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CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL
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LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART.
Fourth Series
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NO. 720. SATURDAY, OCTOBER 13, 1877. PRICE 1½_d._]
THRIFT AND UNTHRIFT.
We lately said a word on Rich Folks, hinting that so far from being
the monsters of iniquity which moralists and preachers have for ages
denounced them, they are, taken all in all, public benefactors; for
without the accumulation of wealth, by means of thrift and honest
enterprise, the world would still have been in a deplorably backward
condition. Riches are of course comparative. An artisan who by savings
and diligence in his calling has insured for himself a competence for
old age, is doubtless rich and respectable. Doing his best, and with
something to the good, he is worthy of our esteem. What he has laid
aside in a spirit of economy goes to an augmentation of the national
wealth. In a small way he is a capitalist--his modicum of surplus
earnings helping to promote important schemes of public interest.
Great Britain, with its immense field for successful industry and
enterprise, excels any country in the capacity for saving. In almost
every branch of art there is a scope for thrift beyond what is
obtainable elsewhere. Thriftiness, however, among the manual labouring
classes was scarcely thought of in times within living remembrance.
Savings-banks to receive spare earnings came into existence only in
the early years of the present century. Now, spread in all directions,
and established in the army and navy, they possess deposits amounting
to nearly thirty millions sterling. Besides these accumulations, much
is consigned to Friendly Societies; and it is pleasing to observe
that within the last twenty years, the artisan classes have expended
large sums in the purchase of dwellings purposely erected for their
accommodation. All this looks like an advance in thrifty habits--a
stride in civilisation.
But after every admission of this kind has been made, it is too
certain that vast numbers live from hand to mouth, save nothing
whatever from earnings however large, and are ever on the brink of
starvation. In this respect, the working classes, as they are usually
styled, fall considerably below the peasantry of France, who, though
noted for their ignorance, and for the most part unable to read,
have an extraordinary aptitude for saving; of which there is no more
significant proof than their heavy loans to government when pressed to
pay an enormous war indemnity to Germany. As the thrift of the French
agriculturists sinks to the character of a sordid parsimony, which is
adverse to social improvement, no political economist can speak of it
with unqualified admiration. It only shews what can be done by two or
three things--the economical use of earnings, the economical use of
time, and the strict cultivation of temperate habits. From each of
these predominating qualities a lesson might be judiciously taken.
Though a lively race, fond of amusement, the French peasantry, and we
may add, the peasantry of Switzerland, know the value of time. In them
the 'gospel of idleness,' so pertinaciously preached up by indiscreet
enthusiasts, has no adherents. In all our experience, we have never
seen such assiduity in daily labour from early morn till eve, as
among the French and Swiss rural population. They would repudiate any
dictation of a hard and fast line as to hours. Time is their beneficent
inheritance, to make the most of for themselves and families.
Pity it is that in our own country time is so unthriftily squandered.
Obviously there is a growing disposition among the operative classes
to diminish the daily hours of labour, to the detriment of individual
and general prosperity. When we began life, ten hours a day, or sixty
in the week, were considered a fair thing. Then came a diminution
to nine, to eight hours, along with whole and half-holidays, but no
lowering of wages. How this is to go on, we are unable to explain. We
fear that unless something like common-sense intervene, a degree of
individual and national disaster will ensue scarcely contemplated by
the votaries of 'St Lubbock.' In his late speech at the opening of the
Manchester Town-hall, Mr Bright adverted to the awkward consequences
of indefinitely shortening the hours of labour. He is reported to
have said: 'We have for many years past been gradually diminishing the
period of time during which our machinery can work. We are surrounded
by a combination whose object is not only to diminish the time of
labour and the products of labour, but to increase the remuneration of
labour. Every half an hour you diminish the time of labour, and every
farthing you raise the payment of labour which is not raised by the
ordinary economic and proper causes, has exactly the same effect upon
us as the increase of the tariffs of foreign countries. Thus we often
find, with all our philanthropy in wishing the people to have more
recreation, and with our anxiety that the workman should better his
condition through his combination, that we are ourselves aiding--it
may be inevitably and necessarily--but it is a fact that we are aiding
to increase the difficulties under which we labour in sending foreign
countries the products of the industry of these districts; and we
must bear in mind that great cities have fallen before Manchester and
Liverpool were known; and that there have been great cities, great
mercantile cities on the shores of the Mediterranean, the cities of
Phœnicia, the cities of Carthage, Genoa, and Venice.' Such sentiments
are worth taking to heart. The preaching up of recreation, otherwise
idleness, has gone rather too far. We begin to perceive that wages can
be paid only in proportion to work done, and that if people choose to
amuse themselves, there must correspondingly be a new adjustment of
payments.
At the late meeting of the British Association, there was some
profitable discussion on work, wages, and thrift. One speaker
emphatically pointed out that unthrift was more concerned in producing
poverty in families than a deficiency in wages. He said, that where
there was a deficiency of food 'it would mostly be found that what
was wanted had been consumed in drink.' Adding, 'As a matter of fact,
the large families did the best, and the greatest men in science and
as statesmen were mostly members of large families and younger sons
upon whom early struggles for mental growth had produced brilliant
results.' This corresponds with ordinary experience. Within our own
knowledge, the greater number of persons distinguished in literature,
the arts, and in commerce have been the sons of parents whose means of
bringing up their families did not exceed a hundred, in some instances
not eighty, pounds a year. Yet upon these slender resources, through
the effects of thrift--as, for example, the case given by the late Sir
William Fairbairn--families of six or seven children were respectably
reared, and attained prominent places in society.
In almost every large town is observed a painful but curious contrast
in the administration of earnings. On one side are seen the families
of small tradesmen making a manful struggle to keep up respectable
appearances at a free revenue of not more than a hundred a year;
while alongside of them are families earning two pounds a week and
upwards, who make no effort at respectability, and are constantly in
difficulties. The explanation simply lies in thrift and unthrift.
In one case there are aspirations and enlightened foresight; in the
other there is a total indifference to consequences. A few weeks
ago, the Rev. F. O. Morris, of Nunburnholme Rectory, Hayton, York,
communicated to the _Times_ some remarkable revelations concerning
unthrift. 'A gentleman of my acquaintance,' he says, 'living in a
midland manufacturing town, gave me, two or three years ago, the
following instances of the unthriftness, or rather the outrageous
extravagance, of the artisans there; such cases being quite common,
the exceptions only the other way. I must premise that many of them
with families were at that time earning from eight to twelve pounds a
week; a single man as much as five pounds a week, and yet, though paid
on Saturday evenings, they would come on the following Monday night to
ask the manager for an advance of the next week's wages. And this not
for any legitimate expenditure, for even those who had families lived
generally in one room, kept no servant, and only employed charwomen.
Nevertheless, well they might be in want of ready-money, for often you
would see a party setting out on a Sunday for an excursion to some
place or other in a carriage with four horses, and dressed in the most
extravagant manner, but at the same time with much taste, owing no
doubt to their employment being in the lace-trade.
'A charwoman told the wife of my informant that she knew one married
couple who can earn seven pounds a week who often came to her on a
Thursday to borrow a shilling, their money being all gone. They lived
in two rooms, very badly furnished. A needle-woman also told the lady
that she knew a couple who earned eight pounds a week, or even more,
between them, who lived in two rooms wretchedly furnished, without even
a cup or saucer, besides the two they used, to give a friend a cup of
tea; that the woman would give four or five guineas for a dress, and
had given as much as six guineas, which she would wear all day, from
the first thing in the morning till it was shabby, when she would buy
another as expensive, or even more so, according to the fashion. She
never cooked their own dinner, but bought the most expensive things,
took them to a public-house to be cooked, and dined there, eating and
drinking afterwards. The "hands" in the trade of the place would often
order, for one week, black tea at 4s. a pound, and green at 6s. Thy
would also buy cucumbers at 1s. and 1s. 6d. apiece, beefsteaks for
breakfast at 1s. 3d. a pound, and would only eat them fried in butter;
salmon in like manner when it first came in at 3s. or 4s. a pound, and
lamb at a guinea a quarter. For more light fare they would buy oysters
at 2s. or 2s. 6d. a dozen, put down gold on the counter, and eat them
as fast as a man could open them for them. My friend saw two men thus
eat 10s. worth standing at a stall in the market-place. A man earning
L.3 a week, paid on the Saturday evening, got into a row with the
police on the Sunday, was fined 25s. on the Monday, and not one out of
a hundred or more of his fellow-workmen could advance him the money
to pay the fine with, and he had to borrow it of the foreman. Another
was earning L.4 a week. His master told him he ought to lay by. "Oh,"
said he, "I can spend all I make." "But," said the master, "what shall
you do, if the times are bad, with your wife and children?" "Let 'em
go to the Union," said he. The master himself told my friend this. Mr
Baker, the Inspector of Factories, in one of his Reports, stated that a
moulder, his wife, and boy on an average earn L.5, 10s. 6d. a week. He
mentions a case of a moulder, his wife, and three children earning L.8,
7s. 2½d.
'How can we wonder, with such facts as these before us, that Mr
Sandford, Her Majesty's Inspector, stated in one of his Reports: "Out
of 50 (lads) examined in nine different night schools, 29, or 58 per
cent., could not read. These night scholars are certainly not the most
untaught of the collier lads. 'There's none of them as can read in our
pit,' I heard two young colliers say; 'no, nor the master neither.' And
yet we wonder that our colliers do not invest their earnings wisely."'
Loud and prolonged has been the denunciation of public-houses as
the cause of crime and misery--so easy is it to mistake secondary
for primary causes. While admitting that public-houses scattered in
profusion are the cause of many evils, we go a little farther, and
looking for what produces the cause, find that it consists in depraved
tastes, want of self-respect, unthrift. To a man of elevated tendencies
and intelligent foresight, the number of public-houses is a matter
of no importance. He passes by the whole with indifference. Their
allurements only excite his pity. He scorns their temptations. It is to
this pitch of fortitude we should like to see the weak-minded brought,
through education and the habitual cultivation of self-respect,
along with a deep consciousness of responsibilities. In therefore so
exclusively attacking public-houses as the cause of intemperance, we
are in a sense beginning the process of cure at the wrong end. We are
expending energies on secondary causes, leaving the seat of the disease
untouched. Under infatuations of this kind, the misdirection of moral
power is pitiable. The subject is wide, and might be expatiated on to
any extent. We here confine ourselves to the remark, that the thing
to cultivate is Thrift--not only as regards the expenditure of money
but expenditure of time, and in saying this we fear that those who
have systematically, though with good intentions, advocated a degree
of recreation that must be deemed excessive and dangerous, have not a
little to answer for in promoting habits of unthrift.
W. C.
FROM DAWN TO SUNSET.
PART II.
CHAPTER THE ELEVENTH.
It was about this time, or some three or four days after Kingston's
arrival, that Mistress Dinnage was sitting--languidly for her--at the
door of the lodge. Mistress Dinnage lived a life of constant energy;
she did not sit and lament; she had her sorrows; but they were closed
within the proudest heart that ever beat, and no man knew of them. But
all the more dangerous is the stern sorrow that feeds upon itself, the
aching, ever-present grief, so stoically disregarded. Mistress Dinnage
indulged in neither tears nor regrets; bravely she did her duty day by
day, and never would sit down to court a sweet and fancied dream. But
when evening came, what had she to do? Father was not home; the tall
clock in the corner went tick, tick, tick! Lady Deb was busied with
her kinsman Kingston Fleming; old Marjory was no companion to Mistress
Dinnage. Lives are so different. In some more genial lives, in some
gay changeful or adventurous life, sorrow and despair are kept at bay.
In contrast to this life of Margaret's, there was May Warriston far
away, dreaming through courtly galleries, gazing on splendid pictures,
listening to ravishing music, kneeling before gorgeous shrines. Amid
such scenes as these, the heart-strings may be tuned to never a
discordant note. But in eternal calm, in depressing sickness, in dreary
hours of solitude, _then_ the grim spectre looks on us face to face. We
may work; ay, but when we pause to rest? Work, everlasting work, gives
a stern sense of satisfaction and the comfort of 'something done;'
but unlightened by sweeter moments, neither softens the heart nor
strengthens the mind. Under that stern government, imagination sleeps,
thought grows torpid, the poor wounded soul is grasped within the iron
hand it defies, Nature herself lies bruised and bleeding.
In the hours of hard work and daylight, sorrow was to Margaret Dinnage
unheeded, unheard, uncared for; but when forced inaction came, when the
little room darkened slowly, and the lightest whisper of the breeze
began to be heard above the hushed tumult of the world, then the tall
clock told a monotonous tale moment by moment to the proud still
heart--a tale of solitude and hopeless calm. She would go to the porch
not to hear it; but to go out and roam about the happy fields she could
not, for there she had played when a child. No; better stand at the
door and watch; father would be coming soon.
One evening as Mistress Dinnage thus watched, the gate swung to; not
the stooping form of old Jordan Dinnage, but a tall and tower-like
figure loomed through the gloaming and darkened the doorway. Loud and
full beat the heart of Mistress Dinnage; she could not speak. For the
first time for years, she and Charles Fleming were alone.
'Who is at Enderby?' he asked, in a short stern voice.
'Mistress Deborah,' she answered, with hurried breathless utterance,
'an' Master Kingston Fleming.'
'Not my father?'
'No.'
'Has Master Sinclair been here lately?'
'Yes; he was over yesterday morning.'
Then the gloaming parted as it were to admit of a blink of sunshine,
and the dark eyes that were gazing up sought the haggard eyes that were
gazing down upon them, and all in a flash. Twilight and the wild sweet
solitude around them drew those proud hearts together with a power
that yearning nature could not resist. The spell of Love was woven
around them. Not one word was uttered: stern silence, weary endless
longing, pride, grief, trouble, despair, all were now hushed in one
long embrace. Long and wordless as had been estrangement, so swift and
wordless the wooing; no syllable was needed to tell what the soul had
known.
What mattered it in that supreme moment that he was a hunted ruined
fugitive--that she was a poor and penniless girl--that they met but to
part again? The sweet summer breeze was blowing round them; the trees
trembled with gladness overhead; they were young; the world was wide
and free. The solemn warning voice of the old clock, for them spoke in
vain.
When Mistress Dinnage could speak, she whispered on his breast:
'Thou'rt in trouble.'
'In trouble? Yes.' Then, with a reckless laugh, he took her face
between his hands, and answered by wild and passionate kisses.
'Nay; thou must speak,' she went on earnestly, and holding back his
head with her little hands. 'Kisses will not aid thee, or I would kiss
thee till I died. Speak, Master Fleming! Art thou ruined?'
'Ay; stick and stone.'
'I saw it in thy face, only now the love-light covers it. Oh, how
canst thou look so glad for my poor love, when thou'rt ruined and
_disgraced_? Bethink thee, Master Fleming. Thine old home will go to
strangers. Thy sister will share in thy disgrace. Thy father will go in
sorrow to the grave. Thou'rt ruined, disgraced, _dishonoured_!'
He caught her to his heart, and then held her wildly from him,
regarding her with infinite pathos. '_And wilt thou throw me over,
Meg?_'
Then spoke she anxiously: 'What is it thou mean'st? Speak out to me.
Let there be no secrets and no riddling. Dost thou love me _truly_?'
Then answered the proud liquid glance of those dark eyes; and whispered
the youth low in her ear: 'I would like to kill thee for this
questioning! _Truly_, love? Dost thou know Charles Fleming so little,
that thou'rt in doubt? that thou canst believe he could wrong the only
girl he ever loved? Ruffian, gamester, roysterer though I be, I would
keep thee pure as snow--snowdrift. Thou shalt make me a better man, who
knows? For thy love I thirst, Meg, and have thirsted long. Now--ruined,
an outcast, a fugitive, is the moment I choose to seek thee! Wilt have
me, Meg, for better, for worse? Wilt share the fortunes of a sinner?
Perilous, comfortless, will be thy lot, love. Wilt thou be my wife?'
She could not speak; she answered by a low cry of love and joy. What
recked Mistress Dinnage of the proud grand home and the heir of the
Flemings, all passed away! She loved--with all the pure abandonment of
a woman's love--this houseless wanderer.
So came Charlie Fleming, and went, and haunted in the twilight round
Enderby, and no one knew of it save Mistress Dinnage. She was put
about, dismayed, torn by anxiety by all she heard; and the two loves
of her life, the loves of father and lover, were wrestling wildly in
her soul. Though fearing for her lover, yet, strange inconsistency, her
step was light as air, her heart was filled with a new joy, and her
eyes with happy tears.
* * * * *
'I must go,' thought Kingston Fleming desperately to himself, the
morning after the above scene. 'The old fellow won't turn up, neither
does Charlie. I mustn't compromise _her_. But she must not be alone.
I doubt--I doubt sorely about the future. Poor sweet child! I will
speak to old Marjory; she must hold that flighty Mistress Dinnage in
the house. And I will get Deb to send for May Warriston.' So thinking,
Kingston went into the garden, where he saw Deborah at her flowers, and
abruptly he began: 'I am come to say farewell, Deb. Don't look scared,
little coz; you shall not be left alone.'
'Then whom shall I have, King?' she asked, clinging suddenly to his
arm. 'Father is away; Charlie is away; and I am in hourly fear of evil
tidings. You say, _not alone!_ O King, I shall be alone indeed!'
'Little one, I am going to write to May Warriston, to beg her to come
and bear you company. Meantime, I am going to see your father. I know
his whereabouts, love; I will send him home to-night. And have ye not
Marjory, Jordan, and your beloved Mistress Dinnage?'
'Ay, I have them all. But what are weak women and a poor old man
compared to your size and strength? With you, King, I am safe. In your
presence I can be thoughtless and glad again. In your presence--I am
happy.'
'O Deb, Deb! Don't persuade me. I mustn't stay with you. Ill tongues
will be talking of you and me.'
'What! of brother and sister? Of kinsfolk? It cannot, cannot be. But
let the world talk! What matters it? Will you, for paltry slander,
forsake me at this strait?'
'Not forsake you, but consider you. Let go my hand, Deb! I am easily
unmanned nowadays. I must go.'
'Well, go, go!'--and she pushed him from her. 'And indeed I would
have you seek my father, King, for I am very sad at heart. Cheer him
up; comfort him; wean him from his temptation if you can. It is that
terrible gambling that is the ruin of the Flemings. Oh, tell him so!
But above all things, send him home, for I have a dark, dark foreboding
on me; and this night alone at Enderby would drive me mad.'
'He shall come.'
'Then go, King, quickly.'
'You are in a hurry to be rid o' me, now. Good-bye, sweet Deb;
good-bye. You will not come and see me off?'
'Nay; I cannot.'
'Well, good-bye, Enderby.' Kingston Fleming bared his head and gazed
round, strangely moved, at the old familiar scene. His keen blue eyes
grew dim. It did not shame his manhood that tears were drawn like
life-blood from his heart, as he nobly renounced a sore temptation.
'Good-bye, Enderby; good-bye.'
He was gone. But still Deborah Fleming, amid her gay and dazzling
flowers, seemed to see him standing there, a tall graceful figure, a
face full of sadness and regret, a bared head that reverently bowed
its adieus; and the words still rang in her ears: 'Good-bye, Enderby;
good-bye.' Ten short minutes and all life had changed for her; only
when he was gone, she waked to her despair. The sun had ceased to
shine, the birds had ceased to sing, the flowers to bloom. She left her
gathered flowers to die, and went home like one stunned.
CHAPTER THE TWELFTH.
Sir Vincent did return that night; he had seen Kingston, he said. He
was very late, and he was tired. He asked Deborah if Mistress Dinnage
were with her.
'Yes, dear father. But you are going to sleep at home?'
'Ay; but I may be off early--too early for even thee, my bird of dawn.'
'Nay, father; I will be up, not to see thee off, but to hold thee here.
Thou shalt not go tomorrow!'
He smiled. He looked pale. He kissed her fondly.
'Lady Wilful, I must. I want to see my boy. He is ever in trouble.'
'Nay; think not about it to-night, father. King has promised to find
him out.'
And so they parted. Weary-hearted, with all the brightness called up
for her father laid aside, Deborah sought her chamber, weeping. She
recalled, the night when her father had told her Kingston Fleming was
betrothed, her wild despair. But she was a child, and the bright morrow
had then brought hope and healing. Now she was a woman, and a woman's
sorrow lay deep within her breast. Tired out, Deborah undressed and
lay down on her bed, not to wake and weep, but to sink into a deep
dreamless slumber....
With a start she awoke. A start often wakes us from the soundest sleep,
as if some spirit spoke. Deborah Fleming was so wide awake in a moment
that she saw through her open window the little pale ghost of the
waning moon, the drifting clouds flitting by. A strange feeling was on
Deborah. Had she been dreaming that she had seen a light shining under
her father's door? Dream or vision, she seemed to see it still, and was
irresistibly drawn thither by a mysterious inner sense of alarm. She
must go to her father's room, to see that all was well. With a wildly
beating heart, she threw on her dressing-gown and went swiftly out.
Gray dawn filled all the passages, a gray cold dawn, and the little
birds were beginning to twitter. But yes--oh, strange and true, a light
was glimmering under her father's door!
Deborah heard him moving; she knocked. 'Father!'--No answer.--'Father!'
'Who is there?'
'Deborah! Father, open your door; I must speak with you at once.'
She tried the door: it gave way; and Deborah saw a room scattered over
with papers, in the wildest confusion. The window stood open, and Sir
Vincent, looking gray and haggard in the uncertain light, stood against
the table in the middle of the room. He was dressed; his long white
hair was ruffled; his face was gray, pale; his eyes gleamed strangely
on Deborah from under their lowering brows.
'Father!' said Deborah, 'my father!' A great trembling was on her, he
looked at her so strangely; but she kept outwardly calm. She laid her
hands upon his arm, and then her eyes fell from his troubled face to
his trembling hand, which was striving vainly to hide something amongst
the papers on the table. Deborah saw the handle of a pistol; she drew
it out, and regarded him steadfastly. 'Father, father! what is this?'
He turned from her; his white head was bowed with shame in his hands,
and she heard a bitter sob.
'I know it now,' said Deborah, with terrible calmness. 'God called me
here. O dear father, what have you thought on? To get free of ruin, you
would kill your soul. Kind heaven have mercy on thee! You would leave
me, father; you would leave me and Charlie.' She flung the pistol out
of the room; she threw her arms round him. Sobs were shaking the strong
man's frame.
'O never think to leave me alone, father dear. It was sinful of you
not to call me; you might have known your little daughter would sooner
share your death, than wake to find you dead.'
'God forgive me, Deb; God forgive me;' and he sank into his chair
faint, trembling, shuddering. Deborah, on her knees beside him,
scarcely knew her proud father, he was so unmanned. She waited in
silence, with her head laid down on his knee. When he could speak, he
said: 'I see God's hand in this; I believe in Him as I never believed
before. Child! nothing less than a miracle brought thee here, as heaven
is my witness; in another moment, Deb, I should have been a dead man. I
had the pistol in my hand; may He forgive me, Deb!'
Then Deborah looked up white and calm: 'What could have induced you,
father? What ruin could be great enow to justify so great a sin? The
loss of house and lands? Let them go. You and I had better live in
some poor honest way, than keep at Enderby. Let it go. It is no great
matter, so long as you have your children's love.'
He groaned. 'It isn't all, Deb; ruin isn't all. We have that, and
enow. But ye know the old saying, "Death before dishonour."--Charlie,
Charlie!' and the father's tremulous lips struggled piteously to utter
more.
'Has Charlie _disgraced_ us then? How, father?'
'God forbid that I tell thee how. My boy has killed me.'
'Will _money_ save him, father?' The stern low voice scarcely seemed
Deborah Fleming's.
'Money, ay; but we are beggars.'
Deborah started to her feet. 'Well, think of it no more; you are
wearied to death, my father. Thinking won't right you nor save Charlie.
Sleep in peace, father, for I will save ye both this day.'
He stared in her face. 'Heaven bless thee, Deb. I know not what thou
say'st. I think my brain is shaken, Deb. But _thou'rt_ my only stay.'
With that, the heart-broken old man, fallen so lowly from his high
estate, lay down, and fell into a deep sleep. Not so Deborah.
Late in the morning, Sir Vincent awaked, and called for his daughter.
It seemed that she was near, for he had scarcely called before she
stood beside his bed. His strength was recruited; the strong and
nervous spirit had regained its power, and lived again in torture. He
gazed up at Deborah, piteous in his grim sorrow; still, in all his
strength, he turned to her: 'Deborah, my child, what is to be done?'
'I am decided, father. I will be Adam Sinclair's wife. He has money
enow to buy Enderby. Look you, you have nothing more to say; only see
that he knows he may marry me.'
'Thou'lt marry Adam Sinclair! Deb, art in earnest? Can ye do this? But
does it vex ye, love? Does it grieve ye _too_ much?'
She looked so calm, he could not believe this sacrifice, but half
believed her indifferent; he was sorely trembling.
'Nay, father. How vexed? how grieved? Ask me no questions. You know,
father, I was always "Lady Wilful," and very firm. Here now is a note
writ by mine own hand to _him_. I am decided.'
Sir Vincent rose up; he knew not if he were most glad or grieved or
scared, as he took her in his arms and blessed her. Never had Deborah
received love or blessing so passively. She put the note in his hands,
and looking at him with her great gray earnest eyes: 'Sweet father,'
she said, 'it must needs be soon; and that he may know that I am in
earnest, I have left that "soon" to him. I am sincere with him, father,
and I tell him I have no love to give; but I would fain save Enderby;
and so I ask him if he will save Enderby for love of me, and yet leave
me free. There is a loophole, father, for I have no wish to wed. But if
he must wed Deborah Fleming, and only this will move him, I am ready.
But as he will choose the wedding-day, I stipulate for freedom till
that day, never to write nor meet till the bells ring for the wedding.
Let me be Deborah Fleming till then, and forget Adam Sinclair! Lovers
and wooing I cannot abide. And life is long enow from the wedding to
the grave!'
Sir Vincent stood with the letter in his hand. 'Deborah, ye speak
strangely; yet you are smiling, and your eyes and cheeks are bright.
Little one, tell thy wretched father if thou'rt unhappy over this?
Speak, Deb, darling; and if it grieves thee, I will see myself in jail,
and Charlie on the gallows, ere thou shalt sacrifice thy life. Deborah,
be honest with me.'
'Why, I am honest always. It will not hurt _me_. I will be a good wife
to him till the day I die, if it must needs be so. But would you have
me say I love him, reverence him? This cannot be. But if he will not
save Enderby otherwise, I will be his wife. Of the rest--I will not ask
you--I dare not. But Charlie shall be saved.'
At these words Sir Vincent fell on his knees, and kissed his child's
dress like one beside himself, and then pale and wordless, rushed
away.... Then Deborah was left _alone_. The gay sun was shining in, and
the birds were singing from far and near; away up, Deborah's pet bird
the skylark was pouring out his supreme song of freedom in the blue
fields of space. She heard the trilling cadence from the wild bird's
throat. It drew her to the window, where she leaned out, and drank in
those delirious strains of joy, and stretched out her arms to the blue
sky, and thought of the little nest where the bird would drop, when
tired with wandering and with song. Could she be Deborah Fleming? Would
the messenger now speeding to Lincoln Castle bring her back freedom, or
death in life? She must wait, she must wait! Meantime, the o'ercome was
ringing in her ears of an old song that Kingston Fleming whistled when
a boy, and the sweet warm sun was shining on her, and Deborah laid her
aching head and her arms down on the window-sill and fell fast asleep.
It was then that Mistress Dinnage stole in; her face too was pale and
grave, but not so pale as the sleeping one over which she leaned. With
her hands clasped, she stood regarding it till her lips quivered,
and tears of troubled anxiety started to her eyes. 'Ay,' she said
with stern tenderness, 'you will die for him yet; but _I_ would die
for _him_ and _you_.' Then softly and in tender care, young Mistress
Dinnage passed a soft cushion under the little head, and laid a light
shawl over Deborah to shield her from the sun, and stole away.
MARKET-GARDEN WOMEN.
While the fruit-harvest is in progress, travellers through the western
outskirts of London will doubtless have noticed the numerous gangs
of women employed in gathering and packing fruit and vegetables
for market; the railway in that district running for several miles
through market-gardens and orchards. The peculiar dress of these
women--consisting of a large calico sun-bonnet, brightly coloured
neckerchief, short skirts reaching scarcely below the knee, and large
holland aprons--is alone sufficient to attract attention, even in the
momentary glimpse one obtains of them as the train sweeps past. Daily,
in sunshine and rain, these women are busy collecting the fruit and
vegetables which are nightly conveyed to the London markets; and as
some knowledge of their manner of life and the amount of their earnings
may prove interesting, we offer to our readers the substance of a
conversation held with a member of one of the gangs during the earlier
part of the season.
'Do we get pretty good wages? Well, you see, sir, it all depends on
the season. Just now, when strawberries are in and peas, we can earn
as much as thirty shillings a week--some weeks more. Raspberries and
beans we do pretty well with, but gooseberries and currants ain't so
good: eight-and-twenty shillings a week is as much as we can make at
those, working hard and long for that. Of course we have to work long
hours, beginning at four or five o'clock in the morning, and keeping
at it till eight and sometimes later at night, generally taking about
an hour's rest at dinner-time. But as we gather all the fruit by
piece-work, and so to speak, our time is our own, what dinner-time we
take depends on what sort of a morning's work we've made--sometimes
longer and sometimes shorter. You see, this is how we work. In my
gang there's six of us, that have always worked together for a good
many years now. We get one on each side of a row of strawberries or
raspberries or peas, or what not; and when one basket is full, we puts
a few handfuls in our apron, always managing so as to take in all the
baskets full together; and then at night, when our work is counted up,
we share it equally amongst us. We always know every night how much we
have made, but only get paid once a week, on Saturdays: Saturday, you
know, being an easy day with us, on account of there being no market on
Sunday. Our missis is very good that way: every Saturday, afore twelve
o'clock, there is our money, much or little; though there is some of
the masters as think nothing of keeping their women waiting about till
six or seven o'clock at night before they pay them, and perhaps then
only gives 'em a part of it; which comes hard on folks as live from
hand to mouth, as we have to do; the shop at which we deal only giving
one week's credit--pay up one Saturday night, and run on as much as you
like till the next; or if you don't pay up, no more credit till you
does.
'Apples and pears and such-like fruit we have nothing to do with--men
gather _them_ in. In fact as often as not the master sells the fruit
as it stands on the tree, and the buyer has to get his own men to
pluck it. But there's always some sort of fruit or vegetables to be
gathered from the beginning of spring till the end of summer as we
can do by piecework; and then the potatoes come in, which we pick up
after they've been turned out of the ground by men or by a machine;
but that we does by day-work, getting one-and-sixpence a day when we
work from six to six; and one-and-twopence when we work from eight till
dark. In winter-time there's always something to be done dibbing in
cabbage-plants, weeding, and such-like; but what with sharp frosts and
heavy snows, we don't earn much then, perhaps doing three or four days'
work in a week. Of course if we haven't had the sense to put by some of
the money we make in the good times of summer, times come cruel hard on
us in the winter; and very few of us like to apply to the parish if we
can anyhow help it. Not but what our missis is good to us in that way,
often finding us a day's work when it ain't needed, and always giving
us a half-pint of beer at the end of the day; which we can't claim, you
know.
'We don't take much count of rain either winter or summer, because,
you see, people will have their fruit and vegetables fresh gathered;
and so we wrap ourselves well up and make the best of it. As I said
before, Saturday we don't do much; but then we have to make up for it
on Sundays, so as to send the fruit fresh to Monday's market.
'Don't we suffer from rheumatics? Well, you mightn't think so, but it
ain't often any of us ails much. You see, being out in all weathers, we
get hardened to it; and besides, we always take good care to keep our
feet warm and dry--that's why we wear such heavy boots; and that's the
chief thing to look after, if you don't want to catch cold; so people
say. There ain't many of us but what is on the wrong side of thirty;
four out of _my_ gang being widows this many a year, with grown-up
sons and daughters; and it's the same in most gangs. Sometimes we have
young women amongst us; but there's not many of 'em stays at it after
they are married; not all the year through, I mean; perhaps coming for
a day or two at the busiest times; but even then it hardly pays them,
if they have a young family about 'em. The gangs of young women as you
sometimes see, we don't count as belonging to us; they only coming up
from Shropshire mostly--for a month or six weeks at the busiest part of
the season. Children we never have working with us, I suppose because
they wouldn't be careful enough about not crushing the fruit; which as
_you_ know, it would never pay to send crushed fruit into market. For
my part, I'm very glad as there is no children allowed amongst us, as
though it ain't very hard work, it's terribly tedious and back-aching.
When our children is old enough, we send the girls out to service
somewhere; and there's always plenty of work for the lads, of some
sort, about the farms; which is a good deal better than breaking their
backs at _our_ work.
'We all of us in my gang live hereabouts, in those little cottages that
you see yonder. Three shillings a week the rent of 'em is; but then
there's a good piece of garden-ground at the back; and most of us has
lodgers, young men what work on the farms and in the gardens mostly.
Four rooms there is in my cottage; and I have three lodgers, sometimes
four, two sleeping in one room. Good lads they are too. You see, as
they get home before I do, I always lay my fire in the morning before I
go out; and a neighbour of mine sets it alight in time for the kettle
to be a-boiling when they come in to their tea at six o'clock; and they
never misses leaving a potful of good strong tea for me to have when
I get home; which you may be sure is all the more grateful through
being the only hot drink I get all day, having only a drop of cold tea,
which I carry in that can there, for my breakfast. And maybe if we are
working near a public-house, we club up, and one of us goes and gets a
drop of beer to drink with our dinners.
'If it wasn't for the lodgers, the gardens wouldn't be much use to us;
but they generally take it in hand, and often comes to take a pride in
it; so that we are never short of such vegetables as are in season;
which helps a good way towards the rent. They also chop up my wood and
fetch my water for me, and make themselves handy in a score of ways;
indeed if I lost my lodgers, I don't know what I should do. It ain't
much cooking I do in the week; but what there is to do I do after I
come home. On Sunday the lads always look for a hot dinner; which when
I'm at home, I cook for them; and when I'm at work I get all ready on
Saturday night, and one of 'em takes it to the bakehouse to be baked.
When we do work on Sundays, if we anyhow can manage it, we try to get
done by three or four o'clock, so as we may be in time to dress and go
to church; which as a rule we mostly do.
'I can't read nor yet write, and I don't suppose as there's a-many
amongst the oldest of us as can. It wasn't much chance of schooling
girls like us got in my time, as we was sent out to work at something
or other when we was about nine or ten. I did go to school for a
little while; but if I learnt anything I must have forgotten it again.
The young ones are better off for the matter of that, and are always
willing to read or write a letter for us when we want 'em.
'Nineteen years I've been at it regular now, sir; and though I was
left a widow with seven children, the oldest of 'em only ten and one
at the breast, I'm proud and thankful to say as we've never had any
need to ask once for a loaf of bread even from the parish, and trust
as we never shall. I ain't the only one either, for there's Mrs Amblin
as lives next door to me was left with nine children, oldest only
twelve, and has lived to see 'em all doing for themselves without being
beholden to nobody for a crust of bread. Some years, when the fruit
has been backward or scarce, we've had a very close push to make ends
meet; but it has only taught us to be more careful when we have a good
season, and to put by a little more towards a bad one. We don't use
any bank, bless you! what little we can manage to put by, we generally
likes to have handy where we can put our hand on it when we want it. Of
course, there's no telling what may happen; but while I have my health
and strength left me, I shall always be able to earn as much as I need;
and if it should happen as _they_ fail me, well, what with lodgers and
the shilling or two my children will help me with, I daresay I shall
struggle along somehow. Mostly, though our children don't come to be
much more than field-hands and farm-labourers, when the time comes
they don't begrudge what is due to their parents, and manage somehow
to keep 'em out of the workhouse. Not but some of 'em goes to the
bad, as might be expected, seeing the little schooling we can afford
to give them, and the temptations there is for them nowadays; but it
is only here and there one, and they generally finish up by listing
for a soldier, which soon steadies 'em. One of my lads is away now in
the East Indies; and though I don't often hear from him, he seems to
be getting on quite as well as ever he'd ha' done at home. Our girls
mostly gets acquainted with one or other of the men working about the
place where they are at service, and get married, sooner perhaps than
what we old folks think they ought to--about nineteen or twenty--and
settle down near where their husbands work.
'We don't get much chance of holidays when once the season begins,
until it is over; because, you see, sir, the master must keep the
market supplied; and if he finds one of us not to be depended on to do
our work every day, he very soon gets somebody in her place that is;
which perhaps is one reason why young women never care to settle down
to our life. Altogether, our work ain't so very hard; and if we do
have to keep at it for a many hours at a stretch, it's all in the open
air, which is a good deal better than being shut up in the walls of a
factory; and if we are anyways steady and careful, we can always make
sure of a pretty good living. So that you see, sir, there's many as is
worse off than us poor garden-women.'
SEA-SPOIL.
Somewhat more than a year ago, we called attention to the changes which
are to be perceived in the relations of land and water; the action
of rivers on the land, and the influence of delta-lands in restoring
land, to the earth, being noted in the article alluded to; whilst the
destructive action of the sea on many points of the coast was also
detailed. In the present instance we purpose to examine a few of the
more typical cases of sea-action viewed in its destructive effect upon
the land, and also some aspects of earth-movements which undoubtedly
favour the destructive power of the ocean.
As regards these destructive powers, much depends of course on the
nature of the rock-formations which lie next the sea. A hard formation
will, _cæteris paribus_, resist the attack of the waves to a greater
extent than a deposit of soft nature; and the varying nature of
the coast-lines of a country determines to a very great extent the
regularity or irregularity of the sea's action. A well-known example
of a case in which the ocean has acquired over the land an immense
advantage in respect of the softness of the formations which favoured
its inroad, is found on the Kentish coast. Visitors to Margate and
Ramsgate, or voyagers around the south-east corner of our island,
know the ancient church of Reculver--or the 'Reculvers' as it is now
named--as a familiar landmark. Its two weather-beaten towers and the
dismantled edifice are the best known objects amongst the views of the
Kentish coast; and to both geologist and antiquary the 'Reculvers'
present an object of engrossing interest. In the reign of Henry
VIII. the church was one mile distant from the sea; and even in 1781
a very considerable space of ground intervened between the church and
the coast-line--so considerable indeed, that several houses and a
churchyard of tolerable size existed thereupon. In 1834 the sea had
made such progress in the work of spoliation, that the intervening
ground had disappeared, and the 'Reculvers' appeared to exist on the
verge at once of the cliff and of destruction. An artificial breakwater
has, however, saved the structure; but the sacred edifice has been
dismantled, and its towers used as marine watch-houses. The surrounding
strata are of singularly soft nature, and hence the rapidity with which
the eroding action of the waves has proceeded.
An equally instructive case of the destructive action of the sea is
afforded by the history of the parish of Eccles in the county of
Norfolk. Prior to the accession of James VI. to the English crown
the parish was a fairly populous one. At that date, however, the
inhabitants petitioned the king for a reduction of taxes, basing
their request on the ground that more than three hundred acres of
their land had been swept away by the sea. The king's reply was short
but characteristic. He dismissed the petition with the remark, that
the people of Eccles should be thankful that the sea had been so
merciful. Since the time of the niggardly sovereign just mentioned,
Eccles has not been spared by the sea. Acres upon acres have been
swallowed up by the insatiable waves, and as Sir Charles Lyell informs
us, hills of blown sand--forming the characteristic _sand-dunes_ of
the geologist--occupy the place where the houses of King James's
petitioners were situated. The spire of the parish church, in one
drawing, is indeed depicted as projecting from amongst the surrounding
sand-dunes, which the wind, as if in league with the ocean, has blown
in upon this luckless coast.
The comparison of old maps of counties bordering on the sea with modern
charts, affords a striking and clear idea of the rate and extent of
this work of destruction. No better illustration can be cited of the
ravages of the ocean than that exhibited in maps of the Yorkshire
coast-lines, and particularly in the district lying between Flamborough
Head and the mouth of the Humber. Whilst the district between the Wash
in Lincolnshire and the estuary of the Thames shews an equally great
amount of destructive change. Three feet per annum is said to be no
uncommon rate for soft strata in these localities to be carried away;
and the geologist may point to the famous Goodwin Sands--notorious
alike in ancient and modern history--as another example of the results
of sea-action, and of the wear and tear exercised by the mighty deep.
The contemplation of such actions fits us in a singularly apt manner
for the realisation of the full force and meaning of the Laureate's
words:
There rolls the deep where grew the tree.
O Earth, what changes hast thou seen!
It is highly important, however, to note that the sea receives aid of
no ordinary kind in its acts of spoliation by the operation of certain
forces affecting the land itself. Land frequently disappears from sight
beneath the surface of the sea by a process of subsidence or sinking.
We must therefore clearly distinguish between the land which the sea
literally takes by its own act, and that which becomes its property
through this curious subsidence and sinking of the earth's crust. No
doubt the result is practically the same in each case; the sea being
in either instance the gainer, and the land the loser. But the sinking
of land being a phenomenon less familiar to the ordinary reader, we
venture to note a few of its more prominent aspects.
A primary consideration to which it is needful to direct attention
consists in the due appreciation of the fact that the land and not the
sea is to be here credited with the action under discussion. When a
considerable part of a coast-line formerly existing above tide-marks is
found to gradually sink below the sea-level, the observer is probably
apt to assume that the sea has simply altered its level. The idea of
the sea being a constantly changing body is so widely entertained,
and that of the land being a solid and immovable portion of the
constitution of the earth, is also so deeply rooted in the popular
mind, that it may take some little thinking to throw on the land the
burden of the change and alteration. It is nevertheless a fact that
the great body of water we name the ocean in reality obeys the laws
we see exemplified in the disposition of the water contained in a
cup or bowl. The water of the sea thus maintains the same level, and
is no more subject to violent and permanent alterations than is the
water in the cup or bowl. Hence when part of a coast-line appears to
become submerged, we must credit the land with being the seat of the
change, seeing that the sea must be regarded as stable, unless indeed
it could be shewn that the level of the sea had undergone a similar
change on all the coasts it touches. Thus if the southern coast of
England were found to have been depressed say to the extent of six
feet, we must credit the land with the change, unless we could shew
that the sea-level on the opposite or French coast had also changed.
Now the alterations of land are mostly local or confined to limited
areas, and are not seen in other lands bounded by the same sea or ocean
as the altered portion. Hence that the land must be regarded as the
unstable and the sea as the stable element, has come to be regarded as
a fundamental axiom of geology.
When, therefore, the works of man--such as piers, harbours, and
dwellings--become the spoil of the sea, the action has either been
one effected by the force of the waves without any change of level
of the land, or one in which land has simply subsided independently
of the destructive action of the sea. In the extreme south of Sweden
this action of land-subsidence is at present proceeding at a rate
which has been determined by observations conducted for the past
century and a half or more. The lower streets of many Swedish sea-port
towns have thus been under water for many years, and even streets
originally situated far above the water-level have been rendered up
as prey to the sea by this mysterious sinking of land. Linnæus (as
on a former occasion we remarked) in 1749 marked the exact site and
position of a certain stone. In 1836 this stone was found to be nearer
the water's edge by one hundred feet than when the great naturalist
had observed it; the subsidence having proceeded at this rate and
degree in eighty-seven years. The earliest Moravian missionaries in
Greenland had frequently to shift the position of the poles to which
they moored their boats, owing to the subsidence of land carrying
their poles seawards, as it were, by the inflow of the sea over what
was once dry land. On the coasts of Devon and Cornwall the observer
may detect numerous stumps of trees--still fixed by their roots in the
soil in which they grew--existing under water; the site being that
of an old forest which was submerged by the sinking of the land, and
which has become converted into the spoil and possession of the sea.
Even the long arm of the sea--the 'loch' of the Scotch and the 'fjord'
of Norway--which seen in the outline of a map, or in all its natural
beauty, imparts a character of its own to the scenery of a country,
exists to the eye of the geologist simply as a submerged valley, whose
sides were once 'with verdure clad,' and on whose fertile slopes
trees grew in luxuriant plenty. The subsidence of the land has simply
permitted its place to be occupied by water, and the vessel may sail
for miles over what was once a fertile valley.
Occasionally the fluctuations of land may be exemplified to an extent
which could hardly be expected, a fact well illustrated by the case of
the Temple of Jupiter Serapis at Puzzuoli on the Bay of Naples. This
temple, now in ruins, dates from a very ancient period, three marble
pillars remaining to mark the extent of what was once a magnificent
pile of buildings. Half-way up these pillars the marks of boring
shell-fish are seen; some burrows formed by these molluscs still
containing the shells by means of which they were excavated. At the
present time, the sea-level is at the very base of the pillars, or
exists even below that site. Hence arises the natural question--'How
did the shell-fish gain access to the pillars, to burrow into them
in the manner described?' Dismissing as an irrelevant and impossible
idea that of the molluscs being able to ascend the dry pillars, two
suppositions remain. Either the pillars and temple must have gone
down to the sea through the subsidence of the land, or the sea must
have come up to the pillars. If the latter theory be entertained, the
sea-level must be regarded as having of necessity altered its level
all along the Bay of Naples and along all the Mediterranean coasts.
And as this inundation would have occurred within the historic period,
we would expect not only to have had some record preserved to us of
the calamity, but we should also have been able to point to distinct
and ineffaceable traces of sea-action on the adjoining coasts. There
is, however, no basis whatever for this supposition. No evidence
is forthcoming that any such rise of the sea ever took place; and
hence we are forced to conclude that the subsidence or sinking of
the land contains the only rational explanation of the phenomena. We
had thus a local sinking of land taking place at Puzzuoli. The old
temple was gradually submerged; its pillars were buried beneath the
waters of the sea, and the boring molluscs of the adjacent sea-bed
fixed on the pillars as a habitation, and bored their way into the
stone. Then a second geological change supervened. The action of
subsidence was exchanged for one of elevation; and the temple and
its pillars gradually arose from the sea, and attained their present
level; whilst the stone-boring shell-fish were left to die in their
homes. The surrounding neighbourhood--that of Vesuvius--is the scene
of constant change and alteration in land-level; and the incident is
worth recording, if only to shew how the observation of the apparently
trifling labours of shell-fish serves to substantiate a grave and
important chapter in the history of the earth.
The statistics of wrecks and of the amount of human property which have
fallen a prey to the 'sounding main' may thus be shewn to be not only
paralleled but vastly exceeded in importance and extent by the records
of the geologist, when he endeavours to compute the losses of the land
or the gains of the sea. But on the other hand, the man of science
asks us to reflect on the fact that the matter stolen from us by the
sea is undergoing a process of redistribution and reconstruction. The
fair acres of which we have been despoiled, will make their appearance
in some other form and fashion as the land of the future; just indeed
as the present land represents the consolidated sea-spoil of the past,
which by a process of elevation has been raised from the sea-depths to
constitute the existing order of the earth. Waste and repair are simply
the two sides of the geological medal, and exist at the poles of a
circle of ceaseless natural change. So that, if it be true that the sea
reigns where the land once rose in all its majesty, as the Laureate has
told us, no less certain is it that--to conclude with his lines--
There where the long street roars, hath been
The stillness of the central sea.
Thus the subject of sea-spoil, like many another scientific study,
opens up before us a veritable chapter of romance, which should possess
the greater charm and interest, because it is so true.
THE ADMIRAL'S SECOND WIFE.