed the hedge again, that he might drop

in at the rear of the party, the glare of whose torches began to appear

at the turn of the road.

“Upstairs, all of you, and let nobody appear at the windows but my lads

and myself,” said Mr. Bernard. “And do not be afraid. You heard that

there is no fear of violence to-night.”

There was a tremendous knocking and ringing at the door before all the

family were up stairs.

“What do you want with me?” asked Mr. Bernard, throwing up a sash of the

second story.

“We want, in the first place, your promise to take to pieces the new

machinery, which keeps so many people out of work, and never to use it

again without the consent of all parties concerned.”

“A reasonable request, truly! I believe there is more to be said, to

bring us into the same mind on that point, than can be got through in a

short summer’s night.”

“Answer us Yes or No,” cried the speaker.

“Tell him the conditions,” said the man next to him. “Let him know what

he has to expect either way.”

“No; tell me of no conditions,” said Mr. Bernard; “I deny your right to

impose any, and I will not hear them. As long as my partners and I are

in business, we will keep the management of our own concerns. So say

nothing of conditions.”

“Answer us Yes or No, then,” repeated the first speaker. “Will you pull

down the machinery, or will you not?”

“I will not. So you have my answer. My reasons are at your service

whenever you choose to ask for them in a proper time and manner.”

The crowd murmured at the mention of reasons; but a man who flitted

about among them, urged them to bring forward their second demand. This

man was Jones; and his object was to shorten the scene, and get the

people to disperse.

“Your reply is taken down, Sir——”

“Where it will never be forgotten,” growled a deep voice.

“And we proceed to request that all the people in the works may attend

the funeral of James Fry to-morrow, and not return to work till the next

day, with the exception of the smallest number necessary to keep the

furnaces.”

“For what purpose?”

“For the purpose of expressing their abhorrence of the means by which

the boy came by his death.”

“What could make you suppose my partner and I should grant your

request?”

“Not any idea that you would like it, certainly. But what should hinder

our taking leave, if you will not give it?”

“Hear my answer, and then spend to-morrow as you may choose. I refuse

permission to any man to quit the work he has agreed to perform, with

the exception of the four named by the boy’s mother to attend the

funeral. All besides who quit their work to-morrow, quit it for ever.”

“Suppose we make you quit your works?” cried an insolent voice.

“You have it in your power to do so by withdrawing your labour; but the

day when yonder furnaces are out of blast will be the day of your ruin.

If you force us to choose between two evils, we had rather close our

concern, and go whence we came, than carry on the most prosperous

business under the control of those who depend on our capital for

subsistence.”

Another murmur arose at the last sentence.—“We will soon see what

becomes of your capital!” “What is your capital to us, if you are so

afraid of having anybody to touch it but yourselves?” “We will carry

away our labour, and then much good may your capital do you!”

“Just as much, and no more,” said Mr. Bernard, “than your labour can do

without our capital. Remember, it is not our wish that the two powers

should be separated to the ruin of us all. If you throw up your work

to-morrow, our concern is ruined. If you will have a little patience,

and supply your share of our contract, we may all see better days. Judge

for yourselves.”

He shut down the window and closed the shutters. The crowd below, after

uttering various strange noises, and vehemently cheering sentiments

proposed by their leaders, dispersed, and by midnight the shrubbery

looked as still in the moonlight as if no intruder’s step had been

there.

A nearly similar scene, with a corresponding conclusion, had been

exhibited at Mr. Wallace’s. As soon as the people were gone, that

gentleman determined to lose no time in communicating with Armstrong, as

it was now evident that protection would be necessary if the people

chose to gratify their passions by attending the funeral and subsequent

meeting.

Mr. Wallace was little disposed for sleep, and thought a moonlight walk

would refresh him, and remembered that he should be his own safest

messenger; so when all was silent, he set forth, telling his wife that

he should be back within two hours, when he hoped to inform her that

Armstrong was gone to bespeak the necessary assistance.

It was just eleven when he reached the steps below Armstrong’s gate. As

he climbed the gate, the dog barked, growled, and made ready for a

spring.

“How now, Keeper!” cried the master from within and his guest without,

at the same moment. The dog knew Mr. Wallace’s voice, but was not sure

enough of his man, muffled in a cloak as he was, to give over his alarm

at once. He leaped and frisked about, still growling while the old man

held forth a gleaming pistol in the moonlight from his lattice. “Stand

off, or I’ll fire,” cried he. But when he heard “Do not be in a hurry to

shoot your friend Wallace,” he was in greater alarm than before. He

hastened to let in his guest, that he might hear what had happened.

Mr. Wallace observed with some surprise that he had not called the old

man from his bed. Armstrong had been sitting, with his labourer’s dress

on, beside the table, where lay his open Bible, his pistols, his

spectacles, and the lamp. Before the visitor had time to ask what kept

his friend up so late, the housekeeper put her night-capped head into

the room.

“No thieves, Peg,” said her master, and the head withdrew; for Margaret

did not see that she had any business with what brought Mr. Wallace

there at so strange an hour. Her master was quite of her mind; for, when

it was settled what he was to do, he tapped at her door and only said,

“I am going out, and if I should not be back till dinner to-morrow,

don’t be frightened. Keeper will take good care of you.”

And then he set off to rouse the magistrates, while Mr. Wallace

proceeded homewards, pausing now and then to hear whether all was quiet

below, and watching how the twinkling lights went out (so much later

than usual) one by one in the cottage windows.

----------------------------

CHAPTER VIII.

UPROAR.

Early the next morning a messenger came to the Joneses’ door to let them

know that the funeral procession would form at the widow Fry’s, at eight

o’clock, and that punctuality was particularly requested. Paul asked

what this message meant, as nobody in that house was going to attend.

The messenger was sorry for it. He had been ordered to give notice from

house to house, and he believed almost every body meant to go.

“Then, Jones,” said Paul, “the sooner we are off to our work the better.

Example may do something in such a case.”

These two and a few others went to their work earlier than usual, for

the sake of example. More kept close at home, and only came forth when

the procession was out of sight, creeping quietly to their business, as

if they were ashamed or afraid. But by far the greater number followed

the coffin to its burial-place in a churchyard among the hills, near the

Ranters’ place of meeting. These walked arm in arm, four abreast,

keeping a gloomy silence, and looking neither to the right hand nor to

the left.

It had occurred to Mr. Bernard that the clergyman who was to perform the

service might exert a very useful influence in favour of peace over

those who were brought together on such an occasion. He therefore sent a

letter to him by a man and horse, communicating the present position of

affairs.

The clergyman was young and timid; and being unable to determine what he

should do, he did the very worst thing of all: he escaped in an opposite

direction, leaving no account of where he might be found. He was waited

for till the people, already in an irritable mood, became very

impatient; and when a party, who had gone to his house to hasten him,

brought news of his absence, the indignation of the crowd was unbounded.

They at once jumped to the conclusion that their employers had chosen to

prevent the interment taking place, and to delay them thus for the sake

of making fools of them. They forgot, in their rage, that their masters’

best policy was to get the coffin of the poor lad underground and out of

sight as soon as possible, and to conciliate rather than exasperate

their people.

Mrs. Wallace kept as constant a watch from her upper windows this day as

sister Ann in Blue-beard. Many a cloud of dust did she fancy she saw on

the distant road; many a time did she tremble when any sound came over

the brow of the opposite hills. All her hopes were fixed on the highway;

all her fears upon the path to the churchyard. The safety of the

concern, and perhaps of her husband, seemed to depend on whether the

civil or rebellious force should arrive first. It was not long doubtful.

The crowd came pouring over the opposite ridge, not in order of march as

they went, but pell-mell, brandishing clubs and shouting as if every man

of them was drunk. In front was a horrid figure. It was the mother of

the lad who had been placed in his grave without Christian burial. The

funeral festival seemed likely to be as little Christian as the manner

of interment, to judge from the frantic screams of his mother, and the

gestures with which she pointed to the works as the scene where the

people must gratify their revenge.

They made a sudden halt at the bottom of the hill, as if at the voice of

a leader; and then, forming themselves rapidly into a compact body, they

marched almost in silence, but with extreme rapidity, till they had

surrounded the building they meant first to attack. The labourers in it

had but just time to escape by a back way before the doors were down and

a hundred hands busy within knocking the machinery to pieces, and

gutting the place. This done, they went to a second and a third

building, when there arose a sudden cry of “fire!” The leaders rushed

out and saw indeed a volume of smoke making its way out of the doors and

windows of one of the offices where the books were kept and the wages

paid. The least ignorant among the rioters saw at a glance that this

kind of destruction would ensure the total ruin of the iron-work and of

all belonging to it. With vehement indignation they raised three groans

for the incendiary, and hastened to put out the fire and save the books

and papers. At the door they met the furious woman they had made one of

their leaders, brandishing a torch and glorying in the act she had done.

Her former companions looked full of rage, and shook their fists at her

as they passed.

“Stop her! Lay her fast, or she will be the ruin of us all,” cried

several voices. With some difficulty this was done, and the poor wretch

conveyed to her own house and locked in.

It was a singular sight to see the gentlemen and Paul, and a portion of

the mob labouring together at the fire, while the rest of the rioters

were pushing their work of destruction, unresisted but by the small

force of orderly work-people, which they soon put to flight. It was the

aim of the leaders to show that they confined their vengeance to the

machinery; but when vengeance once begins, there is no telling where it

will stop. The very sight of the fire was an encouragement to the

evil-disposed, and many thefts were committed and much violence done

which had no connection with machinery.

Paul was among the most active of the defenders. Seeing that as many

hands as could assist were engaged at the fire, he bethought himself of

a building where there was a great deal of valuable machinery which was

likely to fall a sacrifice if undefended. He ran thither and found all

quiet. He locked himself in and began to barricade the windows. He had

not half done when the rioters arrived, and, finding the door fastened,

applied to the window. This was soon forced; but then Paul appeared with

a huge iron bar, with which he threatened to break the sculls of all who

came within reach. He stood at some height above them, so as to have

greatly the advantage over them, and there was a moment’s pause. Some

were for forcing the door, but they did not know how many iron bars

might be ready there to fall on the heads of those who first entered.

“Smoke them out!” was the cry at length, and half a dozen lighted

torches were presently thrown in. Paul stamped out as many as he could

reach with either foot; but while he was trying to do this with one

which had already caught some light wood beside it, three men took

advantage of his attention being divided to leap up to the window,

wrench his bar from him, and fling it down below. Paul lost not his

presence of mind for a moment. He snatched up a blazing torch in each

hand, and thrust them in the faces of his enemies, who, not much

relishing this kind of salute, jumped down again whence they came. “It

is my turn to smoke out,” cried he; but this was his last act of

defence. The three men had been long enough on the window to perceive

that Paul was the entire garrison of the place; and while they kept up a

show of attack at the window, the door was forced, and the building

filled without resistance. When it was about half gutted, Paul thought

he heard a welcome sound without above the crashing and cries within. It

was the galloping of horse; and the sabres of soldiers were soon seen

glittering in the red light from the fire. They rode up and surrounded

the building, making Paul, who was still astride on the window, their

first prisoner. He smiled at this, knowing he should soon be set free;

but he was presently touched by the earnestness with which some of the

guilty protested his innocence and begged his discharge. When one of the

masters came up and had him released, he had a painful duty to perform

in pointing out which of the people who remained cooped up in the place

had been the most guilty. He was, however, sufficiently aware of its

being a duty to do it without flinching; and he marked the men who had

first broken the window, thrown the first torches, and burst in the

door.

The work of destruction was now stopped; but the state of things was

little less wretched than if it had continued. The partners were seen in

gloomy conference with the commanding officer. The steady workmen, whose

means of subsistence had been destroyed before their faces, stood with

folded arms gazing on the smoke which slowly rose from the ruins. There

was a dull silence in the empty building where the prisoners were

guarded by a ring of soldiers, who sat like so many statues on their

horses. At the houses of the partners there were sentinels at the gates

and before the parlour windows, and the ladies within started every time

a horse pawed the gravel walk. The anxious housekeeper, meantime, was

trying to keep the frightened servants in order; for they had much to do

in preparing refreshments for the soldiers. But, perhaps, the most

wretched of all were those who hid their grief within their humble

homes. The little children, who were forbidden by their mothers to stray

beyond the rows of labourers’ cottages, came running in with tidings

from time to time, and many times did the anxious wife, or sister, or

mother, lift her head in the hope of hearing “Father is coming over the

green,” or “John is safe, for here he is,” or “Now we shall hear all

about it, for Will is telling neighbour so and so;” and as often was the

raised head drooped again when the news was “Neighbour such-a-one is a

prisoner,” or “Neighbour Brown is crying because her son is going to

jail,” or “Mary Dale is gone down to try and get sight of her husband,

if the soldiers will let her; for she won’t believe he set fire to any

place.”

Again and again the children resolved, “I won’t go in to mother any more

till she has done crying,” and again some fresh piece of bad news sent

them in to make the tears flow afresh.

It was found that the prisoners could not be removed till the next day;

and when food, and drink, and straw to sleep on was being supplied to

them, it was melancholy to see how the relations of the men wandered

about hoping to find means to speak to one or another. Many an entreaty

was addressed to the soldiers just to be permitted to step up to the

window between the horses, and see whether John, or Will, or George

wanted anything or had anything to say. This could not of course be

allowed; but it was long after dark before the last lingerer had shut

herself into her cheerless home to watch for the morning.

That morning rose fair and bright as a June morning can be. Mr. Wallace

opened the shutters of his drawing-room, where, with Mr. Bernard, he had

passed the night, arranging plans for their next proceedings, and

writing letters to their partners in London respecting the readiest mode

of closing their concern; and to their law officers, respecting the

redress which they should obtain for the injury done to their property.

The crimson light of the dawn, the glittering of the dew on the shrubs,

and the cheruping of the waking birds, were so beautiful a contrast to

the lamp-light and silence within, that Mr. Wallace felt his spirits

rise at once. They were at once depressed, however, when he saw the

glancing of weapons in the first rays of the sun, and observed that the

furnaces were out, and that all the scene, usually so busy, was as still

as if it had been wasted by the plague. Manly as he was, and well as he

had sustained himself and everybody about him till now, he could not

bear these changes of feeling; and tears, of which he had no reason to

be ashamed, rolled down his cheeks.

“You dread the sending off the prisoners,” said his partner. “So do I;

and the sooner we can get it done the better.”

They therefore went out and saw that their sentinels were properly

refreshed, and that every thing was prepared for their departure as

speedily as might be. No one who walked about the place that morning

could think for a moment that any further violence was to be

apprehended. The most restless spirits were well guarded; and of those

who were at large, all, the injurers and the injured, seemed equally

subdued by sorrow and fear.

Just as the great clock of the works struck eight, a waggon drew up to

the door of the building where the prisoners were confined. In a few

minutes the whole population was on the spot. The soldiers kept a space

clear, and obliged the people to form a half-circle, within which stood

the partners and the commanding officer; and here the relations of each

prisoner were allowed to come as he was brought out. The parting was so

heart-breaking a scene that it was found necessary to shorten it; and

for the sake of the prisoners themselves, it was ordered that they

should only take one farewell embrace. Some took a shorter leave still;

for there were wives and sisters—though not one mother—who would not own

a relation in disgrace, and hid themselves when entreated by the

prisoner to come and say “Farewell.” The entreaty was not in one

instance repeated. A look of gloomy displeasure was all the further

notice taken by the culprit as he mounted to his seat in the waggon.

At length, the last prisoner was brought out; the soldiers formed

themselves round the waggon, and it drove off, amidst a chorus of

lamentation from the crowd. Almost every face was turned to watch it

till it was out of sight; but some few stole into the place which had

lately been a prison, and sank down in the straw to hide their shame and

their tears.

The partners thought that no time could be fitter than this for

explaining to the assembled people the present state of affairs as it

regarded them, and the prospect which lay before them. Mr. Wallace, who,

as longest known to the people, had agreed to make this explanation,

mounted to the window of a neighbouring building, and, while Mr. Bernard

and his sons stood beside him, thus addressed the crowd below:—

“It is partly for our own sakes, though chiefly for yours, that we now

offer to explain to you the condition and prospects of this concern. We

still say, what we have often said, that we are accountable to no man

for our manner of conducting our own affairs; but we wish you clearly to

understand why we close our iron-work, in order that you may see that we

cannot help doing so, and that it is through no act of ours that so many

industrious and sober labourers are turned out of work in one day. We

make this explanation for your sakes; because we hope that those among

you who have been guilty of the intention, if not the deed of riot, will

learn the folly as well as the sin of such proceedings, and that those

who are innocent will train up their children in such a knowledge of

facts as will prevent their ever bringing destruction on themselves and

others by such errors as have ruined our concern.

“When we came here to settle, an agreement was made, in act if not in

words, between the two classes who hoped to make profit out of these

works. You offered your labour in return for a subsistence paid out of

our capital. We spent the money we and our fathers had earned in buying

the estate, building the furnaces, making or improving roads, and paying

the wages which were your due. Both parties were satisfied with an

agreement by which both were gainers, and hoped that it would long be

maintained without difficulty or misunderstanding. No promise was or

could reasonably be made as to how long the labour should be furnished

on the one side and the capital on the other, in the same proportions;

for it was impossible for either party to tell what might happen to the

other. It was possible that so great a demand for labour might take

place in some other manufacture as to justify your asking us for higher

wages, or leaving us if we did not think proper to give them. It was

equally possible that the prices of our manufacture might fall so as to

justify us in lowering your wages, or in getting a part of our work done

without your assistance.

“Nothing was said, therefore, about the length of time that your labour

and our capital were to work together: and it was well that there was

not; for in time both the changes happened that I have described. First,

the demand for labour increased so much that you asked higher wages,

which we cheerfully gave, because the prosperous state of trade pointed

them out as your due. After a while the opposite change took place.

Demand declined, prices fell, and we could not afford to give you such

high wages, and you agreed to take less, and again less, as trade grew

worse. So far both parties were of one mind. Both felt the change of

times, and were sorry on account of all; but neither supposed that the

other could have helped the misfortune. The point on which they

split—unhappily for both—was the introduction of new machinery.”

Here there was a murmur and bustle among the people below, which seemed

to betoken that they were unwilling to hear. Some, however, were curious

to know what Mr. Wallace would say, and cried “Silence!” “Hush!” with so

much effect that the speaker was soon able to proceed.

“As no profit can be made, no production raised from the ground, or

manufactured in the furnace or the loom, or conveyed over land and sea,

without the union of capital and labour, it is clear that all attempts

to divide the two are foolish and useless. As all profit is in

proportion to the increase of labour and capital, as all the comforts

every man enjoys become more common and cheap in proportion as these two

grow in amount, it is clear that it must be for the advantage of

everybody that labour and capital should be saved to the utmost, that

they may grow as fast as possible. The more capital and labour, for

instance, there is spent upon procuring and preparing mahogany, the more

cheap will be mahogany tables and chairs, and the more common in the

cottages of the working classes. In the same way, broad-cloth was once a

very expensive article, because very few attempted to manufacture it;

but now, when many more capitalists have set up their manufactories of

broad-cloth, and much more labour is spent upon it, every decent man has

his cloth coat for Sundays. In like manner the more capital and labour

can be saved to be employed in the iron-trade, the cheaper and more

common will iron be: and if it can be an evil to us that it is already

cheaper, we must find a remedy in making it more common, more

extensively used, so that the quantity we sell may make up for the

lowering of the price. It is plain, then, that all economy of capital

and labour is a good thing for everybody in the long run. How is this

saving to be effected?

“Capital is made to grow by adding to it as much as can be spared of the

profit it brings. We all know that if a hundred pounds bring in five

pounds’ interest at the year’s end, and if two of the five pounds only

are spent, the capital of the next year will be a hundred and three

pounds, and the interest five pounds, three shillings; and so on,

increasing every year. This is the way capital grows by saving. Labour

does not grow by saving in like manner; but methods of improving and

economizing it have been found, and more are invented every year. Labour

is saved by machinery, when a machine either does what man cannot do so

well, or when it does in a shorter time, or at a less expense, the work

which man can do equally well in other respects. This last was the case

with our new machinery. It did not, like the furnaces and rollers, do

what man could not do; but it did in a quicker and cheaper manner what

man had hitherto done. It was a saving of labour; and as all saving of

labour is a good thing, our machinery was a good thing.

“You wish to interrupt me, I see. You wish to say that though it is a

good thing for us capitalists, it is not for you labourers. Hear me

while I show you the truth. If we could have brought back the state of

the world to what it was four years ago; if we could have made the

foreign iron-works melt into air, and some nearer home sink into the

ground; if we could have made the demand what it once was, and have

raised the prices to the highest ever known, you would not have cared

whether we put up machinery or not, because there would have been

employment enough for everybody notwithstanding. You care for it now

because it throws some people out of work; but you should remember, that

it has also kept many busy who must be idle, now that it is destroyed.

We should be as glad as you if there was work enough for all the men and

all the machinery together that our concern could contain; but when

changes which we could not prevent or repair brought before us the

question whether we should employ two-thirds of our people with

machinery, or none without, we saw it to be for the interest of all to

set up our new labourers in the midst of the grumblings of the old. We

tell you plainly that we could not have employed any of you for the last

six months, but for the saving caused by the new machinery; and that,

now it is gone, we can employ none of you any longer.

“You may say that the county will repair our losses, and that we may

soon build up what is destroyed, and go on as before. It is true that

the damages must be paid out of the public fund; but it is not so true

that a remedy will thus be found for the distress which violence has

brought upon you. The state of trade being what it is, and confidence

being so completely destroyed between the two parties to the original

contract, there is little encouragement to enter on a new one. My

partner and his family will depart immediately. I shall remain with a

very few men under me to assist in disposing of our stock, and to wind

up the concern; and then this place, lately so busy, and so fruitful of

the necessaries and comforts of life to so many hundred persons, will

present a melancholy picture of desertion and ruin. If, in after years,

any of your descendants, enriched by the labours of generations, should

come hither and provide the means of enriching others, may they meet

with more success than we have done! May they have to do with men

informed respecting the rights and interests of society, as happy in

their prosperity as you once were, and more patient and reasonable in

adversity!

“If these should ever inquire respecting the transactions of this day,

it will strike them that the revenge which you have snatched—for I am

told you call it revenge—is as foolish as it is wicked. Of all the

parties concerned in this outrage, your masters suffer the least—though

their sufferings are not small—and yourselves the most. Your occupation

is gone; the public resources, to which many here have contributed, must

be wasted in repairing the damage intended for us; and worst of all,

disgrace and the penalties of the law await many with whom you are

closely connected. Having enjoyed from their birth the security and

various benefits of the social state, they have thought fit to forfeit

their privileges by a breach of the laws; and they must take the

consequences. How many of the guilty are now mourning that those

consequences cannot be confined to themselves! How many—but I will not

pursue this subject further, for I see you cannot bear it. I only

entreat those of you who hold your children by the hand, and see them

wondering at the mournful solemnities of this day, to impress upon them

that the laws must be obeyed, and to assure them from your own

experience that, however sad undeserved poverty may be, it is easily

endurable in comparison with the thought which will haunt some of you to

your dying day—‘my own hands have brought this misery upon myself, and

upon those who lookup to me for bread.’

“I have only to add that which it may be a satisfaction to some of you

to know, that we freely forgive to such the injury they have meditated

against us. We are indeed too deeply concerned for your misfortunes to

have much thought to bestow upon our own. Farewell.”

The people slowly and silently dispersed, and few showed their faces

abroad again that day.

----------------------------

CHAPTER IX.

ALL QUIET AGAIN.

Paul was one of the very few whom his employer selected to remain with

him till the stock should be sold off and the concern closed. The Jones

family had been one of the first to depart of the many who were gone to

seek employment and a home. They settled in the place where their sons

were apprenticed to different trades, and where they had a good name for

honesty, industry, and prudence. The fund which they had saved in better

days was sufficient to maintain them for some time, if, as was not

likely, people so respectable should find it difficult to obtain

employment. They left Paul in possession of their cottage, as he was

unwilling to shift his work-bench, or leave off cutting corks till the

last moment.

As he was thus employed late one evening, Mr. and Mrs. Wallace came to

him. Mr. Wallace had heard from a friend of his engaged in a

neighbouring iron-work, who wished to know whether an able over-looker

could be recommended to him from among those who would be thrown out by

the closing concern. Mr. Wallace was glad of this opportunity of

securing a good situation for Paul, to whom he felt himself greatly

indebted for his conduct during the riots, and whom he knew to be

competent to the duties of such an office. Paul was duly obliged by this

offer, but requested time to consider of it, as he had already the

choice of two modes of investing his little capital,—one in a shop in

London, and another in a Birmingham concern.

Mr. Wallace was surprised at the good fortune which placed before one

man, in days like these, three employments to choose out of. Paul

answered with a stern smile, that he owed it to his reputation of being

a miser; misers having two good qualifications for partnership,—the

possession of money, and a close attachment to the main chance.

“I wish I could see any aim in this desperate pursuit of money,” said

Mr. Wallace, gravely.

Paul answered by going into the inner room and bringing out the picture

which hung there.

“Can you guess who that is?” said he.

“It has occurred to me that it might be yourself; but I can trace little

or no likeness now.”

“No wonder,” said Paul, looking at his blackened hands and sordid dress.

“It is not myself, however, but a brother,—an only, elder brother, who

died when I was twenty, and he twenty-one, just entering on the

enjoyment of his property.”

“And did that property come to you?” asked Mrs. Wallace, in surprise.

“Every acre of it, with the mansion you see there. I lost it all by

gaming and other pleasures—_pleasures_ indeed!—and in ten years was

sitting in rags, without a crust in my wallet, as beggars usually have,

on yonder hill where I traced the map of my future fortunes. I have an

aim, sir. It is to get back that estate; to plant an oak for every one

that has been felled; and to breed a buck for every one that has been

slain since the gates were shut upon me for a graceless profligate.”

“Do you think you should be able to enjoy your property if you got it

back again?” asked Mr. Wallace. “Or, perhaps, there is some family

connexion to whom you wish to restore it by will?”

“Neither the one nor the other,” replied Paul. “I have not a relation in

the world; and I see as clearly as you can do, that I shall be by that

time too confirmed in my love of money to enjoy the pleasures of a fine

estate. I shall screw my tenants, and grudge my venison, and sell all

the furniture of the house but that of two rooms.”

“Then do propose to yourself some more rational object?” said Mrs.

Wallace, kindly. “Let those have your estate who can enjoy it, and leave

off accumulating money before it is too late. As soon as you have enough

to buy and furnish a cottage, and afford a small income, give up

business, and occupy yourself with books, and politics, and works of

benevolence, and country sports and employments; with anything that may

take off your attention from the bad pursuit which is ruining your

health, and your mind, and your reputation.”

“If you do not,” said Mr. Wallace, “I shall wish, as the best thing that

could happen to you, that you may lose all your gains.”

Paul raised his clenched fist, and ground his teeth at the mention of

such a possibility. Mrs. Wallace turned pale at such a symptom of

passion; but she thought it right to add,—

“You have twice had warning of the fleeting nature of riches. You have

lost your own fortune, and seen the prosperity of this place overthrown.

If you still make wealth your god, I hope you prepare yourself to find

it vanish when you need it most. I hope you picture to yourself what it

will be to die destitute of that for which alone you have lived.”

“Yet this,” added her husband, “is a better lot than to live and die

miserable in the possession of that for which alone he has lived. Take

your choice, Paul; for the one lot or the other will be yours unless you

make a grand effort now.”

Paul was not inclined to dispute this; but he was not, therefore, the

more disposed to make the effort. He was pronounced by everybody a man

of strong character. Whatever pride he had in himself was in his

strength of character. Yet he was weak,—weak as an idiot,—in the most

important point of all.

He was once seen to smile compassionately on the perseverance of a

little child who laboured through a whole sultry day in digging a little

pond in his garden. By the time it was finished, and before it could be

filled, it was bed-time, and a rainy night rendered it useless.

When Paul despised the labour of this child, he little thought how his

own life would resemble that sultry day. He, too, spent his sunshiny

hours in laborious preparation; and fell into his long sleep to find on

waking that his toil had been in vain.

When the Wallaces at length took their final leave of the place, they

alighted at Armstrong’s, on their way, to say farewell. The old man was,

as usual, in his garden.

“Are you the last, the very last?” said he.

“Except two or three workmen and servants who stay to pack a few things

and lock up our house.”

“I hope then they will take down yonder clock which sounds to me like a

funeral bell.”

“Can you hear it so far as this?”

“O yes. Hark! It is beginning to strike noon. I used to like its stroke

when it brought the work-people flocking from their cottages in the

morning, or when they came pouring out as it told their dinner hour. But

now it only puts one in mind of days that are gone, and I shall be glad

when it is down.”

“You do then see something to regret in the days you speak of?” said Mr.

Wallace. “This is more than I expected from you.

“I might not say so, perhaps,” returned the old man, “if yonder valley

could be made what it once was. But that can never be; and there is no

comparison between a settlement where art and industry thrive, and a

greater number of human beings share its prosperity every year, and a

scene like that, where there is everything to put one in mind of man but

man himself.”

“And where,” said Mr. Wallace, “we are chiefly reminded of the ignorance

and folly to which the change is owing. I should wish for your sake that

we could raze all those buildings, and make the ground a smooth turf as

it was before, if I did not hope that the works might be

reopened,—though not by us,—in happier days.”

“I should be more glad to see such a day than I was to witness that

which brought you here,” said the old man. “But my sands are nearly run;

and, even if nobody shakes the glass, I can scarcely hope that anything

will bring you back within my hour. But come,” he added, swallowing his

emotion, “where’s your lady?”

“Gone to speak to Mrs. Margaret. Will you gather her a bunch of your

flowers before we go?”

“Aye, and a choice one; for she is a choice flower herself,” said the

old man. “From the hour that one saw her walking over the heath in the

wintry wind in her cloak and thick shoes to show a poor neighbour how to

manage a new-dropt calf, I pronounced you, sir, a happy man. Whatever

fortune betides you, you will find a companion and helper in her.”

Mrs. Wallace appeared in time to put a stop to further praise of

herself. She had left Mrs. Margaret engaged in admiration of a painting

by the lady’s own hands, which she wished to leave as a remembrance, and

which henceforth ornamented the chimney-piece of the cottage, and

occasioned more discourse than any other possession they had ever had.

Armstrong handed the lady gently down to the chaise. When it was out of

sight, he was a long time tethering the gate; and the housekeeper

observed that he drew his hand across his eyes as he turned into his

orchard plot.

_Summary of Principles illustrated in this Volume._

CAPITAL is something produced with a view to employment in further

production.

Labour is the origin, and

Saving is the support, of Capital.

Capital consists of

1. Implements of labour.

2. Material, simple or compound, on which labour is employed.

3. Subsistence of labourers.

Of these three parts, the first constitutes Fixed Capital: the second

and third, Reproducible Capital.

Since Capital is derived from Labour, whatever economizes Labour assists

the growth of Capital.

Machinery economizes Labour, and therefore assists the growth of

Capital.

The growth of Capital increases the demand for Labour.

Machinery, by assisting the growth of Capital, therefore increases the

demand for Labour.

In other words, Productive Industry is proportioned to Capital, whether

that Capital be fixed or reproducible.

The interests of the two classes of producers, Labourers and

Capitalists, are therefore the same; the prosperity of both depending on

the accumulation of CAPITAL.

-------

London: Printed by W. CLOWES, Stamford-street.

BROOKE

AND

BROOKE FARM.

=A Tale.=

BY

HARRIET MARTINEAU.

_THIRD EDITION._

LONDON:

CHARLES FOX, 67, PATERNOSTER-ROW.

---

1833.

CONTENTS.

-------

Chap. Page

1. Brooke and its Politicians 3001

2. George Gray’s Way of Living 3016

3. George Gray in the Way to Prosper 3028

4. A Conversation under the Limes 3040

5. Past, Present, and to Come 3056

6. Sergeant Rayne’s Story 3072

7. Great Changes at Brooke 3083

8. Small Farming 3092

9. Great Joy at Brooke 3106

10. What Joe Harper saw Abroad 3114

11. What must come at last 3127

12. Prosperity to Brooke! 3132

BROOKE AND BROOKE FARM.

---------------------

CHAPTER I.

BROOKE AND ITS POLITICIANS.

There is not a village in England that I love so well as Brooke: but I

was born and have always lived there, and this is probably the reason

why I see beauty in it; for strangers do not appear struck with it.

There is one long, straggling street where the blacksmith, the publican,

the grocer, and the haberdasher live; their houses being separated, some

by gardens, others by cowsheds or pigsties. My father’s house stands a

little way out of the village, just a quarter of a mile from the

“Withers’ Arms,” the only public-house in the place. Our dwelling stands

so far back from the road, and is just so much planted with trees and

shrubs, as to be free from noise and dust; while it is not so retired as

to appear ashamed of keeping company with the houses in the

neighbourhood. The children playing in the road may see the ladies at

work in the bow-window by peeping through the bars of the white gate;

and if any little boy should venture in to pick up his ball or recover

his kite, he may chance to meet the master looking after his

fruit-trees, or to catch a glimpse of the mistress cutting her roses.

Our house is, however, only the second-best in the place, without

reckoning Sir Henry Withers’s fine old castle, which, besides being five

miles off, is too grand to be brought into comparison with any

neighbouring estate. Brooke Farm is a far larger and handsomer place

than ours. The house, a solid old English mansion with many modern

additions, which have been made as its owner, Mr. Malton, grew rich, is

approached from the village by an avenue of fine chestnuts; but there

are sundry other approaches which are much preferred by those who, like

myself, frequent the fields and lanes of Brooke Farm. There is a green

lane where wild anemones grow in profusion, and at the end of which,

close by the back of the mansion, stand some tall elms, the habitation

of a society of rooks. When I go to visit Mrs. Malton, I generally

choose this road, and pay my respects to the rookery before doing the

same to the lady.—Mr. Malton is by far the largest land-owner within a

circuit of many miles, and has added to his property, year by year, till

it has become as extensive as he can manage himself. Up to this point he

believed himself justified in enlarging his farm, but not beyond; for he

knows well that the personal superintendence of the proprietor is

necessary to the due improvement of an estate of any kind, and

especially of a farm.

At the west end of the village street stands the church, upon a rising

ground planted with evergreens, while the modest parsonage retires

behind it, with its little court in front, and its blooming pear-tree

trained against the walls. Beyond, are a fine range of fields and some

flourishing young plantations; but in my early days they were not to be

seen. There was, instead, a wide common, skirted in some parts with very

poor cottages. No trees, no gardens were seen around them. I remember

how bleak and bare the situation of those dwellings used to appear. A

pool of muddy water was before the doors of some, and a dunghill was

heaped up against the wall of others. Each had a cowshed, such as it

was, with its ragged thatch and its sides full of holes, through which

the wind whistled. Each cottager possessed a cow which grazed on the

common, and which, though lean from being only half-fed, was the best

wealth of its master. As each villager had a right of common, every

housekeeper possessed a cow; and often in my evening walk I met eight or

nine of these miserable cattle coming home to be milked. Little John

Todd, the blacksmith’s son, used to drive in several in company with his

father’s. He took charge of Miss Black’s the milliner, of Wickstead’s

the publican, and of Harper’s the grocer. With all these cows, there was

no great abundance of milk, butter, and cheese, in the place; for no

more milk was yielded than was wanted for each family. There were tribes

of children in most of the cottages; and the grocer had his shop-boy,

the publican his stable-boy, and the milliner her apprentice, to feed;

so that there was a demand for as much milk as the poor animals could

supply. A donkey or two, and a few pigs and geese, were also to be seen

on the common, grazing or drinking from the pools, or dabbling in them.

There was a pretty pond of clear water near the pathway which led across

the common; and it was overhung on one side by a clump of beeches which

formed a pleasant shade in summer, and were a relief to the eye in

winter when the ground was covered with snow. Behind this clump the

common was no longer level, but swelled into heathy hillocks, bright

with gorse and broom, and the variety of plants which usually flourish

in company with them. The view of the church and parsonage from the

highest of these hills was particularly pretty when the setting sun

shone full on their windows and on the bench in the churchyard, where

the old men used to go to enjoy its last beams. I have sat on that hill

for many an hour, watching the children at their sports about the pond,

or tending the cows; and have remained there with my father till no

sound was heard but the dying hum from a distance, and nothing was to be

seen of the village but the sparks from the blacksmith’s forge.—My

father agrees with me that Brooke is one of the prettiest villages in

England.

The character of the place and of the people is, however, very much

changed within my remembrance;—whether for the better or the worse, the

reader will judge for himself when I have described the changes to which

I refer. A few years ago, as I have said, the cottages on the common

wore a comfortless appearance. The families they contained, some large,

some small, were, however, supported in independence, and few complaints

were heard, though the children went barefoot and half-naked, and had

never thought of such a thing as learning to read. Blacksmiths are

always sure of a living; and Mr. Todd was then neither better nor worse

off than at present. The same may be said of Wickstead the publican. The

grocer has got on in the world considerably; and Miss Black’s window

displays a much grander assortment of caps and ribbons than in former

days. But as she has grown rich, some of her neighbours have grown poor;

and parish relief is sought by several families who would have little

thought of such a mode of subsistence ten years ago.

I well remember the day when my father announced to us a piece of news

which nearly concerned the interests of our village. As we were sitting

round the table after dinner, my mother remarked that she had seen Sir

Henry Withers ride down the street in the morning, and thought he was

going to call; but that just as he had reached the gate, he turned his

horse’s head another way.

“He came to speak to me on business,” said my father, “and seeing me a

little way farther on the road, he chose to overtake me instead of

turning in here. He left his respects for you, and was sorry he had no

time afterwards to call.”

My mother was sorry too, for she wanted to give him some instructions

about rearing a foreign plant which he thought was drooping.

“He will be here again in a day or two,” said my father. “If the news he

brought has got wind, as I believe it has through his groom, he will

scarcely be so well received as usual in the village.”

A piece of news being a rare and welcome thing among the inhabitants of

Brooke, whether high or low, the whole family party looked eagerly to my

father for an explanation. He went on:

“Sir Henry tells me that an act of Parliament is likely to be obtained

for inclosing Brooke common.”

“O, our pretty common!” cried I. “So we shall see it all divided into

patches, with ugly hedges and ditches between. I shall never have any

pleasure in walking there again.”

“And we must give up playing hide and seek among the hillocks,” said one

of the boys.

“And there will be no place for me to fly my kite,” exclaimed Frederick;

“and Arthur must not swim his boat on the pond, I suppose.”

“What are the poor people to do with their cows?” added my mother.

“You too, my dear!” exclaimed my father, smiling. “I was going to tell

the children that they must not set an example of discontent to their

poor neighbours; and now, I am afraid, I must begin my lecture with

you.”

“You will not need,” replied my mother. “I am well convinced that it is

right that waste lands should be inclosed: but the first thought which

occurred to me was the immediate distress which such a change would

cause among the cottagers.”

“I am sorry for them,” said my father,“ because they will be full of

alarm, and may, by mismanagement, make that an evil which ought to be

none. If they choose, they may be the better for this change. Whether

they will choose it is the question.”

“That they will be the better in the end, I have no doubt,” replied my

mother. “But how are they to do without pasture for their cows in the

mean time?”

“An allotment of land will be given to each,” replied my father, “which

may be made much more valuable than the right of common, of which people

think so much.”

“But, mamma,” said I, “you spoke of the common as waste land, just as if

it was of no use to anybody. Surely, if it feeds cows for the whole

village, and geese besides, it is quite useful enough?”

“Not if it can be made more useful by cultivation, Lucy,” said my

father. “It is now but poor pasture for a score of cows and a few geese.

If it can be made to produce abundant food for double the number of

cattle, and some hundreds of human beings besides, we may well call its

present condition waste, in comparison with that which will be.”

“But it will be very expensive work to bring it to this state,” argued

I. “How much it will cost to make the fences and prepare the ground

before anything will grow in it!”

“That is the affair of those who are going to lay out their capital upon

it,” replied he. “You may trust them for having made their calculations

that they will be repaid in time. If you should see that day, if you

live to admire fine fields of corn and valuable plantations flourishing

where nothing grows now but heath and broom, you will wonder that you

could ever lament the change because it has cost you the loss of a

pretty walk.”

I was ready to allow that my regret was selfish.

“As for you, children,” added my father, turning to the little boys, “it

is natural that you should ask about your kite and your boat. I can tell

you for your comfort that the pond is not to be touched, and that there

will be plenty of room for some years to come for all your sports. The

whole common will not be enclosed at once, and the level ground will be

taken in first. So you may play at hide and seek among the hillocks till

you grow too old for the game.”

As we went for our evening walk, we could perceive that there was an

unusual stir in the village. Two or three old men, who were always to be

seen about sunset sitting on the bench under the elm in front of the

public-house, were smoking their pipes very quietly; but more than the

usual number of gossips was standing round them, and the politicians who

took the lead in the discussion of the news were holding forth with more

than common energy of speech and action.—On one side of the tree two men

appeared engaged in an argument less vehement, and to which there were

no listeners. One was Sergeant Rayne, who, having spent many years in

foreign parts and lost an arm there, had come back, covered with glory,

to spend his remaining days in his native village, where he was looked

up to as a kind of oracle on account of his superior knowledge of the

world. His companion was the grocer, who conceived himself to be little

less of a man of the world than Sergeant Rayne, since he had paid three

visits to London, and many more to the market town of M——.

I directed my father’s attention to this pair of speakers, exclaiming,

“How I should like to know what they are saying! They look as earnest as

their neighbours, though they are less noisy.”

“It is easy to see,” replied my father, “that there is speechifying

going on on one side of the elm, and argument on the other. I am glad of

it, if, as I suppose, they are discussing the inclosure-bill; for I was

afraid they were all of one mind, all opposed to it.”

As we passed Miss Black’s, we saw her talking at the door with Mr.

Gregson, the smart young haberdasher, who was the lady’s man of the

village. As it was a rare thing for her to condescend to gossip with her

neighbours, except at the tea-table, we concluded that she too had heard

the news, and that concern for the interests of her cow had overcome her

usual dignity.

We were always sure of hearing the substance and result of every

argument which took place within the parish of Brooke, in the space of

twenty-four hours at farthest, from a reporter as faithful as he was

minute.

Carey the barber, who shaved and dressed my father every morning, would

as soon have thought of appearing unprovided with razor and soap as with

a report of what passed under the elm the evening before. All that he

heard there was told, whether my father listened or not. If left to talk

without interruption, he was satisfied with the mere pleasure of

talking. If encouraged by observation and reply, he was doubly pleased.

He considered that it was his office to speak and my father’s to hear,

and was resolved that the duty should be thoroughly performed on his

part at least. Happy would it be for society if every office were filled

with equal zeal and industry!

“I hope, sir,” said he, the morning after the occurrences I have

related,—“I hope, sir, you enjoyed your walk last evening? Charming

evening, sir! I saw you pass as I was with my neighbours at the Arms.

Charming evening, indeed!”

“Very pleasant; and I suppose your neighbours found it so, as they did

not disperse till late. We were home later than usual, and yet you were

all as busy talking when we returned as at sunset.”

“True sir; very true: though I am ashamed to say I did not see you pass

the second time. Yet not ashamed either, for I believe it was quite

dark. We had a very animated discussion, sir. We were occupied with a

subject of very unusual interest, sir; though I assure you it did not

prevent my observing to Wickstead that I supposed you had gone round by

the lanes, as nobody had seen you return. But, as I was saying, sir, if

we had remained under the elm till this time, it would not have been

very surprising.”

He paused to observe whether he had raised my father’s curiosity. He was

satisfied by the reply:—

“Indeed! I do not remember that even when the French invasion was

expected, any discussion lasted all night. It must be something of high

importance indeed.”

“It is sir, as you say, something of the utmost importance,—as much as

the event you speak of. It is in fact an invasion that we apprehend,

sir: an invasion of our privileges, of our rights, which are perhaps as

valuable to us as our country itself.”

“What can have happened?” said my father. “You alarm me, Carey.”

“I am happy to hear it, sir. The best service which I can render to

myself and my friends is to alarm those who have the power to defend our

rights. It was agreed last night that as it would be proper to rouse

Jowler if your house was attacked, it was now our part to awaken you,

sir, to guard our properties. I hope no offence, sir, in comparing you

to Jowler; but you perceive what we mean; or rather what Tom Webster

means, for it was he that said it, being, as it were, the speaker of the

assembly. But I assure you, sir, when your constant anxiety for our

welfare was mentioned, we all said ‘Amen!’ so that you perceive no

disrespect was meant by the comparison of Jowler.”

“But let me hear what it is that you apprehend,” said my father. “What

is this terrible news?”

“It is said, sir, that an Act of Parliament is to be obtained for

enclosing Brooke common.”

“So I have heard,” replied my father, quietly.

“Then I conclude it is true,” continued Carey; “and the only obstacle to

our proceeding immediately to action is removed. Our meeting will no

doubt be held without delay.”

“What meeting?”

“I will tell you, sir, briefly what passed last night. As soon as I

arrived at the Arms, I heard from Wickstead that Sir Henry Withers’s

groom had called in the morning and announced the news of which we are

speaking;—that the common is to be inclosed, and that we are to be

deprived in consequence of the right of grazing our cows there.”

“Without any exchange?” inquired my father. “Without any advantage being

afforded instead of it?”

“The groom mentioned none, sir. Sergeant Rayne said, indeed, that in

these cases a piece of land was given to each person instead of the

right of common; but we do not know whether it is true. And if it is,

what then? What am I, for instance, to do with a bit of land? Only

conceive, sir!—Well: we were all of one mind at once, with the exception

of Sergeant Rayne, who, between ourselves, has the most extraordinary

notions on some subjects. We at once determined to make a stand against

oppression; but we should not have known the best method of doing so if

it had not been for Tom Webster.”

“Who is he?” asked my father. “I did not know we had a person of that

name in the village.”

“No wonder sir, for he has only just arrived—two days ago, I think. He

is a cousin of Harper’s,—a very fine young man, but out of health. He

lives at M——, and is come on a visit for the sake of country air and

quiet. A very fine young man he is, sir, and has seen a great deal of

the world. If he stays long enough, I should hope he may infuse much

spirit into our meetings, and impart a degree of polish to our society.”

“And what is his advice on the present occasion?”

“That a public meeting should be held, sir, at the Withers’ Arms, and

that a petition should be presented to the legislature against the

threatened measure. He offered (having been engaged in a public meeting

at M——) to prepare and move the resolutions, and proposed that Sergeant

Rayne should be invited to take the chair, in case you, sir, as we

feared, should decline doing us the honour of presiding.”

“I disapprove the object of such a meeting, and could not therefore

preside,” said my father.

“We feared so, sir; as the groom said he believed you and his master

were both of one mind,—both opposed to our opinions.”

“And what says Sergeant Rayne?”

“He too is of the objective school, sir.”

“Indeed! And were his objections listened to?”

“We thought it better to defer the consideration of them till the day of

meeting. Every one, as Tom Webster says, will then have fair play, be he

friend or be he enemy. So we proceeded with our arrangements till the

sergeant made a very sensible remark, which put an end to our measures

for the time. He observed that we were by no means certain of the fact

regarding the common, which was indeed the case. But now, sir, we can

proceed on your authority.”

“Remember,” said my father, “that I know no more than that the act is

likely to be obtained, and——”

“True, sir; very true: but we must bestir ourselves now or never.”

“Observe also, Carey, that the reason why I do not countenance your

meeting is, that I believe it to be for the interest of Brooke and of

every person in it that Brooke common should be cultivated.”

“Indeed, sir! Well, as Tom Webster says, there is no end to varieties of

opinion in this strange world; and where there is a difference,

discussion is a very good thing.”

“I am quite of Tom Webster’s opinion there, Carey; and therefore I shall

always be ready to explain the grounds of my opinion to any one who

cares to know them; and I am equally ready to hear any defence of the

other side of the question.”

“Why, then, if I may ask, sir, do you refuse to attend our meeting?”

“Because I understood that the object of the meeting is not to discuss

the question of inclosing waste lands, but to petition Parliament

against the measure in our own case.”

“Exactly so. Tom Webster said nothing about a public meeting for the

sake of mere argument.”

“Probably not. Besides, your evening conversations would answer the

purpose as well, every man in Brooke being present, I believe. Only I

suppose you are all on one side of the question.”

“With the exception of the sergeant, sir; and he is so quiet, that

little could be made out of his opposition.”

“His quietness speaks in favour of his opinions to my mind,” observed my

father; “for he is not too indolent or too timid to say what he thinks.

He is not afraid of standing alone, is he?”

“O dear, no, sir! Far from it. He was a brave soldier, and does not know

what cowardice is, one way or another. I hope we all approve frankness

and fair play; and therefore, sir, if I have your leave, I will declare

to him for his encouragement that you are on his side, and will

represent to him, as faithfully as I can, the views which you have done

me the honour to explain.”

“I was not aware,” said my father, laughing, “that I had put you in

possession of my views. They are no secret, however, and every one may

know them who wishes it.”

With a compliment to my father’s condescension, the barber withdrew.

----------------------------