“Never fret yourself for their gibes, Hunt,” said Childe, the beggar.

“You are more in the way to do well than you have been this many a day.

You may make what you will of the great, if you do but know how to set

about it.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” said Hunt, fidgeting about in a state of great

agitation. “I’m sure the rich know well enough what to make of us. Not a

word do we ever hear from them about our right to be kept from

starvation; and they expect us to be wonderfully grateful for a parish

dole, while they cut off a pound of meat a week from every poor soul’s

allowance within yonder walls, and advise us to mix rye with our wheaten

bread.—’Tis true, as I’m alive! A man told me so just now as he came out

of yonder gate.”

“Well; let us get the pound of meat for our share, if we can. I’ll bet

you a wager, Hunt, I’ll get a shilling a week more out of them for this

very prank of theirs.”

“Done!” cried Hunt. “I bet you a penny roll they will be too sharp for

you.”

“A penny roll!” exclaimed Childe. “A pint of wine is the lowest bet I

ever lay, man. A pint of red port to be paid to-night. Come!”

“You might as well ask me to bet a diamond,” said Hunt, laughing

bitterly. “How am I to get port wine?”

“I’ll show you when our business here is done,” said Childe. “Your

father was my friend, or I should not open my confidence so easily. But

just stand a minute at that fat woman’s elbow, will you? Just to screen

me a bit. There; that will do. Don’t look round till I bid you.”

When Hunt had permission to look round, he scarcely knew his companion.

Childe had slipped off his worsted stocking and bound it over his

forehead and chin, so as to look very sickly. He sprinkled a few grains

from his snuff-box into his eyes, so as to look blear-eyed, and

forthwith set himself to tremble all over, except his right arm which

appeared stiff.

“I have had a slight stroke of palsy this week, you see,” said he. “I

can just get abroad to show that I must have another shilling a

week.—Hang it, Hunt, it is not worth the trouble for such a trifle, if

it was not for the bet!”

Hunt thought a shilling a week no trifle, and wondered how Childe came

by such mighty notions.

“Because I’ve an _e_ at the end of my name, man, that’s all. That little

letter makes a great man of me. It is worth house and board and tobacco

and clothes to me for the whole of my old age. You think I am mad, I

see; but, hark’ee! did you never hear of Childe’s hospital?”

“Yes; near London. Is not it?”

“Yes; and I have the next turn there, and a merry life I make of it till

I get in, fearing that the confinement may be rather too close for my

liking. However, it is not a thing to be sneezed at. The money gathers

so fast that ’tis thought we Childes shall have silver spoons by the

time I enter the brotherhood. I like gentility, and I would give up a

little roving for the sake of it.”

“But how had you the luck to get on the list?” inquired Hunt. “Who

befriended you?”

“Lord bless you, how little you know about such things! ’Twas I

befriended the trustees, not they me. They are beholden to me for saving

them the trouble of searching further for a Child with an _e_ at the end

of his name. None others will do by the terms of the bequest, which is

for the support of thirteen aged men of the same name with the pious

founder.—A deal of pride in his piety, I doubt, Hunt.—Well: the funds

have grown and grown, and the trustees can’t use them up any how, though

their dinners and plate and knick-knackeries are the finest of the fine,

I’m told; and the thirteen aged men have all they ask for. You should

see what a figure I cut on the list of candidates,—alone in my glory, as

they say;—‘honest industry’—‘undeserved poverty’—‘infirmities of

advancing years,’ and so forth. I wonder they did not make a soldier or

a sailor of me at once,—‘to justify their choice,’ as they finish by

saying. Why, man, you look downright envious!”

“I wish any great man of the name of Hunt had endowed an hospital,”

sighed Hunt; “but I am afraid there would be too many claimants to give

me a chance.”

“To be sure. There’s not one in ten thousand meets with such luck as

mine. Bless you! there would be a string of Hunts a mile long, in such a

case.”

And the beggar threw himself back, laughing heartily; but suddenly

stopped, saying,

“Mercy! how nearly I had lost my bet! People in the palsy do not laugh,

do they?”

“When do you expect to get into this hospital?” inquired Hunt, who could

think of nothing else; “and how do you keep yourself so sleek

meanwhile?”

“I shall depart to that better place when any one of the old pensioners

departs to a better still,” replied the beggar; “meanwhile, I grow fat

in the way I will show you presently. Now for it. It is our turn. Do you

keep just behind me and see how I manage.”

The method was worth watching. Childe won his way slowly among the

groups, preserving his paralytic appearance wonderfully, and exciting

the compassion of all who took notice of him.

“And who may you be, friend?” inquired the officer, as Childe approached

the counter where the pay was being distributed. “Bless me! Childe! My

poor fellow, how you are altered! You have had a stroke, I am afraid?”

“If it’s ordained that the grasshopper must become a burden,” said

Childe, mumbling in his speech, “we must submit, and be thankful to have

lived so long. But you will not refuse me another shilling, sir.”

The officer was about to comply, when an assistant who stood by him

remarked that the applicant looked wonderfully ruddy for a paralytic

man, and that his eyes were as bright as ever. Hunt, who stood behind,

jogged his arm, from which the stick immediately fell. Childe appeared

to make several ineffectual efforts to pick it up, and looked

imploringly towards the people behind him, as if complaining that they

pressed upon him. The officer spoke sharply to Hunt,—

“Pick up the man’s stick, you brute! You knocked it out of his hand, and

you stand staring as if you liked to see how helpless he is.—You

observe, John, his right arm is quite useless. Give him another

shilling.”

Hunt wished he had abstained from his practical hint. Before he could

state his case, a woman got the officer’s ear.—Sarah Simpson, spinster,

by name and title. She was a clean, tight little body, poorly dressed,

and sickly in appearance. She appeared excessively nervous, her eyes

rolling and her head twitching incessantly. She pleaded for more pay,

saying that she had a note from one of the guardians respecting it: but

for this note her trembling hands searched in vain, while she was pushed

about by the people who still continued to fill the room.

“Make haste, good woman,” said the officer. “We can’t wait on you all

day.”

At this moment, the poor creature turned round and swore a tremendous

oath at a man who had taken upon him to hurry her.

“Upon my word, that is pretty well for a spinster!” observed the

officer. “If you are not satisfied with your pay, madam, I would

recommend your going into the workhouse. You have nobody dependent on

you, I believe, and I should think the workhouse a very proper place for

you.”

“She has been there already,” said the assistant. “Her tongue put me in

mind of that. The master tells me such oaths were never heard within the

walls as this woman’s.”

“Mercy, gentlemen, what did I say?” asked the poor creature, whose eyes

now rolled frightfully. “I am not myself at times, gentlemen, when I’m

hurried, gentlemen. I have such a—such a—such a strife and strangling

here,” she continued fretfully, tearing open her gown, and shaking

herself like a passionate child.

“Well, well, that’s enough of your symptoms; we are not your doctors,”

said the assistant; “take your money and make way.”

In a hurried manner she closed her gown and drew back, forgetting her

money, which however Hunt put into her hand.

“Only two shillings!” exclaimed the poor creature, returning timidly to

the counter. “A’n’t I to have what the gentleman recommended, then,

sir?”

“You are to have no more money, so let us have no more words,” said the

officer. “You have your full share already.”

Mrs. Bell, whose period of waiting seemed coming to an end, advanced to

say that Sarah Simpson was subject to flights at times, when she did not

know what words came out of her mouth; but that she was a humble, pious

Christian as could be.

“I am afraid your recommendation is not worth much,” observed the

officer. “Let us see.—Your husband, yourself, and how many children?”

Mrs. Bell, suspecting herself suspected, hesitated whether to say four

or five. She shaped her answer dubiously,—

“Four and sixpence a week is what we have had, sir.”

“How many children?” thundered the officer.

“Four,” admitted the terrified Mrs. Bell, who was glad to get away with

three and sixpence, and a rating from the men in authority, accompanied

by sneers and jests from the hearers. On her way home, she laid the

entire blame on the ill-nature of her neighbours, especially on the

spite of old widow Pine.

Hunt obtained a small allowance, and left the place, grumbling at its

amount and at the prospect of having to spend it all in wine to pay his

wager. Childe, however, gave him his first lesson in the mysteries of

begging. Under the pretence of sport, he practised the art for the first

time in a street on the outskirts of the city, through which many

gentlemen passed in their way home to dinner from their counting-houses.

Hunt was astonished at his own success, and began to calculate how much

alms might be given away in a year in this single street, if he and

Childe had the begging department all to themselves. It might be enough,

he thought, to enable them to set up a shop.—When the parish clock

struck eight, Childe came to him and said it was near supper-time. Hunt

was glad of it, for he was very hungry, having had nothing since

morning. Childe begged pardon for the freedom of calling him a fool, but

could not conceive why he had not taken a chop in the middle of the day,

as it was his custom to do: it was sticking rather too close to the main

chance to sit without food from morning till evening for fear of missing

a monied passenger.

Hunt followed his tutor to a public-house in the heart of the city,

called the Cow and Snuffers. Hunt had supposed this house too

respectable to be the resort of beggars; but was informed that the

fraternity thought nothing too good for them when their day’s business

was at an end, and the time of refreshment was come; not as it comes to

poor artizans in their sordid homes, but rather to convivial men of

wealth.

“Stay!” said Childe, as they were about to enter the house. “How much

can you afford to spend? Five shillings, I suppose, at the least.—Never

start at such a trifle as that, man! You will make it up between four

and five to-morrow afternoon.”

Hunt had not intended to beg any more; but he deferred the consideration

of the matter for the present, and followed Childe to a small room

upstairs, furnished with washing apparatus, and with a wardrobe well

stocked with respectable clothing. Three or four persons were already in

this room dressing, their beggar apparel being thrown into a corner, and

looking-glass, brushes, and towels, being all in requisition. Hunt was

declared, after a brushing, to be presentable without a change of

apparel, especially as he was a stranger. Childe was about to open a

door on the same floor, when a waiter stopped his hand and intimated

that they must mount higher, as the room in question was occupied by the

monthly meeting of the Benefit Club. The cloth was laid upstairs, and it

was hoped the apartment might be found quite as comfortable.

On the question being put to the vote among the beggars already

assembled, it was pronounced an intolerable nuisance to be turned out of

their apartment regularly once a month by these shabby fellows, who were

always thinking how they should save money instead of spending it. The

landlord was rung for, and requested to intimate to the workpeople that

a large convivial party desired to change rooms with them. The landlord

objected that the apartment had been positively engaged from the

beginning by the club, and he could not think of turning them out. Being

assailed, however, by various questions,—how he could bring the two

companies into comparison?—whether he could honestly declare that the

custom of the club was worth more than a few shillings in the year?—and,

lastly, how he would like to lose the patronage of the beggars’

company?—he consented to carry a message—the answer to which was a civil

refusal to budge. Message after message was sent in vain. The club,

having ascertained that there were unoccupied rooms in the house which

would suit the purpose of the other party as well, very properly chose

to keep the landlord to his engagement.

“It’s monstrous, upon my soul!” cried a lady beggar, making her entrée

with a curtsey, which she had first practised on the boards of a barn,

when personating Juliet,—“it is really monstrous to be poked into an

attic in this way;—and to miss the view of the cathedral, too, which is

so attractive to strangers!”

The appearance of this lady suggested a last appeal.

“Tell them,” said Childe, “that there’s a lady in the case,—a lady who

is partial to the view of the cathedral.”

The club sent their compliments, and would be happy to accommodate the

lady with a seat among them, whence she might view the cathedral at

leisure, while they settled their accounts.

The club were pronounced ill-mannered wretches, and the representations

of the landlord about the probable overroasting of the geese, were

listened to. Supper was ordered. Roast goose top and bottom;—an

informality for which apology was made to Hunt, on the ground that the

company liked nothing so well as goose in the prime of the

pea-season;—abundance of pease; delicate lamb chops and asparagus, and

so forth. Hunt had never before beheld such a feast.

“It will be long enough,” observed a junior member, “before those shabby

fellows below treat themselves with such a set-out as this. I never

liked their doings when I was an operative: I was one of the other

sort.”

“What other sort?”

“One of the good livers, and not one of the frugal. I and some friends

of mine used to sup something in this fashion when we earned near three

guineas a week. We used to get our fowls from London.”

“Bravo! and what made you leave off trade?”

“I was turned off in bad times, and I shall tell you no more; for I hate

to think of that winter of cold and water-gruel. My nose was positively

frost-bitten, and my stomach like a wet bladder most part of the

twenty-four hours. Pah! it was horrid.”

“You would have exchanged conditions with one of the frugal at that

time, probably.”

“Why, I did envy one his bit of fire, and another his mess of broth; and

the next winter I may envy them again, for I hear the magistrates have

got scent of me; but no more of that now.—Miss Molly, your very good

health! May I ask what you have done with your seven small children?”

“Left some of them on the bridge, and the rest in the Butcher’s-row,

with directions where to find me when the halfpence grow too heavy for

them. I hope it is going to rain so that they will get little; for I

don’t want to be bored with the brats any more to-night.”

“They must be quite too much for you sometimes.”

“Hang it! they are. It is all I can do to remember their parentage, in

case of its being convenient to return them. Two of them are getting to

a troublesome age now,—so impertinent! I must really get rid of them,

and borrow another baby or two.”

“Gentlemen,” said Childe, when the cloth was drawn and the door closed

behind the waiter, “we have long wanted a general-officer in our

company, and I flatter myself I have found one who will fill the

department excellently, if he can be induced to join us. Hunt, what say

you? Will you be one of us?”

Hunt wished to know what would be expected of him.

“The fact is,” said Childe, “I took a hint during my travels last year,

which is too good to be let drop. General Y——, whom, as a boy, I used to

see reviewing the troops, gamed and drank himself down into pauperism,

and I met him last year walking the streets, not begging, but taking a

vast deal of money; for it was whispered who he was, and everybody gave

him something. ’Tis a case of the first water, you see, and it is a pity

not to profit by it. You will find your part very easy. You have only to

let your beard grow a little, and walk barefoot and bareheaded,

buttoning your coat up to your chin in the way of military men, and as

if to hide the want of a shirt. You must look straight before you as if

you saw nobody, and keep your left hand in your bosom and your right by

your side. You will find many a shilling put into it, I expect, and very

little copper.—If you think it as well to vary the story, we can make

you an admiral, with some resemblance to a pig-tail; but you are hardly

round-shouldered enough for a seaman, and there is something in the

upright military walk that catches the eye better.”

Hunt had some scruples of conscience, which were discovered and combated

with wonderful address by his tutor. The argument which proved finally

successful was, that if he believed he had a right to comfortable

support, and could not obtain it either by work, or by allowance from

the public fund, he must get it in any way he could.—Nobody inquired

whether this permission was to extend to thieving, in case the gentry

should take it into their heads to leave off giving alms; nor did any

one trouble himself to consider where, short of murder, the line was to

be drawn in the prosecution of this supposed right. Hunt had some

confused notion that the act of _begging_ is inconsistent with a claim

of _right_: if he changed his petition into a demand, the act became one

of highway robbery; between which and petty larceny and burglary, there

are only degrees of the same guilt: there must be some flaw in this

reasoning, since the gallows stood at the end of it. It might have been

proved to him that, if he had the supposed right to support, he was now

about to urge it in the wrong quarter; and that, therefore, no species

of begging is defensible on this very common plea. It might also have

been proved that the right itself is purely imaginary; but he was now in

a company whence it was most convenient to banish all questions of right

except those involved in the settlement of bets, and of precedence in

taking the chair.

There was much laughter at the sober folks below; the murmur of whose

business-like voices rose occasionally during a pause, and who were

heard descending the stairs before the clock struck ten. The waiter just

then came up with a fresh supply of gin, Miss Molly having an

inclination for another glass.

“How much do those people spend each time, pray?”

“Twopence a-piece, and a shilling over.”

In reply to the mirth which followed, Childe pointed out that the very

object of their meeting was the promotion of frugality; and that his

only wonder therefore was, that they did not meet somewhere where they

need spend nothing at all.

The waiter, who had looked grave during the laugh, now observed that the

members of the club drank so little because they had something better to

do. They read the newspapers, and took an important part in elections,

and had the satisfaction of helping one another in many ways. He could

speak to the satisfaction of being a member of one of these clubs, and

the pride he felt in it. There was no occasion to fear any magistrate or

constable living, or to have anything to do with the parish; and they

were, moreover, prepared so as to be at no man’s mercy in times of

trouble and sickness; and when they were past work, there was a fund to

go to, over which they held a right; and this, in his opinion, was worth

more than jollity with want in prospect. The man was ordered away, and

threatened with being thrown out of the window for his impertinence, and

a riotous chorus was struck up on his disappearance; but there were,

possibly, others besides Hunt, who sighed at his words, before they

began to sing in praise of gin and revelry.

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

CHAPTER V.

COUSIN MARSHALL’S CHARITIES.

Marshall was a member of the benefit club which met at the Cow and

Snuffers. He had followed his father’s advice and example by enrolling

his name in it while yet a very young man; and he was now every day

farther from repenting that he had thus invested the earnings of his

youth. His companions, who knew him to be what is commonly called ‘a

poor creature,’ smiled, and said that his club served him instead of a

set of wits. He was not a man whose talents could have kept him afloat

in bad times, and his club served admirably for a cork-jacket. His wife,

who never seemed to have found out how much cleverer she was than her

husband, put the matter in a somewhat different light. She attributed to

her husband all the respectability they were enabled to maintain, and

which concealed from the knowledge of many that Marshall earned but

moderate wages from being a slow and dull, though steady workman. She

gave him the credit, not only of the regularity of their little

household, (which was, indeed, much promoted by the sobriety of his

habits,) but of the many kindnesses which they rendered to their

neighbours,—from sending in a fresh egg to an invalid next door, to

taking home two orphans to be maintained. If it had not been for her

husband’s way of storing his earnings, as cousin Marshall truly

observed, these offices of goodwill would have been out of the question;

and this observation, made now and then at the close of a hard day’s

work, when Sally was trying to knit beside him, dropping, unperceived,

as many stitches, poor girl! as she knitted, and when little Ann was at

play among his own children before the door, made the slow smile break

over his grave face, and constituted him a happy man.

Sally’s eyes grew daily worse. Mrs. Marshall had long suspected, but

could never make sure of the fact, that she injured them much by crying.

As often as Sally had reason to suppose she was watched, she was ready

with the complaint “my eyes always water so;” and how many of these

tears came from disease, and how many from grief, it was difficult to

make out. She was seldom merry, now and then a little fretful, but

generally quiet and grave. Her great pleasures were to sit beside cousin

Marshall, on the rare occasions when she could turn out all the little

ones to play, and mend clothes of an afternoon; or to forget how old she

was growing, and be taken on John Marshall’s knee, and rest her aching

forehead on his shoulder when he had an evening hour to spare. From the

one she heard many stories of her mother as a girl no bigger than

herself; and from the other, tidings of Ned and Jane, when, as often

happened, John had been to see them. Mrs. Marshall now began to

intersperse frequent notices of the Blind Asylum in her talk, trying to

excite poor Sally’s interest in the customs, employments, and advantages

of the place; and she gave her husband a private hint to do the same, in

order to familiarise the girl with the thought of the place she must

shortly go to. John obeyed the hint; but he did it awkwardly. Whatever

was the subject now started in his presence, it always ended in praises

of the Blind Asylum, and declarations how much he should like to go

there if it should please the Almighty to take away his eyesight. Sally

was not long in fathoming the intention of this. At first she pressed

down her forehead closer when John said ‘a-hem’ on approaching the

subject; but soon she slid from his knee, and went away at the first

sign.

“I think, John,” said his wife, one evening when this happened, “poor

Sally has heard enough for the present about this Asylum. It pains her

sadly, I am afraid; but the time must be at hand, for she is very nearly

blind now; and as to a vacancy, some of the people are very old.”

“I was going to say, wife, one of them is dead, and Sally can be got in

on Saturday, as Mr. Burke bids me tell you. I met him to-day, and that

was his message.”

Cousin Marshall’s thoughts were at once painfully divided, between

satisfaction at having Sally thus comfortably provided for, and the

sorrow of parting with her; between the doubt how her clothes were to be

got ready, and the dread of telling the girl what was to come to pass.

She decided on sending her to bed in the first place, in order to hold a

consultation in peace; so she went in search of her, led her up herself

to the little nook which had been partitioned off for her as an invalid,

helped her to bed, instead of letting Ann do it, swallowed her tears

while hearing the simple prayer she had taught her, kissed her, and bade

her good night.

“Cousin Marshall,” said the little girl, after listening a minute, “what

are you doing at the window?”

“Hanging up an apron, my dear, to keep the morning sun off your face.”

“O, don’t do that! I don’t see much of the light now, and I like to feel

the sun and know when it shines in.”

“Just as you like. But what are you folding your clothes under your head

for? You shall have a pillow. O yes; I have a pillow—I’ll bring it.”

Sally nestled her head down upon it as if for comfortable repose, while

her cousin went down to meditate on her concerns. It was settled between

the husband and wife, that either Ned or Jane should be immediately

taken home in Sally’s place, and that circumstances at the workhouse

should determine which it should be.

Mrs. Marshall was wont to sleep as soundly as her toil and wholesome

state of mind and conscience deserved; but this night she was disturbed

by thoughts of the disclosure she must make in the morning. She scarcely

closed her eyes while it was dark, and after it began to dawn, lay broad

awake, watching the pink clouds that sailed past her little lattice, and

planning how the washing, ironing, and preparing of Sally’s few clothes

was to be done, in addition to the day’s business. Presently she thought

she heard the noise of somebody stirring behind the little partition.

She sat up and looked about her, thinking it might be one of the many

children in the room; but they were all sound asleep in their wonted and

divers postures. After repeated listenings, she softly rose to go and

see what could ail Sally. She found her at the window; not, alas!

watching the sunrise—for no sunrise should Sally ever more see—but

drying her pillow in its first rays. The moment she perceived she was

observed, she tossed the pillow into bed again, and scrambled after it;

but it was too late to avoid explanation.

“It grieves me to chide you, my dear,” said cousin Marshall; “but how

should your eyes get better, if you take no more care of them? Here is

your pillow wet through, wetter than it could have been if you had not

been crying all night, and you are looking up at the flaring sky,

instead of shutting your poor eyes in sleep.”

“If I sleep ever so sound, cousin, I always wake when the sun rises, and

I try sometimes how much I can see of him. It was scarce a blink to-day;

so you need not fear its making my eyes ache any more. They never will

be tried with bright light again! It is little more than a month since I

could see yon tiled roof glistening at sunrise, and now I can’t.”

“That is no rule, my dear; the sun has moved somewhat, so that we can’t

see it strike straight upon it. That tiled roof looks blue to me now,

and dull.”

“Does it indeed?” cried Sally, starting up. “However, that is no matter,

cousin; for my eyes are certainly very bad, and soon I shall not be able

to do anything.”

“O, but I hope you will soon be able to do more than ever I have been

able to teach you. If you have not me beside you to take up stitches in

your knitting, you will learn not to let them drop; and that is far

better. And you will make sashline, and the more delicate sort of

baskets; and you are better off than most at their first going into the

Asylum, in having learned to wash a floor neatly, and to join your

squares by the feel, almost as well as we that can see. Miss Burke could

scarcely believe you were Sally, the first day she came, you were

washing the floor so nicely.”

Sally would have smiled at the compliment, but that she was too full of

panic about the Asylum.

“But, cousin,” she said, “it will be all so strange! I don’t know any of

the people, and I shall have no one to talk to. And that brown stuff

dress, and little black bonnet, and the white handkerchiefs, all alike!

I don’t like to wear a charity dress. I remember——”

Before Sally could relate what it was that she remembered, her cousin

stopped her with a gentle rebuke. She did not mind what Sally said about

the place and the people being strange; it was natural, and it was an

evil soon cured, and she hoped there would be less to teaze the girl in

the Asylum, than among the rough children at home; but she could not see

what reason there was for so much pride as should disdain to wear a

charity dress. Sally explained that it was not pride exactly; but she

remembered how she and her sisters used to stare at the pupils of the

Blind Asylum, as they met them going to church, and how she got out of

the way in a great hurry, and followed them to see how they would manage

to turn in at the gate; and sometimes when the master was not observing,

she would look quite under their bonnets, without their finding it out,

to see what their countenances were like. She should not like now to

have anybody do the same to her. It was in vain that her cousin

reasoned, that if she did not know it, it would not signify. The bare

idea made her cry again as if she could not be comforted.

“You did not think at those times, Sally, of doing as you would be done

by. If anybody had told you then that you would be one of those pupils,

you would have left off following them. But it seems to me that blind

people remember as soon as anybody to do as they would be done by; and

so I hope you will find. I have often been in that Asylum, and it cheers

one to see how cheerful the people are. ‘It is God’s will,’ they say,

when one asks them about their blindness. They are always ready with the

word, ‘It is God’s will.’ And it is not the word only, for they make the

best of His will. If they make any little mistake, or do any little

mischief unawares, they are thankful to be set right, and seem to forget

it directly. But I hope you need not go there, Sally, to learn to say,

cheerfully, ‘It is God’s will.’”

Sally tried to stop her tears.

“And as for doing as you would be done by,” continued cousin Marshall,

“now is your time. You have always found my husband tender to you, have

not you?—and little Ann ready to guide and help you? Well, you don’t

know the concern John would feel, if he saw you leave us unwillingly,

and I am afraid we could scarcely pacify Ann; but if you go with a

steady heart and a cheerful face, they will see at once what a fine

thing it is for you to be got into such a place. Just think now, if it

was Ann instead of you, how would it make you most easy to see her?”

“O, cousin Marshall, I will try. Many’s the time I have been glad it was

not Ann. But when—when?”

Her cousin told her directly, that she was to go in the next day but

one, so that she would soon be settled now, and find her lot come easy

to her. After talking a while longer with her so as to leave her quite

composed, and bidding her go to sleep, as it was far too early to get up

yet, she left her, and set quietly about her business, keeping on the

watch to prevent husband and children making any noise in dressing, that

Sally might sleep, if possible, into the middle of the day. One object

in beginning her toil so early, was to have time to go to the workhouse,

in the afternoon, with the news of the release of one of the children

there.

On entering the workhouse, she heard more news than she came to tell. A

service had been obtained for Jane at farmer Dale’s, a little way in the

country, whither she was to be removed next market-day. Immediately on

the announcement of the plan, Ned had disappeared, and had not been

heard of since.

Jane seemed to regard this event but little, so occupied was she with

making up her mind whether on the whole she liked the change or not. It

was a fine thing, she supposed, to be out of the workhouse; but there

would be an end of workhouse frolics, and perhaps harder toil than she

had been accustomed to. On cousin Marshall’s inquiry, whether she had

not earned a little money to carry away in her pocket, she replied that

she had been obliged to spend it as fast as earned. How? Chiefly in

buying a dinner every Monday when she could; for she could never abide

milk-broth; and the rest went for a better bonnet for Sundays, the one

she brought with her being too shabby to wear at church and the gardens.

“Church and the gardens!” exclaimed cousin Marshall, very sternly. “It

is mostly vain and dainty girls like you, Jane, that come to learn how

welcome milk is to an empty stomach, and that are kept away from church,

to say nothing of the gardens, for want of decent covering. It is a

great misfortune, Jane, to be a parish girl, but it is a far greater to

forget that you are one.”

There was much matter of concern for John when he returned from work

this night, in speculating upon where poor Ned could be, and upon what

would become of Jane, with her very handsome face, her bold manner, and

her vain and giddy mind. The good couple hoped she was going to a hard

service, where she would be out of the way of temptation.

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

CHAPTER VI.

PARISH CHARITIES.

John Marshall ran no great risk in offering to take his oath that poor

Ned was after no harm. He was the last person in the world likely to

plan mischief, or to wish to be idle with impunity. The fact was that he

had long been uneasy on Jane’s account, seeing that she was not steady

enough to take care of herself; and the idea of being separated from

her, added to the disgust of his pauper situation, which he had been

bred up to detest, was too much for him. He had absconded with the

intention of finding work, if possible, in or near Titford, the village

where farmer Dale lived. For the sake of leaving his pauper dress behind

him, he chose Sunday for the day of departure, and stole away from

church in the afternoon. He had but threepence in his pocket, one penny

of which went for bread that night, when he had walked two-thirds of the

distance, and found a place of rest under a stack. Another penny was

spent in like manner at the baker’s shop at Titford, on his arrival

there at ten on the Monday morning. He found a stream at which to

refresh himself; and then, trying how stout-hearted he could make

himself, inquired the way to farmer Dale’s, peeped through the farm-yard

gate, and seeing a woman feeding the fowls, went in, and asked for work.

“We have nothing to spare for strangers,” said she. “We must give more

than we can afford to our own people.”

“I ask no charity,” said Ned. “I ask for work.”

“Where do you come from?”

“From a distance. No matter where.”

The woman, who proved to be Mrs. Dale, was afraid he had run away from

his parents and was a naughty boy. Ned explained that he was an orphan,

and only desired that it should be proved whether he was naughty or not,

by setting him to work, and trying whether he did not labour hard and

honestly. Had he any money? He produced his penny. How did he get it? He

earned it. Why not earn more in the same way? It was impossible. What

could he do? He thought he could do whatever boys of his age could

generally do. How would he manage if he could not get work here? He

would walk on till he found some. Begging by the way, Mrs. Dale

supposed. No, he never begged. Where did he sleep last night? Under a

stack. Further back than this it was impossible to gather any

information of his proceedings. Mrs. Dale went in search of her husband,

to plead for the boy,—a thing which she would not have done, unless she

had been particularly interested in the lad; for farmer Dale had grown

sadly harsh of late about beggars and idle people. He proved so on this

occasion; for instead of hearing what Ned had to say, he made signs to

him over the fence to be gone, and when the poor lad lingered, shook his

fist at him in a way so threatening, as to show that there was no hope.

Ned went to two more places with no better success. One large

establishment remained to be tried; and, disheartened as he was, Ned

determined to apply; though it was hardly to be expected that the master

of such a place would take up with such a labourer as he. He resolved to

make his application to no one but the master himself, and sat down to

wait patiently for a good opportunity, which occurred when the gentleman

came home to dinner, and his wife met him at the gate of the

flower-garden. Ned followed, and respectfully urged his petition. Long

and close was the examination he underwent, before the gentleman,

equally struck with his reserve on some points and his openness on

others, resolved to give him a trial. Ned was well satisfied with the

offer of twopence that night, and of fourpence a day afterwards, as long

as he should pick up stones and do inferior work of other kinds to the

satisfaction of his employers. Mr. Effingham, for that was the

gentleman’s name, would not allow him to spend his third penny for his

dinner; but ordered him a slice of bread and meat from the kitchen;

after eating which, Ned set to work with a grave face and a lightened

heart.

On receiving his twopence, he was asked where he meant to lodge. He did

not know; but if there was any empty barn or shed where he might lay

down a little straw, he would take it as a favour to be allowed to sleep

there till he should have saved a few pence to pay for a lodging. He was

taken at his word, and for a month slept soundly in the corner of an old

barn, his only disturbance being the rats, three or four of which were

frequently staring him full in the face when he woke in the morning.

After a few days, he began to linger about farmer Dale’s premises, at

leisure times, in hopes of ascertaining whether Jane had arrived, but

could see nothing of her, and did not choose to inquire, knowing that

after once having met her they could frequently exchange a few words

without incurring the danger to himself in which he might be placed by

asking for her. He was beginning to fear that the plan might be changed,

and that Jane was not coming at all, when he heard tidings of her in a

way that he little expected.

He was working in the field one day, when the bailiff approached,

accompanied by farmer Dale. They were discussing the very common subject

among farmers of the inconveniences of pauper labour.

“Don’t you find these parish children a terrible plague?” inquired Dale.

“They are the idlest, most impudent people I ever had to do with.”

“It is just the same with us,” replied the bailiff, “the men being quite

as bad as the boys, or worse. How should it be otherwise when they do

not work for themselves? One may see the difference by comparing this

boy here with his neighbours. Ned is a hard-working lad as can be, and

gives no trouble.”

Ned turned round on hearing this and made his bow. He smiled when the

bailiff went on to say,

“He is not a parish boy, but was taken on against my wish because he

wanted a living, and work, work, was all his cry. It was very well he

came, for we find it does not always follow that a great many labourers

do a great deal of work. This lad does nearly as much as two parish

boys, as I told them the other day; and I am sorry I did, as I fear it

has made them plague him instead of mending themselves.”

“I cannot see,” said Dale, “what is to become of us farmers if these

infernal rates are to go on swallowing up our substance, and putting us

at the mercy of our own labourers. There is a piece of land of mine up

yonder that I might make a pretty thing of; and I cannot touch it,

because the tithe and the poor-rate together would just swallow up the

whole profit.”

“What a waste it is,” rejoined the bailiff, “when a subsistence is

wanted for so many!”

“And then I don’t know that we gain anything by employing paupers and

paying their wages out of the rates; for they just please themselves

about working, and when they are paid, say to my face, ‘No thanks: for

you must pay us for doing nothing, if you did not for doing something.’

I had words like that thrown in my teeth this very morning by a parish

girl we have taken, and who seems to have learned her lesson wonderfully

for the time she has been with us. Says she to my wife, ‘What care I

whether I stay or go? The parish is bound to find me.’ It will be

something more of a punishment soon, perhaps, to be sent away, for she

seems to like keeping company with the farm-servants very well;—a

flirting jade! with a face that is like to be the ruin of her.”

Ned felt too sure that this must be Jane.

“I would pack her off before worse came of it,” said the bailiff.

“I shall try her a little longer,” said Dale: “there is no knowing

whether one would change for the better. In my father’s time, or at

least in my grandfather’s, a man might have his choice among independent

labourers that had some regard to character, and looked to what they

earned; but now the case is quite changed, except in the neighbourhood

of flourishing large farms where the poor-rate is a very trifling

concern. One may look round in vain for the cottagers one used to meet

at every turn: they have mostly flocked to the towns, and are sent out

to us again as pauper-labourers. There are more labourers than ever;

more by far than we want; but they are labourers of a different and a

much lower class.”

“And the reason is evident enough,” replied the bailiff. “Proprietors

have suffered so much from the burden that is brought upon the land by

cottagers’ families, that they let no cottages be built that are not

absolutely necessary. In towns, the burden is a very different thing, as

land is divided into such small portions, and the houses built upon it

let so high that the increase of the rate does not balance the

advantage; to say nothing of its being divided among so many. The

consequence is that the overflow from the villages goes into the towns,

and the people come out into the country for work. If it were not for

the poor-rate, we should see in every parish many a rood tilled that now

lies waste, and many a row of cottages tenanted by those who now help to

breed corruption in towns.”

“And then,” said Dale, “we might be free from the promises and cheats of

overseers. God keep me from being uncharitable! but, upon my soul, I am

sick of having to do with overseers. One undertakes to farm the poor;

and then it would make any heart ache to see how they are treated, while

he pockets every penny that can be saved out of their accommodation.

Another begins making himself popular with pretending to reduce the

rate; and then, the most respectable of the paupers pine at home without

relief, while we are beset with beggars at every turn. The worst of all

is such a man as our present overseer, who comes to taunt one with every

increase of the rate, and to give hints how little scruple he should

have in distraining for it. And this is the pass we shall all come to

soon, unless I am much mistaken.”

“As for beggars,” replied the bailiff, “one would wonder where they come

from. They swarm from all quarters like flies on the first summer day.”

“One may see what brings them,” said Dale, with a bitter laugh. “The

flies come in swarms when there is a honey-pot near; and the beggars are

brought by your master’s charity purse. I reckon, from what I have seen

here, that every blanket given away brings two naked people, and every

bushel of coals a family that wants to be warmed.”

The bailiff, instead of defending his master, laughed significantly, and

led the way onwards, leaving Ned to meditate with a heavy heart on as

much as he understood of what they had been saying.

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

CHAPTER VII.

WHAT COMES OF PARISH CHARITIES.

It was not long before Ned accomplished an interview with his giddy

sister, and bitterly was he disappointed at her appearing not altogether

glad to see him. Each time that they conversed, she seemed more

constrained, and insisted further on the danger of his being discovered

and incurring the displeasure of the superiors of the workhouse. Ned

would listen to no hints about going up the country or back into the

town: he chose to remain where he could keep an eye on Jane, and where

moreover his own labour supplied him with necessaries, and enabled him

to lay by a few pence now and then. The first of these reasons for

keeping his place was soon removed, to the dismay and grief of all

connected with Jane.

After having tried in vain for a fortnight to catch a sight of her, and

afflicted himself perpetually with the thought of her depression of

spirits the last time they met, Ned took the resolution of walking up to

farmer Dale’s door and asking to speak to Jane Bridgeman. The farmer

happened to be within hearing, and came forward to give the answer.

“Bless me, is it you? After the character your master gave me of you, I

should not have thought of finding you asking after Jane Bridgeman. But

you are all alike, paupers or no paupers, as long as there are paupers

among us to spread corruption. Off with you, if you want to find the

person you ask for! She is not here, thank God! and never shall she

enter these doors again. It was a great folly ever to take her in, only

that another might have been as bad.—Where is she!—Nay; that is no

concern of mine. I suppose she will lie in in the workhouse she came

from; but whether she went straight there, or where she went, I neither

know nor care. Off with you from my premises, if you please!”

And the farmer shut the door in Ned’s face. His wife had more

compassion. She saw Ned turn red and pale and look very wretched, and

she knew him for the same lad who had many months before asked work in a

tone that pleased her. She now went out at the back gate, and met him in

the farm-yard. Ned at once owned, in answer to her enquiries, that Jane

was his sister, and by this means learned much of her history. She had

never settled well to her business from the day of her arrival, and had

seemed far more bent on being admired than on discharging her duty. Her

mistress was pleased to observe, however, after a time, that she grew

graver in her deportment, though she became more careless than ever

about her work. It was true, she forgot everything that was said to her,

and gave much trouble by her slovenliness; but she no longer smiled at

compliments from the farm-servants, or acted the coquette in her

necessary intercourse with them. Mrs. Dale thought her patience with the

girl strangely rewarded when Jane came one day to give her warning that

she wished to leave her present service at the earliest term. She would

neither give a reason nor say where she meant to go. When the day

arrived, she waited till her master went out, and then appeared, to bid

her mistress farewell. In answer to repeated questions about where she

was going, she at length sank down on a chair, sobbed convulsively, and

owned that she had neither protection nor home in prospect; that she had

been cruelly deceived, and that she meant to find some hiding-place

where she might lie down and her shame die with her. It was some time

before she would give any hint who it was that had deceived and who

seduced her, and she never revealed his name; but Mrs. Dale believed it

to be a pauper labourer who had disappeared a few days before, probably

to avoid being obliged to marry Jane when their guilt should be

discovered. On ascertaining that the girl had relations, Mrs. Dale

recommended that she should go to her cousin Marshall, open her whole

heart to her, and follow her advice as to what should next be done; but

Jane’s sobs became more violent than ever at this suggestion. “They will

tear me to pieces!” she cried. “They will never put up with disgrace;

and I am the first that has disgraced them. I can never look cousin

Marshall in the face again!”—Neither would she go to the workhouse. She

loathed the idea of Mrs. Wilkes as much as she dreaded that of cousin

Marshall; and Mrs. Dale was much perplexed, not daring to keep her

another day, and not choosing to turn her out wholly destitute. After a

long conversation, which served to soften the poor girl’s heart and win

her confidence, Mrs. Dale proposed a plan which was adopted,—that she

should write a letter to cousin Marshall, urging that what was done

could not be undone, and that the most likely way to make Jane’s

penitence real and lasting was to look to her present safety instead of

driving her to desperation. Mrs. Dale expressed in very strong terms her

concern that the respectability of the family should have been thus

stained; and took the liberty of declaring her admiration of the

parental kindness with which the poor orphans had been treated, and her

earnest wishes that it might be better rewarded in the instance of the

others than in that of poor Jane. With this letter in her hand, Jane was

put into the carrier’s cart, leaving as a last request to Ned that he

would not follow her or give up his place on her account; and, partly

for his sake, she promised that no persuasion should prevent her going

straight to her cousin Marshall’s, and following the advice of her

friends in every particular. Mrs. Dale had since ascertained that she

was received at her cousin’s; and had remained in their house up to the

last market-day, when the inquiry was made: but the farmer’s wife did

not know what sad circumstances the family were in when Jane arrived to

add to their sorrow.

John Marshall had died after a few days’ illness; and it was on the very

night of his funeral that Jane alighted at his widow’s door. Her first

feeling on hearing of the event was joy that one person the less,—and he

one whom she much respected,—would know of her disgrace. The next moment

she felt what a wretch she must be,—what a state she must be reduced

to,—to rejoice in the death of one who had been like a parent in

tenderness, where no parental duty enjoined the acts of kindness he had

done. She hastily bade Ann not tell her cousin of her arrival, and said

she would beg a shelter for the night at her aunt Bell’s: but she was

told that aunt Bell was in great distress too, and could not possibly

receive her; so there was no escape, and Jane was led in, trembling like

a criminal under sentence, and pulling her cloak about her, to meet the

kind-hearted cousin who had never frowned upon her. Her agitation was

naturally misunderstood at first; but, after some time, her refusal even

to look up, and the force with which she prevented their relieving her

of her cloak made her cousin suspect the fact, and dismiss the young

people, in order to arrive at an explanation.—She could not read the

letter, and Jane would not hear of Ann being called in to do it, but

made an effort to get through it herself. Cousin Marshall said nothing

for some time; not even the thought which was uppermost in her mind,—how

glad she was that the fact never reached her husband’s ear! At last, she

merely assured Jane that she should be taken care of, and advised her to

go to bed, and leave everything to be settled when there had been more

time for thought.

“I cannot go,” said Jane. “I will not leave you while you look so cold

upon me, cousin.”

“I will go with you, then,” said Mrs. Marshall calmly. “We must have the

same bed, and I am ready.”

“You said you forgave me,” cried the weeping Jane; “and I am sure this

is not forgiving me. I never saw you look so upon anybody!”

“I never had reason, Jane; nobody belonging to me ever had to make such

a confession as yours to-night. I pity you enough, God knows! for you

must be very miserable; but I cannot look upon you as I do upon your

innocent sisters; how should I?—Poor Sally! I remember her great comfort

about being blind was that it was not Ann; and if you have any comfort

at all, I suppose it must be that.”

“Indeed, indeed, I had rather be anybody than what I am. I had rather be

drowning this minute, or even on the gallows: I had rather die any how

than be as I am. I hope I shall die when my time comes.”

Cousin Marshall quietly represented the sinfulness of this thought, and

Jane tempted her to say more and more, being able to bear anything

better than the silence of displeasure. What, her cousin asked, could

bring her to this pass? What madness could make her plunge herself into

this abyss of distress after all the warning and watching, all the——But

it was foolish to say more, Mrs. Marshall continued, when she might be

led to say what would do no good and would be therefore unkind.

Jane would not let it drop. She laid much of the blame on the workhouse,

where it was a common boast among the women how early they had got

married, being so far better off than honester people that they need not

trouble themselves about what became of themselves and their children,

since the parish was bound to find them. It was considered a kind of

enterprise among the paupers to cheat their superiors, and to get the

girls early married by rendering marriage desirable on the score of

decency, and of the chance of the man being able to support his children

hereafter. Jane’s leading idea was the glory of getting married at

sixteen; and the last thing she thought of was the possibility of being

deceived; and now that her intended husband was gone nobody knew

whither, she was as much astonished and terrified at her own position as

any of her friends could be. This explanation caused some inward

relentings towards her; but cousin Marshall thought it too early yet to

show them; and to avoid the danger of doing so, insisted on both going

to bed, where neither of them slept a wink or exchanged a word during

the whole night.

Before morning, Mrs. Marshall had arranged her plan. Jane’s arrival was

on no account to be mentioned, and she was to be kept entirely out of

sight for the three months which were to pass before her confinement. By

these means, the persecution of parish officers might be avoided, and an

opportunity afforded for observing whether the shock had really so

sobered Jane as to render her more fit to take care of herself than she

was before. If she appeared truly penitent, Mrs. Marshall would try to

obtain a service for her at some distance, where her disgrace would not

follow her, and would also take charge of the infant, with such help as

Jane could spare out of her wages; and then the parish need never know

anything about the matter. Jane was most happy to agree to these terms,

and settled herself in this bedroom for three long months, intending to

work diligently for her infant, and to take all the needle-work of the

family off her cousin’s hands, with as much of the charge of the

children as was possible within so confined a space. What more she

wanted of exercise was to be taken with Mrs. Marshall very early in

these spring mornings, before their neighbours should be stirring. The

young people were so trained to obedience, that there was no fear of

their telling anything that they were desired to keep to themselves.

Things went on as quietly as could be looked for in such unhappy

circumstances. No difficulties arose for some time, and Jane had only to

struggle with her inward shame, her grief at witnessing Ann’s sorrow,

her terror at the risks which must be daily run, and her inability to

get rest of body or mind. She could scarcely be persuaded to come down

in the evening when the door was shut and the window curtain drawn: she

started at every noise, and could not get rid of a vague expectation

that her lover would find her out and come to comfort her;—an

expectation which made her turn pale whenever she heard a man’s voice

under the window, or a tap at the door below. Besides these fears,

circumstances happened now and then to try her to the utmost.

Early one morning, before Jane was up, and while Mrs. Marshall and her

young people were dressing, a step was heard slowly ascending the

stairs, the door opened, and Sally appeared with a smiling countenance

and the question,

“Are you awake yet, cousin Marshall, and all of you?”

Mrs. Marshall made a sign to the children by putting her finger on her

lip, and pointing to Jane. She had no intention that Sally should be

made unhappy by knowing the truth at present, and was besides afraid to

trust her with such a secret among her companions at the Asylum, who

were all accustomed to have no concealments from one another.

“Why don’t you answer?” said Sally, groping for the bed. “I do believe

you are all asleep, though I thought I heard you moving, and the door

was on the latch below.”

“We are all awake, my dear, and one or two gone out; but we are

surprised to see you so early. What brings you at such a time, and who

came with you?”

Sally explained that the ward of the Asylum in which she worked was to

be whitewashed this day; and she and a few others whose friends lived

near had leave to enjoy a long holiday. Three of them had taken care of

one another, the streets being clear at this hour; and she had found her

way easily for the short distance she had to come alone. While she

spoke, Jane was gazing at her, tearful, and longing to throw herself on

her sister’s neck. The temptation became almost irresistible when Sally,

feeling for a place on which to sit down, moved herself within reach.

“Take care where you sit, my dear,” said Mrs. Marshall. “Here, I will

give you a seat on my chest.”

This chest was directly opposite the bed, so that Jane could see the

face under the black bonnet, and convince herself that the old womanish

little figure in brown stuff gown and white kerchief was really the

sister Sally she had last seen in blue frock and pinafore. During the

whole day, Jane sat on the stairs behind the half-shut door, listening

to Sally’s cheerful tales about the doings at the Asylum, and to her

frequent inquiries about both her sisters, and trembling when any of the

little ones spoke, lest they should reveal her presence. Many perplexing

and dangerous questions too were asked.

“Which of you sighs so? I should not ask if it could be you, cousin; but

it comes from the other side.”

Again, when Jane’s dinner was being carried to her.

“Ah, we are not allowed to move at dinnertime, happen what will: and you

used not to let us either; and now Ann has gone upstairs twice since we

sat down.” Again,

“I have leave to knit what I please on Saturdays; so I am knitting a

pair of mittens for Jane, against she comes to see me, which I hope she

will one day; but be sure you none of you tell her about the mittens. I

spoiled two pair in trying, and she would be so sorry to know how I

wasted my time and the cotton.”

“Poor dear!” said Mrs. Marshall at night, when Sally was gone; “it seems

wicked to take advantage of her infirmity to deceive her; but it is all

for her good, placed where she is by her blindness. It would be far more

cruel to tell her all, when it may be that she need never know it.”

Jane took all this upon herself; but, while she blamed herself for

having caused this new practice of concealment, she was far more grieved

at it in John Marshall’s case. She did not strictly owe any confidence

to Sally, but she did to John Marshall; and the idea that he had left

her the same blessing with the rest of her family when he died, gave her

far more pain than any tears or reproaches from Sally could ever do.

One Sunday, when cousin Marshall had gone to church in the morning with

her family, and left her house apparently shut up, as usual; and when,

moreover, it was so fine a day as to have taken almost all the

neighbours from their homes, Jane came down to prepare the dinner,

feeling quite secure from interruption. She was standing kneading the

dumplings, when a noise was heard outside, and she had but a moment’s

time to escape upstairs before her aunt Bell lifted the latch and

entered. Seeing the dough on the board and nobody there to knead it, she

naturally proceeded to the bedroom, where she found Jane on the bed with

coverings thrown over her. Questions and explanations followed.—How long

had Jane been unwell, and did she expect to go back to her place when

recovered? Why did she not let her aunt know of her arrival? though, to

be sure, there was no use in expecting help from her, distressed as she

was. Jane was really glad to turn the conversation away from her own

troubles to those of Mrs. Bell, who was, as she herself said, as good as

a widow, her husband having absconded. Dear! had not Jane heard of it?

He had been advertised by the overseers in the newspapers, and a great

fuss had been made about it; but, for her part, she was convinced it was

the best thing he could do for her and the children, to go and find a

settlement in a distant parish, leaving his family to be provided for by

his own. Where had he gone?—Why, supposing she knew, was it likely she

should tell before the year was out? However, he had made all safe by

not giving a hint in which direction he should travel. Jane asked what

was the necessity of keeping the secret for a year? He would surely be

out of reach before the year was over, if at all. Mrs. Bell laughed and

said she saw Jane did not know how to get a settlement; and explained to

her that her husband’s aim was to obtain a claim on a distant and

prosperous parish, which must be done either by living forty days on an

estate of his own, worth thirty pounds, or in a rented tenement of the

yearly value of ten pounds, or by serving an apprenticeship, or by going

through a year’s service on a yearly hiring as an unmarried man. This

last was, of course, the only means within his power; and to make sure

of it, it was his part to keep to himself whence he had come, and that

he had a wife and family; and her’s to remain ignorant whither he had

gone, and not to inquire for her husband for a year at least.

“Do you call this a cheat, my dear?” she went on. “Lord! what a tender

conscience you have! It is no worse than what is done every day. Would

you think it such a very wicked thing now,—suppose a young creature like

you should have happened to have a misfortune, and should wish her

infant to have a settlement in a particular parish,—would you think it

such a very wicked thing to hide yourself and keep your condition a

secret from the officers till your child was born?” And Mrs. Bell looked

inquisitively in her niece’s face.

“That would be telling no lie,” replied Jane, her face making the

confession which she kept her tongue from uttering.

“Well; and whose fault is it, my dear, that lies are told about the

matter? If the laws put such difficulty in the way of getting relief, we

are driven to tell fibs; for relief we must have.”

Mrs. Marshall, who had overheard some of the conversation, and now came

to Jane’s assistance, observed that the fault seemed to her to be in the

laws giving relief at all. Mischiefs out of number came of it, and no

good that she saw. The more relief the law gave, the more it might give,

to judge by the swarms of paupers; and all this made it the more

difficult for honest and independent folks to get their bread. She

thought her own experience, and Mrs. Bell’s together, might be enough to

show how bad the system was.

“Mine, I grant you,” cried Mrs. Bell; “but what have you had to do with

it? You, that pride yourself on never having touched a penny of parish

money.”

“Thanks, under God, to my husband, cousin Bell, we have been beholden to

nobody but ourselves for our living. We have never had to bear the

scornful glance from the rate-payers, nor the caprice of the overseer,

nor any of the uncertainty of depending on what might fail us, nor the

shame of calling our children paupers.—I say these things freely, cousin

Bell, because I know you have been too long used to them to mind

them.—We have never crossed the threshold of the workhouse on our own

account; nor ever been driven to expose our want when it was the

greatest; or tempted to fib by word or act to get more than our share of

other people’s money. Yet, the worst things we have suffered have risen

out of these poor-laws; and the worst thing about them is, that those

suffer by them who desire to have nothing to do with them. They prevent

people going where their labour is wanted, and would be well paid, and

keep them in a place where there are far more hands than there is work

for. Honest, hard-working men, like my husband, have always felt the

hardship of either being obliged to stay where wages were low from the

number of labourers, or to give up their settlements for the chance of

work in some other place.”

“He had better have run off by himself, and left his settlement to you

and the children,” observed Mrs. Bell.

“John Marshall was not the man to do that, cousin. But, as I was saying,

many a time when we were brought very low, so much so that my husband

had not had his pint, nor the children anything but bread for a week,

and less of that than they could have eaten,—at many such times we have

been told of this parish and that parish where there was plenty of work

and good wages, and have had half a mind to go and try our fortune; but

we always remembered that so many more needy people would be likely to

do the same, that it would soon cease to be a good parish, and we might

have left a place where we were known and respected, for what would

prove to be no good. I have heard that these favourite parishes are

seldom long prosperous under the best management, for paupers contrive,

by all sorts of tricks, to get a settlement in them.”

“Well; that makes an end, however, of your complaint of there not being

labour where labour is wanted.”

“Indeed it does not, cousin Bell; for they are mostly idle men and

cheats that wander about making experiments on such places. Sober, good

labourers, would be much more ready to go where they are wanted, if it

were not for the fear of losing their settlements. Such end, as my

husband did, by staying in their own parish to have their labour poorly

paid, and to see rogues and vagabonds consuming what would have added to

their wages, if labour had been left to earn its due reward.”

Mrs. Bell did not care about all this; all she knew was that people must

live, and that she and her family could not have lived without the

parish, and a deal of help besides.

“The very thing I complain of most, cousin Bell, is, that those who have

the relief are those that know and care the least about the matter. It

is they that are above taking the relief that have good reason to know,

and much cause to care, that their labour cannot be properly paid, and

that their children cannot have a fair chance in the world, while the

money that should pay their wages is spent without bringing any more

gain than if it was thrown into the sea. It is because such as you,

cousin Bell, care about nothing but getting relief, that such husbands

as mine lose their natural rest through anxiety, and pinch themselves

and work themselves into their graves, and die, not knowing but their

families may come to be paupers after all.—I am warm, cousin, but you’ll

excuse me; nothing chafes me so easily as thinking of this; the more

from remembering nearly the last words my husband spoke. ‘I hope,’ says

he,—but I thought there was little hope in his tone, or in his face,—‘I

hope you and yours will be able to keep free of the parish. Get the boys

into my club, if they live to be old enough; and then they will keep

their mother and sisters free of the parish.’—I thank God! we can get on

at present; but I sometimes think some of us will end our days in the

workhouse, if idle and needy people go on to increase as they do, and to

eat up the substance they never helped, as we have done, to make.”

“It will be some time yet, cousin Marshall, before your boys can belong

to the club.”

“Yes; but in the meanwhile there is the Savings Bank, where the girls

can put their little savings as well as the boys. Not that they have

done anything in that way yet, except my eldest and Ann. But the others

are earning their own clothes.”

Mrs. Bell asked Jane whether it was not a nice thing for her sister Ann

to have a little money in the bank ready for such occasions as Jane’s

present illness? She supposed Jane was now using it up; and to be sure

it was a charming thing to have such help at hand. Mrs. Marshall, who

knew that one of Jane’s griefs was depriving Ann of her little store,

saved her the pain of replying by inviting Mrs. Bell down to dinner.

At the close of the meal, Mrs. Bell cast a longing eye on the few

fragments she had left. Her children had only a crust of bread to eat

this day; and she complained much of the hardships they were reduced to,

showing how her only gown was wearing out, and relating that it was

ruinous work to do as she was doing now, pawning her blanket in the

morning to release her gown, and the gown in the evening to release the

blanket. Cousin Marshall was grieved for the children, but, charitable

as she was known to be, she offered no help. She had nothing to spare,

and had done her utmost in giving a hearty dinner; and, if she had had

the means, she would have bestowed them where they might have afforded

real relief, which no charity ever did to Mrs. Bell.

This woman seldom visited her neighbours without leaving them cause to

wish that she had staid away. This was the case in the present instance.

She whispered her suspicions of Jane’s situation, either to the parish

officers, or to some one who carried it round to them; and the

consequence was that the poor girl was hunted up, taken before a

magistrate to be sworn, and removed to the workhouse to abide her

confinement. In return to her bitter reproaches the next time they met,

Mrs. Bell laughed, and said she thought she had done them all a great

kindness.—Cousin Marshall ought to be very glad to be relieved of the

charge, and Jane would be sure of a husband if her lover could be found

up. Jane’s views had, however, been altered by her intercourse with Mrs.

Marshall. She would much rather have gone to service and tried to atone

for what was done, than remain to be the pauper-wife of a man who had

cruelly deceived her,—who would not marry unless he could be caught,—and

who, being an unwilling, would be probably an unkind, husband. Her good

cousin feared something worse for her than the misery of her lot: she

feared that this misery might drive her to habitual vice; and that her

re-entrance into the workhouse might prove the date from which she would

become a castaway from her family for ever.

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

CHAPTER VIII.

WHAT IS CHARITY?

Ned heard of Jane’s return to the workhouse, and of her confinement,

from Mr. Burke, who attended Mr. Effingham’s family, and who recognized,

to his great surprise, Ned Bridgeman in the boy who one day opened the

gate for him, and followed to hold his horse. Whenever he came, from

that time forward, he inquired for Ned, and was ready to make the

wished-for reply to the customary petition, not to tell the officers or

anybody belonging to them, where he was, but just to inform cousin

Marshall and his sisters that he was well and likely to go on earning a

living. It was in vain to reason with him, that the parish could desire

nothing more than that he should maintain himself, and that the officers

would be glad to leave him unmolested. He had eloped, and was possessed

with the idea that he should be carried back whence he came; and had,

moreover, such a horror of the place and people connected with his short

period of pauperism, that he longed above all things to keep out of

sight of the one, and be forgotten by the other. The pauper labourers

who worked with him in the field, discovered something of this, and

amused themselves by alarming him with dark hints, from time to time,

that some danger impended. They were not over-fond of him, harmless and

good-natured as he was. The bailiff was apt to hold him up as an example

to them in an injudicious way, and Ned’s horror of pauperism,—his pride,

as his companions called it,—was not exactly the quality to secure their

good fellowship. They teazed the boy sadly, and Mr. Burke thought he

looked more and more grave every time he saw him. The gentleman was not,

therefore, much surprised when he was told one day that Ned was missing,

nor did he give much heed to the remarks on the unsteadiness of the boy

who had twice absconded. On finding that, so far from having done

anything dishonest, Ned had left nearly half-a-crown of his savings in

Mr. Effingham’s hands, Mr. Burke made inquiry into the circumstances,

and found that, as he suspected, Ned had been assured that the officers

were after him, and so cruelly taunted with his sister’s shame, that it

was no wonder he had gone farther up the country, where he might work in

peace, if work was to be found. Nothing could be done but to take charge

of his money, and invest it where it might increase till the owner

should be forthcoming to claim it. So Mr. Burke pocketed the two

shillings and fourpence half-penny as carefully as if it had been a

hundred pounds, and saw that it was placed in the Savings Bank with

Ann’s, and made as light as he could to the family of the fact that he

no longer knew where the lad was; adding that Ned was a boy whom he

would trust all over the world by himself, and prophesying that he would

re-appear some day to be a credit and a help to his orphan sisters.

On one occasion when Mr. Burke was entering the village of Titford, he

overtook Mr. Effingham walking slowly with his head bent down, and his

hands in his pockets. He looked up when greeted by his friend, who

accosted him with—

“I am afraid you are to be one of my patients to-day, to judge by your

gait and countenance. What can be the matter? No misfortune at home, I

hope?”

“No; but I have just heard something that has shocked me very much.

There is an execution at Dale’s.”

“How hard that poor man has struggled!” observed Mr. Burke. “And has it

even come to this at last?”

“Even so; and through no fault of his own that I can see. They are

distraining for the rate.”

“Aye, that is the way, Effingham. Thus is our pauper list swelled, year

by year. It grows at both ends. Paupers multiply their own numbers as

fast as they can, and rate-payers sink down into rate-receivers. This

will probably be Dale’s fate, as it has been that of many little farmers

before him. And if it is, he will only anticipate by a few years the

fate of others besides small farmers, of shopkeepers, manufacturers,

merchants, and agriculturists of every class; always providing that some

radical amendment of the system does not take place.”

“God help us!” cried Effingham. “If so, our security is gone, as a

nation, and as individuals.”

“At present, Effingham, the security of property is to the pauper, and

not to the proprietor, however rich he may be. The proprietor is

compelled, as in the case before us, to pay more and more to the rate

till his profits are absorbed, and he is obliged to relinquish his

undertakings one after another; field after field goes out of

cultivation, his capital is gradually transferred to his wages-fund,

which is paid away without bringing an adequate return; and when all but

his fixed capital is gone, that becomes liable to seizure, and the ruin

is complete. There is no more security of property, under such a system,

than there is security of life to a poor wretch in a quicksand, who

feels himself swallowed up inch by inch. The paupers meanwhile are sure

of their relief as long as the law subsists. They are to be provided for

at all events, let what will become of other people. While Dale has been

fretting by day, and tossing by night under the burden of his cares, his

pauper labourers have been supporting a very different kind of

burden,—the burden of the pauper song,

‘Hang sorrow and cast away care,

The parish is bound to find us!’”

“This very security of property which is the most precious of an

independent man’s rights,” said Effingham, “seems to be the most

pernicious thing in the world to the indigent. One may fairly call it so

in relation to them, for they seem to consider the produce of the rate

as their property.”

“It is really so,” replied Burke. “They know it to be the lawful

property of the pauper body, and that the only question is how it is to

be distributed? As long as they know this, they will go on multiplying

the claims upon it till nothing is left with which to satisfy them.”

“It is very odd,” said Effingham, “that none of the checks that have

ever been tried have done any good; they seem rather to have made the

matter worse.”

“I do not think it strange, Effingham. None of the remedies have struck

at the root of the evil, and none could therefore effect lasting good.

The test is just this: do they tend to lessen the number of the

indigent? Unless they do this, they may afford relief to a generation,

or shift a burden from one district to another, or from one class of

producers upon another; but they will not improve the system. Look at

the experiments tried! First, paupers were to wear a badge, a mark of

infamy. Of course, the profligate and hardened were the readiest to put

it on, and those who had modesty and humble pride refused it, and

obtained help only through the compassion of overseers, who evaded the

regulation so perpetually, that it was abolished as useless. While it

lasted, profligate pauperism increased very rapidly. Next came the

expedient of workhouses, in which the poor were expected to do more

work, and be fed less expensively than in their own houses. But here

again the rogue and vagabond class reaped the advantage, the houses

being detested by the sober and quiet; and the choice of the latter to

pine at home, rather than be shut up in a workhouse, occasioned a

diminution of the rate for some time; but that time has long been over,

and now the maintenance of a pauper costs three or four times as much in

a workhouse as out of it, there being no inducement to the paupers to

work, and but little to their managers to economise. And this is just

what any one might have foretold from the beginning, if he had seen what

experience has plainly taught us, that indigence must spread while

numbers increase, and while the subsistence-fund, on which they are to

be supported, is consumed unproductively.”

“But why unproductively?” said Effingham. “I cannot help thinking that

there must be some mode of management, by which manufactures might be

carried on by paupers with pretty good success.”

“Suppose it to be so, according to what I imagine you to mean by

success,—suppose a certain quantity of produce to be achieved and

disposed of,—this is in itself a great evil. Capital raised by forcible

means, arbitrarily applied, and made to bring a return from an

artificial market, can never be so productive as if it found a natural

channel; and its employment in this artificial manner is a serious

injury to individual capitalists. In the neighbourhood of a workhouse

where work is really done, a manufacturer, while paying to the rate,

bitterly feels that he is subscribing the means by which his trade is to

be stolen from him. It is adding insult to injury to set up in the faces

of rate-payers workhouse manufactures, which are to have a preference in

the market to their own. In all these cases, however, the object fails.

To all remedies yet tried, the same fundamental objection applies: they

all encourage the increase of population, while they sink capital. What

we want is the very reverse of this,—we want a reproduction of capital

with increase, and a limitation of numbers within a due proportion to

this fund.”

“What do you think, then, of the methods proposed for the amelioration

of the system?”

“Which? There are so many.”

“The cottage system, for one.”

“It will not bear the test. Under no system does population increase

more rapidly;—witness Ireland; and in addition to the worst evils that

afflict Ireland, we should have that of a legal claim to support, which

effectually prevents the due improvement of capital. Cottages would

prove no better than workhouses, depend upon it.”

“Well, then, what do you think of assessing new kinds of property?”

“Worse and worse! This would be only casting more of our substance into

the gulf before its time. It would be helping to increase the number of

paupers; it would be encouraging the unproductive consumption of

capital; it would be——”

“Like pouring water into one of your dropsical patients,” said

Effingham, smiling.

“Just so, Effingham; and it needs no great skill to foresee the result

in both cases.”

“Then there are Benefit Clubs,” replied Effingham. “Some think that if

they were made obligatory by law, they might soon supersede the

poor-rate. What do you think of them?”

“No man approves such societies more than I, as long as they are

voluntary; but fellowship of this kind would lose its virtue, I doubt,

by being made compulsory. There are no means that I know of, of

compelling a man who will not earn to store his earnings; and the frugal

and industrious will do it without compulsion, as soon as they

understand the matter: so that in fact the worst classes of society

would be left as free to roam, and beg, and steal, as if the institution

did not exist.”

“But Friendly Societies and Benefit Clubs will bear your test. They tend

to the increase of capital, and, by encouraging prudence, to the

limitation of numbers.”

“True; and therefore I wish they were in universal operation among the

working classes; but this must be by voluntary association. It will be a

work of time to convince our whole population of their advantages; and

even then the less industrious part will rather depend on the poor-rate,

if it still subsists. We must have recourse to some speedier method of

lessening our burdens, giving all possible encouragement to Friendly

Societies in the mean time.”

“What method? It seems to me that relief is already given in every

possible way.”

“Aye; there is the mistake, Effingham. People think they give relief in

giving money.”

“I seldom give money,” replied Effingham.

“No; but you give what money will buy, which is, begging your pardon,

worse than ineffectual. Now, if you have no objection, I should like to

know how much you spent on coals and blankets the first Christmas you

settled here, and how much last year?”

“I began with devoting five pounds a-year to this purpose; but it

increased sadly. I stopped short two years ago at twenty pounds; but it

grieved me to the heart to do so, for more objects remain now unsupplied

than I supplied at first.”

“Probably; and are these new applicants strangers from other parishes

brought round you by your bounty, or are more of your near neighbours in

a condition for receiving charity?”

“Dale reproaches me with having brought an inundation of paupers from a

distance; but really our own population has increased wonderfully.”

“And the more support you offer them, friend, the more surprisingly they

will increase, if there can be anything surprising in the case. Surely

you do not mean to go on giving coals and blankets?”

“What can I do? You would call me cruel to withdraw the gift, if you

could see the destitution of the poor creatures. I am completely at a

loss how to proceed. If I go on, poverty increases; if I stop, the

people will freeze and pine before my eyes. What a dilemma!”

“Much like that of government about its pauper subjects. I should

recommend the same method to both.”

“To fix a maximum, I suppose; to declare the amount beyond which relief

shall not be given? I have tried that, and it does not succeed. Twenty

pounds a-year is my maximum, and is known to be so; but every one hopes

to have a portion of it, and reckons upon his share nearly as

confidently as if all were sure of it.”

“Of course; and there is the additional evil of admitting the principle

of a claim to support, which is at the bottom of the mischief.—No; to

fix a maximum is to unite the evils of the maintenance and the abolition

of the pauper system; and both are bad enough singly. If I were you, and

if I were the government, I would immediately disavow the principle in

question, and take measures for ceasing to act upon it. If I were you, I

would explain to my neighbours that, finding this mode of charity create

more misery than it relieves, I should discontinue it in the way which

appears to inflict the least hardship. I would give notice that, after

the next Christmas donation, no more coals and blankets shall be given

except to those aged and sickly people who at present look for them; and

that no new applicants whatever shall be placed on the list, the object

being to have the charity die out as soon as possible.”

“But I shall be railed at wherever I turn my face. I should not wonder

if they pull my house about my ears. They will rob my poultry-yard, and

burn my ricks. They will——”

“Very like the situation of government!” exclaimed Mr. Burke. “The very

same difficulties on a smaller scale. Friend, you must bear the railing

for a time, since it comes as a natural consequence of what you have

already done. I am sure so benevolent a man as you would rather endure

this personal inconvenience than add to the misery around you. You are

capable of heroism in retrieving a mistake, Effingham. As for your house

and other property, you must take measures to protect it. You must

firmly and gently repress tendencies to violence which arise, as you now

perceive, from an error of your own.”

“I will consider, resolve, and act; and that without delay, for the evil

is pressing,” said Effingham.

“I wish government would do the same,” replied Mr. Burke. “We hear much

of consideration, but the resolve is yet to be made; and how long the

act may be in following, it is impossible to guess. Meanwhile, we are

going headlong to ruin as fast as you would do if you answered all the

petitions for charity which would be brought upon you by unbounded

readiness to give. Your private fortune would be gone in a twinkling,

and so will vanish our national resources.”

“What period would you fix for abolishing the rate?”

“The best plan, in my opinion, yet proposed, is this:—to enact that no

child born from any marriage taking place within a year from the date of

the law, and no illegitimate child born within two years from the same

date, shall ever be entitled to parish assistance. This regulation

should be made known, and its purpose explained universally; and this,

if properly done, might, I think, prevent violence, and save a vast

amount of future distress. The people should be called together, either

in their places of worship or elsewhere, in such a manner as to attract

the whole population to listen, and the case should be explained to them

by their pastors or others. It is so plain a case, and so capable of

illustration, that I see no great difficulty in making the most ignorant

comprehend it.”

“And yet the details are vast.”

“Vast, but not complicated; so the whole might be conveyed in a parable

which any child can understand. I think I dare undertake to prove to any

rational being that national distress _cannot_ be relieved by money, and

that consequently individual distress cannot be so relieved without

inflicting the same portion of distress elsewhere. A child can see that

if there is so much bread in a country and no more, and if the rich give

some of the poor two shillings a day that they may eat more bread, the

price of bread will rise, and some who could buy before must go without

now. Since no more bread is created by this charity, the only thing done

is to take some of it out of the reach of purchasers to give it to

paupers.”

“True: the only real charity is to create more bread; and, till this can

be done, to teach men to be frugal of what they have.—I happen to know a

case which illustrates your doctrine. Owen, who lives in this village,

earned ten shillings a week before the last scarcity. He bought eight

shillings’ worth of flour for his family, and had two to spare for other

necessaries. During the scarcity, he received fourteen shillings a week

from his parish, in addition to the ten he earned; but the price of corn

had risen so much that he now gave twenty-two shillings out of his

twenty-four for the same quantity of flour; so that he had still two

shillings left for other necessaries; and thus, was no richer with

twenty-four shillings than he had been with ten.”

“If there had been many such cases,” observed Mr. Burke, “the price of

corn would have been even higher than it was. The best charity to the

public as well as to this man would have been to teach him that he had

better look after other kinds of food, and not insist on such an

abundance of flour. Do not you think he could have understood this? and

if he could, why should not his brethren understand the state of the

pauper system, and be brought to acquiesce in the measures now necessary

to be taken?—If the regulation I have described had been made when first

proposed, there would have been much less difficulty than now. If not

done now, there is no saying how soon it may be out of our power to do

anything. We are now borne down, we shall soon be crushed, by the weight

of our burdens.”

“We must hasten to give our testimony,” said Effingham: “I, by

withdrawing my donations, and declaring why; you, by——but you have given

yours, I suspect. I see now the reasons of your resigning your offices

at both the charitable institutions where I and others took so much

pains to get you in. I was more than half angry at it when I thought of

our canvass, and all the disagreeablenesses belonging to it;—and all

done and endured for nothing. But I see now how it is. I can only hope

that your going out of office may do more good than your going in; and

what more can I say?”

“Nothing more gratifying to my self-complacency, I am sure,” said Mr.

Burke, smiling. “I have had my recompense already in finding that many

more than I expected attend to my reasons, and take them into

consideration as a matter of real importance. My hopes sometimes mount

so high as to flatter me that all Great Britain may soon be effectually

employed upon the problem—HOW TO REDUCE THE NUMBER OF THE INDIGENT.”

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

CHAPTER IX.

COUSIN MARSHALL’S END.

It was some years before any tidings came of Ned that could be depended

upon. At length a countryman called on the widow Marshall one

market-day, saying that he had had a world of trouble in finding her out

in the small place she had got into outside the city, but was determined

not to meet Ned Bridgeman again without having seen her and delivered

Ned’s packet into her own hand. Mrs. Marshall had nobody living with her

now but her youngest daughter, who happened not to be at home at this

hour; and as Mrs. Marshall could not read, she was obliged to wait till

evening to know what was in the letter, and what the guinea was for

which the packet contained. She obtained great satisfaction from the

countryman concerning Ned, sent him her love and blessing, and the

promise of an answer to his letter when there should be an opportunity

of sending one, which might happen by means of the present messenger

within six months. Many times before the evening did cousin Marshall

open the letter, and examine it, and admire as much of it as was

apparent to her; viz. the evenness of the lines and the absence of

blots. The guinea, too, was a very good sign. The letter proved that his

workhouse schooling had not been lost upon him; and the money, that her

methods of education had taken effect. Her answer, written down by her

daughter, was as follows:—

“Dear Ned,

“Your letter was very welcome to us, since you could not come

yourself. I do not wonder you met with hardships and difficulty in

settling. Such is the way with many people in these days who wish to

be beholden to nobody; but such generally meet with their deserts at

last, as I am glad to hear you have. We have put your guinea into the

Savings Bank for you, my dear boy, as, thank God! we none of us want

it at present, and there was half-a-guinea of yours there before. Now

I dare say you are wondering how it came there? It is the half-crown

of wages you left behind you at Titford that Mr. Burke took care of,

and it has grown into half-a-guinea by not being touched, which I hope

will be good news to you. I quite approve your wish about the Friendly

Society, knowing how my husband did the wisest thing in belonging to

one, and at times could have got through in no other way. There is

nothing about your sisters that should give you any scruple. Sally,

poor thing, is very contented in the Asylum; and, as the people there

are fond of her, has fewer troubles than many that have their

eyesight. I have not seen so many tears from her since she went in as

when my Susan read your letter to her, and she sends you her love. Ann

is pretty well off in service, having nothing to complain of but her

mistress’s temper, with which she will contrive to bear, I hope, for

she has a sweet one of her own. She will write to you herself, and

tell you as much as we know about Jane, which is but little, and that

little very sad. She is quite lost, I fear; but you may depend on my

keeping my eye upon her. I thank you, my dear boy, for your questions

about me and mine. My children have all left me but the one that holds

the pen, and she is going to marry too. I hope she will have an easier

life than her sisters, who are much put to it with their large

families. I begin to feel myself growing old when I see so many

grandchildren about me; and perhaps it is owing to that that I feel

far more troubled about how their parents are to get through than I

ever did for John Marshall and myself, when we had another little

family added, as it were, to our own eight. But God preserve me from

failing in my trust!—trusting as I wish to do, not to other people’s

charity, but to one’s own labour and thrift, which has His blessing

sooner than the other. Many a merciful lesson has been given me about

trusting,—one since I had your letter. On Saturday, my eldest grandson

and daughter were both out of work. To-day is Monday, and they have

each got a place. Indeed God Almighty is very good to us. But Susan is

tired, not having kept up her schooling, I am afraid, so well as you.

However, it looks a long letter, though I have many more things to say

to you if you were here. Old as I call myself, I may see you on this

side the grave, or will try to think so till you say not. Till then, I

send you my love and blessing, which I hope you know you have had all

this long while.”

The close of cousin Marshall’s very long life was not altogether so

serene as the character of its days of vigour might seem to deserve. Her

children were so burdened with families of their own that they could

offer no further assistance than that she should lodge with them by

turns. She was positive, however, in her determination to live alone;

and a small room in a poor place on the outskirts of the city was her

dwelling. In one way or another she earned a little matter, and lived

upon it, to the astonishment of some who received twice as much from the

parish and could not make it do. Her adopted children found the utmost

difficulty in making her accept any assistance, clearly as it was her

due from those to whom she had been a mother in their orphan state. It

grieved Ned to the heart to see her using her dim sight to patch her

cloak for the twentieth time, when he had placed at her disposal the

guinea and half, with all that had accumulated upon it, in the Savings

Bank.

“Not yet. When I want it. I can do for myself still,” were always her

answers; and though, without consulting her, he laid in coals and bought

clothes for her during the two only visits that he was able to make to

that neighbourhood, and though these presents were, after some scruples,

accepted, he never could prevail upon her to use the little fund during

his absence for her daily comforts. She was somewhat unpopular among her

neighbours, who did not relish her occasional observations on the

multiplication of alehouses, or her reports of what a comely, robust man

her John Marshall was, for all he had seldom a pint and pipe to refresh

himself with when his day’s work was done. Nobody was more openhearted

and sociable; but he could not afford both ale and independence,—to say

nothing of charity; and everybody knew he was a father to the

orphan.—The neighbours observed that he was certainly very kind to the

parish; but that, for their parts, they could not afford to give charity

to the parish. It was more natural for the parish to give to them. Such

degeneracy as this roused cousin Marshall to prophesy evil. She was

rather too ready with her forebodings that those who thus spoke would

die in the workhouse, and with her horror at the warning seeming to

create no alarm. But what roused her indignation above everything was

the frequent question how, after all her toils and savings, she was

better off than her cousin, Mrs. Bell? Mrs. Bell had never more heard of

her husband, and had at length been taken into the workhouse with her

family; of whom one daughter had followed Jane’s example, and gained her

point of a pauper marriage; one son was an ill-doing pauper labourer;

and another, having been transported for theft, was flourishing at

Sydney, and likely to get more money than all cousin Marshall’s honest

children put together. Mrs. Bell was proud of this son’s prosperity, and

would not have been sorry to hear any day of the other getting

transported in like manner.—Now and then it occurred to cousin Marshall

that there was little use in answering those who could ask such a

question as wherein she was better off than Mrs. Bell; but it oftener

happened that her replies were given in a style of eloquence that did

not increase her popularity.—Death came at last, in time to save her

from the dependence she dreaded, though not from the apprehension of it.

In crossing her threshold, one winter’s day, with her apron full of

sticks, she tripped and fell. She seemed to sustain no injury but the

jar; but that was fatal. She survived just long enough to see the

daughter who lived in the neighbourhood, and make a bequest of her Bible

to one child, her bed to another, her few poor clothes to a third,

pointing out the corner of her chest where was deposited the little

hoard she had saved for her burial.

“God has been very good to me and mine,” she said. “They tell me I have

not always said so; but I meant no mistrust. I may have been too much in

a hurry to go where ‘the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are

at rest:’ but it is all right now that I am really going at last. Thank

God! I can say to the last that He has been very good to me.”

She left her blessing for every one by name, and died.

Mr. Burke met the funeral train coming out of the churchyard, and

immediately knew Ned, long as it was since they had met.

“Your cousin Marshall’s funeral!” he exclaimed. “My wife and Louisa and

I inquired for her in vain, a long while ago, and supposed she had been

dead some time. She must have been a great age.”

“Eighty-one, sir.”

In answer to Mr. Burke’s inquiries how she had passed her latter days,

and in opposition to Ned’s affectionate report of her, a neighbour

observed, with a shake of the head, that she was awfully forsaken at

times.

“It was but the day before she died, sir, that she complained that the

Almighty had forgotten her, and that she was tired of looking to be

released.”

Ned brushed his hand across his eyes as he observed that her neighbours

were not capable of judging of such a woman as cousin Marshall, and not

worthy to find fault with what she let fall in her dark moments.

“My wife said at the time, however,” replied the man, “that it would be

well if a judgment did not come upon her for such words; and, sure

enough, by the same hour the next day she was dead; and not in a natural

way either.”

Mr. Burke smiled at Ned, who gravely observed that his cousin had lived

too late to be done justice to. By what he had heard her tell, he judged

that a hundred years ago she would have been honoured and tended in her

old age, and saved all she had suffered from fear of the parish, and

have had it told on her tombstone how many children she had bred up by

her industry. It would not be difficult, for that matter, to put up a

tombstone now; but where would be the use of it, unless it was honoured?

The want lay there.