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#
THE
VILLAGE OF MERKOW;
ITS PAST AND PRESENT.
By frank JOHNSON,
Author of Lashed to the Mizzen, Giles and Janey, or the Kindly
f Gentleman^ &c.
" The gods are just, and of our pleasant ricea
Make instruments to scourge us."
KIKO Leab. .
PRINTED BY LOVELL PRINTING AND PUBLISHING COMPANY.
1876.
Entered according to Act of Parliament, In the year one tlioueand eight hundred and
aroSTwr' ' '''^"'"''''- '" *'' '^"' °'*'* ""'"^^ of Agriculture and StattS
DEDICATION
TO WILLIAM CHAMBERS, Esq.
Sir, — In inscribing to you the accompanying narrativo, I have
been guided, mainly, by the high opinion which I have over
entertained of your unremitting exertions in the diffusion of pro-
fitable knowledge. I can recall the day when the earliest of your
publications for the people made its appearance. 1 v^as then in
my tvvonty-fiirst year, with Leith Walk and its surroundings as
familiar, perhaps, to me as to yourself, which not a little enhanced
the interest that I took in your adventure. From then to the
present time, no observer can have failed to notice, and no candid
mind but will acknowledge the giant share which it and its suc-
cessors have had, not only in cultivating the taste of the public,
but in awakening in those for whom they were more especially
intended an ambition for still higher attainments.
Although the English agricultural labourer, in whose behalf the
following pages have been written, can hardly, in the comparative
darkness that still begirts him, be said to have been more than
reached by your endeavours, you have been instrumental, and
more so than any one I could name, by quickening the sympathy
of those better circumstanced, in furnishing him, and when most
needed, with friends and upholders. It would, indeed, be dis-
heartening to suppose that labours, so fruitful elsewhere, had in
one direction been entirely barren.
There is no name, moreover, it would seem, that cou|,d be here
introduced with so much propriety as your own, from the circum-
stance that it was an account in " Things as they are in America,"
of the hopeless prospect of a Scottish ploughman in his old age,
that determined me to write some such work as " The Tillage op
DEDICATION.
Merrow." This .was many years ago. I was then living in a log
house, on a farm embosomed in the woods of Lower Canada.
Never wore words more in place than your own, that, doubtless,
the writing of it had been to mo a source of pleasure on many a
•wearisome day. In the trials inseparable from broken health, in
a new and rugged country, it has indeed been so, and it is from
your sympathy therein that I am emboldened to hope that my
work, now completed and revised, will be found to atford you an
additional pleasure in its perusal. In the meantime, I have the
satisfaction to know that my work will, with j^ou, be under the
eye of one too informed to misjudge me, and too generous not to
know how to make allowance for failure in a field where so few
have ventured to tread, and where very few, in so doing, would
be found not to have stumbled.
"With the hope that many years of health and happiness are yet
in store for you,
Believe me, Sir,
With the utmost respect,
Your obedient servant, \
FRANK JOHNSON.
INTRODUCTION TO THE AMERICAN EDITION.
In the hope of meeting with support, not only in the Dominion of
Canada, but also in the United States, in the publication of " The
Village of Merrow, its Past and Present," I have been en-
couraged liy the belief that no rightly minded man can have re-
garded with indirt'erence the degradation, in every way, of that
exodus from Britain which, for so many years, has been inundating
and polluting the shores of America.
That, long ago, the American people, I am speaking of the
States, were aware of the danger that threatened them, may be
gleaned from u work, published some twenty years since, entitled
"Emigration in its practical application to individuals and com-
munities." " But while," writes Mr. Bui-ton, its author, " the
"States can, as it is generally said, absorb them, while they are
" in the meantime an advantage, in a pecuniary sense at least, to
" the American people, transatlantic statesmen, who look into the
"future, shake their heads, and fear that too large a stratum of
"this coari-est clay of human life is imported from our country,
"and deposited on theirs. They think that it comes in masses
" too large to be sufficiently disintegrated and dispersed among
"their own energetic people. The time may come when it is
"no economic advantage to receive them, and here is one warning
" to us in Britain to strain every nerve to save our own country
" from a succeeding race of a similarly damaged population, a
" warning that, disastrous as it must ever be to possess such a popu-
" lation within our bosom, the wretched resource of draining it off
" may be denied to us by the stopping of the exit." Now, no one
familiar with the present condition of what in Britain are culled
the lower orders, will, I am sure, venture to say that, at least in
one great and important body of them, of whom thousands
annually emigrate to America, there has been, since the above
was written, any alteration for the better. Again and again was
it enforced on me, some twelve years since, by the farmers of
England, that in the present agricultural labourer I should hardly
recognize the man whom, of old, it was my fortune to employ, so
had he morally retrograded.
A I
6
INTRODUCTION TO THE AMKUICAN EDITION.
Wore the evil T am Hpcaking of to bo rated only by the number
of tliOHO who, on hin<iin^ in America, report themselves as
peasants and labourers, it would appear that, comparatively, it
could be but of limited extent; but they who have made it their
business to look into the matter, know, that a lar^e, very largo
pcrcentaLi^o of such as on their arrival announce themselves as
artizans and tradesmen owe by far the greater part of what in thorn
is divine or otherwise, to the days when, neglected and })Oorlyfed,
it was their lot to follow their fathers into the tields.
There is never anything to be gained by refusing to look facts
in the face. As a rule, this is the man that, as an agricultural
labourer at least, has, for the last half century, been inundating
the West, that, for generations past, has been sent out to aid in
perpetuating British rule, — in establishing new kingdoms for
her governance. In nine cases, to the full, of every ten, ho is an
ignorant, under-fed, saucy, dishonest clout — a tippler into the bar-
gain. Of religion he has none, — of self-reliance as little. In this
last respect, the Irishman in New Brunswick, who condemned the
country as one in which a man had no one to depend on but him-
self, may be cited as a 8am])le. Of the tenth to be excepted from
this, which some, knowing them less thoroughly than others, may
be disposed to regard as too severe a condemnation, it is impossi-
ble to speak too highly; and disheartening is it to reflect on
the position of men so, in every way, deserving of a better one.
Did not humanity and religion equally fox bid the withholding a
hand from the former, (les])ite of their unworthiness, the miserable
po.-sition of this tithe, so representative of what one would hope
the majority of British countrymen might be brought to become,
would still be sufficient to incite even the less sanguine to stir in
their behalf.
Now, there must be a cause for this, — this wholesale demoraliza-
tion. Men are not physically weak without an assignable reason ;
as little can they be morally so. Let us see to it.
With the least possible fear of contradiction, it maybe said that
the oldest amongst us can recall nothing better than low wages and
hard work as the unvarying lot of the English agricultural labourer.
Now, is not such a condition the one most calculated to disnature
and demoralize any one, the most certain to sap and destroy every
tendency to religion and morality, more particularly when causes
scarcely less potent contribute, as can be shown, to the same
result?
\
INTRODUCTION TO TIIK AMERICAN EDITION. 7
At a rocont occlosiastical gathering in Montreal it was said by
one of the Epincopacy, in reply to a follow divine who had KUg-
gostcd that it would bo chooriug and encouraging to immigrants
were the Church to put itself more directly in communication
with them on their arrival, that he was afraid that immigrants, in
general, have never been in the habit of attending churches.
Never was an observation more to the point, and never, in its
truthfulness, one more humiliating to an establishment of which
the reverend uttercr, doubtless, considered ho had every reason to
be proud. As far as the agricultural labourer is concerned, assur-
edly no insignificMit item as an immigrant, he cortaiidy is not,
nor has he, for generations past, boon in the habit of attending
his church. Not that 1 would put such (his attendance) in all
cases, as a test of a man's moral standing. Very far from it ; but
in him, the agricultural labourer, in whom, in general, little dis-
sent, and still less philosophy withholds, bo assured that some-
thing is radically wrong, both socially and politically, in his habi-
tual absenteeism. Heroin is the secret. The labourers are
accustomed to look upon their minister as one leagued against
them in the interest of the landowner. In their rocont endeavours
to elevate themselves how rare was a word in their behalf from
those whoso business it is to inculcate Christianity! Moreover,
can any one, labourer or other, be expected to feel iiimsolf at
home where, in every shape, he is made conscious of his inferiority,
and where the weaknesses, follies and sins of only a class are
dwelt on, to the utter ignorement of the wholesale neglect of duty
so general with that class who of all should be the forwardest by
their example and teachings to encourage what is good in others.
Is it reasonable for those whose interests and sentiments are, at
all timo.s, identified with those of capital to calculate upon the
sympathy and respect of labour ? No, there is little room for
surprise at their habitual absenteeism. With wages insufficient
for the bare necessaries of life, with endurances, in a thousand
shapes, humiliating, with no moral guide that they care to listen
to, with no prospect in the distance but a workhouse, is it not
rather a thing to be wondered at, is it not an astounding compli-
ment to our common nature, that, now and again a religious and
sober man is still to be found in their midst. I hold myself
responsible, said an old Indianapolis methodist to a Nonconformist
of Brooklyn " for having every body do right by me, and if they
don't do right, it is because I do not do my duty. In preaching
8
INTRODUCTION TO TIIK AMEUICAN EDITION.
Ill
during your lifo do you tako tlio lilnmo upon yourself, iind don't
you bo scolding your duircli, and blaming ovory body. It is
your buHincHH to koo tbat your folks arc rigbt." Would tlio tbou-
sands, at. ])rost'nt «o in ovory way ready to truckle to tbo land-
owner, but take tboise noblo words to tbeir boHoins, and carry tbom
with tbeni into tbeir i)ul|)itH, tbo ])oor dod-boppers would soon
ceane to require to be told wbo were tbeir friendn, but, wilb atl'ec-
tion and reveienco, tboy would seek ^''om in tbeir teniples, and
liaton to tbom tbere as olsowbere.
But recently at tbo opening (in tbo niotber country) of a block
of inii)rovcd industiial dwellings it was observed by a bigb divine
tbat "bo was quite certain tbat there was nothing that ho inter-
fered with tbat morality, which it was the business of the Munici-
pality to giuird over as the state of the homes of the poor, when
those homes were such as to demoralize the occu])ants." Might
not the reverend gentleman, with equal honour to himself, permit
bis philauthropy to indulge itself, at times, a little further. Would
a word or two from the same source be all waste upon something
of still greater importance at least to the agr'/jultural poor, that their
wages should ceaso to bo such as to compel them, and liovv fre-
quently, to drag into the fields with tbom oven their daughters
and wives ! Can morality or decency be ever hoped for in homos
where siK'h a resort is a necessity? It would need for his rever-
ence to make but a very limited tramp in his own Devonshire to
assure himself of this.
Were the consequences of this neglect restricted to those with
whom it originated, we, upon this side of the Atlantic, might bo
pardoned for considering that it was in no way our business to
remonstrate or interfei-e. But whilst consequences the most fatal
must result to tbo mother country from this continued neglect of
her labourers, we, in the meantime, in America, whether of tbo
Dominion, or of the States, are made bitterly to taste of its fruits,
in a lowered standard amongst us of principle and sentiment. It
is far, therefore, from being no concern of ours. I know that I
am treading upon delicate ground; but what is to be found again
and again in the columns of our ablest and most reliable journals
but an expression of regret that, with all our advances materially
and scientilically, we aro yearly as a people becoming rnoro dis-
solute and less trustworthy. Is it necessary to dilate upon this?
I refer every one to bis daily experience. Sons and grandsons,
to so great an extent, of men out nightly for what they could lay
\
INTRODUCTION TO THE AMEKICAN KDITION.
9
thoir handrt on as a miiko up f<»r Ihoir doficieut oarnin^'s, to say
nothing of the thounandrt who, in the dayH when thoro wore no
ocean cables, found America too often a convenient resort, — how,
with the bulk of us, could it well have been otherwise. Not in a
vengeful s])irit, but by the operation of natural laws, are the sin«
of the fathers visited upon the children. The dishonesty and
rufTianisni, too frequently iniporteil into this country by the for-
mer, are, with the majority of them, on the acquirement of prop,
orty in land, in some degree abandoned ; still, it is difficult to
suppose that the sons of such men Hnd in their paternal soil a
very encoui-agirig one for the growth of honour or nobility.
Disheartened by thoir ingratitude, a philanthropic society in
England has of late been complaining that of nearly a thousand
assisted emigrants to the Dominion, ^elccted for their known
honesty and ])rovi(lence, not one, in accordance with their written
promises, had remitted a single farthing of what was advanced tH
them, though many of them are known to have prosperetl exceed-
ingly. Let such societies, howsoever hard they may find it to
do so, keep silent for the future. They have expected an impossi-
bility. Nor lot Canadian journalists, on an insiiuiation of some-
thing contaminating in the climate of Caiuida, be too ready to
retaliate, that the change complained of " is not a metamorphosis
but a rela])se," that '• the honesty and providence shown in Eng-
land was the whitcd se})ulchrc covering ivgrainod dishonesty and
Beillshness," that "these paltry (?) vices are importations, not
indigenous to the soil of Canada," that "if there is one thing that
the people of Canada dcs})ise more than another it is an act of
meanness." Let them not thus, I say, retaliate. Let thom rather
remember their own daily reprovings of the meanness and dis-
honesty, not of such as the jiarties complained of, but of the very
highest, most intluential in tho state, a majority of whom would
possibly be found, on inquiry, to bo indebted for their social or
political prominence to a life-long ])raetice of the same paltry vices
inherited, of old, fj-om their own ncglocted sires and grandsires.
TliO gallant Major General, vice chairman of the society complain-
ing, forgets that his proteges have never in any temptations at
home been able to promise themselves so probable an escape with
impunity. Tho temptation lias simply proved, and would again
and again prove too strong for thom, with no better training than
had boon theirs in England, and with so taintetl an atmosphere as
awaits thom in America. Singularly exceptional must have been
10
INTRODUCiioIi TO THE AMEKICAN EDITION.
11!
his position and oxporionce here who shall venture to deny the
triithfulness of this.
Now, this degraded condition of the English agricultnral
lahourer can never, in the way of improvement, bo reached but from
above and beymid him. Recent events have clearly demonstrated
this. He is, both morally and intellectually, too debased to stand
true QVQiW to himself. Ho endures his wrongs and miseries with
a patience that surprises us, but he is totally unable to see that
unanimity alone is wanting to obtain for him his rights. The
man that, for years, has submitted, with barely more than a
grun.l)lc, to short commons and insuflicient clothing, trembles
when called upon to look his o])])rcssors in the fnce. It has ever
been so. JScither the British nor American slave could have
effected his own freedom. This was the result, under Divine
guidance, of an enlai-gcd public sentiment in his favour, and it
hiis been in cho hope of awakening the same, in behalf of what, in
the States, I have too often beard of as the white slave of England,
that I have been encouraged, in hours stolen from Canadian win-
ter nights, in the prosecution of " The Village of Merrow."
My object therein has been to give the countryman of England an
opportunity of speaking for himself, of stating his own case, and,
in so doing, by reaching the heart of the public, bring, if possible,
a blush to the cheeks of those who, with rare exceptions, have for
BO long a pei'iod been banded with the landowner against him.
It would have availed but little to have tamely followed in the
steps of a Crabbe, '• revelling," as a critic has said of him, " as in
a luxury, in descriptions of vice and woe, and never caring to
teach how the jioor, of whom he is emphatically called the poet,
may be made wiser, andbetter, and happier." Crabbe, in becom-
ing a Churchman, and a pluralist, tied up his hands. To have
spoken the whole truth might have robbed him of his bread
Taking a less timid, and more extended range, I have made it my
endeavour to show, not only what is precisely the position of the
English countryman, but, at the same time, to demonstrate that
there is amjde opportunity of improving it, and further, that in
evey way it is immensely England's interest to do so. It can
never, surely, be to her advantage to populate colonies with no
kindly looking back to her in the majority of their peoples. Let
her take her countryman more humanely by the hand, put him
in a better position to do justice to himself and those dependent
on him, and, a thousand-fold, let her rely on it, would she find
i
INTRODUCTION TO THE AMERICAN EDITION.
11
)nj the
herself ropfiid in his increased loyalty both at home and abroad.
" iNcver vote, sir," said an old countryman to me, at a recent
election in Quebec, ''never vote for he, sir; — he be one o' thaay
'risturcrats, I kiiaws 'em well, sir — thaa}' bo aal alike, thaay
'ristuvcrats." Bitterly was this uttered, yet was this man, with all
his bitterness, but a sample of his class. How easily, one would
think, mitjht Enii^land, witli her hazeled lanes and her hawthorued
fields to aid her, have retained his affection anil lespcct. Still ring-
ing ill ray ears are the groans and hisses of a b.'vtch of emigrants,
when, in public meeting, on the day of their departure, the merest
allusion was made to their treatment by the farmers and squire-
archy ; and, if a home journal now by my side may be trusted,
but the other dav might the same hootings and hisses have been
heard, on the lea'Mng of another oiiipload for the same continent.
Q'o what, let me ask, must this load, — what will be its fruits ! Let
not England deceive herself At the f.iuntain head of that stream
which, gathering as it flows, is still s])reading itself over the most
distant lands, must she purify and make wholesome its waters, or
disease wn 11 alone spring from them wherever they shall spread,
not a people virtuous and enlightened, loving and honouring her,
loyal and true to her, but one, in every waj-, antagonistic to '■'i'r,
and corrupt and disloyal at heart. Hourly are her best wishers
here made to feel, and in all its bitterest, the truthfulness of this.
Nay, impossible is it, I re})eat, for the least attentive observer of
what is passing, either in the United States, or in Britain's colo-
nies, not to be struck by the fact, that not only is their intelligence
and moral standing invariably proportionate to the intellectual
and moral calibre of those by whom they were fii-st settled, but
that in proportion as they have since been exj)osed to the damag-
ing influences of a deteriorated population from Europe have they
in their peoples moi'o or less retrogradetl. Even in the old Puritan
States, by all who have a past to draw upon, this is unhesitatingly
allowed. Railroads, steamships, and electric cables, said the late
Canon Kingsley, are not civilization ; that is a thing from within.
It is so. Jefferson, on becoming President, proposed to himself
to show " how the ship would sail when laid upon the democratic
tack." — He hatl loss considered than, perhaps, had Washington,
that his pet ship would have eventually to be put upon her trial,
not by the honest tars of her own training, the democrats of his
own soil, but by millions, it may bo truly said, of the very dregs
of society shoveled out, as so much filth, u^jon her shores.
li>
INTRODUCTION TO THE AMERICAN EDITION.
w\
It is England's pride that her people and her langna;:f3 are
spreading themselves over the earth. It is so, and if what I have
just said bo equally so, how great is her responsibility therein.
Let her look to it. What a destiny might then be hers !
To bo sure, we are promised, in an extended education of her
people, a less benighted immigrant, but shall we find in him a
soberer and more honest one, if still reared upon wages which to
us of the West appear simply disgraceful ? Will it advantage
either him or us that he shall have been taught how to syllal)le
honest}', if hunger and misery are still to forbid him its practice?
I have too little faith in some things to believe so. " I, you must
know, sir," once said to me a Dorset woman, " have brought up a
family upon eight shillings a week." Yes, she had brought them
up, but not to be honest; — two of them I know to be robbers.
It is time that both the Dominion and the Siates protest against
this wholesale exportation of what Mr. Burton has not inaptly
called the coarsest clay of human life, — that Britain be told, and in
a tone to bo heard, that she has no right to stand in the way of
civilization by reducing her labourers to the level of brutes. In
vain will America look for honest citizens, for upright legislators,
foi' orderliness and decency in men, sprung, to so grc.'it an extent,
from a class whose progenitors, for generations past, have been
educated, or rather driven by want and misery to dishonesty and
untruthfulness.
To awaken, I repeat, in England, a sympathy for this unfortu-
nate class of men, as a means of assisting them to a higher and
happier position, and thereby to originate a higher standard of
refinoment and morality here, has been my object in writing " The
Village op Merrow;" and if, for very many years, both in the
old country and in her colonies, to have rubbed shoulders with the
English countryman, and to have tasted, and in no small degree,
of the bitterness and misery [ have written of, whilst, with a
3'oung family and broken health, battling with the wilderness of
Lower Canada, can bo regarded as qualifying me for the task, may
I not venture to hope that my endeavours will be found to have
not been entirely in vain.
It may be thought by some that I have drawn upon my imagi-
nation a little too severely in my delineation of the Rev. Horatius
Slack. In reply I would say, that in the columns of one of the
highest and discreetest journals of the day is still to be seen how
much more indulgent I have been to him who sat to me for the
INTRODUCTION TO THE AMERICAN EDITION.
13
picture than was he to any one so unfortunate as to stand within
his reach. Having, long since, passed to his account, I might in
charity, it would seem, have left him to his deserts. And so had it
been, had I, on my way, since, met with fewer treading in the same
path, mantled in all the unholiness that was his. By no pardon-
able misconduct, rely on it, nor by any mere skin-deep conviction
of the necessity for so doing, could an assembly, no other than our
own Imperial parliament, have, on more than one occasion of late,
been ])rovoked to an enquiry into the tyranny and injustice of
Buch as was he. By too many of his class -'The Village op
Merrow" will, I know, be little welcomed, and in its dappled pages
venomously assailed. It is pleasant to know that their arrows will
fall harmless upon the ocean between us. In return, I will make
bold to say, if only as a warning to them, that I am far from being
the only one, Vt ith at least the Atlantic for a lens, to whose vision
the little cloud pointed to in my tale is daily becoming bigger
and bigger ; and let them beware, lest, on its breaking, upon their
heads descend its retributive bolt.
FRANK JOHNSON.
m'
I fii '
THE VILLAGE OF MEEROW;
ITS PAST AND PRESENT.
Scene, England,— a county bordering on the mouth of the River Thames.
Time,— towards the end of the first half of the present century.
PART FIRST.
CHAPTER I.
Merrovo Churchyard by moonlight.
Now Dian's orb was hung on high,
And all so sunk in rest,
A stranger to the world had deemed
Its habitants were blest.
Who, with the fjorcery around
Of a night so calm, so clear,
Could have borne to think that its least content
Could have ever known a tear ?
A night indeed ! — so hushed, serene,
Scarce a dead leaflet stirr'd;
If, in the far, a cry, a chime.
Who would not such have heard.
The snowy moon thai lives aloft
Seemed all alone to bide.
As if the only thing awake.
And watching all beside.
I could but think, if day's bright orb
Were made alone for light,
Man might have done without the sun,
For the sake of such a night.
Thus bewitched, — leaning against an old tomb, whose shade, in
part, concealed mo, my attention was suddenly aroused by the
tread of some one approaching. By the western gate, to the left
of me, a countryman was entering the yard. On his right arm
was a scythe. Breaking, a^ter a few steps, from the beaten track,
I could see him, by the brightness everywhere, zigzagging amidst
the tombs, till he had reached one in the part (at the back of the
IG
THE VILLAGE OF MEIIROW.
•Ill
church) (lovotod to tho poor. By this, after a while, I observed
him to kneel ; — then, abruptly ri^^ing, — tho sleeve of his Htnock,
for a moment, to bin eyes, and his scythe again on his arm. he, as
in haste, made for the road. I could guess who it was: — It was
John Hawthorne, a labourer of Merrow, a man of great strength
of character, and of equal kindliness and honesty, one of thoso
who occasionally make their appearance upon the troubled waters
of life, as if for no other end than to help to make them the
smoother. For some years a widower, and with two children, his
way had, for awhile, been anything but an easy one. The early
liandiness, however, of the elder, a girl, had, of late, bettered
things a bit. Moreover, being of sound health, and of good
prowess, liis established name enabled hitn, at times, to somewhat
enlarge the miserable pittance which is still for men of his class
called wiiges. and, to his honor bo it said, this was never, in the
hour of their need, withheld from his mates. By many a half-
starved comrade, to tho present day, might a bright tale be told of
him, By one alotie was he regarded with a loss friendly fecliag.
It was whispered that, in one direction, no little jealousy existed
in respect of tho nutnbors that increasing'y mustered at what
Hawthorne was in tho habit of calling " his little meetings like."
The>e were held weekly at his cottage, on the Sunday: — but of
this hereafter.
And now for a little retrospection. — I was still but a young
man when I tirst passed through the village of Merrow. — I am
speaking, mind, of realities, — I was out botanizing. This was
some years prior to when old remembrances induced me, as spoken
of above, to loiter, on my way homeward, in its burial ground. I
was bound, at the time for Shropton, a borough tovvn, between
which and Lavent, whore 1 had taken up my abode, and equally
distant by a mile or two from either, lay the village of Mer-
row. I recall, and if any thing is ever engraven on tho heart,
this, I should say, from its present vividness, must have been upon
mine, I recall that, on reaching about the half-way house of tho few
Btrairirlinu' cotta<i:es which was all that existed of Merrow as a
village, I was suddenly brought to a standstill by tho almost
rabid indignation of a countryman named Harry llobbs, at the
seizure, (it had just taken place) by the Vicar's employee, of a
from the little garden patch in front of his cottage. Alt
sp
"&^
that I could get from him at first, in the shape of explanation,
was, " There he go-e-s, sir 1" — pointing to a man at a distance in
ivi-
■■(X? —
■T
THE VILLAGE OF MERROW.
17
the middle of the roud, with something on hin shoulder, "There
ho go-e-H, bir !"
" What about him ?" I said.
" Why, Hir, there he go-e-s !"
" Well, but, my good man—"
" You be, Bir, the young gentleman, bean't you, as is a stoppin'
at Lavent " (a village a mile or two to the west of Morrow) "for*
his lu-alth?"
" Well ?"
" ' iouse I, sir, but if you'll be good enough to jist step into my
garden, I should like you, sir, to hoar the rights on't. — You soo,
sir, ([H)inting to a yard or two of newly dug ground,) you see,,
sir, wheer 1 wor a diggin' for innuns," (onions).
" Certaiidy."—
" Well, sir, as I says, I wor a diggin' for innuns; when, lookin''
out, I sees a chap as wer a comin' up the road. — "Sal,'' says I, to'
my Missus, " Who bo that, yunder?" " Yunder ?" says she — " tho
passon's man." " Then," says I, — " bad luck to'n !" Well, sir, on
he come, and jist, as you, sir, tho like o' now, he steps into my
patch, and moaking right up to wheer I wer a standin', he taakes
out. sir, from his pocket a lot o' bits o' poaper, and handin' one to
I, " That's yourn," says he ; " And what about it ?" says 1,—" Two
and nine for the passon's tithe." — "Then," says I, "I'm dang'd
if I pays it," — when up he struts to wheer, as you see, sir, I wer
a diggin' for innuns, and clutching hold o' my spoado ho cla])S it
on to his shoulder, and walks clean atf with it; and there he go-e-s,
sir, yunder! — A mussy as I kep my hands atfn !"
Poor fellow! I forget whether my own found its way into my
pocket; — one will hope that it did. But I recall, that, as I saun-
tered on in tho direction of Shropton, tho " 'sizes town," simpling
as I went, my portfolio was encumbered with lower specimens
than usual, and that, before I had reached Shropton, I was fain to
set at deliance the dusty nottlos which by the road side, in tho
rankness of their growth, quite threateningly stood betwixt mo
and a snug hedge bank that I had singled out for a resting spot,
— with the luxury of a hawthorn tangled with Bryony for a
shade, and with the still lingering Lychnis and pretty Herb
Robert both within reach. Here, youthful, comparatively, as I
was, I found it impossible to abstain from a little retrospection,
and, as you will, probabl3^, have already supposed, I was not lon^
in coming to a conclusion that in what I had just hoard and seen
B
18
TIIK VILLAOK OF MKRUOW.
I
m
there was Homelhiji^ that was radically wrong, — somelhiiig that
had no need to be; — and I have ever since regarded it as among
the expericncen which it would hardly bo less than a crime, for
some of us at least, to have known, and never to have spoken of.
The interest which this had excited in me as to the doings in
Mei'i'ow had certainly not blunted my attention on my return
•/narch from Shropton, which, as the borough was new tome, was
not till late in the evening. To the left, looking westward, about
midway between it and Morrow, I observed a branch road which,
by a circuitous swoop, bounding on the north a tempting preserve,
the property of Squire S(iuander, reentered the main road a
little in advance of the tlrst cottage (John Hawthorne's) of what
was then the village of Morrow. The first, say quarter of a mile,
of this bye-road, it the Morrow end of it, went by the name of
'' the Moor lane," and at the bottom of it, or, strictly speaking, a
little beyond it, lay the freehold hut, for it was scarcely better, of
IJiles Hawthorne, the brother of John Hawthorne. Returning
to the main road, — to the right, further on, and lying back a bit,
was the homestead of farmer Manly, and facing this, straggling
for fully a quarter of a mile, wore a number of cottages, which,
whenever the neatly kept little plots of ground in front of them
wore able to wean one from reflection, had still, perhaps, a
charm. Bo3'ond those, to the right, lay the noble mansion
oi (Hku'Ios Squander, Esq., and further on, but on the opposite
side of the road, was the church, and its cemetery, beyond which,
on the same side of the way, was the residence of the liev. Ilora-
tius Slack.
lijite when 1 lotl Shi'ojjton, llio lights were all out as I passed
through Morrow, and noihing broke upon the simjilo solemnity of
the scono, with the exception of a ram])ant and, seemingly, fero-
cious mastiff, which, as I passed tho Vicar's, with his docp-
nioulhod sullonnoss made me for a moment pause, and consider —
but a truco, just now, with considering: —
Quickening my pace, I was soon where by one less at war, at
least with myself, I was welcomed, as who would not be, to what
was to mo. for years afiorwar Is, tho happiest of homes.
TIIK vn.I.A(JE CK MKHK(>VV.
19
i
m
ClIArTEU II.
On rctirin^^ for the ui^^lit, T wuh Iohs curly nf>lccp than My
(lay'8 tramp would have warranted. Indejiendently of the excep-
tional circumstance under whicli 1 tir.st observed him, Harry
llobbs was about the last man to be seen, and readily fbr^'otten.
If ever in a Briton'a face was the bull-do;,^, it was in his. This, in
the days wdicn the heroes of Moseley Hurst were still remembered,
commanded ibr him a certain consideration. At the time I am
writing of, he was in his twent3'-sixth year, and, although in
stature somewhat wanting, he was a man of remarkable prowess,
and, as Ids looks showed, fearless, to a fault. His course had, it
seems, so far, been an uphill one:
His father was a Devon man,
An ostler at an inn,
With less in this life's lottery.
Far less, to lose than win.
And dying young, while Ilobbs was yet
A jiarcnt's ])etted joy,
Hobbs curly had to front the world,
A rude unlettered boy.
How grand it is that ]>arent's love.
That jnother's guardian care.
Have more than half suj)plied the ])luco
Cf school, -when schools were rare.
But for this boon, with Hobb's fierce hate,
Jveen sense of wrong, and pride,
His failings, sure, hud ruther leuned
To vice than virtue's side.
But, as it proved, in roughest hour,
Ev'n hunger's rudest shock,
A mother's angel voice would start
Beneath the country smock.
This kept him straight in virtue's way ;
Her champi<m all along.
Many a round fought Hobbs for right,
And rarely one for wrong.
The companionship of the Huwthornes, and of one Isaac Styles,
an aged hedger, had helped to mould him, particularly of the
latter, than whom no one, be it observed, in his sterling integrity,
and unpretending piety, to say nothing of his repute in law
matters, stood higher in the parish.
20
THE VILLAGE OF MEIiROW.
h
m
CUAVTKll II r.
The little iiic-iilont, on my way throiii^h Iho vilIa<^o, huviiiw
excited my curio.sity, il oceiuTod to mo thnt this mii^lit ho Jigroo-
nbly ^lutific'd hy uvailiiiic myhclf' of an invit ition with which, and
not I'or tho tirsl time, I had hcon favoiii'od hy ono farmer Manl^*.
Accordingly, but twice had the old village clock of Morrow eal-
cndered ai»other day wlu'n 1 found myself, on a briglit June
morning, comfortably seated in his front parlour, and with some-
thing on the table between us which [ was assiire<l by Mr. Manly,
would harm no one, discussing the iH>litics and particulars of the
place.
"Well," said lie, "this titheing us, as times stand, has done no
good. You see, sir, among the labourers thei'o's a deal of discon-
tent just now, and (possibly some of the scjuiros would not like to
hear me say it) with good reason. Wiion I was a youngster,
sir, and for some years, indeed, afterwards, things were altogether
dii^'erent. I can mind me of thodtiy, when a man would off with his
nmock, and up with his sleeves at halfof a word against his master.
It's not so now, sir. We don't pull together at all. What with
commons enclosure bills, and taking away tho bits of ground that
were let with the cottages, tho indopondent feeling of the men has
been quite broken down. They look to the parish, in tho winter,
as a matter of course. You sec (help yourself, sir, that'll not
hurt you) you see, sir, when a man has something to fall back
upon, if only an acre or so, he feels that he is not, altogether, a
mere cipher; — ho has, and ho knows U, a stake in tho place, — it
makes him law-abiding. I am sorry to say it, but even hero,
where the men are better behaved than in some parts, many a
one is out in tho tields, at night, for what don't belong to him. A
neighbour and I, tho other evening, counted up as many as ninety
little holdings that at one time were within the circuit of a mile
or 80. Not one of them, sir, is loft. Many of the proprietors
have even pulled down their cottages, thinking, by driving tho
poor fellows elsewhere, to lessen the rates. Now, I say, sir, this
is not right, — not tho way to make a country either happy, or
lastingly great. I have always thought, sir, (a noble father
taught me to think so), that nothing in a nation that is unchristian
goes unpunished more than in an individual. It is the duty, (don't
spare it, sir, that'll not hurt you), it is the duty, 1 say, of a govern-
THE VlLIiAUK OF MURUOW.
21
mcnt to make it more tho intorost of n nmn to keep the law than
to break it. Picture, nir, no bread in the house, for days, and a
field of potatoes handy I I may seem to he talkin^' boldly."
"Not at all HO," I waid.
"Rely on it, sir, that the day will be, when all thin will right
itHelf."
" 1 thou;:;lit, Mr. Manly," I ventured '• that on euoh pointH
farmers were barely permitted the privilege of thinking, still lost
of speaking."
" Ah, there's the misfortune, sir. The yearly tenancy system is
little better than serfdom. Fortunately for me, though ni}' farm
is but a small one, the lease I hold of it is for throe lives, my own
for one; — hut for that, sir, I should soon feel the bit in my
mouth. You wei'O speaking of the new tithe claim. Well, you
see, sir, it had lapsed, as they say, for so long, that it was not till
after three years of lawing arid lussing about it that tho Vicar's
claim was allowed. Of course, as a Vicar's it was a small tithe."
"I understand you."
" It has done him, sir, a deal of harm, as, being a wealthy man,
quite in(le])endent of his living, it is thought that he, at leant,
might have left things as they were. Such men .is (liles Raw-
thorno and Harry lIobbs> kick at it fiercely, which I am sorry for,
as Giles, for one, has a deal to contend with otherwise. You
8ee, sir, his bit of a freehold giving him a county vote, at the last
contest, which was a close one, he voted for the liberal man.
Many of us did so. lie was ottered almost anything for his vote
by the other side."
"And he refused it?"
" Yes, sir, for he's a thorough man, every inch of him; but it
has sadly crossed him in obtaining employment, even, which may
Hcem strange, with the mere farmers ; — the fact is, more than hal/
of these are at the bidding of the landlords. The Squire's game-
keeper, too, I am afraid, has anything but forgotten how a little
blue-eyed damsel, not an age since, snubbed him at the Squire's-
His brother John still, at times, works for me. He did, a deal so,
till my own lads got to be big enough to help me."
I was, indeed, sorry that an engagement at Shropton com-
pelled me to somewhat abruptly conclude my interview with Mr.
Manly. I had much, I was aware, yet to learn from him."
"This will not " said he, as I rose to leave, " be, I trust, sir, the
^last that we shall see of you ?"
22
TIIK VILLAni-: OK MKUROVV.
I ho wed.
" If you'ro foiul of floworn, nir, iIhm'o'm my wife fuirly flower
mud."
" A tino ol<l fellow !" I said, on rc;i;jiinin;; the road, " a fine old'
fellow I"
CHAPTER TV.
The Rev. IIohatiu.s Slack,
Of temper mild, in bearing mecif,
II is tears the weaker pai't,
Hiw piety, ah, wlio could doubt.
He knew the book by heart.
Ah gcntlonosH, — whoso lips as thine
Can roach all hearts within ;
The proud his meek reproof confossccl
Would more than flattery win.
Who, with an ear the least attuned,
Could hearken to the tono
Of that wierd voice, so suasive, soft,
And not its witchery own.
As who, with soul, with sense t' observe
How thoughts, the least expressed,
Can some eyes reach, had not in his
The same wierd power confessed.
But what in him still more prevailed
Was his propriety
Of manner with all grades, surpassing
Even his piety.
The rich, — riches will have their cares^
In every consolation
Found, in the Vicar's courteous way,
Their due appreciation :
Whilst never, on the lowliest one.
Was known to turn his back,
If generous counsel aid could give,
This courteous Mr. Slack.
'fyni
' flowor
(ino old'
Ulli VILLAOK OK MKUKOW.
Flow, on ii SsiMtutli, hieing' liomo
Kroin liltU' pnstonvl iiu'iitinucs,
'T would inoro tli:m win, <iiiito touch the heart,
T' ol>servo hi.s gni.-ious groctini^s.
A nod to liim.— Ji nniilo (o hor,—
A i^ofi wonl to another; —
One would huvc thou,i,'ht that each had boon
A histor or a brother.
It costrt us nothing,— next to it,
Such eon(U)Mconsiofi, — true;
But, ah, how tow approcialo this,
Ah I'arson i^hiek,— how lew 1
Stranijo, was it not, that one so froo
From vuli^ar faults should, still,
Raise enemies,— yet so it runs
With some, do what thoy will.
'T was said, ho little learning' had.
By learn in/^ let (res meant ;
Some minds but HUi)erticial things.
More Hurlat'O ahow content.
Too trained was lio to task the brain
With trite collegiate lore;
Enough for him wore wisdom's ways,
Even Heaven exacts no more.
Again — " ho science sot aside,"
As leading mind astray;
But facts are awkward things to face,
Assert what malice may.
What eye, as his, with faultless caro
Would note the varying hours,
Track in the sky,— the gathering cloud,
The C(miing scjualls and showers I
Who, 80 as he, could time the tides, —
The changes of the moon ;
Without an altitude could hit
The cxactest nick of noon !
What pen, as his, could sot at nought
The frivolous cavilling theories.
How older earth than scripture shows,
By twenty thousand years, is !
28
24
THE VILLAGE OF MERROW.
Nor science less his aid, no doubt,
In his supreme regard
For what, in every clime alike,
Claims health for its reward.
Scanning his home, within, what eye
Could miss "the mathematics;"
Such order, regularity !
From the parlor to the attics.
"A whole is better than its part,"
Seemed ciphered everywhere ;
Such a completeness ! not a thinff
Needed, was wanting there
to)
Not that ambition, pride, or greed
Had ought to do in this,
The worthlessncss of this world's wealth
A favourite theme of his.
" Not for poor solf, — simply for friends, —
And for ihee^ Arabella,"*
Often he'd say " was this or that,
Like many a foolish fellow."
Indeed, so little value set he
E'^en on recharhe things,
As seldom to Concede a price
That art, with excellence, brings.
This willingness to sacrifice
Self for another would,
As in his pressure for small tithe,
Sometimes belie his good.
Few but regarded it unwise
To rake up obsolete.
Long lapsed assessments which the poor
Are hardly prone to meet.
Some would go further, even to say,
Nay, press the point as sure.
That often a loaf, a single loaf.
Is something with the poor.
Not all, it seems, are competent
'T appreciate the deep.
The delicate sentiment that puts,
With some, all else asleep.
The Vicar's sister, resident at the vicarage.
''^^
THE VILLAGE OF MERROW.
25
Tithes wore with him as duties, things
Held sacredly in trust;
T' endanger them, in any way,
More than he dare do, — ^just,
" But once " he'd say " hut once permit
The idea t' obtain, abroad,
That tithes are other than Heaven's dues,
Away, in fact — the Lord!"
He'd done, thank heaven, his duty.
He, who followed him would find
How tenderly he'd ever borne
His interest in mind.
This delicate discernment may,
Who knows, have had its weight
In bis acceptance of the cares,
When pressed, as magistrate.
Even here, it seems malignity
Could not withhold its fling;
How different a song, mayhap,
Had charity to sing.
How may a word, a well-placed word,
A more ex])ense of breath.
Make even, at times, the difference
'Twixt liberty and death !
How has the Bench's gracious smile.
The magistratic shake.
Served as a bribe, ere now, with power.
For trembling frailty's sake !
Yet so it runs, — however high
Men's motives, some will see
In such the mere appetence
For power, place, or fee.
20
TTTK VILLAGK OF MERKOW.
ill
^llliii
CHAPTER V.
A word 01' two now upon one who in doomed to play no second
part in the present drama. It has already been noted that at
some little distance from the south end of what is still called the
Moor lane, a lane lending from the main road to Jierrow moor,
lay the freehold cottage ol" Giles Hawthorne. Giles had inherited
it from his father, he, the latter^ having obtained a grant of the
land upon which it stood, in return for some especial service, from
the father of the present Squire Squander, the same of whom
mention has already been ma<le. Though but a rude hovel, with
scant accommodation, it entitled him to a county vote, a danger-
ous privilege for one of Giles' temperament, in so dependent a
position. At the time I am writing of, Giles was in his twenty-
ninth year, and had been married, some half dozen years, to one
Jenny Briarston, an orphan. Three children, the eldest a girl,
were already theirs ;
Giles was a man a queen had loved,
A queen is still a woman;
Her Majesty herself hath shown
How queens can love a true one.
The heart it is, that above all else,
A right true woman scans.
Though fashion's waj's, and fortunes change
Will mar the bosom's plans.
So, at least, must it have been with Jenny Briarston, when
(she took to her bosom an all but penniless man, a mere agricultu-
ral labourer, in preference to the comparativelj' accomplished and
well-to-do gamekeeper of the proudest squire in the district-
Giles may have had, as others have, his faults, but these were
more than forgotten, at least by Jenny, in a strength of character
which for her was a necessity, to say nothing of an uprightness
and sincerity which, she well knew, would in vain be sought for
in such as was Snipe.
With strangers, after what years of struggling for sheer exist-
ence had done to him, Giles' expression and bearing somewhat
belied the high character which he still bore, notwithstanding the
calumnies ceaselessly circulated respecting him both by political
prejudice, (of the which anon) and the unremitting jealousy of
't
1^-
THE VILLAC.E OF MP:RR0W.
27
Hccond
that at
1 0(1 the
/ moor,
iheritod
t of tho
CO, from
whom
ol, with
dangcr-
sndent a
twenty-
8, to ono
a girl,
Snipo. There was a sulloiincss of discontent- in his look, — a knit
on his brow ; — but I was satisfied, for it loll to mo to know him
well, that these were marks that wore by no moans borne out in
the man. His kindliness to everything in his charge was allowed.
" Unbeknown" to him, as he would liave said, 1 had often, watch-
ing him throuirh a hodi^o, been an observer of this. Nor the loss,
as admitted by them all, was his kindliness and generosity to hit*
mates.
Not one amongst his comrades round
But felt a touch of pride
When (liles put out a friendly hand.
Or sauntered by his side.
Wealth and power may, at times, have missed, in him, the
submissive respect they are accustomed to ; but was this, in
Giles, ahcays a fault? Are there not always some who find it
more difficult than others to forget what, at the same time, is duo
to themselves. It may have been so with him ; — and hence hii--
enemies.
The proud man could not look him down,
As pride will look tho weak ;
Many a proud one met his match
When Giles essayed to speak.
He spoke but as a country man,
All rude and rough it ran,
Yet wanting never to Ids words
The muscle of a man.
Such was Giles Hawthorne, — tall and well-built, into the bar-
gain. Many a recruiting officer, at Shropton fair, had had his
eye on him; he would have made as fine a life-guardsman as over
crimsoned tho cheek of a village belle.
Jenny Briarston was in her oigliteenth year, having been in
service at the Squire's for some time, when Giles first came
to the conclusion that that was the girl for his money, and
bitter was tho disappointment of the Squire's game-keeper, Snipe,
when Jenny, vanquished by the earnest sincerity of Giles,
screwed up her courage for the required warning. Flung upon
the parish by the loss of both parents in her childhood, sho
was fortunate in having, from tho first, elicited tho good opinion
of the matron of the workhouse. This was a shield to her from
much that, in those days, in workhouses, was in every sense
II! 'S'
28
THE VILLAGE OF MERROW.
objectionable. The pretty little wild flower that the good woman
had taken to her bosom bloomed on without a blight , and it was
not till after a deal of persuasion by Squire Squander, and the
repeated assurance of his lady that the}'^ wore so in want of a
decent and thoroughly honest girl, that Mrs. Parish conBonted to
part with her.
Sweet Jonn}'', never woodland flower
More beautifully bloomed,
In its close haunts, than thou, to shades
Still deeper, closer, dooiuod.
Like some wild fruits that sweeter are,
The less sunward dis])layed,
So Jenny, as she ripened, grew
Still sweeter for the shade.
;i; ^ * * H«
It was a misfortune for Giles that, in his marriage with Jenny,
he had exposed himself, not onl}^ to the malignity of Snipe,
but to a hatred and vindictiveness, even still more dangerous,
on the part of Mrs. Sophia Squander. The vanity of this lady,
it seems, had been severely tried by what the villagers were at
no pains to conceal, their preference of the charms of Jenny
Briarston above those of her ladyship. " Athout her finery," ac-
cording to Hobbs, " she waun't nothing to her, no how," — "on'y
spruce Jenny out in hern T' This, of course, it was impossible
to forgive. Jenny might have insulted her, robbed her, struck
her, calumniated her, — done anything to her, and all, perhaps,
have been more or less condoned, — but that — that — never !
%
<B
M
CHAPTER VI.
The dangerous custom with many fjirmors of discharging all
but positively indispensable hands, on the commencement of
winter, to the injury not only of themselves, but of the country
generally, was in full force in the neighborhood of Merrow at
the time I am writing of. Consequently, from the fall till the
return of work with the spring thcrre was always a deal of suffer-
ing and privation amongst its labourers, more especially with
snch as regarded an application to the parish, and, still more, a
THE VILLAGE OF MERROW.
29
(lomicilement in its workhouse, with abhorrence. Giles, in ad-
dition, being of those who, for reasons already stated, were regarded
with suspicion, was particularly exposed, lie had frequently been
driven for assistance to his brother, and during the entire of my
first winter in Lavcnt it would bo difficult to imagine greater
distress than was to be witnessed, not only in his cottage, but I
urn sorry, and as an Englishman, ashamed to say it, in that of too
many others. Needed this to have been ? In the richest country
in the world the producers, to so great an extent, of its food
without a sufficiency for themselves! Well, as an Englishman,
may I hesitate as 1 write it. Where, let me ask, were they who
should have been to them, more than in the name merely, ])astors
and protectors! Whence an indirtbrcnce so cruel, so unworthy
of them. To the point, aiid dearly paid for, wc may be sure, wa«
the response of the elder JIawthorne on an occasion to his frienil,
ihe old hedgcr of Merrow,
They've never, Styles, been tempted so,
They don't know what it is.
Never to look U])on a joy.
Never to hope of bliss.
Hunger has never gnawed their hearts ;
J say their hearts, for ne'er
Has want trod closely upon me, Styles,
But I have felt it there.
" It waun't no easy matter," according to Styles, " to f^^glt th®
way as this wer said. He did'nt mind as he'd ever a knowed un
to let it out so afore." This might well be, as Hawthorne, from an
instinctive prudence, was not in the habit, with every one, of so
delivering himself, still less so when with Harry Hobbs, in whoso
cottage, with Pilch, Slop, and others of his mates, we are now to
suppose ourselves. He would fain have retreated. Harry was
already up, " If he'd o'ny his mind, licM — he'd !" — nothing lietwixt
heaven and earth but " he'd do I" " To be sarved wus than slaves !"
" Thaay taalks o' Bot'ny Bay, why doan't thaay ship us aal
yunder, as thaay done, a time back, with poor Diggs, for shootin' a
wretched hare ! — better zo 'an starvin'."
At the sound of "Bot'ny Bay," Pilch and Styles, two of Mer-
row's labourers, having their eyes upon Hawthorne, observed that
he was any thing but at his ease. His countenance flushed, his
eye at thesame time singling out that of his brother,who, thought
30
THE VILLAGE OF MERROW.
fill and hungry, was leaning agiiinst the wall facing him. Stylos
well understood what was passing in his friend, and did his best,
by his looks at least, to put a chock upon Ilobbs; but nothing
could restrain the redoiihtable Harry.
"Well, I do say, Stylos, it bo enough to bring down the light-
'nin' o' God on 'cm." *' Como, come, Harry," said John, •' less
warmly, lad. A long lane, as your old inothor used to say, that
has no turning. A day, perhaps, when some folks will be less
])articular about rubbing shoulders vvith us."
This said, beckoning his brother, John, with a "Good night,
lads," started for his home.
" Did'st mark, Styles," saia Slop, " how John looked when Harry
wer a taalkin' o' Bot'ny Bay ?"
" I did," said Styles, (and with more than his usual gravity), "I
did, lad. John be aal'ays afeard, Slop, af his brother a gittin' into
trouble. (Pilch reddened.) Giles be a braavo fellow, and he sees
as how Snipe hev never his eye aff un, but the Loard on'y knows
to what, 'fore winter done, starvation may a drive un to ;— thaay
be aal agin un, Slop, passon too. You sec, Slop, the Vicar doan't
a like as us should be aal'ays, on a Sundays, at John's."
" Then why," burst out Hobbs, *• doan't he shaw hisself to be
muore ov a christian, — why doan't he practice as he preaches, —
why doan't he give me back my speade 1"
■ ■I
: .
" I hates yer moleskinn'd hypercrites
What kneels aal hours and prays,
And then does jist the uppersite
To every thing thaay says.
m
The Loard keep I. from sich like folks,
Boan't nothing 'bout 'era true,
Can put on this, and put atf that,
Jist as play actors do.
The man for I v/ho when, in preayer,
He glories God in heaven,
Feels, if he bean't sincere in heart,
WooU never be forgiven.
'Be zummat now when Hawthorne ])rays,
I scarce knaws what it be,
So upperhands I, in a trice.
Heart, soul, and aal agree.
THK VILLACa-: OF MEUROW.
31
Stylos
bcHt,
3thing
light-
•' less
^, that
night,
Harry
'T bcaii't in his words, — ho'vo sieh a look
0' goodlines.s and grace;
Af'ton I wishoH measter Slack
VVcr liko'n in his I'eaeo.
Never crasscd I a man, in prcaycr,
So arneat in his eyes;
Many's a time I've thaught'n soe'd
A zummat in the skies."
''There, now, thee'vesaid it Ilobbs!"—" Well, Pilch,
And what mnore like to be,
Than God, at times, should shaw hisself
To bich a one as he."
*• Aal granted, Hobb's,— bean't no one knows
John Hawthorne's noble heart
Better'n Pilch, or trust, woold tarn
Sooner to taako his part."
"I woo'den count'n. Pilch, a friend.
Could bring his tongue to say
A thing unkindly of a man
So Christ-like, in his wa}'.
-it
I
CHAPTPJR VII.
I am somewhat, I see, in advance, — I shall have to return.
Simpling in the lanes and fields between Lavent and Merrow,
pleasantly enough with me passed my first summer at the former.
The neighbourhood was rich in the richest of England's, while an
improving acquaintance with ray friend Manly gave an increased
zest to many a ramble. But, as autumn gained upon its ruder
successor, features less agreeable blended themselves with the
scene. Selfishness alone could have reganled with inditference
the daily decreasing call for labour. Misery and want were
abroad with their rags everywhere ; and, now that the winter
was f:\irly in, the condition of the labourers could hardly have
been worse. The Hawthornes had never before been so put to it.
Giles found it impossible to resist the repeated urging of his wife
to, at once, lay before the Vicar his precise position. He was
S2
THE VILLAGE OF MEKROW.
persuaded into tho hope that, by ho doin^', lie might escape, what
above all else he abhorred, an application to the pariHh. Some-
thing had to be done, and, as hi.s wife had Maid, there could bo no
harm in trying.
GilcH was at least fortunate in finding the Vicar alone, and his
reception was not an uncourteousone, but in nothing practical did
it result. The worthy' gentleman in no way ignored the distresses
of the day, but, as with too many of us, ho coHtented himself
with suggestions of patience and perseverance, including himself,
seemingly, in the comlbrting consitleraliou that in the hour of
trouble from none of us wns withheld such assistance as the law,
in its wisdom, had })rovi(lcd: — 13ut attend, — our hero has but
just returned : — We will forgive in him a mimicry so suggestivo
of Uic speaker.
* * * '1^ " besides, 't wool not
J3e all'ays winter, mind :
"And when the bounteous spring returns," —
" Now, it was not, Giles, so that bespoke, you know," interrupted
his wife.
" Thee waun't there, Jan« ?"
••N-o-o;— Well?"
"And when the bounteous spring returns,
And busier times wi' land,
Things '11, of course, look up a bit,
Labour be more to hand.
You'll hardly yield because jist now
Not quite p'rhaps clear the way,
To turn ye round t' obtain a meal
Sufficient for the day.
Meself, who knows, may find a job,
Ere many a week hev fled ;
Not that I'd have thee lean on that,
But One can see ahead."
"Now, Giles!—"
"Nothing, believe, affiicts me more
Than to see in your position
So many, and athout the means
0' betterin' their condition.
THE VILLAGE OP MERROW.
Your 8af«r course, no doubt, '11 bo
To abide tho coming Hpi'ing;
Time, and a little patience, Hcarco
Can fail their iruits to bring.
" But now, with aal best wishoH, friend,
Tho woixl muHt bo— farewell ;
Few aH can caal an hour their own," —
And then ho — rang the belli
33
" Less bitterly, my Giles," said Jane,
" 'Tis not for us to know
How, p'rhaps, his will,— wo can't, tho he$t^
What wo would always do.
*^ Tho calls, too, that ho hourly has,
No doubt, upon his purse ! —
Troubles like ours are sad enough,
Yet some may, Giles, bo worse."
^' I wunna judge, — thy words, my Jane,
May aal bo very well;
But churchfolks should do summat muore,
Mothinks, than — ring tht bell! "
" For shame, my love, — the children near !
Such men must, Giles, know best,'" —
" Not aal'ays, Jano, — or heav'n, I say,
Defend one from tho rest."
**Thcn think, Giles, of the good ho does.
His marvellous Christian bounty;
What it must cost him, fancy, Giles,
In books for half tho county!"
" Their worth, my wench, I know full well.
They've been o' good to many ;
But as to cost'n' him a deal.
Not, my good girl, a penny.
He has a man, in Loonun town,
What gits them from another,
And he from a committee like, —
Thoy go from one to t'other."
" But then, my dear, it lies with him
To leave them where he may ;"
^' Oh yes, good June, the gentleman
Is generous in that way."
iMikAiiMii^iiiSSS
84
THE VILLAOK OP MEKFiOW.
pliili
Giles, it would seem, was any thing hut in iiocord with his wife
in her allowancos for the Vicur. Jenny, however, was far from
not sharinjjf in her hushand's (lisa])|)ointment. Few women will
require to ho told of the many and good reasons which, as a wife
and parent, she could hut have that her hushand should not
entirely estrange himself from one whom she had been taught to
regard as, in every way, so essential to them, Giles took it all in
good part, for he resjiccted her as truly as he loved her. IIo
might, occasionally, have been heard to speak of the Vicar as
"my wife's parson," but that was his severest, und it was never
said in his wife's hearing.
CIIAl TER VIIL
Giles' failure at the manse, be sure, added nothing to the esteem
in which his reverence was already held by the villagers of Mer-
• row. How often, looking back upon this, has a something akin
to astonishment possessed me at the disproj)ortionate estimate by
men in the position of Mr. Slack, of a popularity so, in every
sense, to bo desired, and so readily and honestly obtainable.
How often has political aspiration been willing to renounce, for a
far more questionable repute, connexions and considerations
having in them every thing to flatter and persuade. Should not
this, one would think, obtain C(pially elsewhere. Does it so ? Not
at least from what was then to be seen in Morrow and its sur"
roundings. Nor will my reader, I think, be inclined to dispute
this, if but permitted by him to indulge in a little reti-ospection.
It was about the time of Giles' aj)plication to the Vicar that I
found myself, on a fine autumnal afternoon, returning from an
extended ramble in the neighbouring parish of Orton. - 1 was
still within its precints, and, as usual, was abroad, botanizing. In
the shelter of the woods was still to be found, here and there, a
lingering bloom. But it is not of these that I have now to speak.
Besting myself on a stile, (I had seven miles still to tramj)),
from the doorway of a cottage to the left of me suddenly emerged,
and, was as quickly withdrawn, the head and shoulders of a
woman. She was curious, possibly, as to the intruder upon her
THE VILLAGE OF MEUROW.
36
80 retired iDcaliiy. But for this the cottugo might Iwivo osciipod
mo, fiH it iuy in u direction opposed to thiil of my return route, nt
loast HO I thouglit, and, to muko wuro, I availed myself of the
oj)portunity for inquiry.
" Yes, sir" in re])iy, said a short, and not very healthy looking
woman, dropping me the inovitahlo courtesy, "you can't bettor
it, sir, — nighor l>y a mile."
Now was my chance, I saw, spying in the back ground four
liungry looking urchins, with a fifth at the breast, — now was my
chance. The woman was, evidently, gartulously incdined, and
" maaster wer from home." Now was my chance for a peep, and
more ])crhaps, at the doings of a district of which not a little, by
no moans complimentary to it, had already reached moat Lavent.
"All yours?" said I, pointing to the children.
"iSarlain, sir, — and, as times be, 'nough on 'em too, sir."
" Your husband is not without work, i hope ?"
"Not at present, sir," she replied, "but what's nine shillin a
week, sir! — With rent, and ccal, and ile, which, wi' thi'ce ounces
o' soap, 'mounts to two an' a penny, it doan't a leave, sir, for
wittles nothing whalsumdever scarce."
" Just a shilling per week for each of you," I said.
" A cojiper or so more, sir, — we caals us six, — we doan't a count,
you Hce, sir, the beaby."
" But should you not," I said, — " ought yoii not to consider
youi'sclf a little more?"
" I'd a ought to, perhaps," she replied.
*' But how, my good womanj" I demanded, assisting myself to
a stool, " how, in the name of goodness, with so small an incoming,
do you ever contrive to make ends meet ?"
"They never do meet, sir."
" And with every forbearance and conrrivanco, no doubt, upon
your ])art : — A mystery to me how you manage."
" Well, sir," said she, obliging mo by seating lierself, " the
main thing as hev got to bo considered wi' childern is as they
requires a plenty, — it bo the plenty, sir, as is the main thing as
us hev a ijjot to look to.' '
" The plenty 1" I said to myself,—" how, in the name of sense,
is she going to bring that about!"
" Now, sir, there's taturs ; — a bushel o' thaay como to jes two
and four ; — taturs bean't bread, and never can't be no how ; but
there be a summat in 'em, sir, to look at, and growiii' uns aal'ays
36
THE VILLAGE OP MERUOW.
ikes, sir, a full platter, and wi' a 8j)niik]o o' nalt, by way o' relish
T never knowod one on 'em aH a didn't a take to 'em kindly : — Yes,
sir, tatur« bo a /^reat tldng wi' cbildern, — Then, a mornins, thaay
gitB a little meal, wi' joh, mcbbe, a nup or bO o' milk ; and, a bod
time, over and above the meal, (oatmeal, sir,) thany each on 'em
bovs a wmaall ulico o' broad, (brown broad, sir.) 0' thaay four hix-
ponnioH hov to carry wo through."
" Groceries, and ho forth, I HuppoHo, out of the question ?"
" Well, sir, — o* the like o' thauy us bev, ov course, to bo a sum-
mat spearing. Half ov an ounce o' tea wi' a half pound o'
sweetning bev to stand wo tho week."
" A summat spearing, indeed !" thought I.
** Us tried, sir, a time back, to git along athout'n, but
maaster said as I never could a do justice to tho boaby : — It bo a
Bummat too, sir, for to look furrard to ov a evening — it do so
cheer ono !"
"But, my good woman," I said, "you don't mean to say that
your liusband has to do a hard day's work upon such an allow-
ance ?"
" Oh no, sir, — there bo a pound o' baacon o' purpose for ho."
" For the whole week ?"
" Sartain — ho couldn't a do, sir, athout'n no how. Baacon be
a grand thing, sir, for work, — there be sich a stay in it.
" A stay in it 1"
** Jes, for a change, as mebbe, sir, us tried, for a week or more,
in the stead o' it, horrins, and, agin, what thaay caals, sir, Dutch
cheese; but maaster found as there waun't nothing like the stay
in em; — yes, sir, baacon be a grand thing for to work on."
Ye Exchequer chancellors, from a cottage such as was this
what might ye not carry away, with advantage to yourselves and
country !
" And is this," said I, " the sum, the full sum of your weekly
,fare?"
" In or'nary times, sir, let alone on a busy day, mebbe, a sup
o' cider or sich like. Cast'n aal up, sir, an' 'lowing thrippenco
for backer, you'll find, sir, as there bean't room for nothing more
no how : — A couple o' coppers be aal as is left, which us do our
best, sir, for to put by agin what us caals a rainy day; — it doesn't
a do, sir, not to bev nothing in a house.
" God of heaven I" I said, silently, — *' But meet you with no
.assistance ?"
THE VILLAGE OP MERROW.
.37
" Mr. Gooilwill, sir, tho curato, as I'd ft oujjht to ha' mentioned
afore, now ajid agin drops wo a HJiiilin' whicli, the Loard bless'n,
sir, bo aH much, uh knowH, as ho can afford. Ho daros'nt a do, sir,
thany says, aal as ho'd a like to."
« Ah ! — but how with tho rector ? ITo, I have heard, is wealthy.
Moreover, if applied to, he would, of court*e, lay the po.sition of
Buch aH yourHoIf, at once, before botli tho farmers and landlords."
" Well, — Mr. Wrench, you see, sir, bo afeard o' boin' thaaght to
be a mischief nieaker. lie known an tho squires and farmers 'd be
aal agin Jin, and ho bo a terroble man, Hir, for the gontlofolks."
" Oh !"
" Uh tried for a bit, sir, to do with less ile; but when the chil-
dern 'd be a ailin' a' nights, it wor so lonesome, sir, ho dreadful to
hear 'cm a cryin' in the dark, — us couldn't a bear it, sir, no how."
" Have done, for God's .sake," I said, rising spasmodically. Ilor
last words had touched me to tho core, so fully did thoy seem to
realize the terrible position of her class.
" No offence, sir? "
** Not in tho least, my good woman ;" — thon, thrusting i.ito her
hand the first that my fingers lighted on in my purse, I mai for
the door. And now, ye, who profess to bo at home in the , ots
of the heaj't or soul, toll mc, — was it in the consciousness of what
little service I had already done, in tho mere earnest of the
moment, or in tho thousand and one resolutions and intentions
which in a few seconds had crowded themselves on me, that, on
looking upward, as I loft this miserable cottage, it seemed that
tho sun looked brighter and grander, and tho sky lovelier and
nearer to mo than before I had entered it.
It was dark when I reached Lavent. I don't remember to have
ever so stumbled and missed my way as upon that after »ioon and
evening.
I; 'f
msmmamm
■■■■■liailllMiiBMrdipA
38
THE VILLAGE OF MERROW.
CHAPTER IX,
What Giles had long dreaded he was at last driven to, — to apply
to the workhouse at Shropton for assistance, — with what success
we shall hear presently. He had stood it out till the Cv^mmence-
ment of March, but not without frequent application to his bro-
ther, I recall him, distinctly, at the time I am writing of; — on
my way to Shropton, it fell to me often to meet him, — a mere
skeleton. It was impossible to pass him without speaking to him.
One might have laid one's fingers in the wrinkles of his face.
Why have I, since, so often bethought me of this f
On his way homeward Giles stopped at his brother's. There
some of his mates. Pilch, Harry llobbs, Styles, and others, had
already mustered; — Hobl s' tongue was again at work. — had it
ever ceased ! At some new or old grievance was the bull dog still
gnawing. He was far, however, from being always in the wrong,
— 80, let us give him his bone.
iiHI'
EtiiilJlilll
iir-
" One's aal'ays lookin' round and round
At what some richer holds,
Sickened to see his well fenced fields,
His cattle and his folds.
They caals us rebels, wonders why
Us kicks aginst the laaws ;
Muore wonder. Pilch, as none does wub
'T bean't, sure, from what o' causa.
Some as had hev us list, — " Better
A so'dgor's life than yourn;"
Let them, snys I, John, list as likes, —
A so'dger's trade arn't ourn.
Why, John, should us, let what wooll come,
Tarn out, half frockod, half fed,
Give up one's heart's least drop of blood
For what denies one bread.
How care can us for king or queen,
What pride in country taake,
What matters it to I who's up.
With not a groat at staako.
2f
;o apply
success
niiience-
hiH bro-
of j — on
-a mere
g to him.
liis face.
lers.
There
had
— had it
-dog still
B wrong,
THE VILLAGE OP MERROW. 39
Toss one a little croft or two, —
Loard, Pilch! if ever blest
"Wer I with sich, I'd fight enough,
For the like, for aal the rest.
Half as is spent in butcherin' folks.
Laid out in Christian ways,
Woold muore'n that, Pilch,— zummun's lips
Might then lack less of praise.
Never to hold, lad, half a rood.
Never, with hedge and dyke,
To circle in a little whome,
I feels— as soured like."
Ilobbs' hammering coming to a stand, brought Pilch into the
field, with " Well Giles, how at the wukkus T'— unions had not yet
come into play. Very little, however, could be got from him, —
Giles' pride was nettled,— " A letter from one to t'othei-*'—
"more'n he could bide" — "sooner starve"— and " that Snarl ! "*
was about the pith of what he did say. This, in turn, started
Styles :
"It bean't, I says, like Christians, Ilobbs,
"To let un starve and die," —
" Little care thaay for that, friend Styles,
'T be jist as thaay sarved L
" That Parish, bless ye, han't a soul
Bit bigger than a mouse ;
It puzzles 1 he bean't ashamed
To sit in the Loard's house."
" Would that the fellow were," said John,
" His shame might teach him bettor
Than to suppose a hungry man
Could live upon a letter."
<(
Zactly as I tell'd Missus, John,
Come six months next July;
Jist see, says I, what hearty fare
Parish hev given I.
*
*
*
*
*' Heerd o' my job, Pilch ?"— " Manly's wuts ?"
" No, lad,- the ji-^won's wheat," —
"Tight bargain waun't it? — none, I specks,
Grudges thee, Hobbs, the treat."
• Porter at the workhouse.
Ml
40
THE VILLAGE OF MERKOW.
i ;
" Well, I wun't say, — I put'n low, —
'T wer my own affer like ;
'T waun't no good tryin' to git muore^
Too well 1 knaws the pike.
" Enough to keep one jist alive,
Body and soul together,
The moast I ever counts on he,
The hardest o' the weather.
" Bean't nothing good in this world, Styles,
The good be aal in f^other ;
Wonder as some folks shaws sich love
Toward a poorer brother.
" But, lads, good night"—" Hold on," qnoth Styles,
" Wooll foot it, Ilobbs, together ;
Keep up your heart, Gilss, — fouler skies
Than now hev braught fair weather."
' Which saying, Styles, with Hobbs and Pilch,
Slop, and his neighbour Tom,
Made for the road ; — a shoi-t half mile,
And each was at his home.
'' A blunt bold fellow, John" said Giles,
" That Hobbs,— yet would that all
Could say they had a heart their own
As ready at a call."
" Would, brother, that they could, for, sure,
It makes one sick to see
So little in the world of soul
For the like of you and me."
" 'T most makes one doubt of Providence,"
Said Giles, " to toil and strive
The long, long year, and never reach ^
The wherewithal 1o live."
'• Don't say so, Giles, — there's more, believe,
Than we can comprehend ;
Sorry should I be, lad, to doubt.
At least of one true friend.
" The proudest not the happiest, p'rhaps,
Trust me, there never can
Be anything about them, Giles,
To make a happy man.
•' No, I've never y-t mistrusted, lad,
For the troul led and the tried,
I couldn't bear to think that God
Was never by their side."
THE VILLAGE OF MERROW.
41
«
'Idunna doubt it, John," said Giles,
" I know God means us good ;
Still, hard, at times, to check the tongue
That's crying out for food."
3fC *|€ JjC ?jC Jf* •P
Oh, poverty ! — oh, poverty! —
How hard art thou to bear.
How little does the rich man know
The bitternesses there.
How little fit is he to frame
The laws that bind the poor ;
The crimes of poverty were few,
If rich men's laws were fewer.
, Could but, for one short hour, with thee,
Gaunt hunger, power and pride
Acquaintance make, would penury's plea
Be then so oft denied.
How, to the daintiest, best of earth's
Though bred, reborn in thee,
Has many a one in tliese wild woods,
At thy bid, bent his knee.
Ev'n I, p'rhaps, owe thee every thing,
More than my pen can pay ;
But for the teaching of thy trials,
E'en to the passing day,*
I had never in the pitiless world.
The cold crowd streaming by,
For any suffering, save its own,
Without a thought, a sigh,
I had never, mingling with iha few,
Shared in their sympathies,
Had never found, nor cared to find
Where pure pleasure lies.
I had never had aflHiction lay
A hand across mine own,
As now, with so a brother's warmth
For the merest kindness done.
Some taint of pride, some soil of self,
Unwittingly betrayed,
Had crushed the heart's responsive heave,
And starved the proflered aid.
Written in 1859.
42 THE VILLAGE OF MERROW.
Still loss had T, as o'er those linos
I ^lanco with watery eye,
Caught, through the glistening tear, aloft,
A glimmering in the sky.
Partlon me, my readers, this digression. — It has forced itself
upon me. I would have you to remember that much, very much
of this my narrative, that by many of you will be read amongst
the carpeted surroundings of matured civilization, has been writ-
ten amidst the ruder appliances of a pioneer's home, and in mo-
ments snatched from a winter's night in the far away wildernesse
of Canada. AV^ith pen in hand, so situated, it is impossible always
to suppress. It is here that to some things time has a habit of
putting more than an iron handle.
CHAPTEii X.
It was about the time of Giles's application to Shropton work-
house that, on rambling round by the Moor road which skirted to
the north, as already stated, a tempting preserve of the Squire's,
I was startled by the report of a gun, and, on looking round, I
Baw two men emerging from n wood on my left. One was a tall
man, with a thin pale face, and dark hair, — the other a shorter
one, by some tive inches, with forward features, and reddish hair;
both were farm labourers. The first was Pilch, — I never heard of
him by his christian name, — the second Turnpike Tom, as he was
invariably called, — his father, when Tom was a boy, having kept
a gate on the Shropton road. On seeing me, they paused, — then
one of them, advancing a few steps, picked up a hare, whilst the
other, whis])ering his mate, and crossing a strip of grass between
the wood and a st3de against which I was leaning, came right up
to me, and touched his hat.
"Dangerous work, my good sir, that — is it not so?" I said.
" Well, sir, look at me ; am I to blame ? "
I looked at him. What a wreck of bad usage, of bad laws, was
standing before me ! poor fellow — poor fellow. " What is it that
you wish of me," I said.
'* On'y, sir, as you'd be kind enough to keep this dark."
THE VILLAGE OF MERROW.
43
Could tho man. it was Pilch, have fathomed but a tithe of the
detestation with which the young man before him had been
taught to regard tho the,n revolt! ngly cruel and unju.st game
laws, he would assuredly have dis])ensed with his request-,'
for it was not till about a twelvemonth after this that the some-
what more lenient laws were passed, which in their lenity restricted
transportation to night poaching !
Tiring, on my return homeward by the same road, I dropped
in, for a rest, at the cottage of Giles Hawthorne. He was out,
but his wife and children were at home. The first thing that,
on entering, caught my eye, was the identical gun which I had
seen in Pilch's hands. 1 recognized it by the wire with which
the lock was secured, for it was but a shaky affair. " Wi' a wo-
man's wile " Jenny promptly disposed of a shawl on it, but it had
not escaped me. By what trifles arc our destinies shaped. Had
it not been my fortune to have crossed Pilch, it had not been his,
from distrust of me, to have left his gun with Giles, — nor for Giles,
— but let me not anticipate. It was by no means with Jenny's
approval that tho gun had been left with them ; but Giles was at
home when Pilch called, and he could hardly have refused him.
Jenn^' seemed intuitively conscious of some impending danger.
It was always with her eyes shut, and at arms length, that she
handled it. Nothing tliat went wrong during the next few days
but in one way or another she could connect with that gun.
*' When will he take it away ? " was her incessant song.
CHAPTER XI.
SQUIRE SQUANDER AND HIS WIFE.
There was a singularity
About this special pair.
Their close resemblance in some points,
Complexion, aspect, air.
A veritable living proof
Of certain laws of nature,
By which the disposition gives
The face, and not the feature.
(:■.•,
44 THE VILLAGE OF MEfeROW.
Minds so alike, say moralists,
Were scarcely meant for marriage ;
, But rules, it seems, the best, at times,
Are fated to miscarriage.
Since, never more devotedly
Attached to one another
Were couple seen, — in love, as look,
Like pets of the same mother.
When tete-d-tete, who half so kind,
Aftectionate and free;
If sterner he in some points, none
The less their harmony.
More prettily two turtle doves
Ne'er cooed in woodland shade,
My love, my dear, — my dear, my love,
Accompanied half tlicy said.
Wherever Squander went she went,
Whatever did, she'd do ;
One scarcely thought, breathed, wished, or prayed.
And not the other, too.
With greater complacency would this reciprocity of feeling
have been regarded, had not their resemblance in one respect been
equally marked, — had they, with those whom fortune had less
befriended, been less disposed to severity on the least interference
with their predo?ninant passions. The Squire's God was his gun,
— sport his necessity. Woe to any one who crossed him in his
pursuit of it ; whilst ai the altar of her own charms, nor was she
wanting therein, alone worshiped his lady. Woe equally to any
one who disturbed her ladyship there. Though but a wild flower,
the beauty of Jenny Hawthorne was a thorn in her pride, which
roused in her, with no higher principle opposed to it, the bitterest
vindictiveness. This was still further inflamed by the villagers,
who, hating her heartily, never permitted an opportunity to
escape them of flaunting in her face the superiority of their village
belle, while Snipe, for his own ends, was equally alert in repeat-
ing the merest whisper calculated to annoy her. He knew, well,
too, by what means his master's hatred of the Hawthornes could
be best reach ed.
Thornley Hall, the property and residence of the Squire, was
bosomed in an estate that a nobleman would not have slighted.
THE VILLAGE OF MERKOW.
45
It was generally, however, understood to have descended to the
present Squire heavily mortgaged, a stjite of things which the
extravagance of his wife, it was thought, would tend but little to
improve. Moreover, the Squire had contracted an acquaintance,
which soon ripened into friendship, with one dangerous, in every
respect, to know, — Baron Steinberg, of Orton. He was by birth
an Austrian. Of showy exterior, ho had captivated an English
heiress at Vienna, married her, and, in a few years afterwards,
at her decease, became the lord of a very handsome domain in
the Jidjoining parish of Orton. Of this man it will be sufficient
to say, that as a companion he was agreeable, — as a sportsman
choicely so, but utterly without principle, — a roue, — a gambler.
The Squire had once been of essential service to the Baron in a
poaching affair, assisting him materially in getting one -Dlggs out
of the country. This had helped not a little to draw them to-
gether. That his neighbours should see more than the Squire
seemed willing to see, in this daily increasing intimac}', is nothing
to be wondered at, — a tale that has been told again and again.
At the Baron's was the best shooting in the country, and that was
sufficient for the time. It was not, moreover, till some years in
advance of this that there was anything in the Baron's attentions
in one quarter that was particularly open to observation, not till it
was well known that the Baron's purse had on an occasion been
of essential service to the Squire. A shake of the head by Isaac
Styles, the old hedger, might, at times, have been observed, when
the Baron and Mrs. Squander would pass his cottage, but, what,
at the moment, he, in addition, may have whispered to his wife,
he was too guarded, at least upon that point, to let others hear.
CHAPTER XII.
ISAAC STYLES.
Than Isaac Styles there was no one, as I have already said, in
all Merrow more thoroughly respected. His sterling integrity
and unpretending piety were at the bottom of it. His was not
an unthumbed Bible. He was, moreover, a man of no little
research. Guthrie's Grammar and The Pilgrim's Progress
might both have been found on a small shelf within reach from
ri
■J^
46
THE VILLAGE OF MEKKOW.
iU
Ll/lili.
his bed, the leaves of the latter worn to a ruvel, while his cogno-
men of " Lawyer Styles " beHj)eak8 at once the variety as well as
depth of his studies; and, as his acquirements were always at
the service of another for simply thanks, his liberality still further
raised him in the good oj)inion of his fellow villagers. It would
seem froni what passed, about this time, between Ilobbs and Slop,
in the cottage of the latter, that, with his mates at least, this ex-
ceptional erudition was a matter of no little curiosity.
* )it :ii Ht UK :l(i
*• It puzzles I, Slop, aften, whcer
The old man got it; — true,
As Pilch says, half as his brain holds
Woold split some heads in two."
*' lie got it from his fearther, Hobbs,
T lie old man used to slieoi'
The liiawyers, and the hirnod like,
When 'sizes lime wer here.
Hight wondei'ful how cule he wer,
And well he knowed it, too;
Styles wer a man, llobbs. muore'n a match.
By tens, for me nor you.
Not one could touch'n, round about.
In ticklish p'ints o' laaw ;
Aften the wigs 'oold nod to 'n,
Aye, sometimes, even muore.
Many's a time I've heord it said
The judge hisself 'oold ask
Styles' concludin' on a case.
While busy at his task.
And muore'n once 't wer rumored round,
He'd tarncd, and changed liis mind,
'Cardin' to Styles, who aal'ays left
A deal o' laaw behind.
I've knowed ten troubles at a time.
It 'scapes I jist what for;
But well I minds not one had been
But for old Styles' laaw!"
" I zee. Slop, 'zadtly, how it wer :
Styles larnt it 'fore his prime,
Braught up a lad 'mongst laavvyers like,
Ho kind o' sarved his time."
THE VILLAGE OF MERROW
47
"Sartninlly, Ilobbs, — and muoro'n that,
' Bo (lirt'cronce twixt folic;
Stylos be a Hort o' ^omi.s like,
Got ihc real gonua look."
•' Woll, well, — us bean't aal born aliko,
For sartain, Slop, or, |)'rliaj)s,
TheoM boon Loai-d Chancellor, and I
One o' the laiTiod chaps.
"But, ^ood ni^ht, Slop,— 't bo gittin' late;"
"'Member I, Flobbs, to Missus,"
" I wool I, my boy;— sure, never, Slop,
Seo'd I a ni^ht like this Is."
It was, indeed, a lovely nii^jit,
The moon's fair silvered face
Gleamed like an an^-cl's, tit to light
Some happioi", holier place.
Great mystery ! that on a world
Of ever thi'oatoning woo
Should so look heaven's orbs, as if
They shared no griefs below.
Mark, on the hut whci-e misery moans
How softly sheds its light
Yon mockiiifif mistress of the scene,
Pale empress of night I
^
'■¥■
CEIAPTER XIII.
* >fc *
Giles and his wife scanning the faces of their children by moonlight
** lie is n't dead, Giles ! "—Jenny said,
Stooping her face, to list,
" No-o-o,— I can hoar,— but, ah, how cold
The little lips I pressed I
" I'll wake him, Giles ;— but, no, no, no,—
He'll cry to me for food ! —
Sleep on, my pretty one,— these tears
Can do thee nothing good."
I
48
THE VILLAGE OP MERROW.
iii
" Jenny,"—" What Giles ? "— " Jenny,"—" Dear Giles,
What is it, — speak, — art ill ? "
•' Fetch mo the ^Min, Jane, — heaven attest
'Tis done agin my will."
Jane answered not, but pressed her face
Close to her husband's breast,
And in the saddest sobs and tears
Ilor agony confessed.
"I'll not be long, Jane, — fast the door, —
See that the tiro keeps low ; "
Then, gently Giles unlaced the arms
All loath to let him go. ^
" The clouds are gathering I " — the wind ,
Had on a sudden veered ;
Never, till then, had Giles or Jane
The light of heaven feared.
" Fast, Jano, the door," again said Giles,
" And mind, be wakeful till "
" Yes, yes, — oh yos, — but Giles, dear Giles,
The night is so so still I "
" Hush ! Jenny, hush ! "— " What Giles ? "— " Hii-s-h !
Some one, methought, this way 1 " —
" You shall not go, Giles, — say you Von't, —
Me — me the gun, — oh pray I "
Now did that secret monitor.
Kind counsellor of the heart.
Keep for awhile good Giles in check.
Still tempted to depart.
Hard hunger conquered, — oh, forgive,
Ye who have never neared
Temptation's rock, — " Stay I " Jenny cried —
But Giles had disappeared 1
Motionless sits Jenny, listening — an hour passes and she is still
listening ; — when suddenly, ringing through the stillness, —
a gun ! — With a start, clapping her hand to her bosom, Jane
rushes out, — regardless of the door I —
Fanned by the air, the smouldering fire
Blazed up anew, on high ;
Jane marked it not, — ah, fatal flame,
It caught the keeper s eye I
THE VILLAGE OF MERROW.
49
she is still
tillness, —
jom, Jane
Poor Jenny, tho night was bitterly cold ; when is a March night
not bo; yet there stood she, listening — listening I
Presently, as a ghost, looming through tho mist, some one is
approaching I It is Giles. Jane, as in I'oar of him, retreats to her
cottage; — Giles shortly enters;
'< No one been here ?— " No one."—" The fire!
See see, girl ! — to the door."
" You tremble, Giles !"-" The night fog, Jane, '
Is thick upon the moor."
Giles i«, in turn, tho listener: — After a while, drawing from-
beneath his smock a pheasant, he, in silence, hands it to his wife,
— for some moments neither speaks.
" Giles you look cold, dear ! " Jenny said,
At length, tho starting tear.
And trembling tone tolling, too well,
Of something worse than fear.
" To the fire, Giles, the hearth is warm ;" —
Jane fanned the flame anew, —
" Don't seem so wretched, dear, — oh speak,
Speak to me, Giles, — do, — tlo."
"Jane, I was only — thinking, Jane;" —
" Yes — but that thinking, dear !
We mustn't think, — let's try and talk ;—
There's a good Giles, draw near."
Now, by the flickering faggot fire,
Jane scans the beauteous bird ;
The crime, the danger disappear.
The penalty incurred.
Be not in haste, reader, to judge^
Less prone to censure, still ;
Jane but obej-ed that instinct, power,
That something, — what you will,
Empress o'er all in woman's breast,
Alike beyond control
In guilt or good, condoned, at least,
By Him who framed the whole.
For Thou, who hast made womankind
All beautiful and good.
To love the beautiful hast made
Part of her womanhood. "^
^r:-
in
50 ' TflK VIM.AGK OK MEHKOW.
" Giles, you don't iiotico Uicho bi-ijLclit »pots,
ThJH goM-lipp'd minhowod ring;
I'll wnko our pretty Hlccping onoM
To wee tlie ])ii)ciou,s thing" I
" No, — wako thoni not, tlio}' nmunna soo,
Tlioy mtuinna ktiow it, Juno,
It novor may he tauld to tlioni,
[ Nor over dofie again.
To 800 our littlo innoconts.
First taught by nie you,
IJotako to idlo, ovil way,
Woold tear this heart in two.
Conceal it, Jane, as best ye niay,
"We'll look to it i' tho morning;
The grief of heart I feel to-night,
To mo at least, a warning I"
" Believe me, (iiles, my own misgives,
It fails me what to do;" —
^* Nay, Jenny, — I am lost to-night,
Maun leave it all to you."
So, Jenny took tho prec' 'is bird
Into her sj)eeial c
" ril ])ut it, Giles, bei the bod,
Thcij'K never, Giles, look Ihere.''
** Keepers have ferret noses, Jane, —
But, still, we'll trust the grace
Of (jiod will not be held, for once.
From a jjoor strayor's place.
Coom, Jane, to bod ; — this aching heart
Needs aid from hoav}'" eyes ;
Good-night, — I caunnasoe j'o, babes,
But I can hear— your sighs."
And noAv Giles is asleep, — not so, his wife. Giles' last look, as
he rose from the fire, she had carried with her to her couch, — so
haggard I — so worn I and why was he now so still, so cold ! — Slid-
ing her hand into his bosom, she is alarmed.
And, rising from her rushy bed.
Crept to the fire's place,
When, with :i lighted ])apor's blaze,
^he looked into his face !
TUE VILLAOE OK MEUKOW.
51
UiloH turned him at tlio suddun llaro,
As with a coiiMcious ]>aiii, —
Ho dooH not spoaU, — tho ii^ht is out, —
Tho room is dark again !
More than enough, however, liad Jenny soon :
Sadder and saddor, close bosido
llcr loving lord she lay;
And tardily the hours crept
That brought tho break of day.
Ah Jenny, had thy bosom dreainod
That night might be the last
With thy loved Giles, how fittingly
The tarrying hours had pasHed I
CHAPTER XIV.
The daylight at last ; — Giles and his wife are both up,— Giles,
in his shirt sleeves, seated on a stool, pondering, — Jenny busied
with the children, — when, without a tap Snipe and a constable
break in upon them. Snipe's dog makes immediately for tho bod,
from beneath which, with a sportsman's cry, Snipe drags the bird.
Poor Jenny blushed, — looked, lost, around ;
When recollection came,
"Twas J, — /put it there, — 'twas /,--»
1 only am to blame."
"Mark the poor wing'd thing's fluttering, Fauuce, —
Thanks, lady, for your tongue ;
A single shot will sometimes miss,
Two barrels seldom wrong." ,
*' Oh, mercy, mercy, man, — for once,
In mercy, let him go ;
How hunger edged us on to this
Tho hungry only know."
*' I've nothing, ma'am, to say to that,
All that concerns tho Squire ;
My acts are his, — I've but t'obey
His orders for my hire."
*' Keep silent, Jane, — what's he to do
With huiigor, or with tears !
Mercy I — believe me, that's a thing
He's left to God for years."
52
THE VILLAGE OF MERROW.
i
::;i,':i
''Civility had served tlice best,
Perhaps ; — come, — lience with us ; —
Nay, woman, — not a word, — keep back,
We want no woman's fuss."
Giles crushed upon his nether lip
What his wrought lieart would say ;
Then, slowly ])utting on his smock,
Turned as to go away.
" I'm ready, sirs" — Giles moved a step,
Jane drew him gently back,
" Take comfort, Giles, — I yet have hope,
ni straigiit to— 2)arsoii Sla"k."
Giles shook his head, then pressed his lipa
Upon her whitened cheek ;
lie tried some parting word to isay,
But nature would not speak.
Then, fondly clasping to his breast
His children, one by one.
The heaviest sigh heart ever gave
Told wdiat that night had done.
"Less proudly with them," whispered Jane,
" P'rhaps, Giles, they'll listen then ;
Try them, dear, do; " Giles answered not,
Too well he knew the men.
A long, hard, lingering look around
His desolated home,
When a tear started at the thought
Of what miijht be its doom.
" " Move on, " said Giles,.
" Come sir, — our time
Not loath to close the Hcene;
When forth they went, — in tile, with Giles
As prisoner, between,
*' John will be here, Jane, — wait till then,—
I pray you follow not,"
Were his last words, as Giles looked back,
Towards his hungry cot.
Jane watched him from the open door,
A spectacle of fears.
And now, that he had passed the moor,
Broke into sobs and tears :
;-
>
THE VILLAGE OF MERKOW. 53
^' Thoy shall not have him, shall not have him,
My good, my noble Giles, — |
They dare not hurt him,— God will aid, 1
And turn thcHO tears to smiles. !
I'll off, at once, to parson Slack, —
I'll on my knees to Squander ;
What will I not," — hero Jenny's <'-irl
Flung her lean arms around her ;
" Mother, I'm hungry,— mother, bread ; — "
" I've none to give thee, child ; —
Oh, peace, my little angel, peace,
Or mother will go wild. "
" You'll let me, then, to uncle John,
Mother, he'll tind me some ;"
"Well, well, my child,— and bid him hence,
Tell him at once to come.
Now, not a moment must 1 lose,
I'll seek the Vicar, straight,
Ue'H blame us, else, we didn't think
Of him till when too late.
I'll try to catch him all alone, —
Oh, ifl could but balk
The keeper's spite,— but, come, come, come,
I mustn't stop to talk.
M
If only quick, I'll cross him, p'rhaps,
Somewhere about his grounds ;
I know, he always, after prayers.
Goes on his little rounds.
What will ho think of mo— of this—
This so unseasoned dress !
Scarce decent, scarce enough to hide
What else might pain the less.
Oh, oh, oh, oh ! this is to live.
To taste life's bitterest cup ;
My truthful glass ! what tales it tells
Of joys all broken up 1
Ah, hunger, hunger, little thou
Hast left for time with mo !
This wasted cheek, these hollow eyes.
Are witnesses of thee !
54
THE VILLAGE OF MERKOW.
But oh ! John ? 3'es, — and with him Jane ! —
So sad and down he secm.s ! —
Something has reached him ! Jane, perhaps,-
Or elKC lie little dreams.
What shall I say to him ? and have
We made him wretched, too !
How can he over look on us
A8 was his wont to do.
't* 'T^ 'l^ *T^ '(^ 'r* 'r* 'T' 'T* *^ 'I^
John, John, forgive us, — ^judge not hard,
By all that's good, I swear,
Sheer misery led us thus astra}',
We couldn't, couldn't bear
To see our little ones, — oh, look.
Look at their haggard faces!"
** I know it all, n;ood Jane," said John,
'* And where, too, the disgrace is."
" Giles, then has seen you ? Said he aught ?
John, hold it not from me ; " —
" Only he hade me hasten, Jane,
Knowinii- how things would be."
you wont, then — keep from its ? " —
Jane, fail me if 1 do ;
A pity, Giles but well I know
All that is known to you."
May Heaven,
" Oh, had he, John, but listened once,
Once when I bade him wait," —
"Poor fellow," murmured John, " I've feared,
Strongly, some ill of late.
But why, good Jane, thus bonneted,
Whither so early j)ressed ? " —
♦' I thought I'd call on parson Slack,
I'd try and do my best."
John wiped his eyes,— "Go Jane," he stud,
" If there be aught in heaven
To plead, at times, on misery's lips,
To thee it Avill be given."
As starts the antelope Avhen struck
By some swift Arrow's head,
So Jenny, o'er the dewy fields,
In fear and anguish fled..
THE VILLAGE OP SIERROW.
55
It happened, — strange how things will hap,
I've marked it oft of late,
As if some hidden hand, not ours,
Was fashioning our fate !
It happened, just as Jenny nearod
The Squire's, that " Lady S,"*
Advised how morn's salubrious breath
In roseate bloom could dress,
In careless, quiet negligee,
Her pet of pets in hand,
Stood, fondling, by the outer gate,
As happening had planned.
Jane, who was bent that parson Slack
Should first address the Squire,
Paused, — not a little puzzled how,
Unchallenged, to slip by her.
" She'll only say some unkind thing ;
She bears me no good will,
I hear, but yet, — to pass her by,
Perhaps, she'll take it ill !
Besides, she hasn't crossed me close,
Of late, — mayhap she'll find.
In these changed looks, less room for hate,
Less cause to prove unkind."
Then nature, prompting nature urged
Who, as a wife, should know
The yearning of a Avoman's breast
In her particular woe.
Ah Jenny, thou hadst judged aright,
Had her heart, like thine own.
Been schooled in nature's simpler ways,
And not by art undone.
Still hesitating, Jenny mused, —
" If she would hear me through, —
Perhaps I wrong her, — should she speak !
What had 1 better do? "
Jane had not counted on a chance
Like this with " l.ady S."
A moment more, — on bended knees,
She grasped her by her dress.
* As Mrs Squander was styled by the village folks of Morrow.
1
56
THE VILLAGE OF MERROW.
" Lady, — dear lady, — lady, hoar !
Oh, turn not deaf away,
Oh, hear a breakiiifi^ bosom's prayer,
Lady, — dear lady, stay !"
" Oh mercy. Heaven ! — release me — help !
A creature ! — leave me, — oh !
My dress !" — a scream, — a second scream.
And Jenny's hand let go.
" Lady, dear lady," Jenny still
** Cried in i mploring tone.
Till the dear Lady's vanished self
Left her to plead alone.
" Oh, woman, so, in face andTorm,
An angel's counterpart,
That thou should'st ever lack, within.
The angel of the heart !
" I frightened her, I fear," said Jane,
" yhe didn't-undcrstand, —
What have I done ! — made matters worse,
Unsettled all I planned !
So sure, too, as I might have been.
With parson Slack's good aid ; —
I ought to have minded, — gentlefolks
Are not like others made.
Her dog, too, bit me ! — well, — I'll go.
But waste of words to stay ; —
The Vicar won't so treat me, he.
At least, won't turn away ;
" At least — "-but here let Jenny wend
Her way to i)arson Slack,
While we, as in politeness bound.
The frighted lady track.
Again it happened, just as Jane
Had loosed her trembling hold.
The Squire (his eye had fondly sought
How far his pet had stroU'd)
Peeped from the porch, — when lo ! a shriek
Sharp on his ear a shriek ! —
Pictui'e ! — no, fancy cannot paint
Some things, and words are weak.
Aw
THE VILLAGE OF MEUROW.
67
Nc'or mother to her danijcred child
vSprang, an the startled nqiiire,
When on his ear again a shriek,
Again, and from Sophia !
Quick in his arms his tottering spouse
He toolc, and, trembling, ran
To where a sofa's ease consoled,
As only sofas can :
'' Not one at hand ! — not one ! — and, ah !" —
The lady paled and shook, —
'* Where can they be ! — Jeannctte ! Maria !-
My love, my life — one look !
Speak, spealc, Sophia! — Sophia, speak!
She didn't surely dare !
Say are you hurt, ! — So])hia, the doubt —
Is more than heart can bear.
I ought to have cautioned her, I ought,
To have known the dangerous set ; —
But soft, — slie stirs ! — she, — things, perhaps,
Ai-e not so serious yet.
Sophia ! — Sophia ! — say, are you hurt? —
"Not hurl, — exactly, — dear;
But oh, the shock I the cruel shock!
The pit, the pit, pat, here !
She raised her voice !-she wrung her hands !
Such " Lady dears "!-ah me,
My poor dress l-a miracle
1 ever, Charles, got free !
I never shall get over it,
I scarcely, dear, can speak, —
I shan't bo quite myself again,
1 know, for a full week.
'* Trust me, that fellow Gilessliall pay
Full dearly for this fright,"
Said hurriedly the Squire, pulling
The bell with all his might.
*' Quick, quick, Maria-for Doctor D.,
As quick, now, as you can, —
But 8top,-8ee, see — your mistress' head,
Give me, my love, your fan."
58
THE VILLAGE OP MERROW.
Fans are to ladies more than physic,
IfladicH' lips are true —
" You needn't letch — the Doctor, — dear, —
I feel — I'm coming — to."
" Quite sure, my love, quite sure" ? replied
The Squire, with coaxing care,
" Had we not bettei', still Maria,
Attend, — her head, — there, there."
'• Such kindness, Squander ! — always so,
Ever since tirst we met, —
Don't tremble, dear— you haven't lost
Your little Sophy yet."
Thus reassured, the shaken Squire,
He quick, with generous hand,
Proffered a thousand little aids,
At qualitj^'s command.
Kindness will seldom miss its aim
From hearts and hands we love,
"Squander, f feel so-o-o tranquilized,"
" She do-e-s, adc-a-r, a dove."
While this sad scene was passing, Jane
Had reached the Vicar's gate ;-
There, on his lawn but thither haste,
Not yet, perhaps, too late.
ml
'illr,,
CHAPTER XV*
The Vicar, on Jenny's arrival, was airing himself on his lawn, —
she sees her opportunity ; — with her hands clasped, and pressed to
her bosom she is speaking. sjj * 5i« >{« ^ *
" He never. Sir, need fear that Giles
Will trouble him again, —
But half a da}', — and, oh, an ago,
An agony of pain !
My poor fellow, sir ! — oh, think,
How hard ! — what it must be !
Put with all sorts of , and denied
All comforting from me !
THE VILLAGE OP MERROW.
59
As to the bird, nir, — toll him, tell him.
By (iaylight and by dark,
All that those hands can do, I'll givo ;
Tell him, I'll work, I'll work.
And say, sir, if ho will but hear mo,
To my last breath I'll pray
For Heaven to shield him from all griefs,
And bless him every way.
So kind, sir, he has over been,
'T would break my heart to lose him j
Indeed, sir, if you knew our wants,
Indeed, sir, you'd excuse him."
" No doubt, no doubt, — well,well, we'll see,
He'll not bo tried before
The turn of Easter, — and — why — then —
We'll see, we'll see, — p'rhaps more."
" Oh, thank you, sir !" — " No thanks, good damo
My duty to be ready,''
At every sacrifice, to assist
Th' afflicted and the needy."
" So kind, sir !"— " Not at all,— but now,
' T were best, methinks, look homo j
Your friends will be expecting you,
Nay, anxious till you come."
" Ho never liked to trouble you, sir ;
When I have asked him why,
He couldn't boar, he'd say, to call, —
He'd sooner starve and die."
" He had, no doubt, a proper pride.
Becoming in a man ;
Ho knew besides, — the calls, — he saw.
Precisely, how things ran."
" He'd heard your sister say, sir, once.
That had you only given
A trifle to a tenth that called.
They'd scarcely left you Heaven."
" Well, well — well, well, — not quite so bad.
Though truly some discretion
Should hold in charity, as well
In practice, as profession.
<50
THE VILLAGE OB^ MEUKOW.
Hi
I'pl *!i'
You need n't, mind, distress yourself
With furtlior call,— I'll not,
Rely on it, forgot — some things
Not readily forgot."
" Don't trouble, sir, I'll close the gate,"
Said Jane, now turned away,
" Lucky I called, — what will dear Giles,
When I have told him, say !
Such Christianity!— no pride ; —
So different to the other :
Thej^, who have known what trouble is,
Can feel it in another.
Good John, too, will bo glad to hoar
How kindly he has spoken ;
A word of kindness is like food
To the poor heart that's broken."
With this reflection, Jenny reached
The threshold of her door,
And crossed it with a lighter heart,
At least, than just before.
End op Part First.
THE VILLAGE OF MERROW.
61
PART SECOND.
CHAPTER I.
Scene, the Vicar's drawing room, — present, the Vicar, Squiro
Squander and his lady. — To restore the dilapidated conciition of
" Lady S.'s" nerves, the Squire had driven his lady to the Vicarage.
The Vicar is endeavoring to reconcile her ladyship to the trials to
which a more delicate nervous sensibility exposes the otherwise
loss afflicted children of fortune.
" A penalty, indeed we pay
For feelings more retined,
A sensibility, — a taste
Above the commoner kind.
Still, p'rhaps, the pleasures we enjoy
Wo taste with greater zest,
So, that, in one respect, at least,
Our lot goes not unblest,"
" So to the point ! — Vicar, our thanks —
A poor return, I fear;
Such sympathy has quite subdued
The racketing, rioting here^
" Don't mention it, dear Madam, blest
Am I, at any hour,
To have my fellow-croatures put
Their happiness in my power."
" This nuisance, Vicar, called on you.
Did he not, some time back ?" —
" None in that name, I think " — " Indeed ! —
Ex-cuse me, Mr. Slack."
" 0-h, yes, — I mind, — for charity
Our bell so often rings, —
I had forgot, — I— don't recall.
Always, these little things."
" So like yourself, — so christian-like,
Not to note what one does ;
You don't, I see, as some, restrict
The christian to Sundays."
G2 THE VILLAGE OF MKKHOW.
Tho Vicar bowed, — tho lady Hinilod, —
The Squiro, in iiini, tho samo, —
Then rose, — tho boll, — u pause, — and now
Tho liveried summons came.
" You'll not for^^et us at tho I Tall ;
Vicar, your word for bail ;" —
" When ])leasuro is with duty joined,
Wo seldom, Madam, fail."
CH AFTER II.
On the day of Giles' arrest I had an engagement at Shropton, and
it was on my way thithei' that I first heard of his misfortune. All
Merrow was in arms, llobbs, spying me at a distance, was in tho
road waiting for nie, and, like a certain mastiff that I liad just
past, ho was even more rampant than ever. " lleerd, sir, o' what's
up now ? Muoro'n one, Hir,'fi at tho bottom on't ; but thaay as hov
done it, sir, 'II come to no good, bartain, — That Snipe ! — wait till I
crasses'n, — till I gits within a rod ov'n."'
Stylos, whom 1 mot rounding the lane that led from the main
road to Giles' cottage, — he liad just come from it, — seemed quite
crushed, — " They wants, sir," said he, " to break tho hearts ov us, —
I've knowd 'n, sir, since ho wcr that high." If ever a certain lump
in the throat, of which Her Majesty has spoken in her joiu'nal,
was disposed to make free with mine, it was then. How often,
since, have I recalled him, — his sloevo to his eyes. — Oh God ! can I
look aero.ss to old England, remembering such things I
On my return passage, I was about to say, it was clear, from the
numbers that I met in Morrow, most of whom turned down to
Giles,' that something of more than ordinary consequence was at
issue there. It had boon agreed, I learned, that the villagers,
Giles' immediate mates at least, should assemble in the evening at
his cottage, to determine upon what a Scotsman would have called
the state of affairs. So, one by one, as the evening advanced
might many a hungry-looking fellow have been counted, wending
his way in the direction of the lane, and, in less than an hour
after dark, Jenny's cottage was fuller than it had ever been
before, and still some were arriving ; — now it was Pilch, — now
'T
THE VILLAGE OK MF:RK0W.
C3
Harry, — now Slop, — more tlinn one was from Lavont. I hnvo never
been ublo to recall that any women were present. Their
j)reseneo, I suppose, was at that hour iiulisjiensablo elsewhere.
John after a tlying visit to his brother at Shroj)ton, had rejoined
his sister-in-law and was still with her:
Nor welcomed least, came honest Styles,
His countenance full of ])ain,
With " summat for the childern, John,
And Missus' love to Jane."
; ^' Kind o' thee. Styles, — sit down ; — see, Jane,
Good Styles hath not for«^n)t us; — "
■"Less sad, my wench ;" said Styles, ** vvooll bear
What Heaven may will to lot us."
By few unmarked in some curt way
The old man's timely aid,
While Hobbs' more than humbled look
Some keener sense betrayed.
*' Pilch," said he, '* Pilch, I never felt
Till now, though nothini,' new,
llow hard is poverty, — and dang'd
If 1 daan't tell'n, too."
Which saying, llobbs, with feverish haste,
Strode to where Hawthorne stood,
None noting him, his mates, the while,
Battling for Giles' good.
" Us didn't, John, forgit our friend,"
Said he, " nor Pilch, nor 1
Ilev knowed, (rod's truth, what food is, John,
Some ten hours by the fcky."
" I know it Hobbs, — I see it, Hobbs," —
— John took his j)Oor friend's hand,
" We who crop close, lad, only need
The eye to understand."
Hobbs grasped with a convulsive grip
The hand that clenched his own,
*' Loard help us, John, — I feels, to-night,
Sunihow, a beaten down."
Hobbs was of such as seldom yield,
Nature might prompt within.
Still, rarely on his roughened cheek
The telltale drop was seen.
G4 THE viMiAUK OF mp:krow.
yot such UH ri;>litly jiuigo tho oyo
An index of tlie heart
Had Ibiuul it ouHy to doHcry,
SoinotimeH, its couiitorpjirt.
John, who know well tho sterlin/,' prido
That gi'acod his huinhlo friend,
WaH touehod, ovon to tondernesH,
To see him brought to bond.
" Come, come," baid ho, " wo mustn't, Ilobbn,
Permit ourRelvos to yield ;
TimoH have, perhaps, been full as hard
With bome whose pride concealed."
This called forth all the niatdinoHS
That Htill lined Ilobbs' breast,
" John, but lor (files, doan't thirds that Hobbs,-
Long hcv ho boi-nc tho rest."
" Well H])oken, lad, — enough, enough ; —
Wo can, my friend, but do
" What our best means jjermit, — that done
Amply pays pity's duo."
While Hohbs and Jolin were busied thus
Pilch had rejoined tho rest.
Who now, with clamorous comforting.
Round Styles and Jenny pressed.
" Hear wie," said one, — " hear 7," another, —
All would be heard together,
" They ca-an't I tell thee, Jane," a third, —
A iburth, " no matter whether." —
Not one, the least loud of them all,
But shai-ed the genial view,
That not a jot had Jane to fear,
, Lot spite its utmost do.
Jane turned tho kindlio^it face ' h
Then glanced, wH' v; '
To note how far, in
Her bob'om dai ^ .
" Olio at a time, — no\ let I p oak,'
Cried Slop, — " mid sich onfusion^
There aiirt no comin' no snmhow,
To no kind o' conclusion."
TIIK VILLAOE OF MKRROW,
*' FiiHt honr what StyloH hov ^ot to nny,"
Quoth Ilol)l)H, " hoaii't no one bettor
'S can toll tlio liiuw than yo can, Stylos,—
Yv knaw it to a letter I"
" I can clench that," naid Turnpike Tom,
*' Styles wor the on'y one
Ah seo'd, when ScaloH rar^o<l his own will,
Jlow that the thing wor clone.
Let Stylos start first, — staake out the laaw, '
Then sich as likes let toiler ;
If Styles leave much Ijohind'n, Hobbs,
'T boan't no use boin' a scholar."
None peemint( to dissent from this,
All eyes, ex])ectant, turned
On him who well the learned mime
Of lawyer Styles had earned.
♦' Ye'lj not. Styles, disapp'int us, well
Ye knaws what ye can do,"
Again said Jlobbs, " yer looks. Stylos, shaw
Ye're jist in the right cue."
Blushingly proud, on this, Styles ro.se,
Klately glancing round,
All eyes still on him, Janes e.\ci'])t,
Bent tearblind on the ground.
" Now us '11 hov it," whis])ercd Slop,
" Right atr,— the kind old man ! "
Delay grew ])ainful, — so, at once,
All silenced, Styles began :
" There bean't, my friend"—" "Wliat us"—
" Now, Pilch,"
Cried Hobl»s, '' keep quiet, do ;
Leave Stylos alone, Styles arn't the man,
To larn the laaw from you."
'' And who, Hobbs, ever s'posed he wer, —
Aal as I wished that he "
" Now, Pilch, shaw sense, shut up ; — On, Styles,
Out wi' it how things be."
" There bean't a bit o' doubt, my friends,
About — the blood — wer spilt; —
But, still, — they daresn't— touch he, Hobbs,
They didn't see'n kiWt r
E
U
\
3 i
.06
THE VILLAGE OF MERRO^T.
" I thaiight as much, — but at it, Stylos,
Out wi' it^aal, lad, straight; —
J zee what, St}des, it 's coming to,
Izo boon at 'sizes, late."
Styles raised his hand, in way to crave
Attention from his friend,
Anxious lest llobbs' eager tongue
Anticipate the end.
" Eight on," said Pilch, " I longs to hear
'Zactly how matters stand,"
So, Styles again, with cautious touch,
Took the loose reins in hand.
" It bean't nc sarcumstantial case.
Things must Im plu7))p and plain ;
And if — th.oy quit he, — aal his life
lie caan't be tried again !"
''Hear that !" said Slop—" And if the twelve
As tries 'n disagrees,
Aal but the judge be straight shut up,
And twixt 'cm tinds the fees.
So doan't be frought, my wench, '^hall aal
Be there u])on the day,
And dang'd if us doan't shaw the judge
Things shan't be jist his way.''
" There's for thee, Jane ! —what say thee, now ?
Didn't 1 tell thee so,"
Cried Slop, — '• there ain't a man as knows
The laaw, if /(g doan't know.
Thanks to thee, St3'les, — 'hev done usual
A moartal sight o' good ;
Wheii next I crasses un, the Squire
'LI tind I suniinat rude."
" And I," said Ilobbs, " '11 tell'n plain
He dunna knaw his pleace;
He bean't a bit the gentleman, —
I'll tell'u to his leace."
"And I." (pjoth Pilch, " can shaw that Snipe
Hev Kan Id the Squirm's geame ;
And do\Cn beyond ttie mul stream bridge
Jim lialph can shaw the seamo.
o^>
THE VILLAGE OF MERROW.
67
*' And I hove i^ottcn one, at home,
'S can tell a pretty tale,"
Said Turnpike Tom, "about so7ne one,
And dang me, too, ahe sha-all."
Thus each expressed, in different way,
The earnest of his lieart,
Save sober John, who, silent, sat,
All sorrowful, apart.
Too well he knew the law's stern strength,
Too well the haughty feelings
With which the powerful approach
The weak in all their dealings.
And, more, — ho knew his brother's proud
And upright mind had bred
A jealousy in one wlio most
In morals should have led.
Of justice he had little hope.
The Judge was called severe ;
Judge Dooill was the man to sit
In judgment for the year.
The Squire he knew when quite a boy,
Scarce fifteen summers span,
And marked that, as he grew in years.
He little irrew the man.
CHAPTER ill.
It was not without some little difficulty that John had obtained
access to his brother, now, alas ! in Shropton jail ; for Giles, after
having been taken before some local magistrates, one of them a
I'cctor, was committed for trial at the approaching assizes. Snipe
swore, and falsely, that on several previous occasions Giles had
been a trespasser on the Squire's grounds. — Nothing could exceed
the ecstacy of this magnanimous gentleman at Giles' incarcera-
tion. — "At last, my boy ! " was his parting fling at him.
Improvements, as at present, were by no means general, at
that time, in the discipline of jails. The sunshine of Howard's
l)hilanthropy still played but feebly within the walls of too many
of them. Giles found himself among the vilest of the vile, — with
burglars, murderers, and prostitutes. lie positively forbade the
admission of his wife. But now I have something to speak of,
68
THE VILLAGE OF MEKROW.
upon the which 1 fool it impossible to be silent, so much had it, I
believe, to do with the future of Giles. — The assizes were at hand.
Sir James Dooill, the judge, had already arrived, as had also
many of the barristers and lawyers attendant on his circuit. Pri-
vate apartments had been taken by them all. It was upon such
notables, at their rooms, that the father of Styles had been in the
habit of plying his trade as a barber.
Now, early on the day before the commencement of business, it
had not escaped the vigilance of Snipe that the carriage of Sir
James Dooill was at the Vicar's gate. "With the subtlety of a
snake, this was immediately communicated to " Lady S," who, in
less than a minute, was off to the Vicar's. — "Never was any thing
so fortunate ! "
He)' ladyship, on foot, was, indeed, a surprise ! Miss Arabella
Slack was evidently not displeased at her arrival. A smile less
wintcry than usual lighted her angular features : while the skilled
in face reading might have detected a tinge of uneasiness in that
of her brother.
" Your shawl, Mrs. S.— I'll "
"I'm away, J^ella, in a moment."
" Not before I've introduced you to Sir James ? "
"Oh no, — certainly not."
Never had Sir James been scrutinized more closely by trem-
bling ofll'ender than by the keen and inquiring glance of Mrs.
Squander, — "You'll find Shropton, I'm afraid, but a dull place.
Sir Jumcs." So said her lips, — not so her eyes — " Can we rely on
him ?"— " 18 he one of us ? " — so said they.
" I was not aware. Sir James," said the Vicar, resuming the
broken thread of their discourse, that the destruction of game by
an unlicensed party was, at one time, a capital oli'ence."
Mrs. S. was all attention.
" Under the ancient forest laws," replied Sir James, " the killing
of the king's game was equally penal with murdering one of his
subjects."
"And what, pray,'Sir James," said Mrs. Squander, "induced
them to cluinge the law ? "
" Well, — it was considered by sojne to press a little too
Bevel ely on the subject; — though, really, there are moments, so
troublesome are, at times, these lellows, when I am more than dis-
posed to think (Mrs. Squander's eye brightened) that the altera-
tion was, perhaps, after all, somewhat premature."
A November smile passed over the face of Miss Slack.
THE VILLAGE OF MERROW.
69
" There can be very little doubt, I think, Sir James," said the
Vicar, " that the audacity of poachers, of late, is traceable, in a
threat measure, to the mistaken lenity of the law. The "
" And yet, brother "
'* Pardon me. my dear ; — I was about, Sir James, to observe that
the unquestionable increase of crime of late most demonstratively
shows that the assumptive philanthropy of the day is entirely a
mistake, — simply an impediment in the way of justice. — A dis-
eased love of notoriety is, in most cases, I su.spoct, at the
bottom of it. I have a cousin, now, — a man in good position, and
of considerable talent, who for the mere repute of reformer, would
scarcely, 1 believe, hesitate at getting rid of the game laws
altogether ! "
'• "What, no game laws at all ! " said Mrs. Squander.
'•Just so. Madam."
"lam entirely of your opinion, Mr. Shick," added Sir James.
•' In my own profession, I might point to more than one who, for
the sake of a mere paper pojnilarity, are ready, at any moment,
with the wildest, remotest utterances. Even Blackstone, the
great Sir William Blackstone, was not, at all times, able to with-
stand 1 he temptation."
" Indeed ! " said the Vicar.
'• One would have thought, certainly," resumed the Judge,
" that boasting, as could he, of a North for a protector, he, at least,
would hardly have so forgotten himself"
'• More especially, when I recall," said the Vicar, " that it was
Sir William who, on an occasion, pleaded against the right of
copyholders to a vote.",
" You have not, I see, Mr. Slack, been upon the bench for
nothing."
The Vicar bowed.
"Yes," continued Sir James, " Sir William's Nimrod in every
Manor, in the stead of the one mighty hunter in the land, is, too
frequently, I am sorry to say it, upon the lips of some people."
" You have heard. Sir James," ventured " Lady S.," now some-
what emboldened, " of the desperado that you will have shortly
to deal with ? "
"We never. Madam," replied the Judge, but in a tone by no
means disheartening, "permit ourselves, howsoever invited — we
hold it, indeed, a duty — "
" You have, I can easily imagine," interrupted Mrs. Squander,
r '■\\
70
TIIK VILLAGE OF MEKROW.
" quite enough of Kuch follows by the time you have done with
them."
" To that," said Mr. Slack, " Sir James will find no difficulty in
assenting." — '' If such men," continued the Vicar, "could only, Sir
.James, be persuaded to look a little more to the future, — to culti-
vate a reasonable economy — could only, as my good sister is con-
stantly suggesting to them, be induced to lay by a bit — if never
so little, it would still bo something in the moment of temptation,
to assist in keeping them from trouble."
" Instead," said Miss Slack, addressing herself to the Judge,
" they live up to their last farthiny."
" What, pray, may be the wages, with you, Mr. Slack, of such
men at present ? "
" Nine and sixpence, — and, in some cases, as high as ten shil-
lings per week."
'' Of course, with such wages, the men provide for themselves ? "
" Of course."
" And lost time deducted ? "
" Certainly ; — and yet we hear of nothing but povcrt^^ — pov-
erty ! "
" As with us in Dorsetshire, Mr. Slack : — I have sometimes,
indeed, been inclined to think that without hunger the people of our
part would be really at a loss for something to talk about."
" Well," said Mrs. Squander, rising, upon this, with an air of
jubilation that told its tale, " I must be going— Charles will be ex-
pecting me. — You'll not forget before leaving, Sir James, that
there's such a place as the Ilall."
"Certainly not."
■ IV)or Giles ! —
CHAPTER IV.
The day had now arrived for the commencement of Shro])ton
assizes. According to the county Herald the calendar was an
unusually heavy one, including, amidst every variety of delin-
quency, for these were the days of " chopstick" riots, a case of
desperate poaching, by one Hawthorne, on the property of Charles
Squander, Esq., of Merrow. This was accompanied by some appo-
site remarks upon the general increase of poaching, followed by a
hint that it was only by a commensurate severity of punishment
THE VILLAGE OF MEKIiOW.
71
that such could bo kept down. An example had to bo made, and
the sooner the better. This may help to accoiiiit for the ^reat
crowd in attendance ; for poachini;' attiiirs, even ordinary ones,
arc always attractive v boroughs.
Trusting to a statement, by no less a jicrson tiian the Vicar,
that Giles' cjise would be one of the earliest presented, the country
people of Merrow were all upon the road, betimes, on the open-
ing day of the court. An opinion seemed to prevail that tho
Vicar was favourably disposed to Giles. This had put heart into
more than one. He had assured Styles, as also Slop, that it was
indeed a sad atluir, a very sad affair, that '' we must all, ever if one
of us, SCO what could be done." Ilis ])resence, too, in court was
still more encouraging, and brought from Hobbs the remark that
" if tho chap 'oold only say a word or two for Giles, he might
keep his speadv and welcome lo it."' We were all, however, it seems
upon a wrong scent. Giles' case was not brought forward on tho
tlrstday. Indeed it reached me, afterwards, that more than one was
well informed that such was a settled arrangement beforehand.
Still, with ^Ir. Slack upon Giles' side, hope held u]) her head, and
Styles further came to the su])port of some of us with the assur-
ance that " thaay passons coold do a'most anything."
Being mounted, although I had lingered in Shi-opton till after the
court had closed, it Avas before reaching Merrow that I slackened
my pace, on observing ahead of me the brother of Giles. John
also had been lingering in the tOAvn at the jail with his brother.
"Good evening, Mr. Ilaicthome," I stud, on ncaring him, for not
tlie heir apparent to a crown would have ventured to address that
man with an assumptive familiarity. — " I was glad to see Mr. Slack
in court," I added.
"Yes. sir," he replied, " Mr. Slack was in court," but with so
much of the calmness of utter hopelessness that I was both hurt and
disappointed. It occurred to me, also, that perhaps my remark
was not altogether in place ; so, with heel to my horse, "Good
night, Mr. Hawthorne," I said ; but in a tone as kindly and con-
siderate as I could muster.
" Good night, sir," ho replied with tho same calmness, — the same
hopelessness.
With the beautiful faith that youth so invariably has, some-
times fatally to our after happiness, in the sincerity of others, I
was still of those who believed in the truthfulness of the Vicar's
expressed sympathy for Giles, and it was with a manner more
72
THE VILLAGE OF MERROW.
if
benignant tlian usual that, on passing his gate, I bade a good night
to the guardian angel of his grounds.
There was no mistake, however, upon the second day. Giles' was
the first case called for. As my reader, recalling the language of
the Herald, will readily suppose, the excitement, on Giles' appear-
ance, was extreme. The court, as on the jwevious day, was
crammed. Every reserved seat was already occupied, situations
commanding a good view of the villain being evidently the choice
ones, while Hobbs, Pilch, and others of liis comrades had posted
themselves conveniently for an encouragement to Giles, as he
passed them, that "things," as Styles had assured them, "were
not going, for once, to be Jist the judge's way."
A little incident now occurred upon the which a word or two
may not be out of place. When Giles was brought into court, a
constable on each side of him. Snipe took it into his conceit to be
a fourth, and on Giles pausing for a moment to disengage his hand
from Ilobbs, the batllcd Lothario, giving him a thrust in the back,
ordered him to — " on." It had been safer to have touched a torpedo.
In an instant, spinning round on his heel, and staggering to the
ground, was Snipe to be seen, from a smasher on the jaw from
Giles. A broad red mark, where Giles' barky knuckles had bared
his flesh, spoke for the severity of the blow. Giles, however, was
not free from his share of punishment. Venturing at Snipe a
second compliment, he missed him, and bringing up against a sup-
port to a side gallery, both cut and bruised his right hand fearfully,
while in a rush made at him by a host of officers, who, in their
alacrity, seemed to be well posted, he received from the staff of
one of them, upon his left temple, a return compliment of no
trifling severity. An officer tied round it his handkerchief
With the blood dripping from his now shackled hands, and
ever and anon a drop stealing from beneath the tiara on his temples,
Giles' appearance, J confess, was anything but improved, howso-
ever imnressive, I observed that a barrister, who sat in front of
him and below him, on looking round, removed to a greater dis-
tance. I was surprised at this, as professional men, in general, are
not cowards.
The excitement, upon this, with Giles' immediate supporters,
was intense. Hobbs w^as, as usual, uppermost. —
"Look at 'n," said he, — "jist look at 'n,-if the very roof doan't
tumble in on 'em, then I says, Tom, there ain't no God."
" Doan't talk so, Harry, — doan't say so, lad," said Styles.
THE VILLAGE OF MERROW.
73
It was noticed thai Giles seldom looked directly to one side of
the court, — his wife and children wore there ; for not only had
Jenny bei^^ed to be allowed to be present, but it was the opinion
of all the Missuses of Merrow that her })resenco, whilst it might do
some good, "couldn't do no harm no how; " and Styles, on being
consulted, had distinctly stated that " u/" 'sizes, one word fi-om a
wench wer worth more'n a underd from even a laawyer " — " He'd
hecrd, too, of a whole court as wer downright drownded, judge
and aal, by jist a few tears from jist sich as she."
On this arraignment, Gi les pleaded (jf/aV^/ to havingshot upon one
night, a pheasant on the grounds of Squire S(|uander ; but not guihy
to other charges trumped up against him by Snipe, who, with his
scarred and swollen jaw, cut a somewhat conspicuously contempt-
ible figure. More than once had the country folks to be called
to order for laughing, or affecting to laugh, at the mumbling way
in which he gave his evidence. Nothing in this, however, be sure
had his eye lost of its malice, — his pride of its vindictiveness-
He was ready to swear to any thing, as were, also, the hirelings
under him.
Tins partial admission of guilt by Giles was not, altogether,
what Avas wanted by more than one in court ; so, after some delay,
with a deal of whis])ering, neither of which were intelligible, or
satisfactory to Hobbs, and utterly condemned l)y Styles, as " agin
aal statue laaw," it was resolved to "give the fellow a chance," by
putting him upon trial on the wholesale charge, selecting to com-
mence on what he had, indeed, never repudiated. Such a trial
was, of course, both a mockery and contradiction : — The evidence
against him was, of necessity, overwhelming, blended, as it was,
in every way, with falsehood that art could suggest to prejudice a
jury.
But wdiere was Mr. Slack ! — In vain had I sought for him in
every nook and corner of the court. Had I been older, better ex.
perienced, I might have spared myself much trouble. A clerical
magistrate, if present, would have been reo.Jihj discoverable.
The evidence against him completed, Giles had expressed a wish
to say a few words prior to the retirement of the jury, when Jenny,
who was now utterly beside herself, clutching by his gown a bar-
rister passing, begged of him and in a tone so beseeching as to set
refusal at defiance, to inquire for Mr. Slack, — " He promised mo so
to be here."
Eetracing his steps, the sergeant, for such he was, in an under ton<^
I'iii; '
74
THE VILLAGK OF MEliHoW.
i1'!
Haiti Homcthing to the jiul^c. Tho reply wan manifestly any thing
but natisfactory. Tho sergeant (to the credit of tho bar I say it)
rouged, and looked nettled. Persevering, however, in his suit, a
few words were passed to tho crier, who, after a stern injunction
to "Silence," in the same impressive tone, inquired for — "The
Rev. Jloratius Slack ?"— No answer !— " The Jlov. lloratius Slack ?"
— Again — no answer !— A pin, as the saying runs, might now have
been heard to fall. A silent anxious expectancy possessed every
one. Ap|)rehension seemed ujtpcrmost with Jenny. " What," said
the poor thing, looking into tho angel hauni.^ of her own bosom,
" what can have hap])ened to him ! "
The attention of all was now diverted to Giles ; — ho was evi-
dently about to address the judge.
Giles had been but a few weeks in jail, but in apjtcarance ho was
much altered. Thinner he could hardly well bo, but there was a pale
leaden tint both in his face and hands, and the peculiar ringing
tone of a cough, which he certainly had not before his arrest, I
have, since, often, and painfully recalled. His smock (I doubt
that tho i)Oor follow had a shirt), patched and worn before he was in
trouble, was now sadly, indeed, out of sorts, whilst his bandaged
temples and gore-clotted hands impressed, I should say, every
one present alike.
Thus stood tho English country-man,
Once England's honest jtride.
When not another man, on eai-*'i,
To fellow l»y his side.
There, clothed in rags and wretchedness,
AVith outstretched arms he stood,
And thus his guileless tale began
To one more ^/T(7/' than good : •
" I doan't deny what I ha' done ;
1 know it wunna right;
But I wor sorely put to it
Upon that cruel night.
I couldn't bear, — God's truth, my loard,
To sec my babbies want,
I shouldn't ha' had tho heart o' man
To ha' longer looked upon't.
Not all as us, for months, my loard,
Could reckon as our own
Stood us, at best, a crust apiece,
To leave still worse alone.
THE VILLAGE OF MEKROW.
Split up, my loard, two crowns yor.self,
And, counting f'ollvH as five,
See if it muoro'n give.s enough
Than to jist keep flesh alive.
The day Avas, — many as 'members it, —
When a man had something more
To help him through than his wages wortl),
WJion he didn't led like poi>r.
AVhat has a labourer now to show,
What to fall back on left,
Of his little croft, of his commons' riglit,
Of his every chance bereft !
Surely, temptation, niglit and day,
Kightat his cottage dot)r,
Mjght have been s])ared with one so spoilt,
So trotlden down, so poor.
Do unto others as ye'd hcv
As they shouUl do b}' you,
Is the law, at least in heaven, and might
Be sometimes elsewhere, too.
One that as well had been, p'rhaps, here,
Mo need to blab his 7iati'e,
As witness might have stood to that.
And less, too, to his shame.
My loard, my loard, I woo'don beg,
My blood wer yet too proud,
But oh ! — my wife ! — my little babes ! —
See — crying in the crowd !
Oi- them, my loard, and not on him
Who only is to blame;
The judgment of the court wooll be,
In all but christ'n name."
76
Many, when Giles had got thus far,
Silently shed a tear ;
Not so the haughty one, whose smile
Wore its accustomed sneer.
Giles missed it not, and judged, aright.
All vain the hope to reach
The heart that misery's saddest tale
So little seemed to teach.
r
76 TIIK VILLAGE OF MERROW.
"Thy Hmilo full well I coinprohond; —
I dimna know to ploftd ; —
Wor thou, my lounl, the Jud^o of all,
Porhaps. I liad'on noed."
Thi«Baid, — his hands, still locked, in front,
With a half dotiant air,
Looked Giles away, his j)roud fine face
Th' observed of all eyes there.
Many a brow was, by this time, shaded with a moistened hand,
— Styles, leaning on Ilobbs' shoulder, was sobbing like a child.
All was elsewhere silence, and in its midst tlie judge rose. Never
was a Kemblc more studied, never a more imitator more artificial
and formal than Sir James in his manner and utterance. Yet was
thoro II method \n both, — the method of malice and tyranny, llis
formality and statelinoss, ho knew, would work upon the weak, —
and where are the strong ? — at least in juries. With his eyes search-
ingly on the jury, after pausing for a few seconds, till his hauteur
had softened into something of blandness, ho commenced :
(rontlemon of the jiuy. — having heard
The evidence adduced
Against tlie prisoner, you'll now
Take in your hands the accused.
You'll'make it 3'our especial aim,
Sole care, to set aside
All prejudice, — all partial views, —
The law alone your guide.
In simple cases, — such as this.
Seldom we stand in need
Of hint, or aid, — still, a few words
As well ere we proceed.
Now, gentlemen, — the prisoner,
To jiut the matter right,
Did, or did not a pheasant kill.
Upon a certain night.
Your duty, gentlemen, will be
Simply to fix the fact ;
The prisoner did or did ?iot do
A certain criminal act.
If satisfied that so he did,
Why — then — your course is plain,—
But if — in any doubt, — therein
The prisoner must gain.
THE VILLA(JE OF MEKKOW.
77
It BomotimcH happens tluit wo have
A j>uin('iil tiiHk to do,
Justice turl)ids wluit pity, cIho,
Would hold f'rotu very low.
Ah to the })lea of poverty.
Why — Ihtit'y the coiiunon plou
Of every crimiiuil, uiid will have
No wcif^ht with you or mo.
Nor must we, gentlemen, permit
Ourselves t'esehew the laws ;
A seeminij harshness often has
A wisely rooted cause.
BosldoH it is for Parliament
To move when statutes err;
We don't sit here to make the laws,
But — to administer.
With tliis — you'll, gentlemen, —retire.
To (tgrcc upon the case;
A very sini]>le one. the facts
Indeed uj)on the face."
Such as wished well to Giles ohserved,
With trenu>r-, that the jury
Ke2)t notlding lo the Judge's words,
As in judicial hurry.
And few were taUcn hy surprise
To hear the foreman say
" Guilty, my lord,"' for what could hope
Promise the other wa}-.
" Weil, if that ain't a sheame," cried Slop,
"Didn't thee mind the old un ;
They jist waalk'd out, and then jist 'gree 'd
Jist as the Judiie had lowld'n."
" 'Bout time, methi^ks, the Styleses, Slop,
Took on agin Avith Inaw;
Never heerd 1 a judge address
A jury so, afore."
" They Avaun't a jury tit to try
A case like his'n, — not one,
I knows 'em Styles, in aal his life
Hev ever tired a gun."
11
' .
i
78 THE VILLAOE OK MKIIUOW.
" CuuHo, Slop, they (•l!ij)|)0(l,"H:vid TurnpiUo Tom,
*' No one l)iit town 1'oIUh tlicM'O ;
I HCOH it aal, — there wuuii't u bit
About the (rial fair."
•* I'd hev, had I w// mind," Haid Ilobbs,
" That Hinoothfaeo pretty quick
Brau^jjht to his boarini^s, — 'nou^h to uiako
A pafsson'H donkey sick.
Not aal tlie thin<^M (JiloH over done
Ai^in the will o' (lod,
Pitted '^'irmt, one day'H woi'k of his 'n
'Oold more noi* hall" the load.
But look out, SIoj), I aal'ays mindn,
Whcniver niiHehiet'H brewin',
Wooldthitd< their hearts ni^h breakin' like
At what theirHelvea bo doin'."
I
1]
It!
Thejudjrc had risen ! — silently
His eye surveyed his man —
" Mercy, my loard I " cried Stylos ; — the judtjo
Chocked liim, then thus began :
" Prisoner at tho bar, — it griovos me,
Beyond my ])ower to say,
To see a man, — decent, — like you.
Fling himself thus away.
You have been tried, and guilty found,
By an impartial jury.
Of what tho law counts no light crime.
And justly, I assure you.
I don't SCO, from tho evidence,
How they could rightly come
To any finding, but that tho facts
Bring the guilt clearly home.
As to your own admission, that.
Believe, had little weight;
The facts alone more than enough
To justi ty your fate.
It only now remains for me,
Biassed by no report,
To pass on you, — a painful task, —
The sentence of the court.
rmc VILLAdK OF MKRROW.
79
WorhO had it fiirod with you orowhile,
IikIim'iI, thoro irioni timo,
Sovw still i/cft'inl, yonv lili' had hoon
The t'ort'oit of your <'riiiu).
But, hy tho more coiisidorato,
More inoi'cil'ul dotroo
Of niodorn hiw, n duty loss
Sovoi'o dovolvoH oil mo.
Tho hiw, thus miti<,'atc(l. rules,
With power, in hand still ouph,
That simj)le banishnicnt subserve
In eases sueh as yours;
But seven years |)enal sorvitudo
Beyond tho seas, — no more ; —
May heaven so shape you as t'a{'(]uit
The merey of the law.
Hero n distinct, unniistakeable, heavy sigh caused every ono
present to look round. It was from old Styles — Tho law both of
his head and heart was, at last, at a dead stand.
" You-dang'd old villain ! " burst out Ilobbs,
" Christ! — if L woo'don tear
Yer very heart out, had ye one,
This ye caall playing fair T
"Silence, sir, there ; — remove him — quick,"
Shouted the nettled jud^e —
" Gently, my friends, gently, my lads,
Ordang'd an inch I budge."
" No gonti}' with him, constables,
Away with him at once ;
A court of justice, sir, you'll find
No place for your bravo bounce."
*' Hark ye, old chap ; — for twenty worlds,
And twenty on to that,
T woo'don do as you hev dor\e
The six hours you ha' sat.
Look at the wench ! — ►'V\'a)| ! if it arn't
A real downright disgrace ;
Gently, my chum, or, by my soul,
I'll sheamo yer pretty foace."
" For heav'n's sake, Ilobbs, go quietly,"
Said Styles, — " 't wooll only make
Things worse for Giles, — for this once, lad,
*. A friend's best counsel take."
TIIK Vir.LAGK OF MEKUOW.
Ilobl)8 felt the ibi'ce of Styles' wonln,
So, without more ado,
Ho let the liircliiii^^s of the hivv
Their luicknejed course pursue.
^
*
*
>is
The trial o'er, — tho court adjourned, —
Hope slowly sighed I'urewell,
As Giles' mutes their homes regained,
And he — his silent cell.
lilBlil
• r
-' 1
ClIAPTER V.
Never, so sorrowfully, had I wended ray way homeward as
on the evening after Giles' condemnation. Never had I felt so
disposed to doubt of a presiiling Providence: — "Can such things
be, and a God be over us ! " But it was in my weakness, my blind-
ness, that I said so, and, with a gushing heart, T usk for forgiveness.
On reaching the lane Avhich, at the threshold of Merrow, led
do\vn to Giles' cottage, I found it almost impossible to proceed
for the reflections that crowded, and how painfuiiy, on me. " So
kindly, so sim])le, so unsuspicious ! " I was thinking of his wni'o.
Indeed, on my reaching home, o)ie, for whom friendship might
have readily decjiened into a tenderer feeling, observed, on my
entrance, that she was fure I had been either crying or laugh-
ing; "Let me see," said she, ri><ing, a;id with her hands on my
shouldei., looking mc in the face, "you 'i*"
The excitement, on the following day, at what was regarded, and
openly sjioken of, as a cowardly desertion by the Vicar, was in-
tense. Towar(i8 the evening, however, this was considerabh' tem-
])ered by a report that sudden and serious indisposition had intei"-
fered with the worthy gentleman's attendance. " I knew," said
.Fenny, in the sobbing way that she now said everything, " that
soinetiiin(i must have hai)pened." Hawthorne was silent, — and.
Styles merely said, that "God alone could see into men's hearts;
or, as para]>hrased by Hobbs, that " howsumivcr iblks might hum-
bug theirsdvcs, there waun't no humbugging he, no how."
It will have been supposed, and, possiblj^ with surprise, that at
Giles' trial, farmer Manly was also an absent one. Such, how-
THE VILLAGE OF MERROW.
SI
vard as
folt HO
things
y blind-
ivcncss.
row, led
proceed
e. " So
lis wife.
) might.
, on my
r Lnugh-
s on my
led, and
was in-
blv tern-
d intcr-
!\v,'' said
<r. <' that
nt,— and
i hearts;
^ht hum-
0, that at
h, how-
ever, was not the ease. He was present iipon both days, nor, in
any shape, had his sympathy been withheld iVom the Hawthornes
in this theii* greatest trial. It was his opinion, and ho had acted
on it, that anything like a public intei'iercnce on his part would
tend rather to the disadvantage of Giles than otherwise.
" Witli some foUcs here, sir," said he, " I am no favourite. Even
man}' of the farnicrs are against me. I do what I can to make up
to a labourer, in an indirect way, wliat I consider he is entitled to.
This, by some of them, is not liked. I believe that, were I to
openly advocate a higher, fairer standard of wages, I might reckon
upon having to abandon my place altogether. My taxed means
will not permit mo to do much. My family, as you may see, sir,
i>i numerous, and a suit in chancery has, for some years, pressed
heaviiv on mo ; but 1 do what I can."
It was whilst at this worthy man's house, on the second day
after Giles' trial, and whilst discussing- with him, amongst other
things, what the tine old fellow still assured me would " hurt no-
body," that I espied from an open window no less a carriage than
that of Sir James Dooill wending-its way in the direction of La-
vent. It was not, however, for Lavent that it was destined —
" For the Vieai''s, I suspect," said Mr. Manly, " This familiarity
with the Slacks," he continued, *' since Sir James" arrival amongst
us, 1 am sorry, vei-y sorry to observe. Giles has not a greater
enemy, sir, than the Vicar, letting alone, perhaps, his sister.
There is, I have heard, some little distant relationship between
them, ^toreover, men in jower and ])osition, as Sir James, are
but too inclined to remember with gratitude the assistance never
denied to them by the Establishment."
" But in what way," I inquired, "is this likely to have allected
the Hawthornes."
" AVell — you see, sir, — there is nothing that, in general, men
tind it so ditiieult to forgive in another as a superiority that reflects
upon their own shortcomings. Now, the brotiier of this Giles»
John Hawthorne — I have spoken of him to yon, 1 believe, before —
is no ordinary man. With a higher education, and better oppor-
tunity, he might have been anything. In America he would, pro-
bably, have been President, — a congress man, at all events — He
is a Methodist^ — and there, sir, lies the sting with the Vicar.
Jfdlf of the villaije folks are up at his cottage on the Sunday.
It has often, sir, occurred to me, observing the remarkable influ-
ence which this man has with lu- fellows that, should it ever please
S2
THE VILLAOE OF MHHK'OW.
tho groat God above u^, hy Inunan agency, to inlorfero with tlie
present iiiijii.st ^iuia of things with the hibourcrs it would be u])on
such a one that ho would have Ilis eye; to such a one that lie
would beckon. The labourers liave, long since, lost all contidenco
in those whom they are still in the habit of calling their betters.
They distrust them, to a man. But their ears and hearts might
both, I think, be yet reached by such as, like themselves, had
tasted of the bitterer side of things, — who had toiled with them —
hungered with them. Such, /br good at least, could alone influence
them ; — T am now pretty old, sir, but you may, perhajis, live to
recall what wo have been talking of." — I have indeed recalled it.
" It is so, (help yourself, sir,) precisely so, with the Rev. Mr.
Goodwill, curate of Orton. — Are you ac(piainted with him ? "
" On the eve of becoming so."
" You will find him to be one of the finest fellows living. By some,
to be sure, he is objected to, and for an odd reason, — that he is not
like a parson. His neck, for such objectors, is, perhaps, a little too
pliant, — his hand less patronizingly extended to the poor, — while
his coat may, at timeri, seem tp have surrendered to the wind and
weather a little too much of its nap; but if to be thus, sir, is to be
more like a christian, in times when one out of every ten we meet
has, in some shape, a claim upon one's charity, then, sir, I say, that
the worthy gontloman may forgive his glass for its unsparing reflec-
tion of the grounds u})on which a silly world is too apt to build its
estimates. An old coat will be no drawback, sir, sojne day. Coachos-
and-sixes will tind a pretty' heavj' toll at one gate."
Ilo'c the old gentleman emptied his tumbler.
'• Ah. sii'. if we were all like Parson Goodwill we might get along
without parsons." f
" But in what respect, Mr. Manly," I inquired, ''is Hawthorne's
position suggestive of Mr. (lOodwill's."
'• Well, in this. sir. The indel'atigable zeal of Mr. Goodwill is a
reflection upon the rector."
" You mean upon the Eev. Mr. Wrench ? "
"Certainly. — Till the presence of Mr. Goodwill in Orton e\ery
thing there was out of sorts: — schools were neglected, — the ail-
ing uncared for, — charity unencouraged — indeed, nothing was as
it should be. Service, at least in the afternoon, was, most cer-
tainly, more honoured, as the poet has it, in tlie breach than in the
observance. Tlie bench seemed, and seems still, to be an object
of far higher consideration with his reverence than the church.
THE VILLAGE OK MERROW.
83
I don't know that I can recall haviii\' seen Mr. Wrench emerging
from the cottage of a labourer ; but he is ever to be found at a
gathering of magiBtrates, and any thing but remarked for the
lenity of his suggestions. Now, it is well knoM'n to the rector that
Mr. Goodwill is in principle, however guarded in declaring him-
self, opposed to all this; — hence a feeling of hostility on the rec-
tor's part. Mr. Goodwill, I am afraid, has a hard time of it, sir, —
u very hard time of it."
" He is not wealthy, I have heard ? "
"Very far from it, sir. His stipend from the rector is, as
usual, painfully small. Report puts it at barely seventy ])ound8 per
annum, not the wages of a mechanic. An allowance from a well-
to-do uncle may foot up his means to something like a couple of
hundred ])er annum, still, little enough you will .illow, for the man's
heart is too large to look upon want, and very often to keep his
hand from his pocket. He is, indeed, sir, a most excellent man.
Not a cottager in Orton but has a kindly word for him."
'' At what figure, Mr. Manly," 1 a.sked, "do you put the rector's
means? "
" At eight hundred per annum, and the parsonage, independent-
ly of a rich inheritance."
"Of which the allowance to Mr. Goodwill is something less than
the tithe ? "
" A trifle less."
" Elem ! — but is not the income of such men supplemented to
some extent by fees customary at" marriages, christenings, burials,
and so forth?"
*' Very little, sir, I assure you. A marriage of oven a well-to-do
farmer is always a rector's affair, — of com'se, out of respect ; and
such as Mr. Goodwill have little relish for the poor man's penny.
His greatest offence, I apprehend, is in his 83'mpathy, which he
has not always found it possible to conceal, with the ftirm
labourers in their presetit degraded position. Ho has even been
rash enough, as many have regarded it, to hint at the positive
necessity for higher wages with them ; and it is no secret that he
has lately signed a petition for the repeal of the;',orn lav/s. Upon
this last point, I had it from Mr. (loodwill himself, the rector and
lie were very nearly coming to a rupture. The rector wrote to
him, pointing out to him the propriety of confining his attention
to the religious requirements of the parish. To this Mr. Goodwill
responded, that it seemed to him that he could i.i no way better
1":^
S4
THE VILLAGE OF MEKBOW
proinotG the ends of religion than in endeavouring to provide for
liis parishioners a Bufficicncy io he honest on. This brought from
Mr. Wrench a further remonstrance with an iiijunction Io
remember that it was not as an insjicctor, nor as an overseer, that
he had engaged him ; — hard hmguagc, sir, I thought. The worthy
gentleman, I know, smarted under it. — I can only add, sir, that if
Mr. Goodwill has since felt but a titlie of the pleasure it has been
to wie to know that I did not — for I signed the petition mysolf —
that I did not, I say, ])ermit my greed as a farmer, to override
a sense of what is right and christian, lie has been amply
ic])aid for any ill-will that ])is signature may have brought on
him. That God and 1 were about to do something together I
was never more e.itisried tlian Avhen on that occasion I took up
my pen, and 1 have not been denied, since, the comfortirKj qssurance
that it was so. — I am sadly afraid that the upshot Avill be that
]Mr. Goodwill will bo driven to resign, an irreparable loss, not
only to every one in Orton, but to some at least out of it. 1
confess for one to feeling much more at home in h'S church than
in Mr. Slack's. Indeed, till Mr. Goodwill's arrival amongst us, 1
was quite at a loss for any thing of that consolation which, at
times, ])erhaps, is nowhere to be less found than in one's own-
circle. — A man qualified both by nature and train.ing for his
position, as is Mr. (ioodwill, is a treasure, sir, a blessing to a parish
— nay, sir, a necessity, at least to such as have ever known what it
is in the hour of trouble to have such a one to lean on. — You will
understand this, sir, better, perhaps, bye- and- bye."
My noble friend, liow tenderly, just now, arc your utterances
renewed !
CHAPTER VI.
Oil my Avay homeward, my attention was attractcil by two-
cnrriagos, Sir James' and the Squii-e's. Both (the horses had
been loosened) w-ere standing in the yard at the back of the
Vicar's. This was suggestive of something more than a mere
exchange of formalities. Sir James \vas there in redemption of
his promise of a day and a night at the vicarage, while the
Squanders had been purposely invited to meet him.
Mr. Manly, it seems, was in the right ; — and now as the cvening^
THE VILLAGE OF MEllROW.
85
jidvancocl — an early tea putting every one at home — the style in
which Miss Arrabclla's tongue dealt with the scandals of the
village left but scant room to doubt that Mr. Manly, in another of
his suspicions, v/as as little at fault. — A-tiptoe, let us approach.
" I trust, llorutius " (the Vicar's sister is speaking), " that this
v'ill, at least, serve as a caution. Such excessive zeal is alto-
gether a mistake. I assure you. Sir James, tliat had I not, so
i)ifatuated was my brother with this Giles, positively insisted on
liis remaining at homo, it would be diflticult to divine what turn
his indisposiiion might have taken."
"Something constitutional, Mr. Slack ? "' iniiuired Sir James.
" Far from it," responded his sister, " I don't recall the having
ever seen him so till then. There was nothing, perhaps, in his
look, immediately indicative of suffering, — of positive pain ; — but
his silence! — his manner so strange! — so unusual I— so unlike
anything that I had previously known in liim !"
" Billious, perhaps ? " said Mrs. Squander.
Nothing of that kind, my dear."
" Any cloudiness, heaviness in his eye V '
'' Not in the least, Sir James — It was in his appetite that he
seemed so to suffer. At breakfast, a mere round of toast, and, at
<linner, a little fish, with a leg and breast of a fowl, was all, anil
only by coaxing, that I could induce him to take. It was not
till—"
"Had 3'ou ventured, Arabella, upon stimulants?"
" Just so, Mrs. S. — I was about to say, that not till he had taken
a glass or two of Madeira and a tumbler of stout, which I insisted
on, seomo I he in any way himself. His appetite appearctl, then,
to gradually return, and, at supper, he ate even more heartily
than usual."
"A somewhat remarkable case," said Sir James.
" I have looked both into ' Buchan,' and 'The Family Physi-
<'ian,' and in neither can I see any thing in the least resembling
it. — I trust, Iloratius, indeed, that this will be a lesson. — The idea,
^ir James, of his attendance, in such a state, at a court of Justice !"
Mr. Slack laid his hand on the shoulder of his sister, — "You are
a good creature, Arabella."
Sir James smiled.
In this conversation it will have been noticed that the Squire
took no part. He was not in his usual spirits.
8G
THE VILLAGE OF MERKOW.
" One would suppose, Charles, that the Vicar's complaint was
contagious."
" Not at all, my dear, — Has it reached you. Sir James, that one
Manly (hero the squire's any thing but better nature betrayed
itself), a common, imjtertinent fellow, who sets himself up for a
reformer, has been circulating a petition in behalf of tliis Giles
Hawthorne V"
" I am afraid," replied the Judge, " that the petitioners will find
that poachers are in little favour at present."
" This is the same fellow," added the squire, " that honoured, as
J suppose he imagined, with his signatui-e. tiie other day, a silly
thing, in circulation against the corn laws."
" Himself a farmer, too?" inquired Sir James: — -'a somewhat
remai'kablc man."
"Is it not surprising," continued the Judge, " to observe in a
country so, comparatively, enlightened as England, such mistaken
notions upon many questions. — The rescission, now, of the corn
laws would scarcely, to a labourer, make the diflerence of a loaf,
at all events, of a loaf and a half in his favour per weelt."
"The difference," said Mr. Slack, "would, certainly, not amount
to tiro loaves."
"Not half of what many of such fellows," superadded his sister,
"are in the habit of receiving, weekly, from the parish. If one-
third of the pains which some people, Sir James, take in propa-
gating mischief, were devoted to inculcating on the lower orders a
more general providence, it might be for the better with all of us.
— It was but the other day. Sir James," —
"My dear," interposed Mr Slack, "Sir James will not care to
hear, "
"Pardon mo, Mr. Slack, — pray — "
The Vicar flushed, but paused.
" It was only. Sir James, the other day, that I hud occasion, on
some little errand of charity, to drop in upon a family, witfi the
prime minister of which some one, I imagine, is not altogether
unacquainted, — the family of one Hobbs."
" The fellow that inaugurated such confusion in court, the
other day ? — A most irrepressible scoundrel ! "
" Well, Sir James, what was the first thing, do you suppose, that
I espied on entering his cottage ?"
" Hard to say."
"In a house always uppermost, observe, with manifestoes of
THE VILLAGE OF MKKUOW
S7
hunger, not only an ubundanco of good wholesome hroicn bread, but
actuaUi/, both pork and pudding, both, mind, jiroyresshhj at the
same time, indeed, in the same utensil, in celebration, f.s I was
told, of the eldest boifs birthday! — Did you cvci', Mrs. Squander,
hoar of such rubl)ish ! "
The Vicar showed signs of uneasiness.
"I should, eertaiidy, have thought," said Mrs. S " uander, " from
the fuss made by some people about large families, that birthday
remembrances would be anything but agreeable ones.'
" I am sure, Mrs. Jlobbs," I said, 'quite sure, that you arc not
in need of assistance from the ])arish.' This of course elicited
the usual tears, ])rotestations, i\:c., with something about there
being, I can hardly rcjicat it without laughter, no suet in the pud-
ding, and that the ]»ork was a yift, and weighed, I think it was
only two ouncis — and then as a finish — "
'• By way of desert," said Sir James.
" 1 supi»()sc so, — a flourish about poor folks having feelings as
well as their belters.''
" Hear that, Charles?"
" Of course, I made it my business to acquaint Mr. Parish with
what I had seen, and, as a consequence, some one I imagine, is in
very little favour somewhere."
" My sister, you see, Sir James," said the Vicar, certainly not
paler than usual, " is heart and soul in her aspirations for a more
general, a more extended ])rovidence."
" There is, certainly, ample room for it, " observed the Judge —
" I remember, when on the home circuit, I think, — yes, it was at
(ruildford, a case precisely identical."
" Arabella, my dear,"' said Mr. Slack, "the room feels chilly. Do
3'ou find it so, Sir James?"
" No-o-o."
The ptirlor maid, however, Mercy, was summoned, and soon
everything again looked bright, blazing and cheerful.
The paraphernalia of tea being removed, at the suggestion of
the Vicar, all drew nearer to the fire, when Mr. Slack, from an
apprehension shared in b}- most hosts, of one of those appalling
conversational lulls, most freouent, perhaps, in politer circles,
ventured an inquiry res*i)ecting he prospects of the proposed Re-
form Bill.
" That, " said Sir James, " they wiU nccer carry. The upper
house will see to that."
ss
THE VILLAGE OF MERKOW.
"Otherwise, vvc etui well dispense with it," said the S([uire.
" I should be loss apprehensive," resumed Sir James, " of an
enlar^^ed representation, as proposed, Imt f(n- certain alarmin<^ symp-
tom'*, of late, a<:;ainMt which it is impossible to shut one's eyes."
7Jhe Squire was all attention, as also was the Viear, while the
ladies looked smiles of a])proval at each other.
"Since the unfortunate Bill of 1824, which sanctioned combina-
tion amoni,' the working-class for the rei>;ulation of wages and
working hours, there has been a growing tendency in the masses
to meddle with old established customs and usages, — to take care
of themselves, rather, than to allow themselves, as heretofore, to
be taken care of by others, far better, I susj)ecl, acquainted with
their real wants and position."
" There is the miscliief," said the Vicnr.
Miss Arabella laid her hand on the back of her brother's.
" Eecall, Mr. Slack, the dangerous meeting on the 28th day of
Juno last, at Manchester, of delegates from l)ranchos of the general
trade associations. The objects of that meeting, I should liope,
sut^lciently evince the danger, the positive folly of anything like
an extension of political power in the masses. Fortunately the
scattered location of men employed in agriculture, and their
iimitetl oppoi'tunity of acquiring information, have, as ijct at least,
preserved them from similar comhinations."
"Picture, Charles, a meeting of Slops and Pilches, with Harry
Hobbs, as they call him, in the chair! "
" It would, "certainly," resumed Sir James, " bo an odtlity ; but let
us not be too confident, too sanguijie, too unobservant. Let us
read as we go; — let us take care, in all proposed measures of re-
form, to do nothing to still further disturb existing relations be-
tween employers and employed. — I can assure you — but perhaps
I am assuming — "
" Not at all, Sir James, not at all," simultaneously exclaimed the
Squire and Mr. Slack ; " we aiH) but too proud of the opportunity
presented."
With an acknowledgment, Sir James proceeded. " ^ly position
enables me, pretty clearly, to judge upon some matters. I can
assure you that it is no longer with the hackney coach age that is
past, with even its Burdctts and Colonel Joneses, that we have
now to deal. A class of men are springing up whoso lowliest
aspirations are in advance of the boldest of such celebrities. I
have in my ej'O, now, a young friend, comparatively so, at least.
i
Tllli VIIJ.AOK OF MKllUOW.
S9
•a lair, by no mojins an oKng^^OiVixiod reprcsontativo of such men.
I call him frioiid, for in sj)ito of his rocklos.s enthusiasm, thoro is a
sincerity, an earnestness in him that, were I a youni; man, mi<:;ht
})0ssiijly more than, as at present, sim[)ly divert me. Ah to the
j)ropose(l reform bill you were inquii-in^- ol'(here Sir James turned
to Mr. Slack), he confesses, for there is no concealment about the
follow, that it is a niere ste])ping-stono, a.s he calls it."
''And to what, i)ray, Sir James?" sai<l Miss Hlack, somewhat
alarme<lly.
"Well — to anythini^ — everything*. — We are to havoasecoml
Reform Bill, — the ballot — household .suilVage ! — conipulsoiy eilu-
cation ! — [ assure you, we are to carry thin<;-s with a hii;-h hand."
'' He builds, I see. Sir James," said ^\v. Srpumder, " tiiis youn«^
gentleman, upon a Tiailical Government, a novelty, certainly, in a
country like En_i;"land, since no other would assuredly be insane
enoujh even to dream of a houseJioUl sifffraijr."
" I should think not," answered Sir James.
" A very eccentn'e man, Charles ? "
•• I shouM rather say, my dear, a vovy thnigerous one."
" Is ho allowed, Sir James, tog'o at large ! " inquired Miss Slack.
This seemed to tickle Sir Jame^J. Indeed, the pi<[uancy of Mrs,
S(j[uander, and the dry sterile stai'chness of Miss Slack, wore evi-
dently a relief to the Judi:e, somethinijj retVesJiini^' after the any
side, either side, eVery side style of reasoning to the which in his
professional duties he had daily to submit.
" On one point," resumed the Jud^e, " his opinion is very deci-
ded. Educate," ho says, " the ai^ricultural labourer to the level of
the meanest mechanic, and Ac' would nut endure his present imsition
for an hour longer.''
"No man," exclaimed the Squire, " oug-ht, Sir James, to be per-
mitted to enunciate such sentiments."
•• Quite so, Mr. Squander, yet such sentiments are, now-a-days,
openly, fearlessly promul^-atod. On one point his views arc
somewhat original, and ,have been thought by my friend, Mr.
Justice Scales, to be deserving of attention."
The Vicar shifted his chair somewhat nearer to Sir James.
" Ho contends that the enormous iticrease of wages, inevitably
consequent on the enlightenment of the rustics, by rendering it
impossible for the farmer to pay his present rent and rates, with-
out an increase in the price of produce smdi as the public would
never submit to, would compel the land owners to a subdivision of
V1LLA(JK OF MKUIUtW.
their ostutcs, in order to sustain tlioir rent roll ns at present. A
hil)()uror, that is to say a Hmall farmer, 1)0 contends, could easily,
and would cheerfully pay a hii^her rent, a much hi.:,'heronc than the
landlord is at present receiving. Of course, the farmer, whoso
daui^'hter altno^ turns up her nose at the ^o?rn ball, would, in a
<^roat measure, disapj)ear, to be replaced by a class of men having
a more direct interest in what he is fond of ("i\\\\ni<; <jood (/ovcniiiunf.''
"With himself, I suppose," supplemented the 8(piire, " at the
head of it."
'' We are not, then, to be without our rents, it seems," observed
tljc Vicar.
"There ought to be a statute made on purytose for that man,"
said iMrs. Sipmndei". The unyielding features of 'Arabella' wore
put to a trial.
"There is something, however, at times," resumed the Judge,
" very amusing in him. It is ([uite tlivcrting to observe how lugu-
briously he predicts, and at no distant date, a decline in our
trade and manufactures."
" And for what reason ? " iiu^uired Mr. S(piandcr.
"Well, — he contends that if the present monopolizing system
of land tenure is allowed to continue, it will bring us into compe-
tition with the lower labour rate of the foreigner, consequent
on the gi'eater chea])ncss of food with him ; which will, ho sa3's,
be but another exhibition of the way in which Providence 'Of
our pleasant vices makes instruments to scourge us.' My friend
has read history, ho says."
It was open to notice that the Vicar was particularly attentive.
"Scarcely less amusing," continued Sir James, " i^; his notion,
that the Almighty, I give you his words, could never have intended
that three distinct ])arties, meaning, of course, the landlord, the
farmer, and the labourer, should be sup])orted by the laboui- of
one of them, and that oiic begrudged a sulHciency of food."
TheS(piire's face darkened.
" I, really, Sir James," said Mr. Slack, " cannot see the necessity,
nor do I at all approve of mixing up the Almighty, as your friend
seems dispo.scd to do, with any such matters."
"I wonder that the poor rabbits and hares," said Mrs. Squander.
" were not advanced as a Iburth party."
"It would not have .surprised me," said the Judge ; " his fanc\' is
not a little suggestive. My friend's views, indeed, if carried
out, would eventuate in an interference with every existing insti-
m.
TIIK VILLAGE OF MP:KK(»W.
91
tiitioii, and of tins no ono in inoro thoronujlily awaro tlmn himseir.
So lot 118 bo cautious, I say; wo cannot bo too inucli so."
" How dift'crent, in all probability, will bo, some day, Sir Jamos^
your young friond'n views. 1 ivcall (tbo Vicar is spcaUing) that
when I was at Oxford, and even for some time afterwards, in ex-
pectancy of a living. I had very loose notiona upon many |)oints."
*' Yes, I assure you, Sir James, there was not, at one tinu', a
greater demagogue than Iloratius."
" It is too true, I am afraid, Sir Jftmes, that I hnvo, an others, my
little inexperiences to answer for. I can hardly without a smile,
indeed, recall some of my earlier oddities. An irregular I'oading
was, of course, not without its fruits. That ])roperty had its
duties as well as its rights was, I remember, at that j)eriod, an
especial principle with me; but when, through the premature
death of my father, as you nre aware, the bulk of my grandfather's
]ti'Oi)erty fell tome, I began after a while to discover that property
had, at least, ^owc rights as well as duties and that, at times, it was
necessary to guard that the former were not entirely consumed, in
consideration of the latter." ,
"A caution, Mr. Slack, too frequently necessitated."
"As well, Horatius, seemingly, that Sir .lames' phenomenon
has at least the good taste to leave some people alone. His
eccentricities would be poorly in place somewJure."
" 1 assure you," said the Judge, " that he is very far from doing
so, upon the which will many, o])j>osed t''^ ''.is political eccentri-
cities, as you have not ina[>tly called them, congratulate them-
selves. Jle would not only, continued Sir James, not oidy dis-
sociate tlie church and state, but he admonishes that Government,
by Act of Parliament, a favourite power of his, by the bye, appro-
priate all church proi)erty, with a view to a redistribution, in a
way more consistent icithjiisf ice and religion !"
"Why, Charles, that man can never, surely, be in his right
senses! "
" I am not quite so certain of that, my dear."
" A little vague, in Ids expression, your friend," said Mr. Slack ;
"one can hardly conceive, Sir James, of religion Avithout Justice."
'* Hardly ; — but such men, you are aware, seldom, Mr. Slack,
advance above a stop or two without a stumble. In his reconstruc-
tive notions this is constantly apparent. Tliey are certainly, how-
ever, original ! "
" Such men, Sir James," added the Squire, " have, generally, an
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THE VILLAGE OF MERROW.
liiMv
ulterior, a disguised object in view. Once deprive the landed in-
terest of the support of a rich and powerful church, and the crafty
scoundrel knows well what would be then at his mercy."
" Of that, indeed, he makes no secret, Mr. Squander; and to
that end he throws upon the church, however unjustly, the entire
responsibility for, what he is eternally harping on, the present de-
graded position of the farm labourer. The church, that is, thereat
church, he contends, has never stood forward as his friend. Hand
and glove with the aristocracy, its inte .'ests and sympathies accord-
ing to him, have ever been, and are still, entirely, with them.'"
" Most churchmen, I imagine, Sir James, have quite enough
upon their hands already. The horsepond, I suspect, would not
be amiss with some of these gentlemen. — What say you, Mr.
Slack?"
" We-1-1, — from my own experiences, I must say, Mr. Squander,
that I should be sorry to see the day, very soriy to see it, when
ministers of the Establishment consider, — that is to say, make
it, in any way, a part of their business to troul>Ie themselves with
matters inconsisttnt with their duties as shepherds of One who
looked, and would have us all look, to something widely remote
from any thing that this sublunary world can afford us. I am
aware, perfectly aware that many things are far, very far from
being with the agricultural labourers as they should be, and it
grieves r.xc, truly grieves me that it is so. Living in their midst
no one has so complete an opportunity of becoming acquainted
with their wants and necessities as ourselves, and our sympathies
are, naturall}', proportionately enlisted. I have often, indeed,
very often regretted that the more immediate calls of duty should
.at times necessitate upon our part a silence which illiberality is
too astute to forego the opportunity of representing as a neglect."
"It has reached me, — with what amount of truth, Mr. Slack, f
am not aware, — that there is a more widely diffused, an increasing
indifference with the Airm labourers to religious truths?"
" W-e-1-1 — I am sorry, very sorry, Sir James, that a familiarity
with them obliges me to confess that such is but too truly the case
Indeed, the greater part of them can hardly be said to have any
religion at all, — a sad, a very sad thing to reflect on ; as in the
trials and troubles of life, from which how low are exempt, (how
few I said Miss Slack) they are without, entirely without those
consolatory influences which, when all others fail, might at least
assist in reconciling them to that position in which it lias pleased
THE VILLAGE OF MERKOW.
m
ed in-
crafty
and to
entire
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»(/, Mr.
Lumdor,
, when
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es with
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Slack, I
creasing
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the case.
have any
s in the
ipt, (how
>ut those
; at least
s pleased
Providence to place them. I am aware also, and it grieves me, more
than grieves mo to say it, — that many, too many, I am afraid, have
of late, from an excess of zeal, put the church in a position Avhich it
must be painful, very painful for any prospective, appreciative
mind to contemplate."
" But, my good brother," interrupted Miss Slack, " this is
not "
" My dear ! "
" Your friend, must indeed, Sir James," interposed Mr. Squan-
der, " be an original."
"Not the least amusing of his originalities is his charitable-
consideration for those with whose pockets he lias just been
making so free. All ministers, — my poor friend ! of every de-
nomination are to be alike endowed with a ' reasonable and gen-
tlemanly independence.' "
" Oh, we are still to be gentlemen," said Mr. Slack, '•' a con-
sideration that with some parties will not be the least likely to
advance his views."
"Christianity, too, Horatius, is stillto be permitted to exist! "
"Not very clear, Sir James," said Mr. Slack, "in what way
your reformer's views admit of a separation of the Church from
the State ; yet, such a disseverment, if I understand you, he
proposes ?' '
" Only of the connection as it at present stands."
"The crafty scoundrel ! " interrupted the Squire.
" He considers," resumed Sir James, " that a church, with a
broad sgnilicance, to be sure, in the word, such as, according to-
his talismanic notions, it might be made to be, would, to a great
extent, supersede the necessity for a police, and, that, therefore,
it would become, not only a duty, but a positive economy for the
State to uphold it. No improvement upon the present system,
he contends, could possibly result, with ministers dependent, in
the remotest degree, on the patronage of their flocks."
" I am glad to be able to agree with him, for once," said Mr»
Slack.
He considers, nevertheless, that to attach temporal advantages
to a profession of particular opinions is unfavourable to the
progress of inquiry and truth, and has a tendency to encourage
simulation in ministers, while, at the same time, it leads to poli-
tical subserviency, and fosters in them a world liness of spirit. You
will see, Mr. Slack, pretty clearly his drift."
," • f
94
THE VILLAGE OF MERKOW.
((
There is, certainly, as you observed, no concealment about
him."
" Without, however," resumed Sir James, " a House of Com-
mons — widely different from what even the projoosed reform bill
promises us — he would object to the least interference with the
Church as at present. Such interference would only, he thinks,
postpone what he is fond of calling the desired end, — that the choice
of ministers lie with their congregations."
" Their salaries, however," interrupted Mr. Slack, " to be, in no
■degree, dependent on them, I understand you. Eut M'hat — what
pray, Sir James, would he propose for our higher clergy ? They
liave, of course, not been overlooked. Are we to have no St. Petej'S
in our midst? "
"You will judge of his boldness, Mr. Slack, of his insane reck-
lessness, when I toll you, that, with a dash of his pen, he would
annihilate the whole of them."
" The entire of our bishops and archbishops! "
" The whole of them! "
" Does that man, Sir James, ever say his prayers?" said Miss
Slack.
" We will hope so."
" He can never. Sir James, have seen, at all events have heard,
n bishop."
<•' It would seem so."
" I would advise," interposed Mrs. Squander, " that the riot act
he read, at the least, twice a day wherever that young gentle-
man resides."
" Not a bad suggestion, Mrs. Squander."
" He can never, surely, suppose that any but the choicest rif-raf
would frequent his churches. Why, his vulgar fellows would be
singling out any one they pleased for a lecture. It would be posi-
tively unsafe, Charles, for some people to go near them."
" There is very little room for uneasiness, my dear."
" It is, I imagine, from the same restrictive tendency," re-
marked the Judge, " that we may deduce his persistency that no
clergyman, of any denomination, be 'permitted to he a magistrate.'"
" To that," said Mr. Slack, his countenance betrayingoi,till then,
perhaps, concealed languor, " not a few of us would, I suspect,
but too readily submit "
'< Well, well, into what contradictions, Sir James, will not enthu-
siasm betray us? To whom so indebted as to yourself, Horatius,
11
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THE VILLAGE OF MERKOW.
96
the unfortunate croaturo for whom, you will recall, was so much
mistaken sympathy expressed." /
" I don't, — my dear — "
" P'or<>'otten, Horatius, your infatuation for Diggs ! "
" BigjL^s, -Diggs," interjected Sir James, — " not altogether new to
me the name. Was it not Mr. Justice Grindwell before whom — "
"Just so. Sir James, — tlie affair, you have recalled it, was pure-
ly this: — One Diggs of an adjoining parish had been tried, that
is to saj' convicted, of poaching, on an occasion."
"On several occasions, Horatius f"
"Possibly, my dear, — on the grounds of our good neighbour.
Baron Steinberg. He was sentenced, if I remember, — Mr, Squan-
dei- can correct me, to transportation for fourteen years."
The Squire, with a blush, assented.
Apprised that the man had, at times, been without work, and
that, for weeks prior to his committal, he had been distressingly
put to it with an ailing wife, it seemed that the merits of the case
might be met, and with no very great sacrifice of justice, by a
soinevvhat modified jienalty. I, therefore, in conjunction with
others, made it my business, I might have said my duty, to appeal
in his behalf. A commuted sentence of ten years was the result.
"And what of the thanks, Horatius ? "
" We-1-1 — we don't on all occasions, my dear, take that into our
•consideration. There are times when it is sufficient, more than
sufficient, to know that we have been doing, that is to say, have
done our dut3^ — By-the-bye, I have heard, and, I am sure. Sir
James, that you will believe me, with the sincerest pleasure, that
lliu man's behaviour has obtained for him a remission of the two
3'ears still unexpired of his term. He proposes, I have further
heard, to retr.rn to his old quarters. His wife and mother, I
suspect, are the magnets ; — but, for some years now both have
been dead !"
This was followed by a silence.
" His wife had been troubled, had she not, Horatius, for the last
year or two, with heart disease ? "
No one replied, — and poorly detective the eye that had read
nothing in the countenance of the Squire. It was evidently with
a view of breaking ground that he inquired of Sir James what
opening, if any, his abolitionist proposed for young men of spirit
iiiid position, in lieu of the one he would deprive them of: " An
increased army estimate would find but few friends just now, I
opine, Sir James? "
. !
96
THE VILLAGE OF MEUROW.
ii
I '!,i
" Have you forgotten, Charles," volunteered Mrs. S., "how somo
Olio was always rallying a certain young gentleman on his belong-
ing to neither tiie army nor the church ?"
"Well, — in my poor friend's Utopia no army, Mr. Squander,
would, of course, he required."
" I would have that man," ejaculated the Squire, " and the
sooner the better, sent u])on his travels; — what say you, Mr.
Slack ?"
" Such a man is certainly, Mr. Squander, there can be no doubt
of it,' a dnngerous, a most dangerous man, — still, perhajxs, one
less to be dreaded than to be pitied."
" To be tarred and feathered," frothed the Squire.
" You just took, Charles, the words from my lips."
Here a summons by Mercy, the ])arlor-maid, to supper was a
relief, I suspect, to at least one present. — The Vicar gave his arm
to Mrs. Squander, as did Sir James to " Arabella."
The combined comfort, taste, and liberality that in every thing,
presented itself, Avhilst flattering, and justly so, to the pride of both
Mr. Slack and his sister, was a comjiliment to Sir James which, to
judge by his heartiness and conversational brilliancy, he appeared
to fully appreciate. — On i-oturning to the drawing-room all were
delighted with his eloquence and urbanitj', and it was not without
a sigh of regret, and a re-])romise, on the jtart of Sir James, of a
day or two at Tliornley Hall, that Mrs. Squander, in company
with the Squire, for that night at least, bade him an adieu.
'A delightful creature! Mr. Slack," said the Judge, — a most
charming, a most entertaining woman I "
"She is indeed so!" replied the Vicar.
" And always the same! " added Miss Slack, — "we have known
her now for joars — and to see her once is to see her always. You
are not acquainted, it seems, witliThoriiley Hall, Sir James ? "
" A pleasure, however, that I have promised myself"
" You will be much struck with it. — Mrs. S. is everywhere — she
has not been in Italy for nothing you will say. — Such an eye ! —It is
at her suggestion that wo propose pulling down a number of
beggarly cottages so anno^'ingly in sight from my brother's "
" Sir James," interposed the Vicar, " whenever — you ma}' feel
disposed — to — retire — ; with such onerous duties in prospective I
imagine." With a bow from Sir James that was as good as to say
" Thank you, Mr. Slack, thank you," the Vicar paused.
And now an ominous, a somewhat prolonged silence, which,
THE VILLAGE OF MERROW.
97
more than words could have done, proclaimed that another even-
ing's pleasures and excitements had come to an end.
" You have no objection, Sir James," said Mr. Slack, advancing
from a side table, with a hook in his hand "to join — with us —
in — m—prayer ? " — Thou of Bethlehem, — bear with us, — bear
with us !
CHAPTER VIT.
We will hardlyj pause to remark upon Mrs. Squander's ex-
clamatory sui'prise at the ridiculously lavish parochial provision
for Jenny, so out of proportion to the woman's desserts and
necessities ; or upon Mr. Slack's repeatedly expressed satisfaction
that the poor creature, in the hour of ajffiiction, had been found not
to be altogether destitute of friends. It will be sufficient to observe
that, but for the few pence contributed by the broken-hearted
comrades that Giles was shortly to leave so far behind him, it
would, indeed, have gone hard with his wife. — The relieving officer,
Mr. Paul Parish, was more than something of an economist, and
Jenny's good friend, Mrs. Parish, his wife, who had so cared for
her in her girlhood, had already been dead some years, — to Jenny
an irreparable loss.
It is but just that I record that, from the time of Giles' arrest
until now, little sums, varying, in amount, from a shilling to one-
and-sixpence, had been repeatedly forwarded to her, through
Hawthorne, by the Rev. Mr. Goodwill, of Orton, and always with
an injunction to silence. — I am not able to say that nothing was ever
sent to her by Mr. Slack, but I am equally unable to say to the
contrary. Had it been so, I could hardly, I think, not have heard
of it.
But now I have a sad, a dull office to perform. The hour had
arrived when Jenny was to look perhaps her last upon one dearer
to her than all besides. Giles, on the morrow, was to be trans-
ferred to the Dove transport, lying in readiness at Woolwich. In
a retired angle of the jail yard at Shropton have they already
met. — Let us observe them, — yonder, — the two, with their little
ones, apart from the rest, standing together, — a high spiked wall
to the left of them. Jenny upon the bosom of her husband is letting
fall the bitterest tears that ever, perhaps, stole from the lids of
woman. An infliction, nothing less would it be, to repeat but a
f
98
THE VILLAGE OP MERKOW.
tithe of hor tender broken-hearted utterances. " What of joy or
of peace had Hhe now to look for ; — even the poor pleasure of con-
cealed vn-etchedness would be no longer hers;— who, with a smile
still a smile, would there be, in his tirod arms, to take up hor little
ones, and joy at them ; — for whom was she hence to save, to
conceal, to contrive ; — who to welcome, or be welcomed by ; — to
advise with, to plan with ; — h«d she still to struggle, to endure,
to sacrifice, and no one to love, to bless her for it j — how was she
to bear itl" — Gil ^ could hold no longer. »
" My Jane, — my Jane, — thee dunna speak,
It wunna be for long.
For though thy Giles be moartal weak,
Yet God is heavenly strong.
Whether upon the foamy sea.
Or on my prison bed, ^
He wunna, Jane, keep far from me.
If I ha' rightly read.
For though it waun't, I know, aright
To break my country's laws,
God knows as what wer done that night
Waun't, Jane, athout a cause. .
Nay, He whose eye is looking down.
And sees this parting tear,
I couldn't for my Maker own.
If I had cause to fear.
Oh, dunna weep, — thou'lt break my heart ; —
Why should I thee deceive,
Thee only hast with me to part.
But I ha' all to leave."
" Oh, say not so, my bosom's pride,
Thou'rt more than all to me,
I cannot in the world abide, ,
When I am lost to thee."
" Nay, Jenny, coom, — thee maunna say
Sich cruel parting words ;
If from the nest should'st thou away,
Oh, who shall guard the birds ?
These little birds, whose searching eyes
Are on my fretted face.
Like heaven's lights from out the skies
Upon a darker place.
to
THE VILLAGE OF MERROW.
99
Ah, who shall tend thorn, night and day.
As we were proud to do.
Still teach them how to love and pray.
If, — Jenny, — not with you ?
So, for our hearts best treasure's sake,
Thoo maunna spurn at life ; —
My breaki.ij[^ bosom's blossinj;; take,
My poor, — ray poor wife.
I've nothing more, — must leave thoo, Jane,
To God's enduring love; —
Good bye, — ^good bye, — wo meet again,
At least, we'll truat, above."
Hero, with the kindliest consideration, stepped forward John
Hawthorne, from whore Hobbs and he, the only ones admitted
with Jenny, had been standing, watching them. Loosening
Jenny from her husband's neck, and giving her to Hobbs, John
drew him convulsively towards him, and, with a hug in which
was his whole soul, a kiss upon both of his cheeks, and a word or
two of never-failing care for his wife, tore himself from him,
and, taking Jenny in his arms, carried her out of the yard. Her
little ones, led by the oldest, a girl, followed. It was with a
bitterness barring expression that Giles had lifted them, for the
last time, perhaps, one by one, to his lips.
Giles was, by this, left alone with Harry, his tried, his brave,
affectionate friend. — Hobbs stopped up to him, — looked him for a
moment in the face, and then took him by the hand. — Even tte
breast of Harry rose and fell.
*' Giles, there be one wooll taake thy part,
Let Heaven but spare poor Hobbs ;
'Shall never bo forgotten, Giles,
While this heart beats and throbs.
'Hast never knawed me womanish.
So, the tears I woo'den stay
Thee'U taake, Giles, in the stead of aal
A friend's full heart woold say."
Giles pressed the hand his earnest friend
Clasped closely to his own,
When lo ! — the jailer's voice is heard, ^
And Giles once more — alone I
I
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TIIE VILLAGE OF MERROW.
CHAPTER VIII.
Thero can be littlo doubt that it had been purposely arranged
that the van for the conveyance of Giles and others to Woolwich
should not leave till the ni^ht had, at least, somewhat advanced.
It had been whispered that Merrow contained in it some danger-
ous stuff. It was known, however, to Hawthorne who, in confi-
dence, revealed it to Stylos, that a batch of prisoners would leave
Shropton on that night between the hours of eight and nine. Of
these Giles was to be one. Along with him would be about a
dozen others, including a reprieved murderer, — three burglars, —
as many poachers, — and a few rioters, (chopsticks), among whom,
by the bye, was one quite a boy.
John had not the courage, and ho knew his brother too well, to
be present on his leaving the jail. Not a word of his intended
departure had been breathed by John to any one but Styles. Even
Jenny had been kept in the dark. But, at about nine o'clock,
concealed in the best way possible, might have been found two
men in their respective garden patches, with brows sadder than
usual, anxiously, restlessly listening.
Who that has ever looked upon a prison van, with its wild beast
suggestions, will find it difficult to realize the repulsiveness with
which Hawthorne regarded the one that now, at a moderate pace,
was advancing upon his cottage. With a lightning step, ho made
for the road. — His first impulse was to stop the horses, — his next to
call out; — but what would either have availed him; Johi/s soberer
sense restrained him. Nevertheless, strong, remarkably so, as
were the nerves of this man, he was at last brought to know
what it was even to tremble. Ho was shaking with agitation. —
" Caged as a wild beast, — with burglars and murderers 1 " — It tore
him to pieces. — "And for shooting a pheasant I — a miserable
pheasant ! " — " Will there be no judgment on the doer of this I " —
" Heaven keep me from him in a thunderstorm I "
Styles was standing at his gate, close by the road, as the van
passed him. Not a muscle in him moved. A living statue, he
stood, gazing after it as it disappeared in the distance, and not till
it had entirely done so escaped from him a syllable, when, with a
heavy sigh, — " He be gone 1 " he said, *' He be gone ! "
Gone was he indeed ! as Merrow in its Sunday-like quietness,
-for days afterwards, touchingly told. In scarcely above a whis-
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THE VILLAGE OF MEBBOW.
101
per was tho past spoken of. In groups wore the villagers to be
seen standing for hours, as if tho society of each had become a
necessity to tho rest. A crime, a groat crime hjul boon committed.
The feelings of every warm-heartod rough diamond in the place
had been cruelly outraged, and all wore agreed that, sooner or
later, tho groat Looker on upon every thing would take it into His
wisdom to step forth in their behalf. — '• It boan't our'n," Huid Stylos,
'* to sarcumstand ual'ays tho way as God goes about things ; but,
sartain, Slop, as Hobbs hev a said, * thaay as hev done it HI come to
no good leastivays.* "
It was now the sixth day since Gilos' removal to the Dove ;
when a little tempest was suddenly raised in a bosom that, in its
sorrow, had become dangerously silent. — Sally Uobbs, tho wife of
Harry, (and well matched to a T) rushed into Jenny's cottage,
with the news that tho Dove, with a host of others, had I'or days,
with a contrary wind, been detained at the Noi:e. Uobbs had
been working at Manly' s. — Gilos, then, was still within the possi-
bility of reach I This again started Jenny to her feet — " Oh, could
she see him but once more ! " — "Could she only speak to the cap-
tain! — perhaps he might lot him off I " — " He could never refuse
her!"
" But how could her git there, Jane ? " said Sally. " It bo a good
thirty mile, and I doan't a think as the captain could a do it; but
I could a ask Styles."
" Oh, 1 am sure, Sally, that he would, if I could only speak to
him."
"But how could her git along, Jane? athout wittlos, and so
poorly as her be."
" I want for nothing, Sally, — only to see him."
" Her hovn't a got, Jane, nothing as I could a tarn to account
at Shropton ? "
Here Jenny glanced at a mere ghost of a dress that was hang-
ing on tho wall, and then, with a long n-o-o, shaded her eyes with
her hand.
" I tell 00 what, Jane, as I could a do. I'll off to Shropton,
where I bo a owed a summat for a day's wash, and Harry, I knaws,
wun't a mind as I, for once, should a do, as I likes vvi' it. —
Doan't her cry, a dear, — I knaws as you'd ha' done as much for
we, Jane."
Jenny squeezed tho hand that had kindly taken hers.
" Did thee ever see a ship, Jane ? "
" Only in the pictures, Sally."
1
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W
1
.; i:
;
'r
1 .
y:
102
THE VILLAGE OP MERROW.
"How could hor toll which wer Giles' ? "
"It has no white Htreak oa it, they say, — black all over'^
" Hor doan't a say «o I "
" Thoy can't prevent me, Sally, can they, from seeing it? "
" I doan't a think, Jane, as thoy can; — Stylos, p'rhaps, knaws."
It was finally settled that Sally Ilobbs should away for Shrop-
ton, and that, on hor return, she would see, during Jenny's
absence, to her hildron, and make it all right with John, of whose
displeasure Jon y was chiefly apprehensive.
Sally, in her zeal for her friend, was certainly in fault. But
here wore two women, one with the heart of a lioness, and as
warm as the tropics, and the other, with a thousand dangers and
diflficulties as but straws between her and her adored. Can we
wonder at the result.
In little more than an hour Sally was back, and with what
seemed to Jenny quite a little fortune. Ten hard earned pennies
were put into hor hand, and with them, as it was still early in the
day, Jenny, who had in the meantime dressed herself in the best
way she was able, was prepared for a start. A cousin of Sally's
was living at about ton miles from the Nore ; and with her it was
arranged that Jenny was to stop for the night; — And now it was
" Good bye, Sally; " — " Good byo — ^her'll mind now, Jane, to taake
it easy."
" Oh yes," said Jenny, making off like a frighted hare.
"I be afoard," said Sally, looking after her, "as John and
Harry '11 both bo a giving it I for this."
Now, upon the high road sped Jenny on her way, — now, as a
nearer cut, across commons and heaths, — now over the fields, scram-
bling through the holly and the hawthorn ; but who will bring
himself to boiieve that Jenny heeded them a jot, or that any one
could resist her aj^peal for a lift on the road, which on more than
one occasion, fortunately, fell to her.
In the best way that wages as high, according to Mr. Slack, as
ten shillings per week would permit, was Jenny both sheltered
and fed by the cottaged cousin of Sally ; and by noon on the following
day, from a bluff overhanging the water, might she have been seen
scanning it with maddened earnestness for the ship that was black
all over. This it was not so difficult to detect, though quite a fleet
was at anchor, it being amongst those nearest to the Essex side.
" If he only knew that I was here ! " — Ah, Jenny, are you sure
that would have comforted him. — But on what is it that Jonny is
THE VILLAGE OP MERROW.
103
now HO Intent? A boat is loaving the Dove, with three handi^ iu
it 1 — " It can't be Giles ? " — poor Jenny I
Nearer and nearer it comes, watched by Jenny as was never,
perhaps, boat watched before, until, now, upon the oozy sand
below her it beaches; when the three men, one of thom an officer,
a little in advance of the others, by a windinpj path ascended to
where Jenny was standing. Her heart failing, the first wj.s
allowed to pass unchallenged, and the two behind were already
abreast of her — It was now or never. — " Please, sir," said she,
making up to onb of them, " is that the Dove ? "
" Yes, my good lass, — the Dove."
" You couldn't, sir, take me on board ? "
" Why, my good girl, you're crazy! "
" No, sir, I'm not. — I want to see the captain ; — Giles is on
board : — if I could only speak to him ! "
" And who's Giles ? " said one of the men.
" My husband, sir."
" Oh, I see, — going a pleasuring."
" I don't understand, sir."
" A vast heaving, my good girl," said the same man, " we're only
fore'ard ha^ds, and it don't lie with the like of us to interfere in
anything ; — all we can do is to pass the word for you, and if Giles, '
as you call him, likes to speak to the Surgeon Superintendent — "
Here a hoarse hail from the officer, with a true British blessing,
left unfinished what the sailor lad was saying.
" A tight little craft, Bill," said one of them, hurrying away.
In about an hour the three returned ; but Jenny had not the
courage to again address them. There was something discour-
aging in the officer.
** What in the name of Neptune can she be cruising about here
fori" said he.
Hour after hour, however, passed, and Jenny was still upon the
bluff'. A revenue officer, v/ho had been watching her, had more
than once begged of her to leave ; but there was the ship !
!
«
And now it was night ! — A light at the main top, however, still
kept the Dove in sight : — It waa cold, — as the morning neared.
-t;
104
THE VILLAGE OP MERBOW.
piercingly so. — But hark ! — a noise ! strange, at least to Jenny
— the windlass! The breeze in the night had shifted, — the Dove's
anchor was on the lift! — the light is moving! — Jane realizes the
situation^ with aching brain, watching it as it advances till dim-
ming in the distance, amidst the haze of the horizon, it is gone I
And when the morning broke, before
The sky had seen the sun,
The ship had tided out of sight.
And the wicked deed was done I
And now upon the scene appeared one who may not have been
unexpected, stalwart and tanned, and with the look of a man.
Making up at once to Jenny, and laying both hands upon her
shoulders, " My poor, my poor girl 1 " he said, a burning drop
starting to his eyes. " Oh God I "
It was Ilawthorne. — As a hound upon a hare had he followed
her.
*' There !" said Jenny, pointing to the spot where the Dove had
been riding, — *' there ! "
John understood her, and looked at her anxiously ; — the bow
had been over bent; — what should he do, what say to her? — " Oh,
.my poor sister, for his sake you must try to bear it ; indeed, indeed,
you must."
*' I do try — I do bear it ; — John, this is you ? "
" Yes, Jenny, I am come to take care of you, — to take you home,
Jenny."
" Home 1 John, home 1 "
" Yes, Jenny, to where your children are, your little children —
all crying for you ! "
" What ! — what ! — crying for me t — did you say crying for
me ?" — Oh take, take, take me, John, — I'll go, I'll go."
" A good girl, Jenny, — a good girl."
" Oh, couM I have seen him, John, but once, only once more,
just to have assured him how truly I have ever loved him, how
dearer and dearer still he is to me now."
" My poor girl," said John, "not an hour of the past but will
too tenderly, perhaps, assure him of that."
" Oh yes, — he knew, John, all my heart,
Before this cruel blow ;
But oh, the love it bears him now,
He'll never, never know."
mmn
THE VILLAGE OF MERKOW.
105
Why did I not go beg, — pray, — steal, —
Why leaned I to despair, —
All might have yet been well — he still —
But oh, look there 1 look there ! "
{Pointing to where the Dove had been riding.) v
" Jane, have a care, — this racking grief
But breaks thee more and more ;
Have pity on poor self, for once,
Jane, I entreat, implore."
'* I cannot, cann(it,— no, no more
Together, — not together ! —
From him av/ay, where shall I go.
Oh, whither, whither, whither I
" You will not leave me ? will not leave me ?" {clutching
Hawthorne by the breast,)
" Jane, my good wench, be calm j — "
" I am, — but say you will not leave me,
Why Avill you wish me harm ? "
" What mean yo, Jane ? " — " Oh, do not ask,
My brain is brok'n in two,
I dread to think, oh God ! oh God !
What I may dare to do !"
John is again driven to recall to her her children. This alone
has weight with her. The spot whence she had last looked upon
the ship how could she abandon !
" You'll promise, then, to come here again with me, you'll pro-
mise me that, John ? "
John assured her that he would : — so another hard long look at
the water, and Jenny allowed herself to be led from the bluff.
On the third day they reached Merrow ; — And now Jenny is
again in her own home, — and alone with hor noble friend, the
bare contemplation of whom has been, since, with me in how much
of bitterness a relief. In every way imaginable is he trying to
paint to her the future in less gloomy colours. A never-failing
care for her is promised. '
*%^ ^Mm ^0 ^^
*p w^ #^ ^^
« 'Tis little that I hold just now.
The timo is hard and poor.
But, trust me, thou shalt share it, Jane,
Or Heaven deny me more."
Thus this true man, on whose tried breast
The Lamb of God had laid
His head, as on a resting place,
And never was betrayed.
f.
I
BOB
I*' L*
PART THIRD.
CHAPTEE I.
It was now the third day after Jenny's return. The last seen
of the Dove was off Portland Race, crowding all sail for the west-
ward and southward. This was not a little satisfactory to the
Squanders, and possibly to some others.
A lovely morning ! Nature arrayed in her spring freshness
was resistless. The Squire and his lady were, betimes, on the
road. No wonder that Mrs. S. was in brilliant spirits. She waa
triumphant. Power and property had vindicated their privileges,
and, moreover, she had crushed, quite crushed a little wild flower
that God had deigned to deck with graces sweeter, purer than her
own. Far beyond Shropton extended their drive, and, to still
lengthen the way, at the suggestion of Mrs. S., their return was by
the moor road, which would, eventually, bring them by some-
body's cottage. Of this they are now within but a short distance,
and Mrs. S. is congratulating herself and husband on having got
rid of one pest.
" I often wonder why, my love,
Such creatures are created ;
We, surely, should be happier
Without them, and less hated."
" As to their hate," replied the Squire,
<' We well might do without it;
But as to something else, Sophia,
Mafoi, it may be doubted.
Sophia, if every Lady Fair
Had on herself to wait ? " —
" Well, Squander, now, I — really — really —
I never thought of that.
I never could bear politics ;
But tell me, Squander, dear.
What means all this materiel,
This preparation here."
The Squire had proposed to himself the pleasure of a surprise in
the shape of a wire enclosure for his deer. Ho would impose upon
them a restraint as light and as veiled as with his own pet dear.
THE VILLAGE OF MERKOW.
His own pet dear, — so Charles himself I —
Never so pleased as when
Planning some little thing, to show
How thoughtful are the men.
" But Charles, dear, see — how beautiful
The sky ! — so prettily
In softened colours dressed, it quite
Recalls dear Italy."
Thus, tHe-d-Ute, anon the}'' neared
The now all desolate cot
^ Where Jenny's swollen cheeks betrayed
Her worse than widowed lot.
Jane had stept out, expecting John ;
Her face was to the lane,
Whence a familiar bark, that ne'er
Had promised her in vain.
Jane turned on their approach, nor missed
The lady's vaunting air,
Pride struggling to uphold her heart,
To mask the misery there.
Squander looked hard at her, — poor Jane,
Her tears but fell the foster ; —
The Squire took note, — whispered his wife,
Then rapidly drove past her.
" I'm sorry for the wench, " said he,
" Strange how we hate to part ;
No judge, perhaps, — or, by her looks,
Jane takes things sad to heart."
" I didn't care to notice, dear,
My thoughts were else astray ;
Quite possible, poor thing, just now
She feels it in her way.
But la ! such creatures soon forget ;
Love is with them, a mere
Animal instinct, — they don't feel
Ab you or I do, dear."
The Squire was silent, — on his face
Was fixed John Hawthorne's eye,
Who, on his way to Jenny's hut,
Paused, as they cantered by.
107
111
1:*'
108 THE VILL/IGE OF MERKOW.
" The fellow never touched his hat,
My dear," said " Lady S."
> " I noticed it, my love; the cause
Not difficult to guess."
" Couldn't we have him punished, Charles,
There must be surely, some
Convenient statute, or to what —
What are we next to come 1"
f
" Not, p'rhaps, so well, m^'- love, to make
All enemies at once,
Or, else, 'twere easy, by some means.
To rid us of the dunce."
" We mustn't call him dunce, my dear,
The country ])eople say
They'd rather than the Vicar hear
This bumpkin preach or pray.
There's no accounting, sure, for tastes,
Though some seem passing strange ;
Fancy him, in the Vicar's place,
Some Sunday, Charles, for change,
But oh, — the pest ! — that monster Hobbs ! —
T never meet the man
Without^ — keep clear of him, Charles pray, —
Do, do, dear, if you can."
" Not so, Sophia, — I've a bone
To pick with this same cur ; —
" Well met, sir brave — a word or two,
And seasonably, sir.
As saucy as you please, — but hark ; —
Let mo again but catch you
On my domain, — on any part —
And, once for all, I'll match you.
You have been seen, of lato, by Snipe,
With gun too in your hand."—
" Wheer, sir ? " — " No matter that — enough,
I catch you on the land."
" 'Be false, — and well ye knaw it, too, —
I never yet done sich ;
The way I taakes is free for aal.
For poor as well as rich."
ipwiw
THE VILLAGE OF MERKOW,
109
" 'Tis free to no one, sir, — the right
/claim, and I alono; —
Mark me, bold fellow, you f^hall rue
This braggart insolent tone."
" This hins'lc.it tone ! — ay, :iy, — a breath,
In battle for one's right,
Is aal'ays hinsellcnce, when power
And poor folks jines in fight."
*'Now hark you, sirrah, — I have brooked
This saucinesB full long ;
To-morrow shall not pass ere I
Teach you a bridled tongue. "
" Do-ant fancy now to frighten I,
'Bean't quite so easy frought,
Hobbs never yet feared no man, — dang'd
If I daan't see it out.
Ye bean't a bit the gentleman.
Ye dunna knaw yer pleace,
Whatever 7 thinks of a man
I tells 'n to his feace.
Better at home, and at yer preayers,
Ye well knaws what I mean,
More decenter, — a sin to let
Yer sheameless feace be seen.
So hard beset ! — so beaten down ! —
With sich a goodly noame I —
A man as woo'den harm a worm ! —
For sheame, for sheame, for sheame 1
I no great scholard, — but I minds
What wiser folks hev read,
An', 'cordin' that, there bean't no God,
li some one die \u a bed."
It
I
" Squander, my dear, you look quite ill !
I never saw you so.
As pale, — don't answer him, Charles, pray,
Let the rude creature go.
Not in a bed ! — more likely far
To be his highness' lot ;
A decent bed is, probably,
More than the lout has got."
110 THE VILLAGE OP MERKOW.
" Mine bean't like yourn, mebbe, proud dame,
A bed o' hayder down,
But, for a quiet sleep a nights,
I woo'den swop my own.
But go yer ways, — 'shall mind of I,
I stands by what I zaid,
There bean't no God in that good sky,
If some folks dies in a bed."
' ' in
m
" A saucy hound ! — Squander, the reins, —
The reins, Charles ! " — " A-y — the reins r" —
" Better, another time, my dear, ,
Avoid these horrid lanes.
This comes, Charles, of that Hawthorne's prate ;
The silly coxcomb fancies,
By preaching, praying, and so forth,
To fashion us as France is.
This upstart has been carrying on,
Of late with a high hard ;
The villagers, on Sunday, Charles,
Are half at his command.
That Manly must be spoken to, —
The Vicar is the one
Should see to it, — the time, at lengthy
That something must be done.
Such creatures, if not checked, will next
Carry themselves as good
As you or 1, Charles, and assert
A general brotherhood.
This sweet disciple, I opine.
Thinks to 've done great things,
To 've nettled us, — such gnats mistake,
Always, their nips for stings.
Wasn't it rich when, Charles, I flung
His own bed in his face ;
How cut he looked, — how quick it brought
The upstart to his place."
i
" Sophia, pray, what — what were his words,
When speaking of the bed ?
His words, Sophia, I mean, — his words, —
The exact words he said."
THE VILLAGE OP MERKOW.
" Some nonsense, dear, — that you and I,
Was ever thing so rich,
Would come, just fia,ncy, Charles, to find
A deathbed in a ditch ! "
" His very words ? "— " Not so,— but thus
The fellow's thoughts were bent.
Ditches, and dogs, and deathbeds, dear,
A common compliment."
" I've sometimes wished, Sophia, of late,
We'd let that Hawthorne go ; —
I never — told you — of a dream —
That, — somehow,— haunts me so."
" I never pay attention, dear.
To any dreams, unless
The very lucky ones, — and then,
There may be, — I confess.
But, Squander, dear, you don't observe
The beauty of the scone, —
The lovely sky, — the charmants trees.
The church steeple between."
" Sophia, when speaking of the bed.
Kept he his eye on wie ? "
" Till /, Charles, took the fellow up.
And then it ran that we — "
" I — know, Sophia, — myself to blame,
In speaking to the hound ;
Let him Deware ! — if Snipe or I
But catch him on the ground ! "
" He surely, cannot know us, Charles; —
Such nonsense, I declare, —
Not in a bed ! — with more, my dear,
Than twenty beds to spare I
But who, pray, now, Charles, — just in view.
Coming straight down the lane ?
If any of that Hawthorne's set,
Some insolence again."
" The further one bids well for Pilch,
The nearer Turnpike Tom ;
Seem not to notice them, Sophia,
Be absent as they come." •
111
!rt
1
1
lis
THE VILLAGE OP MERROW.
Ill
I
mm
' t.,li.,itM
" Just 80, — the more indiflferent,
The less " " Hush, hush, my dear,
Mark what a look that Pilch puts on,
Ab the rude hind draws near."
*' Nothing but what I looked for, Charles,
To see them turn like Tartars ;
I never count on gratitude,
Make up our minds for martyrs.
What bird is that, my love, I see,
Far in the sky away ? "
" Yonder, Sophia ? — a hawk prepared
To pounce upon his prey."
*' So cruel, Charles, such creatures seem,
Bent always on oppression ;
Indeed th' inferior animals
Seem all of one profession.
I thought I should have laughed, Charles ; did
One ever see such creatures 1
Two of John Hawthorne's Christians, Charles,
Sweet Christians, by their featui'cs !
The shepherd must be verj'^ proud
If all his flock ai<^ thus, — "
" Sophia, I see the Vicar, — yes, —
bonder, awaiting us."
" Indeed, Charles, — where?" — "By Manly's gate,
Standing his face this way ; " —
" Don't loiter, love, — a t6te-a-t6te
Quite a relief to-day.
After such creatures, really now.
To pop on one of taste 1
Like stumbling on a flower, Charles,
In some neglected waste."
'' Do I look pale, dear ? " * * *
But five little words, — and yet how much have they revealed !
Never, perhaps, was the Vicar's hand more acceptable to Mrs.
Squander than now, — never was his presence so restorative. Mrs.
S. was even more than herself. Enough had the Vicar to do to
defend himself from her sallies, " Such reports as reached us, —
such absurdities, — nothing that you had not done for the fellow,
or was not about to do 1 "
THE VILLAGE OP MERROW. 113
" Had oven written to the judge,
The day before he sat I
"We knew you, Vicar, both, too well
For any fear of that."
" Eumor is ever, Madam, rife
With some fresh faahionod tale;
The fancy dearly lo- os to paint
"When facte are found to fail."
" Just so with us, — now this, — now that, —
Could wo but, Vicar, soo.
Our own poor selves with some folks' eyes,
What beauties we should be !
Hero, Charles quite takes the thing to heart.
As ^ns^e and dumb forsooth — "
"Come, como, Sophia," — " Vicar, believe,
I barely speak the truth."
The lady was evidently in better spirits than her lord, nor was
this disparity removed though now drawing upon home.
" The gate, my dear I— Squander, the gate !
Why, chuck, you would have passed, —
Quite a campaign, Charles, — heaven be praised.
The d-e-a-r Hall at last."
ealed !
Mrs.
Mrs.
do to
us, —
fellow.
CHAPTER II.
As a thunderclap upon the go >d folks of Merrow came the
news of Hobbs' rencounter with the Squire. On the Sunday
following not a cottager in the village but, in company with him,
paid a visit to the scene of action, and such consolation as Ilarry's
bravado could afford them was gratefully acknowledged by them;
all. That, in their greediness for revenge, Hobbs should be
regarded as nothing less than a hero will no one be surprised, nor
that a widespread and more than whispered disapproval of the-
Squire's severity should exasperate still further both the Squanders
and their tool, Snipe. To an extent, indeed, was this exhibited as
pitiful as dangerous. Every precaution had to be taken against
the keeper and his snares. Now it was winded that for a few
days his presence was required elsewhere, — now, that by sickness
he was restricted to his chamber. A friend at court, in the shape
114
THE VILLAGE OF MERKOW.
|.*.,{
if
of a Merrow-brod parlour maid had, possibly, kept more than
one from following in the wake of Giles.
It was not long, my reader may bo nuro, before I was again in
Merrow ; nor had mere curiosity directed me thither. The game
that was there being played had daily tightened itH hold of me.
Moreover, already a transatlantic traveller, mya(!quaintance with
the position of the English labourer abroad had awakened in mo
an interest in him at homo. As a promoter of emigration, I was
often in Shropton, and it was on my return homeward from
thence that I again found myself a loiterer in Morrow. With the
villagers, as usual, I had had more than a word or two, and as it
was still short by an hour, of noon, and a return to Jiavont, with-
out the same with my friend Manly having of late become all
but an impossibility, behold mo again within a rod or two of his
gate.
"You will find him, sir," said one of his labourers, " alone, in
the kitchen," — just where I delighted to meet him.
" Don't rise," I said, as on entering by a back door, T espied
him in the act of laying down his p'po, " I will make myself
quite at home."
" I am indeed glad to see you, and I will tell you why," he
replied ; " some one will be here presently whose acquaintance,
I know, you are desirous of improving. I am expecting Haw-
thorne — John Hawthorne."
" You could hardly have promised me a greater pleasure."
"Moreover," said he, resuming his seat and pipe, " I have been
speculating ever since our last interview upon what passed be-
'.tween us in respect of our agricultural labourers. I have not
alwaj's m«6t with the same sympathy upon that question as in
yourself. It has emboldened me to think that the day may yet
be when, with many now living, their present degradation will
•have become a thing of the past. There is a cloud, sir, gathering
which it is not every one, it seems, can see ; but thei-e it is, sir,
and it will spread and darken till it breaks, when a brighter day
may follow. Much, I know," he continued, " will, in the mean-
time, have to be endured, — a bitter fight it will be. There are
too many of us, as matters rule, already. How it will be with us
Bome twenty years hence is a puzzle."
" By that time with emigration, as at present," I said, " may we
.-not rather look for an improvement? "
" With that in view, if I rightly understood you, you regard
. America as a field for only the hardy and self-reliant ?"
THE VILLAGE OF MERROW.
115
he
" For Huch only," I replied, " at least, m its remoter, unreclaimed
parts. — It is not every one, sir, who is made for a pioneer."
"I should say not."
** It is sim])ly a cruelt}' to make no such distinction. Of what
possible UNO to himself or to any one could a Shropton skittle
player be in the back settlements of Canada! It would seem that
the consideration at present, in sending out some parties, is loss
their advancement elsewhere than their removal from where they
are an acknowledged nuisance."
" It was not, however," inquired my friend, ** of such incapabloB
that the host who accompanied you, on your return, consisted ?'
'* By no means," I replied, " such are utterly powerless to
return. The greater part of them were men broken in
health by the climate of the West and South. Some, the more
healthy looking, were from Canada. Of these, many were on
business demanding their presence in England, while a few, so
I was informed, were on a more delicate mission, to be settled
between themselves and some still unforgotten Janey or Sally of
the haytleld. A few also, of more advanced years, were for
another last look at the haunts of their boyhood, — at what they
are still in the habit of calling home."
"Oh, they still," said Mr. Manly, bringing his chair nearer to
mine, " they still called it home ? "
" Yes, to a man ; — and the humbler, the less desirable it appeared
to have been, the more lovingly, the more holily, I may say, did
they seem to look forward to it."
" Ah 1 "
" Not so, however, to their country," I continued. " The wrong
which at its hands they consider themselves to have suftei'ed,
that drove them from its shores, is never forgotten. ' Tliaay
risturerats ' is on the lips of too many of them,"
" I am sorry to hear it," said Mr. Manly, " not that it surprises
me. It confirms much that I have both heard and read. — Would
any of them, think you, be for returning, with a prospect of doing
better than of old ? "
" Very few, — at least of those who have long been out. Habi-
tuated to the ways and climate of the country, and above not only
want but the fear of it, it would take much to induce them to do
so. Those who return for a last look at the old lanes are mostly
men who left England at an age when its prettiness had taken
an enduring hold of them, — who, too often for their comfort, have
116
THE VILLAGE OF MERROW.
M
li
I ■'
I ' )i
bcon in the habit of lookinj^ back, to momontH at lenst, of what
tboy have in vain sought for elsewhere; aH, not only from what I
was a witness of, but from what it foil to mo to hoar from very
many, pronpority, I should say, is more frequently to be mot with
in America than huppinoss. I am speaking, of course, of those
whose maturer years, on emigrating, had formed tastes, habits
and affections not readily to be surrondorod. Such men complain of
being alone even with their children, — that tlioir associations are all
ditfcrent, while ago pines for what it recalls is loss rarely denied to it
at home. It is not, however, sir, till a man again finds himself in
England that ho discovers to what an extent a protracted residence
in the woods has disqualified him for thoohl world. He has become
much more of an Indian than he was aware of. Its contrasted
oxclusivenosH is intolerable to him. A hard hand lias ceased to bo
a letter of introduction. As in his woods or prairie he sighed
for the hawthorn of his boyhood, so, on a return to it, is he
sensible, still more, of a something wanting, and, with a sense of
humiliation, ho looks wistfully back at the independence ho has
abandoned. ** Why, I quarrelled, sir," said one to me, '* with my
own brother!" — while, said another, " I can never, sir, but in
memory, live there again."
" How much bettor," interrupted my friend, " would it not be,
both for their country and themselves, wore such men at least less
necessitated to leave it. As Scotch Kamos, sir, of the past cen-
tury, observed : ' A small share of the money and attention be-
stowed on raising colonies in America would have done wonders at
home.' When that, sir, was written an increasing population was
regarded as the touchstone of national prosperity, and such would
it still be accounted, if some folks could be brought to understand
better than they seem to do their true interest. — Now, sir, I con-
tend, that if only a sixth part of our enclosed land were devoted
to farms of from five to ten or twenty acres each, with suitable
buildings on them, the higher rent which, I know, the labourers
would cheerfully submit to, would throw into the pockets of the
landowners an additional sura so great that they can never, surely,
have taken it into their consideration, while a million, at least, of
able men and their families would be nobly provided for. I know
that, in their selfishness no less than in their ignorance, there are
many who contend that in a labourer there would be no security
against his insolvency. To me, sir, it seems that the temptation
for the landlord to repossess himself of improved properties would
Tr
THE VILLAGE OF MERROW.
117
nocoHHitato tho most ouutiouH and wtringont moasures for tho pro
ioctioii of the tenant. — With our millions of acrcH of wanto lands
only a govornmont, perhaps, is qualiHod to deal, for a while at
least ; but, eventually, on a good breadth of them might tons upon
tens of thousands of additional settlors bo located. And would
such occupants," continued my friend, warming as ho advanced,
" be of no value to their country, sharers in a conservative spirit as
inseparable from the soil as its weeds f When wanted by the common-
wealth, would no willing as well as able hands be to be found in
their midst ? For the homos that they were happy in would such
men be the likeliest to begrudge a sacritico? Rely on it, sir, that,
with an extended representation, we shall be any thing but safe
with such, comparatively, a mere handful of men having a stake
in the soil. The tendency of things, at present, is to multiply a
class whom revolution could scarcely injure. An antagonistic, an
indemnifying class is demanded. With an extended suffrage this
will hourly become more apparent. What a weakness, then, not
at once to create it, not at once to engraft it on the soil, when
such could be done with even a profit to the engrafter. Certain
is it, sir, that the inevitable increase in our numbers, must, sooner
or later, necessitate some such action. The selfishness which now
obstructs it may, by then, be its readiest prompter ; for I have
no faith, sir, that a population, such as before the expiration of the
passing century ma}' bo looked for, will passively submit to any-
thing like the existing exclusive state of things. Of every ten of
us now born, nine, at the least, have a fight, and a hard one, for
sheer existence. How, then, will it be with us hereafter I Surry
will be many by then, sir, that neither they nor their fathers had
assisted to multiply a class whose interest it would have been to
uphold order and obedience."
" But, in our extending commerce and manufactures," I observed
" may not employment for some years to come be reasonably
reckoned on, even for a vastly-increased population ? "
" Certainly ; — but this, you will allow, must have its limits. It
cannot be supposed that we are for ever, as at present, to ride it
over other nations, and it is sorrowful to reflect that this prospec-
tive increase in our numbers will bo little calculated, from the
nature, to so great an extent, of its employment, to conduce to the
moral betterment of society. The humanizing influences of agri-
culture will be entirely denied to it. Nor can an outlet for the
uneasy class, as they have been called, be reckoned on for a very
118
THE VILLAGE OF MERROW.
■ «
lengthened period. The land, now open to all, will, eventually,
be required, and, possibly, reserved for those born under its own
skies. It is easy, sir, to foresee that such will be the case, when-
ever actual corapetitiort for its possession exists. A "very large
portion, moreover, of the boasted West of America is, I have
been given to understand, simply valueless."
" In the millions of sturdy yeomen and occupiers whom you
would engraft on the soil, you would look for a bulwark against
what, in the States, would be called the rowdyism of crowded com-
munities? "
" Just so, — by making ever}'^ man possessed of land in fee, or
for a term of years, liable to militia duty. It was so, if I mistake
not, in the olden Saxon times. With a militia such as we might
have we should have little to apprehend from home troubles, and
our wooden walls ought to be sufficient for all others."
" I should say so."
" England had never greater need, sir, than just now, to guard
against herself."
"I understand you."
" In the sons, too, sir, of such men, seldom in their teens out of
their sires' sight, what soldiers would be found, and who, with an
eye to the future, would be more likely to tender their services,
let their country but show that it knows how to set a proper value
by them. We are not a little Switzerland, with no opening for
them but at the beck of the foreigner. The rif-raf at present
either trapped or driven to enlistment would, I believe, almost
entirely disappear. We should hear very little of the lash then,
sir, and as little of conscription. I am not alone, and it emboldens
mo to know it, in my conviction of the immediate danger to us in
this continued indifference on the part of our very highest to the
interests of the labourers. Even with the latter the sentiment is
any thing but uncommon. My neighbour opposite, Isaac styles,
— you are acquainted with him, no doubt, has often expressed
himself accordingly, and, although but a man in humble position,
his opinions on some matters are not to be slighted,"
" There is no one in Mei-row," I observed, " for whom I have a
greuter respect."
" That is the feeling, sir, with every one who has the good
fortune to know him. — He is at times, too, very entertaining, and
seldom fails, after a fashion of his own, to leave his mark behind
him."
THE VILLAGE OF MEREOW.
119
This was scarcely uttered when, by one of those chances which
cannot but sometimes occur, who should present himself at the
door but the very veteran in hand, with a request for the loan of
a hay knife. Mr. Manly immediately rose, and, pointing to a seat,
touched the bell, when, in a few minutes, after an inquiry as to
my health, the old man encouraged, doubtless, by a mug of
generous proportions, which he now steadied on his knee, was in
full swing upon what, it was easy to see, had been purposely
introduced by Mr. Manly.
" Yes, sir," said he, in response to my friend, " it hev aften
puzzled I how thaay as be at the tip-top do'ant a come furrard,
if on'y for theirselves like, to s+raighten things a bit. If thaay
on'y knowed, sir, how thaay really stands, or woold stand, if things
went the least askew wi'em, thaay'd be afeard to let some
folks hev it aal their own way as thaay now hev. My owld fearther,
sir, used to tell but I minds, Mr. Manly, as you've a heerd
av of it afore."
"Pray, Mr. Styles," said my friend, "proceed; — this gentleman
I am sure, will be but too pleased to hear you."
" Well, sir, as I wer about to say, my owld fearther used to tell*
— many as is living hev a heerd un, — o' two kings as lived nighst
one another, — I forgits the wheerabouts — and as Avent, arter
awhile, as folks wooll do, to loggerheads. Now, one o* thaay
kings, sir, when he wer o'ny a prince, as thaay caals em, wer, in
some specks, a likely sort ov a man. So, thaay as had to do with
the workin' o' the land, and as could'nt a git scarcely no wages at
aal, pooty much as now-a-days, sir, got suramun to write to un,
axin un to be good enough to jist say a word or two for em to the
measters — the squires and varmers like. Well, sir, the prince he
giv em for answer, that it waun't for the like o' he, as wer to be
king, p'rhaps, some day, to interfere twixt measter and man no
how ; — ^you see that, sir ! —
Now, sir, as I've a towld ee, the prince, when he come to be
king, got into trouble like wi's neighbour, and wer a gittin', by
a good deal, the wust on't; so he bethought un o' raisin,' straight
away, some muore sodgcrs, and he sends to the labourorK, axin
em to list ; when thaay sends sir, to he (how my owld fearther
used to laugh when hewer atellin' it) the very same man as thaay
sent to un afore, when he wer on'y a prince, to tell unas how that
it waun't for the like o' thaay, as wer o'ny labourers, to interfere
120
THE VILLAGE OP MERROW.
twixt gentlefolks no how. How it used to meake the owld man
laugh."
" And how did it end with him ?" I enquired.
** Well, sir, as he could'nt a git no muore sodgers nohow, he
wer a tarnod clean out o' the pleace, and there waun't nothing but
murdorin' and mischief in it for a good fifty year arterwards.
Now, sir, if, when he wer a prince he'd a o'ny said a kindly word
or two for the labourers, be "t likely, sir, as thaay'd've been the
men to forgit un, when thaay see'd as their friend wer in trouble.
Not, sir, if one can trust in summat"— here the old man touched
his breast — "as bean't in the habit o' foolin' us. — Upon this, Mr.
Styles rose, and after an inquiry of the " whoerabouts " of the hay
knife, left us.
" His story," said Mr. Manly, " is no idle fable. As time marches
on, rely on it, sir, if nothing be done, in the way I have said, to
promote loyalty and patriotism, it will realize itself, to the full.
The rowdy element is in our wake, and gains upon us hourly. It
is encouraging to know that, on a trial, it would be found that
there is nothing in what I have proposed antagonistic to the inter-
est of the landowner.— Why, sir, were I in a position so to do, and
consulted simply my pocket, I could cut up into lots the farm we
are now on, re-let it, and, with thanks and blessings into the bar-
gain, half live upon my profits ; and, surely, sir, the way is open
to others. It can only be selfishness and ignorance combined that
prevent thousands from seeing this, a selfishness and ignorance,
however, which, it is consolatory to know, will, in their turn,
have to yield to the imperatives of the future. In the meantime,
where to look for a patron the labourer is, indeed, at a loss. The
Church you see, sir, is not with him. The poor fellow has no
favours to bestow. Would the Church but do its duty, but speak
out as a shepherd of Christ should speak, I am satisfied that the
landlords, with the best grace possible, would be forced to submit ;
but, with that silent, what can be expected. — Rely, on it, sir, (here
Mr. Manly again brought his chair nearer to mine), that this cen-
tury will not see itself out, without a visitation upon what for so
many years has been looking on, in silence and indifference, at the
hunger and degradation of the very providers of its own food and
wealth ; a visitation that shall point, as never finger has pointed
yet, to a Providence above us of justice and retribution. — Eecall-
ing the words of my noble friend, and looking out from the woods
that surround me at what is looming in the land of their utterance,
» 'w; f-r
Tf
THE VILLAGE OP MERROW.
121
man
I am fain to believe, as I lift my pen from my page, that an em-
bodied Providence, and with no indifferent eye, is regarding me
as I write.
But, to return, " Bundled abroad !" contim >d my friend, and
in a tone that told what was still so sorely uppermost with him,
" a broken and degraded man ! — and for what ! "
Mr. Manly paused, and looked at me.
" His wife," said T, "takes it sadly to heart, I hear."
" She will never survive it, sir."
Hero Mr. Manly again paused, — he was evidently moved. He
might have spared himself an eff(>rt to hide it.
" You were in Boston or New York, on your return route ? "
said he, at length.
" In the lattei'," I replied.
*' You must have there seen, sir, many things that were new to
you, much that interested you? "
" Some things, too, that not a little humiliated me," I answered,
" One scene in particular, I have never recalled without a sense of
shame. It fell to me to be present at the landing of a batch of
emigrants from our own Plymouth. — An American, so it chanced,
was near me, — a Philadclphian."
" Ah ! made he any remark ? "
" It would be difficult," I said, "to find an American who would
not have done so ; and but for the mortification, which I found it
hard to conceal, at the pinched appearance of my own countrymen,
his Americanisms might, possibly, have amused me."
" Can you recall what was said ? "
" I have repeated it too often since," I replied, "to have forgot-
ten it."
Here Mr. Manly, replenishing his pipe, and putting himself at
his ease, inquired of me the stranger's age.
" Well,— by his hair, he might have been forty."
" Your meeting was accidental ?"
" Quite so ; — we had both, for some minutes, been engaged up-
on what was passing, when, turning suddenly round, and looking
at me as only can an American, ' Some of yourn, sir, I reckon,'
said ho."
" I found it convenient, you may be sure, to be silent. Confident,
however, in his position, and pointing with his cigar to the crowd
of men, women, and children, in advance, 'rather a small pocket,
sir, I calkilate, would hold the hard cash of that lot,' he added —
* Churches pooty scarce, I guess, where they come from? ' "
122
THE VILLAGE OF MERKOW.
I wr.s conscious, I confess, of something on my cheeks.
" Now ain't it kinder strange, sir," he continued, " how little you
Britishers know the value of some things. Now, in my country,
sir, we reckon that it takes something like a thousand dollars to
raise a man, and even at that, sir, we don't account it a bad trade.
But then, sir, as soon as a young un with us can cram, we handle
him as we doour hosses, — we put him to good grass, and stutf him
with plenty of corn, so as it ain't long, after shedding his colt's
teeth, 'fore we can get something out of him. A pooty starved
bite fell to that lot, I guess ! Well, well — Look ye, now, friend,
at that four-ycai-older, yunder. Now, just stuff that little
crittur out with Johnny cake and slapjacks, as we do in my noble
country, and in six weeks, sir, his owr mother wouldn't know
'him, — that's so. — If some of our grout men, sir, were over among
you Britishers, they'd kinder fire up, I reckon — Well, well, if they
ain't a lot ! — That ain't the way, sir, we treat our slaves."
" Slaves ! " said I, " they were never slaves."
"■ No," said he, shaking the ashes from his cigar, " I rather
calkilate they waun't. They'd show a little more like humans if
they wcr, — that's so; — "We don't raise cattle the like o' them, sir,
down South, — no, we doan't."
'* I had now, you may be sure, both seen and heard more than
enough."
" And was it so," said Mr. Manly, " that our poor fellows were
spoken of ? "
" I have but given you the truth, I rejDlied."
" Would, sir, — " Here Mr. Manly paused, and, rising, stepped
to the window — " Some one I have been looking for, I think,"
said he — "yes, he will be with us immediately."
The old gentleman had scarcely reseated himself when, in re-
sponse to a kindly intoned " come in," the door opened, and before
us stood John Hawthorne. I had not seen him since his brother's
departure.
With the instinct of his class, Hawthorne was about to retire : "
— " I'll see you by-and-bye, sir," said he.
" Not so, John," responded Mr. Manly, — " this gentleman and
you can hardly be unacquainted ; — be seated." '
With a half blush, on a chair somewhat nearer to the window
than to the table, Hawthorne seated himself.
" We have been talking, John," said Mr. Manly, stretching to-
wards him a glass which he had just filled, " upon what no one, I
have reason to know, has more at heart than yourself."
THE VILLAGE OF MERROW.
123
Hawthorne put down his glass, and, with a slightly flushed face,
returned to his seat.
" We have been indulging, John, in the hope of better times
for some of us. My friend, as you are aware, has been no idle
spectator in our midst." — Here Mr. Manly, with a view of bringing
Hawthorne to the front, entered, at once, upon what had been
passing between him and myself.
Hawthorne's countenance, as the old gentleman proceeded, was
a study. Expressive solely, on his entrance, of a resignation he
was so capable of, muscle after muscle, as my friend advanced,
was again brought into play, and, by the time ho had concluded,
a countenance more intensely and sincerely sympathetic it would
be difficult to imagine.
" Upon one point, Mr. Manly, if you will allow me — " said he.
" Speak out, John,"
" I was about, sir, to say that, however well it might be for the
higher folks to take in hand for a while the waste lands, as they
call them, I am much behind-hand, sir, if most of us in Morrow,
and, doubtless, elsewhere, give us but the chance, wouldn't very
soon entitle them to a better name. What a man, sir, bred to
labour, can do with a bit of land, when working for himself, may
be seen, I think, pretty plainly in our garden patches. A family,
sir, and none the smallest, on an acre or two, with the like hand-
ling, would be as well off in a few years as they'd need to be. We
can't all of us be squires and gentle-folks, I know sir. It was
never meant, nor would it be for the happiness of any one that
we should be. As with other things, some will always be getting
the start of the rest, and keeping it, too; but a chance, an opportu-
nity might be, surely, given to every one. A man's industry and
prudence would then be the measure of him, and to something
better might a labourer look forward for his old age than a poor-
house and a pauper's , no need, sir, to say more."
I have not forgotten the manner and tone in which this last was
said.
"We wouldn't be too nice, sir;" he continued, looking, as he
spoke, towards me, " give us, as I've often said to Mr. Manly, but
a space, a mere space for a heme, and, with the wills that most of
us, I know, have, we would soon show a good account of it. A
home would be soon seen to start on it, and none the worse, in the
long run, perhaps, if a little slow, at the first, in rooting. Very
few would be then looking Westward ; — you know what I mean,
sir."
124
THE VILLAGE OP MERROW.
" You have never, John, I believe, been a favourer of emi-
gration ? "
" I have never liked, Mr. Manly, the being driven to it, nor the
charity style of it. One's country, too, sir, has a hold upon some
of us very different from what it has upon others. Emigration to
some men would bo little better than tearing them in two. For
such, now, as Isaac Styles, sir, never again to look upon where his
mother lies ! — Many, sir, have found thiti out, and made their way
back again. — It has reached me, as well, Mr. Manly; that, in
America at least, it is rarely that the old folks are treated with
the same respect as with us, — that they are less regarded as still
the heads of their families, that their position, indeed, is frequently
quite a subordinate one. Now, for myself, sir, I would rather
live it out, to my last hour, upon bread and water, than surrender,
for whatev^er increase of means, a single tithe of what, in England,
you know, we all so look forward to, and without the which some
of us, when old, would, indeed, be poor. I must bo better informed,
Mr. Manly, upon that point before I would throw in my lot with
that of the many as an emigrant."
Mr. Manly's eyes were upon mine. I had no need to inquire
why.
" You have not, Mr. Hawthorne," I observed, " been entirely
misinformed upon that point. There is an impatience of control
universal in America, that originates many a pang where such
should least be. The comparative worthlessness of a slave in his
old age is, I confess, too apt, in America, to be the standard by which
a man cf years is gaged. But to what, Mr. Hawthorne, ha; a
labourer in Merrow to look forward , to what but, as you have
yourself said, — a workhouse ! "
" There is no denying it, sir."
" John," said Mr. Manly, pointing to his glass, " make yourself
at home."
" Thank you, sir ; — quite possible, sir," he continued, address-
ing himself to me, " that the fault is not entirely upon one
side. The temptation for the " old man," as he is called, I under-
stand, in America, to make the most of every one, as well as of
himself, may, at times, be too strong. I am, perhaps, a little
nice upon some points, when speaking of emigration. Many
very many have, no doubt, bettered their condition by it. The
thousands of farms, and good ones, I am told, now scattered
over even the remoter parts of America are an unanswerable
THE VILLAGE OP MERROW.
126
of emi-
nor the
)n some
ation to
^o. For
here his
leir way
that, in
;ed with
1 as still
squently
1 rather
rrender,
i^ngland,
ich some
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lot with
inquire
entirely
f control
lere such
ve in his
3y which
ha,-, a
p^ou have
yourself
address-
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I under-
ell as of
a little
Many
it. The
scattered
iwerable
proof of that. They have not been the growth of ages. What I
would wish, Mr. Manly, to be understood to say is, that it is hard,
sir, to be put in a position that leaves no choice between it and
starvation. Certainly, an emigrant must escape much in the shape
of short commons hardly, one would think, to be found elsewhere,
and many temptations, too, which it is not every one — Here
Hawthorne paused, — still paused, — when Mr. Manly, with a tact
that a good heart needs nothing but itself to suggest, made an
effort to " bout ship ;" but Hawthorne was already aground. His
glass, with its contents, had slipped from his hand, and, as he
stopped to pick up its bits, a dimmed eye that mine had not missed
told plainly' enough its tale.
"Tm foolish," he said, rising from his seat.
" Not at all, John," said Mr. Manly, " misfortunes will happen."
" I'll see you again, sir, in the afternoon," said Hawthorne,
crimsoning.
" At any time, John ; — I am at home for the day."
Upon this, bowing respectfully both to Mr. Manly and myself,
with the shattered tumbler in hand, Hawthorne left.
" Poor fellow," said Mr. Manly, " he was on the rocks before he
was aware. I thought it as well not to press him to stop. — His
main objection to emigration, I believe to be in the interest which
he so sincerely, and for so many years, has taken in the welfare of
his mates. " They'd be half of them on the other side of the water
in less than a month," he once said to me, " were I to desert them ;"
and I verily believe, sir, that such would be the case. It is im-
possible, you see, sir, to get it into the head of a starved labourer,
all enactments notwithstanding, that there can be any crime in
meddling with what they see gets its living anywhere, and every
where ; and, so long as the rich man only is a loser by him, his
conscience is very easily persuaded to cry quits. Much has to be
said for the poor fellows, for even the dangerous ones among them.
They have, by bad laws, sir, been made what they are, — year after
year hardened into it. It has not been the work of a day. — There's
Pilch, now, — you know him ?"
"I do."
" Well, sir, either in Merrow or Orton, like too many others, he
18 out almost nightly ; yet I can remember him to have been one
of the likeliest lads in the place. His first lesson in poaching was
from his own father, who, I have reason to know, was, like poor
Giles, driven to it by want. It coat him, in the run, his life. He
WMh I
126
THE VILLAGE OP MEBROW.
was killed in a fray with the watchers on Baron Steinberg's of
Orton. One Diggs, of whom you may have heard, was in the
mess, and got ton years for it. There is a rumour that the residue
of his term has been remitted, and that, shortly, he will be back
again. — Now, sir, if one such as was Pilch's father had had the
better fortune to have held u few acres that would have put the
comforts of himself and family in his own power, that would have
made them dependant solely on his own will and industry, is it
likely, lot any reasonable mind, sir, ask itself, that he would have
been weak enough to jeopardize his very freedom for the sake of a
paltry hare or two. Let no man, sir, fancy so. I would by no
means say that a chance puss, intruding on his domain, would
have always been allowed to go scot-free; but a widely different
thing, sir, would that be to turning out at night as a thief, with
the chance of finding one's self, by the morning, a murderer. Let
the labourer, I say, sir, be more generously, more honestly dealt
by, and very few would need to trouble themselves about game
laws. Give him but land, and, from that moment, he would feel
as much interested in the preservation of game as the richest
squire. — It has often, sir, surprised me, recalling the fearful
crimes consequent on our present game laws, that a certain
Establishment can reconcile itself to so continued a silence
thereon."
" As you remarked," said I, " the labourer's inability in the shape
of patronage may have something to do with it."
" Not a little, I suspect ; — but so it is, sir, — go where you may,
in vain will you seek in the Church for a champion of the coun-
tryman. No wonder that so many are seceders. Its free sittings,
in some cases, arc well named, for free enough they will soon
be with us, sir. Half of those who might occupy them are already,
on the Sunday, at Hawthorne's. — I have, at times, been almost
inclined to think that there is something more at the bottom of
this neglect of her labourers than England, in the main, is aware
of. 'Where, sir,' said one to me, not an age since, who, of all
men, should have been the last to say so, ' where, with a peasantry
petted as you propose, would you look for a recruit. Conscrip-
tion, sir, would be necessitated. The very Constitution, sir, would
bo endangered I' How narrow-minded, my friend, is always
selfishness, or it might have occurred to the reverend speaker
that, should trouble ever arise where it is least to be desired, such
men might be tempted to a retrospection much more suggestive
THE VILLAGE OP MERROW.
127
srg's of
in the
residue
36 back
lad the
[)ut the
Id have
pv, is it
Id have
ike of a
I by no
, would
ifferent
ef, with
sr. Let
ly dealt
it game
)uld feel
richest
fearful
certain
silence
le shape
)u may,
le coun-
sittings,
11 soon
:il ready,
almost
»ttom of
aware
of all
asantry
jnscrip-
would
always
speaker
d, such
gestive
of the poor man and hin cottage than of the richer and his castle.
Had I, at the moment, been severely inclined, I might have
reminded his reverence that had some folks but done their duty
with a third of the zeal that one I could have named did his, the
necessity for recruiting would have long since ceased. But before
that, sir, will be, before such men will bo brought to a conscien-
tious senpo of their duties, some things will have to bo put on a
widely different footing with them. The temptation to fawn and
bend, as a bait for advancement, will have to bo removed. It is
not what a minister ought to say in his pulpit, but what he dares
to say, that is the rule at present. This, sir, should bo entirely
changed. Churchmen will have to bo put, one with another, so
upon a level, that when necessary that the truth, howsoever in
any quarter unacceptable, be spoken, no apprehension of after
consequences to the speaker of it shall stand in the way of its
utterance. Christianity would then, sir, put forth in earnest its
fruits. A fuller justice between man and man would result, —
selfishness would be blushed into it. We might then hope to again
Bee the smocked labourer in his church, and his pastor spared tho
pain, as at present, of knowing that tho necessaries and comforts
daily upon hu table have, in a great measure, been put there by
men with but ten shillings per week, as wages, to comfort theirs
with.
Here Mr. Manly rose and touched the bell. — I had no wish to
interrupt him. '* The main difficulty," said he, on resuming his
seat, " in the way of bettering the condition of the peasantry seems
to me, sirj, to lie, not so much in their extreme poverty, as in their
morally damaged condition. This, sir, was made painfully
apparent in an effort recently by the Hawthornes, and a few others
of the village, for a higher rate of wages. Their places were im-
mediately taken, and at the old rate, by labourers from Orton,
and so, sir, it would be with them again and again, in their pre-
sent uninformed condition. They would never be found to hold
true to one another. It would be a groat help to them if the
farmers could be brought to a clearer understanding of their posi-
tion, so that the labourers and they might make a strong pull
togethei-. To that it will come, eventually, but, at present, upon
many points vitally affecting them, the latter are as little inform-
ed as their labourers. Some able missionaries are woefully needed
amongst them. Hawthorne, as I have heard him say, has some
hope from the new Reform bill. He will find himself, I am afraid,
128
THE VILLAGE OF MERROW.
sadly disappointed. The labourer has been totally overlooked in
it."
"lean easily understand," I said, "how it is that the Haw-
thornos are with some parties in so little favour. Have you seen,
pray, since his departure, the wife of the poor fellow that was
recently sent off? "
" I have not, but from no disinclination ; I am truly uneasy
about her. If half of what I have heard be true, it will go hard
with her. You have heard, by-the-bye, of a bonfire, how one
thing recalls another, in which a certain Squire and his lady
figured somewhat prominently, on the heath betwixt this and
your place ? "
I had heard of it.
" It was high sport, I am told, for some follcs ; still, I am sorry
for it, sir , — it will only exasperate the Squanders and their clique
the more, and the less excitement just now the better for the poor
creature you were inquiring about. She is about, I have heard,
to become a mother again."
This again sent Mr. Manly into a brown study. I was on my
guard not to disturb him; — " Yes, sir," said he at length, laying
down hia pipe, " the bulk of us have, upon such matters, to be far
better informed. A higher civilization and happiness would be
then easily attainable. There are few men, sir, I should hope,
selfish enough, as the world now stands, to be thoroughly happy."
" Very few, I should say."
" Not that it needs to be turned topsy turvey. I would not, my
friend, be misunderstood. There is no one, believe me, more
deeply impressed than myself with the necessity for true civiliza-
tion of a class, and that by no means a limited one, with leisure
for cultivating, to the full, their tastes and intellect. It is a pain-
ful truth, but truths, sir,, have to be looked in the face, that certain
pursuits have a greater tendency than others to stultify and bru-
talize. It is only in the refinement which a high cultivation
develops that civilization is preserved. It is not needed that
parks be ploughed up, or pleasure grounds destroyed. It would
be a dark day for us all should such vandalism prevail. What is
wanted is simply justice—that a chance, an opportunity, as
Hawthorne observed, be given to every one. It is noi right, I
repeat, that the tiller of the soil, the producer of the world's food,
be without a sufficiency for himself; and sadly shortsighted, sir,
must he be who is blind to the necessity of at once creating a far
m
m
THE VILLAGE OF BIERROW.
129
^greater number of those who, in their freeholds and leaseholds,
■would bo sharers, as I have before said, in a conservative spirit as
inseparable from the soil as its weeds. It will be a great day for
England, sir, when she understands this. We are hourly drifting
into disorder ; but withjustice, impartial justice, civilization might
yet bo saved to us. With that in our midst, wo might be almost
any thing, a bright little spot that the world might take for l(
model."
I have dwolt thus at length upon what passed during thii
interview with ray friend, not only from a wish that my reader
may share in the pleasure which his utterances were to me, but for
a reason which, as I proceed, will, 1 doubt not, be fully under-
stood by him.
CHAPTER III.
yie will draw a veil over the more than melancholy time that,
for some months after the departure of her husband, it was poor
Jenny Hawthorne's to know.
By the middle of October she was again a mother. The child
was a boy, and, in due time, it was named, after her benefactor,
John. The attention that the little thing necessitated assisted, in
some degree, to withdraw her thoughts from what they had, of
late, been too exclusively bent on ; and, as time worked on, and a
new year set in, Jane found it difBcult to deny herself a share of
the comfort in which not a few of the villagers indulged, that a
goodly portion at least of Giles' degradation was already at an
end. Many, too, were emboldened by the hope that, before long,
philanthropy would intercede in his behalf. It had reached
Mr. Manly that the Surgeon Superintendent had said that it
seemed to him that there was one man on board who had no
business there. That this was owing to a straightforwardness in
Giles that would win for him friends in abundance abroad doubted
no one to whom it was told, and already had hope, drawing upon
her fairy land of futures, carried him in triumph through the vil-
lage, and, with a cheer at the gates of Thornley Hall, escorted
him to his old home.
But, alas ! whilst poor broken-down nature was thus doing its
best for a rally, an event occurred, which not only cast a gloom
upon all Merrow, but which most seriously affected the position of
I
130
THE VILLAGE OF MERKOW.
the Hawthomofl. By the death of Mr. Manly, an occurrence by
no means looked for, were they robbed of their sincerost and
m08t substantial friend. It is not my business hero to record my
own disappointments, or to this might a deal bo added. I will
content myself with saying that I was one who followed him to
his resting place, and I doubt that a sincorer tear than mine paid,
upon that occasion, its tribute of respect. He was buried in the
pretty churchyard of Merrow, and, with a tolerance complimen-
tary to Mr. Slack, the service, in compliance with Mr. Manly '9
wish, was read by the Rev. Mr. Goodwill of Orton.
CHAPTER IV.
*
Dr. Hearse.
Shropton had, of course, its workhouse ; civilization necessitated
it ; and to that workhouse was attached, as a further matter of
course, a doctor, — Dr. Anthony Hearse, of Shropton. He was not
a man of transcendent parts, nor had he, by industry and appli-
cation, made, perhaps, the most of himself. lie was, moreover,
eccentric, — in some of his views decidedly so. In one of them,
however, I have reason to know that he was at least not alone :
For hours o'er the rich man's ails
His puzzled brain would brood ; —
Poor people had but one complaint,
And that was want of food.
His treatment of the latter, old or young, parent or child, was,
as a consequence, unique and simple. Not to disturb nature in
her blow and silent operations, as he was fond of calling them,
was, indeed, a cardinal point with him at all times. Possibly, the
contents of a certain jar, posted in his laboratory with an eye to
convenience, were concocted with that in view : — Of it anon.
But for the death of Mr. Manly one party would probably have
less early become acquainted, practically at least, with any of Dr.
Hearse's particularities; for not only was the son, into whose
hands Mr. Manly's farm had fallen, a man of less generosity
than his father, but a jealousy of Hawthorne, which he had not
always been able to conceal, was by no means diminished by an
annuity, a email one, and dependent otx the result of his suit,
THE VILLAGE OF MERROW.
131
bequeathed to him by Mr. Manly. This, coupled with a dislike,
shared in by every villager in Merrow, to subject himself to
either the churlishness of Snarl (porter at the workhouse) or to
the repulsive meanness of Mr. Parish, made it a harder and
harder task for Hawthorne to provide, not only for himself and
his, but for one whom by all that was sacred he held himself
bound to protect. By the fall of the year succeeding that of Giles'
departure it had become a close bito with them, and both Haw-
thorne and his sister wore alarmodly anxious respecting the little
one at her breast. Hawthorne had observed that for some weeks
it had been slowly but surely failing, and his mind was fully set-
tled in regard to it, which made him the more determined to shift
from himself further responsibility. So, on a likely looking
morning, towards the middle of September, Jane was persuaded to
accompany him to Shropton, that Dr. Hearse's opinion might be
taken.
The doctor was busy enough on their arrival. The measles
were about, and several cases of scarlatina had showed themselves
in Orton. What particularl / struck Hawthorne was, that, what-
ever the complaint, howsoevtv )ntra8ted the symptoms brought
to the doctor's notice, a certai ir was invariably consulted, one
particular jar. Again and again was this the case, for very
many, as it happened, were on that day the applicants for help ;
so that Jenny had full time for a rest, which was as well, before,
nudging his sister, Hawthorne gave her to understand that it
was now her turn, that " the gentleman was at liberty." — "With a
timidity as natural to her as life, Jenny blushingly advanced ; —
but a word or two, first, as promised, of the jar.
m
There was a jar, an earthen jar.
Upon a lower shelf,
A miserable looking thing,
In a corner by itself.
White once had been its earthenware,
With golden lettered name,
But, long begrimed with dirt and drugi,
What eye could trace the same.
Lidless it stood, as unabashed
T 'unmask its inmost soul ;
All other pots cured one complaint,
This claimed to cure the whole I
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132
THE VILLAGE OF MERROW.
Mysterious this magic power,
Though rumour, once, arose,
The shop-boy could the mystery solve,
K but the master chose.
Certain that, every day, an hour
Before the doctor came.
The urchin was observed to be
Busy about the same.
Pounding, and pelting, stirring, scraping,
As if to bring to pass
A combination of strange things
In one concreted mass.
Whether the doctor held a view
Peculiar in his art.
That every drag in each disease
Should play its special part ;
Or whether he conceived it safer
By opposites to correct
The tendency of any one,
And so shape its effect,
I cannot say, — ho may have been
Economist in time ;
The jar's choice s'^-lf is all that I
Can vouch foj i'^ this rhyme.
It was now for Jenny to make acquaintance with the same.
She has already advanced :
" I've brought my little infant, sir ;"
Ere Jane had got thus far
The doctor had already turned
Towards his mystic jar.
" Had you not better, sir," said she.
Examine my poor child ? " —
"As well, perhaps; — ah, ah, — I see, —
Ratling,— a little wild ! "
Which said, again the doctor's steps
Were t'wards his potent pot ;
Jane, as his fingers went to work,
Eyeing the wondrous what I
" He never can have noticed, sure,
How young the baby, John,"-
^' Hush, Jane, observe ;" — Hawthorne had marked
The doctor's task was done.
THE VILLAGE OF MERKOW.
133
same.
"You'll take these J9i7/s/' — Jane courtesied,-
" Possibly one will do, —
But should the child seem not so well,
"Why then — why then — say tico.'^
" My child, sir, may refuse it, p'rhaps, —
How am I then to act ? "
" Oh, well, — we don't — we can't, — you see.
Rule matters so exact."
" What diet, sir " ;— " Diet !— oh, that's
A thing for others' care ; —
Snarl, at the gate, as you pass out,
Inquire, will show you where."
When shall I come again, sir, pray?" —
" Oh, well,- -you'll see, — you'll see.
While the pills last, with Snarl's good aid.
You'll hardly trouble me."
This said, the doctor's steps, once more,
Were t' wards his potent jar;
Some other ailing child of want
Eequired his Christian care.
" He's very shrewd, didst mark, John, how
He made no alteration
Betwixt his first glimpse of the child
And his examination ! "
" God grant there needed none," said John,
" We've done at least our best ; —
Let us, Jane, homeward, both of you
Are, I know, in need of rest."
Rightly they judged, in one so young.
Nature invoked no aid
Such as parochial charity
Administers in need.
The breast, and it alone could help,
That marvellous fount of food,
Wrought, in dame nature's subtlest way,
Of every thing that's good.
Well John knew this, and grieved at heart
To note how Jenny's strength
Daily declined, — parent and child
Tottered alike, at length.
m
134
THE VILLAGE OF MERROW.
" Jane, we must strive in every way,"
Said he, " within our power
To prop up the poor stem that holds
This delicate, drooping flower.
Come, come, take heart— I'll straight away
Even to parson Slack,
If all else fail ; — I'll not, believe.
Gome empty handed back.
Better you strike across the fields,
'Tis nigher, — and oh, pray,
When you fetch home, for his poor sake.
Put all sad thoughts away.
I'll by the road, as I pass mine.
To just right things within ;
My good girl might be wondering
Why none of us had been.
Some faggots will be wanting, too,
The morn breaks chill again,
And best I sit up the night through.
Perhaps, ye'U need me, Jane."
Jane looked at John, — ah, there are looks
That let the bosom speak.
When, but for their joint utterance,
Words would be, oh, how weak !
" Good John, ye'U not be long away,"
Said Jane, in timid tone,
" When you are absent, John, I feel
So utterly alone."
With promise of rejoining her
Ere the sun sank to rest,
John hastened on his way, resolved,
Indeed, upon his best.
" God will be with him," murmured Jane,
" And when poor I am laid
In my last home, then will he find
These mercies not unpaid."
THE VILLAGE OF MERROW.
135
CHAPTER V.
To a letter, did Hawthorne fulfil his promise. Jenny's imme-
diate wants were amply relieved by the evening. His apprehen-
sion, however, in regard to her infant was but too well grounded,
unless Dr. Hearse's pills are to be credited with a potency dan-
gerously greater upon that night than usual.
According to Hobbs, whose wife, in company with Hawthorne,
was with Jenny through the night, scarcely had an hour elapsed
since the inflection of pill number one, " afore he wer a took wi'
a kind o' quiverin' like, aal over un, and his knees wer a draawed
up to's chest; and when, 'cordiui' as the doctor had a ordered, thaay
giv he a second un, he were agin seized wi' a quiverin' like, and
never stirred arterwards : — that second un did the business." Harry
had to be careful of the when and where this was said, as his wife
had, again and again, observed that " the pills wuz wonderful,
that if any thing, dead or alive, could ha saved un, it wer as plain
as a charch steeple as thaay'd ha done it ; but he wer a past, no
doubt, aal as Dr. Hearse could a do for'n." — John was silent ; —
when he did speak, it was to console his sister.
By the end of the week the child was interred at the back of
Merrow church, in a part of the ground set aside, as before stated,
for the poor. Prayers, were, of course, read on the occasion by
Mr. Slack, who considerately ordered his sexton to see that the
body was decently covered. It had not been considered necessary
that it should be taken into the church.
" It be the fust blood as is spilt," said Styles, as he and Hobbs
sauntered homeward together, "but it wun't be the last; mind,
as I. says, Harry, it wun't be the last ! "
" What did the old man mean, John ? " inquired Hobbs on the
following day.
" It wouldn't be the last," he said, " eh ? "
" Jist so."
" What the old man, Harry, likely enough meant, was, what
no one more sincerely believes than himself, that nothing that
we do that in any way is wrong goes unremembered." John's
finger, as he finished, was pointed upwards.
" 'T be sartain : — By-the-bye, John, bean't it sing'lar as Giles hev
never a writ but once ? "
Had Hobbs, when he put this question, looked closely at his "
friend he could hardly have missed the pain that it gave him.
■I ■
136
THE VILLAGE OF MERKOW.
• I
is
i
m.
Why was this so ? It had been obberved, for some weeks, that
Hawthorue was anything but himself. His self possession seem-
ed shaken. He was less communicative, and Isaac Styles and he,
it was noticed, were more frequently than was usual with Ihem in
converse alone.
Unwillingly my pen advances, but the truth has to bo told.
In less than a twelvemonth after the departure of the Dove,
Hawthorne had heard from his brother, for Giles couM write,
though but indifferently, giving an account of the passage and of
his position at the time of his writing. His health during the
passage, a somewhat tedious one, had, as far as John could under-
stand him, not been satisfactory, mxt from the Superintendent on
board he had received many little favours and kindnesses, and in
one material point he had derived the greatest comfort from his
assurances. On his arrival at Sydney he had had the good for-
tune to be employed on what is there to this day called the
Government Domain. He was by this in a position less humili-
ating, and less harassing than might otherwise have fallen to
him. He bade his brother to daily call upon his wife, and never
to cease assuring her that from what he had learnt from the Super-
intendent, and from others on shore, he had every reason to believe .
that their separation would, eventually, be much shortened. In a
postscript, he mentioned that Diggs was in Sydney, working on
his own account, that he had been a ticket of leave man for some
time, and that a petition recently forwarded to the Home Secre-
tary in his behalf, had been successful, and, further, that from him
they would be able to learn all particulars respecting himself, as
Diggs had told him of his intention of returning, before long, ta
his old quarters in England; — Diggs, he said, had been much hurt
at neither his mother nor his wife having, for some time, answered
his letters : " He did'nt a think as thaay'dhev tarned agin him ! "
He concluded with a promise of writing once in every three
months.
Now, John knew that his brother was a man of his word-
What then was he to think of the time having twice passed for
the fulfilment of his promise, and no letter ! What construction
but one did it admit of! John had never been quite satisfied with
the tone of his brother's letter, and now, as again and again he
read it, did he wonder the more that from the first he had not
better understood it. Giles, indeed, had landed at Sydney but the
shadow of a man than whom an abler had never cut a rush upon
V"r^ rr
THE VILLAGE OP MERROW.
137
Merrow's moor. The pestiferous atmosphere of Shropton jail,
want, and wounded pride had, even before ho set foot upon the
Dove, diseased his lungs, and in the crowded 'tween decks of a
convict ship where was his chance ! His conscious degradation
alone tore him to pieces : — to be a marked man for life ! That ho
had not jumped overboard only showed the strength of his
attachments. He did his utmost, on landing, to reconcile himself
to his position, and he was sincere in all that he had written to
his brother ; but the struggle was too great for him.
It was in Australia's spring time that he arrived, everything
abroad was fresh and beautiful :
Not a joy had nature still for him
Nothing to cheer, to bless,
What else had been society,
But mocked his loneliness.
I
He went among the dark leaved trees,
And flowers fair, and strange,
But these were not the blue harebell,
The heather's wholesome range.
He sat upon the shelly rocks,
By the side of the foamy sea,
But there was not the western breeze^
Nor the air of liberty.
He listened to the tuneful notes
Of many a songster gay,
But one sad voice, as sweet as sad,
Was ever far away.
Thus, hour by hour, the days crept on,.
Till moon on moon went by,
Care sapping every source of joy.
Save one half hope on high.
When as a flower of foreign clime.
Its own good skies denied,
For while the brave man struggled on,
Then sickened — drooped — and died !
•I
138
THE VILLAGE OF MERROW.
CHAPTER VI.
Oh Albion, my native land,
My white cliflTd pretty isle,
That I, so thy adorer, still,
Must blush for thee, the while !
Well, indeed, had month after month passed, and no letter. A
second and a third year went and still, — no letter ! Curiosity
was everywhere on the inquire. The Vicar, notwithstanding the
assurance of his sister, that " the man was, no doubt, alive, and
-happy enough," was particularly anxious.
He often of the neighbours asked,
And always when he met her,
Inquired, in the kindliest way,
If time had brought a letter.
But neither word nor letter came.
Though many a moon went round ;
The postage, that it might not fail,
Jane put into the ground.
m
But whose, upon a dull eyed morn.
The lids so swollen and red !
Strange how, at times, can some, asleep,
Communion with the dead !
For lo ! upon that very day
A tapper at the door !
A tapper, with a doubtful face,
Jane had not seen before.
I've brought thee, Ma'am,"-
The stranger paused, and sighed, —
*' Giles begged as I'oold bring it thee
The day as afore he — died /"
When Jenny heard the dreaded news
She gave nor start nor scream.
But, as drooped her head upon her breast.
Bethought her of her dream.
Then to the stranger, silent, went,
And leaned upon his shoulder; —
The poor man truly seemed to be
" A sorry he ha towld her."
"iplp
THE VILLAGE OF MERKOW. 139
Ht m Mfi Hfi ^
" Oh, leave me, leave me," Jenny said.
At length, — " alone, — alone, —
Take it not, pray, unkindly that
I crave you to be gone."
" Well — if thee wishes it so, Ma'am,
And no offence, — I'll go, —
Try, Ma'am, to bear with it, — 'be muore
Nor you with griefs below.
Yes, Ma'am,' be muore nor j'ou," — which said,
The stranger turned, and left,
Jane gazing after him, as one
Of sentse, s.oul, all bereft.
But hark ! — a cry ! oh heavens, a cry !
Mounting the frighted air,
Higher and higher, as heavenward bound.
To crave an entrance there !
(Jenny had opened the packet.)
" God ! God ! God ! God !— oh, look, look, look !
All dead! all bleached with care! —
So raven black ! — so snowy white ! •
And I not there, not there !
Oh, take me, God — take, take me, God,
I cannot bear it more ;
Ere madness make me all forget.
Oh, take mc, I implore."
It was well for Jennj^ that in this extreme moment her children
were with her. The pitiful, desolated aspect of one of them, as
it caught her eye, was the turning point with her. In the clasp
with which she folded her to her bosom had she again bound her-
self to the world and its rackins^s. — God! God !
I
CHAPTER YII.
It is hardly necessary to state that the tapper with his so disas-
trous news was no other than James Diggs, newly returned from
what was in Merrow still called Bot'ny Bay. lie may well have
told Jenny " that muore nor her had griefs below." He had just
heard from Isaac Stjdes of the deaths of his mother and wife.
This had, seemingly, confused him in the carrjnng out his mission,
as, on finding Hawthorne from home, a letter, which he had
brought from Giles for his brother, he had handed to his
■
■ii
140
THE VILLAGE OP MERKOW.
daughter, forgetting that the package which he afterwards de-
livered to Jenny was also to have been given to Hawthorne, that
its stunning contents might be broken to her as gently as possible.
The mistake was a dangerous one, but who will not already have
forgiven him for it. By an hour later, John was at home, and
opened his brother's letter, ignorant of the greater blow that his
sister had just received.
It needed no expert to declare at what moment, under what
circumstances Giles' letter had been written. A line or two, only,
of it were intelligible ; — thus will we put it:
" All as I've, John, to ask thee nojv,
^^ ^^ ^^ ^^ ^^
^^ ^» ^S ^^ r^ *|s
I hear thee, say — thou woolt.
Oh, John, — I caunna lay my hand
Upon thine own to thank thee,"
*****
*^ *i^ *^ *^ ^*
*^ ^* ^^ 'I^ w^
Hawthorne had bnried a young and beloved wife, and for some
years, father and mother had been words less frequent on his lips ;
but of no harder blow than this was he conscious. It would seem
that he had deserved better of fortune. — He must weep it out ;
" And is this, Giles, all that I shall ever
Know of thy last request 1 —
"Well hast thou written — thou woolt, if One
Interprets me the rest.
Alas ! alas ! — support me Heaven ! —
How shall I tell it Jane !
'Twill break her heart, — she'll never, never
Hold up her head again I
Oh, bitterness ! — oh, bitterness ! —
That I should live to see
A day so dark as death has made
This bitter one to me !
: So young, so noble, so upright I —
Why not have flung a dart.
Hard dealing death, at one less good,
And spared a broken heart."
Poor fellow, — it is hard to bear with such trials.
TTH
THE VILLAGE OF MERROW.
141
It was a disappointment to many as well as to Ilawthornc, that
Diggs had delayed but an hour or two in the village. The man
was far from wanting in sympathy, I ut the news of his mother's
and wife's deaths had fairly bewildered him. He had, it seems,
now, but one relative left, a sister. She was married, and resided
with her husband (one Crouch) in a county further north. Diggs
was not without some little means, llis stay for awhile in Sydney,
after Giles' death, had been any thing but profitless. So, on hear-
ing from Styles of his bereavement, he bethought him, at once, of
making his homo where lie had good reasons for believing he
would be welcome. " I can caal, Styles," he said, the tears
swimming into his eyes, " somewheer, as I goes along. — No, doan't
a say nothing. Styles, — I got to bear it, — but, doan't, — doan't a
say nothing."
That Styles was the only V)ne in Merrow to whom Diggs was
particularly known, was owing to his having formerly resided in
Orton, which was Diggs' parish, — "Good-bye, Styles," were his
words on leaving, — " shall see I agin when ye least, p'rhaps,
specks." Some years afterwards, one by one. Styles repeated his
words.
PART FOURTH.
CHAPTER I.
Let us lay the turf of at least a few months upon what has just
passed. Dull would the heart or brain be that required to bo
assured of either Jenny's unspoakablo anguish, or Hawthorne's
untiring efforts to reduce it. Moreover, there are troubles ahead
yet to be spoken of before it becomes ray more particular task to
introduce in their midst One who, as it proved, had, from the first
been no inattentive observer. In the meanwhile it may not be
uninteresting, nor altogether out of j)lace, as helping us the better
to detect and understand, both now and hereafter, that One, if, in
colours as faithful as I am master of, I introduce upon my page a
few scenes which, at the time of their occurrence, were of no little
interest in the neighbourhood.
It had always been with the country folks of Merrow a standing
wonder that Jenny Hawthorne could never be brought to confess,
as the rest of them had long since done, to a distrust of Mr. Slack's
sincerity. Some even unkindly things had, at times, been said
of her in respect of it. Jenny had been so indoctrinated by Mrs.
Parish into a belief that, as representative of Him above all re-
proach, it was impossible for any one in Mr. Slack's position to
be very deserving of it, that she had almost laid herself open to
an imputation of bigotry in her determined endeavours to think
well of him. She was anxious, moreover, that her children should
any thing but resemble some who, she was aware, were little in
the habit of frequenting his church. Jane was, besides, neither a
philosopher nor a politician. She had not questioned herself as to
the cause of their absence, and she was somewhat confused on
observing how many of them had, of late, been finding their way
to her brother-in-law's " Little meetings like." It fell to her,
however, at last, to have tUe scales removed, though not, it will
be allowed, without a farewell effort to reinstate the Vicar in her
good opinion.
It was always a custom with Mr. Slack, whenever either busi-
ness or pleasure attracted him to Shropton, to turn down by the
Moor lane, and proceed by the more circuitous, but more agree-
able route skirted, for a goodly distance, by the moor upon one
THE VILLAGE OF MERROW.
143
ftido, and by the Squire's preserves on the other. This would, of
course, take him by what we may no more call Giles' cottage.
He could hardly, therefore, fail of oceusionally meeting with
Jenny, in her almost daily pilgrimage to John's.
It was upon one such occasion, about eight months after the
news of her husband's death, that, by a half way gate in the lane,
he, in the blandest and politest way, accosted her with inquiries
of both her own and her children's health. Jenny, at the time,
having the three with her, was not a little disconcerted at meet-
ing him, and for a reason very natural in a woman. By a sub-
scription, headed by Styles, a merino of scanty proportions had
been raised for Jenny, while the little ones had to be contented
with simply an edging, or bordering of black, extemporized from
an undergarment of Jenny's which had boon surrendered for the
occasion. Smile not ye who have never tasted but of the favours
of fortune. In her secretest of temples nature admits of no mon-
opolies. This make shift, as I have said, was more than an annoy-
ance to Jenny. — " It looks so !" she thought, " as if I had never
cared for him !" Parson Slack, however, she had the pleasure to
find, was far from supposing so. Ho bade her to remember that
it was not with this world's opinions that some things rest. — that
the Great One, in all such matters,take3 the will for the deed, and
that none of us are expected to do more than our means permit.
He also inquired of the names of her children, noting them down
as she named them ; — and, on leaving, ho bade hor to bo of good
heart, — to remember that she was not alone — that we all, every
one of us, indeed, had our troubles, the best of us.
" No one, I am sure," said Jenny, " could have spoken kinder ^
if John could only have heard him !'' '
Hawthorne, nevertheless, found it difficult to suppress a smile
as Jenny descanted or Mr. Slack's urbanity, whilst Jenny's curi-
osity worked itself up lo quite an excitement, on recalling his con.
descension with her children : " He seemed, John, so particularly
anxious to have their names quite right ! Not Hannah," he said,
''but Anna?"
Before the day was over, hope, with her bricks and mortar, wo
may be sure, was at work, and, in her sleep, many a little castle
had Jenny built by the morning.
y
144
THE TILLAGE OF MERROW.
CnAPTER II.
It was otivly in the forenoon of tho following daj', wliilwt
Jenny was leaning at her door, (she haii boon expecting her
brother), that she observed some one, rounding the corner of
the lane, wliom f^hc, at once, HUHpoctod to be Mercy, Mr. Slack's
parlour maid. In another minute she was sure of it,
"You'll step in, Mercy?" said Jenny, who had waited hor
coming.
" Don't ask mo to, Jane, — the Vicar is expecting me." — Here
tho gr>r>'\ hearted girl hnnded to Jenny three tracts, very neatly
envoi , with the chiMren's names on them, and with tho kindly
addition of "Not to bo returned ; " — " and here, Jenny," said she,
" is something for you all." This was a handkerchief full of what
wore, certainly, broken victuals, and which, as certainlj', had the
appearance of having boon very recently broken. Jenny handed
them to hor eldest girl who was just within doors.
"But mind," said Mercy, looking soarchingly at Jenny, " you
tire not to say a word about it to any one, for tho Vicar is that
man he never likes as his left hand should know what his right
does. Nothing he detests more than to be thanked for any thing.
More than once, Jano, on his charities being known, has every
ee^'var^ been discharged ! "
N( '^enny, simple as she was, was not quite such a simpleton
as to thus easily imposed upon, and serious mi^ 'iving came
over her as to tho propriety of accepting the present. 'lawthorne
had been constantly putting her on her guard against ^ iving the
.Si|iiandors, or any of their adherents the shadow of a hold on them,
and Jenny, remembering this, was about to tell Mercy that she
must decline the bundle, when, glancing at her room, the sight of
lier half famished children fairly fighting for its contents, carried
the day, and turning towards her brave benefactor, and drawing
her aft'ectionately towards hor, Jenny surrendered all idea of
refusal.
" You'll not, now, Jenny, forget," said Mercy, again, on leav-
ing her, (Jane assured her that she would not), " for he's that
man.'
" Good girl I " said Jano, " and so for me
She'd risk the Vicar's wrath,
Be called a thief, — a trustless thing,
All that contempt calls forth.
T
THE VILLAflE OF MEREOW. 145
This iraist not bo — I'll straight away,
And lot tho Vicni' learn
Just how things stand, — this putting off
But wrongs us both, in turn.
When he shall hoar how, silently,
We've striven, we've starved for years,
How hoped, still hoped, still hungered on,
'T will turn him all to tours ;
Quito break his heart ; — best not let John
Know how my planning lies;
I'll see the Vicar tirst, and, so,
Take him like by surprise.
The noble fellow ! oh, my heart,
The joy to let him know
He needn't, hence, work after hours,
Keeping toiling, slaving so.
When, too, the Yicar comes to hear
What trouble ho has taken
On Sundays with his mates, how all
The brother 't will awaken 1"
How singularly blended, at times, are dullness and subtlety of
apprehension in woman. Could Jenny really have believed that
there was a pathway to the Vicar's heart in her brother-in-law's
fidelity to his fellows ? I cannot say ; but, certainl}^ it would
have been difficult for her to think that none of *' His Ways " (as
one of the Tracts was named) were to bo found where, of all places,
just then, she had so much reason to wish they should be. So,
after a lapse of a few days, which, for look's sake, Jenny had
thought it as well to submit to, behold her, on a dull afternoon,
attired in her best, wending her way in the direction of the Vicar's,
to lay before him a statement, in full, of all that she had of late
been subjected to, and was then enduring.
"He'll be blaming me, I know," she said, " for keeping him ea
long in ignorance. I must tell him how I knew of the numbers
that were always so teazing him."
This was certainly a somewhat indulgent dilution of Sally's
injunction " to let him have a bit of her mind," — " to giv it him
right and left." "Good Sally," said Jane, on recalling it, "sh©
meant no harm, and, of course, I must mind to keep nothing from
him, to tell him every thing. Where, if I don't, the u.se of calling-
on him."
f-
146
THE VILLAGE OF MERROW.
■ '.' tm.l® ^r4' V
I have said that it was a dull afternoon, and so it was, when
Jenny started, which it was thought would rather improve her
chance of finding the Vicar both at home and alone. So, although,
before reaching the manse, the rain was descending in no passing
shower, Jenny persevered on her way, and that the chance might
be the greater of being unheard by any but themselves, she made,
at once, for the front gate, and, to appearance, was fortunate, on
closing it, in attracting the Vicar's notice from his parlour window.
Now, the Vicar had a private study, a sort of Sanctum sancto-
rum, which was entered from a landing reached by a few stairs
to the left of the hall. With a consideration in keeping with him,
Mr. Slack himself opened the door, and as Jenny, with a femin-
ality of eloquence by no means unusual with her, burst immediately
into tears, the good man was so touched that he at once conducted
her to his study, and, leading her to a chair, bade her to be com-
forted.
" I am not at all surprised, " said he, " at seeing you. It was
too apparent, from what passed in the lane, that you were in lack
of a consolation to be had only from such as have had an opportu-
nity of becoming acquainted with the bitters and struggles of
life."
Jenny now was sobbing fearfully.
*' Dear me !" said the Vicar, silently, an apprehension stealing
over him that his sister Arabella might not be the only one of her
sex whose griefs invariably ended in hysterics, " dear me, what is
to be done ! " — With a most persuasive kindliness of manner he
represented to her the necessity, the duty, indeed, of regarding
all trials as but visitations for our future good. — Our griefs, he
observed, were but so many recommendations to Heaven, — our
tears but us glasses by the which the more clearly to discern our
way. He had ti-avelled much, it appears, this wearying world, and
his experiences had led him to the conclusion that few, very few of
vs are exempt from at least a share of its sorrows and troubles.
" God knows," said Jenny to herself, " that's true enough."
" To look back upon a lost husband, or to know that one's
children have not always, perhaps, every thing that one could
desire, are troubles, indeed, sufficiently distressing ; but, if satisfied
that such is His will, how can we consistently complain." Every
grief, every fresh trial, he assured her, if rightly regarded, Avas
but another mount on a ladder upon whose rounds who need be
afraid to tread.
THE VILLAGE OF MERROW.
147
"With a deal of the like, uttered with a blandness of manner
worthy of a sincerer heart, Jerny was 80 perfectly taken aback,
so completely mesmerised, that, as a speechless statue, she sat,
oblivious utterly of every thing in the shape of her reiolve to
leave nothing unsaid, to lay every thing, to her least trouble, this
time, before him.
*' I see," said the Vicar, apprehensive, possibly, of an awaken-
ing on Jenny's part that he had studied to avoid.
'' I see advice is comforting, —
Some day ye may lack more.
When, if ye foar to face the front,
Why, — come to the back door."
W^ith this suave hint the Vicar rose,
And touched more than the bell ;
What brought the tears to Jenny's eyes
It needs not here to tell.
" Show, Mercy, this poor creature down,
And mind, before she goes.
She stays by the hall stove awhile,
To dry her drenched clothes.
Just Heaven forbid that any one,
On such a sad, sad night,
Should ever leave a door of mine
Without the thing that's right."
Tn duty bound, so Jenny deemed,
(The servant led the way)
She halted at the proffered stove,
Yet fain had turned away.
There, shivering with wet and cold,
And weak from want of food,
Jane pondered, in a Avoman's way,
On how her troubles stood.
" And could he not a single word
Of positive comfort find !
To all these famished looks revealed,
To all my misery blind !
Ah, had he sat in my sad stead,
With half my troubles pressed,
Heart had not needed tongue to tell
What every look confessed.
SSQBSiBE^S
BH
148 THE VILLAGE OF MERROW.
Why did I not speak out, — I then
Had left him no excuse;
To 80 keep silent ! as if tongues
Were nothing made for use.
0-'
Why am I ever thus with him,
When he, of all, should be,
As God's good shepherd, one that should
Hearten poor things like me.
I don't find words so fail me when
Before One higher still,
I then feel, somehow, so at home.
The words like come at will.
Nor used I, when, at Sunday school.
The proudest, richest dressed *
Would honour us, on passing them,
Not courtesy like the rest.
We're different, it seems, at times,
The day, mayhap, will come,
The Yicar will be found at fault.
And I, in turn, at home.
To bear all silently! — to hear
One's pretty lambkins cry
From sheer craving, and not breathe
A passing j)laint on high !
This cannot, sure, religion be,
This cruel, cold advice.
This affectation of concern.
While all within is ice !
This beckoning to back doors 1 as if
Distress and they were one ;
Well might he rise to reach the bell,
To hide what shame had done.
No, piety, thou art not thus,
All lowly in thy call.
Thou beckonest to no back door,
Thy front is free to all.
Oh, Giles, if thou art looking down,
And know'st thy Jenny dear,
Thou wilt forgive me, now I own
The wrong I did thee here.
THE VILLAGE OF MERROW.
Now do I know the bitter draught
This must have been to thee,
The angel of whose heart it was
That hushed it so to me."
Thus Jenny, with herself communed,
Treading on dangerous years,
When, with her face hid in her hands,
She gave herself to tears.
" Poor creature !" said a Christian's voice,
Mercy had heard her sobs,
" Here, Jane, — a loaf! — for God's sake take, —
What He gives no one robs.
But, oh, good heavens ! — the Vicar's voice !
Conceal it, or he'll drive me, —
I know not where, — he's so upright,
He never will forgive me I
Go, go, at once !" — so what could Jane
But hurry to the door,
And, taking to the fields and lanes.
Make homeward for the moor.
Where, on her knees, now safe she dropped.
But did not speak, nor dare
Look from the ground, — the loaf! — the loaf I—
Still Heaven put down a prayer.
The scales were from her eyes !
149
m
CHAPTEE III.
Yes, from her eyes were the scales, at last. Never was she,
afterwards, heard in the way of apology for the Vicar, and never,
afterwards, did this simple, but tender-hearted woman set foot
within his church. She had seldom been an absentee from John's
" little meetings like," and now was she one of his most faithful
attendants ; while, more and more, was it observed, did John
seem to rise in !her esteem and respect. It could hardly have
been otherwise ; for now that Hawthorne saw that every chance
of outside assistance grew less and less, did he redouble his exer-
tions in her behalf. The more necessary had he considered it so
to do from another of those overwhelming afflictions which seem
so often to delight in not coming alone. Jenny's third child, a
girl, named, after her brother's deceased wife, Anna, had gone
the road of her last. I would fain not have troubled my reader
Wi'
150
THE VILLAGE OF MERKOW.
with this, — but so it was. Nor was this Jenny's only new trouble.
Comforting as was Hawthorne's so ceaseless care for her, it was a
source, nevertheless,! to her of the acutest anguish to be compelled
to observe how, in every way, this redoubled exertion was telling
on him. She was, also, not a little out of heart at what had but
newly reached her from Ilobbs' wife, who at times was, perhaps,
somewhat too ready with her news, that Snipe had been heard to
boast that some one's pretty game would soon bo up, — that Mer-
row would learn soon not only who ivas who, but what was what t
Jenny was far from fathoming the.depth of the villain's meaning,
but she knew that the some one could point to none but Haw-
thorne, upon whom all his former hatred of her husband seemed
now to ^have centred itself. The upstart, it was whispered, had
had the vanity to think that, but for John, he might have yet
found a way of rendering himself agreeable to the still pretty
widow of the man he had so wronged. Be this as it may, a more
malignant hatred never was in another's breast than in Snipe's
for Hawthorne. It was well, as it helped in part to foil him, that
Hawthorne was aware of it.
And now for a revenge in full, as Snipe flattered himself at
last.
John, in obedience to his brother's wish, seldom let a day pass
without a minute or two at Jane's, There was always some little
thing to be said or done that helped to reconcile her to the world.
It was on one of these occasions that Jenny could no longer con-
ceal her uneasiness at what was too plainly to be read in Haw-
thorne's face. — "We will give the scene as it showed — in its own.
colours.
*t^ %J^ «1« ^u ^ ^u ^u
^n ^* ^^ ^p ^^ 'f* • '^
" You do not know, John, — oh, my heart,
How changed in one short year ;
Words do not hide these whitening locks,
Nor smoothe one wrinkle here."
" Be comforted, good girl, 'tis but
The giving up, on earth,
A little of life's wear to win
A thousand times its worth.
Jane, not a wrinkle here, but trust,"
John pointed to the sk}',
""Will be found and, p'rhaps, when needed most,
Upon some spare page on high."
THE VILLAGE OF MERROW.
151
*
Touched by this generous trait of love,
Still wretched in her fears,
Burying her face in Hawthorne's breast,
Jane gave herself to tears.
There had she wept her bosom dry,
When, — but without a start,
" A snake ! a snake ! " said John, the'words
Nestling in Jenny's heart.
Snipe, ever on the peep and pry
Eound Jenny's honest cot,
Had followed in John's wake, guarded
That John observe him not.
Barely, as said, had Jenny laid
Her head upon his breast,
Than John espied him, crouched, his face
Close to the window pressed.
As eyes the tracker his long trailed,
And now assured, game,
So Snipe, what his base ! 3art believed,
His prize in Jenny's shame.
" Snipe at the window !" whispered John,
" Move guardedly, — don't seem
T' observe him, Jenny, — possibly
I'll spoil his pretty dream."
John on the move, Snipe drew aside,—
" He's gone, I think," said Jane;
" No, — I can hear, — he's there, John, yet, —
Yes, yes, John, — there again !"
A tiptoe Hawthorne neared the latch,
But, as at woodman's tread.
The guarded adder, so, on watch,
The cautioned villain fled.
M
Jane saw in his retreating smile
What, to her artless mind,
Meant only present insult, so,
It left no sting behind.
" What can the scoundrel mean ?" said John ;
"' More, John, that I can say; —
He's often so, — I'll ask of him
His reason for't, some day."
152 THE VILLAGE OF MERROW.
" I'll save ye, Jane, that trouble, I'll,
Ere the fox fetches home,
Know something of his hankerings ;
He don't for nothing come."
" Don't think, John, that I care," said Jane,
As Hawthorne closed the door,
" There's nothing he can cany hence.
They all know I am poor."
Whether Snipe half believed that John
Would barely face him, or,
Trusting in Hawthorne's calmness, thought
He still might venture more.
I cannot say, — 'tis hard to tell.
At times, what secret spring
Puts men at variance with themselves.
When hard upon the wing ;
But, as he hastened, John observed,
Having him well in view,
A loitering on Snipe's part, as if
Bent on encounter, too.
Now and again he'd turn, casting
A measuring look behind ; —
" What new conceit, what dodge," thought John,
" Now in the fellow's mind ?
Not fool enough, the brag, to dream
Of venturing his say !
I'll not, Snipe, disappoint ye, if
Your loitering lean that wa}'."
Just where the Moor lane joins the road,
Snipe came to a stand still ; —
^'He means to speak me, then, the rogue, —
Well, well, I trust he will."
John was not wrong, — the chuckling knave,
{]jp Shifting has gun in hand,
As Hawthorne neared, crossed to a gate.
And 'gainst it took his stand.
John was by this time fully bent
T' assail the scoundrel first;
But Snipe, towering in confidence.
Ventured, at once, his worst.
THE VILLAGE OF MERROW.
*' Good day, Sir Romeo, — pleasant sport," —
" I don't, man, comprohend " ; —
" Oh, no, you don't, — others, no doubt,
"Will be as dull, my friend.
Huggings, and sighs, and so on, eh.
Not easily understood ! —
Plague on the law, John, eh, that so
Balks us in what wo would." *
Scenting his moaning, Hawthorne roused,
" I guess your game, " said he,
^' I know ye for a villain. Snipe,
This no way startles me.
Nothing in reach has 'scaped your eye,
Nothing you wouldn't dare,
For spite on one a very liend,
For pity's sake, might spare.
Now, hark ye, — from your viper lips
One word 'gin Jenny's fame,
And, by the God ye never loved,
I'll whip ye into shame."
There is a kind of quiet man,
More dangerous by far,
When roused, than any on whose tongue
The noisier notes of war.
Snij)e had not reckoned upon this,
John took him by surprise; —
"Mark you yon house, my brag, — the Squire's,
That way your safety lies."
Abler than Snipe just then had quailed
At Hawthorne's resolute air,
" Come, sir, no tarrying, — a word ;
A half word, if ye dare !"
As skulks a cur Avhen caught at fault,
Content t'escape at all,
So Snipe, no way particular,
Slunk to his master's Hall.
153
" A pretty piece of valiant goods ! "
Said John ; — " strange whim to take
Such care of a mere carcase, and
No heed for its soul's sake! "
* Saipe mu3t have here alluded to the law forbidding marriage with a deceased
brother's wife.
154 THE VILLAGE OF MERROW.
CHAPTER IV.
John, the scotched adder yet can sting ;
Ere night had couched the day,
All that a venomed tongue could do,
Did Snipe's in slander's way.
Thee and thy Jane, time upon time,
The villain blazed he'd seen
Fondling, as shame forbids to say,
While pity steps between.
From lip to lip, once fired, flew
The scandal, " Lady " S.
Fanning the flame, at every lull.
With heartless earnestness.
That very evening at the manse
Was she, that one might learn,
From her lips first, how " caught at last,
Affairs had taken a turn ! "
Nothing was left untold, the worst
That villainy had famed,
3Ialice improved on her tart tongue,
Till womanhood was shamed.
" You fully," at the close said she,
" Vicar, I trust, discern
What only could have weighed with mc
That you at once should learn."
" You naturally. Madam, felt
That I could not but take
Some kind of interest in the man
For his religion's sake."
"Snipe's known it for some time, it seems,
Eeing often by the moor ;
But never till to day , you see,
Vicar, the man was poor.
Snipe's not bad hearted, — I'm convinced,
When first turned up the bird.
Had Giles but gone upon his knees,
There'd ne-ver have been a word.
Or had the silly thing bat called
Herself upon the man ;
Women, you know, can wonders work.
At least, some women can.
f
1
THE VILLAGE OF MERROW.
156-
Vicar, you'll have to see to it,
And probcntly ; — such shame,
If suffered to proceed, will give
The neighbourhood quite a name."
" I'm sorry for the man, indeed,"
Said Mr. Slack, " although
I'm not surprised, — it takes some time
His kind of man to know.
But, still, — we'll hope, — we'll trust, — porhaj)8,
Yet hard to think that Snipe
Should deem it requisite , the man
So clearly in his gripe."
" Now, really, Mr. Slack, that you
Can champion for the fellow I
The cloth, I see, the cloth ! — what says
Silent Miss Arabella ?
" I did think, Mrs. S., the man,
Perhaps, had something in him ;
But as to her, no doubt she used
Her every art to win him."
" Precisely, dear, my view of her ;
There's no one can assume
A way more winning than she can,
Let the sly puss have room."
" "Well — as to that, /never could •
See in her manner more
Than just the simple thing one meets
At every cottage door."
" Quite so, — you misconceive me, — what.
What, dear, I meant was this "
" You'll never, Mrs. S., make me,
You'll never, MrB. S. "
" What then, says Bella, " to the talk
That Jane, though not so tall.
Is counted by the cottage folks
The queen dame of us all."
*' Is't possible I — well, well, I never ! " —
"Come, come," said Mr. Slack,
" Wild flowers may, ladies, still have charms,
Candor compels you back."
" So like you, brother; — Mrs S.,
Not the most shameless sinner
That ever yet disgraced the sex,
But he sees something in her.
156 THE VILLAGE OF MERROW.
Not the most heartless reprobate,
Not the most saucy slut
Can I do justice to, but up
Comes brother with his — " but ! "
" Dear Madam, it has been, you see,
The study of a life.
With me, betwixt th' extremes of things,
T'avoid all cause for strife.
Where sympathy is so at fault
An enemy might spare
A word or two, in charity.
And yet risk nothing there."
'' One consolation, her career.
Vicar, can not last long,
Her health I hear, — her health, you know,
Was never very strong."
** Bella, my dear," said Mr. Slack,
Shifting a bit his chair,
*' Could nothing, do you think, bo done
In the way of counsel here?"
" Me, brother, me ! — Horatius, me !
A place that can't be named ! —
A comij^on ! really, I did think —
Brother, I'm quite ashamed ! "
" Let him that is without a sin,"
Said One, " cast the first stone;" —
" Now, brother, pray give over, do.
Such texts best left alone.
There's many a worthless creature, I'm
Convinced, had never strayed
But for this kind of sympathy
So thoughtlessly displayed."
How long thus Christianly these three
Had bandied, hard to say,
But for a carriage from the Squire's
That whispered one away.
" You'll not forget us, Mrs. S.,
Should any — thing — that's new;"—
" Certainly not — though really, really,
Bella, twixt me and you !" —
THE VILLAGE OF MERKOW.
167
CHAPTER V.
It would be diflScult to exaggerate the excitement which tho
report of Snipe's inventions, garnished by Mrs. Squander's artistic
tongue, created, not merely amongst the villagers, but in a class
whom those accustomed exclusively to largo towns would bo dis-
posed to exempt from a curiosity by themselves unshared in.
Belief in it, however, was far from being general. An honest
outcry was raised against it, from the first. There was one, too,
than whom none could better appreciate its merits, in whose
breast was aroused a very volcanic fury of indignation. Ilis
broad chest literally arched, and as he clenched, with an assuring
pride, his heavy and hard hands, " I towld 'n," said he, " as I'd a
taake his part, — I giv'n my word for't. — It bean't agin Giles ae
the villain's a lyin', — thaay caan't a hurt ho now, but it's 'gin
his wife, and that be aal one wi' I."
This was addressed to Pilch whom Ilobbs had overtaken in his
tramp homeward from a job at Lavent, and who we may bo sure
lost no time in disburdening himself of his indignation to Harrv.
Barely had Ilobbs relieved himself, as above, when who should
they see coming leisurely along the road, at about a half mile from
Merrow, but the identical object of their combined hate.
" I'm dang'd, Pilch, if us doan't a speak un," said Hobbs, — " what
say thee. Pilch ?
" Jist as thee likes, Harry, — but doan't hurt un."
" I tell ec what, Pilch, — sooner'n let that coxcomb craw it over
one o us a day longer', I'd be swung up at Shropton to-morrow."
And now that Snipe was within a rod or two of them, at Hobbs'
bidding, they stopped, when Harry stepping forward, and with hi.s
arms spread, "A half word, Measter Snipe," said he, "thee been a
tellin' a pack o'lies 'bout Jane Hawthorne, as I've a hcerd, and bo
you the man as '11 stand to em now ?"
"If some people," replied the more polished keeper, "would
mind their own business. Master Hobbs, it would be as well, —
would it not ?"
" That bean't as I says," said Hobbs, stepping closer to his
man.
Snipe, suspecting that Harry was about to strike him, with a
half blow or thrust, (hardly conscious, In his fear of so doing)pushed
him from him. This was enough. With a smasher on his right
eye more than sufficient to have buret it, followed by a second on
168
THE VILLAGE OF MERUOW.
his teeth, down went the scouiulrol, stalwart as ho was, and jump-
ing up, Pilch, to prevent miHchiof, havinic grasped llobb.s hy tlie
waist, away through the hedge by the road.sido bolted the cur,
howling as in agony, — his hand to his right eye.
" That bo tho fust as he'vo tasted of Hurry llobbs, but I wun't
say, Pilch, as it'll bo tho last," said Hariy, as he stopped to the
roadside to rinse his hands — " no, nor the last by a long way,
mobbe."
On reaching his home (Ilobbs') Slop, who chanced to bo there,
was taken at tirst quite aback at Harry's excitement, but his joy
knew no bounds on hearing of Snipe's discomfiture, a joy by no
means, it sooms, unshared in by Pilch.
"T'wer worth a 'lection dinner, Slop,
To see Ilobbs how he mill'd 'n." —
"Lucky yotook I aff'n, Pilch.
I knaws I should ha kilt'n.
It was the noon, now, of tho day following on Snipe's imagined
discoveries; still, entirely ignorant was Hawthorne respecting
them. By daybreak ho had left homo on business at Shropton,
where the same had detained him. Pilch was aware of this ; so, at
Hobbs' suggestion, it was decided that Pilch should step over,
between then and the evening, to John's, and acquaint him not
only with the full of Snipe's villainy, but " tickarlarly," as Hobbs
put it, with the pounding he had had.
" But mind, — thee doan't, Pilch, tell'n how
Hobbs crawed, and flapped his wings ; —
Thee' 11 mind, now, Pilch, for John, I knaws,
Bo 'ticklar 'bout sich things."
Pilch assured him of his fidelity, — that John should be told of
every tear that ho had shed.
Pilch was on his guard to be clear of the house on saying this,
as even Harry's play was not at all times desirable.
In Ilobbs' apprcdiension, how much by many esteeming them-
P' ' '■ tters might bo taken homo, to their advantage. It
atred brow that Harry had his eye at tho time,
may be sure, was not a littlo flattered with his mission.
S( .^ oii , however, had already, unobserved, slipped from the
house. No sooner had Sally Hobbs hoard of her husband's heroism,
ihan, aware that "^onny was equally with John unacquainted
with matters, the mptation to bo off, and "out wi' it aaltoher,"
was perfectly r- oss.
THE VILLAGE OF MERKOW.
159
Jenny was ill, and abed, at the time of Sally's arrival. This was
unfortunate, as Sally was by no moans guarded in her statemcntM,
nor in her way of oxpresning thorn.
Novor was exhibited in holier colours the simplicity of Jenny's
imsuspicious innocence than in her reply to Mr.s. Hobbs' obtrusive,
howsoever well intonlioned, eloquence.
((
IIo must have been mistaken, Sal,
Lot us not judge too hard ;
• I don't know what the world expects,
P'rhaps, I've been otf my guard.
But, then, he must have known that John
Would never, never lend
A hand to any thing that had
Dishonour for its end."
Here Jenny ceased, — the bare idea
Of guilt, of .shame so great
Was more than mind could grapple with,
In one so broken, of lato.
This silence not a little rai.sod
Good Mrs. Ilobbs' surprise,
" I couldn* taake it so, not I,
I'd hev the villain's eyes.
A meddling mischief box ! as if,
Lowing the thing as true,
Long as folks doan't harm other folks
Folks hev n't a right to do !— "
" 'T were better, my good friend," said Jane,
'' Not to repeat the tale ; " —
" Loard bless thee, love, 't be blowed about
Jes like a summer's gale."
'* Don't take it in me, Sal, unkind,
I beg, but — leave me now; —
Talking distresses me, — your hand.
Your hand, Sal, on m}' brow."
" La sure it do !— Well Til straight aff,
And let John Hawthorne know; " —
"For heaven's sake don't; — Sally indeed.
Indeed, you must n't so I "
" Well, as her likes, a dear, — but, la,
Of aal folks, I'd ha thought.
As should ha' knowed, John wer the one,
The very one as ought."
160
THE VILLAGE OF MERROW.
"He shall know, Mrs. Hobbs, — he ought,
And shall know, but I must,
He'll think it's killing me, just say
Something t'assuro him, just— — "
*' Doan't trouble about that, a dear,
If I lets Hawthorne know, —
But, hark I — a dog I — yes, sure, — perhaps,
Thee'd raither, Jane, I'd go? "
This said, with barely a good-bye.
Reddening, rushed Sally out :
Jane guessed at once, but helpless all.
What she was bent about.
Soon a sharp voice, with Harry's name
And Snipe's entwined, revealed
The secret of her eagerness.
Nothing was kept concealed.
"I'd this— I'd that, wer I," the wind
Wafted to Jenny's ear;
Snipe had not long been*' kenneling,
Had the sly fox been near.
" Ah, Sally," to herself said Jane,
" Had'st thou but half as good
tV head as heart, few would surpass
Thee in true womanhood."
*
*
*
Now the noise ceased ! — Sally had left.
Leaving Jane sadly out; —
Where, too, was John ! — John had held back,-
'* What could he be about !"
•' See, Jenny, what your uncle John,"
Said she, " is doing now ;" —
" Standing quite still, mother, his hand,"
Like so^ upon his brow."
" He isn't crying, surely, dear? — "
'* Mother, he never cries :
Thinking, perhaps, — both his hands, now,
Are so upon his eyes."
" Father of mercy," Jenny said,
*' Oh, on his aching heart
Lay Thy hush hand, and teach these lips
This once to play their part." i
THE VILLAGE OF MERROW.
■'' Wasn't that, mother, a low tap '?" —
" I think not, darling, — no; —
Peej) from the window," — " Yes ! — mother,
What made him tap so low ?"
John, as he entered, strujjgled hard
To seem the self same one ;
His calmness, more than common, s^joke
Of an actor's part o'erdone.
" I'm glad you're come, John," Jenny said,
^^ So glad, John, you are come ; —
A stool, Jane, — no, child, — nearer. — there, —
Try to feel, John, at home."
'*'Am I not always so, then. Jane?"
Said he, taking her hand,
" Y-e-s, — but — you don't.— " -'yes, yes, I do.
Too well, Jane, understand.
Girl, this has hurtj^ou. — you look flushed, — "
'• John, I can't bear tliat you
Should so be — troubled, — some, perhaps.
Think what he says is true !"
Let the mean villain vent his worst, —
Trust me, there's not a man
Or woman will believe him, Jane,
For all his villainy can,"
Jane looked into John's earnest face,
And read assurance tliere ;
Who could mistrust that guileless brow.
That upright, artless air.
'' Did Sally tell you about Hobbs,"
Said Jane, in steadier tone,
" What would he not for ?/.s, poor lad,
Don't leave him, long, alone !"
"Well reckoned, Jane,"— which uttered, John,
Wringing his sister's hand,
Made for the door, — a wish in her,
With liim was a command.
Barely a hundred paces, now,
Was Hawthorne on his way,
When Pilch encountered him, with full
Particulars of the fray.
161
162 THE VILLAGE OP MERROW.
*' Hobbs hasn4 hurt him much, I trust/*
Said John, *' twere hard to see
My good friend get in trouble, Pilch,
In standing up for me ?"
" "Well, I wun't say, aal as I knaws.
Not for a underd pound,
I'd stood afore 'n in Snipe's shoes,
Not for a single round.
To see'n run, John ! — never hare
Started clean atf away
As Snipe, when I like stepped atwixt,
Afeard to let em play."
" "Well, well," said John, " we will but hope,
If no great harm be done,
Some good may come of it. such haps
Hit home with every one."
" 'T '11 teach'n John, to peep and pry,
To slander honest folks;
My Missus caals 'n " peeping Tom,"
No end, John to the jokes.
But now I minds, he'll 'member Ilobbs
Long as the villain lies ;
Tom heerd jist now as he's like to lose
The use o' one o' his eyes."
" I'm sorry to hear that much. Pilch ;
When next Hobbs crosses you, just say,
There'll be a little meeting like,
As usual, up my way."
" Sartaintly, John, — Hobbs longs, I knaws.
To tell ye ' bout the fight ;—
Wun't scold'n, mind; — Snipe pushed'n fust,
And that, you know, waun't right."
He
*
*
*
*
" How time remembers us 1" said John,
As, homeward bent, he cast
His eye across a field or two,
Pondering on what had passed.
THE VILLAGE OF MERROW.
16$
CHAPTEE VI.
How time remembers us ! — Hawthorne was far from being the
only one in Merrow who had been brought to an understanding
of this. By an older, and as worthy a one had he been long since
taught it, one to whom the writer of this is, also, not without his
indebtedness. Indeed, it is impossible for him to look back to-
the days he is speaking of without this man coming to the front,
without something calculated to better and ennoble one again
renewing itself on his lips. I have hardly, I am afraid, done him
justice with my reader. With what vividness still recurs to mo
a scene that I cannot say how often I have recalled. It will not
be regarded, I trust, as an intrusion, if here introduced. Indeed^.
I don't know that its introduction is not necessary to a thorough
understanding of much that has to follow.
It was within a day or two after Snipe's castigation, whilst
lolling under an old elm, by a pathway leading from Merrow to
Orton, that I was startled from my drowse by the tramp of some
one approaching, and on looking up, who should I see, within fifty
paces of me, but Isaac Styles. I looked hard at him. Time had
handled him lightly. He was still beautiful.
" Good day, sir," said he, on nearing me, — " pleasant goin',
sir."
"Very so."
" You ha'n't a see'd, sir, you knows'n, I b'lieve, Harry Hobbs,.
go by?"
" I have not," I replied. '' Some fresh scoundrel for him
to thrash ? "
" I leaves that, sir, to One as knows better nor I ; — you've a
heerd ov it then, sir?"
" I have, " I said.
" Ho be the first on em, sir, as hev got his dezarts, but he wun't be-
the last, by a long way, or Isaac Styles doan't a see, sir, what,
he've aal'ays a see'd.
" What is that, pray ?
" Why, sir, as God, sooner or later, brings every thing as us-
do wrong home to we, though in a way aften as it bean't for tho^
like o' we to sarcumstand."
" Eoom here for more than one, Mr. Styles," I said, pointing to*
a dry spot.
ilEI
164
THE VILLAGE OF MERROW.
m
h
With as much as to say " that's kindly," the old man, on a root,
.'a little removed, seated himself.
" Yes, sir, there be some as doan't see it, and some as wun't see
'it, but I, sir, I aal'ays sees it. I be as sartain, sir, as God be in
.yundc sky, that there wun't be a soul on em as hev had to do wi'
a scndin' o' Giles Hawthorne to Bot'ny Bay but in the iipshot '11
;git his dezarts. It waun't no boy's play, sir, with measter Snipe.
Dr, Hearse hev a said as how he'll a lose the sight o' his right eye,
i sartain 5 and, you see, sir, he wun't be a rush light's worth to the
iSquire arterwards. — You see that, sir !"
I confess that what the old man said went home to me.
**' I've aal'ays a noticed, sir, that when down be a comin' God on
ns, us fancies oursels so secure like. You see, sir, how the Squire
and his lady be a lifted up ; — thaay thinks as how thaay can a do
a' moast as thaay likes wi' folks. Thaay be fairly 'toxicated, sir."
" You are looking, then, for their deserts, if I understand you ?"
" I bean't a looking, sir, for nothing I on'y says as it wer jes
80 wi' Snipe. It be the nafral way, sir, as things rights theirselves."
That Styles, in his hard and instructive experience, had picked
aip, or rather, had had forced on him a pretty clear comprehen-
sion of that moral chemistry, which not a page of the past, nor of
'what is passing but upholds, it was plain enough to any one. Would
that, looking to the ocean, I could say that there were none beyond
it who seem less to see, and less to understand it than did this poor,
but clear headed, noble hearted man. Not, as now, should %ve then
sliear of a mere half and half, procrastinated sympathy for such as
Isaac Styles being, ever and anon, lauded through the land as a
vthing, on the part of some folks, miraculously Christian. Nor, as
mow, would be found even the very highest in the realm, when-
• ever humanity or justice has a word to say in behalf of its poorest
;and least privileged sons, pandering, for the sake of a laugh's
■compliment, to the weakness and selfishness of a party whom
their better natures might have long since taught them to despise.
Far nobler in them would it be to remember, and with respect,
what a great departed one has said of " unseasonable pleasantry in
the venerable presence of misery." To return, " By-the-bye Mr.
Styles," I said, (I was curious on the point) " has the man Diggs
•ever again turned up in the neighbourhood, the man, who, a few
y^ars back (for time had been running on) returned from
.%dney?"
*' He hev never been here since, sir," he replied," but he towld
THE VILLAGE OF MERKOW.
165-
a root,
un't seo
d be in
) do wi'
ishot 'II
' Snipe.
1 to the
God on
! Squire
!an a do
ed, sir."
lyou?"
wer jes
rselves."
I picked
prehen-
t, nor of
Would
beyond
lis poor,
we then
such as
nd as a
Nor, as
,, when-
poorest
laugh's
whom
despise,
respect,
intry in
)ye Mr.
n Biggs
0, a few
id from
le towld
I, when I see'd 'n last, as he'd be over, a some day, when us least
'spected un."
" It was not on the Squire's ground," I further inquired, *' that
the affair occurred in which Diggs was concerned ?"
"No, sir, on the Baron's;— but the Squire, thaay says, had.
muore to do in gittin' un sent away than the Baron."
" That was before the Squire's marriage?"
" Sartain. And us aal thinks as hc'vo a been a harder man from' '
the day as his lady fust come among us, though I aal'ays saya
there be one in Merrow as is wus nor she. I means, sir, the
passon's sister, — Miss Bella, as us caals her."
" 1 thought," said I, " that by some one she was regarded quite;
as a patroness ?"
" I never been nighst her o' late, sir, and, muore'n that, I never/
means to."
"How is that?" I inquired.
" "Well, sir, if it waun't for the troublin' o' you, I shoulfl- has
liked to hev let you, sir, know 'zactly how it wer."
" Pray, let us have it, Mr. Styles," I said.
" Well, sir," — Here the old man paused, taking off his hat, and!
with his handkerchief wiping his head; — "gittin* warmish, sir.'"
" Take your time, Mr. Styles."
"Well, sir, I needn't a tell you as some folks in Merrow heve;
pooty often a tough job of it to meake both ends meet."
" Just so."
" Specially, the owld uns. Now, sir, in sich like times, by way o^'
meakin' up for a short week, I goes about 'mong the varmors, —
you, mebbe, hev a see'd I, sir, — and, I gits hold ov a few vowls^,
which, when missus and I hev a dressed cm, I peddles 'mong the^
gentry. I goes as ftir as Shropton wi' em. The moast as us moakes.
on em be three pennies a head, lettin' alone the feathers ; and,,
in season like, I, at times, taakes round wi' em a few^croesses —
waater creesses.
Now, one evening, sir, I wer over at the passon's wi' a couple
o' vowls, — a pootty couple thaay wer, sir, — I got em at Measter
Swain's, — you knows 'n, sir — over agin the mill stream. — Well, sir,
as I says, I wer over attho passon's, it wer a Monday, wi' a couple
o' vowls, and I wer a waitin' in the back kitchen till the owld crust
braught I the money, jist four and six. As soon as her come in,
" Measter Stylos," says she, " I thinks as you charges pooty high
for your vowls."
mmmm
166
THE VILLAGE OF MERROW.
i
" Doan'tl, ma'am," says I, " aal'ays bring you very nice vowls ?"
" I caan't a say as you d&an't," says she.
" Aal as us meakes on em, ma'am, " says I, " be sixpence a
couple, which I thinks, ma'am, says I, be little enough. — I'd a
•ought to ha towld her o' the feathers."
•' Well, sir, her didn't,arter that, say nothing muore o' the vowls ;
but her taakes a chair, and clappin' herself down right by the
iside o' I, " you be a gittin," says she, " pooty owld, Measter Styles."
" No fault o' mine, ma'am," says I.
" I (loan't a say as it be," says she, "but as years increases, do
you, IM caster Styles, if so be I may meake so bold, ever think o'
3' our hitter end?"
" Now, sir, a' times, as you, mebbe, hev a noticed, I be a little deef,
specially wi' a wind from the East, and it bean't aal'ays, when
along wi' i )lks as taalks as she do, as I sarcumstands em 'tirely,
— tickalarly, sir, when thaay taalks pious. Aal as I could a catch
;for sartain wer asummat like creesses, (increases) so, I says to
iher, says I, " Did you say, ma'am, as you wanted some waater
•creesses ?"
" I 'm not a taalkin, " says she, " Measter Styles, 'bout waater
♦creesses, but about your latter end. Do you, I say, as years
-increases, ever think of your latter end ?"
*' As soon as I see'd what her wer a drivin' at, I jist picks up
;my beasket, and, athout a word, I waalks clean out o' the pleace,
;and I never been nighst the owld crust since. It waun't, I says,
sir, for the like o' she to taalk to I in that fashion. I doan't a see,
sir, as her hev to do wi' my latter end a bit muore'n I wi' hern.
That be a thing, sir, I says, as lies 'twixt I and somebody else. — She
be a staale owld crust, sir."
I was, certainly, any thing but inclined, from what I had heard
of the lady, to dispute it; and, to this day, I have considered my-
.eelf as Mr. Styles' debtor in the still greater zest with which I
;have since partaken of what I have always been more than par-
tial to. Water-cresses, indeed, have never been, since, upon my ta-
ble, but, seated at the same, with his finely chiseled face and
kindly looks, has been Isaac Styles. What would I not of this
'world's surrender to again hear the same story, from the same lips,
•under the same tree. The old elm, I am told, is still there, — still
in leaf, — still green. Alas, for the yellow leaves that can never
4be green any more !
THE VILLAGE OF MERROW.
167
CHAPTER YII.
Hawthorne was never further from being in the wrong than
when he said to Jenny, "Girl, this has hurt you." — Hurt her had
it, indeed ; and wounded to the core was he to be compelled to
observe it. Jennj'- was often puzzled to explain to herself why
«he would so start at his accustomed tap, and dull the eye, that,
at times, could not have detected on her cheek a shade of crim-
son, as he entered. Every one was in arms against Sally for hav-
ing said to her a word. Styles, in i)articular, fretted at it. " Pity,"
«aid he to Hobbs, on the third day afterwards, in Pilch's cottage,
" Pity Sal hadn't a spoke to I,
I'd a towld her as't woo'd'en do ;
'T waun't for herself as Jonn}- cared,
'T wer John as touched her so."
*'Sure, Sal wer wrong, — her didn't heed
How Jane oold laake it on ;
Wooll say no more, for, sartain, Styles,
'T weraal in kindness done. "
This it was impossible to deny, so. it was not an age before Sally
was again able to show her face, though Styles was, at times, still
lieard to say that '• a wus thing for the poor wench could ha
hardly been. " I was at the time quite of the same opinion, but I
iiave looked at it differently since.
CHAPTER Yin.
Not idly, it seems, had Styles declaimed under the old elm. His
triumph was at hand.
In the spring of the year following upon that in the lull of
which he and I had by chance, if so it was, found ourselves to-
gether, prospecting under the same tree, I had been invited by a
neighbour in Lavent, a young farmer, to make one of two in an
•afternoon drive to Shropton. An early luncheon had stood us in
the stead of dinner, so that the sun was barely at its highest as we
drew upon Merrow.
More than usually vociferous, as heard at a distance, was the
Vicar's custodian. As we neared the manse, this was explained.
Two men, one of them was Pilch, running their hardest, with their
hats off, encountered us on this side of it. Their excitement was
108
THE VILLAGE OF MERKOW.
I
m
such that our nag shied at them, and, within a hundred yards of
the Vicars gate, two more men passed us, paying, in their haste,
no attention to an effort by one of us to speali with them.
*• What can be up ?" I said.
"Nothing at all," replied my companion; " these simple clouta
take a scare at any thing."
The tone in which this was said put me on my guard.
Nothing further, however, that was unusual presented itself as
we passed through Merrow. The aspect of comfort and refine-
ment which the vicarage wore, contrasting so exceptionally, I
thought, with the meanness and poverty of the cottages about it,
was neither new in itself, nor in the reflections which it again
forced on me. I observed, however, when abreast of Styles' cot-
tage, that the old man, as in haste, made his appearance, when, if
ever eye imaged a wish for a word or two, did his on encountering
mine. We were stepping it out, at the time, my companion's
business being urgent, so I decided to pass on ; but, on reaching
Shropton, it was clear that something unusual was afloat. Tho
chief constable, with a subaltern, was leaving the town, by the-
Merrow road, at a [pace absolutely dangerous, and into a gig,
standing at his gate, with quite a precipitancy, jumped tho coroner
and his servant, driving oft in the same direction. Then, in full
swing, rounding the corner of a street, came Dr. Hearse, mounted,
while, on foot, numbers of both sexes were wending their way,
evidpi^tly for Merrow, as fust as they wore able ; and on return-
ing, I observed, before reaching it, that about Hawthorne's cottage
quite a crowd, in the wildest excitement, had gathered. This
was more than curiosity could stand. I should immediately have
requested my companion to put me down, had I not, in the dis-
tance, as if the old man had been watching for me, espied Isaac
Styles in the little garden patch in front of his cottage. We were
soon up with it, when bidding my friend not to wait for me, and
springing from the gig to the road, in a second more, Styles and
I were in his garden together.
'* Heerd, sir! — hev ee heerd, sir?" said he, with an excitement
quite extraordinary.
" I have heard nothing, Mr. Styles," I said, begging him to bo
less excited.
"Oh, sir, come in,^-come in ; — I towld ee, sir, how it'd a bel"
Here the old man burst into tears.
" Matty, a stool for the gen'loman."
THE VILLAGE OF MERROW.
le^*
I -was not, however, in a mood for sitting, nor, seemingly, was
my friend.
" lie Haid, sir, as he'd be over, a some day, when us least 'spected
un. You mind, sir, as Styles towld ee so, when us were alone
unner the tree ; but who'd a ever a thaught, sir, how it wer to
tarn out!"
Here the old man again took to weeping.
" You mind, sir, it wer in the very path as he stopped Harry
in ! — You see that, sir !"
To this hour, are his wiry fingers on m}'- shoulder.
"Who stopped him," I said, "and what was in the path? —
you forget, my good sir, that I have heard nothing. — Explain a
little."
" Thee hev n't a heerd, sir, as how Biggs be a found, wi' 's brains
shot out o' s head, in the path as the S(xuirc for years hev been a
try in' to stop up!"
The stool that Matty had brought mo was now of real service.
" Shot dead, do you say ?"
" Sartain ! — the Squire'll never no more witness agin un, sir."^
" Why, who could have done it?" I said.
"That be jist it, sir; — it waun't hisself ! "
" Is any one, more than another, suspected?"
" I hev n't a heerd none say, sir, — but folks caant a help their
thoughts. — Ho wer a commin' a purpose to see Matty and I, sir.
A summat for she wer a found on un, a tucked in his breast !"
Here the old man again burst into tears.
" You see'd, sir, a crowd, as you come by, at John's ; — thaay've-
a carried un in there, and the crowner hev been sent for to hold
a 'quest on un. Thaay wanted as I should be one on em, but Isaac
Styles, sir, I says, hev little enough o' life left in him as it be ; —
no call, sir, for muore'n one crowner's 'quest in a day ; — I hev n't
a looked at un, and I doan't a mean to. At the time o' his trial
sir, the Squire tried his wust agin un; it didn't 'cur to'n then, as
how, some day, Diggs'd be a found, wi' his brains a blowed out, on
his own grounds. — You see that, sir! (His hand again on my
shoulder.) And it didn't 'cur to un neither, sir, as, when the body
'd be a found, the same Judge as handled Giles 'd be a taakin' hi»
tarn agin at Shropton ! It do, I says, sir, seem odd, spoasin' the
Squire done it, — I on'y says, mind, sir, spoasin', as the very samo
Judge what tried Giles should a tarn out to be the very un as wer
to try he /"
I
I
itii
170
THE VILLAGE OF MERROW.
"But, my good sir," I said, "your talk would seom to show
that you suspected the Squire. Are you justified, at present, in
doing so ?"
"I doan't a say, sir, as nobody done it. Aal as I says, sir, be,
ns the body be a found in the very path as the Squire, for years,
liev been a tryin' to stop up. Whatsunidever I thinks furder I
keeps to myself."
" Not altogether so," I thought.
Here a constable, (and as well, perhaps,) in haste, broke in
upon us, putting a folded paper into Styles' hand.
Styles paled a little, and his hand, as might well be, shook as
ho took it. After a rigid scrutiny of it, " 'T be aal right, sir," he
said, " thaay 've a 'rested I to 'donterfy to the copse. — Spoase, sir,
as us '11 hev to go ; — didn't a want to ha' see'd un, but crowner's
Vjuest laaw be the strictest a goin'. — Thee'U be gwine, too, sir?"
Thinking that ray presence could at least do no harm, I assented.
It took but a moment or two for Styles to prei)are himself, when
a few moments more brought us to the crowd about Hawthorne's.
** Stand back there, " said a strong voice, easily recognizable as
Hobbs', "how be thoowld man to git along — keep back I tell ee. "
With such like injunctions, enforced with accompaniments by
no means uncommon with Harry, it was not long before Styles,
notwithstanding the crowd, was jostled into the prpsence of the
coroner, Mr. William Worm ley. The coroner regarded him
respectfully. He could hardly have done otherwise. There was
quite a stir in the room on his entry, "Now," seemed upon
every face, " aal '11 go right."
Being duly sworn, Stylos deposed that ho could, " 'denterfy to
the copse " as that of James T)iggs, formerly of Orton.
" On what, my good man, " said Mr. Wormley, "do you mainly
j-ely?"
" I doant, sir, rely on nothing, I on'y 'dentcrfies to the copse."
" But you must, surely, have some reason, or reasons for so do-
ing, some particular" —
" 'Xcuse I, sir, but, cordin' to the statue, us beant a bounden to
nothing whatsumdover but to 'denterfy to the copse." Here, Styles,
?that he might, as it seemed, show that he had no wish to shirk any
part of his bounden duty, and that the law, as he had always held
it, and his father before him had held it, might be carried out in its
entirety, and with a solemnity becoming the occasion, stepped up
to the body, and laying his right hand on its left shoulder, looking
THE VILLAGE OF MERROW.
171
lound liim. at tho same time, with an eye inviting attention, in as
clear and steady a voice as he could command, said : " In tho name
o' tho king I 'dentorties to the copne." — A pin might have been
heard to fall !
The coroner yielded, and, as* I thought, wisely ; for nothing more,
rely on it, was, on that occasion, to l»u had of Isaac Styles.
I staid, as did Stylos, till tho inquest was over. It was fully
fthown hy numbers from Ortoii that tiie body before them was
that of JamoH Diggs ; and '' Wilful murder by some poison or per-
sons unknown " was tho unanimous verdict. Ap])onded to it was
an expressed hope that Government would be notiiing l>ackvvard
in ottering a reward in furtherance of the ends of justice.
Mr. Wormley asnured them that he fully aj^proved of the re-
commendation and that he would do his best in forwarding it
accordingly.
" Thee'U not forgit, sir," said Stj-los, on parting, but in a tone
sadly sobered, " what I minded ee ov as to wheer the body wer a
found."
I promised him that I would give it my fullest consideration,
and never more faithfully did I keep my word.
How many times I stopped on my tramp homeward, — whether
I Avalked, or ran, — who I met, or didn't meet, would all be questions
difiicult to answer, so completely possessed was I by what I had
just heard and seen.
That the Squire was one of the least likely to have done such a
deed it could hardly be denied. What had he to gain by it. It
was not for poaching upon lus grounds that Diggs had been trans-
ported, and, if otherwise, surely, his punishment had been ample,
more than sufficient, in its consequences so terrible to him, to
leave no room for further vindictiveness. Kapidly, however,
upon this suggested itself something that interfered not a little
with such a conclusion. Styles, and Hobbs had, on so many
occasions, and in terms so unguarded, prognosticated" that no
good would eventually befall the Squire for his doings to Giles,
that it had reached the ears of Snipe, who. forthwith, reported it
to his master. Now, it was whisj)ered that the Squire, apprehen-
sive of mischief, had, from that day, been in the habit, at least
when alone, of carrying ai-ms. Could a quarrel have arisen
between Diggs and the Squire, and the latter, partly in anger,
and partly i n fear !
Diggs had clearly been on the disputed pathway, and the pride
172
THE VILLAGE OF MEIiROW.
of the Squire was said to bo in advance of his coui-ago. But couTd
a miui, in his sane senses, with, a])paroiitly, everything upon
eartli to make haj>py such as was ho, bo rash enough, foolish
enough to jeopardize his very life, in a heated moment, on a mere
question of trespass ? — lmiK)ssible. — Some one, knowing Biggs to
be not without means, and suspecting that he carried it about with
him, had wayhiid him. But then started the confounding fact
that robbery had not boon added to murder. His purse, and watch
had both been found on Inru. Robbery, then, had not been con-
templated, unless I was to suppose that the assassin had been dis-
turbed at his work.
The Squire had been seen to leave his gate at about an hour
before a report of tiro arms was heard in the direction of the
murder. This M'as early in the morning, before breakfast. The
Squire, as a spurt,>nKui, was an early riser. It was further
rumoured that none of his servants had observed him to reenter
the Hall. All this, however, might have easily happened at any
time, as might, also, his breakfasting, upon that morning, some-
what later than usual.
Dr. Hearf^^e had stated, at the inquest, that the murderer must
have been close to his victim, on firing. This, I thought, looked
like a quarrel, ijariicularly as the shot had been delivered in
front.
What, however, most forcibly struck me was, that the Squire, a»
I was informed by jMrs. Manly, had in no way, concerned himself
respecting the atlair. Indeed, since the morning, he had been
seen by no one, saving his domestics. This I thought, was de-
cidedly against him.
As to the remark by his wife (a mere rumour one would hope)
that "Providence had evidently - taken the fellow in hand," it was
too shocking to be of much account.
The Yicar, too, as it reached me from the same quarter, was
particularly taciturn, and his sister had contented herself with
saying that " some people seemed to be born to be always in
trouble."
To Turnpike Tom, as it transpired at the inquest, had fallen the
distinction of having first met with the body. Tom was, constitu-
tionally, none of the bravest, so, no one will be surprised to hear
that, even on my leaving Morrow at a late hour, his complexion in
no way belied Mrs. Hobbs' reiterated statement, that " when us
fust a see'd un he wer jes for aal the world like a sheet !"
THE VILLAOE OF MKRROW.
173
in
it was
Of Master Snipo I liavo Raid notlujig. as this gontlomnn had, of
?luto, ma<lo himself ossontially scarce. Dr. llearse's opinion as to
the result of his rocountor with Hohhs had been I'ully home out.
Ho had never recovered the use of his ri^ht eye. This, as a
Ivoeper, had rendered liim useless. lie was only with the Squire
•on sult'erance. Whether her Ladyship thoii<i;ht that Providence
had, at length, taken him, too, in hand. I cannot tell. M}*
.ii'iend Styles would, probably, have had something to say on it.
CHAPTER IX.
Shropton had never been remarUablo for the .'shrewdness or
5ictivity of its police, and its sluggishness on the present occasion
'might well originate a report that an unjust influence was at the
bottom of it. Such, however, was not the case. A letter of mys-
terious import had been iminediatoiy surrendered by its recipient,
a constable, which led to an otter by the government of a hundred
pounds reward, as an incentive to renewed exertion. So fully,
however, had they, the police, made up their minds that Diggs
had been waylaid for the money he was supposed to have carried
about with him, that they were put upon an entirely wrong scent,
and, after a week or two of fruitless activity, their exertions and
inquiries subsided, and the crime, enormous as it was. had com-
paratively ceased to be uppermost on men's li])s, saving, perhaps,
with a few, more immediately interested, in Morrow.
My own sentiment on the subject had hourly gone, more and
more, against the Squire. I learned, on inquiry, that the Yicar
had seldom if ever, since the day on which Diggs' body was found,
visited at the Hall, and on meeting the Squire, which it occasion-
ally fell to me to do, there was never absent from his looks a con-
fusion by no means assuring. Nor was I the only one, as it turned
out, that had been looking in that direction. Thus for awhile,
however, rested matters in Merrow, but only for awhile, as will
be now seen. On or about the third week after tb'j inquest a letter
was brought to me at Lavent by a labourer from Merrow. This
was early in the morning. It was wrapped in a piece of coarse
brown paper, sealed, and ran as follows :
*' 'Xcuse I, sir, but I wishes as how you'd a come over. A
hankercher hev been found blowed into a fuz bush nighst wheer
it done, wi' summwis nisshals on't, — and jnuore 'n that, sir, by a
«deal.
P.S. 'T waun't no 'ornary 'un. Yourn, si^eckfully,
Isaac Styles.
A"
hi !
!:■♦ ^
174
THE VILLAGE OF MERROW.
What a long reach did I seem to make into Some one's ways as
I read this, and I silently blessed the veteran that had encouraged
me to do so.
A hasty breakfast, and I was off ^or Merrow. — The old man had
been watching for me. — He was at his door on my arrival.
"Come in, sir," he said, "come in; — Matty, a stool. — It be aal
out, sir ! — Pilch hev a tarned 'n up ; — I guessed jist how it wer,
but, as you knows, sir, I kep it to myself."
"Let me hear everything in detail, Mr. Styles," I said, "begin
now at the beginning. You say that a handkerchief has been
found, with some one's initials on it, and near the spot of the
murder ?"
" Jist so, sir. — Sit down, and I'll tell 'ee, right aff, jist how it
wer. — Pilch — you minded, sir, when us wer agither — "
" But what about Pik-h, Mr. Styles ?"
" Well, sir, as I wer a gwine to say, Pilch hev a noticed, as he
towld I, 'bout an hour back, that the Squire wer aal'ays o' late,
that is, sir, since the murder, prowlin' about; afore as he reckoned
any one wer astir, nighst the wheerabouts it wer done. So
he tooked it into 's head to watch un, and, on meakin' yesterday
for home, what should a stumble on but a hunkercher, blowed, as
I towld 'ee, sir, into a fuz bush, and it wer as plain as the iuz
bush itself as suniraua had a wiped his hands wi' it; — it wer
streaked, sir, wi' blood, and on one corner o' it wer a writ C. S. —
you see that, sir!"
I did see it !
" But that bean't aal, sir, by a deal."
" Talie your time, Mr. Styles."
*' Sarlainly.— Now, Pilch, sir, who, bye the bye, bean't no fool,
on'y to hisself, kep aal quiet: — you knows, sir, there be a reward
out, aunnerd pound, — and he tooked to a watchin' un muore and
muore. — He wer up best part o' the night. I minded as he waun' t
at work yesterday."
"Well, he was up the best part of the night?"
"Jist so, sir, and early i' the mornin', it waun't hardly light,
who should he spy a crassin* the tield at the back o' us, agin the
wood by the moor, but the Squire. Pilch followed un, hidin' and
dodgin', as he best could, when, jist as they wer about half way
acrass the wood, the Squire stopped, and arter lookin, for a second
or so, on the ground, at the foot of a beech tree, passed on. Pilch
had his eye on un, when the Squire stopped, and tarnin', whistled
I
si''
THE VILLAGE OF MERROW.
17.S
i' r'
his dog as had stayed behind, snuffin' and scratchin' by the beech
tree. The Squire couldn't ha see'd it, but it waun't, sir, for sich
as Pilch to miss it. So, he hid hisself till the Squire tarned back^
and wer out o' sight, when straight made Pilch for the beech tree,
and, from jist below wheer the dog wer a scratching out he hooks
a pair o' gaiters as he knowed wer the Squire's, and fs he minded
never to ha see'd on the Squire's legs since the day I — Both on em,,
sir, wer blooded ; you see that, sir !"
I listened in silence.
" This, sir, were muore'n Pilch could a longer keep to hisself;
80 on he come straight to I, and towld 1 aal as I've a towid you,,
sir ; — us both on us thaught it as well to keep things quiet a
bit, but Pilch didn't 'ject, sir, as I should a write to you."
I bowed, and with real pride.
"The dog as 'tracted Pilch to the spot, sir, wer the same as
snuffed out the pheasant at poor Giles I — you see that, sir !"
Here the old man burst into tears, — he had shed, perhaps,,
bitterer ones.
" Loard God ! sir," said he, sitting down by mo, and laying
his hand on my knee, " if us on'y could be a braiij^ht to feel as
God hev never his eye aff us. But, someuow, il bean't jso, by a
long way, or poorDiggs 'd never a been found yunder. It be aal,
sir, the passons' fault. If thauy, sir, tickerlarly ^he great uns,
had a done, since I can a mind, as thaay'd a ought to, — had a
barkened a little more to One who, as the Book says, wer meek
and lowly o' heai^t, and a bcckone<l a little muore, as Ho done, to them,
as labours and be heavy laden, I says, sir, if thaay'd a done so,
awhile back, things woo'den show as thaay do now. Thaay hev,
sir, so many on 'em, their eyes on the fleece i' the stead o' tho
flock. — Lettin' alone, sir, what the Book says, one'd a thought that
sich as Measter Slack, wi' aal his finery and riches, might be-
asheamed to know o' the little as some folks hev, and to keep quiet
on't ; and he woold bo asheamed, but he be a lifted up, sir, above
hisself, as Snipe wer, and the Squire and his lady wer. But it'll
be aal square wi'n, sir, some day ; — as folks sows, sir, so em reaps : —
John and I hev aften a talked it over, and John says as ho can a
see, as summun else, sir, sees, too, that the little cloud as Mr.
Manly once pinted out to 'n be, a'ready, a deal bigger. You
mind, sir, how God hev a writ, that a hawjhfy spirit goeth afore a
fall. It be tho nat'ral way, sir, as things rights theirselves."
" Quite so," I observed ; " but in all your experience, Mr. Styles,
176
THE VILLAGE OF MERKOW.
V'
f I
have you mot with none, in Mr. Slack's position, with more
enlarged and generous sympathies ?"
" Lots on em, sir ;— thaay be aften the on'y friend as a poor man
hevs, and for that, sir, I says, when thaay, of aal folks, knows so
Avell what thousands hev to go through with to live it out, thaay'd
a ought to hov come furrard long ago wi' a word or two o' help.
Thaay knows, sir, as well as thaay knows any thing, that, at pre-
sent wages, a man wi' a family hov either to bog, or to steal, to
meakc ends meet. Yet ax one on era, sir, to git up a public meet-
in' like for the labourer's good, or to say a word for un in his
charch, and he'd a think, if he didn't a tell 'ee so, sir, as you
waun't in your right senses. Thaay be aal'ays a lookin' for another
mount in the ladder, and it bean't the poor labourer's hand, thaay
knows, as can help em there; — thaay be vGry shreicd men, sir."
" Others, Mr. Styles," I said, " will, some day, perhaps, show
themselves to be as shrewd."
" Well, sir, I says, till religion be a put, as Mr. Manly wer a
wont to say, on its own legs, cast adrift like from what they caals
the State, with nothing for a passon to lean or build on but the
love and riverence of his flock, it'll bo aal'ays so. The Charch,
sir, now-a-days, be jist, for aal the world, like the grass unner a big
tree, — weak and spindly, — bean't as it [a ought to be no how; —
nothing wun't thrive on't; — it wants sunning, — and sun enough,
I specks, sir, it'll hov some day. I aften feels as I should ha
liked to a see'd it, but — it wun't be, sir. God, in some things
tickerlarly, be a slow God, — ho kinder taakes his time like, — that
his lessons, perhaps, may be the better remembered. The Squire's
doins to Giles Hawthorne 'II not be forgotten the sooner, sir, for
the ^ix years as hov passed since 1"
Something again on my shoulder !
Not wishing to be present on Pilch's return, after a word or two
more with the old gentleman I had all but said, I bade him a good-
bye, thanking him, in all sincerity, for his kindly communication
with mo, and promising '' at, before long, I would see him again.
CHAPTER X.
I was somewhat surprised on the following morning, to find
that nothing had reached Lavent, in connexion with what had
been passing, on the day previous, at Morrow. That the Squire
Lad been arrested, I expected to have found upon every lip All,
THE VILLAGE OF MERROW.
177
ication
again.
to find
at had
Squire
All,
however, was as usual. It had been decided by the shrewder
ones of Shropton, that the Squire, for a day or so, should be
allowed his liberty, and watched; and two detectives were pur-
posely appointed.
Again, ore the daybreak, was his excellency on the move ; again
■was his course by the fields, to the right, at the back of the vil-
lage, and, again, after a cautious look behind him, unobserved, as
ho supposed, did he enter his own wood, and, still unobserved, as
be imagined, did he again pause at the same beech tree, when, with
an " Oh God!" his right hand ilenched in the hair of his head,
behold him confounded, and betrayed. In less time than it takes
to tell of it, a powerful grip had him securely by the throat,
•while a hand, equally able, was in no way behind in arresting the
Squire's on its way to something which, it was well knowni, he had,
of late, been in the habit of carrying about with him.
" Unhand me, sirs," cried the Squire, blanched with rage.
" We are not here, sir, for that."
" By whose authority am I thus dogged ? "
The superior of the two pointed to the foot of the beech tree.
It was all over ! but for the shoulder of one of the officers, the
Squire would have fallen.
After a pause, (the detectives, the while, regarding him in
silence), " I have," said the Squire — sadly changed was his tone —
"gentlemen, — a — a request to make."
" If in no way " —
" Simply," said the Squire, interrupting him, '' that I may not
be subjecied to the trial of being led through the village."
" It is not likely, sir, that your presence will be required there.
You will accompany us to Shropton."
The Squire looked searchingly into the face of the oflBlcer, and
then in the direction of his home.
" I have also to request that my friend, Baron Steinberg, of
Orton, be directed to break the affair to Mrs. Squander."
Of this the officer took note.
" I wish, also," added the Squire, pausing for a moment, '' to
avoid passing the cottage of John Hawthorne."
It was a hard look that the ofilcers exchanged with each other.
'* This will necessitate our keeping to the road which skirts to the
north of it," — here the Squire again paused — and then, with a
voice poorly audible, said — " my own property."
"You will accompany us quietly? — your word, I suppose, — "
178
THE VILLAGE OF MERROW,
*' I have been in the habit of late, I am afraid," said the Squire,
his eye on the moisten as he spoke, " of keeping my word tooivelV
This was not lost upon the men who still held him.
With an olBScer on each side of him, the Squire was now, in
compliance with his request, conducted through his own property
t<5 the road south of it, the Squire directing them to a gate
which opened on to it. Jenny Hawthorne's cottage was in sight
from it. The Squire turned, and for a moment looked thoughtfully
in the direction of it. It was manifestly with an effort that he
abstained from speaking. Little did its poor sorrow-stricken
inmate dream, as she slumbered on, for it was still early, of what
was passing so near to her.
Notwithstanding the greater privacy of their route, it was not
without recognition by one of the villagers that the Squire reached
Shropton. Slop encountered them before they had entered the
main road. Even the eyes of poor Slop were now as a basilisk's
to the Squire's.
Not a little, be sure, was Slop elevated in his own opinion at
the possibility of being the first to blazen in Merrow the astound-
ing fact in his possession ; for, although the detectives were
in anything but their official robings, Slop fully compre-
hended their business. The distinction had, indeed, fallen
to him, as even Pilch was in ignorance of the Squire's arrest ; —
he had been forbidden, for the present, to interfere. Like
wildfire, however, went the news upon Slop's entrance into
Merrow. Hobbs' cottage was the first in his march, whence away
flew the two to Turnpike Tom's, whore, as it happened, was
Styles, who in return for what had been supplemented by Slop,
deeming himself no longer bound to secrosy, related in full what
had been confided to him by Pilch. Hobbs was, as usual, nothing
behind hand.
" 'T '11 let un see what God can do,"
Said he, still more elate,
" I aal'ays towld un what, some day,
'Oold be the feller's fate.
And muore'n that, Sal heerd jist now,
Hie lady hev forsook un : —
Aal true as Gospel, Tom, Slop see'd
The coonstables as took un."
Harry Hobbs' addendum will recall what was whispered, awhile
back, of Baron Steinberg of Orton. The suspicion thenl'enter-
THE VILLAGE OF MERKOW.
179
Squire,
ooioell.^
now, in
property
» a gat©
in siijht
ghtfully
that he
■stricken
, of what
, was not
s reached
ered the
basilisk's
pinion at
astound-
ves were
compre-
i, fallen
irrest ; —
Like
nee into
nee away
ned, was
by Slop,
full what
, nothing
Id, awhile
len' enter-
tained of him, by very many at least, had, by recent events, been
fully justified. That one so notorious for his gallantries as the
Baron should have found it an easy matter to work upon the
weakness of a woman like Mrs Squander is less to be wondered at
than that the Squire should so determinately shut his eyes to what
was apparent to every one but himself. He had, it seems, in order
the better to conceal from his wife his early rising, and watch-
ings of late, proposed to her a visit at a Mrs. Oakley's, in Orton.
Here was the Baron's opportunity, and well had he availed him-
self of it. By the third day of her visit had Mrs. S. turned her
back on her dear Charles, and put herself en route for the conti-
nent, with as black a scoundrel as ever fortune hunted in England.
A letter to Mrs. Oakley, posted on the day after her decampment,
left nothing in doubt, nor had the tongue of a returned hireling,
from whom Sally Hobbs, in a chance rencounter, had gleaned every
particular.
" You see," said Styles, " it wer hisself, Slop, as done it, — it wer
hisself as sent her to Orton !"
" You sees it aal, Styles."
" A wonder as her waun't a drownded," said Hobbs, " a crassin
the sea!"
f* A wonder as her waun't ! " repeated Slop and Tom, while
Styles, with a longer reach into the future, said, and with more
than his usual solemnity, " — Perhaps, Harry, her wer allowed to
live for her punishment."
The excitement, far and near, was now at its highest. Both
counti-y and metropolitan papers seemed to exist solely for the
mysterious murder in Merrow. Hundreds of all classes and
callings were down daily from London, perambulating the neigh-
bourhood, and were as busy in their inquiries as reporters. Tom
had become quite proud from the curiosity respecting the man
who had first fallen in with the body. Not even he who had first
seen the Squire in custody was entirely neglected ; while, as to
Pilch, his praise was upon every lip. Scores, who had neither seen
nor heard of him before, shook him by the hand with a heartiness
as sincere, seemingly, as earnest. As to the Squire, — he had been
taken before a bench of magistrates at Shropton^ and fully com-
mitted for trial at the approaching assizes, for the wilful murder
of James Diggs. — Of the justice of this the Squire himself soon
put an end to all doubt. In an early issue of the Shropton
Herald appeared a statement that the Squire, on hearing of Ms
(ill
ft
■i
180
THE VILLAGE OF MERKOW.
wife's desertion of him, gave a hard sigh, and, for some hours
afterwards, neither to himself, nor to another uttered a word. •* I
see it all," he said at length, " too well, — and too late." This
was said without regard to an officer's presence, and, on the even-
ing of the same day, it was the third of his confinement, he ex-
pressed a desire to speak with the ordinary, and to that gentleman
made a confession in full of his guilt.
He had encountered Diggs on the disputed pathway, where,
indeed, he had purposely posted himself, Snipe, from his hatred of
Hobbs and Hawthorne, having incited him to make an example
of some who still set him at defiance. "Worked upon by his own
selfish tool, the Squire had insisted upon Diggs retracing his steps.
Diggs refused, throwing in his face his former pert>ecution of
him. The Squire threatened him, — Diggs dared him, — then a
blow from the Squire, — a return one from Diggs, — a scuffle, —
and then — a shot from the Squire!
The Squire was open enough, and off his guard enough to con-
fess that he had threatened Diggs, on his refusal to retui-n. This,
in the opinion of every one, was a dark point against him, and
showed, as particularly dwelt on by Mr. Stretch, a leading attorney
in Shropton, the folly of the Squire's persistence in declining
professional aid. The Vicar, too, it was rumoured, had said that
his confession, to say the least of it, was precipitate, which was
supplemented by his sister with an emphatic doubt of " the man's
sanity." How contrastingly had Christianity spoken, — " The
poor fellow, " said Hawthorne, in the presence of Styles and
others, " has lost, I am afraid, all wish to live." On this from
John, Styles, according to Harry, stepped up to him, and drawing
him affectionately towards him, kissed him upon both cheeks.
The Squire, by no means wanting in shrewdness, was not with-
out good reason both for the admission he had made, and his
abstinence from, legal advice. He was aware that the evidence
against him would be overwhelming, and that his only chance
lay in the possibility of a recommendation to mercy. His con-
cealment of nothing, he calculated, would tell in his favour, more
particularly wi th a Judge who, he flattered himself, would at least
not be biassed against him.
Nothing added so much to the excitement, more especially in
the neighbourhood where all particulars respecting Giles Haw-
thorne were so well remembered, as that not only was the trial
■of the Squire immediately at hand, but, as it then ruled in the
THE VILLAGE OF MERROW.
) hours
fd. " I
' This
le oven-
, he ex-
itleman
, -where,
atred of
>xamplo
bis own
is steps,
ition of
-then a
cufde, —
1 to con-
i. This,
im, and
attorney
leclining
laid that
ich was
lO man's
-" The
les and
lis from
[drawing
seks.
ot with-
and his
ividonce
chance
is con-
ir, more
at least
jially in
js Haw-
the trial
in the
181
disposition of the judges, that the same Justice Dooill who had tried
and condemned Giles was, in his rightful turn, again to sit in
judgment at Shropton, and on the man who, if not in the law's eye,
had at least in God's, committed a crime, in his persecution of
the Hawthornes, greater by far than the one for which he was now
about to be tried. There were few in the neighbourhood with
whom this had no weight. Styles' tongue seemed never to tire
on it. " Y^u see, sir," said he, (we were standing at the time by
his garden gate) " it be jist for aal the world as it wer wi' a people
as thaay caals the Rumuns, as lived afore and arter Christ's com-
ing, — you may a heerd on em, sir, — moartal cruel folks, — used to
meake them as thaay 'd a upperhanded fight, for mere pleasurin',
not on'y wi' theirselves, but with wild beasties, — lions and them
like. Now, you mind, sir, how thaay sandwiches, as the Rumuns
caaled em, come down on em, at last, like the locusts in Scriptur,
and arter killin' every blessed soul on em, tooked away wi' em in
big sacks aal as thaay could a lay hands on ; and thaay says, sir,
them as knows the ticklars, that, for a good seven underd year
f. terwards, there waun't nothing whatsumdever to be see'd but
tumbled down houses, and wild beasties. You see, sir, it come^
home to em, and so, I says, sir, it hev come home to the Squire,,
and there bo a sight muore on em, sir, you knows who I mean,,
as it'll come home to some day. It wun't be with wild beasties,,
mebbe, as thaay '11 hev to fight, but I wun't say as to theirselves,,
— no, I wun't say, sir, a bit about that.''
I have been more disposed to believe in the gift of prophecy,,
from my remembrance of many things said to me, at a time-
when it was less safe to say them, by this fine old fellow than from^
all that I have since either read or heard from the ablest divines-
It was, also, a point prolific of observation that the Vicar was,,
still, superlatively taciturn, and that not the merest allusion to so-
dominant an event could be surmised from either of his texts on
the ensuing Sunday. It was still further noticed, and not a little
commented on, that the Judge seemed to make it a point, as some
were bold enough to say, to leave no room for an interview with
any one in Merrow previous to the trial. He was, of course,
through the press, fully cognizant of what was in store for him,
and it would be difficult to suppose that he regarded it with indif-
ference. Whether this avoidance of him by the Judge was agree-
able, or otherwise, to the Vicar it would be hard to say. His de-
meanour, however, since the Squire's confession, was bo subdued
,1
182
THE VILLAGE OF MERKOW.
and reserved, that, according to Slop, "One liad a tlmught, as
didn't a know the rights on't, as hisself wer to be tried, too."
His sister, it was also remarked, was seldom abroad, and had never,
since the Squire's arrest, ventured through the village. One of
her latest utterances, according to her waiting maid, Mercy, was,
that " there was really, Horatius, now-a-days, no trusting the best.''
In Mrs. S 's stampede she had, at least, met with something nay,
though it was not for her ladyship, it seems, to h& the bearer
of it.
PART FIFTH.
CHAPTER I.
Tho day had now all but arrived, twenty-four hours alone inter-
vened, when from out the same walls within which was once in-
cwcerated his still too well remembered victim, would be brought,
and exposed to the world's gaze, the, till lately, proudest squire of
the district;— ".0 not a moment have we to lose in bringing to the
front whatsoever of significance remains to be spoken of.
It is hardly necessary to say that in Merrow and its vicinity,
no one, with the exception of the Slacks and Squanders,
believed in a particle of Snipe's slanderous utterances respect-
ing Jenny Hawthorne and her protector. It had however
reached Jenny, through Sally Hobbs' often unguarded tongue,
that such was far from being the case in localities more remote,
whore her acknowledged innocence and integrity were not at hand
to at once stamp out a lie. This had told terribly on her, she was
i?ecretly withering under it. Not a word, however, had she whis-
pered of it to Hawthorne, and she strictly forbade Sally to do so.
Mrs. Squander galled by the reflections which, in spite of her
husband's position and influence, the death of Giles had every-
where brought on them, lost no opportunity of adding fuel to the
fire, and although this was borne, for a while, by Jenny with any
thing but a vindictive feeling, the case was not a little altered
under the continued revelation of Sally Hobbs' incautious repeater.
Of this Sally was determined to take advantage. — It was a promi-
nent feature in Mrs Hobbs' philosophy that there was nothing like
^' speaking one's mind," — that Jenny " 'd be twice the 'ooman if
her 'd on'y pluck up her sperrit, and hev it out wi' em," and with
an eye to this, she had concocted a plan, to tho which, on the day
previous to the Squire's trial, Jenny reluctantly gave her consent.
It was, that Jenny should present herself in court, and denounce
the murderer of her husband, and the traducer of herself and
benefactor, for Sally had artfully entwined any chance utterance
of the Squire's with the worst of her ladyship's. Jenny for
a while had firmly refused ; John, she know, would be opposed to
it, but, as the idea became more familiar, Sally, again and again,
184
THE VILLAGE OF MERROW.
pressing- her, her reluctance grew less, till, at length, not to bo-
tiring, Sally Hobbs carried the day.
" But how am I to get there, Sally, without his knowledge ? —
and doesn't it look like deceiving him I"
" Doan't her trouble about that, a dear ; John Ml be over at th©
court betimes, so as I, Jane, can easily, unbeknown, step over for
my biggest, as can stay wi' thee, whiles I run over to Shropton to*
jes see how things be a goin'. Many's a time, Jane, hev Sal been
there and back in loss 'n an hour; and then, Jane, thee can away,
jes so as to feace un as he'll be a beggin' like to be a let aflf; — thee'U
mind, Jane, to get close to un and doan't a spearo un, Jane ; —
A vagabones ! — for the last eight year hev he and that sarpent
Snipe been a schemin' to git my Harry into trouble I"
John would, indeed, have objected to so womanly a scheme.
How Jenny, with legs scarcely able to carry her as far as Haw-
thorne's, was to reach Shropton, had never entered into Sally's
calculation, and, had it done so, she would have been sure to have-
fallen back upon the sperrit of her sex^ which she, at least, had
never found to be wanting, whatever the emergency.
CHAPTER II.
The spring was already in advance, and the sun had again risen.
It was not a morning of promise, not such a one as May had rea-
son to be proud of. The day previous had been, for the season,
close and sultry. Less the wonder that a sky darkened and
threatening was now showing to the East. Thousands were
watching it anxiously, none more so than Sally and her friend.
Still, it is no exaggeration to say, that, on that day, both in Mor-
row and Orton, all work was at a stand, and, long before the accus-
tomed hours of business, the entire neighbourhood of Shropton
was, by my own sex at least, all but deserted.
Precisely as the old court house clock was chiming ten, in &
court crowded to suffocation, took the learned judge his seat.
The Squire's was not, as expected, the first case called for. It
was rumoured that the alteration had been made by the Judge,
after his arrival on the previous evening. It was also upon every
lip, that the Squire intended to plead guilty, a disappointment,
seemingly, to no few.
THE VILLAGE OF MERKOW.
186
And now, the first case, one of minor importance, having been
disposed of, behold, in a few minutes more, standing at the same
bar where, but six years back, had stood Giles Hawthorne,
with his shackled wrists, and bandaged temples, his once proud
persecutor, the Squire of Thornley Hall. — What a sight I — What
a revelation ! The judge was evidently moved, and when, to the
solemn question of, ** guilty or not guilty ?" the Squire, in a dis-
tinct, though subdued tone, responded " Guilty, my lord," h©
looked more than astounded. He begged of him to reconsider hia
plea, inquiring, at the same time, if he was aware of the position
in which it placed him.
*• Perfectly, my lord."
" Have you no counsel, — no one to ?"
" None, my lord, nor do I desire any.
This was said without the least show of either indifference
or boldness. It was apparent to all that the Squire fearfully felt
his position, and an attentive observer might have detected some-
thing more than was said in his words, as the eye of the speaker
singled out the Judge's on their utterance ; nor were there want-
ing, among those present, some who found it impossible to doubt
that the Judge's reflections, on recalling, as he certainly at that
moment must have done, the agreeable hours which he had more
than once spent with the Squire and his lady, could have been
'icixher the pleasantest, nor the least reproachful.
It was finally agreed that a barrister present, one acquainted
with the leading features of the case, be allowed to address the
jury, in behalf of the accused.
It was observed by those nearest to him that the Squire, on his
apologist urging that the return blow by Diggs be regarded as
an extenuating circumstance, covered his face with his hands, and
leaned forward in the dock.
The Judge seemed stung.
" Muore'n he can feace, Harry," said Styles.
All that the ablest counsel in court could suggest was urged in
defence, but the jury stolidly observed how, from the first, the as-
tute pleader cautiously avoided the least allusion to the threat con-
fessed to by the Squire.
This arrangement in the culprit's behalf was a fortunate on©
for Sally. Her scheme would have, otherwise, been completely
balked. She found, on her arrival at the court house, that not a
half moment was to be lost, and quicker, perhaps, than she had
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THE VILLAGE OF MERROW.
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«ver before done the distance, made she her way back, scamper-
ing over hedges and ditches, partly with a view to escape recog-
nition.
" Jane I Jaae !" it was now, " quick, quick ! — thee hev' nt a mo-
ment to lose. Thee'll keep to the fields, mind — and doan't her be
afeard." Here Sally drew from her pocket a something with the
which Jenny was persuaded to wet her lips. We will withhold
its name, lest some, who may have done fewer hard days' works
than had Sally, may be tempted to reflect on her.
Thus fortified, started Jenny, trembling more from an appre-
hension of being too late than from aught else, for Jenny had, in
the meantime, nursed herself to a resolution that surprised even
her redoubtable friend. Sally's injunction to keep to the fields
was in good part. By the road she would have encountered Haw-
thorne, whose anxiety respecting his sister had mastered his curi-
osity to see the trial out. He had kept to the highroad that he
might drop in at his home on the way to Jenny's,
The morn, as I have already said, was not one of promise, nor did
the day's aspect improve as it advanced. Over the old court-
house, on A rise in the distance, hung a drapery of doubtful im-
port. Jenny kept her eye on it as a guide, hastening her utter-
most, as worse and worse promised the day ;
Yea, the long pent-up, darkened sky.
As the day crept on, began
To augur of a coming strife.
Unfit for beast or man.
The vind, let loose, with fearful blasts
Swept by the aged pile ; —
The big elms bent, — the tower bell toll-
ing drearily the while.
But for the threatening sky, which had quickened Jenny, she
would have been too late for her object. Styles, be assured, had
something to say on it. — She t. as hardly at the court house when
the Squire was pleading his utmost for mercy, the jury, notwith-
standing all that the Squire's counsel had urged in his behalf, to
8ay*nothing of the Judge's leaning towards him in his address to
them, agreeing upon a verdict of— guilty,— and with no recom-
mendation to mercy. The Squire's cry for it, as the Judge rose,
floated above the hum of the crowd, which, in its closeness at the
court's entrance, seemed to bar all further ingress. Jane could
THE VILLAGE OF MERROW.
187
distinctly hear him. "What was she to do I She had all but ac-
complished her purpose, — and still to be baffled I
" Oh, let me pass, — I must, — I will, —
For heaven's sake let me pass ; —
Hark! hark I — for ^^ mercy T — there, again ! —
And there ! — alas I alas !"
*' A maniac ! — mad woman !" ran,
Like wild fire, through the crowd ;
All was excitement, — " Silence, — Order,"
Called out the clerk aloud.
Struck with amaze, the crowd fell back,
Jane wildly pressing through,
Squander still crying " Mercy, my lord, —
My lord,, have mercy, do."
Who could the mad intruder be ! —
All eyes were on the strain, —
When Hobbs themyst'ry solved, at once.
With " Dang'd if there bean't Jane !"
" Let the wench pass, — let the wench pass,"
A hundred voices cried,
And many a stout arm lent its aid
Upon the weaker side.
"Loard help her. Styles," said Hobbs, — " Sally
Towld 1, as 'twer to day.
Her 'd hardly left her strength enough,
Poor thing, to kneel, and pray."
il
J*
Jane had now reached where from the dock
Squander could mark her plain ; —
With close-clasped hands, his arms outstretched,
" Mercy " was still his strain.
" Mercy ! — for mercy /—merciless.
No mercy shalt thou have,
God's hand shall be against thee, man.
In all thou darst to crave.
Look on these hairs thus early greyed.
Look at my famished face.
This care-streaked brow where quiet sat
Till anguish filled its place !
Look in my heart thou never canst,
Nor lift an eye to heaven,
Unless to meet, — " " Oh, no, no, no,
Still say, still b&j— forgiven. "
R r
188
THE VILLAGE OP MERROW.
" Silence, — we can't allow this scene, "
Uprose the Judge in ire,
" I must commit you, if you don't
Immediately retire."
Waste words — a lialf one more, and Jane
Had been for aye committed.
Her heart's frail cage have oped its door,
And its angel bird hare flitted I
Her last words uttered, broken quite,
Jane trembled to the ground.
And, grasping at some aid at hand,
Looked piteously around.
"When, as if Heaven, till then content
T' have played a silent part.
Now would be heard, a thundercrash
That shrunk at least one heart,
Burst overhead, — ablaze, the sky
Peal upon peal sent forth ;
Th' entire artillery of heaven
Seemed bent upon the earth.
Needed no call to order, now,
None but therein could hear
The one great chartered One whose voice
Claims audience everywhere.
Flash upon flash, the lightning leaped
Across the serried hall ;
Th© big old building shook, as if
Still further to appal.
The jury were aghast, — strange looks
Cast they at one another !
The sons of the sly craft surveyed.
In silence, each the other.
That at the very moment when
The Squire, with piteous prayer,
Pleaded for mercy, that just then
Something should bring Jane there !
That then, just then th' imperial voice
Of Heaven, in thunder's tone,
Should break upon the scene, as if
Heaven sanctioned what was done I
THE VILLAGE OF MERKOW.
Hobbs but expressed, in rougher way,
What seemed all hearts to enter, '
That no mere chance had brought Jane there
That " God hisself hev sent her I" '
Not the high Judge held out,— for once
An all resistless hand '
Had grappled with his haughtiness,
And brought him to a stand.
" Hold constable," he cried, " quick, quick-
Look to the woman, — pray,
Will no one tell the woman there
I don't mean what I say !" *
" Tell her he bean't in arnest. Styles,"
Said Hobbs, "or, else, I wooll,"—
" Us daresn't, Hobbs,— the laaw be strict
Plump plain agin the rule." '
" Well^ thee knaws best,— but Loard ! poor thine
What could ha' braught her here,
Her '11 hardly, sure, fetch home agin—"
" Jist what, my friend, I fear.
But hark, the coonstable !"— " My lord
Had we but freer air — " '
"Help me to rise," said Jane,— "I'll then—
I'm willing — anywhere."
'*Deal gently with her, officer,
(Still kindlier in tone)
And see she doesn't leave the court.
At any cost, alone.
Come hither, constable,— I've crossed
Somewhere, methinks, before.
This maniac woman, — question her,
Somewhere, I'm pretty sure."
Scarcely this said, when one at hand
No stranger to the place,
Thrust a loose paper on the Judge,
All eagerness in face.
Lo ! as the lightning, in his looks.
Some startling intimation,
" The wife,— Azs wife !"— at once he rose,
Trembling with expectation.
189
9"
* This will remind at least some of my readers of an erriamot.-^., k„ *u
■me*n to hang her." ^ 7ou,~WiU nobodj tell her tUt I doa't
190 THE VILLAGE OF MERROW.
. " Stay, woman, stay," — Jane turned her eyes
Full on the Judge's gaze ; —
Thestripof paper, fluttering fell, —
" 'Tis she !— oh, God—thy ways /"
By all but One this was unheard,
Not so the whitened cheek,
The quivering lip, the shrinking eye,
The tongue that could not speak.
These were all heard, and in a voice
Tone tempered from on high ;
Conscience will out, pale lips will speak,
In spite of the tongue's tie.
Now, as the deepening drama worked,
Mazed and more mazed were all ;
So stilled, subdued the scene, a tear
Had startled in its fall.
When lo ! the heavens again broke forth,
Again the blinding flash,
And down the drifting deluge came,
Amid the thunder's crash !
" The Loard preserve us I" whispered Tom,
" I wishes I waun't here, —
Be summat, Styles, a goin' on
Muore'n us knows, I fear."
" Keep up yer heart, lad, nothing heed, —
My word for't, Tom, to day;
'T waun't sich as you and I as sent
Poor Giles to Bot'ny Bay."
Straightway a muttering murmur ran
Round and about the hall.
What could the mystic paper mean,
Why should it so appal I
Then to the Judge all eyes returned,
Silent, and fixed he sate,
Lost in the consciousness of what,
He knew, had sealed his fate.
Jane eyed him with forgiving grace ;
Too well he understood.
And felt the withering reproof.
In on© so crushed, so good.
THE VILLAGE OP MERKOW.
The Squire looked up and round,— some chance,
Perhaps, had oped for him, —
His eye a moment brighter gleamed,
And then again grew dim I
Many, from apprehension, now
Fain for the door had fought ;
Nothing seemed next impossible,
Jane was not there ibr nought I
All were astounded at a scene
No mimic actors played ;
The gown-men, ever on their guard,
Were equally betrayed.
Nor least the country people marked
His lordship's shattered mien,
' And many a homethrust thing escaped
Upon the passing scene.
" I bean't no scholard. Styles," said Hobbs,
" But I be sad mistaken,
If zummat aan't on that man's mind,
He do look moartal shaken."
" Did'st mark the strip o' paper, lad.
What slipped the Judge's hand ? "
" I did, my friend,— 't be, jist, Styles, what
I doan't quite sarcumstand."
" Bad news from home, mebbe, or p'rhaps
A sort o' ShirrifTs writ,
A kind o' order from the king, *
At 'sizes time, to quit."
" Well, I wun't say," quoth Turnpike Tom,
" I wer a watchin' sly,
And never see'd I sich a shrink
As when he eaaght Jane's eye."
" He could feace her, Tom, you think,
He knowed the wench, mebbe.
Though Jane ha sadly altered, sure,
Since Giles went out to sea.
But hark ! the old fellow's found his tongue,
And got the cap on, sure,! —
Loard ! if the Squire bean't quiverin' like
A flag leaf in the moor I
191
ill
Mi
i^
192
THE VILLAGE OF MERROW.
'T bo awful solemn, bean'tit, Hobbs,
It touches I to see ;
I feels I should ha' cried outright,
Been any man but he.
I never, Hobbs, ha' doubted God,
And trust I never may,
Us seen enough, Loard knows, in proof
0' Providence, to-day.
•
And, sure, us maunt complain, for spite
Of aal the laawyer's brags,
There bean't one man in ruffles hung
For fifty odd in rags."
" Silence !" " Holloa — the coonstables
Be cooming round this way ;
Best keep our tongues in check strings, Tom, "
Be aal in Judge(*8 pay."
The Judge had already risen, and, for some time, had, in silence,
been regarding the Squire, before demanding of him if he had any
thing to say why the extreme sentence of the law should not be
passed on him. The Squire's subdued look would have disarmed
his greatest enemy. " Nothing, my lord," was all that escaped him
and in a tone scarcely audible. He had, indeed, to be assisted by
an officer, and it was some time before he was sufficiently himself to
be able to leave the dock.
It is but just that I record that the Vicar, who was present from
the first, was visibly affected, as the trial advanced. His trimly
bordered hatidkerchief, on more than one occasion, did him real
service.
While this was passing John apprised,
At his home, that Jane had fled,
Gueesing her route, o'er hedge and ditch, •
Like one bewildered, sped.
Once at the court, with desperate will.
Struggling he wins his way.
To near where Jane, still helpless, leaned.
Watching the too true play.
•
Hobbs was the first t'espy him, straight
Nudging his aged friend ;
Both were well pleased, — " Thank Heaven, " said Hobbs,
" Her '11 now some chance to mend.
THE VILLAGE OF MERROW.
Loard, mark his look ! as if, good soul,
His heart wer nigh to bust !—
So like un, Styles, in troubled times
Aal'ays at hand the fust.
I've afton thaught, Styles, eyeing John,
Consarned as he be now,
The folks as follerod poor Christ
Had jist his arnest brow."
" The score of Heaven, Hobbs,— not one
But, in a kind o' way,
Carries his shej^herd's mark, that Ho
May know his own, some day.
It saddens I to note how old,
And worn John looks, of late ;
The double load of Jenny's wants
Is muore nor honest weight."
'* A countless loss to lose un, Stylos I
Like aal true Christians, poor.
But how one 8i)ends one's little shaws
What one woold do wi' muore."
" Muore, p'rhaps, had made 'n prouder, Hobbs "-
" Well, I wun't say for that, '
'T be sumhow in the grain on us.
But hark I— what's Dooill at I "
193
*
*
nt
"I give her now into your charge.
See, till her friends be found,
* She needs for nothing, Faunce, with care
We yet may bring her round."
" Hear that ?— in charge !— given in charge !
If that be it I'm dang'd,—
Stand ye hear. Styles,— by heaven,
I'll see the harpies hanged,
, Shan't harm a hair,— Good Styles, keep aflf
Wooltgit-thyself, now, hurt; '
Bean't no use holding I,— so, aff,
And now, lads, your dezart."
Quick, free'd from Styles, Hobbs' brawny limbs
Burst through the crowd ' '
- — Q —^ w* V >v ^^ Ji.41.0 1
Jane and I 'gin ye aal," he cried,
" Ye'll jist, John, see fair play.
way,
N
194 THE VILLAGE OF MERROW.
" Why, Hobbs, what ailoth thee ! — hush, hush^
For Jane's sake, if yo can ;
Don't fling thyself away so, lad,
Bo calm, be calm, my man."
" 'I wooll, — but, John, to look and zee
The poor thing put about
As she wer now, I waun't a man,
To stand, and zee it out.
Loard God of heaven I if Giles could but
Look down ! "--" There, there, Hobbs, hush ! "—
" I zee, John, — I forgits — my blood
Be aal upon the rush.
There, coonstable, I've done, — tarn to, —
Be nothing frought, meako free ; —
I bears yo no ill will, not I,
But, mind ye, — hands aff she."
Hobbs' burst at his imagined committal of Jenny having
blazed itself out, and it being allowed, on a whisper from the
Judge, to pass without further notice, Hawthorne was permitted
to advance to where his sister was still leaning, a constable, wha
knew him, directing him to a private way of leaving the court
with her. As ho advanced, the Squire, in charge of an oflScer,
crossed him. Their eyes met; — they had once met in the moor
lane, when Hawthorne had been brute enough, in Mrs. Squander's
estimation, to withhold his hand from his hat. V^as this, just
then, remembered by only one of them !
Hawthorne's pulse was at its highest, when, after a few steps,
he was again with his sister,
" What could have made thee Jane, leave homo.
With such a threat'ning night,
In this sad shift, — so ill, — enough
To kill thee, girl, outright."
" For " — give me John, — Jane would have said,
As she fell upon his breast;
Her quivering frame, her silent tears
Bitterly spoke the rest.
Nature had done, the last faint spark
Of earthly hope had flown,
" Ye' 11 take me hence ? " she murmured low,
" I am here, John, alone."
THE VILLAGE OP MERROW.
" Poor ranteless bird ! Heaven help thee now ;—
Art able, think ye, Jane,
Far as the door ? — come, come, — on me,
There, there, — again, again."
Now at the door, John glanced around,
All eagerness, to stay
Some friendly wain that, homeward bound,
Might help them on the way.
But few were for the moor, of these
Some lingered in the town,
Others had not j ct left the court,
Still waiting on the crown.
Thus at a loss, with Jenny quite
Unable to proceed,
A well known pair came dashing up,
The Vicar's, at full speed.
" The Vicar homeward, James ? " said John,
In eager, anxious tone ; —
" Ain't sartain, John, but specks he wooll.
Soon as the trial done."
" Thank heaven ! " said John, » he cannot, sui-e,
Deny us, Jane, this aid ;
Folks may be proud, still not so proud,
We'll trust, as some have said."
" Back there a leetle, John,— Measter,
I see, be cooming now; " —
John raised his hat, — a gracious smile
Sunn'd the good Vicar's brow.
" Your sister, John, still ailing, eh ?
Be careful of her, — mind
The cruel damp, these heavy rains
Leave a chill air behind."
John glanced at Jane,— her shatter'd look !
Her fevered, filmed eye ! —
Her trembling hold ! how little fit
To face the threat'ning sky I
Fearing the worst, John cast a look,
Imploringly, at Slack,
" You couldn't, sir, for love of Heaven,
Help the poor creature back ? "
195
196 THE VILLAGE OF MERBOW.
" I 800 — I fioo — thou'rt seeking, fViend,
Some fitting portngo homo,"
" But nono, Hir, can I find, at least,
For houi'H yet to como."
" We'll truht not so, — there, — there's a cart,-
And tiiero, — come, try again ; " —
'' Indeed, sir, I have tried them all,
And found the trial vain."
"All will not surely be so hard,
All have not iron hearts,
Thou 'It, surely, find some friendly one
Among so many carts."
'* Thou art tho only one," said John,
" That goeth by tho lano
That leads, as well your revorenco knows,
Down by the home of Jane."
"I am, indeed, unfortunate I
That I should have to be,
Within an hour at the most,
To plead for charity / "
" For charity !— for charity! "—John's blood,
For once, was at its height,
" Take heed, lost this same charity
Leave mercy out of sight j
And take thou heed, — ijo distant day
May a trial far different be,
When some may wish, too late, to share
This poor thing's company I "
" I see thou art excited, man,
And know'st not what thou sayest,
And even in thine anger too
Some goodness thou betrayest ;
So, I forgive thee, — and I trust
Kind Heaven will do the same ; " —
The sky grew darker now, and down
The pelting torrent came.
So, without answering, John slipped off
His smock of many storms,
^ And wrapping it about her close,
Took Jenny in his arms.
THE VILLAGE OP MERROW.
Full manftilly ho boro her on,
Sure, Heaven holpocl, in part;
Poor Jenny, as she hiy, could hear
The puLsing of h'm heart.
The Vicar passed them at the lane,
We'll trust 't was his to see
A lesson that he well might quote,
Some day, on Charity.
197
CHAPTER III.
jenny's cottage.
" Ye'll promise me. — no stranger, John,
I cannot, cannot bear ,"
Jane glanced around her naked room
At the little that was there !
This was said from an apprehension of an intruder. Jenny, at
the moment, was resting with her head on her brother'.:! shoulder.
He was sitting by her side, supporting her. Hawthorne, however,
had little faith in the only one it would have been in his power to-
send for. To get her to bed seemed to him to be the first thing to-
be done, and, by quiet and attention, give nature an opportunity
to rally. With a view to this, Sally Hobbs was already doing hor-
beat.
******
Ah poesy, and art thou put
, To such poor shift at last.
Thou dars't not trust upon thy lips
A picture as it passed !
To how much had Hawthorne to shut his eyes ? How many-
a shift and want had Jenny concealed from him.
It was not long, as Sally was now fearfully apprehensive of the-
consequences of her imprudence, before Hawthorne was called
upon to surrender his charge, when, in a curtained corner of the
room, all that a warm heart, and forward will could do, to make
her comfortable for the night, was done.
It was now settled, after Jenny had been persuaded to a cup of
tea, that Sally with her "biggest" should away for home to
prepare for her husband, who, with Styles and others, had lingered
in Shropton for a poaching case, and that Mrs. Pilch should be
i'
198
THE VILLAGE OF MEBROW.
asked to take charge at John's, so that he and Sally, on her
return, mifj:ht sit up by Jenny for the night.
" Her'd be a wakin' a' moast every second, John, if her knawed
as thee waun't by."
" Sally," said Jenny, as her friend was passing to the door,
^' come here." — Sally went to her, when Jenny, taking her by the
hand, with all the warmth she was capable of pressed it to her lips.
Th3 poor woman burst into tears. " Thaay '11 be aal agin 7,
Jane, i Imaws."
" No, no, Sally," said Hawthorne, " not in the least."
"I knawsye wooll though," said she, sobbing, as she left.
" I was more to blame than was Sally, John," said Jane.
" All was meant for the bofct, Jenny."
In less than an hour Sally was back, when Hawthorne bethought
him of leaving, for a while, the two women together. Sally had,
doubtless, a word or two for her friend, who w ould sleep, perhaps,
the sounder afterwards. He, in the meantime, would step to his
home; some firing would be wanted, — the nights were still cold,
and his drenched garments called for a shift.
On his return, Hawthorne was well pleased that a "H-u-s-h ! "
from Sally should be the first that greeted him, for in what nature
might medicine to her in repose had he alone any hope.
''Her do look happy, doan'ther!" said Sally, as they stood
together, observing her.
John sighed, and returned to his seat, where, in the darkness,
relieved only by an occasional gleam from the hearth, he sat,
silently listening. Mrs. Hobbs had, at his suggestion, betaken
.herself to sleep.
In an unbroken silence hour after hour had now passed, when,
uneasy rt the more than stillness which seemed to ])ossess every
thing, John, with a lighted faggot stick, shaded by his hand,
advanced ^to where Jenny was lying. Whilst comforting himself
with her apparent tranquillity, a whispered "J-o-h-n," from a
•window that had been slov.'ly opened, reached him. Some one was
outside. It was Harry who, with Styles, had been no longer able
to abide in ignorance of " how things wer agoin'."
John, a tiptoe, stepped to the window, and did his best to assure
them, but, after a few words, it was considered as well that
they should return.
*'And better," said Hobbs, "as I, Styles, caal upon Slop, and
stopun a comin'. Slop wooll taalk, Styles ; and that wun't do as
■ /
THE VILLAGE OF MERROW.
199
things stand now wi' her." It had never, of course, occurred to
Harry that there was any one else in Merrow that, at times, woold
talk.
" It 'd be hard, Styles," said Hobbs, as they rounded the corner
of the lane, " for thaay as, a some day, us '11 aal hev to feaco, to tarn
agin sich as wer on'y to look as Jane did, when John wer a
watchin' her."
Styles, seemingly, was less in a humour for talking than was
usual with him, — he made no answer, and, Hobbs tailing the
hint, without further word the two reached Harry'r cottage.
" Thee'll step in, Styles," said Hobbs, but Stj^les wished, as he
said, " to be alone a bit, Harry ; " and who that, upon that night,
had peeped in at him, as he knelt in his quiet chamber, could
have helped thinking that he needed much less to b(> reminded of
his latter end than the stalest of old crusita, as Styles was in the
liabit of calling them, that ever infected a neighbourhood.
The night had by now passed its keystone, when, again, a puls-
ing light ever and anon lit up the darkened chambers of Merrow,
and, now and again, a distant murmuring, drawing nearer and
nearer, told that the startling weather of yesterday had anything
but come to an end.
Sally was now awake, and looking at Hawthorne, through the
gleams from the hearth, with feverish apprehension.
" I be afeard, John," said she, " as it '11 a wake Jane ! " and
well she might be, for, by another hour the scene, both within and
without, was fearful. So severe a night storm had not been in
Merrow for years. — " The Loard protect us ! " had never been
oftener upon Sally's lips than now ; yet on slept Jenny through
the whole of it, with the same quiet, beautiful asj>ect ; and now
that the storm, as the daybreak advanced, had, in a measure
abkted, she was still sleeping, beautifully sleeping. — John began
to hope.
It had been arranged, before the day was fairly on the peep,
that Sally should step up, and do her best with the children who,
fortunately, in an upper chamber, a sort of loft, had slept out the
storm, and that, then, she should off with the good news of Jenny's
lengthened sleep, and see to her husband's and children's breakfast j
— her lengthened sleep! John had not laid his finger on her wrist.
And now, with the two children, Giles and Jenny, and their still
slumbering mother, Hawthorne was alone. They were standing,
or, rather, leaning by the side of him. It was more than day-
i
200
THE VILLAGE OF MERKOW.
light. The sun had risen, and was breaking lovelily through-
some clouds which were still loitering to the east, when, suddenly,
Jenny opened her eyes, and looked languidly around her; — Haw-
thorne eyed her anxiously. — She regarded him for a moment, —
and then her lido slowly fell. John was alarmed, and, on her
again raising them, he, with her two children, advanced to her
side. She looked, first at the children, and then at him, her coun-
tenance momentarily changing ; — John made an effort to rally
her :
" Come, cheer thee, Jane,— one pretty smile, —
Thy little boy and girl,—
We shall all see better days yet,
Indeed, indeed, we shall.
See. Jane, how beautifully bright
The sun shows, breaking through
Yon settling clouds, as if its light
Were all for mo and you."
Jane motioned with her eye, — it seemed
She something had to tell, —
" What is't that thou would'st whisper me,
Art not, poor girl, so well ? "
" Dear, dear John," — Jane moved her hand
Towards her ebbing heart,
*' A sinking — something — tells me here
The hour is come to part.
Oh, but for these I leave behind,
How quietly away
Could I steal me from the world's wear,
To comfort in the clay.
It may be there are many things
I ought not to have done,
But God — will be good and merciful ' '.
To a poor stricken one.
*
*
*
Oh, John, in every way, of late,
I have pressed hard on thee, —
And nothing now but these bare thanks
For all thy pains for me !
*:
Thou'lt be unto my little boy,
I know, and to my Jane,
All thou hast ever been to me,
.Though never, John, again ?
THE VILLAGE OF MEKROW.
And I'll carry to my grave, John,
In this poor heart a prayer,
And if ever, some one at Heaven's gates,
She'll not Ibrget it there.
^M «|A ^^ ^> ^jj
0^ 0^ ^% •^ »^
Ye'll put me in the little grave
Where John and Anna lie, —
Don't fret, my pretty ones, —ye'll both
Be with me by-and-hye.
201
*
And, John, this mind, — as mine in yours,
Take ye poor Harry's hand,
And tell him — that — with this — last tear, —
Tell him, — he'll understand.
Now, all be near me, — cover me, —
I shall be less alone.
Ye can leave roe when the night comes, —
And o-h-h I — my heart, — my own ! "
" Dear Jane, do'st mind of anything
That I can do, undone ?
Speak, Jenny dear, ah ! getting cold !
Still colder ! she is gone ! "
Yes, she was gone, — John closed her eyes, — it was all over f
CHAPTER IV.
That a morning as lovely as May in its loveliest could have-
ever known should be the usherer in of such pain to so many a
hard handed toiler in its midst ! Yet so it was. By an hour later
quite a gathering of sorrowing hearts were, with moistened eyes,
turned to where Jenny, with all of this world's cares now at an
end, was lying. It was, indeed, a trial, and for none more so
than for Hawthorne, though ho bore up against it with a fortitude
surprising. This could not be said of all present. Poor Sally was
quitp! beside herself. It was pitiful to observe her.
" Her wtr so good, Harry," she would say, as again and again
she took up her-friend's wasted hand, — " It be poor Sally, Jane, —
her'U never no more to Shropton for thee, — I knaws what you'll
aal be a sayin' — but her couldn't a lived no how."
" It bean't o' no use. Sail}', a goin' on so," said Hobbs, advan-
cing, and leading her away, " her be gone to a better place 'n here."^
202
THE VILLAGE OF MERROW.
Harry's eye, as he said this, glanced at Styles, who immediately
took up his words.
" Sartain, Hobbs, wheer her '11 never hev no muore griefs and
troubles, — never no more. Thaay as is left, and knows how good
she wer, hev moast " here the old man's voice tottered, and
Hawthorne, who till now had striven his best, could no longer
withhold a witness, that, stealing to his cheek, dropped upon the
hand of one who had taken his, as she stood by his side. It was
Jenny's eldest. All noticed it, and looked at one another, — but
no one spoke, — and there was something funereal in the silence
in which, on a whisper from Styles to leave him alone with the
women, each took him by the hand, on j)arting.
" His heart," said Styles, as they drew upon Hobbs' cottage,
*'be a broke at last!"
Harry made no reply, but, with his sleeve to his eyes, open-
ed his door.
CHAPTEE V.
My tale is nearing its end. Some little, however, has yet to be
told.
It will be a surprise to no one familiar with the more indulgent
discipline too common with criminals of a higher grade to hear
that, before Hawthorne and his mates had separated, it was
already abroad that the Squire had been found, at daybreak, in
his cell — dead. He was lying, when first seen, upon his face, and
by the side of him, on the ground, penciled on a strip of paper,
were a feAv words of forgiveness for his wife. He had poisoned
himself. It would be interesting to know if the deed had been
delayed till the night had quieted ; — I should say it was so. — His
affairs were found to be in a sad state. Nothing was left after his
creditors were satisfied. His indebtedness to the Baron was much
remarked on.
It was very generally supposed that it was from him that the
■Squire, immediately on his arrest, had procured the means made
use of. The Baron, it was known, had been more than once in
communication with him prior to his elopement with Mrs. Squan-
der, and the Vicar, it was observed, was silent on being question-
■ed on the p'^int.
And now of Snipe, as, also, of a few others, a word or two. They
had not yet reaped the full fruits of their iniquities.
THE VILLAGE OF MEIIROW.
203
It lei I to me, in my checkered career, to find myself (a yaar or
two tiom now) on a bright morning in October, on my way to
the Bathursit Plains in Australia. I had gone as far as Paramatta,
■within twenty miles of Sydney, by stage, when in order the
better to see the country, I proceeded on foot for the ten miles
between it and the half-way house to Penrith. I had, for my
companions, I might have said my protectors, two transported
thieves, as^gned to a sheep station far up the country. One of
them was only in his seventeenth year. It would hardl}' have
been prudent in those days to have gone, at least for any one of
means, more especially of what was then called the strrh'ng class,
upon that road alone. Bushrangers are awkward customers.
Government grey jackets were considered a protection.
On reaching the half-way house, I had hardly refreshed myself,
when a man, who certainly knew how to sit on a horse, at a brisk
pace rode up to the inn, and inquired of the landlord if any one
was there for him. I was outside at the time. I observed that the
man for a moment looked inquiringly at me, and I was not a little
surprised at his declining an invitation by the landlord (a ticket of
leave man) to dismount. The two lads, as bidden, immediately
stepped out, and, one of them mounting a led horse which the
stranger had brought with him, the three at a (;[uick walk started.
*' In a hurry, seemingly," I said. " Who is he, — do you know
him ? "
" Know him I " said the landlord, " I should like to know who
doesn't. He's the meanest fellow that was ever lagged. He
gets, about once a month, what we call here (you're a stranger, I
see, sir,) a native's hiding. I don't think, sir, that ho ever opens
his mouth without a lie. He's a fourteen year man, and it'll go
well with him, if, in eight years from now, he gets his ticket.
He was once, he says, that is before his lagging, a gamckoopor to
some great English Squire; but Lord, sir, there's no believing a
syllable he says. He has to thank, if one can trust him, a cricket
ball for the loss of his right peeper."
" What does ho call himself, pray? "
" Snipe or Snip, or some such like."
All was explained, — his hat slouched upon one side, — his
reserve, — his declining to dismount, and his eagerness to be
off. He had recognized me. What a glorious piece of news
for Harry ! Providence had, surely, at last, as Mrs. Squander
phrased it, taken him in hand.
On my return to England, I inquired respecting him, when I
' M
204
THE VILLAGE OF MERROW.
learned, that, on the break up at Thornley Hall, ho had, as a States
man would my, skedaddled, and tha<^ from lack of employment, and
laziness, he betook himself, after awhile, to poaching, and that, in
a night attack, in company with about a dozen braves, upon two
keepers, he was taken and put on his trial at the Kingston assizes j
and that, it being regarded as an aggravation of his oflPence that
he had once been a keeper, his term of punishment was extended
to fourteen years. ,
And, now, of Mrs. Squander and her paramour. — Not a month
had elapsed since her disappearance from Orton,when the former
found herself alone, in a Belgian gambling town, with barely a
handful of coin to fall back on. The Baron had been shot in a
duel consequent on a gaming quarrel. She afterwards fell into still
worse hands, by whom she was finally deserted in France.
I have ever been theatrically inclined. So, on again reaching
my birth place, it was not long before I was once more on the
Catherine street steps of old Drury. I had just taken my check, and
was on the point of mounting to the second tier of boxes, whon^
on looking round, my attention was arrested by a face which I
was all but certain of having seen elsewhere. But who had I
ever known with so passionless an eye, — so faded a cheek, — so
forced a smile ! As I approached her, however, all doubt was at
an end.
" You will know me when you next see me," said she, annoyed,
seemingly, at my persevering gaze.
" You are not then already known to me ? " I said.
" I should say not," she replied, but less pertly.
" Could by no possibility sowie ojie have dismounted at Thornley
Hall ? "
With a convulsive " Oh ! " and striking me, unconsciously per-
haps, with her half closed hand on my breast, she rushed up the
stairs, and disappeared.
" What a wreck ! " I said.
I had no wish to follow her, but on leering round the boxes
with some curiosity to observe her, unnoticed in return, I again
caught her eye. As a started stag, she vanished from the door
she was leaning against, and it has never been my fortune to see,.
or hear of her since.
It was too fine a night, with the Foundling Hospital bounding
my journey, to dream, on my return, of a cab. How, as I tramped
on through the now all but deserted streets between old Drury
and quiet Bloomsbury, did what had just past repeat and repeat
THE VILLAGE OP MERROW.
205
itself; — how, again and again, returned tome Isaac Stylos' words,
^' Perhaps, Harry, her wor allowed to live for her punishment ! "
It was not till after a lapse of something like a dozen years
from now, including a five years experience as a farmer in Pom-
brokeshiro, and many more as a pioneer in Now Zealand, that I
again visited Morrow and its neighbourhood, breaking my journey
to do so, on ray return from elsewhere. My old home at
Lavent had long since been broken up by death or departure.
It was when on my way to Shropton for the night, old
associations having detained me in Lavent till it was late, that
I again found myself, as spoken of in my first page, lingering in
the pretty moonlit burial ground of Morrow. It had received
many additions since I was last in it. Isaac Stylos, with his old
Matty, as also Slop, had been laid at the hack of tho church,
"VN'^hore, lot us trust, they will rest none the loss peacefully for
the Ij'ing there. Tho turf of Styles' grave edges on to that of
Jenny's. His is tho only one thereabouts, it least it was so then,
■with a stone to it. A very lowly one, at its liead, records his
■name and age, with, beneath, howsoever rudely chiseled, what an
•emperor might read and envy,
Wer a good man.
It was pleasant, too, to observe that the spot where my old
friend, Mr. Manly, lay was still, as the grass about it showed, no
'•unfrequented one. Many a village youngster, I was told, had more
than half learnt his letters there.
Here also, within a rod or two of my friend, lay the Eev.
Horatius Slack. Ho had survived the Squire barely a twelve
month, which, at the time, was somewhat commented on. A
liandsome monument, erected by his grave to tho right of the
•chui'ch, does honour to his memory. It is surmounted by an
urn richly wreathed, with, on each side of it, a draped Lachrymal
sorrowing for the departed. On its plinth below. Charity and
Love had lettered as follows,
Mourn ye of genial nature, drop
The sympathetic tear ;
The modest, temperate, pious, meek.
The chaste lies buried here.
By hearts that knew, and loved him best
This rightful meed is given ;
The seeds of life he strewed on earth, —
His harvest home in Heaven.
206
THE VILLAGE OF MERROW.
Ilis sister Arabella has been credited with the last couplet,
which somewhat surprised me. What, in our ignorance, wo at
times lose. Was it not singular that, notwithstanding so flatter-
ing a memorial, so few, not one of the villagers, attended at his
burial. His old and most intimate friend, the Rev. Mr. Wrench,
of Orton, olficiated on the occasion, and did ample justice to the
memory of the deceased : " The world has in Aim," said he^
" lost one of its lights."
His sister's charities, it seems, had not, in their publicity,
either flattered or consoled her. She had removed to Shropton,
whore she was living in hired apartments, in preference to tho
fatigue and annoyance of a parcel of ungrateful servants.
It could have been no trifling item in these annoyances that
her parlour maid, Mercy, (of whom a word or two is due) refused
to remain with her, for even a few days, after the Vicar's removal.
She had contrived to get along somehow while he was living, —
there was something, she said, droll in him, — he amused her —
but at his decease the house became intolerable ; — coals seemed
to be of no use in it; — even the cat, a pot with the Vicar, took
up its quarters, at once, in tho kitchen. So, the poor girl forth-
with removed herself (sacrificing a month's wages in doing so)
to one farmer Swain, where, it will be remembered, Isaac Styles
was in tho habit of purchasing his voivls. It is pleasant to have
to state that Mr. Swain's eldest son had the good taste to so far
appreciate, not only the blooming cheeks, but the simple honest
nature of this good girl, as to make her his wife within a twelve-
month of her residence with his parents, and with the full sanction
of both of tliom. She is still living, and, at times, still indulges
in recollections of "His Ways," — of a certain parcel of broken
victuals, and jf tho loaf that "no one robs." The cat followed
her to the SAViin's, where, after an effort or two, in vain, to induce
it to return to the Vicarage, it was allowed to remain.
It will be thought, I am sure, not unworthy of mention, that,
from the date of Mercy's residence at tho Swain's, neither Harry
nor Hawthorne were often without a job, which, notwithstanding
the lowness of wages everywhere, kept them at least from the
parish, and enabled Harry now and again to slip a copper into tho
hands of some there can be no need to name.
I missed an opportunity, which I remember with regret, of again
communicating with John Hawthorne. The lateness of the hour
led mo to postpone calling on him till the next day, when circum-
THE VILLAGE OP MERROW.
207
[hat,
\rry
ling
the
the
jain
lour
im-
stances unforoHcen prevented my doing so. I heard, however,
that, for the last few years, he had been in receipt of the annuity
(£12) bequeathed to him by Mr. Manly, and that Jenny's children,
now grown up, were still with him, Jenny's oldest keeping his
house, hib own daughter having married.
Pilch, with his hundred pounds reward, emigrated, after -i while,
to Canada, generously taking with him, in addition to his own
family. Turnpike Tom and his wife. Of his last letter to Hobbs
I obtained a copy. It shows what may bo done by a man of
health and determination, with no monopolizing selfish laws in his
way.
Mr. Slack had been succeeded by a Mr. Philip Sharploy. He
was not spoken very well of. The same loaning to wealth and
power, the same soulless aping of humility were the observed of
every one. Hawthorne's ** little meetings like " wore as crowded
as ever. Indeed, I remarked but little improvomont in tho aspect
of things anywhere. To be sure, tho " beggarly cottages, so an-
noyiDgly in sight frommy brother's "hud been removed, but
with such exceptions, there was tho same contrasted woaltii and
penury, — the same mocking roses round tho doorways of tlio lat-
ter, — the same patched smocks and patient endurances, — tho same
blending of bloom with wrinkles, — the same shameless uncon-
sciousness somewhere; — what, indeed, was not there the same that
religion and justice must have long since sighed and blushed at.
Will it always be thus ? It would bo a denial of God to supposes©,
I heard, also, that Mr. Goodwill, of Orton, finding it impossible
to endure the ungenerous treatment of 3Ir. Wronch, had rosignc I
his curacy, and removed to Tulse Hill, near Brixton, where he
had opened a school, and with groat success, two of Mr. Wrench's
pupils helping to swell the number of his scholars.
Dr. Hearse had been dead some years. His death was by many
attributed to too free an indulgence in his especial jar; but this
could hardly have been the case, as on his own account ho had
never by those about him been known to visit it. The secret of
its singular merits passed into the hands of his brother, a naval
surgeon, whence, I have since thought, may have originated tho
all but universal use of pills, as a specific at sea, especially in
emigrant ships. If so, is it yet too late to do justice to his mem-
ory?
Of those who had to do with tho persecution of the Haw-
thorne's I have still one to speak of, and I do so with some hesita-
208
THE VILLAGE OF MERROW.
tion. I allude to Sir James Dooill. That Sir James died very short-
ly after the Squire's trial, and subsequently to the death of an only,
and much cherished son, is quite a matter of history ; but, in a
report, and one not lightly bruited, that, on the day previous to
his death, he had all but acknowledged in that of his son a right-
ful judgment on himself, and that with his last words was blended
a name familiar to -the reader of this record, I say, may there not
be room to suppose that, in such a report, imaginations too ready to
suggest it had found no difficulty in meeting with ears equally
willing to accept it, and lips as ready to repeat it. •
For twenty years after this, my latest presence in Merrow, I have
been, saving for one short interval in England, a chopper in the
■woods of Lower Canada, with leisure, from broken health, ample
for much more than this too truthful record of my experiences.
It has fallen to me, however, occasionally to hear from my old
haunts. Hobbs and Hawthorne are both living, and still in Mer-
row, as is also honest Sally, and her biggest. No generosity
xipon Pilch's part has been able to persuade Harry to aban-
don a mate dearer to him than ever, which says much for him, as
Harry was just the fellow for the woods. Every thing else seems
to be about the same. The mocking roses, and patient endurances
are still there, and, with the hopes so of late but indifferently
realized, will the latter, I fear, need to be retained.
It is quite a possibility that I again see Lavent and Merrow,
Avhen, rely on it, I shall not be slow in calling upon old remem-
brances. There will be more than one door, I know, that, some-
how, will be sure to be upon the jar just as I am nearing it, while
the goodly elm under which I, of old, sat, and with Isaac Styles
chatted so guilelessly, one would hardly like to r icall with nothing
in the shape of a welcome left to it. It has often, I am told, been
said by Hobbs, on the sheep of Merrow being admitted to a bite
in its burial round, that in no part of it is it ever so closely
cropped as in that .where Jenny and his old favourite lie. This
will, of course, not be the last thing that I shall make it my
business to see to.
THE END.