service, when domestic service is full as well paid, is easier,
healthier, and in many cases far more agreeable, than shop and factory
work? It is, more than anything else, the influence of slavery in the
South,--its insensible influence on the minds of mistresses, giving them
false ideas of what ought to be the position and treatment of a female
citizen in domestic service, and its very marked influence on the minds
of freedom-loving Americans, causing them to choose _any_ position
rather than one which is regarded as assimilating them to slaves. It is
difficult to say what are the very worst results of a system so
altogether bad as that of slavery; but one of the worst is certainly the
utter contempt it brings on useful labor, and the consequent utter
physical and moral degradation of a large body of the whites; and this
contempt of useful labor has been constantly spreading like an infection
from the Southern to the Northern States, particularly among women, who,
as our friend here has truly said, are by our worship and exaltation of
them made peculiarly liable to take the malaria of aristocratic society.
Let anybody observe the conversation in good society for an hour or two,
and hear the tone in which servant-girls, seamstresses, mechanics, and
all who work for their living, are sometimes mentioned, and he will see,
that, while every one of the speakers professes to regard useful labor
as respectable, she is yet deeply imbued with the leaven of aristocratic
ideas.
"In the South the contempt for labor bred of slavery has so permeated
society, that we see great, coarse, vulgar _lazzaroni_ lying about in
rags and vermin, and dependent on government rations, maintaining, as
their only source of self-respect, that they never have done and never
_will_ do a stroke of useful work, in all their lives. In the North
there are, I believe, no _men_ who would make such a boast; but I think
there are many women--beautiful, fascinating _lazzaroni_ of the parlor
and boudoir--who make their boast of elegant helplessness and utter
incompetence for any of woman's duties with equal _naivete_. The
Spartans made their slaves drunk, to teach their children the evils of
intoxication; and it seems to be the policy of a large class in the
South now to keep down and degrade the only working-class they have, for
the sake of teaching their children to despise work.
"We of the North, who know the dignity of labor, who know the value of
free and equal institutions, who have enjoyed advantages for seeing
their operation, ought, in true brotherliness, to exercise the power
given us by the present position of the people of the Southern States,
and put things thoroughly right _for_ them, well knowing, that, though
they may not like it at the moment, they will like it in the end, and
that it will bring them peace, plenty, and settled prosperity, such as
they have long envied here in the North. It is no kindness to an invalid
brother, half recovered from delirium, to leave him a knife to cut his
throat with, should he be so disposed. We should rather appeal from
Philip drunk to Philip sober, and do real kindness, trusting to the
future for our meed of gratitude.
"Giving equal political rights to all the inhabitants of the Southern
States will be their shortest way to quiet and to wealth. It will avert
what is else almost certain,--a war of races; since all experience shows
that the ballot introduces the very politest relations between the
higher and lower classes. If the right be restricted, let it be by
requirements of property and education, applying to all the population
equally.
"Meanwhile, we citizens and citizenesses of the North should remember
that Reconstruction means something more than setting things right in
the Southern States. We have saved our government and institutions, but
we have paid a fearful price for their salvation; and we ought to prove
now that they are worth the price.
"The empty chair, never to be filled,--the light gone out on its
candlestick, never on earth to be rekindled,--gallant souls that have
exhaled to heaven in slow torture and starvation,--the precious blood
that has drenched a hundred battle-fields,--all call to us with warning
voices, and tell us not to let such sacrifices be in vain. They call on
us by our clear understanding of the great principles of democratic
equality, for which our martyred brethren suffered and died, to show to
all the world that their death was no mean and useless waste, but a
glorious investment for the future of mankind.
"This war, these sufferings, these sacrifices, ought to make every
American man and woman look on himself and herself as belonging to a
royal priesthood, a peculiar people. The blood of our slain ought to be
a gulf, wide and deep as the Atlantic, dividing us from the opinions and
the practices of countries whose government and society are founded on
other and antagonistic ideas. Democratic republicanism has never yet
been perfectly worked out either in this or any other country. It is a
splendid edifice, half built, deformed by rude scaffolding, noisy with
the clink of trowels, blinding the eyes with the dust of lime, and
endangering our heads with falling brick. We make our way over heaps of
shavings and lumber to view the stately apartments,--we endanger our
necks in climbing ladders standing in the place of future staircases;
but let us not for all this cry out that the old rat-holed mansions of
former ages, with their mould, and moss, and cockroaches, are better
than this new palace. There is no lime-dust, no clink of trowels, no
rough scaffolding there, to be sure, and life goes on very quietly; but
there is the foul air of slow and sure decay.
"Republican institutions in America are in a transition state; they have
not yet separated themselves from foreign and antagonistic ideas and
traditions, derived from old countries; and the labors necessary for the
upbuilding of society are not yet so adjusted that there is mutual
pleasure and comfort in the relations of employer and employed. We still
incline to class-distinctions and aristocracies. We incline to the
scheme of dividing the world's work into two orders: first, physical
labor, which is held to be rude and vulgar, and the province of a lower
class; and second, brain labor, held to be refined and aristocratic, and
the province of a higher class. Meanwhile, the Creator, who is the
greatest of levellers, has given to every human being _both_ a physical
system, needing to be kept in order by physical labor, and an
intellectual or brain power, needing to be kept in order by brain labor.
_Work_, use, employment, is the condition of health in both; and he who
works either to the neglect of the other lives but a half-life, and is
an imperfect human being.
"The aristocracies of the Old World claim that their only labor should
be that of the brain; and they keep their physical system in order by
violent exercise, which is made genteel from the fact only that it is
not useful or productive. It would be losing caste to refresh the
muscles by handling the plough or the axe; and so foxes and hares must
be kept to be hunted, and whole counties turned into preserves, in order
that the nobility and gentry may have physical exercise in a way
befitting their station,--that is to say, in a way that produces
nothing, and does good only to themselves.
"The model republican uses his brain for the highest purposes of brain
work, and his muscles in _productive_ physical labor; and useful labor
he respects above that which is merely agreeable.
"When this equal respect for physical and mental labor shall have taken
possession of every American citizen, there will be no so-called
laboring class: there will no more be a class all muscle without brain
power to guide it, and a class all brain without muscular power to
execute. The labors of society will be lighter, because each individual
will take his part in them; they will be performed better, because no
one will be overburdened.
"In those days, Miss Jennie, it will be an easier matter to keep house,
because, house-work being no longer regarded as degrading drudgery, you
will find a superior class of women ready to engage in it.
"Every young girl and woman, who in her sphere and by her example shows
that she is not ashamed of domestic labor, and that she considers the
necessary work and duties of family life as dignified and important, is
helping to bring on this good day. Louis Philippe once jestingly
remarked,--'I have this qualification for being a king in these days,
that I have blacked my own boots, and could black them again.'
"Every American ought to cultivate, as his pride and birthright, the
habit of self-helpfulness. Our command of the labor of good _employes_
in any department is liable to such interruptions, that he who has
blacked his own boots, and can do it again, is, on the whole, likely to
secure the most comfort in life.
"As to that which Mr. Ruskin pronounces to be a deep, irremediable ulcer
in society, namely, domestic service, we hold that the last workings of
pure democracy will cleanse and heal it. When right ideas are
sufficiently spread,--when everybody is self-helpful and capable of
being self-supporting,--when there is a fair start for every human being
in the race of life, and all its prizes are, without respect of persons,
to be obtained by the best runner,--when every kind of useful labor is
thoroughly respected,--then there will be a clear, just, wholesome basis
of intercourse on which employers and employed can move without
wrangling or discord.
"Renouncing all claims to superiority on the one hand, and all thought
of servility on the other, service can be rendered by fair contracts and
agreements, with that mutual respect and benevolence which every human
being owes to every other.
"But for this transition period, which is wearing out the life of so
many women, and making so many households uncomfortable, I have some
alleviating suggestions, which I shall give in my next paper."
GRIFFITH GAUNT; OR, JEALOUSY.
CHAPTER IV.--_Continued._
He uttered a little shout of joy and amazement; his mare reared and
plunged, and then was quiet. And thus Kate Peyton and he met,--at right
angles,--and so close that it looked as if she had meant to ride him
down.
How he stared at her! How more than mortal fair she shone, returning to
those bereaved eyes of his, as if she had really dropped from heaven!
His clasped hands, his haggard face channelled by tears, showed the keen
girl she was strong where she had thought herself weak, and she
comported herself accordingly, and in one moment took a much higher tone
than she had intended as she came along.
"I am afraid," said she, very coldly, "you will have to postpone your
journey a day or two. I am grieved to tell you that poor Mr. Charlton is
dead."
Griffith uttered an exclamation.
"He asked for you; and messengers are out after you on every side. You
must go to Bolton at once."
"Well-a-day!" said Griffith, "has he left me, too? Good, kind old man,
on any other day I had found tears for thee! But now, methinks, happy
are the dead. Alas! sweet mistress, I hoped you came to tell me you
had--I might--what signifies what I hoped?--when I saw you had deigned
to ride after me. Why should I go to Bolton, after all?"
"Because you will be an ungrateful wretch else. What! leave others to
carry your kinsman and your benefactor to his grave, while you turn your
back on him, and inherit his estate? For shame, Sir! for shame!"
Griffith expostulated, humbly.
"How hardly you judge me! What are Bolton Hall and Park to me now? They
were to have been yours, you know. And yours they shall be. I came
between and robbed you. To be sure, the old man knew my mind. He said to
himself,--'Griffith or Kate, what matters it who has the land? They will
live together on it.' But all that is changed now; you will never share
it with me; and so I do feel I have no right to the place. Kate, my own
Kate, I have heard them sneer at you for being poor, and it made my
heart ache. I'll stop that, any way. Go you in my place to the funeral;
he that is dead will forgive me; his spirit knows now what I endure; and
I'll send you a writing, all sealed and signed, shall make Bolton Hall
and Park yours; and when you are happy with some one you _can_ love, as
well as I love you, think sometimes of poor jealous Griffith, that loved
you dear and grudged you nothing; but," grinding his teeth and turning
white, "I _can't_ live in Cumberland, and see you in another man's
arms."
Then Catharine trembled, and could not speak awhile; but at last she
faltered out,--
"You will make me _hate_ you."
"God forbid!" said simple Griffith.
"Well, then, don't thwart me, and provoke me so, but just turn your
horse's head and go quietly home to Bolton Hall, and do your duty to the
dead and the living. You can't go _this_ way, for me and my horse."
Then, seeing him waver, this virago faltered out, "And I have been so
tried to-day, first by one, then by another, surely _you_ might have
some pity on me. Oh! oh! oh! oh!"
"Nay, nay," cried Griffith, all in a flutter, "I'll go without more
words; as I am a gentleman, I will sleep at Bolton this night, and will
do my duty to the dead and the living. Don't you cry, sweetest; I give
in. I find I have no will but yours."
The next moment they were cantering side by side, and never drew rein
till they reached the cross-roads.
"Now tell me one thing," stammered Griffith, with a most ghastly attempt
at cheerful indifference. "How--do you--happen to be--on George
Neville's horse?"
Kate had been expecting this question for some time; yet she colored
high when it did come. However, she had her answer pat. The horse was in
the stable-yard, and fresh; her own was tired.
"What was I to do, Griffith? And now," added she, hastily, "the sun will
soon set, and the roads are bad; be careful. I wish I could ask you to
sleep at our house; but--there are reasons"--
She hesitated; she could not well tell him George Neville was to dine
and sleep there.
Griffith assured her there was no danger; his mare knew every foot of
the way.
They parted: Griffith rode to Bolton, and Kate rode home.
It was past dinner-time. She ran up stairs, and hurried on her best gown
and her diamond comb. For she began to quake now at the prank she had
played with her guest's horse; and Nature taught her that the best way
to soften censure is--to be beautiful.
"On pardonne tout aux belles."
And certainly she was passing fair, and queenly with her diamond comb.
She came down stairs and was received by her father. He grumbled at
being kept waiting for dinner.
Kate easily appeased the good-natured Squire, and then asked what had
become of Mr. Neville.
"Oh, he is gone long ago! Remembered, all of a sudden, he had promised
to dine with a neighbor."
Kate shook her head skeptically, but said nothing. But a good minute
after, she inquired,--
"How did he go? on foot?"
The Squire did not know.
After dinner old Joe sought an interview, and was admitted into the
dining-room.
"Be it all right about the gray horse, Master?"
"What of him?" asked Kate.
"He be gone to Neville Court, Mistress. But I suppose" (with a horrid
leer) "it is all right. Muster Neville told me all about it. He said,
says he,--
"'Some do break a kine or the likes on these here j'yful occasions;
other some do exchange goold rings. Your young mistress and me, _we_
exchange nags. She takes my pieball, I take her gray,' says he. 'Saddle
him for me, Joe,' says he, 'and wish me j'y.'
"So I clapped Muster Neville's saddle on the gray, and a gave me a
goolden guinea, a did; and I was so struck of a heap I let un go without
wishing on him j'y; but I hollered it arter un, as hard as I could. How
you looks! It be all right, bain't it?"
Squire Peyton laughed heartily, and said he concluded it was all right.
"The piebald," said he, "is rising five, and _I've_ had the gray ten
years. We have got the sunnyside of the bargain, Joe."
He gave Joe a glass of wine and sent him off, inflated with having done
a good stroke in horseflesh.
As for Kate, she was red as fire, and kept her lips close as wax; not a
word could be got out of her. The less she said, the more she thought.
She was thoroughly vexed, and sore perplexed how to get her gray horse
back from such a man as George Neville; and yet she could not help
laughing at the trick, and secretly admiring this chevalier, who had
kept his mortification to himself, and parried an affront so gallantly.
"The good-humored wretch!" said she to herself. "If Griffith ever goes
away again, he will have me, whether I like or no. No lady could resist
the monster long without some other man close at hand to help her."
CHAPTER V.
As, when a camel drops in the desert, vultures, hitherto unseen, come
flying from the horizon, so Mr. Charlton had no sooner succumbed than
the air darkened with undertakers flocking to Bolton for a lugubrious
job. They rode up on black steeds, they crunched the gravel in grave
gigs, and sent in black-edged cards to Griffith, and lowered their
voices, and bridled their briskness, and tried hard, poor souls! to be
sad; and were horribly complacent beneath that thin japan of venal
sympathy.
Griffith selected his Raven, and then sat down to issue numerous
invitations.
The idea of eschewing funereal pomp had not yet arisen. A gentleman of
that day liked his very remains to make a stir, and did not see the fun
of stealing into his grave like a rabbit slipping aground. Mr. Charlton
had even left behind him a sealed letter containing a list of the
persons he wished to follow him to the grave and attend the reading of
his will. These were thirty-four, and amongst them three known to fame:
namely, George Neville, Esq., Edward Peyton, Esq., and Miss Catherine
Peyton.
To all and each of the thirty-four young Gaunt wrote a formal letter,
inviting them to pay respect to their deceased friend, and to honor
himself, by coming to Bolton Hall at high noon on Saturday next. These
letters, in compliance with another custom of the time and place, were
all sent by mounted messengers, and the answers came on horseback, too;
so there was much clattering of hoofs coming and going, and much
roasting, baking, drinking of ale, and bustling, all along of him who
lay so still in an upper chamber.
And every man and woman came to Mr. Gaunt to ask his will and advice,
however simple the matter; and the servants turned very obsequious, and
laid themselves out to please the new master, and retain their old
places.
And, what with the sense of authority, and the occupation, and growing
ambition, love-sick Griffith grew another man, and began to forget that
two days ago he was leaving the country and going to give up the whole
game.
He found time to send Kate a loving letter, but no talk of marriage in
it. He remembered she had asked him to give her time. Well, he would
take her advice.
It wanted just three days to the funeral, when Mr. Charlton's own
carriage, long unused, was found to be out of repair. Griffith had it
sent to the nearest town, and followed it on that and other business.
Now it happened to be what the country folk called "justicing day"; and
who should ride into the yard of the "Roebuck" but the new magistrate,
Mr. Neville? He alighted off a great bony gray horse before Griffith's
very nose, and sauntered into a private room.
Griffith looked, and looked, and, scarcely able to believe his senses,
followed Neville's horse to the stable, and examined him all round.
Griffith was sore perplexed, and stood at the stable-door glaring at the
horse; and sick misgivings troubled him. He forgot the business he came
about, and went and hung about the bar, and tried to pick up a clew to
this mystery. The poor wretch put on a miserable assumption of
indifference, and asked one or two of the magistrates if that was not
Mr. Peyton's gray horse young Neville had ridden in upon.
Now amongst these gentlemen was a young squire Miss Peyton had refused,
and galled him. He had long owed Gaunt a grudge for seeming to succeed
where he had notably failed, and now, hearing him talk so much about the
gray, he smelt a rat. He stepped into the parlor and told Neville Gaunt
was fuming about the gray horse, and questioning everybody. Neville,
though he put so bold a face on his recent adventure at Peyton Hall, was
secretly smarting, and quite disposed to sting Gaunt in return. He saw a
tool in this treacherous young squire,--his name was Galton,--and used
him accordingly.
Galton, thoroughly primed by Neville, slipped back, and, choosing his
opportunity, poisoned Griffith Gaunt.
And this is how he poisoned him.
"Oh," said he, "Neville has bought the gray nag; and cost him dear, it
did."
Griffith gave a sigh of relief; for he at once concluded old Peyton had
sold his daughter's very horse. He resolved to buy her a better one next
week with Mr. Charlton's money.
But Galton, who was only playing with him, went on to explain that
Neville had paid a double price for the nag: he had given Miss Peyton
his piebald horse in exchange, and his troth into the bargain. In short,
he lent the matter so adroit a turn, that the exchange of horses seemed
to be Kate's act as much as Neville's, and the interference inevitable.
"It is a falsehood!" gasped Griffith.
"Nay," said Galton, "I had it on the best authority: but you shall not
quarrel with me about it; the lady is nought to me, and I but tell the
tale as 'twas told to me."
"Then who told it you?" said Gaunt, sternly.
"Why, it is all over the country, for that matter."
"No subterfuges, Sir! I am the lady's servant, and you know it: this
report, it slanders her, and insults me: give me the author, or I'll lay
my hunting-whip on your bones."
"Two can play at that game," said Galton; but he turned pale at the
prospect of the pastime.
Griffith strode towards him, black with ire.
Then Galton stammered out,--
"It was Neville himself told me."
"Ah!" said Griffith; "I thought so. He is a liar, and a coward."
"I would not advise you to tell _him_ so," said the other, maliciously.
"He has killed his man in France: spitted him like a lark."
Griffith replied by a smile of contempt.
"Where is the man?" said he, after a pause.
"How should I know?" asked Galton, innocently.
"Where did you leave him five minutes ago?"
Galton was dumbfoundered at this stroke, and could find nothing to say.
And now, as often happens, the matter took a turn not in the least
anticipated by the conspirators.
"You must come with me, Sir, if you please," said Griffith, quietly:
and he took Galton's arm.
"Oh, with all my heart," said the other. "But, Mr. Gaunt, do not you
take these idle reports to heart: _I_ never do. What the Devil, where
are you carrying me to? For Heaven's sake, let this foolish business go
no farther."
For he found Griffith was taking him to the very room where Neville was.
Griffith deigned no reply; he just opened the door of the room in
question, and walked the tale-bearer into the presence of the
tale-maker. George Neville rose and confronted the pair with a vast
appearance of civility; but under it a sneer was just discernible.
The rivals measured each other from head to foot, and then Neville
inquired to what he owed the honor of this visit.
Griffith replied,--
"He tells me you told him Miss Peyton has exchanged horses with you."
"Oh, you indiscreet person!" said George, shaking his finger playfully
at Galton.
"And, by the same token, has plighted her troth to you."
"Worse and worse," said George. "Galton, I'll never trust you with any
secrets again. Besides, you exaggerate."
"Come, Sir," said Griffith, sternly, "this Ned Galton was but your tool,
and your mouth-piece; and therefore I bring him in here to witness my
reply to _you_: Mr. George Neville, you are a liar and a scoundrel."
George Neville bounded to his feet like a tiger.
"I'll have your life for those two words," he cried.
Then he suddenly governed himself by a great effort.
"It is not for me to bandy foul terms with a Cumberland savage," said
he. "Name your time and place."
"I will. Ned Galton, you may go. I wish to say a few words in private to
Mr. Neville."
Galton hesitated.
"No violence, Gentlemen: consider."
"Nonsense!" said Neville. "Mr. Gaunt and I are going to fight: we are
not going to brawl. Be so good as to leave us."
"Ay," said Griffith; "and if you repeat a word of all this, woe be to
your skin!"
As soon as he was gone, Griffith Gaunt turned very grave and calm, and
said to George Neville,--