“_Familiar in their Mouths as HOUSEHOLD WORDS._”—SHAKESPEARE.
HOUSEHOLD WORDS.
A WEEKLY JOURNAL.
CONDUCTED BY CHARLES DICKENS.
N^{o.} 11.] SATURDAY, JUNE 8, 1850. [PRICE 2_d._
FROM THE RAVEN IN THE HAPPY FAMILY.
Halloa!
You _won’t_ let me begin that Natural History of you, eh? You _will_
always be doing something or other, to take off my attention? Now, you
have begun to argue with the Undertakers, have you? What next!
Ugh! you are a nice set of fellows to be discussing, at this time of
day, whether you shall countenance that humbug any longer. “Performing”
funerals, indeed! I have heard of performing dogs and cats, performing
goats and monkeys, performing ponies, white-mice, and canary-birds; but,
performing drunkards at so much a day, guzzling over your dead, and
throwing half of you into debt for a twelvemonth, beats all I ever heard
of. Ha, ha!
The other day there was a person “went and died” (as our Proprietor’s
wife says) close to our establishment. Upon my beak I thought I should
have fallen off my perch, you made me laugh so, at the funeral!
Oh my crop and feathers, what a scene it was! _I_ never saw the Owl so
charmed. It was just the thing for him.
First of all, two dressed-up fellows came—trying to look sober, but they
couldn’t do it—and stuck themselves outside the door. There they stood,
for hours, with a couple of crutches covered over with drapery: cutting
their jokes on the company as they went in, and breathing such strong
rum and water into our establishment over the way, that the Guinea Pig
(who has a poor little head) was drunk in ten minutes. You are so proud
of your humanity. Ha, ha! As if a pair of respectable crows wouldn’t
have done it much better?
By-and-bye, there came a hearse and four, and then two carriages and
four; and on the tops of ’em, and on all the horses’ heads, were plumes
of feathers, hired at so much per plume; and everything, horses and all,
was covered over with black velvet, till you couldn’t see it. Because
there were not feathers enough yet, there was a fellow in the procession
carrying a board of ’em on his head, like Italian images; and there were
about five-and-twenty or thirty other fellows (all hot and red in the
face with eating and drinking) dressed up in scarves and hatbands, and
carrying—shut-up fishing-rods, I believe—who went draggling through the
mud, in a manner that I thought would be the death of me; while the
“Black Jobmaster”—that’s what he calls himself—who had let the coaches
and horses to a furnishing undertaker, who had let ’em to a haberdasher,
who had let ’em to a carpenter, who had let ’em to the parish-clerk, who
had let ’em to the sexton, who had let ’em to the plumber painter and
glazier, who had got the funeral to do, looked out of the public-house
window at the corner, with his pipe in his mouth, and said—for I heard
him—“that was the sort of turn-out to do a gen-teel party credit.” That!
As if any two-and-sixpenny masquerade, tumbled into a vat of blacking,
wouldn’t be quite as solemn, and immeasurably cheaper!
Do you think I don’t know you? You’re mistaken if you think so. But
perhaps you do. Well! Shall I tell you what I know? Can you bear it?
Here it is then. The Black Jobmaster is right. The root of all this, is
the gen-teel party.
You don’t mean to deny it, I hope? You don’t mean to tell me that this
nonsensical mockery isn’t owing to your gentility. Don’t I know a Raven
in a Cathedral Tower, who has often heard your service for the Dead?
Don’t I know that you almost begin it with the words, “We brought
nothing into this world, and it is certain that we can carry nothing
out”? Don’t I know that in a monstrous satire on those words, you carry
your hired velvets, and feathers, and scarves, and all the rest of it,
to the edge of the grave, and get plundered (and serve you right!) in
every article, because you WILL be gen-teel parties to the last?
Eh? Think a little! Here’s the plumber painter and glazier come to take
the funeral order which he is going to give to the sexton, who is going
to give it to the clerk, who is going to give it to the carpenter, who
is going to give it to the haberdasher, who is going to give it to the
furnishing undertaker, who is going to divide it with the Black
Jobmaster. “Hearse and four, Sir?” says he. “No, a pair will be
sufficient.” “I beg your pardon, Sir, but when we buried Mr. Grundy at
number twenty, there was four on ’em, Sir; I think it right to mention
it.” “Well, perhaps there had better be four.” “Thank you, Sir. Two
coaches and four, Sir, shall we say?” “No. Coaches and pair.” “You’ll
excuse my mentioning it, Sir, but pairs to the coaches, and four to the
hearse, would have a singular appearance to the neighbours. When we put
four to anything, we always carry four right through.” “Well! say four!”
“Thank you, Sir. Feathers of course?” “No. No feathers. They’re absurd.”
“Very good, Sir. _No_ feathers?” “No.” “_Very_ good, Sir. We _can_ do
fours without feathers, Sir, but it’s what we never do. When we buried
Mr. Grundy, there was feathers, and—I only throw it out, Sir—Mrs. Grundy
might think it strange.” “Very well! Feathers!” “Thank you, Sir,”—and so
on.
_Is_ it and so on, or not, through the whole black job of jobs, because
of Mrs. Grundy and the gen-teel party?
I suppose you’ve thought about this? I suppose you’ve reflected on what
you’re doing, and what you’ve done? When you read about those poisonings
for the burial society money, you consider how it is that burial
societies ever came to be, at all? You perfectly understand—you who are
not the poor, and ought to set ’em an example—that, besides making the
whole thing costly, you’ve confused their minds about this burying, and
have taught ’em to confound expence and show, with respect and
affection. You know all you’ve got to answer for, you gen-teel parties?
I’m glad of it.
I believe it’s only the monkeys who are servile imitators, is it? You
reflect! To be sure you do. So does Mrs. Grundy—and she casts
reflections—don’t she?
What animals are those who scratch shallow holes in the ground in
crowded places, scarcely hide their dead in ’em, and become unnaturally
infected by their dead, and die by thousands? Vultures, I suppose. I
think you call the Vulture an obscene bird? I don’t consider him
agreeable, but I never caught him misconducting himself in that way.
My honourable friend, the dog—I call him my honourable friend in your
Parliamentary sense, because I hate him—turns round three times before
he goes to sleep. I ask him why? He says he don’t know; but he always
does it. Do _you_ know how you ever came to have that board of feathers
carried on a fellow’s head? Come. You’re a boastful race. Show
yourselves superior to the dog, and tell me!
Now, I don’t love many people; but I do love the undertakers. I except
them from the censure I pass upon you in general. They know you so well,
that I look upon ’em as a sort of Ravens. They are so certain of your
being gen-teel parties, that they stick at nothing. They are sure
they’ve got the upper hand of you. Our proprietor was reading the paper,
only last night, and there was an advertisement in it from a sensitive
and libelled undertaker, to wit, that the allegation “that funerals were
unnecessarily expensive, was an insult to his professional brethren.”
Ha! ha! Why he knows he has you on the hip. It’s nothing to him that
their being unnecessarily expensive is a fact within the experience of
all of you as glaring as the sun when there’s not a cloud. He is certain
that when you want a funeral “performed,” he has only to be down upon
you with Mrs. Grundy, to do what he likes with you—and then he’ll go
home, and laugh like a Hyæna.
I declare (supposing I wasn’t detained against my will by our
proprietor) that, if I had any arms, I’d take the undertakers to ’em!
There’s another, in the same paper, who says they’re libelled, in the
accusation of having disgracefully disturbed the meeting in favour of
what you call your General Interment Bill. Our establishment was in the
Strand, that night. There was no crowd of undertakers’ men there, with
circulars in their pockets, calling on ’em to come in coloured clothes
to make an uproar; it wasn’t undertakers’ men who got in with forged
orders to yell and screech; it wasn’t undertakers’ men who made a brutal
charge at the platform, and overturned the ladies like a troop of horse.
Of course not. _I_ know all about it.
But—and lay this well to heart, you Lords of the creation, as you call
yourselves!—it _is_ these undertakers’ men to whom, in the last trying,
bitter grief of life, you confide the loved and honoured forms of your
sisters, mothers, daughters, wives. It _is_ to these delicate gentry,
and to their solemn remarks, and decorous behaviour, that you entrust
the sacred ashes of all that has been the purest to you, and the dearest
to you, in this world. Don’t improve the breed! Don’t change the custom!
Be true to my opinion of you, and to Mrs. Grundy!
I nail the black flag of the black Jobmaster to our cage—figuratively
speaking—and I stand up for the gen-teel parties. So (but from different
motives) does the Owl. You’ve got a chance, by means of that bill I’ve
mentioned—by the bye, I call my own a General Interment Bill, for it
buries everything it gets hold of—to alter the whole system; to avail
yourselves of the results of all improved European experience; to
separate death from life; to surround it with everything that is sacred
and solemn, and to dissever it from everything that is shocking and
sordid. You won’t read the bill? You won’t dream of helping it? You
won’t think of looking at the evidence on which it’s founded—Will you?
No. That’s right!
Gen-teel parties, step forward, if you please, to the rescue of the
black Jobmaster! The rats are with you. I am informed that they have
unanimously passed a resolution that the closing of the London
churchyards will be an insult to their professional brethren, and will
oblige ’em “to fight for it.” The Parrots are with you. The Owl is with
you. The Raven is with you. No General Interments. Carrion for ever!
Ha, ha! Halloa!
HOW WE WENT FISHING IN CANADA.
There were three of us. Our purpose was fishing, in Canadian fashion,
_under_ the ice, and our destination was the township of New Ireland,
distant about seventy miles from our starting point, Quebec, and
situated about midway between the St. Lawrence and the American line.
Our conveyance was a stout, commodious, yet light, and not inelegant
sleigh, with seats for four, and plentifully supplied with buffalo
robes, which are dressed so as to be as soft as blankets—useful in a
temperature of twenty degrees below Zero, and ornamental from their
fringes, which were garnished with various devices, all of which had
some reference to the wild denizens of the forest. Under each seat was a
box, which we stowed with a goodly supply of creature comforts and a few
books, thus prudently making provision against the contingencies of
privation and _ennui_. Our locomotive power consisted of two small but
very spirited horses, which were neatly harnessed, with a string of
merry sleigh bells dangling from the girths of each.
In this comfortable condition we in due time arrived at “Richardson’s,”
one of the most celebrated hostelries in the seignory of St. Giles.
Here we put up for the night, tempted to do so by the superiority of the
accommodation, especially as we had but an easy day’s journey before us
for the morrow. During the morning it was so intensely cold that our
breath formed thick crusts of ice on the shawls which we had round our
necks, whilst the bushy whiskers of our companion Perroque were pendant
with tiny icicles. As our horses warmed, almost every hair on their
backs formed the nucleus of a separate icicle, which, by-and-bye, made
them all stand erect, and caused the animals to look more like
porcupines than horses. About midday it began to moderate, and by
nightfall the temperature had risen considerably. The wind had by this
time set in, with a steady current from the east. This, with the change
of temperature, made us somewhat uneasy as to the weather; but our hopes
rose when we found that it was yet a brilliant starlight about 10
o’clock, when we retired to rest. But even then the coming tempest was
not far off; and in about two hours afterwards the wind was howling
fearfully about the house, which it shook to its very foundations,
whilst the driving snow pattered against the windows as if clouds of
steel filings had been driven against them. I was soon soothed to sleep
by the wild lullaby of the winter night, and did not awake again until
eight in the morning, when I was called by a servant, who entered my
room with a lighted candle in her hand. I should otherwise have been in
darkness, for the snow had, over night, completely blocked up my window.
My room was on the ground-floor, and looked to the east. Against that
side of the house, the snow had been piled by the wind in an enormous
wreath, which partly encroached upon the windows of the floor above.
Blungle, my other friend, who had recently arrived from the region of
Russell Square, London, slept in a room contiguous to mine, but he
refused to get up, declaring that although it was still the middle of
the night, he was too wide awake to be humbugged. It was not until
breakfast was sent in to him, and he found by the state of his appetite
that it must have been several hours since he had supped, that he
condescended to examine his window, which discovered to him the true
state of the case.
The wind was still high, and although the snow had ceased to fall, the
tempest abated nothing of its fury. The dry snow was driven like light
sand before the blast, until the air was thick with it. Neither man nor
beast was astir, every living thing taking shelter from the storm.
By-and-bye, the heavy pall overhead began to rend, and a few faint
gleams of sunshine would occasionally light up the wild turmoil and
confusion that raged below. About ten o’clock, the clouds were rolled
away, and the sun shone steadily out. For a full hour afterwards the
wind maintained its strength, but by noon had so far abated, that the
drift had almost ceased.
But, by this time, the roads had become utterly impracticable. They
were, indeed, obliterated; the snow lying, in some places, lightly upon
them; and in others, forming huge swelling wreaths, either across or
along them. We were eager to go forward, but were dissuaded by our host
from attempting it, till the afternoon, when the road might be at least
practicable. On such occasions the law requires the owners of land to
“break the roads” passing through or by their respective properties; and
by two o’clock every sleigh in St. Giles’s was out for the purpose. As
soon as a track was opened, we prepared to start. The road for the first
quarter of a mile had been well sheltered; and as the evergreens were
still standing, there was but little difficulty in keeping the old
track, which afforded a firm footing for the horses. But beyond that the
evergreens had been prostrated and buried in the snow; and it was
evident that our pioneers had floundered in the midst of difficulties.
Such was presently our own fate, our horses having plunged into the soft
snow, where it was fully six feet deep, from which we had with no little
difficulty and labour to dig them out. This quenched our enthusiasm, and
we returned to the inn, where we remained for another night.
Next morning we were enabled to proceed, though but slowly, on our way.
Leaving St. Giles’s, we entered St. Sylvestre, the last, on this road,
of the belt of French seignories lying between the St. Lawrence and the
“Townships.” It is almost exclusively inhabited by British settlers. In
the townships, Frenchmen are as rare as negroes in Siberia. The first
township we came to was that of Leeds; on entering which we found a
great change in the whole aspect of the country. From being flat and
monotonous it became suddenly varied and undulating, and appeared to
consist of a succession of rather lofty ridges, with broad belts of
fertile table land at their summit. On gaining the top of the first, we
turned to enjoy the prospect which lay behind us. It was really
magnificent. The air was so clear and crisp, that almost every object
embraced within the distant horizon had a distinct form and outline. The
level tract over which we had passed lay extended beneath our feet,
stretching for about forty miles to the St. Lawrence. In appearance it
was as variegated as a carpet,—the white patches of every shape and size
with which it was interspersed indicating the clearances amongst the
dark brown woods. The bold and precipitous banks of the St. Lawrence
could be traced for miles, whilst here and there the stream itself was
visible. The distant city, on its rocky promontory, came out in fine
relief against the sky, its tin covered spires glistening in the
sunshine like silver pinnacles. A little to the right, the outline of
the chain of hills lying behind it, although they were fully sixty miles
distant from us, was distinctly visible in the far-off heavens.
On quitting Leeds, our way led chiefly through the woods, the clearances
being now the rare exception.
At length we reached the district, or “township,” of New Ireland, which
having been settled by immigrants from Maine and New Hampshire, more
than forty years ago, is now reckoned one of the wealthiest and most
prosperous parts of the country. To one of its well-to-do farmers we had
introductions, and took up our quarters. His large and spacious house
was built upon a high bank, overlooking one of the smaller lakes, from
which our sport was to be derived, because it afforded one of the best
fishing grounds in the neighbourhood. Shortly after breakfast (the
buck-wheat cakes and pumpkin pie were beyond praise), we prepared for a
day’s sport. Our tackle would appear rather odd to English sportsmen:
our lines consisted of strong hempen cords, of which we provided
ourselves with about a dozen. To each were attached two very large
hooks, dressed upon thin whip-cord. We had likewise three axes, and as
many chisels of the largest size, attached to handles about six feet
long. In addition to these we had a shovel and a broad hoe. They were
all stowed into a large hand sleigh, which was dragged to the fishing
ground by a servant.
The lake was about three miles long and half-a-mile wide. It lay in a
beautiful valley, embossed in the deep and sombre pine woods, which
covered the lower grounds. It was one of a series, some of which were
smaller and others much larger than itself. For fully five months in the
year the surface of each is frozen to the depth of several feet. We
started off to skate to the upper end, which was two-and-a-half miles
distant. My friend Blungle, not an accomplished skater, made so very
false a start, that he was speedily noticed spinning round rapidly on
the ice on a pivot, of which his heels and his head formed opposite
angles—precisely like a rotatory letter V. Perroque, our French
comforter and guide is a perfect Perrot in skates, and performed the
most graceful evolutions around our prostrate friend, in a manner that
produced a pretty and highly diverting tableau. At last, however, he
managed to “feel his feet” better, and we all soon afterwards reached
the fishing ground.
The spot selected was close to the head of the lake, where the stream
flowing from that immediately above, fell into it. Here the fish are
generally attracted by the greater quantity of food there deposited by
the stream. In winter they have additional inducements, owing to the
greater warmth of the water from the number of springs in the
neighbourhood, and to the greater abundance of light which they enjoy
through the ice which is here comparatively thin. Indeed, over some of
the springs no ice forms during the coldest seasons. Our first care was
to make at least half-a-dozen holes in the ice. This sportsman-like
operation we commenced with our axes, making each hole about three feet
in diameter. When we got down about a foot or so the axes became useless
to us, and we had to resort to our chisels, with which we speedily
progressed; clearing the holes of the broken ice with the shovel first
and afterwards with the hoe. We were not long at work, before we found
the utility of the long handles of both hoe and chisels, the ice which
we had to perforate being fully three feet thick. There is a legend in
the neighbourhood, of an Irishman, who, having forgotten his chisel,
very wisely got into the hole which he was cutting, that he might use
his axe with better effect; he, of course, kept going down as the hole
got deeper and deeper, until, at last, he went down altogether, and,
according to the report, made food for the fish he intended to capture.
Things being thus prepared, we baited our hooks with pieces of fat pork,
and dropped them into the water—the lines being set in each hole—the
other end of each line was attached to the middle of a stick, about six
feet in length, so placed, that it could not be dragged into the hole.
These we left lying upon the ice, some distance from the holes, so as to
give us warning of a bite, and the fish an opportunity of running a
little when hooked. The contemplative angler of the Waltonian School has
no chance here, for he would be inevitably frozen to an icicle before he
obtained so much as a bite. For amusement as well as for warmth,
therefore, we skated in the immediate vicinity of our lines, of which we
seldom lost sight. The fish, which is a species of pike, and attains a
large size, sometimes weighing upwards of thirty pounds, are soon
attracted to the spot by the columns of light descending through the
apertures in the ice. It is seldom, therefore, that the angler has to
remain long in suspense ere some token is afforded him that his labour
is not likely to be in vain. A few minutes after the casting of the
nets, I happened to approach the hole in which mine were set, and was
looking inquisitively into its leaden depths, eager, if possible, to
catch a glimpse of what was going on underneath, when suddenly the stick
to which one of the lines was attached, was dragged towards the aperture
with great velocity, and catching me by the heels, turned poor Blungle’s
laugh completely against me; for it laid me at once upon my back, with
my legs spanning the hole. I should certainly have gone with it, but
that the stick, when the fish came to the end of his run, lay firmly
across it, and kept me up. Having risen, I thought it my time, and began
to pull at the line. From the power with which I had to contend,
however, I found it necessary to have a better foundation than my skates
afforded me; so getting upon my knees, I soon brought my captive to
light, and deposited him upon the ice. He was a splendid fish, weighing
upwards of twenty pounds, and floundered prodigiously for a few minutes.
The frost, however, soon tranquilised him, and in about a
quarter-of-an-hour he was as hard and brittle as an icicle.
We continued our sport for some time with tolerable success, having, by
three o’clock, caught eleven fish, the smallest of which weighed eight
pounds. But our pleasures were brought to an untimely period by Blungle,
whose ill luck had now passed into a proverb amongst us. Hitherto no
fish had favoured his line with so much as the passing compliment of a
nibble. He had given up the attempt, and for nearly two hours had been
amusing himself by skating up and down the lake. Practice had improved
him, and like all beginners, he was proud of his prowess, and was
particularly anxious to redeem his lost character for skating by one
extraordinary achievement. He had been warned to give what a nautical
friend of our host called a “wide berth” to the mouth of the stream
which ran into the lake. Bold in the strength of his newly acquired
skill, he neglected this advice, and about three o’clock shot rapidly
past us in the direction of the stream. In less than a minute there was
a loud agonising cry for help.
We looked round. Every vestige of Blungle was invisible, except his
head, and that was seen just above the ice, his body being immersed in
water. He had ventured too far, and the ice had given way with him.
Mirth instantly was changed to the acutest apprehension. In that part,
the ice was so weak, that he might have broken it by pressing his arms
against it. But this he could not do; for although his toes touched
ground, he happened to be standing on the tail of a small bank, off
which the water rapidly deepened in one direction. For a moment or two
we were perplexed what to do, when it occurred to us that we might turn
the hand sleigh to account. Having tied the three chisels with their
long handles, firmly together, we tied the long pole thus furnished, to
the sleigh, and pushed it towards him; Perroque putting a large piece of
pork upon the sleigh, that he might bite at it. He hesitated for some
time to relinquish his secure foothold; but at length, seeing that it
was his only chance, and being terrified by a great fish which came up
and stared him hungrily in the face, he seized the sleigh, which we then
pulled towards us, and got safely to land. It crushed and broke the weak
ice, but rose upon that which was stronger, dragging Blungle with it.
For some time he lay where we landed him, and would soon have been as
stiff as the fish, had we not raised him to his feet, when he
immediately started for the house. We followed him as soon as we could,
dragging our tackle, implements, and spoils along with us, and were not
long in overtaking him; for before he had got half-way down the lake,
his clothes had become quite stiff, and he looked like a man in a
cracked glass case. On reaching the house, it was with difficulty we
undressed him and put him to bed; when by dint of warmth without, and
brandy administered within, we gradually thawed him. He did not
afterwards join our fishing; but confined himself to improving his skill
in skating in the centre of the lake.
We remained altogether four days, by which time we had caught as many
fish as we had room for in our sleigh. We then bade adieu to our kind
host and his family, and after a pleasant journey, arrived towards the
evening of the second day, at Quebec. The fish, which were still frozen
and in excellent condition, we distributed in presents to our friends.
A WISH.
Oh, that I were the Spirit of a Plant,
Rear’d in Imagination’s evergreen world,—
To lift my head above the meadow grass,
And strike my roots, far-spread and intervolved,
Deep as the Central Heart, wherefrom to taste
The springs of infinite being! From that source
What pregnant fermentations would arise;
What blossom, fruit, perfume, and influence;
To purify mankind’s destructive blood,—
So full of life and elevating powers—
So cloy’d and clogg’d for exercise of good.
THE BLACK DIAMONDS OF ENGLAND.
CHAPTER I.—THE DIAMONDS.
The history and adventures of the ‘great diamonds’ of Eastern, Northern,
Southern, and Western potentates, have been often chronicled; their
several values have been estimated at hundreds of thousands, and at
millions; but not a syllable has ever been breathed of their utility.
The reason is tolerably obvious; these magnificent diamonds are of _no_
practical use at all, being purely ornamental luxuries. Now, it has
occurred to us that the diamonds indigenous to England, are the converse
of these brilliant usurpers of the chief fame of the nether earth (to
say nothing of the vain-glories on the upper surface) being black,
instead of prismatic white—opaque, instead of transpicuous; and in place
of deriving a fictitious and fluctuating value from scarcity and
ornamental beauty, deriving their value from the realities of their
surpassing utility and great abundance. They certainly make no very
striking figure in the ball-room dress of prince or princess; but it is
their destiny and office to carry comfort to the poor man’s home, as
well as to the mansion of the rich; they are not to be looked upon as
treasures of beauty, they are to be shovelled out and burnt; they are
not the bright emblems of no change, and no activity, but like heralds,
sent from the depths of night, where Nature works her secret wonders, to
advance those sciences and industrial arts which are equally the
consequence and the re-acting cause of the progress of humanity.
In the reign of King Edward the First of England, a new fuel was brought
to London, much to his subjects’ objection and the perplexity of his
majesty. Listen to the history—not of the king, but of the great event
of his time which few historians mention.
If chemical nature beneath the earth be accounted very slow, human
nature above ground is comparatively slower,—and without the same reason
for it. The transmutations beneath the earth require centuries for their
accomplishment, and of necessity;—the proper use of new and valuable
discoveries on the surface, is a matter of human understanding and
rational will. In the former case, the thing is not perfect without its
number of centuries; in the latter, the thing has very seldom been
acknowledged without great lapse and loss of time, because mankind will
_not_ be made more comfortable and happy without a long fight against
the innovation. Wherefore coals, the most excellent material of
fuel,—for cooking, for works of industry and skill, for trades and arts,
and the cutting short of long journeys,—have only been in use during the
last three centuries.
The first mention of coals, as a fuel, occurs in a charter of Henry the
Third, granting licenses to the burgesses of Newcastle to dig for coals;
and in 1281, this city had created, out of these diggings, a pretty good
trade.
In the beginning of the fourteenth century, coals were first sent from
Newcastle to London, by way of a little experiment on the minds of the
blacksmiths and brewers, and a few other trades needing fuel; but for no
other purposes. So the good black smoke rose from a score or two of
favoured chimneys.
As one man, all London instantly rose up against it, and was exceeding
wroth. Whereof, in 1316, came a petition from Parliament to the king,
praying his Majesty,—if he had any love for a fair garden, a clean face,
yea, or a clean shirt and ruff,—and if he did not wish his subjects to
be choked, or, at the very best, to be smoked into bad hams,—to forbid
all use of the new and pestilent fuel called “coals.”
So the king, seeing the good sense and reasonableness of the request,
forthwith issued a Proclamation, commanding all use of the dangerous
nuisance of coals to cease from that day henceforth.
But the blacksmiths and brewers took counsel together, and they were
joined by several other trades, who had found great advantage in the use
of coals; and they resolved to continue the same, as secretly as might
be—forgetting all about the smoke, or innocently trusting that it would
not again betray them.
No sooner, however, did the black smoke begin to rise and curl above the
chimneys, than it was actually seen by many eyes!—and away ran the
people bawling to Parliament; and more petitions were sent; and his
Majesty, being now very angry, ordered all these refractory coal-burning
smiths, brewers, and other injurious rogues to be heavily fined, and
their fire-places and furnaces cast down and utterly demolished.
All this was accordingly done. Still, it was done to no purpose; for so
very excellent was the result to the different trades of those who had
smuggled and used the prohibited fuel, that use it by some means they
would, let happen what might. More chimneys than ever now sent up black
curling clouds, and more fire-places and furnaces were destroyed; and so
they went on.
At length it was wisely discovered that nobody had been choked,
poisoned, “cured” into a bad ham, or otherwise injured and transformed.
Now, then, of course, it was reasonable to expect, as the advantages
were proved to be so great and numerous, the injuries trivial, and the
dangers nothing, the use of coal would become pretty general, without
more prohibition, contest, or question.
No, indeed; this is not the way the world goes on. Social benefits are
not to be forced upon worthy people at this rate. Centuries must
elapse—even as we find with the growth of metals and minerals beneath
the earth. In the latter case, it is a necessary condition; in the
former, it is made one.
The many good services and value of coals being now ascertained, as well
as their harmlessness (except that they certainly did give a bad colour
to all the public edifices and great houses), and the progressive
increase of many luxuries of life, together with their advantages to
numerous trades besides those of the wisely-valiant and not-to-be-denied
blacksmiths and brewers who first adopted and persisted in using them,
every facility for their importation into London was naturally expected
by the citizens of that highly-favoured place. Innocent human nature!
vain hopes of children, who always expect reason from those who preach
it! For now, various lets and hindrances were cunningly devised, in the
shape of taxes and duties, so as to check the facilities of interchange
between London and Newcastle. So, the new fuel—the product of the mine
destined one day to become the Black Diamonds of England—had to struggle
for its freedom through a succession of “wise and happy reigns.”