A CONVERSATION UNDER THE LIMES.
Sergeant Rayne was a happy old man. Every body loved him for his
kindness of heart, and looked up to him with respect for the simplicity
of his character, and for the wisdom he had gained by his travels abroad
and his meditations at home. The labourers of the village were always
ready to stand and chat with him when he had inquiries to make about
their families. The housewives invited him in as he passed their doors,
and wiped down a chair for him. The children brought him nosegays as he
sat beneath the elm; and it was his delight to take one on his knee and
collect the others round him, while he told long stories of his
adventures on land and sea. It was amusing to witness the eagerness of
the little creatures—one holding his face between both her hands lest he
should look away before the tale was ended,—another crowding question
upon question faster than they could be answered—a third uttering an
impatient “hush!” at each interruption. He allowed them to do what they
liked with him; and one little rogue used to creep up behind him on the
bench to peep into the pocket which sometimes contained apples and nuts,
while another amused himself with buttoning and unbuttoning the empty
sleeve which the sergeant was wont to consider his most honourable badge
of service. When my mother and I went to a shop, we often found him
seated beside the counter, reading the news to two or three listeners;
and more frequently, as we passed through the churchyard, he was to be
seen on the bench in the lime walk, with spectacles on nose, intently
reading one of the good books which he valued more than newspapers,
chat, or child’s-play, dearly as he loved them all. When so engaged, no
one interrupted him, and he took notice of nobody but the clergyman, to
whom he never failed to offer his best bow. They usually entered into
conversation on the subject of his reading or on the results of his
meditation; and the clergyman has more than once told me that he owes to
Sergeant Rayne many a topic for a sermon, and many a hint which he
afterwards found valuable in his intercourse with his flock.
On one occasion, he conversed as freely with me as if I had been the
clergyman. His spirit was moved, and it was a relief to him to express
his feelings where he knew he might look for sympathy.
He was sitting in the churchyard, one bright, mild noon of a late autumn
day. He had been reading, but had put down his book with his finger
between the leaves, while he watched the motions of the sexton who was
digging a grave near him. When he heard the rustling of my little dog
among the fallen leaves, he turned and saw me approaching from the
stile. I thought there was a look of invitation in his eye; and when he
brushed a few dead leaves from the bench, I took my seat beside him.
“That grave is for old John Williams, I suppose?” said I.
“It is; and I was just grieving in myself that he who is about to be
laid there should have gone down to the grave in sorrow, after a life of
usefulness and honour.”
“You mean on account of the ill-doing of his son Hal?”
“Yes, miss: and not only that, but of the change in the family
altogether, and of the difference in their prospects from what his were
at their time of life. I remember what a happy family they were fifteen
years ago, when he owned his little farm here in the neighbourhood. His
sons in the field and his daughters in the dairy were as fine a set of
lads and lasses as could be seen. And now to think how some are dead and
others dispersed, and the favourite of all likely to come on the parish
through his own imprudence,—it does make one’s heart ache.”
“And the poor old man himself,” said I, “was supported by the parish
during his time of infirmity.”
“Yes, miss; and that of itself would have brought him to the grave if
his childishness had not saved him that pain. He deserved better from
his favourite son than that he should marry before he could afford it,
and turn over his old father to be maintained by the parish.”
“Did you ever tell the young man so?”
“Why, miss, I thought if his own natural affections and sense of duty
were not enough to guide him, there was little use in my saying any
thing. But this much I did tell him: that I had more pleasure in making
my old mother comfortable with my pay than I could ever have had in
indulging my own wishes; and that I am happier in my old age without
wife or children than I could have been under the thought that she had
died in the workhouse.”
“And what did he say?”
“He smiled and said I had never been in love; but——” the old man sighed
and shook his head.
“I am afraid,” said I, “Hal has not much comfort in his wife; for they
seem to have gone down in the world sadly since they married.”
“True, miss: and the old man knew this before he died; for he became
sensible both of this and of his son Richard’s death. Richard, you know,
miss, was a seaman, and was supposed to be at the other side of the
world at this time; but a week ago, a letter came to say that he was
dead; and it enclosed twelve pounds, which he had saved from his pay and
left to his aged father. I told Williams all about it, and shewed him
the letter and the money; but his memory so failed him, that he did not
know who I was speaking of; and he forgot the whole the next minute. But
O! miss, it all came back upon him at the last; and I shall ever bless
God that I heard him speak rationally once more. He grew weaker every
hour; and there he sat crying and wailing like a child, or talking so
foolishly that one did not know how to answer him. But I have heard him
speak like a man again, as sensibly as ever in his life, and with far
more dignity than his son knew how to face.”
“It is a great consolation,” said I, “when the mind which has been long
clouded becomes clear at the last.”
“A great consolation, miss; and never so much to me as in this case. He
was too weak to be got up, the last morning; and when I went, he was
either asleep or so quiet that we thought him so. I offered to sit by
him till his son came from work; and I was reading in the armchair by
the bedside when he raised his head and said, quite in his natural
voice, ‘Is that you, sergeant?’ I saw at once that he was quite
sensible. He asked who that woman was at the fire; and when I told him
it was his daughter-in-law, Ann, his son Hal’s wife, he repeated the
words to himself, and mused for a while, and then asked for Hal. Hal
came in at the moment, and his father spoke to him as if they had not
met for years. ‘So you are married, Hal,’ said he, ‘and I did not know
it till now. Well, that is no fault of yours. But where’s Richard now?
Has he been to see us, and I did not know that either? O, but surely I
remember something about him. Did not you tell me, sergeant, that he
died? My poor son! But he only went a little while before me.’ And so he
ran on till we told him he had better not exhaust himself with talking,
and I drew the curtain that he might try to sleep again. He lay very
quiet till his son and daughter left the room; and then, opening the
curtain, he beckoned me close to him, and said he was sure I would tell
him the truth, and that he wanted to know whether Hal was not very, very
poor, as he observed that the best furniture was gone and that the room
looked comfortless. I could not deny that they were poor. He went on to
ask how they had supported him; and his look and manner were so earnest,
and he did so insist upon his right to be told the whole, and it was so
clear that he had some notion of the parish allowance, that I could not
keep the fact from him. As soon as he had made out that he had been a
burden on the parish, he turned away and hid his face under the clothes.
I did not, for some time, venture to take any notice; but at last I
said, as gently as I could, that there would never again be such a
necessity, as he was now well supplied with money. He soon recalled the
circumstance of his son Richard’s legacy, and then made me tell him how
many weeks he had received an allowance from the parish. ‘Forty-nine
weeks, at four and sixpence a week; how much is that? More than I can
pay, I am afraid. But I can’t reckon it; will you?—Eleven pounds and
sixpence, is it? Well, I am thankful I have the money; and I beg,
sergeant, you will write a letter from me to the overseers,—now, before
Hal comes in. Sit by me, and I’ll tell you what to say.’ So, miss, he
told me clearly what he wished me to say; and his letter was so proud
and yet so humble! He said he hoped he could submit to be a burden at
the last, if it should be God’s will; but that he had never intended to
be so, and would not while he could raise a shilling by other means; and
so he begged to send back all they had allowed him. Hal looked surprised
and vexed, when he came back, to hear what had been done; and he
whispered to me that I knew very well how long his father had been
superannuated, and that he hoped I should not fling away the money in
any such manner, though it was very well to humour the old man by
pretending to do as he wished. I made no answer, but I have the money
and the letter safe, and they shall go to-night; for my good friend was
as much in his right mind as you or I, miss; and more, I should say,
than his son Hal. ‘There is but little left, Hal,’ said he; ‘but it will
be more than I shall want; for I am just going. I wish I could have left
you something more than my love and thanks for what you have done for
me. I am afraid I have been a sad trouble to you; but good children find
all this trouble turned into pleasure when they look back upon it in
after times.’ He went on speaking for some time; but his speech became
less clear and his countenance altered, till he sunk back and breathed
his last. I have thought of little else, ever since, Miss Lucy; and
between joy to think how he recovered himself after being so long
childish, and sorrow that he will never speak to me again, my heart is
quite full still.”
The sergeant seemed so much affected, that I tried to divert his
attention by inquiring into the beginnings of poor William’s troubles.
“Why, miss, he and I were never agreed about matters of that kind. I
always took a different view of his difficulties from what he did; and I
should have tried a different way to get out of them. As soon as the war
ended, his reverses began; and like all the rest of the farmers, he
complained of the hardships of the agricultural classes, and that they
had not fair play. It was of no use my reminding him that the farmers
made enormous profits during the war, which could not in the nature of
things be kept up for any long time: he was still crying out for higher
duties on the importation of corn, and complaining of the prosperity of
manufactures; just as if the welfare of the one class did not depend on
that of the other. Then Mr. Malton’s taking several farms into his own
hands was a great grievance to him. When I saw what was doing, I advised
him to keep no more land than he had capital to make the most of, and to
send his children into the world, or let them provide for themselves
under Mr. Malton; but he would do no such thing. So, from keeping more
land than he could cultivate properly, his capital was returned in less
and less proportions, and he went down in the world, and his children
with him, till ruin overtook most of them.”
“It seems a hard thing,” said I, “that these large farmers should ruin
their humbler neighbours; and why need it happen now more than
formerly?”
“Changes are always going on in society, Miss Lucy, and there are
usually some who suffer, and many who are benefited by these changes.
Whenever such a change takes place, we hear a cry in favour of old
times, and complaints that we do not go back to the old ways. But, to
say nothing of the good or evil of old ways, is it possible to go back
to them? In the present case, for instance, is it possible to set back
our population, our manufactures, our modes of tilling the ground, to
what they were when small farms were not found fault with? Certainly
not: so the question comes to this:—having a multitude more mouths to
feed, and requiring more and more capital to make the ground yield its
utmost, is it wiser to obtain an increased production by changing our
farming system, or to let the poorer population starve, that a certain
class may continue to be landed proprietors who cannot properly afford
to be so?”
“It is clear,” replied I, “that the general good must be considered
before the indulgence of any particular class. But to whom is this
question referred?”
“That is another point to be considered, miss. All these great questions
are decided by the public interest, (unless some meddling law is
interposed,) and not by individuals. As long as more corn is wanted,
there is no use in railing at large farmers, or at those who buy of
them, or at anybody. The demand cannot be prevented, and the supply will
follow of course. Seeing all this, I could not be discontented with Mr.
Malton for improving his land and trying new methods by which more corn
was brought to market and at a cheaper rate than formerly; though I was
sorry for Williams and others who could not keep up with him. My poor
old friend never could agree with me there; nor could he hear with
patience of the inclosure of our common. He was always afraid of too
much corn being grown, and would never believe that the more food is
raised, the more would be wanted.”
“Did he not see that a multitude in this kingdom have not food enough?”
“That, miss, he could not dispute; but his argument was, that while
farmers are poor, there must be too much corn in the market. I never
could get him to tell me why, if that were the case, Mr. Malton and
others were busy enlarging their farms and taking in waste land.”
“That is what I was going to ask,” said I. “How can Mr. Malton afford to
lay out a great deal of money which the land cannot pay back for years,
if the business of farming is an unprofitable one?”
“He knows very well that whatever may be the changes of prices and the
rise and fall of profits at various times, there will be a lasting
demand for the produce of the soil; and that therefore landed property,
with a sufficiency of capital to lay out upon it, must be a safe and
lasting possession in the long run. For that long run he, as a large
capitalist, can afford to wait.”
“Then it is an advantage to the public whom he supplies, and to the
labourers whom he supports, as well as to himself, that he should carry
on the work he has begun?”
“Certainly. He is preparing to feed many hundred human beings where only
a few lean cattle grazed before. He circulates money now among his poor
neighbours whom he pays for making his inclosures. They are very glad of
their increase of wages, (as you may see if you go among them,) however
much they may mourn over the loss of their common. This winter he will
turn in his large flocks of sheep to bite every blade of grass and
manure the ground. In the spring he will plough up the land, and
afterwards sow it with turnips. Next winter, his sheep will feed off the
turnips and give the land another dressing; and, during all this time,
he is laying out a great deal of money on his fields without any other
return than the scanty feed of his flocks. But, after this time, his
land will begin to pay him back the expense of the purchase, of the
fences, of the use of the teams, of the seed, and of the human labour
which has been employed; and when it is improved to the utmost, he will
probably find, or his children after him, that it is well worth while
thus to employ his capital, and thus to wait for his profits.”
“If, for many years,” said I, “there has been less food in this country
than was wanted, how happens it that so many commons are still
un-inclosed?”
“Because it often answers better to improve land already cultivated than
to spend money on wastes. Of late years, agriculture has been much
studied in this country, and means have been discovered by which lands
that have been under the plough for hundreds of years have been made to
produce more by half than in old times. This is the way that Mr. Malton
grew rich. If there had been nothing more to be done with his fields
than formerly, he would probably have taken in the common some years
ago: but his time and money have been occupied in trying new methods of
cultivation, which have answered very well and enabled him to increase
his capital, notwithstanding the badness of the times, from which he was
no more exempt than other people. Having brought his estate into a high
degree of cultivation, he is now able to add to it.”
“And to fix his capital,” said I, “and wait for returns in a way which
is not practicable for a small capitalist. Poor Williams, if he had been
alive now, must have had his capital reproduced immediately or have been
at a stand.”
The sergeant smiled while he observed that he saw he was not the only
person who had conversed with me on the employment of capital. I told
him how often I had listened to conversations between my father and his
friends on the philosophy of the changes which were taking place in our
village.
“There is another way,” said I, “in which it seems to me easy to prove
that there is the best economy in large farms. If industry is limited by
capital, and if a capital grows faster in proportion to its increase, a
large capital must afford increased employment at a quicker rate than
several small ones. Do you see what I mean?”
“Yes, miss; and I think you perfectly right. Here is a case. Mr. Malton
began, we will say, with a farm of three hundred acres, and three
neighbours with each a farm of one hundred, his capital being just equal
to that of the three together. Mr. Malton would have the advantage, in
the first place, of having his capital better invested. His one set of
farm buildings would require less fixed capital than their three sets,
though his might be treble the size. His fencing and the disposal of his
fields might be managed to better advantage. He might proportion his
stock and instruments more exactly than they could to the work to be
performed—finding, for instance, that five horses could do the work
which it would require a pair of horses on each of the three small farms
to do. The fixed capital thus saved, Mr. Malton could employ at once in
improving his land, and thus preparing for a further increase of
capital; while his neighbours could only go on as they did before. When
these improvements bring in their profits, he has a further sum to lay
out in the employment of labour, and the fruits of that labour enrich
him still more; and all this time, his three neighbours are left further
and further behind, though their smaller capital may be growing in its
due proportion. At the best, at the end of a few years, they can only
make the most of their one or two or three hundred acres, while he
supplies society with the produce of his one or two or three thousand.”
“Do you know,” I asked, “with how much land Mr. Malton began the world,
and how much he has now?”
“I rather think he began upon six or seven hundred acres; and now he has
some thousands under his own eye. One of his tenants holds a farm of
fifteen hundred, and another of twelve hundred acres; and these men
adopt all Mr. Malton’s improvements that their capital will allow, and
have so increased the productiveness of their land as to be truly public
benefactors.”
“Poor Norton will hardly have any chance of improving his little fortune
in such a neighbourhood,” said I.
The sergeant shook his head, and said that he had tried to explain to
Norton that as industry is proportioned to capital, it must answer
better to let the labour of a society like ours to a large capitalist
than to split it into portions which could not yield so full an
aggregate return; but that Norton liked the idea of being a proprietor,
and would listen to no evil bodings.
“If you were to go abroad, again, sergeant,” said I, “what would you do
for want of somebody to advise? I suppose you found no foreigners so
ready to look up to you as we are in your native village?”
“My business abroad was not to teach but to learn,” he replied, smiling.
“Yet there were some who used to ask me questions by the hour together
about the ways of my own country. It was the examination that I was thus
led into that induced me to consider the reasons and rules of our public
and domestic economy in the way which makes my neighbours here come to
me for advice.”
“What sort of people were they who used to question you?” I asked.
“Soldiers do not generally study these matters much.”
“It is a pity they do not,” replied he, “so much opportunity as they
have of observing the ways of different countries. Those that I speak of
were mostly soldiers, however; they were my companions in the hospital
where I lost my arm. I was confined there many weeks, and a prisoner
too; so that I was glad to amuse my thoughts by conversation whenever I
could get it.”
“You could speak Spanish, then?”
“I managed to pick up enough both of French and Spanish to make myself
understood. If I had not, I should have been forlorn indeed, for not an
Englishman was in that hospital but myself. I think I hardly could have
borne to lose my liberty, my limb, and all intercourse with my
countrymen at once, if I had been unable to talk with the people of the
place. As it was, it was sad enough.”
“I have always wished,” said I, with some hesitation, “to hear the
history of that terrible time from yourself; but I never ventured to ask
it.”
The sergeant smiled as he assured me that I need not have scrupled, as
it was a pleasure to him to go back to the remembrance of old times.
“I will begin with telling you, miss, how I got my wound. It was the
first wound I ever had, though I had been often in the very thick of the
fight. It was strange enough that on this particular day——”
Just at this moment the clock struck one. A shade passed over the face
of the old man, and he stopped short. Knowing his passion for
punctuality, I started up with many apologies for having detained him so
long, and promised to call on him one day for his story, which it really
was no little disappointment to me to give up for the present.
Before I left the churchyard, I looked back and saw that, though he was
late for dinner, the sergeant had paused to look once more into his old
friend’s grave.
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