The elder Drysdale took, not long afterward, to his bed. He had been

ailing for some time; but no question that mortification at his son's

failure in the profession to which he had with so much pride devoted

him, helped to weaken the springs of life and accelerate his end, which

took place about six months after Edward's return home. The father and

son had become entirely reconciled with each other, and almost the

last accents which faltered from the lips of the dying seaman, were a

prayer to Bradshaw to forget and forgive what had past, and renew his

sanction to the marriage of Edward and his niece. The stern man was

inexorable; and his pitiless reply was, that he would a thousand times

rather follow Rachel to her grave.

The constancy of the young people was not, however, to be subdued, and

something more than a year after Mr. Drysdale's death, they married;

their present resources, the rents--about one hundred and twenty pounds

per annum--of a number of small tenements at Exeter. They removed to

within three miles of that city, and dwelt there in sufficiency and

peace for about five years, when the exigencies of a fast-increasing

family induced them to dispose, not very advantageously, of their

cottage property, and embark the proceeds in a showy speculation

promising, of course, immense results, and really ending in the brief

space of six months in their utter ruin. Edward Drysdale found himself,

in lieu of his golden hopes, worth about two hundred pounds less than

nothing. The usual consequences followed. An undefended suit at law

speedily reached the stage at which execution might be issued, and

unless a considerable sum of money could be instantly raised, his

furniture would be seized under a _fi. fa._, and sacrificed to no

purpose.

One only possible expedient remained--that of once more endeavoring to

soften the obduracy of Mr. Bradshaw. This it was finally determined

to attempt, and Mr. and Mrs. Drysdale set off by a London morning

coach upon the well-nigh hopeless speculation. They alighted at the

"Hunter's Inn," where Drysdale remained, while his wife proceeded

alone to Rodney Place. Thomas Burnham was friendly and good-natured as

ever. The old mariner, he told Drysdale, was visibly failing, and his

chief amusement seemed to be scraping together and hoarding up money.

James Berry, a broken-down tailor, and a chap, according to Burnham,

who knew how many beans made five as well as any man in Devonshire,

had been for some time valet, gardener, and general factotum at Rodney

Place, and appeared to exercise great influence over Mr. Bradshaw.

The only other person in the establishment was the old cook, Margery

Deans, who, never otherwise, since he had known her, than desperately

hard of hearing, was now become deaf as a stone. Drysdale, it was

afterward remembered, listened to all this with eager attention, and

was especially inquisitive and talkative respecting Mr. Bradshaw's

hoarding propensities, and the solitary, unprotected state in which he

lived.

Mrs. Drysdale was long gone; but the tremulous hopes which her

protracted stay called feebly forth, vanished at the sight of her

pale, tearful, yet resolved aspect. "It is useless, Edward," she

murmured, with her arms cast lovingly about her husband's neck, and

looking in his face with far more lavish expression of affection than

when, with orange blossoms in her hair, she stood a newly-consecrated

wife beside him. "It is useless to expect relief from my uncle, save

upon the heartless, impossible condition you know of. But let us home.

God's heaven is still above our heads, though clouds and darkness rest

between. We will trust in Him, Edward, and fear not!"

So brave a woman should have been matched with a stout-hearted man;

but this, unhappily, was not the case. Edward Drysdale was utterly

despondent, and he listened, as his wife was afterward fain to admit

to myself and others, with impatient reluctance to all she said as

they journeyed homeward, save when the condition of help spoken of,

namely, that she should abandon her husband, and take up her abode

with her children at Rodney Place, was discussed--by her indignantly.

Once also, when she mentioned that the old will in her favor was not

yet destroyed, but would be, her uncle threatened, if she did not soon

return, a bright, almost fiery expression seemed to leap from his

usually mild, reflective eyes, and partially dissipate the thick gloom

which mantled his features.

This occurred on a winter's day in early March, and the evening up to

seven o'clock had passed gloomily away with the Drysdales, when all at

once the husband, starting from a profound reverie, said he would take

a walk as far as Exeter, see the attorney in the suit against him, and,

if possible, gain a little time for the arrangement of the debt. His

wife acquiesced, though with small hope of any favorable result, and

the strangely-abstracted man left the house.

Ten o'clock, the hour by which Edward Drysdale had promised to return,

chimed from a dial on the mantle-piece. Mrs. Drysdale trimmed the fire,

lit the candles, which, for economy's sake, she had extinguished, and

had their frugal supper laid. He came not. Eleven o'clock! What could

be detaining him so late? Twelve!--half-past twelve! Rachel Drysdale

was just about to bid the servant-maid, who was sitting up in the

kitchen, go to bed, when the sound of carriage-wheels going _toward_

Exeter stopped at the door. It was a _return_ post-chaise, and brought

Edward Drysdale. He staggered, as if intoxicated, into the kitchen,

reached down a half-bottle of brandy from a cupboard, and took it to

the post-boy, who immediately drove off. Anne Moody, the servant-girl,

was greatly startled by her master's appearance: he looked, she

afterward stated, more the color of a whited wall, than of flesh and

blood, and shook and "cowered," as if he had the ague. Mrs. Drysdale

came into the kitchen, and stood gazing at her husband in a white, dumb

kind of way (I am transcribing literally from the girl's statement),

till the outer door was fastened, when they both went up-stairs into a

front sitting-room. Curiosity induced Anne Moody to follow, and she

heard, just as the door closed upon them, Mrs. Moody say, "You have

not been to Exeter, I am sure?" This was said in a nervous, shaking,

voice, and her master replied in the same tone, "No; I changed my

mind," or words to that effect. Then there was a quick whispering for

a minute or two, interrupted by a half-stifled cry or scream from Mrs.

Drysdale. A sort of hubbub of words followed, which the girl--a very

intelligent person of her class, by-the-by--could not hear, or at least

not make out, till Mr. Drysdale said in a louder, slower way, "You,

Rachel--the children are provided for; but, O God! at what a dreadful

price!" Anne Moody, fearful of detection, did not wait to hear more,

but crept stealthily up-stairs to bed, as her mistress had ordered her

to do when she left the kitchen. On the following morning the girl

found her master and mistress both up, the kitchen and parlor fires

lit, and breakfast nearly over. Mr. Drysdale said he was in a hurry

to get to Exeter, and they had not thought it worth while to call her

at unseasonable hours. Both husband and wife looked wild and haggard,

and this, Moody, when she looked into their bed-chamber, was not at

all surprised at, as it was clear that neither of them had retired to

rest. One thing and the other, especially kissing and fondling the

children over and over again, detained Mr. Drysdale till half-past

eight o'clock, and then, just as he was leaving the house, three men

confronted him! A constable of the name of Parsons, James Berry, Mr.

Bradshaw's servant, and Burnham, the landlord of the Hunter's Inn. They

came to arrest him on a charge of burglary and murder! Mr. Bradshaw had

been found early in the morning cruelly stabbed to death beside his

plundered strong-box!

I must pass lightly over the harrowing scenes which followed--the

tumultuous agony of the wife, and the despairing asseverations of the

husband, impossible to be implicitly believed in even by that wife,

for the criminating evidence was overwhelming. Drysdale had been seen

skulking about Rodney Place till very late by both Burnham and Berry.

In the room through which he must have passed in going and returning

from the scene of his frightful crime, his hat had been found, and it

was now discovered that he, Drysdale, had taken away and worn home one

of Berry's--no doubt from hurry and inadvertence. In addition to all

this, a considerable sum of money in gold and silver, inclosed in a

canvas-bag, well known to have belonged to the deceased, was found upon

his person! It appeared probable that the aim of the assassin had been

only robbery in the first instance, for the corpse of the unfortunate

victim was found clothed only in a night-dress. The fair inference,

therefore, seemed to be that the robber, disturbed at his plunder

by the wakeful old seaman, had been compelled, perhaps reluctantly,

to add the dreadful crime of murder to that which he had originally

contemplated. The outcry through the county was terrific, and as Edward

Drysdale, by the advice of Mr. Sims, the attorney, who subsequently

instructed Mr. Prince, reserved his defense, there appeared to be

nothing of a feather's weight to oppose against the tremendous mass of

circumstance arrayed against the prisoner.

And when, upon the arrival of the King's Commission at Exeter, Mr.

Prince received a very full and carefully-drawn brief in defense--a

specious, but almost wholly unsupported story of the prisoner's

appeared all that could be relied upon in rebuttal of the evidence for

the crown. According to Edward Drysdale, he merely sought Mr. Bradshaw

upon the evening in question for the purpose of concluding with that

gentleman an arrangement for the separation of himself from his wife

and children, and their domiciliation at Rodney Place. It was further

averred that he was received with greater civility than he expected;

that the interview was a long one, during which he, Drysdale, had

seen nobody but Mr. Bradshaw, although he believed the aged and deaf

cook was in the kitchen. That he had arranged that Mrs. Drysdale and

his children should be early on the morrow with her uncle, and that

he had received the money found on his person and at his house from

the deceased's own hands, in order to pay the debt and costs in the

suit wherein execution was about to be levied on his furniture, and

that the residue was to be applied to his, the prisoner's, own use.

That the expressions deposed to by Anne Moody, and his own and Mrs.

Drysdale's emotion after his return home, which had told so heavily

against him in the examinations before the magistrates, were perfectly

reconcilable with this statement--as, indeed, they were--and did not,

therefore, bear the frightful meaning that had been attached to them.

With respect to the change of hats, that might easily have happened,

because his hat had been left on entering in the hall-passage, and in

his hurry, in coming out by the same way, he had no doubt mistaken

Berry's for his own; but he solemnly denied having been in the room,

or near the part of the house where his hat was alleged to have been

found. This was the gist of the explanation; but, unfortunately, it was

not sustained by any receivable testimony in any material particular.

True, Mrs. Drysdale, whom every body fully believed, declared that this

account exactly coincided with what her husband told her immediately

on arriving home in the post-chaise--but what of that? It was not what

story the prisoner had told, nor how many times he had told it, that

could avail, especially against the heavy improbabilities that weighed

upon his, at first view, plausible statement. How was it that, knowing

Mr. Bradshaw's almost insane dislike of himself, he did not counsel

his wife to make terms with her uncle, preparatory to her returning

to Rodney Place? And was it at all likely that Mr. Bradshaw, whose

implacable humor Mrs. Drysdale had experienced on the very day previous

to the murder, should have so suddenly softened toward the man he so

thoroughly hated and despised? I trow not; and the first consultation

on the case wore a wretchedly-dismal aspect, till the hawk-eye of Mr.

Prince lit upon an assertion of Thomas Burnham's, that he had gone to

Mr. Bradshaw's house upon some particular business at a quarter past

twelve on the night of the murder, and had seen the deceased alive at

that time, who had answered him, as he frequently did, from his bedroom

window. "Rodney Place," said Mr. Prince, "is nine miles from Drysdale's

residence. I understood you to say, Mr. Sims, that Mrs. Drysdale

declares her husband was at home at twenty minutes to one?"

"Certainly she does; but the wife's evidence, you are aware, can not

avail her husband."

"True; but the servant girl! The driver of the post-chaise! This is a

vital point, and must be cleared up without delay."

I and Williams, Sims' clerk, set off instantly to see Mrs. Drysdale,

who had not left her room since her husband's apprehension. She was

confident it was barely so late as twenty minutes to one when the

post-chaise drove up to the door. Her evidence was, however, legally

inadmissible, and our hopes rested on Anne Moody, who was immediately

called in. Her answer was exasperating. She had been asleep in the

kitchen, and could not positively say whether it was twelve, one, or

two o'clock when her master reached home. There was still a chance

left--that of the post-chaise driver. He did not, we found, reach

Exeter, a distance of three miles only from Mr. Drysdale's, till a

quarter to three o'clock, and was then much the worse of liquor. So

much for our chance of proving an _alibi_!

There was one circumstance perpetually harped upon by our bright,

one-eyed friend of the Hunter's Inn; Cyclops, I and Williams called

him. What had become of a large sum in notes paid, it was well known,

to Mr. Bradshaw three or four days before his death? What also of a

ruby ring, and some unset precious stones he had brought from abroad,

and which he had always estimated, rightly or wrongly, at so high a

price? Drysdale's house and garden had been turned inside out, but

nothing had been found, and so for that matter had been Rodney Place,

and its two remaining inmates had been examined with the like ill

success. Burnham, who was excessively dissatisfied with the progress

of affairs, swore there was an infernal mystery somewhere, and that he

shouldn't sleep till he had ferreted it out. That was his business:

ours was to make the best of the wretched materials at our disposal;

but the result we all expected followed. The foregone conclusion of

the jury that were empaneled in the case was just about to be formally

recorded in a verdict of guilty, when a note was handed across to Mr.

Sims. One Mr. Jay, a timber merchant, who had heard the evidence of the

postillion, desired to be examined. This the judge at once consented

to, and Mr. Jay deposed, that having left Exeter in his gig upon

pressing business, at about two o'clock on the morning of the murder,

he had observed a post-chaise at the edge of a pond about a mile and

a half out of the city, where the jaded horses had been, he supposed,

drinking. They were standing still, and the post-boy, who was inside,

and had reins to drive with passed through the front windows, was fast

asleep--a drunken sleep it seemed, and he, Mr. Jay, had to bawl for

some time, and strike the chaise with his whip, before he could awake

the man, who, at last, with a growl and a curse, drove on. He believed,

but would not like to positively swear, that the postillion he had

heard examined was that man. This testimony, strongly suggestive as it

was, his lordship opined, did not materially affect the case; the jury

concurred, and a verdict of guilty was pronounced and recorded amidst

the death-like silence of a hushed and anxious auditory.

The unfortunate convict staggered visibly beneath the blow, fully

expected, as it must have been, and a terrible spasm convulsed his

features and shook his frame. It passed away; and his bearing and

speech, when asked what he had to say why sentence of death should not

be pronounced according to law, was not without a certain calm dignity

and power, while his tones, tremulous, it is true, were silvery and

unassuming as a child's.

"I can not blame the gentlemen of the jury," he said. "Their fatal

verdict is, I am sure, as conscientious as God and myself know it to be

erroneous--false! Circumstances are, I feel, strangely arrayed against

me; and it has been my fate through life to be always harshly judged,

save only by one whose truth and affection have shed over my checkered

existence the only happiness it has ever known. I observed, too, the

telling sneer of the prosecuting counsel, connecting the circumstances

under which I left the navy with the _cowardice_ of the deed with which

I stand here accused--convicted, I suppose, I should say. I forgive

that gentleman his cruel sneer as freely as I do you, gentlemen of

the jury, your mistaken verdict--you, my lord, the death-sentence you

are about to pronounce. The manner in which I hope to pass through

the brief, but dark and bitter passage lying between me and the grave

will, I trust, be a sufficient answer to the taunt of cowardice, and

the future vindication of my innocence, not for my own, but my wife and

children's sake, I confidently leave them to Him into whose hands I

shall soon, untimely, render up my spirit. This is all I have to say."

The prisoner's calm, simple, unhurried words, produced a marvelous

effect upon the court and auditory. The judge, Chief Baron Macdonald, a

conscientious, and somewhat nervous man, paused in the act of assuming

the black-cap, and presently said, rather hastily, "Let the prisoner be

removed; I will pass sentence to-morrow." The court then immediately

adjourned.

I was miserably depressed in spirits, which the cold, sleety weather

that greeted us on emerging from the hot and crowded court considerably

increased. I was thinking--excuse the seeming bathos--I was only a

clerk, and used to such tragedies; I was thinking, I say, that a glass

of brandy and water might not be amiss, when whom should I rudely

jostle against but Cyclops, _alias_ Thomas Burnham. He was going the

same way as myself in prodigious haste--his eye bright and flaming

as a live coal, and his whole manner denoting intense excitement. "Is

that you?" he broke out. "Come along, then, and quick, for the love of

God! I've missed Sims and his clerk, but you'll do as well; perhaps

better." I had no power, if I had the inclination to refuse, for the

enthusiastic man seized me by the arm, and hurried me along at a

tremendous rate toward the outskirts of the city. "This is the place,"

he exclaimed, as he burst into a tavern parlor, where two trunks had

been deposited. "He's not come yet," Burnham went on, "but the coach is

to call for him here. He thinks to be off to London this very night."

"Whom are you talking of? Who's off to London to-night?"

"James Berry, if he's clever enough! Look there!"

"I see; 'James Berry, Passenger, London.' These, then, are his trunks,

I suppose."

"Right, my boy; but there is nothing of importance in _them_. Sly,

steady-going Margery has well ascertained that. You know Margery?--but

hush! here he comes."

Berry--it was he--could not repress a nervous start, as he unexpectedly

encountered Burnham's burly person and fierce glare.

"You here?" he stammered, as he mechanically took a chair by the fire.

"Who would have thought it?"

"Not you, Jim, I'm sure; it must be, therefore, an unexpected pleasure.

I'm come to have a smoke and a bit of chat with you, Berry--there

isn't a riper Berry than you are in the kingdom--before you go to

London, Jim--do you mark?--before you go to London--ha, ha! ho, ho!

But, zounds! how pale and shaky you're looking, and before this rousing

fire, too! D--n thee, villain!" shouted Burnham, jumping suddenly up

from his chair, and dashing his pipe to fragments on the floor. "I

can't play with thee any longer. Tell me--when did the devil teach thee

to stuff coat-collars with the spoils of murdered men, eh?"

A yell of dismay escaped Berry, and he made a desperate rush to

get past Burnham. Vainly did so. The fierce publican caught him

by the throat, and held him by a grip of steel. "You're caught,

scoundrel!--nicked, trapped, found out, and by whom, think you? Why, by

deaf, paralytic, Margery, whose old eyes have never wearied in watching

you from the hour you slew and robbed her good old master till to-day,

when you dreamed yourself alone, and she discovered the mystery of the

coat-collar."

"Let me go!" gasped the miscreant, down whose pallid cheeks big drops

of agony were streaming. "Take all, and let me go."

A fierce imprecation followed by a blow, replied to the despairing

felon. A constable, attracted by the increasing uproar, soon arrived;

the thick coat-collar was ripped, and in it were found a considerable

sum in Exeter notes--the ruby ring, and other valuables well known to

have belonged to Mr. Bradshaw. Berry was quickly lodged in jail. A

true bill was returned the next day by the grand jury before noon,

and by the time the clock struck four, the murderer was, on his own

confession, convicted of the foul crime of which a perfectly innocent

man had been not many hours before pronounced guilty! A great lesson

this was felt to be at the time in Exeter, and in the western country

generally. A lesson of the watchfulness of Providence over innocent

lives; of rebuke to the self-sufficing infallibility of men, however

organized or empaneled, and of patience under unmerited obloquy and

slander.

Edward Drysdale was, I need hardly say, liberated by the king's

pardon--pardoned for an uncommitted offense, and he and his

true-hearted wife, the heiress of her uncle, are still living, I

believe, in competence, content, and harmony.

A PRISON-SCENE DURING THE REIGN OF TERROR.

I was mentioning one day to an old friend and fellow-rambler of mine

the pleasure I had derived from a visit to the Palais du Luxembourg, in

Paris. "Oh," said he, "my recollections of the Luxembourg Palace are

any thing but pleasant. One entire generation has passed away, and a

second has followed far on the same road, since I entered it; but were

I to live to the age of an antediluvian, I imagine the remembrance of

the period which I passed in the Luxembourg would dwell with me to the

last hour of my life."

These words naturally raised my curiosity, and, from the character

of the speaker, whom I had known for many years as a man of much and

varied knowledge and unimpeachable probity, also aroused my sympathy;

I pressed him, therefore, to favor me with the incidents which had

made so indelible an impression upon his mind. He made no difficulty

of complying with my request; but, stirring the fire, and leaning back

in his easy chair, delivered his brief narrative very nearly in the

following words.

You do not perhaps remember that the Palais du Luxembourg was at one

period used as a prison. Some of those splendid saloons which you

so much admire were once bordered with cells hastily erected with

rough planks, the centre of the area being used as a common room for

the whole of the prisoners. When the Revolution of 1798 broke out in

France, I was the junior partner of an English house doing business

in a certain kind of merchandise in the Rue St. Honoré. I was very

young, almost a lad, indeed, but I had invested the whole of my small

fortune in the concern. I was active and sedulous, and I devoted my

entire energies to the prosecution of our joint interests, which throve

considerably. When the troubles came, my partners, who conceived that

they had grounds for apprehension, resolved to quit the country; and

they offered me the whole of the business upon terms so advantageous

that I did not feel justified in refusing them. I had never meddled

with politics (for which, indeed, I had no talent or inclination), I

was too young to have any enemies or to be suspected of partisanship;

so I closed with the offer that was made me, and resolved to brave the

perils of the time, making my business the sole object of my care and

solicitude, and leaving all things else to take their course. I pursued

this plan rigidly, avoiding all participation in the excitement of

the period, and not even conversing on the subject of public affairs,

concerning which upon all occasions I professed, what indeed was the

truth, that I knew nothing. I went on thus for some years, and amidst

all the horrors and vicissitudes of the Revolution my business throve

prosperously. I experienced no sort of interruption--never received a

single domiciliary visit from any one of the factions upon whom the

sovereign authority so suddenly devolved--and, to all appearance, had

escaped suspicion under each and all of the rapidly-changing dynasties.

I had well-nigh doubled my wealth by unwearied diligence, and had long

banished all thought of peril in the course I was pursuing, when, one

rainy night in the summer of 1793, I was roused from my rest after I

had been a full hour asleep in bed, compelled to hurry on a few clothes

at a minute's notice, pushed into a carriage waiting at my door, and

driven off to a midnight tribunal. Arrived at the Hôtel de Ville, I

requested to hear the charge which had been made against me but was

desired to hold my peace. I was brought there for identification, and

not for a hearing, the ruffian in office informed me, and it would be

time enough for me to hear the charge when I was called upon to answer

it. It was in vain that I pleaded the injustice of such a proceeding;

I was obliged to submit to their pleasure. A pen was put into my

hand, and I was ordered to write my protest, if I had any to make. I

did so in a few words, claiming protection as a French citizen. The

presiding scoundrel pretended to compare my writing with some imaginary

seditious document of which it was not possible that I could have been

the author, and at once committed me to prison. I was kept in waiting

while some other pretended examinations were gone through, and then, in

company with three more unfortunates, was driven off to the Luxembourg,

where, at about two o'clock in the morning, I was bundled into a cell

furnished with a straw _paillasse_ and rug, a deal table and a single

chair, and lighted by a small lamp suspended aloft out of my reach.

When I could find time to reflect upon the sudden calamity which had

overtaken me, I could come to no other conclusion than that I had been

made the victim of the cupidity of some villain or villains who had

contrived to incarcerate me out of the way, while they made a plunder

of my property. The imputation of seditious correspondence, which I

knew to be nothing but a pretense, bore me out in this conjecture;

and upon thinking the matter over again and again, I came to the

conviction at last, that, bad as the matter was, it might have been

much worse. I thought I saw that there was little chance of my being

brought up for trial, as it would be more for the interest of my

enemies, whoever they were, to keep me out of the way, than to bring

me before a tribunal which might or might not condemn me to death, but

which could hardly fail of discovering the motive of my abduction and

imprisonment. Thus I got rid of the fear of the guillotine, and I soon

found another cause for gratulation in the fact that I had not been

searched. I had a considerable sum of money in my pocket-book, and, by

a piece of good fortune, the book containing my banking-account was in

the breast-pocket of my overcoat, which I had put on on the previous

evening in consequence of a sudden storm, and which, on hearing the

pattering rain, I had instinctively seized upon coming away. Before I

lay down upon my miserable couch I contrived effectually to secrete my

valuables, in the fear that they might be abstracted in case I should

be so fortunate as to sleep. I had been locked in by the jailer, and I

imagined that the ten square feet which limited my view would confine

all my motions during the term of my imprisonment. In spite of all my

anxieties and the disagreeable novelty of my position, I fell off to

slumber about sunrise, and into a pleasant dream of home in England,

and the sunny fields of childhood.

I was awoke soon after seven o'clock by the sound of laughter and loud

voices mingled with the twanging of a lute. I started up, and seeing

that the door of my cell was standing ajar, I bent forward and looked

out. My apparition in a red night-cap was received with a burst of

merriment loud and prolonged from some fifty well-dressed individuals

seated on chairs or lounging on tables in the centre of a large arena,

surrounded on all sides with cells, the counterpart of my own. They

hailed me as "Le Bonnet Rouge," and wished me joy of my advent among

them. Making my toilet as speedily as possible, I joined them with the

best grace I could, and requested to be allowed the pleasure of their

society, if, as I supposed from what I saw, the rules of the prison

permitted me the indulgence. A young man politely stepped forward, and

volunteered to instruct me in the constitution and the etiquette of

the society into which I had been so abruptly introduced. He was the

model of courtesy and good breeding, and soon initiated me into the

mysteries of the association which the prisoners had set on foot for

the purpose of relieving the tedium of confinement, and for banishing

the gloomy shadow of speedy and certain death impending over the major

part of them. He informed me that we were at liberty either to take our

meals in common at the general table in the saloon where we then were,

or to withdraw with our several messes to our own cells; but that no

gentleman who could not show a cheerful countenance, under the peculiar

circumstances of the case, was expected to make his appearance either

at dinner or supper, or, indeed, in the saloon at all, save for the

purpose of periodical exercise. He argued that a dejected and sorrowful

face, though it might be allowable in the case of a solitary prisoner,

was clearly an offense against the whole assembly, each of whom having

his own burden to bear, was entitled to at least as good an example of

courage as he could furnish himself; and that upon those grounds they

had come to the understanding, which was perfectly well known and acted

upon among them, that those who had not sufficient fortitude to oppose

a smile to the scowl of Fate should confine their sorrows to their own

cabins, and not disturb the enjoyments, short-lived as they were, nor

unsettle the constancy of their fellows by the parade of unavailing

dejection. He added, that if I could conduce to the amusement of their

circle by any means, no matter how, I should be regarded in the light

of a benefactor; that they had music, public debates, and dramatic

representations, though without scenery or appropriate dresses; and

that in all or any of these amusements I might take a part if I chose,

and might feel sure of their candid appreciation of my endeavors. He

then, with the utmost _sang froid_, gave me to understand that their

first violin would that morning leave them, though he would give them

a parting cavatina before he mounted the tumbril, which would call on

its way to the guillotine about twelve o'clock. Fifteen other gentlemen

of their community were bound on the same voyage; they were liable to

such deductions from their social circle, he was sorry to say--and

he shrugged his shoulders--on occasions far too frequent for their

repose; but then they were constantly receiving fresh additions, and

their number was generally very nearly if not quite complete. He told

me that among the twenty or thirty gentlemen conversing so cheerfully

at the next table, seven would die that morning, and apologized for

not pointing out the particular individuals, on the score of its being

hardly polite to do so.

I was perfectly horrified at the communication of my voluble companion.

Though living so long in the very centre and focus of revolution,

I had kept so carefully clear of the terrible drama which had been

acting, and had been so wrapped up in my own concerns, that I was

altogether unprepared for the recognition of such a state of feeling

on the subject of certain, sudden, and murderous death, as I now found

existing around me. It required all the courage and self-control I

was master of to repress the natural exclamations of dismay that rose

to my lips. I thanked my new friend for his courtesy, expressed my

determination not to appear in the social circle at any time when my

spirits were not up to the mark, and, bowing ceremoniously, withdrew

to my own cell to ruminate alone upon what I had heard. You may

imagine what passed in my mind. I had been religiously educated in a

Protestant country; I had never, even in France, neglected the daily

duties of religion. I had knelt, morning, and evening, from my earliest

childhood, to my father's God; and I had devoutly sought the especial

direction of his providence both in taking the step which led me to

Paris in the first instance, and in that which had fixed me there when

my partners had fled in apprehension of calamity. The idea of death

had been to me always one of unmingled solemnity; and the thought of

opposing laughter and merriment to the grim aspect of the grisly king

was abhorrent to my imagination. I remained all the morning in my cell,

a prey to miserable and anxious thought. I heard the cavatina played

with firmness and brilliancy by the musician who knew to a certainty

that within an hour he would be a headless corpse. I heard the tumbril

drive up to the door which was to convey sixteen of my fellow-prisoners

to feed the dripping ax. I saw them defile past my cell as the jailer

checked them off on his list, and heard them respond gayly to the "Bon

voyage" of their companions ere they departed in the fatal cart which

was to carry them "out of the world."

There is, however, a force in circumstances strong enough to overcome

the habits and instincts of a life-time. I had not been a month in the

Luxembourg before the idea of death by violence, once so terrible and

appalling, began to assume a very different aspect in my mind. Our

society consisted of above a hundred in number, and the major part of

them, incarcerated for political offenses, were but in the position of

losers in a game in which they had played the stake of life for the

chance of power. They paid the penalty as readily and as recklessly

as they had played the game; and the spectacle which their fate

presented to my view, though it never reconciled me to their repulsive

indifference to the importance of life, yet gradually undermined my own

estimate of its value. Every means of amusement that could be thought

of was resorted to for diversion. Plays were acted night after night,

the female characters being personated by the youngest of the party in

robes borrowed from the wardrobe of the jailer's wife. Concerts were

got up, and the songs of all nations were sung with much taste to the

accompaniment of the lute in the hands of an old professor, who, it

afterward came out, had been imprisoned by mistake, because he bore the

name of an offender. Card-parties sat down to play every evening; and

men would continue the game, and deal the cards with a steady hand,

though they heard their names called over in the list of those who were

to grace the guillotine on the morrow. It was rare that executions

followed on two successive days; there was often, indeed, a respite for

a fortnight together; but I noticed with a shudder that, whenever the

cells were all occupied, an execution, and usually of a large number,

speedily followed.

Months passed away. I was unhappy beyond expression, from the want

of sympathy and of occupation. I had been allowed to receive a box

of clothes and linen from my residence; and my servant had put a few

English books into the box, with a design to relieve the tedium of

confinement. Among the books was Baxter's "Call to the Unconverted." It

came into my head that I might find occupation in translating this work

into French, and that by circulating it very cheaply among the populace

I might perhaps do something to stem the course of bloodshed and

profanity in which all seemed hurrying headlong forward. I procured

writing-materials, and shutting myself up several hours a day in my

cell, commenced the translation. I did not make very rapid progress;

my attention was too much distracted by what was going on around me to

permit me to do much during the day. At eleven at night we were locked

in our cells, and then I generally wrote for a quiet hour before going

to bed.

I had been thus engaged for some three or four months, and had

completed more than half my undertaking, when, as I sat one morning

at my writing, one of the attendants knocked at my cell door, and

announced a visitor in the person of an Englishman, who, having been

consigned to prison, had inquired if any of his fellow-countrymen

were in confinement, and having been referred to me, now sought an

introduction. I rose, of course, immediately, and proceeded to offer

him such welcome as the place afforded. He was a man already stricken

in years of a rather forbidding aspect, but with the fire of intellect

in his restless eye. He introduced himself to me as Thomas Paine,

the author of the "Rights of Man," and he hoped he might add, the

consistent friend of liberty, though for the present at least, he had

lost his own. I condoled with him as well as I could, and assisted in

installing him in a cell next to mine which happened to be vacant.

I may confess that I was much more astonished than gratified by the

accession of such a companion; but as he never sought to intrude upon

my privacy, I was enabled to proceed with my work unmolested. I made

him acquainted with the etiquette of the prison, and the necessity of

a cheerful face if he went into company; and he warmly approved of

the regulation, though he rarely complied with it, as he kept himself

almost constantly in his cell. He wrote for several hours every day;

and told me that he was approaching fast toward the completion of a

work, which, under the title of "The Age of Reason," would one day

make a noise in the world, and do something toward putting the forces

of Priestcraft to the rout. At my request, he lent me a portion of the

manuscript, which having perused with indignation, I returned with my

unqualified condemnation, at which he laughed good-humoredly, and said

I had been too effectually nursed in prejudices to be able to judge

impartially. I did not return the confidence with which he had honored

me by making him acquainted with the purpose for which I was laboring.

The winter of '93-94 was nearly over before I had got my manuscript in

a fit condition to be put into the hands of the printer. I remember

being much troubled in the preparation of the last few pages by the

crowded state of the prison. Not only were all the cells occupied,

but a full half of them contained a couple of inmates each, and I was

obliged myself to purchase immunity from partnership with a stranger

at a considerable sum. We who had been long in prison knew well enough

what to look for from such a state of things, and every night after

supper we expected the summons of the bell which preceded the reading

over of the black list. It came at last after a respite of eighteen

days, an interval which had caused many to hope that these judicial

slaughters were at an end. The first stroke of the bell produced a

dead silence, and we listened with horror while twenty-seven names

were deliberately called over, together with the numbers of the cells

in which their owners domiciled. I saw Mr. Paine seated in his cell,

and clutching the door in his hand, as he looked sternly through the

partial opening upon the face of the jailer as he read over the list.

When it was concluded, he shut himself in, and I heard him moving about

at intervals during the whole night. I did not sleep myself, and I felt

sure that he did not attempt to sleep.

When the victims were mustered the next morning previous to the arrival

of the tumbrils which were to bear them to death, the jailer declared

that the number was short by one; that he was bound to furnish the full

complement of twenty-eight, which he asserted was the number he had

read off the night before. He was requested to refer to the list, and

read it again; but, by some strange management this could not be found.

"Gentlemen," said the jailer, "you must manage it among you somehow:

it is as much as my own head is worth--though to be sure heads are

at a discount just now--to send short weight in bargains of this

sort. Be so good as to settle it among yourselves." At these words a

volunteer stepped forward. "What signifies a day or two more or less?"

he cried, "I will go! Gentlemen, do not trouble yourselves--the affair

is finished!" A light murmur of applause was deemed a sufficient

reward for his gratuitous act of self-devotion, which under different

circumstances might have won an immortality of fame. The voluntary

victim could have been barely five-and-twenty. He was allowed to lead

off the dance in the grim tragedy of the morning. He did so with an

alacrity altogether and exceedingly French. I do not recollect his

name; his exploit was no more than a three days' wonder.

From what reason I know not, but it began to be rumored that one of the

Englishmen ought to have completed the condemned list; and suspicions

of dishonorable conduct on the part of Paine were freely whispered

about. They were perhaps founded on the fact of his being constantly in

communication with the jailer, who brought him almost daily dispatches

from some of his Jacobin friends. It was reported _sotto voce_ that he

had bribed the jailer to erase his name from the list; though, as he

had never been brought to trial, nor, as far as I know, was aware, any

more than myself, of the specific charge made against him, I do not see

that that was very probable--a form of trial at least being generally

allowed to prisoners.

When my manuscript was ready I sent for a printer, and bargained

with him, for a pretty large impression of the book, in a cheap and

portable form. Nearly two months were occupied in getting through the

press, owing to the amount of business with which the printers of Paris

were at that time overloaded. When the whole edition was ready for

delivery, I sent for a bookseller of my acquaintance, and gave him an

order upon the printer for the whole of them, with directions to sell

them at the low price of ten sous, or five-pence each, about equal

to two-thirds of the cost of their production, supposing the whole

number to go off, which, in my ignorance of the book-trade and of the

literary likings of the Parisians, I looked upon as the next thing to

a certainty.

This undertaking off my hands, my mind felt considerably more at

ease, and I became capable of enjoying the few pleasures which my

hazardous position afforded. The study of human nature, of which I

had thought but little previous to my confinement, now became my only

pursuit. I had acquired the habit of writing in the prosecution of my

translation; and I now continued the habit by journalizing the events

which transpired in the prison, and jotting down such portions of the

biography of the several inmates as I could make myself master of. Mr.

Paine shut himself closely in his cell, and I rarely saw any thing of

him; and he appeared to have given up all communication as well with

the world without as that within his prison.

In July came the fall of Robespierre, who wanted animal courage to

play out the desperate game he had planned. I was the first who

got the information, and in five minutes it was known to all my

fellow-prisoners. In a few days I was set at liberty. I parted with the

author of the "Rights of Man" and the "Age of Reason" at the door of

the prison, and never set eyes on him afterward. I flew to my residence

in the Rue St. Honoré. As I expected, everything of value had been

plundered and the place gutted, my faithful servant having first been

enlisted and packed off to the army. I resolved upon returning home. As

a French citizen I had no difficulty in obtaining a passport for the

coast; and within a month I was in London.

Twenty years had passed over my head, and Paris was in possession of

the allied powers, when, in 1814, I again visited it. Fortunately,

owing to services which I was enabled to render to British officers

high in command, I found myself in a position to vindicate my claim

to the value of the property I had left behind me, and for the sake

of which there is little doubt that I had been secretly proscribed

and cast into a revolutionary prison. I eventually recovered the

whole amount of my loss, the _quartier_ in which I had resided having

to make it good. It now occurred to me to call upon the bookseller

to whom I had confided the 3000 copies of Baxter's treatise, with a

view, if practicable, to a settlement. I was lucky enough to find him

at his old place; and upon my inquiry as to the fate of my work,

he informed me, to my perfect amazement and mortification, that the

whole of the copies were yet upon his shelves, and that he was ready

to hand me over the entire impression, of which, as he might well be,

he expressed himself desirous of being relieved. He assured me that

he had employed the usual means to push them off, but that he had not

been able, in a single instance, to effect a sale. He regretted to

say that it was the most decided failure in the literary line that

had ever come under his observation; not, he was pleased to observe,

from any defect in point of literary ability, but solely from the fact

that matter of that nature was totally unfit for the Parisian market.

The whole edition was returned upon my hands; not a single copy had

been sold in twenty years, although offered at a price below the cost

of production. Still I never repented the attempt, mistaken though it

proved to be. It afforded me occupation during some wretched months of

confinement, and comforted me with the hope that, were I to die by the

guillotine, I might leave a voice behind me which might be of use to my

fellow-creatures.

A CELEBRATED FRENCH CLOCK-MAKER.

The superiority of French clocks and watches has been achieved only by

the laborious efforts of many ingenious artisans. Of one of these, to

whom France owes no little of its celebrity in this branch of art, we

propose to speak. Bréguet was the name of this remarkable individual.

He was a native of Neuchatel, in Switzerland, and thence he was

removed, while young, to Versailles, for the purpose of learning his

business as a horologist. His parents being poor, he found it necessary

to rely on his own energy for advancement in life.

At Versailles, he served a regular apprenticeship, during which his

diligence in improving himself was almost beyond example. He became

greatly attached to his profession; and soon, by studious perseverance

his talents were developed by real knowledge. At length the term

of apprenticeship expired, and as the master was expressing to the

pupil the satisfaction which his good conduct and diligence had given

him, he was struck with astonishment when he replied: "Master, I

have a favor to ask of you. I feel that I have not always as I ought

employed my time, which was to have indemnified you for the cares and

lessons you have spent on me. I beg of you, then, to permit me to

continue with you three months longer without salary." This request

confirmed the attachment of the master to his pupil. But scarcely

was the apprenticeship of the latter over, when he lost his mother

and his stepfather, and found himself alone in the world with an

elder sister--being thus left to provide, by his own industry, for

the maintenance of two persons. Nevertheless, he ardently desired to

complete his necessary studies, for he felt that the knowledge of

mathematics was absolutely indispensable to his attaining perfection

in his art. This determined purpose conquered every obstacle. Not only

did he labor perseveringly for his sister and himself, but also found

means to attend regularly a course of public lectures which the Abbé

Marie was then giving at the College Mazarin. The professor, having

remarked the unwearied assiduity of the young clockmaker, made a friend

of him, and delighted in considering him as his beloved pupil. This

friendship, founded on the truest esteem and the most affectionate

gratitude, contributed wondrously to the progress of the student.

The great metamorphosis which was effected so suddenly in the young

clockmaker was very remarkable. There is something very encouraging

in his example, affording as it does a proof of the power of the man

who arms himself with a determined purpose. At first, the struggle

with difficulties appears hard, painful, almost impossible; but only

let there be a little perseverance, the obstacles vanish one after

the other, the way is made plain: instead of the thorns which seem to

choke it, verdant laurels suddenly spring up, the reward of constant

and unwearied labor. Thus it was with our studious apprentice. His

ideas soon expand; his work acquires more precision; a new and a more

extended horizon opens before him. From a skillful workman, it is not

long before he becomes an accomplished artist. Yet a few years, and the

name of Bréguet is celebrated.

At the epoch of the first troubles of the Revolution of 1789, Bréguet

had already founded the establishment which has since produced so many

master-pieces of mechanism. The most honorable, the most flattering

reputation was his. One anecdote will serve to prove the high repute

in which he was held, even out of France. One day a watch, to the

construction of which he had given his whole attention, happened to

fall into the hands of Arnold, the celebrated English watch-maker. He

examined it with interest, and surveyed with admiration the simplicity

of its mechanism, the perfection of the workmanship. He could scarcely

be persuaded that a specimen thus executed could be the work of French

industry. Yielding to the love of his art, he immediately set out for

Paris, without any other object than simply to become acquainted with

the French artist. On arriving in Paris, he went immediately to see

Bréguet, and soon these two men were acquainted with each other. They

seem, indeed, to have formed a mutual friendship. In order that Bréguet

might give Arnold the highest token of his esteem and affection, he

requested him to take his son with him to be taught his profession, and

this was acceded to.

The Revolution destroyed the first establishment of Bréguet, and

finally forced the great artist to seek an asylum on a foreign shore.

There generous assistance enabled him, with his son, to continue

his ingenious experiments in his art. At length, having returned to

Paris after two years' absence, he opened a new establishment, which

continued to flourish till 1823, when France lost this man, the

pride and boast of its industrial class. Bréguet was member of the

Institute, was clockmaker to the navy, and member of the Bureau of

Longitude. He was indeed the most celebrated clockmaker of the age;

he had brought to perfection every branch of his art. Nothing could

surpass the delicacy and ingenuity of his free escapement with a

maintaining power. To him we owe another escapement called 'natural,'

in which there is no spring, and oil is not needed; but another, and

still more perfect one, is the double escapement, where the precision

of the contacts renders the use of oil equally unnecessary, and in

which the waste of power in the pendulum is repaired at each vibration.

The sea-watches or chronometers of Bréguet are famous throughout the

world. It is well known that these watches are every moment subject

to change of position, from the rolling and pitching of the vessel.

Bréguet conceived the bold thought of inclosing the whole mechanism of

the escapement and the spring in a circular envelope, making a complete

revolution every two minutes. The inequality of position is thus, as

it were, equalized on that short lapse of time; the mechanism itself

producing compensation, whether the chronometer is subjected to any

continuous movement, or kept steady in an inclined or upright position.

Bréguet did still more: he found means to preserve the regularity of

his chronometers even in case of their getting any sudden shock or

fall, and this he did by the parachute. Sir Thomas Brisbane put one

of them to the proof, carrying it about with him on horseback, and on

long journeys and voyages; in sixteen months, the greatest daily loss

was only a second and a half--that is, the 57,600th part of a daily

revolution.

Such is the encouraging example of Bréguet, who was at first only a

workman. And to this he owes his being the best judge of good workmen,

as he was the best friend to them. He sought out such every where, even

in other countries; gave them the instruction of a master of the art;

and treated them with the kindness of a father. They were indebted to

him for their prosperity, and he owed to them the increase of fortune

and of fame. He well understood the advantages of a judicious division

of labor, according to the several capabilities of artisans. By this

means, he was able to meet the demand for pieces of his workmanship,

not less remarkable for elegance and beauty than for extreme accuracy.

It may indeed be said, that Bréguet's efforts gave a character to

French horology that it has never lost. So much may one man do in

his day and generation to give an impetus to an important branch of

national industry.

BLEAK HOUSE.[5]

BY CHARLES DICKENS.

CHAPTER VIII.--COVERING A MULTITUDE OF SINS.

[5] Continued from the May Number.

It was interesting, when I dressed before daylight, to peep out of

window, where my candles were reflected in the black panes like two

beacons, and, finding all beyond still enshrouded in the indistinctness

of last night, to watch how it turned out when the day came on. As the

prospect gradually revealed itself, and disclosed the scene over which

the wind had wandered in the dark, like my memory over my life, I had

a pleasure in discovering the unknown objects that had been around me

in my sleep. At first they were faintly discernible in the mist, and

above them the later stars still glimmered. That pale interval over,

the picture began to enlarge and fill up so fast, that at every new

peep, I could have found enough to look at for an hour. Imperceptibly,

my candles became the only incongruous part of the morning, the dark

places in my room all melted away, and the day shone bright upon a

cheerful landscape, prominent in which the old Abbey Church, with its

massive tower, threw a softer train of shadow on the view than seemed

compatible with its rugged character. But so from rough outsides (I

hope I have learnt), serene and gentle influences often proceed.

Every part of the house was in such order, and every one was so

attentive to me, that I had no trouble with my two bunches of keys:

though what with trying to remember the contents of each little

store-room, drawer, and cupboard; and what with making notes on a slate

about jams, and pickles, and preserves, and bottles, and glass, and

china, and a great many other things; and what with being generally

a methodical, old-maidish sort of foolish little person; I was so

busy that I could not believe it was breakfast-time when I heard the

bell ring. Away I ran, however, and made tea, as I had already been

installed into the responsibility of the tea-pot; and then, as they

were all rather late, and nobody was down yet, I thought I would take

a peep at the garden, and get some knowledge of that too. I found it

quite a delightful place; in front, the pretty avenue and drive by

which we had approached (and where, by-the-by, we had cut up the gravel

so terribly with our wheels that I asked the gardener to roll it); at

the back, the flower-garden, with my darling at her window up there,

throwing it open to smile out at me, as if she would have kissed me

from that distance. Beyond the flower-garden was a kitchen-garden,

and then a paddock, and then a snug little rick-yard, and then a dear

little farm-yard. As to the house itself, with its three peaks in the

roof; its various shaped windows, some so large, some so small, and

all so pretty; its trellis-work against the south front for roses and

honey-suckle, and its homely, comfortable, welcoming look; it was, as

Ada said, when she came out to meet me with her arm through that of its

master, worthy of her cousin John--a bold thing to say, though he only

pinched her dear cheek for it.

Mr. Skimpole was as agreeable at breakfast, as he had been over-night.

There was honey on the table, and it led him into a discourse about

bees, He had no objection to honey, he said (and I should think he

had not, for he seemed to like it), but he protested against the

overweening assumptions of bees. He didn't at all see why the busy bee

should be proposed as a model to him; he supposed the bee liked to make

honey, or he wouldn't do it--nobody asked him. It was not necessary

for the bee to make such a merit of his tastes. If every confectioner

went buzzing about the world, banging against every thing that came in

his way, and egotistically calling upon every body to take notice that

he was going to his work and must not be interrupted, the world would

be quite an insupportable place. Then, after all, it was a ridiculous

position, to be smoked out of your fortune with brimstone, as soon as

you had made it. You would have a very mean opinion of a Manchester

man, if he spun cotton for no other purpose. He must say he thought a

drone the embodiment of a pleasanter and wiser idea. The drone said,

unaffectedly, "You will excuse me; I really can not attend to the shop!

I find myself in a world in which there is so much to see, and so short

a time to see it in, that I must take the liberty of looking about me,

and begging to be provided for by somebody who doesn't want to look

about him." This appeared to Mr. Skimpole to be the drone philosophy,

and he thought it a very good philosophy--always supposing the drone to

be willing to be on good terms with the bee: which, so far as he knew,

the easy fellow always was, if the consequential creature would only

let him, and not be so conceited about his honey!

He pursued this fancy with the lightest foot over a variety of ground,

and made us all merry; though again he seemed to have as serious a

meaning in what he said as he was capable of having. I left them still

listening to him, when I withdrew to attend to my new duties. They had

occupied me for some time, and I was passing through the passages on my

return, with my basket of keys on my arm, when Mr. Jarndyce called me

into a small room next his bed-chamber, which I found to be in part a

little library of books and papers, and in part quite a little museum

of his boots and shoes, and hat-boxes.

"Sit down, my dear," said Mr. Jarndyce.--"This, you must know, is the

Growlery. When I am out of humor, I come and growl here."

"You must be here very seldom, sir," said I.

"O, you don't know me!" he returned. "When I am deceived or

disappointed in--the wind, and it's easterly, I take refuge here. The

Growlery is the best used room in the house. You are not aware of half

my humors yet. My dear, how you are trembling!"

I could not help it: I tried very hard: but being alone, with that

benevolent presence, and meeting his kind eyes, and feeling so happy,

and so honored there, and my heart so full--

I kissed his hand. I don't know what I said, or even that I spoke. He

was disconcerted, and walked to the window; I almost believed with

an intention of jumping out, until he turned, and I was reassured by

seeing in his eyes what he had gone there to hide. He gently patted me

on the head, and I sat down.

"There! There!" he said. "That's over. Pooh! Don't be foolish!"

"It shall not happen again, sir," I returned, "but at first it is

difficult--"

"Nonsense!" he said, "it's easy, easy. Why not? I hear of a good little

orphan girl without a protector, and I take it into my head to be that

protector. She grows up, and more than justifies my good opinion, and I

remain her guardian and her friend. What is there in all this? So, so!

Now, we have cleared off old scores, and I have before me thy pleasant,

trusting, trusty face again."

I said to myself, "Esther, my dear, you surprise me! This really is

not what I expected of you!" and it had such a good effect, that

I folded my hands upon my basket and quite recovered myself. Mr.

Jarndyce, expressing his approval in his face, began to talk to me as

confidentially, as if I had been in the habit of conversing with him

every morning for I don't know how long. I almost felt as if I had.

"Of course, Esther," he said, "you don't understand this Chancery

business?"

And of course I shook my head.

"I don't know who does," he returned. "The lawyers have twisted it into

such a state of bedevilment that the original merits of the case have

long disappeared from the face of the earth. It's about a Will, and the

trusts under a Will--or it was, once. It's about nothing but Costs,

now. We are always appearing, and disappearing, and swearing, and

interrogating, and filing, and cross-filing, and arguing, and sealing,

and motioning, and referring, and reporting, and revolving about

the Lord Chancellor and all his satellites, and equitably waltzing

ourselves off to dusty death, about Costs. That's the great question.

All the rest, by some extraordinary means, has melted away."

"But it was, sir," said I, to bring him back, for he began to rub his

head, "about a Will?"

"Why, yes, it was about a Will when it was about any thing," he

returned. "A certain Jarndyce, in an evil hour, made a great fortune,

and made a great Will. In the question how the trusts under that Will

are to be administered, the fortune left by the Will is squandered

away: the legatees under the Will are reduced to such a miserable

condition that they would be sufficiently punished, if they had

committed an enormous crime in having money left them; and the Will

itself is made a dead letter. All through the deplorable cause, every

thing that every body in it, except one man, knows already, is referred

to that only one man who don't know it, to find out--all through the

deplorable cause, every body must have copies, over and over again,

of every thing that has accumulated about it in the way of cartloads

of papers (or must pay for them without having them, which is the

usual course, for nobody wants them); and must go down the middle and

up again, through such an infernal country-dance of costs, and fees,

and nonsense, and corruption, as was never dreamed of in the wildest

visions of a Witch's Sabbath. Equity sends questions to Law, Law sends

questions back to Equity; Law finds it can't do this, Equity finds

it can't do that; neither can so much as say it can't do any thing,

without this solicitor instructing and this counsel appearing for A,

and that solicitor instructing and that counsel appearing for B; and so

on through the whole alphabet, like the history of the Apple Pie. And

thus, through years and years, and lives and lives, every thing goes

on, constantly beginning over and over again, and nothing ever ends.

And we can't get out of the suit on any terms, for we are made parties

to it, and _must be_ parties to it, whether we like it or not. But it

won't do to think of it! When my great-uncle, poor Tom Jarndyce, began

to think of it, it was the beginning of the end!"

"The Mr. Jarndyce, sir, whose story I have heard?"

He nodded gravely. "I was his heir, and this was his house, Esther.

When I came here, it was bleak, indeed. He had left the signs of his

misery upon it."

"How changed it must be now!" I said.

"It had been called, before his time, the Peaks. He gave it its present

name, and lived here shut up: day and night poring over the wicked

heaps of papers in the suit, and hoping against hope to disentangle it

from its mystification and bring it to a close. In the mean time, the

place became dilapidated, the wind whistled through the cracked walls,

the rain fell through the broken roof, the weeds choked the passage to

the rotting door. When I brought what remained of him home here, the

brains seemed to me have been blown out of the house too; it was so

shattered and ruined."

He walked a little to and fro, after saying this to himself with a

shudder, and then looked at me, and brightened, and came and sat down

again with his hands in his pockets.

"I told you this was the Growlery, my dear. Where was I?"

I reminded him, at the hopeful change he had made in Bleak House.

"Bleak House: true. There is, in that city of London there, some

property of ours, which is much at this day what Bleak House was

then--I say property of ours, meaning of the Suit's, but I ought to

call it the property of Costs; for Costs is the only power on earth

that will ever get any thing out of it now, or will ever know it for

any thing but an eyesore and a heartsore. It is a street of perishing

blind houses, with their eyes stoned out; without a pane of glass,

without so much as a window-frame, with the bare blank shutters

tumbling from their hinges and falling asunder; the iron rails peeling

away in flakes of rust; the chimneys sinking in; the stone steps to

every door (and every door might be Death's Door) turning stagnant

green; the very crutches on which the ruins are propped, decaying.

Although Bleak House was not in Chancery, its master was, and it was

stamped with the same seal. These are the Great Seal's impressions, my

dear, all over England--the children know them!"

"How changed it is!" I said again.

"Why, so it is," he answered much more cheerfully; "and it is wisdom

in you to keep me to the bright side of the picture." (The idea of my

wisdom!) "These are things I never talk about, or even think about,

excepting in the Growlery, here. If you consider it right to mention

them to Rick and Ada," looking seriously at me, "you can. I leave it to

your discretion, Esther."

"I hope, sir--" said I.

"I think you had better call me Guardian, my dear."

I felt that I was choking again--I taxed myself with it, "Esther, now,

you know you are!"--when he feigned to say this slightly, as if it were

a whim, instead of a thoughtful tenderness. But I gave the housekeeping

keys the least shake in the world as a reminder to myself, and folding

my hands in a still more determined manner on the basket, looked at him

quietly.

"I hope, Guardian," said I, "that you may not trust too much to my

discretion. I hope you may not mistake me. I am afraid it will be a

disappointment to you to know that I am not clever--but it really is

the truth; and you would soon find it out if I had not the honesty to

confess it."

He did not seem at all disappointed: quite the contrary. He told me,

with a smile all over his face, that he knew me very well indeed, and

that I was quite clever enough for him.

"I hope I may turn out so," said I, "but I am much afraid of it,

Guardian."

"You are clever enough to be the good little woman of our lives here,

my dear," he returned, playfully; "the little old woman of the Child's

(I don't mean Skimpole's) Rhyme.

'Little old woman, and whither so high?'--

'To sweep the cobwebs out of the sky.'

You will sweep them so neatly out of _our_ sky, in the course of your

housekeeping, Esther, that one of these days, we shall have to abandon

the Growlery, and nail up the door."

This was the beginning of my being called Old Woman, and Little Old

Woman, and Cobweb, and Mrs. Shipton, and Mother Hubbard, and Dame

Durden, and so many names of that sort, that my own name soon became

quite lost among them.

"However," said Mr. Jarndyce, "to return to our gossip. Here's Rick, a

fine young fellow full of promise. What's to be done with him?"

O my goodness, the idea of asking my advice on such a point!

"Here he is, Esther," said Mr. Jarndyce, comfortably putting his hands

in his pockets and stretching out his legs. "He must have a profession;

he must make some choice for himself. There will be a world more

Wiglomeration about it, I suppose, but it must be done."

"More what, Guardian?" said I.

"More Wiglomeration," said he. "It's the only name I know for the

thing. He is a ward in Chancery, my dear. Kenge and Carboy will have

something to say about it;--Master Somebody--a sort of ridiculous

Sexton, digging graves for the merits of causes in a back room at

the end of Qualify Court, Chancery-lane--will have something to

say about it; Counsel will have something to say about it; the

Chancellor will have something to say about it; the Satellites

will have something to say about it; they will all have to be

handsomely fee'd, all round, about it; the whole thing will be vastly

ceremonious, wordy, unsatisfactory, and expensive, and I call it, in

general, Wiglomeration. How mankind ever came to be afflicted with

Wiglomeration, or for whose sins these young people ever fell into a

pit of it, I don't know; so it is."

He began to rub his head again, and to hint that he felt the wind. But

it was a delightful instance of his kindness toward me, that whether

he rubbed his head, or walked about, or did both, his face was sure to

recover its benignant expression as it looked at mine; and he was sure

to turn comfortable again, and put his hands in his pockets and stretch

out his legs.

"Perhaps it would be best, first of all," said I, "to ask Mr. Richard

what he inclines to himself."

"Exactly so," he returned. "That's what I mean! You know, just accustom

yourself to talk it over, with your tact and in your quiet way, with

him and Ada, and see what you all make of it. We are sure to come at

the heart of the matter by your means, little woman."

I really was frightened at the thought of the importance I was

attaining, and the number of things that were being confided to me. I

had not meant this at all; I had meant that he should speak to Richard.

But of course I said nothing in reply, except that I would do my best,

though I feared (I really felt it necessary to repeat this) that he

thought me much more sagacious than I was. At which my guardian only

laughed the pleasantest laugh I ever heard.

"Come!" he said, rising and pushing back his chair. "I think we may

have done with the Growlery for one day! Only a concluding word.

Esther, my dear, do you wish to ask me any thing?"

He looked so attentively at me, that I looked attentively at him, and

felt sure I understood him.

"About myself, sir?" said I.

"Yes."

"Guardian," said I, venturing to put my hand, which was suddenly colder

than I could have wished, in his, "nothing! I am quite sure that if

there were any thing I ought to know, or had any need to know, I

should not have to ask you to tell it to me. If my whole reliance and

confidence were not placed in you, I must have a hard heart indeed. I

have nothing to ask you; nothing in the world."

He drew my hand through his arm, and we went away to look for Ada. From

that hour I felt quite easy with him, quite unreserved, quite content

to know no more, quite happy.

We lived, at first, rather a busy life at Bleak House; for we had to

become acquainted with many residents in and out of the neighborhood

who knew Mr. Jarndyce. It seemed to Ada and me that every body knew

him, who wanted to do any thing with any body else's money. It amazed

us, when we began to sort his letters, and to answer some of them

for him in the Growlery of a morning, to find how the great object

of the lives of nearly all his correspondents appeared to be to form

themselves into committees for getting in and laying out money. The

ladies were as desperate as the gentlemen; indeed, I think they were

even more so. They threw themselves into committees in the most

impassioned manner, and collected subscriptions with a vehemence quite

extraordinary. It appeared to us that some of them must pass their

whole lives in dealing out subscription-cards to the whole Post-office

Directory--shilling cards, half-crown cards, half-sovereign cards,

penny cards. They wanted every thing. They wanted wearing apparel,

they wanted linen rags, they wanted money, they wanted coals, they

wanted soup, they wanted interest, they wanted autographs, they wanted

flannel, they wanted whatever Mr. Jarndyce had--or had not. Their

objects were as various as their demands. They were going to raise new

buildings, they were going to pay off debts on old buildings, they were

going to establish in a picturesque building (engraving of proposed

West Elevation attached) the Sisterhood of Mediæval Marys; they were

going to give a testimonial to Mrs. Jellyby; they were going to have

their Secretary's portrait painted, and presented to his mother-in-law,

whose deep devotion to him was well known; they were going to get up

every thing, I really believe, from five hundred thousand tracts to

an annuity, and from a marble monument to a silver tea-pot. They took

a multitude of titles. They were the Women of England, the Daughters

of Britain, the Sisters of all the Cardinal Virtues separately, the

Females of America, the Ladies of a hundred denominations. They

appeared to be always excited about canvassing and electing. They

seemed to our poor wits, and according to their own accounts, to be

constantly polling people by tens of thousands, yet never bringing

their candidates in for any thing. It made our heads ache to think, on

the whole, what feverish lives they must lead.

Among the ladies who were most distinguished for this rapacious

benevolence (if I may use the expression), was a Mrs. Pardiggle, who

seemed, as I judged from the number of her letters to Mr. Jarndyce,

to be almost as powerful a correspondent as Mrs. Jellyby herself.

We observed that the wind always changed when Mrs. Pardiggle became

the subject of conversation: and that it invariably interrupted Mr.

Jarndyce, and prevented his going any further, when he had remarked

that there were two classes of charitable people; one, the people who

did a little and made a great deal of noise: the other, the people,

who did a great deal and made no noise at all. We were therefore

curious to see Mrs. Pardiggle, suspecting her to be the type of the

former class; and were glad when she called one day with her five young

sons.

She was a formidable style of lady, with spectacles, a prominent nose,

and a loud voice, who had the effect of wanting a great deal of room.

And she really did, for she knocked down little chairs with her skirts

that were quite a great way off. As only Ada and I were at home, we

received her timidly; for she seemed to come in like cold weather, and

to make the little Pardiggles blue as they followed.

"These, young ladies," said Mrs. Pardiggle, with great volubility,

after the first salutations, "are my five boys. You may have seen

their names in a printed subscription list (perhaps more than one), in

the possession of our esteemed friend Mr. Jarndyce. Egbert, my eldest

(twelve), is the boy who sent out his pocket money, to the amount of

five-and-three-pence, to the Tockahoopo Indians. Oswald, my second

(ten-and-a-half), is the child who contributed two-and-nine-pence to

the Great National Smithers Testimonial, Francis, my third (nine),

one-and-sixpence-half-penny; Felix, my fourth (seven), eightpence to

the Superannuated Widows; Alfred, my youngest (five), has voluntarily

enrolled himself in the Infant Bonds of Joy, and is pledged never,

through life, to use tobacco in any form."

We had never seen such dissatisfied children. It was not merely that

they were weazen and shriveled--though they were certainly that

too--but they looked absolutely ferocious with discontent. At the

mention of the Tockahoopo Indians, I could really have supposed Egbert

to be one of the most baleful members of that tribe, he gave me such a

savage frown. The face of each child, as the amount of his contribution

was mentioned, darkened in a peculiarly vindictive manner, but his was

by far the worst. I must except, however, the little recruit into the

Infant Bonds of Joy, who was stolidly and evenly miserable.

"You have been visiting, I understand," said Mrs. Pardiggle, "at Mrs.

Jellyby's?"

We said yes, we had passed one night there.

"Mrs. Jellyby," pursued the lady, always speaking in the same

demonstrative, loud, hard, tone, so that her voice impressed my

fancy as if it had a sort of spectacles on too--and I may take the

opportunity of remarking that her spectacles were made the less

engaging by her eyes being what Ada called "choking eyes," meaning very

prominent: "Mrs. Jellyby is a benefactor to society, and deserves a

helping hand. My boys have contributed to the African project--Egbert,

one-and-six, being the entire allowance of nine weeks; Oswald,

one-and-a-penny-half-penny, being the same; the rest, according to

their little means. Nevertheless, I do not go with Mrs. Jellyby in all

things. I do not go with Mrs. Jellyby in her treatment of her young

family. It has been noticed. It has been observed that her young

family are excluded from participation in the objects to which she is

devoted. She may be right, she may be wrong; but right or wrong, this

is not my course with _my_ young family. I take them every where."

I was afterward convinced (and so was Ada) that from the

ill-conditioned eldest child, these words extorted a sharp yell. He

turned it off into a yawn, but it began as a yell.

"They attend Matins with me (very prettily done), at half-past six

o'clock in the morning all the year round, including of course the

depth of winter," said Mrs. Pardiggle, rapidly, "and they are with

me during the revolving duties of the day. I am a School lady, I am

a Visiting lady, I am a Reading lady, I am a Distributing lady; I am

on the local Linen Box Committee, and many general Committees; and

my canvassing alone is very extensive--perhaps no one's more so. But

they are my companions every where; and by these means they acquire

that knowledge of the poor, and that capacity of doing charitable

business in general--in short, that taste for the sort of thing--which

will render them in after life a service to their neighbors, and a

satisfaction to themselves. My young family are not frivolous; they

expend the entire amount of their allowance, in subscriptions, under my

direction; and they have attended as many public meetings, and listened

to as many lectures, orations, and discussions, as generally fall to

the lot of few grown people. Alfred (five), who, as I mentioned, has of

his own election joined the Infant Bonds of Joy, was one of the very

few children who manifested consciousness on that occasion, after a

fervid address of two hours from the chairman of the evening."

Alfred glowered at us as if he never could, or would, forgive the

injury of that night.

"You may have observed, Miss Summerson," said Mrs. Pardiggle, "in

some of the lists to which I have referred, in the possession of our

esteemed friend Mr. Jarndyce, that the names of my young family are

concluded with the name of O. A. Pardiggle, F.R.S., one pound. That is

their father. We usually observe the same routine. I put down my mite

first; then my young family enroll their contributions, according to

their ages and their little means; and then Mr. Pardiggle brings up the

rear. Mr. Pardiggle is happy to throw in his limited donation, under my

direction; and thus things are made, not only pleasant to ourselves,

but we trust, improving to others."

Suppose Mr. Pardiggle were to dine with Mr. Jellyby, and suppose Mr.

Jellyby were to relieve his mind after dinner to Mr. Pardiggle, would

Mr. Pardiggle, in return, make any confidential communication to Mr.

Jellyby? I was quite confused to find myself thinking this, but it came

into my head.

"You are very pleasantly situated here!" said Mrs. Pardiggle.

We were glad to change the subject; and, going to the window, pointed

out the beauties of the prospect, on which the spectacles appeared to

me to rest with curious indifference.

"You know Mr. Gusher?" said our visitor.

We were obliged to say that we had not the pleasure of Mr. Gusher's

acquaintance.

"The loss is yours, I assure you," said Mrs. Pardiggle, with her

commanding deportment. "He is a very fervid, impassioned speaker--full

of fire! Stationed in a wagon on this lawn now, which, from the shape

of the land, is naturally adapted to a public meeting, he would improve

almost any occasion you could mention for hours and hours! By this

time, young ladies," said Mrs. Pardiggle, moving back to her chair,

and over-turning, as if by invisible agency, a little round table at a

considerable distance with my work-basket on it, "by this time you have

found me out, I dare say?"

This was really such a confusing question that Ada looked at me in

perfect dismay. As to the guilty nature of my own consciousness, after

what I had been thinking, it must have been expressed in the color of

my cheeks.

"Found out, I mean," said Mrs. Pardiggle, "the prominent point in my

character. I am aware that it is so prominent as to be discoverable

immediately. I lay myself open to detection, I know. Well! I freely

admit, I am a woman of business. I love hard work; I enjoy hard work.

The excitement does me good. I am so accustomed and inured to hard

work, that I don't know what fatigue is."

We murmured that it was very astonishing and very gratifying; or

something to that effect. I don't think we knew why it was either, but

this was what our politeness expressed.

"I do not understand what it is to be tired; you can not tire me, if

you try!" said Mrs. Pardiggle. "The quantity of exertion (which is no

exertion to me), the amount of business (which I regard as nothing)

that I go through, sometimes astonishes myself. I have seen my young

family, and Mr. Pardiggle, quite worn out with witnessing it, when I

may truly say I have been as fresh as a lark!"

If that dark-visaged eldest boy could look more malicious than he had

already looked, this was the time when he did it. I observed that he

doubled his right fist, and delivered a secret blow into the crown of

his cap, which was under his left arm.

"This gives me a great advantage when I am making my rounds," said Mrs.

Pardiggle. "If I find a person unwilling to hear what I have to say, I

tell that person directly, 'I am incapable of fatigue, my good friend,

I am never tired, and I mean to go on until I have done.' It answers

admirably! Miss Summerson, I hope I shall have your assistance in my

visiting rounds immediately, and Miss Clare's very soon?"

At first I tried to excuse myself, for the present, on the general

ground of having occupations to attend to, which I must not neglect.

But as this was an ineffectual protest, I then said, more particularly,

that I was not sure of my qualifications. That I was inexperienced

in the art of adapting my mind to minds very differently situated,

and addressing them from suitable points of view. That I had not that

delicate knowledge of the heart which must be essential to such a work.

That I had much to learn, myself, before I could teach others, and that

I could not confide in my good intentions alone. For these reasons, I

thought it best to be as useful as I could, and to render what kind

services I could, to those immediately about me; and to try to let

that circle of duty gradually and naturally expand itself. All this I

said with any thing but confidence, because Mrs. Pardiggle was much

older than I, and had great experience, and was so very military in her

manners.

"You are wrong, Miss Summerson," said she: "but perhaps you are not

equal to hard work, or the excitement of it; and that makes a vast

difference. If you would like to see how I go through my work, I am now

about--with my young family--to visit a brickmaker in the neighborhood

(a very bad character), and shall be glad to take you with me. Miss

Clare also, if she will do me the favor."

Ada and I interchanged looks, and, as we were going out in any case,

accepted the offer. When we hastily returned from putting on our

bonnets, we found the young family languishing in a corner, and Mrs.

Pardiggle sweeping about the room, knocking down nearly all the light

objects it contained. Mrs. Pardiggle took possession of Ada, and I

followed with the family.

Ada told me afterward that Mrs. Pardiggle talked in the same loud tone

(that, indeed, I overheard), all the way to the brickmaker's, about an

exciting contest which she had for two or three years waged against

another lady, relative to the bringing in of their rival candidates

for a pension somewhere. There had been a quantity of printing, and

promising, and proxying, and polling; and it appeared to have imparted

great liveliness to all concerned, except the pensioners--who were not

elected yet.

I am very fond of being confided in by children, and am happy in being

usually favored in that respect, but on this occasion it gave me great

uneasiness. As soon as we were out of doors, Egbert, with the manner

of a little footpad, demanded a shilling of me, on the ground that

his pocket-money was "boned" from him. On my pointing out the great

impropriety of the word, especially in connection with his parent (for

he added sulkily "By her!") he pinched me and said, "O, then! Now!

Who are you? You wouldn't like it, I think? What does she make a sham

for, and pretend to give me money, and take it away again? Why do you

call it my allowance, and never let me spend it?" These exasperating

questions so inflamed his mind, and the minds of Oswald and Francis,

that they all pinched me at once, and in a dreadfully expert way:

screwing up such little pieces of my arms that I could hardly forbear

crying out. Felix, at the same time, stamped upon my toes. And the

Bond of Joy, who, on account of always having the whole of his little

income anticipated, stood in fact pledged to abstain from cakes as

well as tobacco, so swelled with grief and rage when we passed a

pastry-cook's shop, that he terrified me by becoming purple. I never

underwent so much, both in body and mind, in the course of a walk with

young people, as from these unnaturally constrained children, when they

paid me the compliment of being natural.

I was glad when we came to the brickmaker's house; though it was one

of a cluster of wretched hovels in a brick-field, with pig-sties close

to the broken windows, and miserable little gardens before the doors,

growing nothing but stagnant pools. Here and there, an old tub was put

to catch the droppings of rain-water from a roof, or they were banked

up with mud into a little pond like a large dirt-pie. At the doors and

windows, some men and women lounged or prowled about, and took little

notice of us, except to laugh to one another, or to say something as we

passed, about gentlefolks minding their own business, and not troubling

their heads and muddying their shoes with coming to look after other

people's.

Mrs. Pardiggle, leading the way with a great show of moral

determination, and talking with much volubility about the untidy habits

of the people (though I doubted if the best of us could have been tidy

in such a place), conducted us into a cottage at the farthest corner,

the ground-floor room of which we nearly filled. Besides ourselves,

there were in this damp offensive room--a woman with a black eye,

nursing a poor little gasping baby by the fire; a man, all stained with

clay and mud, and looking very dissipated, lying at full length on the

ground, smoking a pipe; a powerful young man, fastening a collar on a

dog; and a bold girl, doing some kind of washing in very dirty water.

They all looked up at us as we came in, and the woman seemed to turn

her face toward the fire, as if to hide her bruised eye; nobody gave us

any welcome.

"Well, my friends," said Mrs. Pardiggle; but her voice had not

a friendly sound, I thought; it was much too business-like and

systematic. "How do you do, all of you? I am here again. I told you,

you couldn't tire me, you know. I am fond of hard work, and am true to

my word."

"There an't," growled the man on the floor, whose head rested on his

hand as he stared at us, "any more on you to come in, is there?"

"No, my friend," said Mrs. Pardiggle, seating herself on one stool, and

knocking down another. "We are all here."

[Illustration: THE VISIT AT THE BRICKMAKER'S.]

"Because I thought there warn't enough of you, perhaps?" said the man,

with his pipe between his lips, as he looked round upon us.

The young man and the girl both laughed. Two friends of the young man

whom we had attracted to the doorway, and who stood there with their

hands in their pockets, echoed the laugh noisily.

"You can't tire me, good people," said Mrs. Pardiggle to these latter.

"I enjoy hard work; and the harder you make mine, the better I like it."

"Then make it easy for her!" growled the man upon the floor. "I wants

it done, and over. I wants a end of these liberties took with my place.

I wants a end of being drawed like a badger. Now you're a going to

poll-pry and question according to custom--I know what you're a going

to be up to. Well! You haven't got no occasion to be up to it. I'll

save you the trouble. Is my daughter a washin? Yes, she is a washin.

Look at the water. Smell it! That's wot we drinks. How do you like it,

and what do you think of gin, instead! An't my place dirty? Yes, it

is dirty--it's nat'rally dirty, and it's nat'rally onwholesome; and

we've had five dirty and onwholesome children, as is all dead infants,

and so much the better for them, and for us besides. Have I read the

little book wot you left? No, I an't read the little book wot you left.

There an't nobody here as knows how to read it; and if there wos, it

wouldn't be suitable to me. It's a book fit for a babby, and I'm not a

babby. If you was to leave me a doll, I shouldn't nuss it. How have I

been conducting of myself? Why, I've been drunk for three days; and I'd

a been drunk four, if I'd a had the money. Don't I never mean for to

go to church? No, I don't never mean for to go to church. I shouldn't

be expected there, if I did; the beadle's too genteel for me. And how

did my wife get that black eye? Why, I giv' it her; and if she says I

didn't, she's a Lie!"

He had pulled his pipe out of his mouth to say all this, and he now

turned over on his other side, and smoked again. Mrs. Pardiggle,

who had been regarding him through her spectacles with a forcible

composure, calculated, I could not help thinking, to increase his

antagonism, pulled out a good book, as if it were a constable's staff,

and took the whole family into custody. I mean into religious custody,

of course; but she really did it, as if she were an inexorable moral

Policeman carrying them all off to a station house.

Ada and I were very uncomfortable. We both felt intrusive and out

of place; and we both thought that Mrs. Pardiggle would have got on

infinitely better, if she had not had such a mechanical way of taking

possession of people. The children sulked and stared; the family took

no notice of us whatever, except when the young man made the dog bark:

which he usually did, when Mrs. Pardiggle was most emphatic. We both

felt painfully sensible that between us and these people there was

an iron barrier, which could not be removed by our new friend. By

whom, or how, it could be removed, we did not know; but we knew that.

Even what she read and said, seemed to us to be ill chosen for such

auditors, if it had been imparted ever so modestly and with ever so

much tact. As to the little book to which the man on the floor had

referred, we acquired a knowledge of it afterward; and Mr. Jarndyce

said he doubted if Robinson Crusoe could have read it, though he had

had no other on his desolate island.

We were much relieved, under these circumstances, when Mrs. Pardiggle

left off. The man on the floor then turning his head round again, said

morosely,

"Well! You've done, have you?"

"For to-day, I have, my friend. But I am never fatigued. I shall come

to you again, in your regular order," returned Mrs. Pardiggle with

demonstrative cheerfulness.

"So long as you goes now," said he, folding his arms and shutting his

eyes with an oath, "you may do wot you like!"

Mrs. Pardiggle accordingly rose, and made a little vortex in the

confined room from which the pipe itself very narrowly escaped. Taking

one of her young family in each hand, and telling the others to follow

closely, and expressing her hope that the brickmaker and all his

house would be improved when she saw them next, she then proceeded

to another cottage. I hope it is not unkind in me to say that she

certainly did make, in this, as in every thing else, a show that was

not conciliatory, of doing charity by wholesale, and of dealing in it

to a large extent.

She supposed that we were following her; but as soon as the space was

left clear, we approached the woman sitting by the fire, to ask if the

baby were ill.

She only looked at it as it lay on her lap. We had observed before,

that when she looked at it she covered her discolored eyes with her

hand, as though she wished to separate any association with noise and

violence and ill-treatment, from the poor little child.

Ada, whose gentle heart was moved by its appearance, bent down to touch

its little face. As she did so, I saw what happened and drew her back.

The child died.

"O Esther!" cried Ada, sinking on her knees beside it. "Look here! O

Esther, my love, the little thing! The suffering, quiet, pretty little

thing! I am so sorry for it. I am so sorry for the mother. I never saw

a sight so pitiful as this before! O baby, baby!"

Such compassion, such gentleness, as that with which she bent down

weeping, and put her hand upon the mother's, might have softened any

mother's heart that ever beat. The woman at first gazed at her in

astonishment, and then burst into tears.

Presently I took the light burden from her lap; did what I could to

make the baby's rest the prettier and gentler; laid it on a shelf, and

covered it with my own handkerchief. We tried to comfort the mother,

and we whispered to her what Our Saviour said of children. She

answered nothing, but sat weeping--weeping very much.

When I turned I found that the young man had taken out the dog, and was

standing at the door looking in upon us; with dry eyes, but quiet. The

girl was quiet too, and sat in a corner looking on the ground. The man

had risen. He still smoked his pipe with an air of defiance, but he was

silent.

An ugly woman, very poorly clothed, hurried in while I was glancing at

them, and coming straight up to the mother, said, "Jenny! Jenny!" The

mother rose on being so addressed, and fell upon the woman's neck.

She also had upon her face and arms the marks of ill-usage. She had

no kind of grace about her, but the grace of sympathy; but when she

condoled with the woman, and her own tears fell, she wanted no beauty.

I say condoled, but her only words were "Jenny! Jenny!" All the rest

was in the tone in which she said them.

I thought it very touching to see these two women, coarse and shabby

and beaten, so united; to see what they could be to one another; to

see how they felt for one another; how the heart of each to each was

softened by the hard trials of their lives. I think the best side of

such people is almost hidden from us. What the poor are to the poor is

little known excepting to themselves and God.

We felt it better to withdraw and leave them uninterrupted. We stole

out quietly, and without notice from any one except the man. He was

leaning against the wall near the door; and finding that there was

scarcely room for us to pass, went out before us. He seemed to want to

hide that he did this on our account, but we perceived that he did, and

thanked him. He made no answer.

Ada was so full of grief all the way home, and Richard, whom we found

at home, was so distressed to see her in tears (though he said to me

when she was not present, how beautiful it was too!) that we arranged

to return at night with some little comforts, and repeat our visit at

the brickmaker's house. We said as little as we could to Mr. Jarndyce,

but the wind changed directly.

Richard accompanied us at night to the scene of our morning expedition.

On our way there, we had to pass a noisy drinking-house, where a number

of men were flocking about the door. Among them, and prominent in some

dispute, was the father of the little child. At a short distance, we

passed the young man and the dog, in congenial company. The sister

was standing laughing and talking with some other young women, at the

corner of the row of cottages; but she seemed ashamed, and turned away

as we went by.

We left our escort within sight of the brickmaker's dwelling, and

proceeded by ourselves. When we came to the door, we found the woman

who had brought such consolation with her, standing there, looking

anxiously out.

"It's you, young ladies, is it?" she said in a whisper. "I'm a watching

for my master. My heart's in my mouth. If he was to catch me away from

home, he'd pretty near murder me."

"Do you mean your husband?" said I.

"Yes, miss, my master. Jenny's asleep, quite worn out. She's scarcely

had the child off her lap, poor thing, these seven days and nights,

except when I've been able to take it for a minute or two."

As she gave way for us, we went softly in, and put what we had brought,

near the miserable bed on which the mother slept. No effort had been

made to clean the room--it seemed in its nature almost hopeless of

being clean; but the small waxen form, from which so much solemnity

diffused itself, had been composed afresh, and washed, and neatly

dressed in some fragments of white linen; and on my handkerchief, which

still covered the poor baby, a little bunch of sweet herbs had been

laid by the same rough scarred hands, so lightly, so tenderly!

"May Heaven reward you!" we said to her. "You are a good woman."

"Me, young ladies?" she returned with surprise. "Hush! Jenny, Jenny!"

The mother had moaned in her sleep, and moved. The sound of the

familiar voice seemed to calm her again. She was quiet once more.

How little I thought, when I raised my handkerchief to look upon the

tiny sleeper underneath, and seemed to see a halo shine around the

child through Ada's drooping hair as her pity bent her head--how little

I thought in whose unquiet bosom that handkerchief would come to lie,

after covering the motionless and peaceful breast! I only thought that

perhaps the Angel of the child might not be all unconscious of the

woman who replaced it with so compassionate a hand; not all unconscious

of her presently, when we had taken leave and left her at the door, by

turns looking, and listening in terror for herself, and saying in her

old soothing manner. "Jenny, Jenny!"

CHAPTER IX.--SIGNS AND TOKENS.

I don't know how it is, I seem to be always writing about myself. I

mean all the time to write about other people, and I try to think

about myself as little as possible, and I am sure, when I find myself

coming into the story again, I am really vexed and say, "Dear, dear,

you tiresome little creature, I wish you wouldn't!" but it is all of no

use. I hope any one who may read what I write, will understand that if

these pages contain a great deal about me, I can only suppose it must

be because I have really something to do with them, and can't be kept

out.

My darling and I read together, and worked, and practiced; and found

so much employment for our time, that the winter days flew by us like

bright-winged birds. Generally in the afternoons, and always in the

evenings, Richard gave us his company. Although he was one of the most

restless creatures in the world, he certainly was very fond of our

society.

He was very, very, very fond of Ada. I mean it, and I had better say

it at once. I had never seen any young people falling in love before,

but I found them out quite soon. I could not say so, of course, or show

that I knew any thing about it. On the contrary, I was so demure, and

used to seem so unconscious, that sometimes I considered within myself

while I was sitting at work, whether I was not growing quite deceitful.

But there was no help for it. All I had to do was to be quiet, and I

was as quiet as a mouse. They were as quiet as mice, too, so far as any

words were concerned; but the innocent manner in which they relied more

and more upon me, as they took more and more to one another, was so

charming, that I had great difficulty in not showing how it interested

me.

"Our dear little old woman is such a capital old woman," Richard would

say, coming up to meet me in the garden early, with his pleasant laugh

and perhaps the least tinge of a blush, "that I can't get on without

her. Before I begin my harum-scarum day--grinding away at those books

and instruments, and then galloping up hill and down dale, all the

country round, like a highwayman--it does me so much good to come and

have a steady walk with our comfortable friend, that here I am again!"

"You know, Dame Durden, dear," Ada would say at night, with her head

upon my shoulder, and the firelight shining in her thoughtful eyes, "I

don't want to talk when we come up-stairs here. Only to sit a little

while, thinking, with your dear face for company; and to hear the wind,

and remember the poor sailors at sea--"

Ah! Perhaps Richard was going to be a sailor. We had talked it over

very often, now, and there was some talk of gratifying the inclination

of his childhood for the sea. Mr. Jarndyce had written to a relation

of the family, a great Sir Leicester Dedlock, for his interest in

Richard's favor, generally; and Sir Leicester had replied in a gracious

manner, "that he would be happy to advance the prospects of the young

gentleman if it should ever prove to be within his power, which was not

at all probable--and that my Lady sent her compliments to the young

gentleman (to whom she perfectly remembered that she was allied by

remote consanguinity), and trusted that he would ever do his duty in

any honorable profession to which he might devote himself."

"So I apprehend it's pretty clear," said Richard to me, "that I shall

have to work my own way. Never mind! Plenty of people have had to do

that before now, and have done it. I only wish I had the command of a

clipping privateer, to begin with, and could carry off the Chancellor

and keep him on short allowance until he gave judgment in our cause.

He'd find himself growing thin, if he didn't look sharp!"

With a buoyancy and hopefulness and a gayety that hardly ever flagged,

Richard had a carelessness in his character that quite perplexed

me--principally because he mistook it, in such a very odd way, for

prudence. It entered into all his calculations about money, in a

singular manner, which I don't think I can better explain than by

reverting for a moment to our loan to Mr. Skimpole.

Mr. Jarndyce had ascertained the amount, either from Mr. Skimpole

himself or from Coavinses, and had placed the money in my hands with

instructions to me to retain my own part of it and hand the rest to

Richard. The number of little acts of thoughtless expenditure which

Richard justified by the recovery of his ten pounds, and the number of

times he talked to me as if he had saved or realized that amount, would

form a sum in simple addition.

"My prudent Mother Hubbard, why not?" he said to me, when he wanted,

without the least consideration, to bestow five pounds on the

brickmaker. "I made ten pounds, clear, out of Coavinses' business."

"How was that?" said I.