_August 22, 1827._
Vol. II.--40.
[Illustration: ~View in Hagbush Lane, Islington.~
A HUT, ERECTED BY WILLIAM CORRALL, A POOR AND AGED LABOURER, AFTER THE
VIOLENT AND LAWLESS DESTRUCTION OF HIS COTTAGE, EARLY IN THE MORNING OF
THE SIXTH OF SEPTEMBER, 1827.]
“-------------- ’Twas strange; ’twas passing strange!
’Twas pitiful! ’twas wond’rous pitiful!”
I thought, in the _Every-Day Book_, that I had done with “Hagbush-lane”
altogether--the tale of the poor man’s wrongs, when “the proud man’s
contumely” grew into open aggression, had passed from me; and I presumed
that, for his little while on this side the grave, the oppressed might
“go free,” and “hear not the voice of the oppressor”--but when
selfishness is unwatched it has a natural tendency to break forth, and a
sudden and recent renewal of an outrage, which every honest mind had
condemned, furnishes a fresh story. It is well related in the following
letter:--
_To the Editor._
Sir,--In the first volume of the _Every-Day Book_ you have favoured the
lovers of rural scenery with an historical and descriptive notice of
Hagbush-lane, Islington, accompanied with an engraving of the “mud
edifice” which formerly stood there; of which you have given “the simple
annals:”--its erection by a poor labourer who, else, had no shelter for
himself, wife, and child, to “shrink into,” when “pierced by wintry
winds;”--its demolition by the wealthy occupants of the neighbouring
fields;--the again-houseless man’s endeavour to rebuild his hovel;--the
rich man’s repetition of the destruction of his half-finished hut;--and
finally, the labourer’s succeeding in the erection of a cottage, more
commodious than the first, where he continued unmolested to sell small
beer to poor workmen and wayfarers.--Allow me, sir, the melancholy task
of informing you of the “final destruction” of this sample of
rusticity.--Hagbush-lane is despoiled of its appropriate ornament.
I have ever been an admirer of the beautiful scenery that is to be met
with on that side of the metropolis; and never, since reading your
interesting narrative and description, have I strolled that way, without
passing through Hagbush-lane. On entering the wide part from the field
by Copenhagen-house, one day last week, I was sadly astonished at the
change--the cottage, with its garden-rails and benches, had disappeared;
and the garden was entirely laid waste: trees, bushes, and vegetables
rudely torn up by the roots, lay withering where they had flourished.
Upon the site of his demolished dwelling stood the poor old man, bent by
affliction as much as by age, leaning on his stick. From the heartbroken
expression of his features, it did not take me a moment to guess the
cause of this devastation:--the opulent landholder has, for the third
time, taken this ungentle expedient to rid his pastures of a
neighbouring “nuisance”--the hut of cheerless poverty.
The distressed old rustic stated, that on Thursday, (which was the sixth
of September,) at about six o’clock in the morning, before the inmates
had arisen, a party of workmen came to the cottage; and, merely
informing them that “they must disturb them,” instantly commenced the
work of destruction. His dwelling was soon levelled with the ground; and
the growth of his garden torn up, and thrown in a heap into the lane.
He declared, with a tear, that “it had ruined him for ever, and would be
the death of him.” I did not ask him many questions: it had been a sin
to probe his too deeply wounded feelings.
Proceeding up the lane, to where it is crossed by the new road, I
perceived that, in the open space by the road-side, at the entrance into
the narrow part of the lane, the old man had managed to botch up, with
pieces of board and old canvass, a miserable shed to shelter him. It was
surrounded with household utensils, and what materials he had saved from
the ruins of his cottage--a most wretched sty--but little larger than
the dog-kennel that was erected near it, from which a faithful cur
barked loudly at the intruder’s footstep.
Being a stranger in the neighbourhood, I cannot pretend to know any
thing of the motives that have induced his rich neighbours thus to
distress the poor and aged man;--perhaps they are best known to
themselves, and it is well if they can justify them to any but
themselves!--but surely, surely he will not be suffered to remain thus
exposed in the approaching season,
“--all amid the rigours of the year,
In the wild depth of winter, while without
The ceaseless winds blow ice.”----
Perhaps, sir, I give too much room to my feelings. My intention was but
to inform you of a regretted change in a scene which you have noticed
and admired in the _Every-Day Book_. Should you consider it worthy of
further notice in the _Table Book_, you will oblige me by putting it
forward in what form best pleases yourself.