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 IT IS lEYER TOO LATE TO MEND." 
 
 A MATTER OF FACT ROMANCE. 
 
 BY 
 
 CHARLES READE, 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 "CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE," *' PEG WOFFINGTON," ETC. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUJN^ES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LOl^DOX: 
 RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET. 
 
 1856. 
 
 [The Author reserves the right of Trmnlatiou ] 
 
PRINTED BY ^Y. CLOWES AXD SONS, STAMFOUD STREET AND CHARIXG CROSS. 
 
^ 
 
 s 
 
 3 
 
 8£3 
 
 THIS ATTEMPT AT A SOLID FICTION 
 IS WITH THEIR PERMISSION DEDICATED 
 
 TO 
 
 THE PRESIDENT, FELLOWS, AND DEMIES OF 
 
 ST. MARY MAGDALEN COLLEGE, 
 
 OXFORD, 
 
 BY A GRATEFUL SON 
 OF THAT 
 
 ANCIENT, LEARNED, AND MOST 
 CHARITABLE HOUSE. 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2010 with funding from 
 
 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/itisnevertoolate01read 
 
'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND:' 
 
 A MATTER OF FACT ROMANCE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 George Fielding cultivated a small farm in Berk- 
 shire. 
 
 This position is not so enviable as it was : years ago, 
 the farmers of England, had they been as intelligent as 
 other traders, could have purchased the English soil 
 by means of the huge per centage it offered them. 
 
 But now, I grieve to say, a farmer must be as sharp 
 as his neighbours, or like his neighbours he will break. 
 What do I say ? There are soils and situations where, 
 in spite of intelligence and sobriety, he is almost sure 
 to break ; just as there are shops where the lively, the 
 severe, the industrious, the lazy, are fractured alike. 
 
 This last fact I make mine by perambulating a 
 certain great street every three months, and observing 
 how name succeeds to name as wave to wave. 
 
 VOL. I. B 
 
2 ' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 Headers hardened by " The Times" will not per- 
 haps go so far as to weep over a body of traders for 
 being reduced to the average condition of all other 
 traders ; but the individual trader, who fights for exist- 
 ence against unfair odds, is to be pitied whether his 
 shop has plate glass or a barn door to it ; and he is the 
 more to be pitied when he is sober, intelligent, proud, 
 sensitive, and unlucky. 
 
 George Fielding was all these, who, a few years ago, 
 assisted by his brother William, tilled " The Grove " — 
 as nasty a little farm as any in Berkshire. 
 
 Discontented as he was, the expression herein- 
 before v/ritten would have seemed profane to young 
 Fielding, for a farmer's farm and a sailor's ship 
 have always something sacred in the suiferer's eyes, 
 though onesends one to jail, and the other the other 
 to Jones. 
 
 It was four hundred acres, all arable, and most of it 
 poor sour land. George's father had one hundred 
 acres grass with it, but this had been separated six 
 years ago. 
 
 As for its name, who can fathom country nomen- 
 clature ? there was not a tree, nor even an old stump 
 to show for this word " Grove." 
 
 But in the country oral tradition still flourishes. 
 
 There had been trees in " The Grove," only the 
 title had outlived the timber a few centuries. 
 
 On the morning of our tale George Fielding might 
 have been seen, near his own homestead, conversing 
 with the Honourable Frank Winchester. 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND. 6 
 
 This gentleman was a character that will be common 
 some day, but was nearly unique at the date of our 
 story. 
 
 He had not an extraordinary intellect, but he had 
 great natural gaiety, and under that he had enormous 
 good sense ; his good sense was really brilliant, he had 
 a sort of universal healthy mind that I can't understand 
 how people get. 
 
 He was deeply in love with a lady who returned 
 his passion, but she was hopelessly out of his reach, 
 because he had not much money or expectations; in- 
 stead of sitting down railing, or sauntering about 
 whining, what did me the Honourable Frank Win- 
 chester? He looked over England for the means of 
 getting this money, and not finding it there, he sur- 
 veyed the globe and selected Australia where they 
 told him a little money turns to a deal, instead of dis- 
 solving in the hand like a lozenge in the mouth, as it 
 does in London. 
 
 So here was an earl's son (in this age of common- 
 place events) going to Australia, with five thousand 
 pounds as sheep farmer and general speculator. 
 
 He was trying hard to persuade George Fielding to 
 accompany him as bailiff or agricultural adviser and 
 manager. 
 
 He knew the young man's value, but to do him 
 justice his aim was not purely selfish ; he was aware 
 that Fielding had a bad bargain in " The Grove," and 
 the farmer had saved his life at great personal risk, 
 one day that he was seized with cramp bathing in the 
 
 b2 
 
4 * IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND. 
 
 turbid waters of Cleve millpool, and lie wanted to 
 serve him in return. This was not his first attempt 
 of the kind, and but for one reason perhaps he might 
 have succeeded. 
 
 George Fielding was uneasy, and groaned like a ship 
 riding in a gale ; but like the same ship he was fast by 
 a double sheet anchor, between the flukes of which 
 you might have read two magic words Susanna 
 Merton. Susanna was his cousin, daughter of Mr. 
 Merton a farmer well to do. 
 
 ' You know me and I know you,' said Mr. Win- 
 chester to George Fielding ; * I must have somebody 
 to put me in the way, stay with me one year, and 
 after that I'll square accounts with you about that 
 thundering millpool.' 
 
 ' Oh ! Mr. Winchester,' said George hastily and 
 blushing like fire, ' that's an old story, sir ; haven't 
 you forgot that yet, sir ? ' with a sweet little half- 
 cunning smile that showed he was glad it was not 
 forgotten. 
 
 * Not quite,' replied the young gentleman, drily ; 
 ' you shall have five hundred sheep and a run for 
 them, and we will both come home rich and conse- 
 quently respectable.' 
 
 ' It is a handsome offer sir and a kind ofler and 
 like yourself sir; but transplanting one of us,' con- 
 tinued George, ' dear me sir it's like taking up an 
 oak tree thirty years in the ground — besides — besides 
 — did you ever notice my cousin Susanna, sir ?' 
 
 ' IS otice her ! why, do you think I am a heathen, 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 5 
 
 and never go to the parish church ? Miss Merton is a 
 lovely girl; she sits in the pew by the pillar.' 
 
 ^ Is'nt she, sir ? ' said George. 
 
 Mr. Winchester endeavoured to turn this adverse 
 topic in his favour, he made a remark that produced 
 no effect at the time. He said, ' People don t go to 
 Australia to die — they go to Australia to make money, 
 and come home and marry — and it is what you must 
 do — this " Grove " is a millstone round your neck. 
 Will you have a cigar, farmer ? ' 
 
 George consented, premising however that hitherto 
 he had never got beyond a yard of clay, and after draw- 
 ing a puff or two he took the cigar from his mouth, 
 and looking at it, said, ' I say, sir ! seems to me the 
 fire is uncommon near the chimbly.' Mr. Winchester 
 laughed; he then asked George to show hun the 
 blacksmith's shop. ' I must learn how to shoe a 
 horse,' said the honourable Frank. 
 
 * Well, I never !' thought George, ' The first nob 
 in the country, going to shoe a horse,' but with his 
 rustic delicacy he said nothing, and led Mr. Winchester 
 to the blacksmith's shop. 
 
 Whilst this young gentleman is hammering nails into 
 a horse's hoof, and Australia into an English farmer's 
 mind we must introduce other personages. 
 
 Susanna Merton was beautiful and good : George 
 Fielding and she were acknowledged lovers, but mar- 
 riage was not spoken of as a near event, and latterly 
 old Merton had seemed cool whenever his daughter 
 mentioned the young man's name. 
 
b ' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND. 
 
 Susanna appeared to like George, tliougli not so 
 warmly as he loved her ; but at all events she accepted 
 no other proiFers of love : for all that she had, besides a 
 host of admirers, other lovers besides George; and 
 what is a great deal more singular (for a woman's 
 eye is quick as lightning in finding out who loves her,) 
 there was more than one of whose passion she was not 
 conscious. 
 
 William Fielding George's brother was in love with 
 his brother's sweetheart, but though he trembled with 
 pleasure when she was near him, he never looked at 
 her except by stealth ; he knew he had no business to 
 love her. 
 
 On the morning of our tale Susan's father old 
 Merton, had walked over from his farm, to " The Grove," 
 and was inspecting a field behind George's house, when 
 he was accosted by his friend Mr. Meadows, who had 
 seen him, and giving his horse to a boy to hold had 
 crossed the stubbles to speak to him. 
 
 Mr. Meadows was not a common man, and merits' 
 some preliminary notice. 
 
 He was what is called in the country ' a lucky 
 man ;' everything he had done in life had prospered. 
 
 The neighbours admired respected, and some of 
 them even hated this respectable man, who had been a 
 carter in the midst of them, and now at forty years of 
 age was a rich corn-factor and land-surveyor. 
 
 ' All this money cannot have been honestly got,' 
 said the envious ones among themselves ; yet they 
 could not put their finger on any dishonest action he 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND. / 
 
 had done : to the more candid the known qualities of 
 the man accounted for his life of success. 
 
 This John Meadows had a cool head an iron will a 
 body and mind alike indefatigable, and an eye never 
 diverted from the great objects of sober industrious 
 men — wealth and respectability : he had also the soul 
 of business— method ! 
 
 At one hour he was sure to be at church ; at another, 
 at market ; in his office at a third ; and at home when 
 respectable men should be at home. 
 
 By this means Mr. Meadows was always to be found 
 by any man who wanted to do business ; and when you 
 had found him, you found a man superficially coy per- 
 haps, but at bottom always ready to do business, and 
 equally sure to get the sunny side of it, and give you 
 the windy. 
 
 Meadows was generally respected; by none more 
 than by old Merton ; and during the last few months 
 the intimacy of these two men had ripened into friend- 
 ship ; the corn-factor often hooked his bridle to the old 
 farmer's gate, and took a particular interest in all his 
 affairs. 
 
 Such was John Meadows. 
 
 In person, he was a tall, stout man, with iron grey 
 hair, a healthy weatlier-coloured complexion, and a 
 massive brow that spoke to the depth and force of the 
 man's character. 
 
 ' What, taking a look at the farm, Mr. Merton ? it 
 wants some of your grass put to it, doesn't it ?' 
 
 ' I never thought much of the farm,' was the reply. 
 
8 ' IT IS KEVEE TOO LATE TO MEXD. 
 
 ' it lies cold ; the sixty -acre field is well enough, but 
 the land on the hill is as poor as death.' 
 
 Now this idea, which Merton gave out as his, had 
 dropped into him from Meadows, three weeks before. 
 
 ' Farmer,' said Meadows in an under tone, ' they 
 are threshing out new wheat for the rent.' 
 
 ^ You don't say so ? why I didn't hear the flail going.' 
 
 ' They have just knocked off for dinner — you need 
 not say I told you, but Will Fielding was at the bank 
 this morning, trying to get money on their bill, and 
 the bank said No ! they had my good word too. The 
 people of the bank sent over to me.' 
 
 They had his good word ! but not his good tone ! he 
 had said ' Well, their father was a safe man,' but the 
 accent with which he eulogized the parent had some- 
 how locked the bank cash-box to the children. 
 
 ' I never liked it, especially of late,' mused Merton. 
 ' But you see, the young folk being cousins — ' 
 
 ' That is it, cousins,' put in Meadows ; * it is not 
 as if she loved him with all her heart and soul ; she is 
 an obedient daughter isn't she ?' 
 
 * Never gainsayed me in her life ; she has a high 
 spirit, but never with me, my word is law. You see she 
 is a very religious girl is Susan.' 
 
 ' Well, then, a word from you would save her — but 
 there — all that is your affair, not mine,' added he. 
 
 ' Of course it is,' was the reply. ' You are a true 
 friend : I'll step round to the barn and se ^ what is 
 doing;' and away Avent Susan's father, uneasy in his 
 mind. 
 
'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 9 
 
 Meadows went to the " Black Horse," the village 
 public-house, to see what farmers wanted to borrow a 
 little money under the rose, and would pawn their 
 w'leat ricks, and pay twenty per cent, for that over-rated 
 merchandize. 
 
 At the door of the public-house he was met by the 
 village constable, aoid a stranger of gentlemanly address 
 and clerical appearance ; the constable wore a myste- 
 rious look and invited Meadows into the parlour of the 
 public-house. 
 
 ' I have news for you, sir,' said he, ' leastways I 
 think so ; your pocket was picked last Martinmas fair 
 of three Farnborough bank-notes, with your name on 
 the back/ 
 
 * It was !' 
 
 ' Is this one of them ?' said the man, producing a 
 note. 
 
 Meadows examined it with interest, compared the 
 number with a memorandum in his pocket-book, and 
 pronounced that it was. 
 
 ' Who passed it ?' inquired he. 
 
 ' A chap that has got the rest — a stranger — Robin- 
 son — that lodges at " The Grove" with Greorge Fielding ; 
 that is, if his name is Robinson, but we think he is a 
 Londoner come down to take an airing. You under- 
 stand, sir.' 
 
 Meadows' eyes flashed actual fire : for so rich a man, 
 he seemed wonderfully excited by this circumstance. 
 
 To an inquiry who was his companion, the constable 
 answered, sotto voce, * Gentleman from Bow-street, 
 
 b3 
 
10 ' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEXD.' 
 
 come to see if he knows liim.' The constable went on 
 to inform Meadows that Eobinson was out fishing 
 somewhere, otherwise they would already have taken 
 him ; ' but we will hang about the farm and take him 
 when he comes home.' 
 
 * You had better be at hand, sir, to identify the 
 notes,' said the gentleman from Bow-street, whose 
 appearance was clerical. 
 
 Meadows had important business five miles off": he 
 postponed it. He wrote a line in pencil, put a boy 
 upon his black mare, and hurried him ofi" to the rendez- 
 vous, while he stayed and entered Avith strange alacrity 
 into this affair. ' Stay,' cried he, ' if he is an old hand 
 he will twig the officer.' 
 
 * Oh, I'm dark, sir,' was the answer; ' he won't 
 know me till I put the darbies on him.' 
 
 The two men then strolled as far as the village 
 stocks keeping an eye ever on the farm-house. 
 
 Thus a network of adverse events was closing round 
 George Fielding this day. 
 
 He was all unconscious of them; he was in good 
 spirits. Eobinson had showed him how to relieve the 
 temporary embarrassment that had lately depressed 
 him. 
 
 ' Draw a bill on your brother,' said Eobinson, ^ and 
 let him accept it. The Farnborough Bank will give 
 you notes for it : these country banks like any paper 
 better than their own. I dare say they are right.' 
 
 George had done this, and expected William every 
 minute with this and other monies ; and then Susanna 
 
* IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 11 
 
 Merton was to dine at " The Grove " to-day, and this, 
 though not an uncommon, was always a great event 
 with poor Greorge. 
 
 Dilly would not come to be killed just when he was 
 wanted; in other words, Eobinson, who had no idea 
 how he was keeping people waiting, fished tranquilly 
 till near dinner-time neither takins^ nor beinej taken. 
 
 This detained Meadows in the neighbourhood of the 
 farm, and was the cause of his rencontre with a very 
 singular personage, whose visit he knew at sight must 
 be to him. 
 
 As he hovered about among George Fielding's ricks, 
 the figure of an old man slightly bowed but full of 
 vigour stood before him. He had a long grey beard 
 with a slight division in the centre, hair abundant but 
 almost white, and a dark swarthy complexion that 
 did not belong to England; his thick eyebrows also 
 were darker than his hair, and under them was an eye 
 like a royal jewel ; his voice had the oriental richness 
 and modulation — this old man was Isaac Levi an 
 oriental Jew who had passed half his life under the 
 sun's eye, and now though the town of Farnborough 
 had long been too accustomed to him to wonder at 
 him, he dazzled any thoughtful stranger ; so exotic and 
 apart was he — so romantic a grain in a heap of vul- 
 garity — he was as though a striped jasper had crept in 
 among the paving-stones of their market-place, or a 
 cactus grandiflora shone amongst the cowslips of a 
 Berkshire meadow. 
 
12 ' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEXD.' 
 
 Isaac Levi, unlike most Jews, was familiar with the 
 Hebrew tongue, and this and the Eastern habits of his 
 youth coloured his language and his thoughts 
 especially in his moments of emotion, and above all, 
 when he forgot the money-lender for a m.oment, and 
 felt and thought as one of a great nation depressed, 
 but waiting for a great deliverance. He was a man of 
 authority and learning in his tribe. 
 
 At sight of Isaac Levi Meadows' brow lowered, and 
 he called out rather rudely without allowing the old 
 gentleman to speak, ' If you are come to talk to me 
 about that house you are in you may keep your 
 breath to cool your porridge.' 
 
 Meadow^s had bought the house Isaac rented, and 
 had instantly given him warning to leave. 
 
 Isaac, who had become strangely attached to the 
 only place in which he had ever lived many years, had 
 not doubted for a moment that Meadows merely meant 
 to raise the rent to its full value, so he had come to 
 treat with his new landlord. ' Mr. Meadows,' said 
 he persuasively ' I have lived there twenty years — I 
 pay a fair rent— but, if you think any one would give 
 you more you shall lose nothing by me — I will pay 
 a little more ; and you know your rent is secure ?' 
 
 ' I do,' was the answer. 
 
 ' Thank you, sir I well, then — ' 
 
 * Well, then, next Lady-day you turn out bag and 
 baggage.' 
 
 * iSay, sir,' said Isaac Levi, ' hear me, for you are 
 
• 'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 13 
 
 younger than I. Mr. Meadows, when this hair was 
 brown I travelled in the East ; I sojourned in Madras 
 and Benares, in Bagdad, Ispahan, Mecca, and Bassora, 
 and found no rest. When my hair began to turn grey, 
 I traded in Petersburgh, and Eome, and Paris, Vienna, 
 and Lisbon, and other western cities, and found no 
 rest. I came to this little town, where, least of all, I 
 thought to pitch my tent for life, but here the God of 
 my fathers gave me ray wife, and here He took her to 
 himself again — ' 
 
 ' What the deuce is all this to me, man ?' 
 
 ' Much, sir, if you are what men say; for men 
 speak well of you; be patient, and hear me. Two 
 children were born to me and died from me in the 
 house you have bought ; and there my Leah died also ; 
 and there at times in the silent hours I seem to 
 hear their voices and their feet. In another house I 
 shall never hear them — I shall be quite alone. Have 
 pity on me, sir, an aged and a lonely man ; tear me 
 not from the shadows of my dead. Let me prevail with 
 you?' 
 
 ' No !' was the stern answer. 
 
 'No?' cried Levi, a sudden light darting into his 
 eye ; ' then you must be an enemy of Isaac Levi ?' 
 
 * Yes !' was the grim reply to this rapid inference. 
 
 ' Ah !' cried the old Jew, with a sudden defiance, 
 which he instantly suppressed. ' And what have I 
 done to gain your enmity, sir?' said he, in a tone 
 crushed by main force into mere regret. 
 
 ' You lend money.' 
 
14 ' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO IMEXD.' 
 
 . * A little, sir, now and then — a very little.' 
 ' That is to say when the security is bad you have 
 no money in hand; but when the security is good 
 nobody has ever found the bottom of Isaac Levi's 
 purse.' 
 
 ' Our people,' said Isaac, apologetically, * can trust 
 one another — they are not like yours. We are bro- 
 thers, and that is why money is always forthcoming 
 when the deposit is sound.' 
 
 ' Well,' said Meadows, ' what you are, I am ; what 
 I do on the sly you do on the sly old thirty per 
 cent.' 
 
 * The world is wide enough for us both, good sir — ' 
 
 * It is !' was the prompt reply. ' And it lies 
 before you, Isaac. Go where you like, for the little 
 town of Farnborough is not wide enough for me and 
 any man that works my business for his own pocket — ' 
 
 ' But this is not enmity, sir.' 
 
 Meadows gave a coarsish laugh. ' You are hard to 
 please/ cried he. ' I think you will find it is 
 enmity.' 
 
 ' Is ay ! sir, this is but matter of profit and loss. 
 Well, let me stay, and I promise you shall gain and 
 not lose. Our people are industrious and skilful in all 
 bargains, but we keep faith and covenant. So be it. 
 Let us be friends. I covenant with you, and I swear 
 by the tables of the law, you shall not lose one shilling 
 per annum by me.' 
 
 * I'll trust you as far as I can fling a bull by the 
 tail. You gave me your history — take mine. I have 
 
*IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 15 
 
 always put my foot on whatever man or thing has 
 stood in my way. I was poor, I am rich, and that is 
 my policy.' 
 
 ' It is frail policy,' said Isaac, firmly. ' Some 
 man will be sure to put his foot on you, soon or late.' 
 
 * What, do you threaten me ?' roared Meadows. 
 
 ' No, sir,' said Isaac, gently but steadily. *" I but 
 tell you what these old eyes have seen in every nation, 
 and read in books that never lie. Goliath defied armies, 
 yet he fell like a pigeon by a shepherd-boy's sling. 
 Samson tore a lion in pieces with his hands, but a 
 woman laid him low. No man can defy us all, sir! 
 The strong^ man is sure to find one as strons; and more 
 skilful; the cunning man one as adroit and stronger 
 than himself. Be advised then, do not trample upon 
 one of my people. Nations and men that oppress us 
 do not thrive. Let me have to bless you. An old 
 man's blessing is gold. See these grey hairs : my 
 sorrows have been as many as they. His share of the 
 curse that is upon his tribe has fallen upon Isaac Levi.' 
 Then, stretching out his hands, with a slight but touch- 
 ing gesture, he said, * I have been driven to and fro 
 like a leaf these many years, and now I long for rest. 
 Let me rest in my little tent, till I rest for ever. Oh ! 
 let me die, where those I loved have died, and there 
 let me be buried.' 
 
 Age sorrow and eloquence pleaded in vain, for they 
 were wasted on the rocks of rocks, a strong will and a 
 vulgar soul. But indeed the whole thing was like 
 
16 ' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND. 
 
 epic poetry wrestling witli the " Limerick Chronicle," 
 or "Tuam Gazette/' 
 
 I am almost ashamed to give the respectable western 
 brute's answer. 
 
 ' What ! you quote Scripture, eh ? I thought you 
 did not believe in that. Hear t'other side. Abraham 
 and Lot couldn't live in the same place, because they 
 both kept sheep, and we can't, because we fleece 'em. 
 So Abraham gave Lot warning as I give it you. 
 And as for dying on my premises, if you like to 
 hang yourself before next Lady -day I give you leave, 
 but after Lady-day no more Jewish dogs shall die in 
 my house nor be buried for manure in my garden.' 
 
 Black lightning poured from the old Jew's eyes, and 
 his pent-up wrath burst out like lava from an angry 
 mountain. 
 
 ' Irreverent cur ! do you rail on the afflicted of 
 Heaven? The founder of your creed would abhor you, 
 for he, they say, was pitiful. I spit upon ye, and I 
 curse ye. Be accursed ! !' And flinging up his hands 
 like St. Paul at Lystra he rose to double his height, 
 and towered at his insulter with a sudden Eastern fury 
 that for a moment shook even the iron Meadows. 
 ' Be accursed ! !' he yelled again. ' Whatever is the 
 secret wish of your black heart Heaven look on my 
 grey hairs that you have insulted and wither that wish. 
 Ah ! ha !' he screamed, ' you wince. All men have 
 secret wishes — Heaven fight against yours. May all 
 the good luck you have be wormwood for want of 
 
'it is never too late to mend/ 17 
 
 that — that — that — that. May you be near it close to 
 it upon it pant for it, and lose it ; may it sport and 
 smile and laugh and play with you till Grehenna burns 
 your soul upon earth.' 
 
 The old man's fiery forked tongue darted so keen 
 and true to some sore in his adversary's heart that he 
 in turn lost his habitual self-command. 
 
 White and black with passion he wheeled round on 
 Isaac with a fierce snarl, and lifting his stick dis- 
 charged a furious blow at his head. 
 - Fortunately for Isaac wood encountered leather 
 instead of grey hairs. 
 
 Attracted by the raised voices, and unseen in their 
 frenzy by either of these antagonists, young George 
 Fielding had drawn near them. He had, luckily, a 
 stout pig-whip in his hand, and by an adroit turn of 
 his muscular wrist he parried a blow that would have 
 stopped the old Jew's eloquence perhaps for ever. As 
 it was the corn-factor's stick cut like a razor through 
 the air, and made a most musical whirr within a foot 
 of the Jew's ear : the basilisk look of venom and 
 vengeance he instantly shot back amounted to a stab. 
 
 ' Not if I know it,' said George. And he stood 
 cool and erect with a calm manly air of defiance 
 between the two belligerents. While the stick and 
 the whip still remained in contact Meadows glared at 
 Isaac's champion with surprise and wrath, and a sort of 
 half fear half wonder that this of all men in the 
 world should be the one to cross weapons with and 
 thwart him. * You are joking, Master MeadowsJ 
 
18 'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEXD.' 
 
 said George coolly. ' Why the man is twice your 
 age, and nothing in his hand but his fist. Who are ye, 
 old man, and what d'ye want ? It's you for cursing, 
 any way.' 
 
 * He insults me,' cried Meadows, ' because I won't 
 have him for a tenant against my will. AVlio is he ? 
 A villainous old Jew.' 
 
 ^ Yes, young man,' said the other, sadly, ' I am 
 Isaac Levi, a Jew. And what is your religion' (he 
 turned upon Meadows) ? ' It never came out of 
 Judea in any name or shape. D'ye call yourself a 
 heathen ? Ye lie, ye cur ; the heathen were not with- 
 out starlight from heaven ; they respected sorrow and 
 grey hairs.' 
 
 ' You shall smart for this : I'll show you what my 
 religion is,' said Meadows inadvertent with passion, 
 and the corn-factor's fingers grasped his stick con- 
 vulsively. 
 
 ' Don't you be so aggravating old man,' said the 
 good-natured George, ' and you, Mr. Meadows, should 
 know how to make light of an old man's tongue ; why 
 it's like a woman's, it's all he has got to hit with; 
 leastways you mustn't lift hand to him on my premises, 
 or you will have to settle with me first; and I don'fe 
 think that would suit your book or any man's for a 
 mile or two round about Farnborough,' said George 
 with his little Berkshire drawl. 
 
 ' He !' shrieked Isaac, ' he dare not ! see ! see !' 
 and he pointed nearly into the man's eye, ' he doesn't 
 look you in the face. Any soul that has read men from 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 19 
 
 east to west can see lion in your eye young man, and 
 cowardly wolf in his.' 
 
 * Lady-day 1 Lady-day !' snorted Meadows, who 
 was now shaking with suppressed rage. 
 
 ' Ah !' cried Isaac, and he turned white and quivered 
 in his turn. 
 
 ' Lady- day !' said George, uneasily, ' conhund 
 Lady-day, and every day of the sort — there, don't you 
 be so spiteful, old man — why if he isn't all of a tremble : 
 — poor old man.' He went to his own door, and called 
 ' Sarah !' 
 
 A stout servant girl answered the summons. 
 
 ' Take the old man in, and give him whatever is 
 going, and his mug and pipe,' then he whispered her, • and 
 don't go lumping the chine down under his nose now.' 
 
 ' I thank you, young man,' faltered Isaac, * I must 
 not eat with you, but I will go in and rest my limbs 
 which fail me; and compose myself: for passion is 
 unseemly at my years.' 
 
 Arrived at the door, he suddenly paused, and look- 
 ing upward, said — 
 
 * Peace be under this roof, and comfort and love 
 follow me into this dwelling.' 
 
 ' Thank ye kindly,' said young Fielding a little 
 surprised and touched by this — ' How old are you, 
 daddy if you please ?' added he respectfully. 
 
 ' My son, I am threescore years and ten — a man of 
 years and grief — grief for myself, grief still more for 
 my nation and city. Men that are men pity us ; men 
 that are dogs have insulted us in all ages.' 
 
20 ' IT. IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEXD.' 
 
 * Well,' said tlie good-natured young man sootliingly 
 — ' don't you vex yourself any more about it. Now 
 you go in, and forget all your trouble awliile please 
 God by my fireside my poor old man/ 
 
 Isaac turned, tlie water came to his eyes at this 
 after being insulted so ; a little struggle took place in 
 him, but nature conquered prejudice and certain 
 rubbish he called religion. He held out his hand like 
 the king of all Asia; George grasped it like an 
 Englishman. 
 
 * Isaac Levi is your friend,' and the expression of 
 the man's whole face and body showed these words 
 carried with them a meaning unknown in good society. 
 
 He entered the house, and young Fielding stood 
 watching him with a natural curiosity. 
 
 Now Isaac Levi knew nothinoj about the corn-factor's 
 plans. When at one and the same moment he grasped 
 George's hand, and darted a long, lingering glance of 
 demoniacal hatred on Meadows, he coupled two senti- 
 ments by pure chance : — and Meadows knew this : but 
 still it struck Meadows as singular and ominous. 
 
 When, with the best of motives one is on a wolf's 
 errand, it is not nice to hear an hyena say to the 
 shepherd's dog, ' I am your friend,' and see him 
 contemporaneously shoot the eye of a rattlesnake at 
 oneself. 
 
 The misgiving however was but momentary ; 
 Meadows respected his own motives, and felt his own 
 power; an old Jew's wild fury could not shake his 
 confidence. 
 
*IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND/ 21 
 
 He muttered, ' One more down to your account, 
 George Fielding,' and left the young man watching 
 Isaac's retreating form. 
 
 George, who didn't know he was gone, said — 
 
 * Old man's words seem to knock against my bosom, 
 Mr. Meadows — gone — eh ? — that man,' thought George 
 Fielding, ' has everybody's good word, parson's and 
 all — who'd think he'd lift his hand, leastways his stick 
 it .was and that's worse ao-ainst a man of threescore 
 and upwards — Ugh !' thought George Fielding, 
 yeoman of the midland counties — and unaffected 
 wonder mingled with his disgust. 
 
 His reverie was broken by William Fielding just 
 ridden in from Farnborough. 
 
 ' Better late than never,' said the elder brother, 
 impatiently. 
 
 * Couldn't get away sooner George ; here's the 
 money for the sheep, 131. 10s. ; no offer for the cow, 
 Jem is driving her home.' 
 
 * Well, but the money-the 80^., Will ?' 
 William looked sulkily down. 
 
 ' I haven't got it, George ! — there's your draft again, 
 the bank wouldn't take it.' 
 
 A keen pang shot across George's face, as much for 
 the affront as the disappointment. 
 
 ' They wouldn't take it ?' gasped he. ' Ay, Will, 
 our credit is down, the whole town knows our rent is 
 overdue. I suppose you know money must be got 
 got some way.' 
 
 ' Any way is better tlian threshing out new wheat 
 
22 'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEXD.' 
 
 at sucli a price,' said William sullenly. ' Ask a loan 
 of a neighbour.' 
 
 ' Oh, vVill,' appealed George, * to ask a loan of a 
 neighbour, and be denied — it is bitterer than death. 
 You can do it.' 
 
 ' 1 1 —am I master here ?' retorted the younger. 
 ' The farm is not farmed my way, nor ever was. No ! 
 — give me the plough-handle and I'll cut the furrow 
 George.' 
 
 ' No doubt ! no doubt !' said the other, very sharply, 
 ' you'd like to draw the land dry with potato crops, 
 and have fourscore hogs snoring in the farmyard, that's 
 your idea of a farm. Oh ! I know you want to be 
 elder brother. Well, I tell'ee what do : you kill me 
 first. Bill Fielding, and then you will be elder brother, 
 and not afore.' 
 
 Here was a pretty little burst of temper ! We have 
 all oui^ore part. 
 
 ' So be it, George !' replied William, ' you got us 
 into the mud elder brother you get us out of the mire !' 
 
 George subdued his tone directly. 
 
 ' Wlio shall I ask?' said he, as one addressing a 
 bosom counsellor. 
 
 ' Uncle Merton, or — or — Mr. Meadows the corn- 
 factor ; he lends money at times to friends. It would 
 not be much to either of them.' 
 
 ' Show my empty pockets to Susanna's father ! Oh 
 Will ! how can you be so cruel ?' 
 
 * Meadows, then.' 
 
 * No use for me, I've just offended him a bit ; besides 
 
'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEXD.' 23 
 
 lie's a man that never knew trouble or ill luck in his 
 life ; they are like flints, all that sort.' 
 
 * Well, look here, I'm pretty well with Meadows. 
 I'll ask him if you will try uncle ; the first that meets 
 his man to begin.' 
 
 ' That sounds fair,' said George, ' but I can't — well 
 — yes,' said he, suddenly changing his mind. ' I agree,' 
 said he, with simple cunning, and lowered his eyes ; 
 but suddenly raising them, he said cheerfully, ' Why 
 you're in luck. Bill, here's your man,' and he shot like 
 an arrow into his own kitchen. 
 
 ' Confound it,' said the other, ' fairly caught.' 
 
 Meadows, it is to be observed, was wandering about 
 the premises until such time as Eobinson should return ; 
 and whilst the brothers were arguing, he had been 
 in the barn, and, finding old Merton there had worked 
 still higher that prudent man's determination to break 
 off matters between his daughter and the farmer of 
 " The Grove." 
 
 After the usual salutations, WiUiam Fielding, sore 
 against the grain, began — 
 
 * I did not know you were here, sir ! I want to 
 speak to you.' 
 
 * I am at your service, Mr. Willum.' 
 
 ' Well, sir. George and I are a little short just at 
 present; it is only for a time, and George says, he 
 should take it very kind, if you would lend us a 
 hundred pound, just to help us over the stile.' 
 
 ' Why Mr. Willum,' replied Meadows, ' I should 
 be delighted, and if you had only asked me yesterday, 
 
24 ' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 I could have done it as easy as stand here; but my 
 business drinks a deal of money, Mr. Willum, and I 
 laid out all my loose cash yesterday ; but, of course, it 
 is of no consequence, — another time — good morning, 
 Mr. Willum.' 
 
 Away sauntered Meadows, leaving William planted 
 there, as the French say. 
 
 George ran out of the kitchen. 
 
 * Well?' 
 
 ' He says he has got no money loose.' 
 
 ' He is a liar! he paid 1,500/. into the bank yes- 
 terday, and you knew it ; did'nt you tell him so ?' 
 
 ' No ; what use ? A man that lies to avoid lending 
 won't be driven to lend.' 
 
 ' You don't play fair,' retorted George. ' You 
 could have got it from Meadows, if you had a mindt ; 
 but you want to drive your poor brother against his 
 sweetheart's father; you are false, my lad.' 
 
 ' You are the only man that ever said so ; and you 
 durstn't say it, if you weren't my brother.' 
 
 ' If it wasn't for that, I'd say a deal more.' 
 
 ' Well, show your higli stomach to uncle Merton, 
 for there he is. Hy ! — uncle !' cried William to 
 Merton, who turned instantly and came towards them. 
 * George wants to speak to you/ said William, and 
 shot like a cross-bow bolt behind the house. 
 
 ' That is lucky,' said Merton, ' for I want to speak 
 to you.' 
 
 ' Who would have thoudit of his beinsf about ?' 
 
 o o 
 
 muttered George. 
 
'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND. 2o 
 
 While George was calling up his courage and wits 
 to open his subject, Mr. Merton who had no such 
 difficulties was beforehand with him. 
 
 ' You are threshing out new wheat ?' said Merton, 
 gravely. 
 
 ' Yes,' answered George, looking down. 
 
 ' That is a bad look out ; a farmer has no business to 
 go to his barn-door for his rent.' 
 
 ' Where is he to go then? to the church-door, and 
 ask for a miracle ?' 
 
 * No ; to his ship-fold, to be sure.' 
 
 ' Ay ! you can ; you have got grass and water and 
 everything to hand/ 
 
 ' And so must you young man, or you'll never be a 
 farmer. Now, George I must speak to you seriously,' 
 (George winced.) ' You are a fine lad, and I like you 
 very well, but I love my own daughter better.' 
 
 * So do I !' said George, simply. 
 
 * And I must look out for her,' resumed Merton. 
 ' I have seen a pretty while how things are going here, 
 and if she marries you she will have to keep you 
 instead of you her.' 
 
 ' Heaven forbid ! Matters are not so bad as that, uncle.' 
 
 ' You are too much of a man, I hope,' continued 
 Merton, ' to eat a woman's bread ; and if you are not, 
 I am man enough to keep the girl from it.' 
 
 ' These are hard words to bear,' gasped George. 
 * So near my own house old man.' 
 
 ' Well, plain speaking is best when the mind is 
 made up,"* was the reply. 
 
 VOL. I. C 
 
26 ' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 * Is this from Susanna, as well as you ?' said Greorge, 
 with a trembling lip, and scarce able to utter the 
 words. 
 
 ' Susan is an obedient daughter. What I say she'll 
 stancf to ; and I hope you know better than to tempt 
 her to disobey me ; you wouldn't succeed.' 
 
 * Enough said,' answered George very sternly. 
 ' Enough said, old man ; I've no need to tempt any 
 girl.' 
 
 ' Good morning, George ! ' and away stumped 
 Merton. 
 
 ' Good morning, uncle ! (ungrateful old thief).' 
 
 ' William,' cried he, to his brother, who came the 
 next minute to hear the news, ' our mother took him 
 out of the dirt — I have heard her say as much — or he'd 
 not have a ship-fold to brag of. Oh ! my heart — oh ! 
 Will !— ' 
 
 ' Well, will he lend the money ?' 
 
 * I never asked him.' 
 
 ' You never asked him !' cried William. 
 
 * Bill he began upon me in a moment,' said George, 
 looking appealingly into his brother's face ; * he sees 
 we are going down hill, and he as good as bade me 
 think no more of Susan.' 
 
 * Well,' said the other, harshly, ' it was your business 
 to own the truth, and ask him help us over the stile — 
 he's our own blood.' 
 
 ' You want to let me down lower than I would let 
 that Carlo dog of yours. You're no brother of mine,' 
 retorted George, fiercely and bitterly. 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 27 
 
 ' A bargain is a bargain,' replied, the other sullenly. 
 ' I asked Meadows, and he said No. You fell talking 
 with uncle about Susan, and never put the question to 
 him at all. Who is the false one eh ?' 
 
 ' If you call me false, I'll knock your ugly head off, 
 sulky BiU.' 
 
 ' You're false, and a fool into the bargain, bragging 
 George !' 
 
 ' What, you will have it then T 
 
 ' If you can give it me.' 
 
 ' Well, if it is to be,' said Greorge, ' I'll give you 
 something to put you on your mettle : the best man 
 shall farm " The Grrove," and the other shall be a 
 servant on it, or go elsewhere, for I am sick of this.' 
 
 ' And so am I !' cried William, hastily; ' and have 
 been any time this two years.' 
 
 They tucked up their sleeves a little, shook hands, 
 and then they retired each one step, and began to 
 fight. 
 
 And how came these two honest men to forget that 
 the blood they proposed to shed was thicker than 
 water? Was it the farm, money, agricultural dis- 
 sension, temper? They would have told you it was, 
 and perhaps thought it was. It was Susanna Merton ! 
 
 The secret subtle influence of jealousy had long 
 been fermenting, and now it exploded in this way and 
 under this disguise. 
 
 Ah ! William Fielding, and all of you, ' Beware of 
 jealousy ' — cursed jealousy ! it is the sultan of all the 
 passions, and the Tartar chief of all the crimes. Other 
 
 C2 
 
28 ' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 passions affect the cliaracter; this changes, and, if 
 good, always reverses it ! Mind that, reverses it ! 
 Turns honest men to snakes, and doves to vultures. 
 Horrible unnatural mixture of Love with Hate — you 
 poison the whole mental constitution — you bandage the 
 judgment — you crush the sense of right and wrong — 
 you steel the bowels of compassion — you madden the 
 brain — ^you corrupt the heart — you damn the soul. 
 
 The Fieldings, then, shook hands mechanically, and 
 receding each a step began to spar. 
 
 Each of these fa^-mers fancied himself slightly the 
 best man ; but they both knew they had an antagonist 
 with whom it would not do to make the least mistake. 
 
 They therefore sparred and feinted with wary eye 
 before they ventured to close; George however the 
 more impetuous was preparing to come to closer 
 quarters when all of a sudden to the other's surprise 
 he dropped his hands by his sides, and turned the 
 other way with a face anything but warlike fear being 
 now the prominent expression. 
 
 William followed the direction of his eye, and then 
 William partook his brother's uneasiness ; however, he 
 put his hands in his pockets, and began to saunter about, 
 in a circumference of three yards, and to get up a would- 
 be-careless whistle, while George's hands became dread- 
 fully in his way, so he washed them in the air. 
 
 Whilst employed in this peaceful pantomime a 
 beautiful young woman glided rapidly between the 
 brothers. 
 
 Her first words renewed their uneasiness. 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 29 
 
 ' What is this ? ' cried she, haughtily, and she 
 looked from one to the other like a queen rebuking her 
 subjects. 
 
 George looked at William — William had nothing 
 ready. 
 
 So George said, with some hesitation, but in a 
 mellifluous voice, ' William was showing me — a trick 
 — he learned at the fair — that is all, Susan.' 
 
 ' That is a falsehood, George,' replied the lady, 
 * the first you ever told me ' — (George coloured) — ' you 
 were fighting, you two boys — I saw your eyes flash ! ' 
 
 The rueful wink exchanged by the combatants at 
 this stroke of sagacity was truly delicious. 
 
 ' Oh fie ! oh fie ! brothers by one mother fighting 
 in a Christian land within a stone's throw of a church, 
 where brotherly love is preached as a debt we owe to 
 strangers let alone our own blood.' 
 
 ' Yes ! it is a sin, Susan,' said William, his con- 
 science suddenly illuminated. ' So I ask your pardon, 
 Susanna.' 
 
 ' Oh ! it wasn't your fault, I'll be bound,' was the 
 gracious reply. ' What a rufiian you must be George 
 to shed your brother's blood.' 
 
 ' La ! Susan,' said George, with a doleful whine, ' I 
 wasn't going to shed the beggar's blood. I was only 
 going to give him a hiding for his impudence.' 
 
 ' Or take one for your own,' replied William, coolly, 
 
 ' That is more likely,' said Susan. ' George, take 
 William's hand ; take it this instant, I say,' cried she, 
 with an air imperative and impatient. 
 
30' ' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 ' Well, why not ? don't you go in a passion Susan, 
 about nothing,' said George, coaxingly. 
 
 They took hands ; she made them hold one another 
 by the hand, which they did with both their heads 
 hanging down. ' Whilst I speak a word to you two,' 
 said Susan Merton. 
 
 ' You ought both to go on your knees, and thank 
 Providence that sent me here to prevent so great a 
 crime ; and as for you, your character must change 
 greatly, George Fielding, before I trust myself to live 
 in a house of yours.' 
 
 ' Is all the blame to fall on my head ? ' said George, 
 letting go William's hand, with no great apparent 
 reluctance. 
 
 ' Of course it is ! William is a quiet lad, that quarrels 
 with nobody ; you are always quarrelling, you thrashed 
 our carter last Candlemas.' 
 
 * He spoke saucy words about you.' 
 
 Susan, smiling inwardly, made her face as repulsive 
 outside as lay in her power. 
 
 ' I don't believe it,' said Susan ; ' your time was 
 come round to fight and be a ruffian, and so it was to- 
 day, no doubt.' 
 
 ' Ah ! ' said George, sorrowfully, ' it is always poor 
 George that does all the wrong.' 
 
 ' Oh ! ' replied the lady, an arch smile playing for a 
 moment about her lips, ' I could scold William, too, if 
 you think I am as much interested in his conduct and 
 behaviour as in yours.' 
 
 ' No, no 1 ' cried George, brightening up, ' don't 
 
'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 31 
 
 think to scold anybody but me Susan ; and William,' 
 said lie, suddenly and frankly, ' I ask your pardon.' 
 
 'No more about it, Greorge, if you please,' answered 
 William, in his dogged way. 
 
 ' Susan,' said Greorge, 'you don't know all I have to 
 bear. My heart is sore Susan dear. Uncle twitted 
 me not an hour ago Avith my ill luck, and almost bade 
 me to speak to you no more, leastways as my sweet- 
 heart ; and that was why when William came at me 
 on the top of such a blow it was more than I could 
 bear ; and Susan — Susan — uncle said you would stand 
 to whatever he said.' 
 
 ' Greorge,' said Susan, gently, ' I am very sorry my 
 father was so unkind.' 
 
 ' Thank ye kindly, Susan ; that is the first drop of 
 dew that has fallen on me to-day.' 
 
 ' But obedience to parents,' continued Susan inter- 
 rogating as it were her conscience ' is a great duty. 
 I hope I shall never disobey my father,' faltered she. 
 
 ' Oh ! ' answered the goose George hastily, ' I don't 
 want any girl to be kind to me that does not love me ; 
 I am so unlucky, it would not be worth her while you 
 know.' 
 
 At this Susan answered still more sharply, 'No, I 
 don't think it would be worth any woman's while till 
 your character and temper undergo a change.' 
 
 George never answered a word, but went and leaned 
 his head upon the side of a cart that stood half in and 
 half out of a shed close by. 
 
 At this juncture a gay personage joined the party. 
 
32 * IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 He had a ball waistcoat, an alarming tie, a shooting 
 jacket, wet muddy trowsers and shoes, and an empty 
 basket on his back. 
 
 He joined our group, just as George was saying to 
 himself, very sadly, ' I am in everybody's way here ' — 
 and he attacked him directly. 
 
 ' Everybody is in this country.' 
 
 The reader is to understand that this Eobinson was 
 last from California ; and California had made such an 
 impression upon him, that he turned the conversation 
 that way oftener than a well-regulated understanding 
 tecurs to any one topic, except perhaps religion. 
 
 He was always pestering George to go to this 
 California with him, and it must be owned that on 
 this one occasion George had given him a fair handle. 
 
 ' Come out of it,^ continued Eobinson, ' and make 
 your fortune.' 
 
 ' You did not make yours there,' said Susan, sharply. 
 
 ' I beg your pardon, miss. I made it, or how could 
 I have spent it ? ' 
 
 ' No doubt,' said AVilliam, ' what comes by the wind 
 goes by the water.' 
 
 ' Alluding to the dust ? ' inquired the Cockney. 
 
 ' Gold dust, especially,' retorted Susan Merton. 
 
 Eobinson laughed. ' The ladies are sharp, even in 
 Berkshire,' said he. 
 
 Mr. Eobinson then proceeded to disabuse their minds 
 about the facility of gold. 
 
 ' A crop of gold,' said he, ' does not come by the 
 wind any more than a crop of corn ; it comes by harder 
 
'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 33 
 
 digging tlian your potatoes ever saw, and harder work 
 than you ever did — oxen and horses perspire for you. 
 Fielding No. 2.' 
 
 ' Did you ever see a horse or an ox mow an acre 
 of grass or barley ? ' retorted William, drily. 
 
 ' Don't brag,' replied the other ; ' they'll eat all you 
 can mow and never say a word about it.' 
 
 This repartee was so suited to the rustic idea of wit 
 that Eobinson's antagonists laughed heartily, except 
 George. 
 
 ' What is the matter Avith him ? ' said Eobinson, mtto 
 voce, indicating George, 
 
 ' Oh ! he is cross, never mind him,' replied Susan 
 ostentatiously loud. George winced, but never spoke 
 back to her. 
 
 Eobinson then proceeded to disabuse the rural mind 
 of the notion that gold is to be got without haid toil 
 even in California; he told them how the miners' 
 shirts were wet through and through in the struggle 
 for gold; he told them how the little boys demanded 
 a dollar a piece for washing these same garments ; and 
 how the miners to escape this extortion sent their 
 linen to China in ships on Monday morning, and 
 China sent them back on Saturday, only it was Satur- 
 day three weeks. 
 
 Next Mr. Eobinson proceeded to draw a parallel 
 between England and various nations on the other 
 side of the Atlantic not at all complimentary to his 
 island home ; above all, he was eloquent on the superior 
 dignity of labour in new countries. 
 
 c3 
 
34 'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 ' I heard one of your clodlioppers say tlie other day, 
 " The squire is a good gentleman, he often gives me a 
 days work." Now I should think it was the clodhopper 
 gave the gentleman the day's work, and the gentleman 
 gave him a shilling for it — and made five by it.' 
 
 William Fielding scratched his head : this was a 
 new view of things to him, but there seemed to be 
 something in it. 
 
 ' Ay ! rake that into your upper soil,' cried our 
 republican orator; then collecting into one his scat- 
 tered items of argument, he invited his friend George 
 to take his muscle pluck wind back-bone and self 
 out of this miserable country, and come where the best 
 man has a chance to win. 
 
 'Come, George,' he cried, 'England is the spot if 
 you happen to be married to a Duke's daughter and 
 got fifty thousand a year and three houses. 
 
 ' And a coach. 
 
 ' And a brougham. 
 
 ' And a curricle. 
 
 ' And ten brace of pointers. 
 
 \And a telescope so big the stars must move to it, 
 instead of it to the stars. 
 
 ' And no end of pretty housemaids. 
 
 ' And a butler with a poultice round his neck and 
 whiskers like a mop-head. 
 
 ' And a silver tub full of rose-water to sit in and 
 read the Morning Post. 
 
 ' And a green-house full of peaches — and green peas 
 all the year round. 
 
'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND,' 35 
 
 * And a pew in the churcli warmed with biiing eau 
 de Cologne. 
 
 ' And a carpet a foot thick. 
 
 'And a piano-forte in every blessed room in the 
 house. — But this island is the dead sea, to a poor man.' 
 
 He then, diverging from the rhetorical to the metro- 
 politan style, proposed to his friend ' to open one eye, 
 that will show you this hole you are in is all poor 
 hungry arable ground. You know you can't work it 
 to a profit.' (George winced.) ' No ! steal borrow 
 or beg 500?. Carry out a cargo of pea-jackets and 
 fourpenny bits to swap for gold-dust, a few tools; a 
 stout heart, and a light pair of — " Oh no, we never men- 
 tion them, their name is never heard" — and we'll soon 
 fill both pockets with the shiney in California.' 
 
 All this, Mr. Eobinson delivered with a volubility to 
 which Berkshire had hitherto been a stranger. 
 
 ' A crust of bread in England before buffalo beef in 
 Cahfornia,' was George's reply ; but it was not given in 
 that assured tone with which he would have laughed at 
 Eobinson's eloquence a week ago. 
 
 ■ * I could not live with all those thieves and ruffians 
 that are settled down there like crows on a dead horse ; 
 but I thank you kindly my lad all the same,' said the 
 tender-hearted young man. 
 
 * Strange,' thought he, ' that so many should sing me 
 the same tune,' and he fell back into his reverie. 
 
 Here they were all summoned to dinner with a dash 
 of asperity by Sarah the stout farm servant. 
 
 Susan lingered an instant to speak to George : she 
 
36 ^ IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 chose an unfortunate topic. She warned him once 
 more against Mr. Eobinson. 
 
 ' My father says that he has no business nor trade, 
 and he is not a gentleman in spite of his red and green 
 cravat, so he must be a rogue of some sort.' 
 
 ' Shall I tell you his greatest fault ?' was the bitter 
 reply. ' He is my friend ; he is the only creature that 
 has spoken kind words to me to-day. Oh ! I saw how 
 cross you looked at him.' 
 
 Susan's eyes flashed, and the colour rose in her cheek, 
 and the water in her eyes. 
 
 ' You are a fool, George,' said she ; ' you don't know 
 how to read a woman, nor her looks, nor her words 
 either.' 
 
 And Susan was very angry and disdainful, and did 
 not speak to George all dinner-time. 
 
 As for poor George he followed her into the house 
 with a heart both sick and heavy. 
 
 This Berkshire farmer had a proud and sensitive na- 
 ture under a homely crust. 
 
 Old Morton's words had been iron passing through 
 his soul, and besides he felt as if everything was turn- 
 ing cold and slippery and gliding from his hand. He 
 shivered with vague fears, and wished the sun would 
 set at one o'clock and the sorrowful day come to an 
 end. 
 
( 37 ) 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 The meal passed alniost in silence ; Robinson was too 
 hungry to say a word, and a weiglit hung upon George 
 and Susan. 
 
 As they were about to rise, William observed two 
 men in the farm-yard who were strangers to him — the 
 men seemed to be inspecting the hogs. It struck him 
 as rather cool ; but apparently the pig is an animal 
 which to be prized needs but to be known, for all con- 
 noisseurs of him are also enthusiastic amateurs. 
 
 When I say the pig I mean the four- legged one. 
 
 William Fielding, partly from curiosity to hear these 
 strangers' remarks, partly hoping to find customers in 
 them, strolled into the farm-yard before his companions 
 rose from the table. 
 
 The others looking carelessly out of the window 
 saw William join the two men and enter into conversa- 
 tion with them ; but their attention was almost imme- 
 diately diverted from that group by the entrance of 
 Meadows. He came in radiant; his face was a re- 
 markable contrast to the rest of the party. 
 
 Susan could not help noticing it. 
 
38 *IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 ' Why, Mr. Meadows,' cried she, ' you look as bright 
 as a May morning ; it is quite refreshing to see you ; we 
 are all rather down here this morning.' 
 
 Meadows said nothing, and did not seem at his ease 
 under this remark. 
 
 Greorge rose from the table ; so did Susan ; Robinson 
 merely pushed back his chair, and gave a comfortable 
 little sigh, but the next moment he cried ' Hallo !' 
 
 They looked up, and there was William's face close 
 against the window. 
 
 William's face was remarkably pale, and first he tried 
 to attract George's attention, without speaking, but 
 finding himself observed by the whole party, he spoke 
 out. 
 
 ' George, will you speak a word ?' said he. 
 
 George rose and went out ; but Susan's curiosity was 
 wakened and she followed him accompanied by 
 Meadows. 
 
 * None but you, George,' said William, with a voice 
 half stern, half quivering. 
 
 George looked at his brother. 
 
 ' Out with it,' cried he, ' it is some deadly ill-luck ; 
 I have felt it coming all day, but out with it ; what 
 can't I bear after the words I have borne this morning?' 
 
 William hung his head. 
 
 * George, there is a distress upon the farm for the 
 rent.' 
 
 George did not speak at first, he literally staggered 
 under these words; his proud spirit writhed in his 
 countenance, and with a groan, he turned his back 
 
*IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 39 
 
 abruptly upon them all, and hid his face against the 
 corner of his own house the cold hard bricks. 
 
 Meadows by strong self-command contrived not to 
 move a muscle of his face. 
 
 Up to this day and hour, Susan Merton had always 
 seemed cool, compared with her lover; she used to 
 treat him a little de haut en has. 
 
 But when she saw his shame and despair, she was 
 much distressed. 
 
 * George, George!' she cried, ' don't do so : can nothing 
 be done ? Where is my father ? — they told me he was 
 here : he is rich, he shall help you.' She darted from 
 them in search of Merton ; ere she could turn the 
 angle of the house he met her. 
 
 ' You had better go home my girl,' said he, gravely. 
 
 ' Oh ! no ! no ! I have been too unkind to George 
 already,' and she turned towards him like a pitying 
 angel with hands extended as if they would bring 
 balm to a hurt soul. 
 
 Meadows left chuckling and was red and white by 
 turns. 
 
 Merton was one of those friends one may make sure 
 of finding in adversity. 
 
 * There,' cried he, ' George, I told you how it would 
 end.' 
 
 George wheeled round on him like lightning. 
 
 *What, do you come here to insult over me? I 
 must be a long way lower than I am, before I shall be 
 as low as you were when my mother took you up and 
 made a man of you.' 
 
40 * IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 * Greorge, George !' cried Susan in dismay ; ' stop, 
 for pity's sake before you say words that will se- 
 parate us for ever. Father,' cried the peace-making 
 angel, ' how can you push poor George so hard and 
 him in trouble I and we have all been too unkind to 
 him to-day.' 
 
 Ere either could answer, there was happily another 
 interruption. A smart servant in livery walked up to 
 them with a letter. With the instinctive feeling of class 
 they all endeavoured to conceal their agitation from the 
 gentleman's servant. He handed George the note, and 
 saying, ' I was to wait for an answer. Farmer Fielding,' 
 sauntered towards the farm-stables. 
 
 'From Mr. Winchester,' said George, after a long 
 and careful inspection of the outside. 
 
 In the country it is a point of honour to find out 
 the writer of a letter by the direction not the sig- 
 nature. 
 
 ' The Honorable Francis Winchester ! What does 
 he write to you ?' cried Merton, in a tone of great sur- 
 prise. This, too, was not lost on George. 
 
 Human nature is human nature : he was not sorry to 
 be able to read a gentleman's letter in the face of one 
 who had bitterly reproached him, and of others who 
 had seen him mortified and struck down. 
 
 * Seems so,' said George, drily and with a glance of 
 defiance ; and he read out the letter. 
 
 ' George Fielding ray fine fellow think of it again : I 
 have two berths in the ship that sails from Southampton 
 to-morrow, you will have every comfort on the voyage. 
 
* IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 41 
 
 a great point. I will do what I said for you (lie pro- 
 mised me five hundred sheep, and a run, after the first 
 year.) I must have an honest man, and where can I 
 find as honest a man as George Fielding?' — (' Thank 
 you, Mr. Winchester, George Fielding thanks you sir.') 
 And there was something noble and simple, in the way 
 the young farmer drew himself up, and looked fearlessly 
 in all his companions' eyes. 
 
 ' You saved my life — I can do nothing for you here 
 — and you are doing no good at " The Grove" — every 
 body says so' — (' everybody says so !' — and George 
 Fielding winced at the words.) 
 
 ' And it really pains me my brave fellow to go 
 without you, where I know I could put you on the way 
 of fortune : my heart is pretty stout ; but home is 
 home ; and be assured that I wait with some anxiety, 
 to know whether my eyes are to look on nothing but 
 water for the next four months, or are to be cheered by 
 the sight of something from home, the face of a 
 thorough-bred English yeoman, and — a friend — and — 
 and—' 
 
 Poor George could read no more, the kind words, 
 coming after his affronts and troubles, brought his heart 
 to his mouth. 
 
 Susan took the letter from him, and read out — 
 
 * And an upright, downright honest man' — ' And so 
 YOU ARE, George 1' cried she, warmly, drawing to 
 George's side, and darting glances of defiance vaguely 
 around. Then she continued to read — 
 
 ' If the answer is favourable, a word is enough : 
 
42 'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 meet "me at "The Crown," in Newborough, to-night, 
 and we will go up to town by the mail train.' 
 
 ' The answer is yes,' said George to the servant, 
 who was at some distance. 
 
 Susan, bending over the letter, heard, but could not 
 realize the word, but the servant now came nearer, 
 George said to him, * Tell your master. Yes.' 
 
 ' Yes ? George !' cried Susan, ' what do you mean by 
 yes? It is about going to Aus'tralia.' 
 
 ' The answer is yes,' said George. 
 
 The servant went away with the answer. 
 
 The others remained motionless. 
 
 ' This nobleman's son respects me if worse folk don't : 
 but it is not the great bloodhounds and greyhounds 
 that bark at misfortune's heels, it is only the village 
 curs when all is done : this is my path. I'll pack up 
 my things and go.' And he did not look at Susan, or 
 any of them, but went into the house like a man walk- 
 ing in his sleep. 
 
 There was a stupefied pause. 
 
 Then Susan gave a cry like a wounded deer. 
 
 * Father ! what have you done ?' 
 
 Merton himself had been staggered, but he replied 
 stoutly — 
 
 * No more than my duty girl, and I hope you will 
 do no less than yours.' 
 
 At this moment, Eobinson threw up the window and 
 jumped out into the yard. 
 
 Meadows under stronger interests had forgotten 
 Eobinson ; but now at sight of him he looked round, 
 
'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 43 
 
 and catching the eye of a man who was peering over 
 the farm-yard wall, made him a signal, 
 ' What is the matter ?' cried Eobinson. 
 
 * George is going to Australia,' replied Merton, 
 coldly. 
 
 ' Australia !' roared Robinson — ' Au-stralia ! he's 
 mad, who ever goes there unless they are forced? — He 
 shan't go there ! — I would'nt go there if my passage 
 was paid, and a new suit of clothes given me, and the 
 governor's gig to take me ashore to a mansion provided 
 for my reception fires lighted beds aired and pipes 
 laid across upon the table.' 
 
 As Eobinson concluded this tirade the policeman 
 and constable, who had crept round the angle of the 
 farm-house, came one on each side put each a hand on 
 one of his elbows and — took him 1 
 
 He looked first down at their hands in turn then 
 up at their faces in turn, and when he saw the metro- 
 politan's face a look of simple disgust difiused itself 
 over his whole countenance. 
 
 * Ugh ! ! !' interjected Eobinson. 
 
 ' Ay !' replied the policeman, while putting hand- 
 cuffs on him — ' To Australia you'll go for all that Tom 
 Lyon, alias Scott, alias Eobinson, and you'll have a new 
 suit of clothes mostly one colour and voyage paid, 
 and a large house ashore waiting for you and the 
 governor's gig will come alongside for you provided 
 they can't find the convict's barge,' and the official was 
 pleased with himself and his wit and allowed it to 
 appear. 
 
44 ' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEXD.' 
 
 But, by tliis time, Eobinson was on liis balance 
 again. ' Gentlemen !' answered lie, with cold dignity 
 ' What am I to understand by this violence from 
 persons to wbom I am an utter stranger?' and he 
 might have sat for the picture of injured innocence. 
 ' I am not acquainted with you, sir,' added he ; ' and 
 by the titles you give me it seems you are not ac- 
 quainted with me.' 
 
 The police laughed, and took out of this injured man's 
 pocket the stolen notes which Meadows instantly iden- 
 fied. 
 
 Then Mr. Eobinson started off into another key 
 equally artistical in its way. 
 
 ' Miss Merton,' snuffled he, ' appearances are against 
 me, but mark my words my innocence will emerge all 
 the brighter for this temporary cloud.' 
 
 Susan Merton ran in doors, saying, * Oh ! I must tell 
 George.' She was not sorry of an excuse to be by 
 George's side, and remind him by her presence that if 
 home had its thorns it had its rose-tree too. 
 
 News soon spreads ; rustic heads were seen peeping 
 over the wall to see the finale of the fine gentleman 
 from " Lunnun," meantime the constable went to put 
 his horse in a four-wheel chaise destined to convey 
 Eobinson to the county gaol. 
 
 If the rural population expected to see this worthy 
 discomposed by so sudden a change of fortune, they 
 were soon undeceived. 
 
 ' Well, Jacobs,' said he, with sudden familiarity, 
 ' you seem uncommon pleased, and I am content. I 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 45 
 
 would ratlier liave gone to Califoraia, but any place is 
 better than England. Laugh those who win. I shall 
 breathe a delicious climate; you will make yourself 
 as happy as a prince, that is to say, miserable, upon 
 fifteen shillings and two colds a week ; my sobriety 
 and industry will realize a fortune under a smiling 
 sun : let chaps that never saw the world, and the beau- 
 tiful coimtries there are in it, snivel at leaving this 
 island of fogs and rocks and taxes and nobs, the rich 
 man's paradise, the poor man's — I never swear, it's 
 vulgar.' 
 
 While he was crushing his captors with his eloquence, 
 George and Susan came together from the house > 
 George's face betrayed wonder and something akin to 
 horror : — 
 
 ' A thief!' cried he. ' Have I taken the hand of a thief?' 
 
 * It is a business like any other,' said Eobinson, de- 
 precatingly. 
 
 ' If you have no shame I have ; I long to be gone 
 now.' 
 
 'George!' whined the culprit, who, strange to say, 
 had become attached to the honest young farmer. 
 ' Did ever I take tithe of you ? You have got a silver 
 caudle cup, a heavenly old coffee-pot, no end of spoons 
 double the weight those rogues the silversmiths make 
 them now ; they are in a box under your bed in your 
 room,' added he, looking down, ' count them, they are 
 all right ; and Miss Merton, your bracelet, the gold one 
 with the cameo. I could have had it a hundred times. 
 Miss Merton, ask him to shake hands wdth me at part- 
 
46 'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEXD.' 
 
 ing. I am so fond of him and perhaps I shall never see 
 him again.' 
 
 ' Shake hands with you ?' answered George, sternly ; 
 ' if your hands were loose I doubt I should ram my 
 fist down your tliroat ; but there, you are not worth a 
 thought at such a time, and you are a man in trouble, 
 and I am another. I forgive you, and I pray heaven 
 I may never see your face again.' 
 
 And Honesty turned his back in Theft's face. 
 
 Robinson bit his lips and said nothing, but his eyes 
 glistened ; just then a little boy and girl, who had been 
 peering about mighty curious, took courage and ap- 
 proached hand in hand. The girl was the speaker, as a 
 matter of course : 
 
 ' Farmer Fielding,' said she, curtsying, a mode 
 of reverence which was instantly copied by the boy, 
 'we are come to see the thief; they say you have 
 caught one — Oh dear !' (and her bright little counte- 
 nance was overcast,) ' I could'nt have told it from a 
 man !' 
 
 We don't know all that is in the hearts of the wicked. 
 Robinson was observed to change colour at these silly 
 words. 
 
 'Mr. Jacobs,' said he, addressing the policeman 
 ' have you authority to put me in the pillory before 
 trial ?' He said this coldly and sternly; and then added, 
 ' Perhaps you are aware that I am a man, and I might 
 say a brother, for you were a thief you know I' Then 
 changing his tone entirely, ' I say, Jacobs,' said he, 
 with cheerful briskness, ' do you remember cracking 
 
'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 47 
 
 tlie silversmitli's shop in Lambeth along with Jem 
 SaHsbury and Black George, and — ?' 
 
 ' There the gig is ready,' cried Mr. Jacobs. ' You 
 come along,' and the ex- thief pushed the thief hastily 
 off the premises and drove him away with speed. 
 
 Greorge Fielding gave a bitter sigh : this was a fresh 
 mortification. He had for the last two months been 
 defending Eobinson against the surmises of the vil- 
 lage. 
 
 Villages are always concluding there is something 
 wrong about people. 
 
 ' What does he do V said our village. 
 
 * Where does he get his blue coat with brass buttons, 
 his tartan waistcoat and green satin tie with red ends ? 
 *We admit all this looks like a gentleman: but yet, 
 somehow, a gentleman is a horse of another colour than 
 this Eobinson.' 
 
 George had sometimes laughed at all this, sometimes 
 been very angry, and always stood up stoutly for his 
 friend and lodger. 
 
 And now the fools were right and he was wrong : 
 his friend and protege was handcuffed before his eyes, 
 and carried off to the county gaol amidst the grins 
 and stares of a score of gaping rustics, who would make 
 a fine story of it this evening in both the public- 
 houses ; and a hundred voices would echo some such 
 conversational Tristich as this, — 
 
 Is^ Rustic. ' I tawld un as much, dinn't I now, 
 Jarge ?' 
 
 2nd Rustic. ' That ye did Eichard, for I heerd ee.' 
 
48 ' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 1st Rustic. ' But, la 1 bless ye, he don't vally ad- 
 vice, he don't.' 
 
 George Fielding groaned out, ' I'm ready to go 
 now — I'm quite ready to go — I am leaving a nest of 
 insults ;' and lie darted into the house, as much to es- 
 cape the people's eyes as to finish his slight prepara- 
 tions for so great a journey. 
 
 Two men were left alone; sulky William and re- 
 spectable Meadows. Both these i-'^en's eyes followed 
 George into the house, and each had a strong emotion 
 they were bent on concealing, and did conceal from 
 each other ; but was it concealed from all the world ? 
 
 The farm-house had two rooms looking upon the 
 spot where most of our tale has passed. 
 
 The smaller one of these was a little state parlour, 
 seldom used by the family. Here on a table was a 
 grand old folio Bible ; the names, births, and deaths of 
 a century of Fieldings appeared in rusty ink and 
 various handwritings upon its fly-leaf. 
 
 Framed on the walls, were the first savage attempts 
 of woman at worsted-work in these islands. There 
 were two moral commonplaces, and there was the for- 
 bidden fruit-tree, whose branches diverged at set dis- 
 tances like the radii of a circle from its stem, a perpen- 
 dicular line ; exactly at the end of each bi-anch hung 
 one forbidden fruit — pre-Eaphaelite worsted-work. 
 
 There were also two prints of more modern date, 
 one acrriculturaL one manufactoral. 
 
 No. 1, was a great show of farming implements at 
 Doncaster. 
 
« IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEXD.' 49 
 
 No. 2, showed how one day in the history of man 
 and o£ mutton a sheep was sheared, her wool washed 
 teased carded etc., and the cloth *'d and *'d and 
 *'d and *'d and a coat shaped and sewed and but- 
 toned upon a goose, whose preparations for inebriating 
 the performers and spectators of his feat appeared in 
 a prominent part of the picture. 
 
 The window of this sunny little room was open, and 
 on the sill was a row of flower-pots, from which a sweet 
 fresh smell crept with the passing air into the chamber. 
 
 Behind these flower-pots for two hours past had 
 crouched — all eye and ear and mind — a keen old man. 
 
 To Isaac Levi age had brought vast experience and 
 had not yet dimmed any one of his senses. More than 
 forty-five years ago he had been brought to see that 
 men seldom act or speak so as to influence the fortunes 
 of others without some motive of their own ; and that 
 these motives are seldom the motives they advance ; 
 and that their real motives are not always known to 
 themselves and yet can nearly always be read and 
 weighed by an intelligent bystander. 
 
 So for near half a century Isaac Levi had read that 
 marvellous page of nature written on black, white, and 
 red parchments, and called " Man." 
 
 One result of his perusal was this, that the heads of 
 human tribes differ far more than their hearts. 
 
 The passions and the heart he had found intelli- 
 gible and much the same from Indus to the Pole. 
 
 The people of our tale were like men walking 
 together in a coppice ; they had but glimpses of each 
 
 VOL. I. D 
 
50 ' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND. 
 
 Other's minds ; but to Isaac behind his flower-pots 
 they were a little human chart spread out flat before 
 him, and not a region in it he had not travelled and 
 surveyed before to-day : what to others passed for ac- 
 cident to him was design; he penetrated more than 
 one disguise of manner ; and above all his intelligence 
 bored like a centre-bit into the deep heart of his enemy 
 Meadows, and at each turn of the centre-bit his eye 
 flashed his ear lived, and he crouched patient as a cat 
 keen as a lynx. 
 
 He was forgotten but not by all. 
 Meadows a cautious man was the one to ask him- 
 self ' Where is that old heathen and what is he doing ?' 
 To satisfy himself, Meadows had come smoothly to 
 the door of the little apartment, and burst suddenly 
 into it. 
 
 There he found the reverend Israelite extended on 
 a little couch a bandana handkerchief thrown over his 
 face, calmly reposing. 
 
 Meadows paused, eyed him keenly, listened to his 
 gentle but audible equable breathing, relieved his mind 
 by shaking his flst at him, and went out. 
 
 Thirty seconds later, Isaac awohe ! spn^ in the direc- 
 tion of Meadows, and crouched again behind the inno- 
 cent flowers patient as a cat keen as a lynx. 
 
 So then ; when George was gone in William Field- 
 ing and Mr. Meadows both felt a sudden need of being 
 alone ; each longed to indulge some feeling he did not 
 care the other should see ; so they both turned their 
 faces away from each other and strolled apart. 
 
*IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 51 
 
 Isaac Levi caught both faces off their guard, and 
 read the men as by a lightning flash to the bottom 
 line of their hearts. 
 
 For two hours he had followed the text, word by 
 word, deed by deed, letter by letter, and now a com- 
 ment on that text was written in these faces. 
 
 That comment said that William was rejoiced at 
 George's departure and ashamed of himself for the 
 feeling. 
 
 That Meadows rejoiced still more and was ashamed 
 anybody should know he had the feeling. 
 
 Isaac withdrew from his lair, his task was done. 
 
 ' Those men both love that woman, and this Mea- 
 dows loves her with all his soul, and she — aha 1' and 
 triumph flashed from under his dark brows. But at 
 his age calm is the natural state of the mind and 
 spirits; he composed himself for the present, and 
 awaited an opportunity to strike his enemy with 
 effect. 
 
 The aged man had read Mr. Meadows aright ; under 
 that modulated exterior raged as deep a passion as 
 ever shook a strong nature. 
 
 For some time he had fous^ht ao^ainst it. 
 
 ' She is another man's sweetheart,' he had said to 
 himself; ' no good will come of courting her.' But by 
 degrees the flax bonds of prudence snapped one by one, 
 as the flame every : ow and then darted at them. 
 Meadows began to reason the matter coolly. 
 
 ' They can never marry, those two. I wish they 
 would marry or break off, to put me out of this tor- 
 
 d2 
 
 UNlVERSilY OF 
 ILLINOIS LIBRARY 
 
52 ' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 ture ; but they can't marry, and my sweet Susan is 
 wasting ]ier prime for nothing, for a dream ; besides, it 
 is not as if she loved him the way I love her. She is 
 like many a young maid, the first comer gets her pro- 
 mise before she knows her value. They walk together, 
 get spoken of ; she settles down into a groove, and so 
 goes on, whether her heart is in it, or not ; it is habit 
 more than anything.' 
 
 Then he watched the pair, and observed that Susan's 
 manner to George was cool and oiF-hand, and that she 
 did not seem to seek opportunities of being alone with 
 him. 
 
 Having got so far, he now felt it his duty to think 
 of her interest. 
 
 He could not but feel that he was a great match for 
 any farmer's daughter; whereas ' poor young Fielding,' 
 said he compassionately ' is more likely to break as a 
 bachelor than to support a wife and children upon 
 " The Grove." ' 
 
 He next allowed his mind to dwell with some bit- 
 terness upon the poor destiny that stood between him 
 and the woman he loved. 
 
 ' George Fielding ! a dull dog, that could be just as 
 happy with any other girl as with my angel. An oaf, 
 so little alive to his prize, that he doesn't even see he 
 has rivals ; doesn't see that his brother loves her. Ah ! 
 but I see that though, lover's eyes are sharp : doesn't 
 see me, who mean to take her from both these Field- 
 ings — and what harm? It isn't as if their love was 
 like mine. Heaven forbid I should meddle if it was. 
 
'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 53 
 
 A few weeks, and a few mugs of ale would wash her 
 from what little mind either of them have ; but I never 
 loved a woman before, and never could look at another 
 after her.' 
 
 And so by degrees Meadows saw that he was quite 
 justified in his resolve to win Susan Merton, provided 
 
 IT WAS DONE FAIRLY. 
 
 This resolve taken, all this man's words and actions 
 began to be colored, more or less by his secret wishes ; 
 and it is not too much to say, that this was the hand, 
 which was gently but adroitly with a touch here and 
 a touch there pushing George Fielding across the 
 Pacific Ocean. 
 
 You see a respectable man can do a deal of mis- 
 chief; more than a ro£!:ue could. 
 
 A shrug of the shoulders from Meadows had caused 
 the landlord to distrain. 
 
 A hint from Meadows had caused Merton to affi'ont 
 George about Susan. 
 
 A tone of Meadows had closed the bank cash-box to 
 the Fieldino-s' bill of exchanore, and so on : and now, 
 finding it almost impossible to contain his exultation, 
 for George once in Australia he felt he could soon 
 vanquish Susan's faint preference the result of habit, 
 he turned off, and went to meet his mare at the gate ; 
 the boy had just returned with her. 
 
 He put his foot in the stirrup, but ere he mounted, 
 it occurred to him to ask one of the farm- servants 
 whether the old Jew was gone. 
 
 * I sin him in the bam just now,' was the reply. 
 
54 'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 Meadows took his foot out of the stirrup. 
 
 Never leave an enemy behind you, was one of his 
 rides. ' And why does the old heathen stay ?' he 
 asked himself; he clenched his teeth, and vowed he 
 would not leave the village till George Fielding was on 
 his way to Australia^ 
 
 He sent his mare to the *' Black Horse," and strolled 
 up the village ; then he showed the boy a shilling, and 
 said, ' You be sure and run to the public-house and let 
 me know when George Fielding is going to start, — I 
 should like to see the last of him.* 
 
 This was true ! 
 
( 55 ) 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 AXD now passed over '' The Grrove " the heaviest hours 
 it had ever known : hours as weary as they were bitter 
 to George Fielding. " The Grove " was nothing to him 
 now — in mind he was abeady separated from it ; his 
 clothes were ready, he had nothing more to do, and 
 he wished he could fling himself this m.oment into the 
 ship, and hide his head and sleep and forget his grief 
 until he reached the land whose fat and endless pas- 
 tures were to make him rich and send him home a 
 fitter match for Susan. 
 
 As the moment of parting drew nearer there came 
 to him that tardy consolation which often comes to the 
 honest man then when it can but add to his pangs of 
 regret. 
 
 Perhaps no man is good manly tender generous, 
 honest and unlucky quite in vain ; at last, when such 
 a man is leaving all who have been unjust or cold to 
 him, scales fall from their eyes, a sense of his 
 value flashes like lightning across their half empty 
 skulls and their tepid hearts, they feel and express 
 some respect and regret, and make him sadder to leave 
 
56 'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 tliem : so did the neighbours of " The Grove " to young 
 Fielding. Some hands gave him now their first warm 
 pressure, and one or two voices even faltered as they 
 said ' God bless thee, lad !' 
 
 And now the carter's lad ran in with a message from 
 a farmer at the top of the hill. 
 
 ' Oh ! Master George Farmer Dodd says if you 
 please he couldn't think to let you walk. You are to go 
 in his gig as far as Newbury, if you'll walk up as fur as 
 his farm ; he's afeard to come down our hill, a says, 
 because if he did, his mare 'ud kick his gig into tooth- 
 picks, he says. Oh ! Master George, I be sorry you be 
 going,' and the boy who had begun quite cheerfully, 
 ended in a whimper. 
 
 ' I thank him ! Take my bag, boy, and Til follow in 
 half an hour.' 
 
 Sarah brought out the bag and opened it, and, weep- 
 ing bitterly, put into it a bottle with her name on a 
 bit of paper tied round the neck, to remind poor 
 George he was not forgotten at " The Grove, " and then 
 she gave George the key and went sadly in her apron 
 to her eyes. 
 
 And now George fixed his eye on his brother Wil- 
 liam, and said to him, ' William, will you come with 
 me, \£ you please?' 
 
 * Ay, George, sure.' 
 
 They went through the farm-yard side by side ; 
 neither spoke, and George took a last look at the ricks, 
 and he paused, and seemed minded to speak, but he 
 did not, he only muttered 'not here.' Then George led 
 
'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 57 
 
 the way out into the paddock, and so into tlie lane, 
 and very soon they saw the village church ; William 
 wondered George did not speak. They passed under the 
 yew-tree into the churchyard ; William's heart fluttered. 
 They found the vicar's cow browsing on the graves ; 
 William took up a stone — George put out his hand not 
 to let him hurt her, and George turned her gently into 
 the lane — then he stepped carefully among the graves. 
 William followed him, his heart fluttering more and 
 more with vague fears; William knew now where 
 they were going, but what was George going to say to 
 him there ? his heart beat faint-like. By and by the 
 brothers came to this — 
 
 .1S^ 
 
 Rei>*= 
 
 ''■V, ^HE MORTAL REMAIN"^ , 
 
 30HN nEL»>»'« p 
 
 f FARMS - kl^^ 
 
 ^-"^^ " 
 
 George looked down at the grave, so did William, 
 neither spoke awhile. 
 
 d3 
 
58 ^ IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 The grave was between the two men — and silence — 
 both looked down. 
 
 George whispered ' Good-bye, mother 1 She never 
 thought we should be parted this way ;' then he 
 turned to William, and opened his mouth to say some- 
 thing more to him, doubtless that which he had come 
 to say, but apparently it was too much for him. I think 
 he feared his own resolution. He gasped and with a 
 heavy sigh led the way home. William walked with 
 him, not knowing what to think or do or say ; at last 
 lie muttered, ' I wouldn't go, if my heart was here !' 
 
 * I shall go, Will,' replied George, rather sternly 
 as it seemed. 
 
 When they came back to the house, they found 
 several persons collected. 
 
 Old Fielding, the young men's grandfather, was 
 there ; he had made them wheel him in his great chair 
 out into the sun. 
 
 Grandfather Fielding had reached the last stage of 
 human existence. He was 92 years of age. The 
 lines in his face were cordage, his aspect was stony 
 and impassible, and he was all but impervious to 
 passing events; his thin blood had almost ceased to 
 circulate in his extremities ; for every drop he had 
 was needed to keep his old heart a beating at all 
 instead of stopping like a clock that has run down. 
 
 Meadows had returned to see George off, and old 
 Merton was also there, and he was one of those whose 
 hearts gave them a bit of a twinge. 
 
 ' George,' said he, ' I'm vexed for speaking unkind 
 
'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 59 
 
 to you to-day of all days in the year ; I didn't think 
 we were to part so soon, lad.' 
 
 ' No more about it, uncle,' faltered George ; ' what 
 does it matter now ?' 
 
 Susan Merton came out of the house ; she had caught 
 her father's conciliatory words ; she seemed composed, 
 but pale ; she threw her arms round her father's neck. 
 
 * Oh I father,' said she imploringly * I thought it 
 was a dream, but he is going, he is really going. — Oh ! 
 don't let him go from us, speak him fair father his 
 spirit is so high.' 
 
 'Susan I ' replied the old farmer, 'mayhap the lad 
 thinks me his enemy, but Fm not. My daughter shall 
 not marry a bankrupt farmer, but you bring home a 
 thousand pounds — just one thousand pounds — -to show 
 me you are not a fool, and you shall have my daughter 
 and she shall have my blessing.'' 
 
 Meadows exulted. 
 
 'Your hand on that, uncie,' cried George, with 
 ardour; 'your hand on that before heaven and all 
 present' 
 
 The old farmer gave George his hand upon it. 
 
 ' But, father,^ cried Susan, ' your words are sending 
 him away from me.' 
 
 ' Susan !' said George, sorrowfully but firmly, * I 
 am to go : but don''t forget it is for your sake I leave 
 you my darling Susan — to be a better man for your 
 sake. Uncle since your last words there is no ill will, 
 but (bluntly) I can't speak my heart before you.' 
 
 * ril go, George, I'll go ; shan't be said my sister's 
 
60 ' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND/ 
 
 son hadn't leave to speak his mind, toletbewhoatool,* 
 at sucli an a time.' 
 
 Merton turned to leave tliem, but ere he had taken 
 two steps a most unlooked-for interruption chained 
 him to the spot. An old man, with a long beard and 
 a glittering eye was amongst them before they were 
 aware of him; he fixed his eye upon Meadows, and 
 spoke a single word — but that word fell like a sledge- 
 hammer. 
 
 ' No I !' said Isaac Levi in the midst. 
 
 ' No ! r repeated he to John Meadows. 
 
 Meadows understood perfectly what ' No ' meant ; 
 a veto upon all his plans, hopes, and wishes. 
 
 ' Young man,' said Isaac to George, * you shall not 
 wander forth from the home of your fathers. These 
 old eyes see deeper than yours (and he sent an eye- 
 stab at Meadows) ; you are honest — all men say so — I 
 will lend you the money for your rent, and one who 
 loves you (and he gave another eye-stab at Meadows) 
 will bless me.' 
 
 ' Oh ! yes, I bless you,' cried Susan, innocently. 
 
 The late exulting Meadows was benumbed at this. 
 
 ' Surely heaven sends you to me,' cried Susan. ' It is 
 Mr. Levi of Farnborough.' 
 
 Here was a diversion : Meadows cursed the intruder, 
 and his own evil star that had raised him up so malig- 
 nant an enemy. 
 
 ' All my web undone in a moment,' thought he, and 
 despair began to take possession of him. 
 
 * Let be who it will. Cui libet. 
 
^ IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 61 
 
 Susan, on the other hand was all joy and hope ; 
 William more or less despondent. 
 
 The old Jew glanced from one to another, read them 
 all, and enjoyed his triumph. 
 
 But when his eye returned to George Fielding he 
 met with something he had not reckoned upon. 
 
 The "young man showed no joy, no emotion. He 
 stood immoveable, like a statue of a man, and when he 
 opened his lips it was like a statue speaking with its 
 marble mouth. 
 
 ' No ! Susan. No ! old man. I am honest, 
 though I'm poor — and proud, though you have seen 
 me put to shame near my own homestead more than 
 once to-day. To borrow without a chance of paying 
 is next door to stealing. And I should never pay you. 
 My eyes are opened in spite of my heart. I can't farm 
 " The Grove " with no grass, and wheat at forty shil- 
 lings. I've tried all I know, and I can't do it. Will 
 there is dying to try, and he shall try, and may heaven 
 speed his plough better than it has poor George's.' 
 . * I am not thinking of the farm now, George,' said 
 William. ' I'm thinking of when we were boys, and 
 used to play marbles — together — upon the tombstones.' 
 And he faltered a little. 
 
 ' Mr. Levi ! seems you have a kindness for me, 
 show it to my brother when I'm away, if you ^vill be 
 so good.' 
 
 ' Hum ?' said Isaac, doubtfully. ' I care not to see 
 your stout young heart give way, as it will. Ah, me 1 
 
62 'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEXD.' 
 
 I can pity tlie wanderer from home. I will speak a 
 word with you, and then I will go home.' 
 
 He drew George aside, and made him a secret com- 
 munication. 
 
 Merton called Susan to him, and made her promise 
 to be prudent, then he shook hands with George, and 
 went away. 
 
 Now Meadows, from the direction of Isaac's glance, 
 and a certain half-surprised half-contemptuous look 
 that stole OA^er George's face, suspected that his enemy, 
 whose sagacity he could no longer doubt, was warning 
 George against him. 
 
 This made him feel very uneasy where he was, and 
 this respectable man dreaded some exposure of his 
 secret. So he said hastily, ' I'll go along with you, 
 farmer,' and in a moment was by Merton's side, as that 
 worthy stopped to open the gate that led out of 
 George's premises. His feelings were anything but 
 pleasant when George called to him, — 
 
 ' No, sir ! stop. You are as good a witness as I 
 could choose of what I have to say. Step this way if 
 you please sir.' 
 
 Meadows returned, clenched his teeth, and prepared 
 for the worst, but inwardly he cursed his uneasy folly 
 in staying here, instead of riding home the moment 
 George had said ' Yes !' to Australia. 
 
 George now looked upon the ground a moment; 
 and there was something in his manner that arrested 
 the attention of all. 
 
*IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 63 
 
 Meadows turned hot and cold. 
 
 * I am going — to speak — to my brother, Mr. Mea- 
 dows r said he, syllable by syllable to Meadows, in a 
 way brimful of meaning. 
 
 * To me, George?' said William, a little un- 
 easy. 
 
 * To you 1 Fall back a bit.' (Some rustics were 
 encroaching upon the circle.) ' Fall back, if you please ; 
 this is a family matter.' 
 
 Isaac Levi, instead of going quite away, seated him- 
 self on a bench outside the palings. 
 
 It was now William's turn to flutter ; he said, how- 
 ever to himself, * It is about the farm ; it must be 
 about the farm.' 
 
 George resumed. ' I've often had it on my mind to 
 speak to you, but I was ashamed now that's the truth ; 
 but now I am going away from her I must speak out, 
 and I will— William !' 
 
 ' Yes, George?' 
 
 ' You've taken — a fancy — to my Susan, William !' 
 
 At these words, which though they had cost him so 
 much to say George spoke gravely and calmly like 
 common words, William gave one startled look all 
 round, then buried his face directly in his hands in a 
 paroxysm of shame. 
 
 Susan, who was looking at George, remonstrated 
 loudly, ' How can you be so silly, George ! I am sure 
 that is the last idea poor William — ' 
 
 George drew her attention to William by a wave of 
 the hand. 
 
64 ' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 She held her tongue in a moment, and turned very 
 red, and lowered her eyes to the ground. It was a 
 very painful situation — to none more than to Meadows, 
 who was waiting his turn. 
 
 George continued : ' Oh, it is not to reproach you, 
 my poor lad. Who could be near her, and not warm 
 to her ? But she is my lass, Will, and no other man's. 
 It is three years since she said the word. And though 
 it was my hard luck there should be some coolness 
 between us this bitter day, she will think of me when 
 the ocean rolls between us, if no villain undermines 
 me — ' 
 
 ' Villain ! George,' groaned William. * That is a 
 word I never thought to hear from you.' 
 
 ' That's why I speak in time,' said George. ' I do 
 suppose I am safe against villainy here.' And his eye 
 swept lightly over both the men. ' Any way, it shan't 
 be a mis-take or a mzs-understanding ; it shall be vil- 
 lainy if 'tis done. Speak, Susanna Merton, and speak 
 your real mind once for all.' 
 
 ' Oh ! George,' cried Susan, fluttering with love ; 
 * you shall not go in doubt of me. We are betrothed 
 this three years, and I never regretted my choice a 
 single moment. I never saw, I never shall see, the 
 man I could bear to look on beside you, my beautiful 
 George. Take my ring and my promise, George.' 
 And she put her ring on his little finger, and kissed 
 his hand. ' Whilst you are true to me, nothing but 
 death shall part us twain. There never was any cool- 
 ness between us, dear; you only thought so. You 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEXD.' 65 
 
 don't know what fools women are ; how they delight 
 to tease the man they love, and so torment themselves 
 ten times more. I always loved yon, but never as I 
 do to-day so honest, so proud, so unfortunate I love 
 you I honour you I adore you oh ! my love ! — my 
 love ! — my love 1' 
 
 She saw but George — she thought but of George — 
 and how to soften his sorrow, and remove his doubts, 
 if he had any. And she poured out these words of 
 love with her whole soul — with blushes and tears and 
 all the fire of a chaste and passionate woman's heart. 
 And she clung to her love ; and her tender bosom 
 heaved against his; and she strained him with tears 
 and sighs to her bosom; and he kissed her beautiful 
 head ; and his suffering heart drew warmth from this 
 heavenly contact. 
 
 The late exulting Meadows turned as pale as ashes, 
 and trembled from head to foot. 
 
 ' Do you hear, William ?' said George. 
 
 ' I hear, George,' replied William, in an iron whis- 
 per, with his sullen head sunk upon his breast. 
 
 George left Susan, and came between her and William. 
 
 ' Then, Susan,' said he, rather loud, ' here is your 
 brother. ' 
 
 William winced. 
 
 ' AVilliam ! here is my life !' And he pointed to 
 Susan. ' Let no man rob me of it if one mother really 
 bore us.' 
 
 It went throuorh William's heart like a burnino^ 
 arrow. And this was why George had taken him 
 
 V 
 
66 * IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 to tlieir mother's grave. That flashed across him 
 too. 
 
 The poor sulky fellow's head was seen to rise inch 
 by inch till he held it as erect as a king's. 
 
 ' Never !' he cried half shouting half weeping. 
 ' Never, s'help me God ! She's my sister from this 
 hour — no more, no less. And may the red blight fall 
 on my arm and my heart, if I or any man takes her 
 from you — any man !' he cried, his temples flushing, 
 and his eye glittering. ' Sooner than a hundred men 
 should take her from you while I am here I'd die at 
 their feet a hundred times.' 
 
 Well done sullen and rugged but honest man ; the 
 capital temptation of your life is wrestled with and 
 thrown. That is always to every man a close, a deadly, 
 a bitter struggle ; and we must all wade through this 
 deep water at one hour or another of our lives : it is as 
 surely our fate as it is one day to die. 
 
 It is a noble sight to see an honest man ' cleave his 
 own heart in twain, and fling away the baser part of it.' 
 These words, that burst from William's better heart 
 knocked at his brother's you may be sure. He came 
 to William, * I believe you,' said he ; 'I trust you, I 
 thank you.' Then he held out his hand ; but nature 
 would have more than that, in a moment his arm 
 was round his brother's neck, where it had not been 
 this many a year : he withdrew it as quickly half 
 ashamed; and Anne Fielding's two sons grasped one 
 another's hands, and holding hands turned away their 
 heads and tried to hide their eyes. 
 
^ IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 67 
 
 They are stronger than bond deed or indenture 
 these fleshly compacts written by moist eyes stamped 
 by the gripe of eloquent hands in those moments full 
 of soul when men's hearts beat from their bosoms to 
 their fingers' ends. 
 
 Isaac Levi came to the brothers, and said to William, 
 ' Yes, I will now,' and then he went slowly and 
 thoughtfully away to his own house. 
 
 ' And now,' faltered Gecg-ge, ' I feel strong enough 
 to go, and I'll go.' 
 
 He looked round at all the familiar objects he was 
 leaving, as if to bid them farewell; and last, whilst 
 every eye watched his movements, he walked slowly 
 up to his grandfather's chair. 
 
 ' Grandfather,' said he, ' I am going a long journey, 
 and mayhap shall never see you again : speak a word 
 to me before I go.' 
 
 The impassive old man took no notice, so Susan 
 came to him. ' Grandfather, speak to George ; poor 
 George is going into a far country.' 
 
 When she had repeated this in his ear their grand- 
 father looked up for a moment — 'George, fetch me 
 some snuff from where you're going.' 
 
 A spasm crossed George's face ; he was not to have 
 a word of good omen from the aged man. 
 
 'Friends,' said he, looking appealingly to all the 
 rest. Meadows included, ' I wanted him to say God 
 bless you, but snuff is all his thought now. Well, old 
 man, George wo'nt forget your last word, such as 'tis.' 
 
 In a hutch near the corner of the house was 
 
68 * IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEXD.' 
 
 William's pointer Carlo. Carlo observing by the 
 general movement that there was something on foot, 
 had the curiosity to come out to the end of his chain, 
 and as he stood there giving every now and then a 
 little uncertain wag of his tail, George took notice of 
 him and came to him and patted his head. 
 
 * Good-bye, Carlo,' faltered George ; ' poor Carlo — 
 you and I shall never go after the partridges again. 
 Carlo : the doer shows more understandingr than the 
 Christian ; bye, Carlo.' Then he looked wistfully at 
 William's dog, but he said nothing more. 
 
 William watched every look of George, but he said 
 nothing at the time. 
 
 ' Good-bye, little village church, where I went to 
 church man and boy; good-bye churchyard where 
 my mother lies ; there will be no church bells, Susan, 
 where I am going ; no Sunday bells to remind me of 
 my soul and home.' 
 
 These words, which he spoke with great difficulty 
 were hardly out of young Fielding's mouth when a 
 very painful circumstance occurred; one of those 
 things that seem the contrivance of some malignant 
 spirit. The church bells in a moment, struck up 
 their very me-:riest peal ! 
 
 George Fielding started, he turned pale and his lips 
 trembled. ' Are they mocking me ?' he cried. ' Do 
 they take a thought what I am going through this 
 moment the hard-hearted — ' 
 
 ' No ! no ! no !' cried William ; ' don't think it, 
 George; I know what 'tis — I'll tell ye.' 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 69 
 
 * What is it?' 
 
 ' Well it is — well, George, it is Tom Clarke and 
 Esther Borgherst married to-day ; only they could'nt 
 have the ringers till the afternoon.' 
 
 ' Why Will they have only kept company a year, 
 and Susan and I have kept company three years ; and 
 Tom and Esther are married to-day; and what are 
 Greorge and Susan doing to daj ? God help me ! Oh, 
 God help me! What shall I do? what shall I do?' 
 And the stout heart gave way, and George Fielding 
 covered his face with his hands, and burst out sobbing 
 and crying. 
 
 Susan ilung her arms round his neck — ' Oh ! George, 
 my pride is all gone; don't go, don't think to go; 
 have pity on us both, and don't go.' And she clung 
 to him — her bonnet fallen off, her hair dishevelled — 
 and they sobbed and wept in one another's arms. 
 
 Meadows writhed with the jealous anguish this sad 
 sight gave him, and at that moment he could have 
 cursed the whole creation. He tried to fly, but he 
 was rooted to the spot. He leaned sick as death 
 against the palings. 
 
 George and Susan cried together, and then they 
 wiped one another's eyes lik esimple country folk 
 with one pocket-handkerchief; and then they kissed 
 one another in turn, and made each other's tears flow 
 fast again; and again wiped one another's eyes with 
 one handkerchief. 
 
 Meadows griped the palings convulsively — hell was 
 in his heart. 
 
70 'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 * Poor souls, God help them !' said William to him- 
 self in his purified heart. 
 
 The silence their sorrow caused all around was 
 suddenly invaded by a voice that seemed to come from 
 another world — it was Grandfather Fielding. ' The 
 autumn sun is not so waarm as she used to be I' 
 
 Yes, there was the whole map of humanity on that 
 little spot in the county of Berks. The middle-aged 
 man, a schemer, watching the success of his able 
 scheme and stunned and wounded by its recoil. 
 And old age, callous to noble pain, all alive to 
 discomfort, yet man to the last — blaming any one but 
 Number One, cackling against heavenly bodies, 
 accusing the sun and the kitchen-fire of frigidity — not 
 his own empty veins ! And the two poor young things 
 sobbing as if their hearts would break over their first 
 great earthly sorrow. 
 
 George was the first to recover himself, ' Shame 
 upon me !' he cried ; he drew Susan to his bosom, and 
 pressed a long, burning kiss upon her brow. 
 
 And now all felt the wrench was coming. George, 
 with a wild, half-terrified look, signalled William to 
 come to him. 
 
 ' Help me, Will ! you see, I have no more manhood 
 than a girl.' 
 
 Susan instinctively trembled. George once more 
 pressed his lips to her, as if they would gi*ow there. 
 William took her hand. She trembled more and more. 
 
 ' Take my hand ; take your brother's hand, my poor 
 lass/ said he. 
 
* IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 71 
 
 She trembled violently ; and then George gave a ciy 
 that seemed to tear his heart, and darted from them in 
 a moment. 
 
 Poor Susan uttered more than one despairing 
 scream, and stretched out both her hands for George. 
 He did not see her, for he dared not look back. 
 
 * Bob, loose the dog,' muttered William, hastily, in a 
 broken voice. 
 
 The dog was loosed, and ran after George, who, he 
 thought, was only going for a walk. Susan was 
 sinking, pale and helpless, upon her brother's bosom. 
 
 * Pray, sister,' said gentle William ; ' pray, sister, as 
 I must.' 
 
 A faint shiver was all the answer ; her senses had 
 almost left her. 
 
 When George was a little way up the hill, some- 
 thing ran suddenly against his legs — he started — it 
 was Carlo. He turned, and lifted up his hands to 
 Heaven; and William could see that George was 
 blessing him for this. Carlo was more than a dog to 
 poor George at that cruel moment. Soon after that, 
 George and Carlo reached the crown of the hill. 
 George's figure stood alone a moment between them 
 and the sky. He was seen to take his hat off, and 
 raise his hands once more to Heaven, whilst he looked 
 down upon all he loved and left, and then he turned 
 his sorrowful face again towards that distant land, and 
 they saw him no more ! 
 
( 72 ) 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 * The world is full of trouble,' 
 
 While we are young we do not see how true this 
 ancient homely saying is. 
 
 That wonderful dramatic prologue the first chapter 
 of Job is but a great condensation of the sorrows that 
 fall like hail upon many a mortal house. Job's black 
 day, like the day of the poetic prophets — the true 
 sacri votes of tlie ancient world — is a type of a year — a 
 bitter human year. It is terrible how quickly a liuman 
 landscape all gilded meadow silver river and blue 
 sky can cloud and darken. 
 
 George Fielding had compared himself this very day 
 to an oak-tree, * even so am I rooted to my native 
 soil.' His fate accepted his simile. The oak of 
 centuries yields to an impalpable antagonist, whose 
 very name stands in proverbs for weakness and 
 insignificance. This thin light trifle rendered im- 
 petuous by motion buffets the king of the forest, tears 
 his roots with fury out of the earth, and lays his 
 towering head in the dust; and even so circum- 
 stances none of them singly irresistible converging to 
 
'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 73 
 
 one point buffeted sore another oak pride of our 
 fields, and for aught I know of our whole island — an 
 honest English yeoman ; and tore him from his farm, 
 from his house hard by his mother's grave, from the 
 joy of his heart his Susan, and sent him who had 
 never travelled a hundred miles in his life across 
 a world of waters to keep sheep at the Antipodes : 
 a bereaved and desolate heart went with Farmer Dodd 
 in the gig to Newborough ; sad desolate and stricken 
 hearts remained behind. When two loving hearts are 
 torn bleeding asunder it is a shade better to be the 
 one that is driven away into action, than the bereaved 
 twin that petrifies at home. 
 
 The bustle, the occupation, the active annoyances, 
 are some sort of bitter distraction to the unfathomable 
 grief — it is one little shade worse to lie solitary and 
 motionless in the old scenes from which the sunlight 
 is now fled. 
 
 It needed but a look at Susan Merton as she sat 
 moaning and quivering from head to foot in George's 
 kitchen to see that she was in no condition to walk 
 back to Grassmere Farm to-night. 
 
 So as she refused — almost violently refused — to stay 
 at " The Grove," William harnessed one of the farm- 
 horses to a cart and took her home round by the road. 
 
 ' It is six miles that way 'stead of three, but then 
 we sha'nt jolt her going that way,' thought William. 
 
 He walked by the side of the cart in silence. 
 ■ She never spoke but once all the journey, and that 
 was about half/way to complain in a sort of hopeless 
 
 VOL. 1. E 
 
74 'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND. 
 
 pitiful tone that she was cold : it was a burning after- 
 noon. 
 
 William took off his coat, and began to tie it round 
 her by means of the sleeves ; Susan made a little silent 
 peevish and not very rational resistance ; William tied 
 it round her by brotherly force. 
 
 They reached her home ; when she got out of the 
 cart her eye was fixed her cheek white she seemed 
 like one in a dream. 
 
 She went into the house without speaking or look- 
 ing at William. William was sorry she did not speak 
 to him ; however he stood disconsolately by the cart, 
 asking himself what he could do next for her and 
 George ; presently he heard a slight rustle, and it was 
 Susan coming back along the passage : ' She has left 
 something in the cart ' thought he and he began to 
 look in the straw. 
 
 She came like one still in a dream, and put her hand 
 out to William, and it appeared that was what she 
 had come back for. 
 
 William took her hand and pressed it to his bosom 
 a moment ; at this Susan gave an hysterical sob or two, 
 and crept away again to her own room. 
 
 What she suffered in that room the first month after 
 George's departure I could detail perhaps as well as any 
 man living ; but I will not ; there is a degree of anguish 
 one shrinks from intruding upon too familiarly in person: 
 and even on paper the microscope should spare some- 
 times these beatings of the bared heart. It will be 
 enough if I indicate by and by her state, after time 
 
*IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 75 
 
 and religion and good habits had begun to struo-o-le, 
 sometimes gaining sometimes losing, against the tide 
 of sorrow. For the present let us draw gently back 
 and leave her, for she is bowed to the earth — fallen on 
 her knees, her head buried in the curtains of her bed ; 
 dark faint and leaden on the borders of despair — a 
 word often lightly used, through ignorance, Heaven 
 keep us all from a single hour, here or hereafter of the 
 thing the word stands for; and Heaven comfort all 
 true and loving hearts that read me when their turn 
 shall come to drain the bitter cup like Susan Merton. 
 
 e2 
 
( 76 ) 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 The moment George Fielding was out of sight, Mr. 
 Meadows went to the public-house, flung himself on 
 his powerful black mare, and rode homewards without 
 a word. One strong passion after another swept across 
 his troubled mind. He burned with love, he was sick 
 with jealousy, cold with despondency, and, for the first 
 time smarted with remorse. George Fielding was 
 gone, gone of his own accord ; but like the flying 
 Parthian he had shot his keenest arrow in the moment 
 of defeat. 
 
 ' What the better am I ?' thus ran this man's thoughts. 
 * I have opened my own eyes, and Susan seems farther 
 from me than ever now — my heart is like a lump of 
 lead here — I wish I had never been born ! — so much 
 for scheming — I would have given a thousand pounds 
 for this and now I'd give double to be as I was before ; 
 I had honest hopes then ; now where are they ? How 
 lucky it seemed all to go too. Ah ! that is it — " May all 
 your good luck turn to wormwood !" that was his word 
 — his very word — and my good luck is wormwood ; so 
 much for lifting a hand against grey hairs Jew or 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 77 
 
 Gentile. Why did the old heathen provoke me then ? 
 I'd as soon die as live this day. That's right, start at 
 a handful of straw ; lie down in it one minute and 
 tremble at the sight of it the next ye idiot. Oh, 
 Susan ! Susan ! — why do I think of her ? why do I 
 think of her? She loves that man with every fibre 
 of her body. How she clung to him ! how she grew to 
 him ! And I stood there and looked on it, and did not 
 kill them both. Seen it ! I see it now, it is burnt 
 into my eyes and my heart for ever, 1 am in Hell ! — 
 I am in Hell ! — Hold up, you blundering fool ; has the 
 devil got into you too ? Perdition seize him ! May he 
 die and rot, before the year's out, ten thousand miles 
 from home ! may his ship sink to the bottom of the — . 
 What right have I to curse the man, as well as drive 
 him across sea? Curse yourself, John Meadows. 
 They are true lovers, and I have parted them, and 
 looked on and seen their tears. Heaven pity them 
 and forgive me. So he knew of his brother's love 
 for her after all. Why didn't he speak to me I 
 wonder, as well as to Will Fielding? The old Jew 
 warned him against me I'll swear. Why? why be- 
 cause you are a respectable man John Meadows, and 
 he thought a hint was enough to a man of character. 
 '^ I do suppose I am safe from villainy here," says he. 
 That lad spared me, he could have given me a red face 
 before them all ; now if there are angels that float in 
 the air, and see what passes amongst us sinners, how 
 must John Meadows have looked beside George Field- 
 ing that moment ? , This love will sink my soul ! I 
 
78 'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 can't breathe between tliese hedges, my temples are 
 bursting ! Oh ! you want to gallop, do you ? gallop 
 then, and faster than you ever did since you were 
 foaled — confound ye!' With this he spurred his 
 mare furiously up the bank, and went crashing through 
 the dead hedge that surmoimted it; he struck his 
 hat at the same moment fiercely from his head (it was 
 fast by a black ribbon to his button-hole), and as they 
 lighted by a descent of some two feet on the edge of a 
 grass-field he again drove his spurs into his great fiery 
 mare all vein and bone. Black Eachael snorted with 
 amazement at the spur, and with warlike delight at 
 finding grass beneath her feet and free air whistling 
 round her ears ; she gave one gigantic bound like a 
 buck with arching back and all four legs in the air at 
 once (it would have unseated many a rider but never 
 moved the iron Meadows), and with dilating nostril 
 and ears laid back she hurled herself across country 
 like a stone from a sling. 
 
 Meadows's house was about four miles and a half 
 distant as the crow flies, and he went home to-day as 
 the crow flies, only faster. None would have known 
 the staid, respectable Meadows, in this figure, that 
 came flying over hedge and ditch and brook, his hat 
 dangling and leaping like mad behind him, his hand 
 now and then clutching his breast, his heart tossed like 
 a boat among the breakers, his lips white his teeth 
 clenched and his eyes blazing ! The mare took every- 
 thing in her stride, but at last they came somewhat 
 suddenly on an enormous high stifi" fence ; to clear it 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 79 
 
 was impossible; by tliis time man and beast were 
 equally reckless ; they went straight into it and 
 through it as a bullet goes through a pane of glass ; 
 and on again over brook and fence ploughed field 
 and meadow till Meadows found himself, he scarce 
 knew how, at his own door. His old deaf servant 
 came out from the stable-yard, and gazed in astonish- 
 ment at the mare, whose flank panted, whose tail 
 quivered, whose back looked as if she had been in the 
 river, while her belly was stained with half a dozen 
 different kinds of soil, and her rider's face streamed 
 with blood from a dozen scratches he had never felt. 
 
 Meadows flung himself from the saddle, and ran up 
 to his own. room ; he dashed his face and his burning 
 hands into water : this seemed to do him a little good. 
 He came down stairs ; he lighted a pipe ; (we are the 
 children of habit ;) he sat with his eyebrows painfully 
 bent ; people called on him, he fiercely refused to see 
 them. 
 
 For the first time in his life he tm-ned his back on 
 business ; he sat for hours by the fire-place ; a fierce, 
 mental struggle wrenched him to and fro. 
 
 Evening came, still he sat collapsed by the fire-place. 
 From his window among other objects two dwellings 
 were visible ; one distant four miles was a whitewashed 
 cottage tiled instead of thatched adorned with creepers 
 and roses, and very clean but in other respects little 
 superior to labourers' cottages. 
 
 The other, distant six loner miles, was the Grassmere 
 
80 'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 fariii-liouse, where the Mertons lived ; the windows 
 seemed burnished gold this evening. 
 
 In the small cottage lived a plain, old woman — a 
 Methodist ; she was Meadows's mother. 
 
 She did not admire worldly people, still less envied 
 them. 
 
 He was too good a churchman and man of business, 
 to permit conventicles or psalm-singing at odd hours 
 in his house. So she preferred living in her own, 
 which moreover was her own — her very own own. 
 
 The old woman never spoke of her son, checked all 
 complaints of him, and snubbed all experimental eulo- 
 gies of him. 
 
 Meadows never spoke of his mother; paid her a 
 small allowance with the regularity and affectionate 
 grace of clock-work ; never asked her if she didn't want 
 any more — would not have refused her if she had asked 
 for double. 
 
 This evening whilst the sun was shining with all 
 his evening glory on Susan Merton's house. Meadows 
 went slowly to his window and pulled down the blind ; 
 and drawing his breath hard shut the loved prospect 
 out. 
 
 He then laid his hand upon the table, and he said — 
 ' I swear by the holy bread and wine, I took last mc ^t\\, 
 that I will not put myself in the way of this strong 
 temptation. I swear I will go no more to Grrassmere 
 Tarm, never so long as I love Susan.' He added, 
 faintly, ' Unless they send for me ; and they won't do 
 
'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 81 
 
 that, and I won't go of my own accord, I swear it. I 
 have sworn it however, and I swear it again — 
 Unless they send for me ! ' 
 
 Then he sat by the fire with his head in his hands — 
 a posture he never was seen in before ; next he wrote 
 a note, and sent it hastily with a horse and cart, to that 
 small whitewashed cottage. 
 
 Old Mrs. Meadows sat in her doorway reading a 
 theological work, called '' Believers' Buttons." She took 
 the note, looked at it, — 'Why this is from John, I 
 think ; what can he have to say to me ?' She put on 
 her spectacles again, which she had taken oiF on the 
 messenger first accosting her, and she deliberately 
 opened smoothed and read the note : — it ran thus — 
 
 ' Mother, I am lonely, come over and stay awhile 
 with me, if you please. 
 
 ' Your dutiful Son, 
 
 'John Meadows.' 
 
 'Here Hannah' cried the old woman to a neigh- 
 bour's daughter that was nearly always with her. 
 
 Hannah, a comely girl of fourteen, came running in. 
 
 ' Here's John wants me to go over to his house ; get 
 me the pen and ink girl out of the cupboard, and I'll 
 write him a word or two any way. Is there anything 
 amiss ?' said she quickly to the man. 
 
 ' He came in with the black mare all in a lather, just 
 after dinner, and he hasn't spoke to a soul since, that's 
 all I know Missus : I think something has put him out, 
 and he isn't soon put out, you know, he isn't.' 
 
 e3 
 
82 *IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 Hannali left the room, after placing the paper as she 
 was bid. 
 
 ' You will all be put out that trust to an arm of flesh, 
 all of ye master or man Dick Messenger,' said the 
 disciple of John Wesley somewhat grimly — ' Ay, and 
 be put out of the kingdom of heaven too if ye don't 
 take heed.' 
 
 ' Is that the news I'm to take back to Farnborough, 
 Missus ?' said Messenger with quiet rustic irony. 
 
 ' No ; I'll write to him.' 
 
 The old woman wrote a few lines reminding Mea- 
 dows that the pursuit of earthly objects could never 
 bring any steady comfort, and telling him that she 
 should be lost in his great house — that it would seem 
 quite strange to her to go into the town after so many 
 years quiet — but that if he was minded to come out 
 and see her, she would be glad to see him and glad of 
 the opportunity to give him her advice, if he was in a 
 better frame for listening to it than last time she offered 
 it to him, and that was two years come Martinmas. 
 
 Then the old woman paused, — next she reflected, — 
 and afterwards dried her unfinished letter. And as she 
 began slowly to fold it up, and put it in her pocket — 
 * Hannah,' cried she, thoughtfully. 
 
 Hannah appeared in the doorway. 
 
 ' I dare say — you may fetch — my cloak and bonnet. 
 Why if the wench hasn't got them on her arm. What, 
 you made up your mind that I should go then ?' 
 
 ' That I did,' replied Hannah. * Your warm shawl 
 is in the cart, Mrs. Meadows.' 
 
'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 83 
 
 * Oh ! you did, did you. Young folks are apt to be 
 sure and certain — I was in two minds about it, so I 
 don't sov how tlie child could be sure,' said she, dividing 
 her remark between vacancy and the person addressed ; 
 a grammatical privilege of old age. 
 
 ^ Oh ! but / was sure for that matter,' replied Han- 
 nah firmly. 
 
 ' And what made the little wench so sure, I wonder ?' 
 said the old woman now in her black bonnet and 
 scarlet cloak. 
 
 ' Why la !' says Hannah, * because it's your son, 
 ma'am — and you're his mother Dame Meadows !' 
 
( 84 ) 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 John Meadows had always been an active man, but 
 now lie was indefatigable. He was up at five every 
 morning, and seemed ubiquitous ; added a grey gelding 
 to his black mare, and rode them both nearly off their 
 legs. He surveyed land in half a dozen counties — 
 he speculated in grain in half a dozen markets, and did 
 business in shares. His plan in dealing with this ticklish 
 speculation was simple : he listened to nothing any- 
 body said, examined the venture himself, and if it had 
 a sound basis bought when the herd were selling and 
 sold whenever the herd were buying. Hence, he 
 bought cheap and sold dear. 
 
 He also lent money, and contrived to solve the 
 usurer's problem — perfect security, and huge interest. 
 
 He arrived at this by his own sagacity, and the stu- 
 pidity of mankind. 
 
 Mankind are not wanting in intelligence ; but, as a 
 body, they have one intellectual defect — they are mud- 
 dle-heads. 
 
 Now these muddle-heads have agreed to say, that 
 land is in all cases five times a surer security for money 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 85 
 
 lent tlian moveables are. Whereas the fact is that some- 
 times it is and sometimes it is not. Owing to the 
 above delusion the proprietor of land can always 
 borrow money at four per cent., and other proprietors 
 are often driven to give ten — twenty — thirty. 
 
 So John Meadows lent mighty little upon land, but 
 much upon oat-ricks waggons advantageous leases and 
 such things solid as land and more easily convertible 
 into cash. 
 
 Thus without risk he got his twenty per cent. Not 
 that he appeared in these transactions — he had too 
 many good irons in the fire to let himself be called an 
 usurer. 
 
 He worked this business as three thousand re- 
 spectable men are working it in this nation. He had 
 a human money-bag, whose strings he went behind a 
 screen and pulled. 
 
 The human money-bag of Meadows was Peter 
 Crawley. 
 
 This Peter Crawley, some years before our tale, lay 
 crushed beneath a barrowful of debts — many of them 
 to publicans. In him others saw a cunning fool and a 
 sot — Meadows an unscrupulous tool : Meadows wanted 
 a tool, and knew the cheapest way to get the thing 
 was to buy it, so he bought up all Crawley's debts, sued 
 him, got judgments out against him, and raising the 
 axe of the law over Peter's head with his right hand 
 offered him the left hand of fellowship with his left; 
 down on his knees went Crawley, and resigned his 
 existence to this great man. 
 
86 'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 Human creatures whose mission it is to do whatever a 
 man secretly bids them are not entitled to long and 
 interesting description?. 
 
 Crawley was fifty, wore a brown wig, the only thing 
 about him that did not attempt disguise, and slouched 
 in a brown coat and a shirt peppered with snuff. 
 
 In this life he was an infinitesimal attorney : Pre- 
 viously, unless Pythagoras was a goose, he had been a 
 pole-cat. 
 
 Meadows was ambidexter. The two hands he ga- 
 thered coin with were Meadows and Crawley. The 
 first his honest hard-working hand — the second his 
 three-fingered Jack his prestidigital hand ; with both 
 he now worked harder than ever. He hurried from 
 business to business — could not wait to chat, or drink a 
 glass of ale after it ; it was all work ! work ! work ! — 
 money ! money ! money ! with John Meadows, and 
 everything he touched turned to gold in his hands ; 
 yet for all this burning activity the man's heart had 
 never been so little in business. His activity was the 
 strucrorle of a sensible stronor mind, to fisrht ai?ainst its 
 one weakness. 
 
 * Cedit amor rebus; res age tutus eris,' is a very 
 wise saying, and Meadows by his own observation and 
 instinct sought the best antidote for love. 
 
 But the Latins had another true saying, that ' nobody 
 is wise at all hours.' 
 
 After his day of toil and success he used to be 
 guilty of a sad inconsistency ; he shut himself up at 
 home for two hours, and smoked his pipe, and ran 
 
'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 87 
 
 liis eye over the newspaper ; but Kis mind over Susan 
 Merton. 
 
 Worse than this, in his frequent rides he used to go 
 a mile or two out of his way to pass Grassmere farm- 
 house ; and however fast he rode the rest of his journey, 
 he always let his nag walk by the farm-house, and his 
 eye brightened with hope as he approached it, and his 
 heart sank as he passed it without seeing Susan. 
 
 He now bitterly regretted the vow he had made, 
 never to visit the Mortons again, 
 
 Unless they sent for him. 
 
 ' They have forgotten me altogether,' said he, bit- 
 terly. ' Well, the best thing I can do is to forget 
 them.' 
 
 Now, Susan had forgotten him, she was absorbed in 
 her own grief; but Merton was labouring under a fit 
 of rheumatism, and this was the reason why Meadows 
 and he did not meet. In fact, farmer Merton often 
 said to his daughter, ' John Meadows has not been to 
 see us a long while.' 
 
 ' Hasn't he, father?' was Susan's languid and care- 
 less reply. 
 
 One Sunday, Meadows, weakened by his inner 
 struggle, could not help going to Grassmere church. 
 At least he would see her face. He had seated 
 himself where he could see her. She took her old 
 place by the pillar ; nobody was near her. The 
 light from a side window streamed full upon her : 
 she was pale, and the languor of sorrow was upon 
 every part of her face, but she was lovely as ever. 
 
88 ' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 Meadows watched her, and noticed that more than 
 once, without any visible reason her eyes filled with 
 tears, but she shed none. 
 
 He saw how hard she tried to give her whole' soul 
 to the services of the church and to the w^ord of the 
 preacher ; he saw her succeed for a few minutes at a 
 time, and then, with a lover's keen eye he saw her 
 heart fly away in a moment from prayer and praise 
 and consolation, and follow and overtake the ship that 
 was carrying her George farther and farther away from 
 her, across the sea ; and then her lips quivered with 
 earthly sorrow, even as she repeated words that came 
 from Heaven, and tried to bind to her heavy heart the 
 prayers for succour in every mortal ill the promises of 
 help in every mortal woe, with which holy Church 
 and holier writ comfort her and all the pure of heart 
 in every age. 
 
 Then Meadows, who up to this moment had been 
 pitying himself had a better thought and pitied 
 Susan. He even went so far as to feel that he ought 
 to pity George ; but he did not do it, he could not, he 
 envied him too much; but he pitied Susan, and he 
 longed to say something kind and friendly to her, 
 even though there should not be a word or a look of 
 love in it. 
 
 Susan went out by one of the church doors, Mea- 
 dows by another intending to meet her casually upon 
 the road home. Susan saw his intention, and took 
 another path, so that he could not come up with her 
 without following her. 
 
* IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEXD.' 89 
 
 Meadows turned upon his heel and went home with 
 his heart full of bitterness. 
 
 ' She hates the sight of me,' was his interpretation. 
 
 Poor Susan, she hated nobody, she only hated to 
 have to speak to a stranger, and to listen to a stranger ; 
 and in her present grief all were strangers to her 
 except him she had lost and her father. She avoided 
 Meadows not because he was Meadows, but because 
 she wanted to be alone. 
 
 Meadows rode home despondently, then he fell to 
 abusing his folly, and vowed he would think of her no 
 more. 
 
 The next day finding himself at six o'clock in the 
 evening seated by the fire in a reverie, he suddenly 
 started fiercely up, saddled his horse, and rode into 
 Newborough, and, putting up his horse, strolled about 
 the streets and tried to amuse himself looking at the 
 shops before they closed. 
 
 Now it so happened that stopping before a book- 
 seller's shop he saw advertised a work upon " The 
 Australian Colonies." 
 
 ' Confound Australia !' said Meadows to himself, 
 and turned on his heel, but the next moment with a 
 sudden change of mind he returned and bought the 
 book : he did more, he gave the tradesman an order for 
 every approved work on Australia that was to be had. 
 
 The bookseller, as it happened, was going up to 
 London next day, so that in the evening Meadows had 
 some dozen volumes in his house, and a tolerably cor- 
 rect map of certain Australian districts. 
 
90 'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 ' Let me see/ said Meadows, ' what chance that 
 chap has of making a thousand pounds out there.' 
 This was no doubt the beginning of it, but it did not 
 end there. The intelligent Meadows had not read a 
 hundred pages before he found out what a wonderful 
 country this Australia is, how worthy a money-getter's 
 attention or any thoughtful man's. 
 
 It seemed as if his rival drew Meadows after him 
 wherever he went, so fascinated was he with this 
 subject. And now all the evening he sucked the 
 books like a leech. 
 
 Men observed about this time an irritable manner 
 in Mr. Meadows which he had never shown before, 
 and an eternal restlessness ; they little divined the 
 cause, or dreamed what a vow he had made, and what it 
 cost him every day to keep it. So strong was the struggle 
 within him, that there were moments when he feared 
 he should go mad ; and then it was that he learned 
 the value of his mother's presence in the house. 
 
 There was no explanation between them, there 
 could be no sympathy ; had he opened his heart to her 
 he knew she would have denounced his love for Susan 
 Merton as a damnable crime. Once she invited his 
 confidence — 
 
 ' What ails you, John ? ' said the old woman. ' You 
 had better tell me ; you would feel easier I'm thinking.' 
 
 But he turned it off a little fretfully, and she never 
 returned to the charge ; but though there could be no 
 direct sympathy, yet there was a soothing influence 
 in this quaint old woman's presence. She moved 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 91 
 
 quietly about, protecting his habits, not disturbing 
 them ; she seemed very thoughtful too, and cast many 
 a secret glance of inquiry and interest at him when he 
 was not looking at her. 
 
 This had gone on some weeks when one afternoon 
 Meadows, who had been silent as death for a full half 
 hour, started from his chair and said with sudden 
 resolution — 
 
 ' Mother, I must leave this part of the country for a 
 while.' 
 
 * That is news, John.' 
 
 ' Yes. I shall go into the mining district for six 
 months, or a year perhaps.' 
 
 ' Well ! go, John ! you want a change. I think you 
 can't do better than go.' 
 
 ' I will, and no later than to-morrow.' 
 
 ' That is sudden.' 
 
 ' If I was to give myself time to think, I should 
 never go at all.' 
 
 He went out briskly with the energy of this deter- 
 mination. 
 
 That same evening, about seven o'clock, as he sat 
 reading by the fire, an unexpected visitor was an- 
 nounced, Mr. Merton. 
 
 He came cordially in and scolded Meadows for 
 never having been to see him. 
 
 ' I know you are a busy man,' said the old farmer, 
 ' but you might have given us a look in coming home 
 from market; it is only a mile out of the way, and 
 you are pretty well mounted in a general way.' 
 
92 * IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 Then the old man, a gossip, took up one of 
 Meadows's books. * Australia ! ah ! ' grunted Merton, 
 and dropped it like a hot potato; he tried another, 
 ' why this is Australia, too ; why they are all Aus- 
 tralia as I am a living sinner.' And he looked with 
 a rueful curiosity into Meadows's face. 
 
 Meadows colored, but soon recovered his external 
 composure. 
 
 ' I have friends there,' said he, hastily, ' who tell me 
 there are capital investments in that country, and they 
 say no more than the truth.' 
 
 '- Do you think he will do any good out there ? ' said 
 the old man, lowering his voice. 
 
 ' I can't say,' answered Meadows, drily. 
 
 ' Tell us something about that country, John,' said 
 Merton ; ' and if you was to ask me to take a glass of 
 your homebrewed ale I don't think I should gainsay 
 you.' 
 
 The ale was sent for, and over it Meadows, whose 
 powers of acquisition extended to facts as well as 
 money, and who was full of this new subject, poured 
 the agricultural contents of a dozen volumes into Mr. 
 Merton. 
 
 The old farmer sat open-mouthed, transfixed with 
 interest, listenins^ to his friend's clear intellio-ent and 
 masterly descriptions of this wonderful land. At last 
 the clock struck nine; he started up in astonish- 
 ment — 
 
 ' I shall get a scolding if I stay later,' said he, and 
 off he went to Grassmere. 
 
^ IT 13 NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 93 
 
 * Have you nothing else to say to me ? ' asked 
 Meadows, as tlie farmer put his foot in the stirrup. 
 
 ' Not that I know of/ replied the other, and cantered 
 away. 
 
 ' Confound him ! ' muttered Meadows ; ' he comes 
 and stops here three hours, drinks my ale, gets my 
 knowledge without the trouble of digging for't, and 
 goes away, and not a word from Susan, or even a word 
 about her — one word would have paid me for all this 
 loss of time — but no, I was not to have it. I will be 
 in Devonshire this time to-morrow — no, to-morrow is 
 market day — but the day after I will go. I cannot 
 live here and not see ^her, nor speak to her, — 'twill 
 drive me mad.' 
 
 The next morning as Meadows mounted his horse 
 to ride to market, a carter's boy came up to him, 
 and taking off his hat and pulling his head down 
 by the front lock by way of salute put a note into 
 his hand. 
 
 Meadows took it and opened it carelessly, it was a 
 handwriting he did not know. But his eye had no 
 sooner glanced at the signature, than his eyes gleamed, 
 and his whole frame trembled with emotion he could 
 hardly hide. This was the letter — 
 
 * Dear Mr. Meadows, 
 
 ' We have not seen you here a long time, 
 and if you could take a cup of tea with us on your 
 way home from market, my father would be glad to 
 
94 ^ IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 see you, if it is not troubling you too mucli. I believe 
 he has some calves he wishes to show you. 
 ' I am, 
 
 ' Yours, respectfully, 
 
 ' Susan Merton. 
 
 ' P. S. Father has been confined by rheumatism, 
 and I have not been well this last month.' 
 
 Meadows turned away from the messenger, and said 
 quietly, ' Tell Miss Merton I will come if possible.' 
 He then galloped off, and as soon as there was no 
 one in sight gave vent to his face and his exulting 
 soul. 
 
 Now he congratulated himself on his goodness in 
 making a certain vow, and his firmness in keeping it. 
 
 ' I kept out of their way, and they have invited me ; 
 my conscience is clear.' 
 
 He then asked himself why Susan had invited him, 
 and he could not but augur the most favourable results 
 from this act on her part ; true his manner to her had 
 never gone beyond friendship, but women, he argued, 
 are quick to discern their admirers under every dis- 
 guise. She was dull and out of spirits, and wrote for 
 him to come to her ; this was a great point, a good 
 beginning — ' The sea is between her and George, and 
 I am here, with time and opportunity on my side,' 
 said Meadows ; and as these thoughts coursed through 
 his heart, his grey nag, spurred by an imconscious 
 heel, broke into a hand-gallop, and after an hour 
 
' IT IS XEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 95 
 
 and a Kalf hard riding they clattered into the town of 
 Newborough. 
 
 The habit of driving hard bargains is a good thing 
 ibr teaching a man to suppress his feelings and feign 
 indifference, yet the civil nonchalance with which 
 Meadows on his return from Newborough walked into 
 the Mortons' parlour cost him no ordinary struggle. 
 
 The farmer received him cordially — Susan civilly, 
 and with a somewhat feeble smile. The former soon 
 engaged him in agricultural talk. Susan meanwhile 
 made the tea in silence, and Meadows began to think 
 she was capricious, and had no sooner got what she 
 asked for than she did not care for it. After a while, 
 however she put in a word here and there but with a 
 discouraging languor. 
 
 Presently Farmer Merton brought her his tea-cup to 
 be replenished : and upon this opportunity Susan said 
 a word to her father in an undertone. 
 
 * Oh, ay !' replied the farmer very loud indeed ; 
 and Susan colored. 
 
 ' What was you saying to me about that country — 
 that Christmas-day is the hottest day in the year?' 
 began Mr. Merton. 
 
 Meadows assented, and Merton proceeded to put 
 other questions, in order, it appeared, to draw once 
 more from Meadows the interesting information of last 
 night. 
 
 Meadows answered shortly, and with repugnance. 
 Then Susan put in : ' And is it true, sir. that the 
 flowers are beautiful to the eye, but have no smell, and 
 
96 'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 tliat tlie birds have all gay feathers, but no song?' 
 Then Susan, scarcely giving him time to answer, pro- 
 ceeded to put several questions, and her manner was 
 no longer languid, but bright and animated. She 
 wound up her interrogatories with this climax : 
 
 * And do you think, sir, it is a country where 
 George will be able to do any good. And will he 
 have his health in that land, so far from every one to 
 take care of him ?' 
 
 And this doubt raised, the bright eyes were dimmed 
 with tears in a moment. 
 
 Meadows gasped out, ' Why not ? why not ?' but 
 soon after, muttering some excuse about his horse he 
 went out with a promise to return immediately. 
 
 He was no sooner alone than he gave way to a burst 
 of rage and bitterness. 
 
 * So, she only sent for me here to make me tell her 
 about that infernal country where her George is. I 
 will ride home this instant — this very instant — without 
 bidding them good-bye.' 
 
 Cooler thoughts came. He mnsed deeply a few 
 minutes, and tlien clenching his teeth returned slowly 
 to the little parlor; he sat down and took his line 
 with a brisk and cheerful air. 
 
 * You were asking me some questions about Aus- 
 tralia. I can tell you all about that country, for I 
 have a relation there who writes to me. And I have 
 read all the books about it too, as it happens.' 
 
 Susan brightened up. 
 
 Meadows, by a great histrionic effort, brightened 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 97 
 
 up too and poured out a flood of really interesting 
 facts and anecdotes about this marvellous land. 
 
 Then, in the middle of a narrative which enchained 
 both his hearers, he suddenly looked at his watch, and 
 putting on a fictitious look of dismay and annoyance 
 started up with many excuses and went home — not 
 however till Susan had made him promise to come 
 again next market-day. 
 
 As he rode home in the moonlight Susan's face 
 seemed still before him. The bright look of interest 
 she had given him, the grateful smiles with which she 
 had thanked him for his narration — all this had been 
 so sweet at the moment, so bitter upon the least reflec- 
 tion. His mind was in a whirl. At last he grasped 
 at one idea, and held it as with a vice. 
 
 ' I shall be always welcome to her if I can bring 
 myself to talk about that detestable country. Well, I 
 will grind my tongue down to it. She shall not be 
 able to do without my chat ; that shall be the begin- 
 ning ; the middle shall be difierent ; the end shall be 
 just the opposite. The sea is between him and her. 
 I am here with opportunity resolution and money. I 
 will have her !' 
 
 The next morning his mother said to him — 
 
 ' John, do you think to go to-day ?' 
 
 ' Where, mother?' 
 
 ' The journey you spoke of.' 
 
 ' What journey ?' 
 
 ' Among the mines.' 
 
 * Not I.' 
 
 VOL. I. P 
 
98 ' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEXD/ 
 
 * You have changed your mind, then.' 
 What, didn't you see I was joking?' 
 
 * No !' very drily. 
 
 Soon after this little dialogue Dame Meadows pro- 
 posed to end her visit and return home. Her son 
 yielded a cheerful assent. She went gravely and 
 quietly back to her little cottage. 
 
 Meadows had determined to make himself necessary 
 to Susan Merton. He brought a woman's cunning to 
 bear against a woman ; for the artifice to which his 
 strong will bent his supple talent is one that many 
 women have had the tact and temporary self-denial to 
 carry out, but not one man in a hundred. . 
 
 Men try to beat an absent rival by sneering at him, etc. 
 By which means the asses make their absent foe present 
 to her mind, and enlist the whole woman in his de- 
 fence. 
 
 But Meadows was no ordinary man. 
 
 Susan had given his quick intelligence a glunpse of 
 a way to please her : he looked at the end, and crushed 
 his will down to the thorny means. 
 
 Twice a-week he called on the Mertons, and much 
 of his talk was Australia. Susan was grateful. To 
 hear of the place where George would soon be was 
 the nearest approach she could make to hearing of 
 George. 
 
 As for Meadows he gained a great point but he 
 went through tortures on the way. He could not hide 
 from himself why he was so welcome; and many a 
 time as he rode home from the Mertons he resolved 
 
* IT IS KEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 99 
 
 never to return there, but he took no more oaths ; it 
 had cost him so much to keep the last ; and that befell 
 which might have been expected, after a while the 
 pleasure of being near the woman he loved, of being 
 distinguished by her and greeted with pleasure how- 
 ever slight grew into a habit and a need. 
 
 Achilles was a man of steel, but he had a vulnerable 
 part ; and iron natures like John Meadows have often 
 one spot in their souls where they are far tenderer 
 than the universal dove-eyed, and weaker than the 
 omnimpotent. He never spoke a word of love to 
 Susan, he knew it would spoil all; and she occu- 
 pied with another's image and looking upon herself 
 as confessedly belonging to another never sus- 
 pected the deep passion that filled this man's heart. 
 But if an observer of nature had accompanied John 
 Meadows on market-day he might have seen — 
 diagnostics. 
 
 All the morning his eye was cold and quick; his 
 mouth, when silent, close firm and unreadable ; his 
 voice clear decided and occasionally loud. But when 
 he got to old Merton's fire-side he mellowed and 
 softened like the sun towards evening : there his fore- 
 head unknit itself; his voice, pitched in quite a 
 difierent key from his key of business, turned also 
 low and gentle, and soothed and secretly won the 
 hearer by its deep, rich, and pleasant modulation and 
 variety; and his eye turned deeper in colour, and, 
 losing its keenness and restlessness dwelt calmly and 
 pensively for minutes at a time upon some little 
 
 f2 
 
100 * IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 hoiiseliold object close to Susan ; seldom, unless quite 
 unobserved, upon Susan berself. 
 
 But the surrounding rustics suspected nothing, so 
 calm and deep ran Meadows. 
 
 * Dear lieart,' said Susan to lier father, ' who would 
 have thought Mr. Meadows would come a mile out of 
 his way twice a-week to talk to me about Geo — 
 about the country where my heart is — and the folk 
 say he thinks of nothing but money and won't move a 
 step without making it.' 
 
 ' The folk are envious of him girl that is all. 
 John Meadows is too clever for fools, and too indus- 
 trious for the lazy ones ; he is a good friend of mine, 
 Susan ; if I wanted to borrow a thousand pounds I 
 have only to draw on Meadows ; he has told me so 
 half-a-dozen times.' 
 
 ' We don't want his money, father,' replied Susan, 
 ' nor anybody's ; but I think a great deal of his kind- 
 ness, and George shall thank him when he comes 
 home — if ever he comes home to Susan again.' These 
 last words brought many tears with them, which the 
 old farmer pretended not to notice, for he was getting 
 tired of his daughter's tears. They were always 
 flowing now at the least word, ' and she used to be so 
 good-humoured and cheerful like.' 
 
 Poor Susan ! she was very unhappy. If any one 
 had said to her " to-morrow you die," she would have 
 smiled on her own account, and only sighed at the 
 pain the news would cause poor George. Her George 
 was gone, her mother had been dead this tv/o years. 
 
^IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 101 
 
 Her life, which had been full of innocent pleasures, 
 was now utterly tasteless, except in its hours of 
 bitterness when sorrow overcame her like a flood. 
 She had a pretty flower-garden, in which she used to 
 work. When George was at home what pleasure it 
 had been to plant them with her lover's help, to 
 watch them expand, to water them in the summer 
 evening, to smell their gratitude for the artificial 
 shower after a sultry day, and then to have George in, 
 and set him admiring them with such threadbare 
 enthusiasm, simply because they were hers, not in the 
 least because they were Nature's. 
 
 I will go back like the epic writers and sketch one 
 of their little garden scenes. 
 
 One evening, after w^atering them all, she sat down 
 on a seat at the bottom of the garden, and casting her 
 eyes over her whole domain, said, ' Well now, I do 
 admire flowers ; don't you, George ?' 
 
 ' That I do,' replied George, taking another seat, 
 and coolly turning his back on the parterre, and gazing 
 mildly into Susan's eyes. 
 
 ' Why, he is not even looking at them !' cried 
 Susan, and she clapped her hands and laughed glee- 
 fully. 
 
 ' Oh yes, he is ; leastways he is looking at one of 
 them, and the brightest of the lot to my fancy.' 
 
 Susan colored with pleasure. In the country com- 
 pliments don't drip constantly on beauty even from 
 the lips of love. Then, suppressing her satisfaction, she 
 said, * You will look for a flower in return for that, 
 
102 * IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEXD.' 
 
 young man ; come and let us see whetlier there is one 
 good enough for you.' So then they took hands, and 
 Susan drew him deniurely about the garden. Pre- 
 sently she stopped with a little start of hypocritical ad- 
 miration : at their feet shone a marigold. Susan culled 
 the gaudy flower, and placed it affectionately in 
 George's button -hole. He received it proudly, and 
 shaking hands with her, for it was time to part, turned 
 away slowly. She let him take a step or two, then called 
 him back. " He was really going off with that nasty 
 thing." She took it out of his button-hole rubbed it 
 against his nose with well feigned-anger and then 
 threw it away. 
 
 ' You are all behind in flowers, George,' said 
 Susan ; * here, this is good enough for you,' and she 
 brought out from under her apron, Avhere she had carried 
 the furtively-culled treasure, a lovely clove-pink : pretty 
 soul she had nursed 1 and watered, and cherished this 
 choice flower this three weeks past for George, and this 
 was her way of giving it him at last ; so a true woman 
 gives; (her life, if need be). George took it, and 
 smelled it, and lingered a moment at the garden gate, 
 and moralized -m it. ' Well, Susan dear, now I'm 
 not so deep in flowers as you, but I like this a deal 
 better than the marigold, and I'll tell you for why, it is 
 more like you Susan.' 
 
 'Ay I why?' 
 
 I see flowers that are pretty, but have no smell, 
 and I see women that have good looks, but no 
 great wisdom nor goodness when you come nearer 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 127 
 
 instincts of foresight these able men have he turned it 
 off thus : ' but I know who will. You go to Lawyer 
 Crawley ; he lends money to people of credit.' 
 
 ' I know he does ; but he won't lend it me.' 
 
 ^ Why not?' 
 
 'He does not like us. He is a poor sneaking 
 creature, and my brother George, he caught Crawley 
 selling up some poor fellow or other, and they had 
 words ; leastways it went beyond words I fancy. I 
 don't know the rights of it, but Greorge was a little 
 rough with him by all accounts.' 
 
 ' And what has that to do with this ?' said the man 
 of business coolly. 
 
 ' Why, I am George's brother.' 
 
 ' And if you were George himself and he saw his 
 way to make a shilling out of you he would do it, 
 wouldn't he ? There, you go to Crawley and ask him 
 to lend you one hundred pounds, and he will lend it 
 you, only he will make you pay heavy interest, 
 heavier than I should you know if I could manage it 
 myself.' 
 
 'Oh, I don't care,' said simple William ; ' thank 
 you kindly, Mr. Meadows,' and off he went to 
 Crawley. 
 
 He found that worthy in his office. Crawley, who 
 instantly guessed his errand, and had no instructions 
 from Meadows, promised himself the satisfaction of 
 refusing the young man. He asked, with a cringing 
 manner and a treacherous smile, ' What security, sir ?' 
 
 Poor William higgled and hammered, and offered 
 
128 'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEXD.' 
 
 first one thing, which was blandly declined for this 
 reason ; then another, which was blandly declined for 
 that, Crawley drinking deep draughts of mean ven- 
 geance all the while from the young man's shame and 
 mortification, when the door opened, a man walked 
 in, and gave Crawley a note and vanished. Crawley 
 opened the note ; it contained a cheque drawn by 
 •Meadows, and these words : ' Lend W. F. the money, 
 at ten per cent, on his acceptance of your draft at two 
 months.' Crawley put the note and cheque in his 
 pocket. 
 
 ' Well, sir,' said he to William, ' you stay here, and 
 I will see if I have got a loose hundred in the bank to 
 spare.' He went over to the bank, cashed the cheque, 
 drew a bill of exchange at two months' date, deducted 
 tlie interest and stamp, and William accepted it, and 
 Crawley bowed him out cringing smiling and secretly 
 shooting poisoned arrows out of his venomous eye in 
 the direction of William's heels. 
 
 William thanked him warmly. 
 
 This loan made him feel happy. 
 
 He had paid his brother's debt to the landlord by 
 sacrificing a large portion of his grain at a time the 
 price was low ; and now he was so cramped he had 
 much ado to pay his labour when this loan came. The 
 very next day he bought several hogs : — hogs, as George 
 had sarcastically observed, were William Fielding's 
 hobby ; he had confidence in that animal. Potatoes 
 and pigs versus sheep and turnips was the theory of 
 William Fielding. 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 129 
 
 Now tlie good understanding between William and 
 Meadows was not to last long. William, tliougli he 
 was too wise to visit Grrassmere Farm much, was 
 mindful of his promise to George, and used to make oc- 
 casional inquiries after Susan. He heard that Meadows 
 called at the farm twice a-week, and he thought it a 
 little odd. He pondered on it, but did not quite go 
 the length of suspecting anything, still less of suspect- 
 ing Susan. Still he thought it odd, but he thought it 
 odder, when one market-day old Isaac Levi said to 
 him, — 
 
 ' Do you remember the promise you made to the 
 lion-hearted young man your brother ?' 
 
 ' Do you ask that to affront me ?' said William. 
 
 ' You never visit her ; and others are not so neg- 
 lectful.' 
 
 'Who?' 
 
 * Go this evening and you will see.' 
 
 ' Yes, I will go, and I will soon see if there is any- 
 thing in it,' said William, not stopping even to inquire 
 why the old Jew took all this interest in the affair. 
 
 That evening, as Meadows was in the middle of a 
 description of the town of Sydney, Susan started up. 
 * Why here is William Fielding !' and she ran out and 
 welcomed him in with much cordiality, perhaps with 
 some excess of cordiality. 
 
 William came in, and saluted the farmer and Meadows 
 in his dogged way. Meadows was not best pleased, 
 but kept his temper admirably, and leaving Australia 
 engaged both the farmers in a conversation, on home 
 
 g3 
 
130 'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 topics. Susan 'looked disappointed. Meadows was 
 content with that, and the party separated half an hour 
 sooner than usual. 
 
 The next market evening, in strolls William; 
 Meadows again plays the same game. This time 
 Susan could hardly restrain her temper. She did 
 not want to hear about the Grassmere acres, and 
 ''The Grove," and oxen and hogs, but about something 
 that mattered to George. 
 
 But when the next market evening William arrived 
 before Mr. Meadows, she was downright provoked 
 and gave him short answers which raised his sus- 
 picions and made him think he had done wisely in 
 coming. This evening Susan excused herself and 
 went to bed early. 
 
 She was in Farnborough the next market-day, and 
 William met her and said, — 
 
 * I'll take a cup of tea with you to-night, Susan, if 
 you are agreeable.' 
 
 ' William,' said Susan sharply, ' what makes you 
 always come to us on market-day ?' 
 
 * I don't know. Wliat makes Mr. Meadows come 
 that day ?' 
 
 ' Because he passes our house to go to his own I 
 suppose ; but you live but two miles off, you can come 
 any day that you are minded.' 
 
 ' Should I be welcome, Susan ?' 
 
 ' What do you think Will? Speak your mind, 
 I don't understand you.' 
 
 * Seems to me I was not very welcome last time.' 
 
• IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 131 
 
 ' If I tliought that I wouldn't come again,' said 
 Susan, as sliarp as a needle. Then instantly repenting 
 a little, she explained — ' You are welcome to me, 
 Will, and you know that as well as I do, but I want 
 you to come some other evening if it is all the same to 
 you.' 
 
 'Why?' 
 
 * Why ? because I am dull other evenings, and it 
 would be nice to have a chat with you.' 
 
 ' Would it, Susan ?' 
 
 ' Of course it would ; but that evening I have com- 
 pany, and he talks to me of Australia.' 
 
 'iNothing else ?' sneered the unlucky William. 
 
 Susan gave him such a look. 
 
 ' And that interests me more than anything you 
 can say to me if you won't be offended,' snapped 
 Susan, 
 
 William bit his lip. 
 
 ' Well then, I won't come this evening, eh ! Susan.' 
 
 ' No, don't, that is a good soul.' 
 
 " Les femmes sont impitoyables pour ceux qu'elles 
 n'aiment pas." This is a harsh saying, and of course, 
 not pure truth ; but there is a deal of truth in it. 
 
 William was proud ; and the consciousness of his 
 own love for her made him less able to persist, for he 
 knew she might be so ungenerous as to retort if he 
 angered her too far. So he altered the direction of his 
 battery. He planted himself at the gate of Grrassmere 
 Farm, and as Meadows got off his horse requested a 
 few words with him. Meadows ran him over with one 
 
132 ' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEXD.' 
 
 lightning glance, and then the whole man was on the 
 defensive. William bluntly opened the affair. 
 
 ' You heard me promise to look on Susan as my 
 sister, and keep her as she is for my brother that is 
 far away.' 
 
 ' I heard you Mr. William,' said Meadows, with a 
 smile that provoked William, as the artful one intended 
 it should. 
 
 ' You come here too often, sir.' 
 
 ' Too often for who ?' 
 
 ' Too often for me, too often for George, too often 
 for the girl herself. I won't have George's sweetheart 
 talked about.' 
 
 ' You are the first to talk about her; if there's 
 scandal it is of your making.' 
 
 ' I won't have it at a word.' 
 
 Meadows called out — ' Miss Merton, will you step 
 here.' 
 
 William was astonished at his audacity, he did not 
 know his man. 
 
 Susan opened the parlour- window. ' ^^Tiat is it, 
 Mr. Meadows?' 
 
 ' Will you step here, if you please ?' Susan came. 
 ' Here is a young man tells me I must not call on your 
 father or you.' 
 
 ' I say you must not do it often enough to make her 
 talked of.' 
 
 ' Who dares to talk of me ?' cried Susan, scarlet. 
 
 '' Nobody, Miss Merton. Nobody but the young 
 man himself; and so I told him. Is your father 
 
133 
 
 within? Then I'll step in and speak with him any 
 way.' And the sly Meadows vanished to give Susan 
 an opportunity of quarrelling with William while she 
 was hot. 
 
 ' I don't know how you came to take such liberties 
 with me,' began Susan, quite pale now with anger. 
 
 * It is for George's sake/ said William, doggedly. 
 
 ' Did George bid you insult my friends and me ? I 
 would not put up with it from George hunself, much 
 less from you. I shall write to George, and ask him 
 whether he wishes me to be your slave.' 
 
 ' Don't ye do so. Don't set my brother against me,' 
 remonstrated William ruefully. 
 
 ' The best thing you can do is to go home and mind 
 your farm, and get a sweetheart for yourself, and then 
 you won't trouble your head about me more than you 
 have any business to do.' 
 
 This last cut wounded William to the quick. 
 
 ' Good evening, Susan,' 
 
 ' Good evening.' 
 
 ' Won't you shake hands ?' 
 
 ' It would serve you right if I said, No 1 But I 
 won't make you of so much importance as you want to 
 be. There ! And come again as soon as ever you can 
 treat my friends with respect.' 
 
 ' I shan't trouble you again for a while,' said 
 William sadly. Good-bye, God bless you, Susan 
 dear.' 
 
 When he v/as gone the tears came into Susan's 
 eyes, but she was bitterly indignant with him for 
 
134 * IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 making a scene about her, which a really modest girl 
 hates. On her reaching the parlour Mr. Meadows 
 was gone too, and that incensed her still more against 
 William. ' Mr. Meadows is affronted no doubt' said 
 she, ' and of course he would not come here to be talked 
 of; he would not like that any more than I. A man 
 that comes here to us out of pure good nature and 
 nothing else.' 
 
 The next market-day the deep Meadows did not 
 come ; Susan missed him and his talk ; she had few 
 pleasures, and this was one of them ; but the next after 
 he came as usual, and Susan did not conceal her satis- 
 faction. She was too shy and he too wise to allude to 
 William's interference. They both ignored the poor 
 fellow and his honest clumsy attempt. 
 
 William discomfited but not convinced determined 
 to keep his eye upon them both. ' I swore it and I'll 
 do it,' said this honest fellow. ' But I can't face her 
 tongue : it goes through me like a pitchfork ; but as for 
 him' — and he clenched his fist most significantly; 
 then he revolved one or two plans in his head, and 
 rejected ihem each in turn. At last, a thought struck 
 him — ' Mr. Levi ! he 'twas that put me on my guard. 
 I'll tell him.' Accordingly, he recounted the whole 
 affair and his failure to Mr. Levi. The old man 
 smiled. ' You are no match for either of these. You 
 have given the maiden offence, just offence.' 
 
 ' Just offence 1 Mr. Levi. Now don't ye say so. 
 Why how?' 
 
 ' By your unskilfulness, my son.' 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 135 
 
 ' It is all very well for you to say that, sir, but I 
 can tell you women are kittle folk — manage tliem wlio 
 can. I don't know what to do, I'm sure.' 
 
 * Stay at home and till the land,' replied Isaac, 
 somewhat drily. ' I will go to Grassmere Farm.' 
 
( 136 ) 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 * You going to leave us, Mr, Eden, and going to live 
 in a gaol. Oh ! Mr. Eden, I can't bear to think of it. 
 You to be cooped up there among thieves and rogues, 
 and perhaps murderers.' 
 
 * They have the more need of me.' 
 
 * And you, who love the air of heaven so ; why, sir, 
 I see you take off your very hat at times to enjoy it as 
 you are walking along ; you would be choked in a 
 prison. Besides sir it is only little parsons that go 
 there.' 
 
 ' Wliat are little parsons ?' 
 
 ' Those that are not clever enough or good enough 
 to be bishops and vicars, and so forth ; not such ones 
 as you.' 
 
 ' How odd ! This is exactly what the Devil whis- 
 pered in my ear when the question was first raised, 
 but I did not expect to find you on his side.' 
 
 ' Didn't you, sir ? Ah ! well, if it is your duty I 
 know I may as well hold my tongue. And then, such 
 as you are not like other folk ; you come like sunshine 
 
* IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 137 
 
 to some dark place, and when you have warmed it and 
 lighted it a bit, Heaven that sent you will have you 
 go and shine elsewhere. You came here, sir, you 
 waked up the impenitent folk in this village, and 
 comforted the distressed, and relieved the poor, and 
 you have saved one poor broken-hearted girl from 
 despair, from madness belike ; and now we are not to 
 be selfish, we must not hold you back, but let you run 
 the race that is set before you, and remember your 
 words and your deeds, and your dear face and voice to 
 the last hour of our lives.' 
 
 ' And give me the benefit of your prayers, little 
 sister, do not deny me them ; your prayers that I may 
 persevere to the end. Ay ! it is too true, Susan ; in 
 this world there is nothing but meeting and parting ; 
 it is sad : we have need to be stout-hearted — stouter- 
 hearted than you are. But it will not always be so, a 
 few short years and we who have fought the good 
 fight shall meet to part no more — to part no more — to 
 part no more.' 
 
 As he repeated these words half mechanically, 
 Susan could see that he had suddenly become scarce 
 conscious of her presence, the light of other days was 
 in his eye and his lips moved inarticulately. Deli- 
 cate-minded Susan left him, and with the aid of the 
 servant brought out the tea-things, and set the little 
 table on the grass square in her garden, where you 
 could see the western sun. And then she came for 
 Mr. Eden. 
 
 ' Come, sir, there is not a breath of wind this even- 
 
138 ' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 ing, SO tlie tea-things are set in the air. I know you 
 like that.' 
 
 The little party sat down in the open air. The 
 butter, churned by Susan, was solidified cream. The 
 bread not very white but home made juicy and sweet 
 as milk. The tea seemed to diffuse a more flowery 
 fiagrance out of doors than it does in, and to mix fra- 
 ternally with the hundred odours of" Susan's flowers 
 that now perfumed the air, and the whole innocent 
 meal, unlike coarse dinner or supper mingled har- 
 moniously with the scene, with the balmy air the blue 
 sky and the bright emerald grass sprinkled with gold 
 by the descending sun. Farmer Merton soon left 
 them, and then Susan went in and brought out pen 
 and ink and a large sheet of paper. 
 
 Susan sat apart working with her needle, Mr. Eden 
 sketched a sermon and sipped his tea, and now and 
 then purred three words to Susan, who piu^red as many 
 in reply. And yet over this pleasant scene there hung 
 a gentle sadness felt most by Susan as with head bent 
 down she plied her needle in silence. ' He will not 
 sit in my garden many times more, nor write many 
 more notes of sermons under my eye, nor preach to us 
 all many more sermons ; and then he is going to a nasty 
 gaol, where he won't have his health I'm doubtful. 
 And then I'm fearful he won't be comfortable in his 
 house, with nobody to take care of him that really cares 
 for him; servants soon find out where there is no 
 woman to scold them as should be, and he is not the 
 man to take his own part against them.' And Susan 
 
'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 115 
 
 and a sorrowful heart, Or you wouldn't tell an old 
 soldier to give up his pipe.' 
 
 ' Take my advice. Give up all such false consola- 
 tion, to oblige me now.' 
 
 ' Well, sir, to oblige you, I'll try ; but you don't 
 know what his pipe is to a poor old man full of nothing 
 but aches and pains, or you wouldn't have asked me,' 
 and old Giles sighed. Susan sighed too, for she 
 thought Mr. Eden cruel for once. 
 
 *]\Iiss Merton,' said the latter, sternly, his eye 
 twinkling all the time, ' he is incorrigible ; and I see 
 you agree with m that it is idle to torment the in- 
 curable. So ' (diving into the capacious pocket) * here 
 is an ounce of his beloved poison,' and out came a 
 paper of tobacco. Corporal's eyes brightened with 
 surprise and satisfaction. ' Poison him, Miss Merton, 
 poison him quick, don't keep him waiting.' 
 
 'Poison him, sir?' 
 
 ' Fill his pipe for him, if you please.' 
 
 ' That I will, sir, with pleasure.' A white hand 
 with quick and supple fingers filled the brown pipe. 
 
 ' That is as it should be, let beauty pay honour to 
 courage ; above all, to courage in its decay.' 
 
 The old man grinned with gratified pride. The 
 white hand lighted the pipe, and gave it to the old 
 soldier. He smiled gratefully all round, and sucked 
 his homely consolation. 
 
 ' I compound with you, corporal. You must let 
 me put you on the road to heaven, and. in return, I 
 must let you go there in a cloud of tobacco — ugh !' 
 
116 'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEXD.' 
 
 ' I'm agreeable sir,' said Giles drily witMrawing 
 his pipe for a moment, 
 
 ' There,' said Mr. Eden closing the marked Testa- 
 ment, ' read often in this book. Read first the verses 
 I have marked, for these very verses have dropped 
 comfort on the poor the aged and the distressed for 
 more than eighteen hundred years, and will till time 
 shall be no more. And now good-bye, and God bless 
 you.' 
 
 ' God bless you, sir, wherever you go,' cried the old 
 man, with sudden energy, ' for you have comforted 
 my poor old) heart. I feel as I han't felt this many 
 a day : your words are like the bugles sounding a 
 charge all down the line. You must go, I suppose ; 
 but do ye come again and see me. And, Miss Merton, 
 you never come to see me now, as you used.' 
 
 *Miss Merton has her occupations like the rest of 
 us,' said Mr. Eden, quickly ; ' but she will come to see 
 you — won't she ?' 
 
 ' Oh, yes, sir !' replied Susan, hastily. So then they 
 returned to the farm, for Mr. Eden's horse was in the 
 stable. At the door they found Mr. Merton. 
 
 ' This is father, sir. Father, this is Mr. Eden, that 
 is coming to take the duty here for awhile.' 
 
 After the ordinary civilities Susan drew her father 
 aside and exchanging a few words with him disap- 
 peared into the house. As Mr. Eden was mounting 
 his horse, Mr. Merton came forward, and invited him to 
 stay at his house whenever he should come to the 
 parish. Mr. Eden hesitated. 
 
* IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 117 
 
 * Sir,' said the farmer, ' you will find no lodgings 
 comfortable within a mile of the church, and we have 
 a large house not half occupied. You can make your- 
 self quite at home.' 
 
 *I am much obliged to you, Mr. Merton, but must 
 not trespass too far upon your courtesy.' 
 
 ' Well, sir,' replied the farmer, ' we shall feel proud 
 if you can put up with the like of us.' 
 
 ' I will come. I am much obliged to you sir and 
 to your daughter.' 
 
 He mounted his horse and bade the farmer good 
 morning. Susan came out and stood on the steps and 
 curtsied low — rustic fashion — but with a grace of her 
 own. He took off his hat to her as he rode out of 
 the gate, gave her a sweet bright smile of adieu, and 
 went down the lane fourteen miles an hour. Old 
 Giles was seated outside his own door with a pipe and 
 a book. At the sound of horses' feet he looked up, 
 and recognized his visitor, whom he had seen pass in 
 the morning. He rose up erect and saluted him, by 
 bringing his thumb, with a military wave, to his fore- 
 head. Mr. Eden saluted him in the same manner, but 
 without stopping. The old soldier sat down again, and 
 read and smoked. The pipe ended — that solace was 
 not of an immortal kind — but the book remained ; he 
 read it calmly but earnestly in the warm air till day 
 declined. 
 
( 118 ) 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 The next Saturday Susan was busy preparing two 
 rooms for Mr. Eden— a homely but bright bed-room 
 looking eastward, and a snug room where he could be 
 quiet down stairs. Snowy sheets and curtains and 
 toilet-cover showed the good housewife. The windows- 
 were open, and a beautiful nosegay of Susan's flowers 
 on the table. Mr. Eden's eye brightened at the com- 
 fort neatness and freshness of the whole tiling; and 
 Susan, who watched him furtively, felt pleased to see 
 him pleased. 
 
 On Sunday he preached in the parish churck The 
 sermon was opposite to what the good people here had 
 been subject to'; instead of the vague and cold generalities 
 of an English sermon, he drove home- truths home in 
 business-like English. He used a good many illustra- 
 tions, and these were drawn from matters with which 
 this particular congregation were conversant. He was 
 as full of similes here as he was sparing of them when 
 he preached before the University of Oxford. Any one 
 who had read this sermon in a book of sermons would 
 have divined what sort of congregation it was preached 
 
*IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 119 
 
 to — a primrose of a sermon. Mr. Eden preached 
 from notes and to tlie people — not the air. Like every 
 born orator, he felt his way with his audience, whereas 
 the preacher who is not an orator, throws out his fine 
 things, hit or miss, and does not know and feel and care 
 whether he is hitting or missing. ' Open your hand, 
 shut your eyes, and fling out the good seed so much per 
 foot — that is enough.' No. This man preached to 
 the faces and hearts that happened to be round him. 
 He established between himself and them a pulse, every 
 throb of which he felt and followed. If he could not 
 get hold of them one way, he tried another ; he would 
 have them — he was not there to fail. His discourse 
 was human ; it was man speaking to man on the most 
 vital and interesting topic in the world or out of it ; it 
 was more, it was brother speaking to brother. Hence 
 some singular phenomena : — First, when he gave the 
 blessing (which is a great piece of eloquence commonly 
 reduced to a very small one by monotonous or feeble de- 
 livery) and uttered it, like his discourse, with solemnity 
 warmth tenderness and all his soul, the people lingered 
 some moments in the church and seemed unwilling to 
 go at all. Second, nobody mistook their pew for their 
 four-poster during the sermon. This was the more 
 remarkable, as many of the congregation had formed a 
 steady habit of coming to this place once a- week with 
 the single view of snatching an hour's repose from 
 earthly and lieavenly cares. 
 
 The next morning Mr. Eden visited some of the 
 poorest people in the parish. Susan accompanied him 
 
120 'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 all eyes and ears : she observed that his line was not 
 to begin by dictating his own topic, but lie in wait for 
 them ; let them first choose their favourite theme, and so 
 meet them on this ground, and bring religion to bear on 
 it. ' Oh, how wise he is 1' thought Susan, ' and how he 
 knows the heart.' 
 
 One Sunday evening three weeks after his first 
 ofiicial visit he had been by himself to see some of the 
 poor people, and on his return found Susan alone. He 
 sat down and gave an account of his visits. 
 
 ' How many ounces of tea and tobacco did you give 
 away, sir ?' asked Susan, with an arch smile. 
 
 ' Four tea two tobacco,' replied the reverend gentle- 
 man. , 
 
 ' I do notice sir you never carry gingerbread or the 
 like for the children.' 
 
 ' No ; the young don't want loUypops, for they have 
 youth. Old age wants everything, so the old are my 
 children, and I tea and tobacco them.' 
 
 After this there was a pause. 
 
 ' Miss Merton, you have shown me many persons who 
 need consolation, but there is one you say nothing about.' 
 
 ' Have I, sir? Who ? Oh, I think I know. Old 
 dame Clayton ?' 
 
 ' No, it is a young demoiselle.' 
 
 ' Then I don't know who it can be.' 
 
 ' Guess.' 
 
 ' No sir,' said Susan, looking down. 
 
 ' It is yourself. Miss Merton.' 
 
 ' Me, sir ! Why, what is the matter with me ?' 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 121 
 
 ' That you sliall tell me, if you think me worthy of 
 your confidence.' 
 
 ' Oh, thank you, sir. I have my little crosses no 
 doubt, like all the world ; but I have health and 
 strength. I have my father.' 
 
 ' My child, you are in trouble. You were crying 
 when I came in.' 
 
 ' Indeed I was not, sir ! — how did you know I was 
 crying ?' 
 
 ' When I came in jou turned your back to me 
 instead of facing me which is more natural when any 
 one enters a room ; and soon after you made an excuse 
 for leaving the room, and when you came back there 
 was a drop of water in your right eyelash.' 
 
 ' It need not have been a tear, sir !' 
 
 ' It was not, it was water ; you had been removing 
 the traces of tears.' 
 
 ' Girls are mostly always crying sir ; often they 
 don't know for why, but they don't care to have it 
 noticed always.' 
 
 * Nor would it be polite or generous ; but this of 
 yours is a deep grief, and alarms me for you. Shall I 
 tell you how I know? You often yawn and often 
 sigh ; when these two things come together -at your 
 age they are signs of a heavy grief; then it comes out 
 that you have lost your relish for things that once 
 pleased you. The first day I came here you told me 
 your garden had been neglected of late, and you 
 bluslied in saying so. Old Griles and others asked you 
 before me why you had given up visiting them ; you 
 
 VOL. L a 
 
122 'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEXD.' 
 
 colored and looked down. I could almost have told 
 them, but that would have made you uncomfortable. 
 You are in grief, and no common grief.' 
 
 ' Nothing worth speaking to you about, sir ; nothing 
 I will ever complain of to any one.' 
 
 ' There I think you are wrong ; religion has consoled 
 many griefs ; great griefs admit of no other consolation. 
 The sweetest exercise of my office is to comfort the 
 heavy hearted. Your heart is heavy, my poor lamb, 
 tell me what is it ?' 
 
 ' It is nothing, sir, that you would understand ; you 
 are very skilled, and notice- taking, as well as good, sir. 
 but you are not a woman, and you must excuse me, 
 sir, if I beg you not to question me further on what 
 would not interest you.' 
 
 Mr. Eden looked at her compassionately, and merely 
 said to her again, ' What is it ?' in a low tone of 
 ineffable tenderness. 
 
 At this Susan looked in a scared manner this way 
 and that. ' Sir, do not ask me, pray do not ask 
 me so ;' then she suddenly lifted her hands, ' My 
 George is gone across the sea ! What shall I do ! 
 what shall I do ! !' and she buried her face in her 
 apron. 
 
 This burst of pure Nature — this simple cry of a 
 suffering heart — was very touching ; and Mr. Eden, 
 spite of his many experiences, was not a little moved. 
 He sat silent, looking on her as an angel might be 
 supposed to look upon human griefs, and as he looked 
 on her various expressions chased one another across 
 
'it is never too late to mend.' 123 
 
 that eloquent face. Sweet and tender memories and 
 regrets were not wanting amongst them. After a long- 
 pause he spoke in a tone soft and gentle as a woman's, 
 and at first in a voice so faltering that Susan though 
 her face was hidden felt there was no common sym- 
 pathy there, and silently put out her hand towards it. 
 
 He murmured consolation. He said many gentle 
 soothing things. He told her that it was sad, very sad, 
 the immense ocean should roll between two loving hearts ; 
 ' but,' said he, ' there are barriers more impassable than 
 the sea. Better so than that he should be here and 
 jealousy, mistrust, caprice, or even temper come be- 
 tween you. I hope he will come back; I think he will 
 come back.' 
 
 She blessed him for saying so. She was learning to 
 believe every thing this man uttered. 
 
 From consolation he passed to advice — 
 
 * You must do the exact opposite of what you have 
 been doing.' 
 
 'Must I?' 
 
 ' You must visit those poor people ; ay, more 
 than ever you did ; hear patiently their griefs ; do not 
 expect much in return, neither sympathy nor a great 
 deal of gratitude ; vulgar sorrow is selfish. Do it for 
 God's sake and your own single heartedly. Go to 
 the school, return to your flowers, and never shun 
 innocent society however dull. Milk and water is a 
 poor thing, but it is a diluent, and all we can do just 
 now is to dilute your grief.' 
 
 He made her promise : ' Next time I come tell me 
 
 g2 
 
124 'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 all about you and Greorge. Give sorrow words, the 
 grief that does not speak whispers the o'erfraught heart 
 and bids it break.' 
 
 ' Oh ! that is a true word,' sobbed Susan, ' that is 
 very true. Why a little of the lead seems to have 
 dropped off my heart now I have spoken to you, sir.' 
 
 All the next week Susan bore up as bravely as she 
 could, and did what Mr. Eden had bade her, and 
 profited by his example. She learned to draw from 
 others the full history of their woes ; and she found 
 that many a grief bitter as her own had passed over 
 the dwellers in those small cottages ; it did her some 
 little good to discover kindred woes, and much good to 
 go out of herself awhile and pity them. 
 
 This drooping flower recovered her head a little, but 
 still the sweetest hour in all the working days of the 
 week was that which brought John Meadows to talk 
 to her of Australia. 
 
( 125 ) 
 
 CHAPTEE VIII. 
 
 Susan Mertox had two unfavored lovers ; it is well 
 to observe how differently these two behaved. William 
 Fielding stayed at home, threw his whole soul into his 
 farm, and seldom went near the woman he loved but 
 had no right to love. Meadows dangled about the 
 flame ; ashamed and afraid to own his love he fed it 
 to a prodigious height by encouraging it and not 
 expressing it. William Fielding was moody and 
 cross and sad enough at times ; but at others a little 
 spark ignited inside his heart, and a warm glow 
 diffused itself from that small point over all his being. 
 I think this spark igniting was an approving conscience 
 commencing its uphill work of making a disappointed 
 lover but honest man content. 
 
 Meadows on his part began to feel content and a 
 certain complacency take the place of his stormy 
 feelings. Twice a-week he passed two hours with 
 Susan. She always greeted him with a smile, and 
 naturally showed an innocent satisfaction in these 
 visits, managed as they were with so much art and 
 self-restraint. On Sunday too he had always a word 
 or two with her. 
 
126 'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEXD.' 
 
 Meadows, though, an observer of religious forms, had 
 the character of a very worldly man, and Susan 
 thought it highly to liis credit that he came six miles 
 to hear Mr. Eden. 
 
 ' But, Mr. Meadows, your poor horse,' said she, one 
 day. ' I doubt it is no sabbath to him now.' 
 
 ' No more it is,' said Meadows, as if a new light 
 came to him from Susan. "^he next Sunday he 
 appeared in dusty shoes, instead of top-boots. 
 
 Susan looked down at them, and saw, and said 
 nothing, but she smiled. Her love of goodness and 
 her vanity were both gratified a little. 
 
 Meadows did not stop there ; wherever Susan went 
 he fbllow^ed modestly in her steps.- Nor was this mere 
 cunning. He loved her quite well enough to imitate 
 her, and try and feel with her ; and he began to be 
 kinder to the poor, and to feel good all over, and com- 
 fortable. He felt as if he had not an enemy in the 
 world. One day in Farnborough he saw William 
 Fielding on the other side the street. Susan Merton 
 did not love William, tlierefore Meadows had no cause 
 to hate him. He remembered William had asked a 
 loan of him and he had declined. He crossed over 
 to him. 
 
 ' Good day, Mr. William.' 
 
 ' Good day, Mr. Meadows.' 
 
 ' You were speaking to me one day about a trifling 
 loan. I could not manage it just then, but now — ' 
 Here Meadows paused. He had been on the point of 
 offering the money, but suddenly by one of those 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 103 
 
 to tliem. Now the marigold is like those lasses, but 
 this pink is good as well as pretty, so then it will stand 
 for you when we are apart as we mostly are worse 
 luck for me.' 
 
 * Oh, George,' said Susan, dropping her quizzing 
 manner, ' I am a long way behind the marigold or 
 any flower in comeliness and innocence but at least, I 
 wish I was better.' 
 
 a don't!' 
 
 ' Ay, but I do, ten times better, for — for — ' 
 
 * For why ! Susan.' 
 
 Susan closed the garden gate, and took a step to- 
 wards the house. Then turning her head over her 
 shoulder with an ineffable look of tenderness, tipped 
 with one tint of lingering archness, she let fall, 
 
 ' For your sake George.' 
 in the direction of Greorge's feet, and glided across the 
 garden into the house. 
 
 George stood watching her : he did not at first take 
 up all she had bestowed on him, for her sex has a 
 peculiar mastery over language, being diabolically ange- 
 lically subtle in the art of saying something that ex- 
 presses 1 oz. and implies 1 cwt. ; but when he did 
 comprehend, his heart exulted. He strode home as 
 if he trod on air and often kissed the little flower 
 he had taken from the beloved hand, ' and with it words 
 of so sweet breath composed, as made the thing more 
 rich;' and as he marched past the house kissing the 
 flower, need I tell my reader that so innocent a girl as 
 Susan was too high-minded to watch the effect of her 
 
104 'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 proceedings from behind tlie curtains. I hope not, it 
 would surely be superfluous to relate what none would 
 be green enough to belicA'e. 
 
 These were Susan's happy days : now all was 
 changed : she hated to water her flowers now, she bade 
 one of" the farm servants look to the garden. He ac- 
 cepted the charge, and her flowers' drooping heads told 
 how nobly he fulfilled it. Susan was charitable. Every 
 day it had been her custom to visit more than one poor 
 person ; she carried meal to one, soup to another, linen 
 to another, meat and bread to another, money to 
 another : to all words and looks of sympathy ; this 
 practice she did not even now give up, for it came under 
 the head of her religious duties, but she relaxed it. 
 She often sent to places where she used to go. Until 
 George went, she had never thought of herself ; and so 
 the selfishness of those she relieved had not struck her : 
 now it made her bitter to see that none of those she 
 pitied, pitied her. The moment she came into their 
 houses, it was, ' My poor head. Miss Merton ; my old 
 bones do ache so. 
 
 ' I think a bit of your nice bacon would do ME good. 
 I'm a poor sufferer, Miss Merton. My boy is 'listed. 
 I thought as how you'd forgotten me altogether : but 
 'tis hard for poor folk to keep a friend. 
 
 ' You see. Miss, my bed-room window is broken 
 in one or two places. John, he stopped it up with 
 paper the best way he could, but la, bless you, paper 
 baint like glass. It is very dull for me : you see. Miss, 
 I can't get about now as I used to could, and I never 
 
* IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 105 
 
 was no great reader. I often wish as soir'^ one would 
 step in and knock me on the head, for I be no use, I 
 baint, neer a mossel.' No one of them looked up in her 
 face, and said, ' Lauks how pale you ha got to look, 
 Miss ; I hopes as how nothing amiss haven't happened 
 to you, that have been so kind to us this many a day : ' 
 yet suffering of some sort was plainly stamped on the 
 face and in the manner of this relieving angel. When 
 they poured out their vulgar woes Susan made an 
 effort to forget her own and to cheer as well as relieve 
 them : but she had to compress her own heart hard to 
 do it ; and this suppression of feeling makes people 
 more or less bitter : she had better have out with it, 
 and scolded them well for talking as if they alone were 
 unhappy ; but her woman's nature would not let her. 
 They kept asking her for pity, and she still gulped 
 down her own heart and gave it them, till at last she 
 began to take a spite against her pets, so then she sent 
 to most of them instead of going. She sent rather 
 larger slices of beef and bacon, and rather more yards 
 of flannel than when she used to carry the like to them 
 herself. Susan ha'd one or two young friends, daughters 
 of farmers in the neighbourhood, with whom she was a 
 favourite, though the gayer ones sometimes quizzed her 
 for her religious tendencies, and her lamentable indif- 
 ference to flirtation : but then she was so good, and so 
 good-humoured and tolerant of other people's tastes. 
 The prattle of these young ladies became now intolera- 
 ble to Susan, and when she saw them coming to call on 
 her, she used to snatch up her bonnet, and fly and lock 
 
 f3 
 
106 ^ IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEXD.' 
 
 herself up in a closet at tlie top of the house, and read 
 some good book as quiet as a mouse, till the servants 
 had hunted for her, and told them she must be out. 
 She was not in a frame of mind to sustain tarlatans, 
 barege, the history of the last hop, and the prophecies of 
 the next ; the wounded deer shrank from its gambolling 
 associates and indeed from all strangers except John 
 Meadows : ' He talks to me about something worth 
 talking about,' said Susan Merton. It happened one 
 day while Susan was in this sad and I may say dan- 
 gerous state of mind that the servant came up to her, 
 and told her a gentleman was on his horse at the door 
 and wanted to see Mr. Merton. 
 
 ' Father is at market, Jane.' 
 
 ' Yes, Miss, but I told the gentleman you were at 
 home.' 
 
 ' Me ! what have I to do with father's visitors ?' 
 
 ' Miss,' replied Jane mysteriously, ' it is a parson, and 
 you are so fond of them, I could not think to let him go 
 away without getting a word with anybody ; and he 
 has such a face — La, Miss, you never saw such a face.' 
 
 ' Silly girl, what have I to do with handsome faces.' 
 
 ' But he is not handsome. Miss, not in the least, only 
 he is beautiful. You go and see else.' 
 
 ' I hate stranger's faces ; but I will go to him Jane ; 
 it is my duty since it is a clergyman. I will just go 
 up stairs.' 
 
 ' La, Miss, what for ? you are always neat, you are — 
 nobody ever catches you in your dishables like the rest 
 of 'em.' 
 
* IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 107 
 
 * I'll just smooth my hair/ 
 
 * La, Miss, what for ? it is smooth as marble — it 
 always is.' 
 
 ' Where is he, Jane ?' 
 
 ' In the front parlour.' 
 
 ' I won't be a moment.' 
 
 She went up stairs. There was no necessity ; Jane 
 was right there, but it was a strict custom in the 
 country, and is for that matter, and will be till time 
 and vanity shall be no more : more marjorum a girl 
 must go up and look at herself in the glass if she 
 did nothing more, before coming in to receive com- 
 pany. 
 
 Susan entered the parlour : she came in so gently 
 that she had a moment to observe her visitor before 
 he saw her. He had seated himself with his back 
 to the light, and was devouring a stupid book on hus- 
 bandry that belonged to her father. The moment 
 she closed the door he saw her, and rose from his 
 seat. 
 
 'MissMerton?' 
 
 * Yes, sir.' 
 
 * The living of this place has been vacant more than 
 a month.' 
 
 ' Yes, sir.' 
 
 * It will not be filled up for three months perhaps.' 
 ' So we hear, sir.' 
 
 ' Meantime you have no church to go to nearer than 
 Barmstoke, which is chapel-of-ease to this place, but 
 two miles distant.' 
 
108 'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND/ 
 
 ' Two miles and-a-half, sir.' 
 
 ' So then the people here have no Divine service on 
 the Lord's day.' 
 
 'No, sir, not for the present,' said Susan meekly, 
 lowering her lashes ; as if the clergyman had said, " this 
 is a parish of heathens, whereof you are one." 
 
 ' Nor any servant of God to say a word of humility 
 and charity to the rich, of eternal hope to the poor, 
 and ' (here his voice sunk into sudden tenderness) ' of 
 comfort to the sorrowful.' 
 
 Susan raised her eyes, and looked him over with one 
 dovelike glance, then instantly lowered them. 
 
 ' No, sir, we are all under a cloud here,' said Susan 
 sadly. 
 
 'Miss Merton, I have undertaken the duty here 
 until the living shall be filled up ; but you shall under- 
 stand that I live thirty miles oiF, and have other duties, 
 and I can only ride over here on Saturday afternoon, 
 and back Monday at noon.' 
 
 ' Oh, sir !' cried Susan, ' half a loaf is better than no 
 bread ! The parish will bless you, sir, and no doubt,' 
 added she timidly, 'the Lord will reward you, for 
 coming so far to us !' 
 
 ' I am glad you think so,' said the clergyman 
 thoughtfully. ' Well, let us do the best we can : tell 
 me first. Miss Merton, do you think the absence of a 
 clergyman is regretted here ?' 
 
 ' Eegretted, sir ! dear heart, what a question : you 
 might as well ask me, do father's turnips long for rain 
 after a month's drought;' and Susan turned on her 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 109 
 
 visitor a face into which the innocent veneratinof love her 
 sex have for an ecclesiastic flashed without disguise. 
 
 o 
 
 Her companion smiled, but it was with benevolence 
 not with gratified vanity. 
 
 ' Let me novf explain my visit. Your father is one 
 of the principal people in the village. He can assist 
 me or thwart me in my work. I called to invite his 
 co-operation. Some clergymen are jealous of co- 
 operation, I am not : it is a good thing for all parties ; 
 best of all for those who co-operate with us ; for in 
 giving alms wisely they receive grace, and in teaching 
 the ignorant they learn themselves. Am I right?' 
 added he, rather sharply, turning suddenly upon Susan. 
 
 ' Oh, sir,' said Susan, a little startled, ' it is for me 
 to receive your words, not to judge them.' 
 
 ' Humph !' said the reverend gentleman, rather drily ; 
 he hated intellectual subserviency : he liked people to 
 think for themselves ; and to end by thinking with him. 
 
 * Father will never thwart you, sir, and I — I will 
 co-operate with you, sir, if you will accept of me,' said 
 Susan innocently. 
 
 * Thank you, then let us begin at once.' He took out 
 his watch. * I have an hour and-a-half to spare, then I 
 must gallop back to Oxford. Miss Merton, I should 
 Kke to make acquaintance with some of the people. 
 Suppose we go to the school, and see what the children 
 are learning ; and then visit one or two families in the 
 village, so I shall catch a glimpse of the three genera- 
 tions I have to deal with. My name is Francis Eden. 
 You are going to get your bonnet ?' 
 
110 'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 ' Yes, sir.' 
 
 * Thank you.' 
 
 They passed out through the garden. Mr. Eden 
 stopped to look at the flowers. Susan coloured. 
 
 ' It has been rather neglected of ' late,' said she, 
 apologetically. 
 
 ' It must have been very well taken care of 
 before, then,' said he, ' for it looks charming now. 
 Ah! I love flowers dearly,' and he gave a little 
 sigh. 
 
 They reached the school, and Mr. Eden sat down 
 and examined the little boys and girls. When he sat 
 down, Susan winced. How angry he will be at their 
 ignorance ! thought Susan. But Mr. Eden, instead of 
 putting on an awful look, and impressing on the chil- 
 dren that a being of another generation was about to 
 attack them, made himself young to meet their minds. 
 A pleasant smile disarmed their fears. He spoke to 
 them in very simple words and childish idioms, and told 
 them a pretty story, which interested them mightily. 
 Having set their minds really working, he put ques- 
 tions arising fairly out of his story, and so fathomed the 
 moral sense and the intelligence of more than one. 
 In short he drew the brats out instead of crushing 
 them in. Susan stood by, at first startlev? at the line 
 he took, then observant then approving. Presently 
 he turned to her. 
 
 ' And which is your class. Miss Merton ?' 
 
 Susan coloured. 
 
 ' I take these little girls when I come, sir.' 
 
*IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' Ill 
 
 ' Miss Merton has not been near ns this fortnight,' 
 said a pert teacher. 
 
 Susan could have beat her. What will this good 
 man think of me now ? thought poor Susan. 
 
 To her grateful relief, the good man took no notice 
 of the observation ; he looked at his watch. 
 
 ' Now, Miss Merton, if I am not giving you too 
 much trouble ;' and they left the school. 
 
 ' You wish to see some of the folk in the village, sir ?' 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 ' Wliere shall I take you first, sir ?' 
 
 * Where I ought to go first.' 
 Susan looked puzzled. 
 
 Mr. Eden stopped dead short. 
 
 * Come, guess,' said he, with a radiant smile, ' and 
 don't look so scared. I'll forgive you if you guess 
 wrong.' 
 
 Susan looked this way and that, encouraged by his 
 merry smile. She let out — scarce above a whisper, and 
 in a tone of interrogation, as who shall say this is not 
 to be my last chance since I have only asked a ques- 
 tion not risked an answer — 
 
 ' To the poorest, Mr. Eden ?' 
 
 *Brava! she has guessed it,' cried the Reverend 
 Frank, triumphantly; for he had been more anxious 
 she should answer right than she had herself. * Young 
 lady, I have friends with their heads full of Latin and 
 Greek who could not have answered that so quickly 
 as you ; one proof more how goodness brightens intelli- 
 gence,' added he, in soliloquy. * Here's a cottage.' 
 
112 ' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEXD.' 
 
 * Yes sir I was going to take you into this one if 
 you please.' 
 
 Tliey found in the cottage a rheumatic old man, one 
 of those we alluded to as full of his own complaints, 
 Mr. Eden heard these with patience, and then, after a 
 few words of kind sympathy and acquiescence, for he 
 w^as none of those hard humbugs who tell a man that 
 old age, rheumatism and poverty are strokes with a 
 feather, he said quietly — 
 
 ' And now for the other side ; now tell me what you 
 have to be grateful for.' 
 
 The old man was taken aback, and his fluency de- 
 serted him. On the question being repeated, he began 
 to say that he had many mercies to be thankful for. 
 Then he higgled and hammered and fumbled; for 
 the said mercies, and tried to enumerate them, but in 
 phrases conventional and derived from tracts and ser- 
 mons ; whereas his statement of grievances had been 
 idiomatic. 
 
 ' There that will do ' said Mr. Eden smiling, ' say 
 nothing you don't feel ; what is the use ? May I ask 
 you a few questions,' added he, courteously ; then, 
 without waiting for permission he dived skilfully into 
 this man's life, and fished up all the pearls — the more 
 remarkable passages. 
 
 Many years ago this old man had been a soldier, 
 had fought in more than one great battle, had retreated 
 with Sir John Moore upon Corunna, and been one of 
 the battered and weary but invincible band, who 
 wheeled round and stunned the pursuers on that bloody 
 
'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 113 
 
 and glorious day. Mr. Eden went with the old man 
 to Spain, discussed with great animation the retreat, 
 the battle, the position of the forces, and the old sol- 
 dier's personal prowess. Old Giles pirked up, and 
 dilated, and was another man; he forgot his rheuma- 
 tism, and even his old age. Twice he suddenly stood 
 upright as a dart on the floor, and gave the word of 
 command like a trumpet in some brave captam's 
 name; and his cheek flushed, and his eye glittered 
 with the light of battle. Susan looked at him with 
 astonishment. Then when his heart was warm and 
 his spirits attentive Mr. Eden began to throw in a few 
 words of exhortation. But even then he did not 
 bully the man into being a Christian ; gently, firmly, 
 and with a winning modesty he said — ' I think you 
 have much to be thankful for like all the rest of us. 
 Is it not a mercy you were not cut off in your wild and 
 dissolute youth ? you might have been slain in battle.' 
 
 ' That I might sir ; three of us went from this 
 parish and only one came home again.' 
 
 * You might have lost a leg or an arm as many a 
 brave fellow did; you might have been a cripple all 
 your days.' 
 
 ' That is true, sir.' 
 
 ' You survive here in a Christian land, in possession 
 of your faculties ; the world, it is true, lias but few^ 
 pleasures to offer you — all the better for you. Oh, if 
 I could but make that as plain to you as it is to me. 
 You have every encouragement to look for happiness 
 there, where alone it is to be found. Then courage. 
 
114 * IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND,' 
 
 corporal ; you stood firm at Corunna — do not give way 
 in tliis your last and most glorious battle. The stake 
 is greater than it was at Vittoria, or Salamanca, or 
 Corunna, or Waterloo. The eternal welfare of a single 
 human soul weighs a thousand times more than all 
 the crowns and empires in the globe. You are 
 in danger, sir. Discontent is a great enemy of 
 the soul. You must pray against it — you must fight 
 against it.' 
 
 * And so I will, sir ; you see if I don't.' 
 
 * You read, Mr. Giles?' Susan had told Mr. Eden 
 his name at the threshold. 
 
 ' Yes, sir ; but I can't abide them nasty little prints 
 they bring me.' 
 
 ' Of course you can't. Printed to sell, not to read, 
 eh? Here is a book. The type is large, clear, and 
 sharp. This is an order-book, corporal. It comes from 
 the great Captain of our Salvation. Every sentence in 
 it is gold ; yet I think I may venture to pick out a 
 few for your especial use at present.' And Mr. Eden 
 sat down ; and producing from his side-pockets which 
 were very profound some long thin slips of paper he 
 rapidly turned the leaves of the Testament and in- 
 serted his marks ; but this occupation did not for a 
 moment interrupt his other proceedings. 
 
 ' There is a pipe— you don't smoke, I hope ?' 
 
 * No, sir ; leastways not when I han't got any baccy, 
 and I've been out of that this three days worse luck.' 
 
 ' Give up smoking corporal, it is a foul habit.' 
 
 ' Ah, sir! you don't ever have a half-empty belly 
 
* IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 139 
 
 siglied at the domestic prospects of her friend, and her 
 needle went slower and slower. 
 
 These reflections were interrupted by the servant, 
 who announced a visitor. Susan laid down her work 
 and went into the parlour, and there found Isaac Levi. 
 She greeted him with open arms and heightened 
 color, and never for a moment suspected that he was 
 come there full of suspicions of her. 
 
 After the first greeting, a few things of little import- 
 ance were said on either side, Isaac watching to see 
 whether Mr. Meadows had succeeded in supplanting 
 George, and too cunning to lead the conversation that 
 way himself, lay patiently in wait like a sly old fox. 
 However, he soon found he was playing the politician 
 superfluously, for Susan laid bare her whole heart 
 to the simplest capacity. Instead of waiting for 
 the skilful, subtle, almost invisible cross-examination 
 which the descendant of Maimonides was preparing 
 for her, she answered all his questions before they 
 were asked. It came out that her thought by 
 day and night was Greorge, that she had been very 
 dull, and very unhappy. ' But I am better now, Mr. 
 Levi, thank God : He has been very good to me. He 
 has sent me a friend, a clergyman, or an angel in the 
 dress of one I sometimes think. He knows all about 
 me and George, sir ; so that makes me feel quite at home 
 with him, and I can — and now Mr. Meadows stops an 
 hour on market days, and he is so kind as to tell me all 
 about Australia, and you may guess I like to hear 
 about — Mr. Levi, come and see us some market even- 
 
140 ' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEXD.' 
 
 ing. Mr. Meadows is capital company ; to liear him you 
 would think he had passed half his life in Australia. 
 Were you ever in Australia, sir, if you please ? ' 
 
 * Never, but I shall.' 
 
 * Shall you, sir ?' 
 
 ' Yes ; the old Jew is not to die till he has drifted 
 to every part in the globe. In my old days I shall go 
 back towards the East, and there methinks I shall lay 
 these wandering bones.' 
 
 ' Oh, sir inquire after George and show him some 
 kindness, and don't see him wronged, he is very 
 sim^^le — No ! no ! no ! you are too old ; you must not 
 cross the seas at your age ; don't think of it ; stay quiet 
 at home till you leave us for a better world.' 
 
 ' At home !' said the old man sorrowfully ; ' I have no 
 home. I had a home, but the man Meadows has driven 
 me out of it.' 
 
 ' Mr. Meadows ! La, sir, as how ?' 
 
 ' He bought the house I live in, and next Lady-day 
 as the woman-worshipper calls it he turns me to the 
 door.' 
 
 ' But he won't if you ask him. He is a very good- 
 natured man. You go and ask him to be so good as 
 let you stay; he won't gainsay you, you take my 
 word.' 
 
 ' Susannah !' replied Isaac, ' you are good, and inno- 
 cent ; you cannot fathom the hearts of the wicked. 
 This Meadows is a man of Belial. I did beseech him ; 
 I bowed these grey hairs to hhn, to let me stay in the 
 house where I lived so happily with my Leah twenty 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 141 
 
 years, where my cliildren were born to me and died 
 from me, where my Leah consoled me for their loss 
 awhile, but took no comfort herself and left me too.' 
 
 ' Poor old man ! and what did he say ?' 
 
 ' He refused me with harsh words. To make the 
 refusal more bitter he insulted my religion and my 
 much-enduring tribe, and at the day appointed he 
 turns me at three- score years and ten adrift upon the 
 earth.' 
 
 ' Eh ! dear ! how hard the world is !' cried Susan ; 
 ' I had a great respect for Mr. Meadows, but now if 
 he comes here I know I shall shut the door in his 
 face. ' 
 
 Isaac reflected. This would not have suited a cer- 
 tain subtle Eastern plan of vengeance he had formed. 
 ' No !' said he, '- that is folly. Take not another man's 
 quarrel on your shoulders. A Jew knows how to re- 
 venge himself without your aid.' 
 
 So then her inquisitor was satisfied ; Australia really 
 was the topic that made Meadows welcome : he de- 
 parted, revolving oriental vengeance. 
 
 Smooth Meadows at his next visit removed the 
 impression excited against him, and easily persuaded 
 Susan that Levi was more in the wrong than he ; in 
 which opinion she stood firm till Levi's next visit. 
 
 At last she gave up all hope of dijudicating, and 
 determined to end the matter by bringing them to- 
 gether and making them friends. 
 
 And now approached the day of Mr. Eden's depar- 
 ture. The last sermon — the last quiet tea in the gar- 
 
142 'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEXD.' 
 
 den. On Monday afternoon he was to go to Oxford, 
 and the following week to his new sphere of duties, 
 which he had selected to the astonishment of some 
 hundred persons who knew him superficially — knew 
 him by his face, by his pretensions as a scholar a 
 divine and a gentleman of descent and independent 
 means, but had not sounded his depths. 
 
 All Sunday, Susan sought every opportunity of con- 
 versing with him .even on indifferent matters. She 
 was garnering up his words, his very syllables, and 
 twenty times in the day he saw her eyes fill with 
 tears apropos of such observations as this, 
 
 ' We shall have a nice warm afternoon, Susan.' 
 
 * It is to be hoped so, sir ; the blackbirds are giving 
 a chirrup or two.' 
 
 All Monday forenoon Susan was very busy. There 
 was bread to be baked and butter to be made. Mr. 
 Eden must take some of each to Oxford. They would 
 keep Grassmere in his mind a day or two longer ; and 
 besides they were wholesome and he was fond of them. 
 Then there was his linen to be looked over, and but- 
 tons sewed on for the last time. Then he must eat a 
 good dinner before he went, so then he would want 
 nothing but his tea when he got to Oxford; and the 
 bread would be fit to eat oy tea-time, especially a small 
 crusty cake she had made for that purpose. So with 
 all this Susan was energetic, almost lively ; and even 
 when it was all done and they were at dinner, her 
 principal anxiety seemed to be that he should eat more 
 than usual because he was going a journey. But when 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 143 
 
 all bustle of every kind was over, and the actual hour of 
 parting came, she suddenly burst out crying before her 
 father and the servant, who bade her not take on and 
 instantly burst out crying too from vague sympathy. 
 
 The old farmer ordered the girl out of the room di- 
 rectly, and without the least emotion proceeded to 
 make excuses to Mr. Eden for Susan. 
 
 ' A young maid's eyes soon flow over,' etc. 
 
 Mr. Eden interrupted him. 
 
 ' Such tears as these do not scald the heart. I feel 
 this separation from my dear kind friend as much 
 as she feels it. But I am more than twice her age, 
 and have passed through — I should feel it bitterly 
 if I thought our friendship and Christian love were to 
 end because our path of duty lies separate. But no, 
 Susan, still look on me as your adviser, your elder 
 brother, and in some measure your pastor. I shall 
 write to you and watch over you, though at some dis- 
 tance — and not so great a distance. I am always well- 
 horsed, and I know you will give me a bed at Grass- 
 mere once a quarter.' 
 
 ' That we will,' cried the farmer, warmly, ' and 
 proud and happy to see you cross the threshold, sir.' 
 
 ' And Mr. Merton, my new house is large, I shall 
 be alone in it. Whenever you and Miss Merton have 
 nothing better to do, pray come and visit me; I will 
 make you as uncomfortable as you have made me com- 
 fortable, but as welcome as you have made me welcome.' 
 
 ' We will come, sir ! we will come some one of these 
 days, and thank you for the honor.' 
 
144 * IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEXD.' 
 
 So Mr. Eden went from Grassmere village and 
 Grassmere farm-house, but he left neither as he found 
 them ; fifty years hence, an old man and woman or 
 two will speak to their grandchildren of " the Sower," 
 and Susan Merton (if she is on earth then), of " the good 
 Physician." She may well do so, for it was no vulgar 
 service he rendered her no vulgar malady he checked. 
 
 Not every good man could have penetrated so 
 quickly a coy woman's grief, nor the wound found have 
 soothed her fever and deadened her smart with a hand 
 as firm as gentle as gentle as firm. 
 
 Such men are human suns ! They brighten and 
 warm wherever they pass. Fools count them mad, 
 till death wrenches open foolish eyes ; they are not 
 often called " my Lord,"* nor sung by poets when they 
 die; but the hearts they heal and their own are their 
 rich reward on earth, and their place is high in 
 heaven. 
 
 * Sometimes thoucrh. 
 
( 145 ) 
 
 CHAPTEE X. 
 
 Mr. Meadows lived in a house that he had conquered 
 three years ago by lending money on it at fair interest, 
 in his own name. Mr. David Hall, the proprietor, 
 paid neither principal nor interest. Mr. Meadows ex- 
 pected this contingency, and therefore lent his money. 
 He threatened to foreclose, and sell the house under 
 the hammer ; to avoid this Mr. Hall said, ' Pay your- 
 self the interest by living rent-free in the house till 
 such time as my old aunt dies drat her, and then 
 I'll pay your money. I wish I had never borrowed it.' 
 Meadows acquiesced with feigned reluctance. ' Well, 
 if I must, I must ; but let me have my money as soon 
 as you can' — (aside) ' I will end my days in this house.' 
 
 It had many conveniences ; among the rest a very 
 long though narrow garden, enclosed within high walls ; 
 at the end of which was a door, which any body could 
 open from the inside, but from the outside only by a 
 Bramah key. 
 
 The access to this part of the premises was by a short, 
 narrow lane, very dirty, and very little used, because 
 whatever might have been in old times, it led now 
 
 VOL. I. H 
 
146 * IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEXD.' 
 
 from nowliere to nowliere. Meadows received by tliis 
 entrance one or two persons, whom lie never allowed 
 to desecrate his knocker. At the head of these furtive 
 visitors was Peter Crawley, attorney-at-law, a gentle- 
 man who every New Year's Eve used to say to hun- 
 self, with a look of gratified amazement — ' Another 
 year gone, and I not struck off the Rolls ! ! !' 
 
 Peter had a Bramah key intrusted to him. 
 
 His visits to Mr. Meadows were conducted thus : he 
 opened the garden-gate, and looked up at the window 
 in a certain passage. This passage was not accessible 
 to the servants, and the window, with its blinds, was a 
 signal book. 
 
 Blinds up, Mr. Meadows out. 
 
 Wliite blind down, Mr. Meadows in. 
 
 Blue blind down, Mr. Meadows in, but not alone. 
 
 The same key that opened the garden door, opened 
 a door at the back of the house, which led direct to 
 the passage above-mentioned. On the window-seat lay 
 a peculiar whistle, constructed to imitate the whining 
 of a dog. Then Meadows would go to his book-shelves, 
 which lined one side of the room, and pressing a hidden 
 spring, open a door tliat nobody ever suspected, for the 
 books came along with it. To provide for every con- 
 tino-ency, there was a small secret opening in another 
 part of the shelves, by which Meadows could shoot, 
 unobserved, a note, or the like, into the passage, and so 
 give Crawley instructions without dismissing a visitor, 
 if he had one. 
 
 Meadows provided against surprises and discovery. 
 
* IT IS NE\^ER TOO LATE TO MEXD.' 147 
 
 His study had double doors, neither of them could be 
 opened from the outside. His visitors or servants must 
 rap with an iron knocker ; and whilst Meadows went 
 to open, the secret visitor stepped into the passage, and 
 shut the books behind him. 
 
 It was a room that looked business. One side was 
 almost papered with ordnance maps of this and an 
 adjoining county. Pigeon-holes abounded too, and 
 there was a desk, six feet long, chock full of little 
 drawers — contents indicated outside in letters of which 
 the proprietor knew the meaning, not I. 
 
 Between the door and the fire-place was a screen, 
 on which, in place of idle pictures, might be seen his 
 plans and calculations as a land surveyor, especially 
 those that happened to be at present in operation or 
 under consideration. So he kept his business before his 
 eye, on the chance of a good idea striking him at a 
 leisure moment. 
 
 * Will Fielding's acceptance falls due to-morrow, 
 Crawley.' 
 
 * Yes, sir, what shall I do.' 
 
 * Present it ; he is not ready for it I know.' 
 ' Well, sir, what next.' 
 
 * Serve him with a writ.' 
 
 * He will be preciously put about.' 
 
 ' He will. Seem sorry, say you are a little short, but 
 won't trouble him for a month, if it is inconvenient ; 
 but he must make you safe by signing a judgment.' 
 
 ' Ay ! ay ! sir, may I make bold to ask what is the 
 game with this young Fielding ?' 
 
 h2 
 
148 * IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEXD." 
 
 ' You ought to know the game — to get him in my 
 power.' 
 
 ' And a very good game it is, sir ! Nobody plays it 
 better than you, sir. He won't be the only one that is 
 in your power in these parts- — he ! he !' And Crawley 
 chuckled without merriment. ' Excuse my curiosity, 
 sir, but where about is the blow to fall ?' 
 
 ' What is that to you ?' 
 
 ' Nothing, sir, only the sooner the better. I have a 
 grudge against the family.' 
 
 ' Have you ? then don't act upon it. I don't em- 
 ploy you to do your business, but mine.' 
 
 ' Certainly, Mr. Meadows. You don't think I'd be 
 so ungrateful as to spoil your admirable plans by acting 
 upon any little feeling of my own.' 
 
 * I don't think you would be so silly. For if you did, 
 we should part.' 
 
 ' Don't mention such an event, sir.' 
 
 ' You have been drinking, Crawley !' 
 
 ' Not a drop, sir, this two days.' 
 
 ' You are a liar ! The smell of it comes through your 
 skin. I won't have it. Do you hear what I say ? I 
 won't have it. No man that drinks can do business — 
 especially mine.' 
 
 ' I'll never touch a drop again. They called me into 
 the public-house — they wouldn't take a denial.' 
 
 ' Hold your prate, and listen to me. The next time 
 you look at a public-house, say to yourself, Peter Craw- 
 ley, that is not a public-house to you, it is a hospital, 
 a workhouse, or a dunghill — for if you go in there. 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEXD,' 149 
 
 John Meadows, that is your friend, will be your 
 enemy.' 
 
 ' Heaven forbid, Mr. Meadows.' 
 
 ' Drink this basin-full of coffee.' 
 
 ' Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. It is very bitter.' 
 
 ' Is your head clear now ?' 
 
 ' As a bell.' 
 
 * Then go and do my work, and don't do an atom 
 more or an atom less than your task.' 
 
 ' No, sir. Oh, Mr. Meadows ! it is a pleasure 
 to serve you. You are as deep as the sea, sir, and as 
 firm as the rock. You never drink, sir, nor anything 
 else, that I can find. A man out of a thousand ! No 
 little weakness, like the rest of us, sir. You are a 
 great man, sir. You are a model of a man of bus — ' 
 
 ' Good morning,' growled Meadows roughly, and 
 turned his back. 
 
 ' Good morning, sir,' said Peter mellifluously. And 
 opening the back door about ten inches, he wriggled 
 out like a weasel going through a chink in a wall. 
 
 William Fielding fell like a child into the trap. 
 ' Give me time, and it will be all right,' is the debtor's 
 delusion. William thanked Crawley for not pressing 
 him, and so compelling him to force a sale of all his 
 hogs, fat or lean. Crawley received his thanks with a 
 leer, returned in four days, got the judgment signed, 
 and wriggled away with it to Meadows' back door. 
 
 'You take out an arrest' — Meadows gave him a 
 pocket-book — * put it in this, and keep it ready in your 
 pocket night and day.' 
 
150 ' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 ' I dare say it will come into use before the year is 
 out, sir.' 
 
 * I hope not.' 
 
 George Fielding gone to Australia, to make a thou- 
 sand pounds by farming and cattle-feeding, that so he 
 may claim old Merton's promised consent to marry 
 Susan. Susan observing Mr. Eden's precepts even 
 more religiously than when he was with her ; active, 
 full of charitable deeds, often pensive, always anxious, 
 but not despondent now, thanks to the good physician. 
 Meadows falling deeper and deeper in love, but keep- 
 ing it more jealously secret than ever. On his guard 
 against Isaac, on his guard against William, on liis 
 guard against John Meadows. Hoping everything 
 from time and accidents, from the distance between 
 the lovers, from George's incapacity, of which he had 
 a great opinion — ' He will never make a thousand 
 pence,' — but not trusting to the things he hoped ; on 
 the contrary, watching with keen eye, and working 
 with subtle threads to draw everybody into liis power 
 who could assist or thwart him in the object his deep 
 heart and iron will were set on. William Fielding 
 going down the hill Meadows was mounting ; getting 
 the better of his passion, and substituting, by degrees, 
 a brother-in-law's regard. 
 
 Flowers and weeds have one tiling in common — 
 while they live they grow. Natural growth is a slow 
 process, to describe it day by day a slower. For the 
 next four months matters glided so quietly on the 
 slopes I have just indicated, that an intelligent calcula- 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 151 
 
 tion by tlie reader may very well take tlie place of a 
 tedious chronicle by tlie writer. Moreover, the same 
 monotony did not hang over every part of our story. 
 These very four months were eventful enough to one 
 of our characters; and through him, by subtle but 
 positive links, to every man and every woman who 
 fills any considerable position in this matter-of-fact 
 romance. Therefore our story drags us from the 
 meadows round Grassmere to a massive castellated 
 building, glaring red brick with white stone corners. 
 These colours and their contrast relieve the stately 
 mass of some of that grimness which characterises the 
 castles of antiquity ; but enough remains to strike some 
 awe into the beholder. 
 
 Two round towers flank the principal entrance. On 
 one side of the right-hand tower is a small house con- 
 structed in the same style as the grand pile. The 
 castle is massive and grand : this, its satellite, is massive 
 and tiny, like the frog doing his little bit of bull, — like 
 Signer Hervio Nano, a tremendous thick dwarf now 
 no more. There is one dimple to all this gloomy 
 grandeur : a rich little flower-garden, whose frame of 
 emerald turf goes smiling up to the very ankle of the 
 frowning fortress, as some few happy lakes in the v^orld 
 wash the very foot of the mountains that hem them. 
 From this green spot a few flowers look up with bright 
 and wondering wide-open eyes at the great bullying 
 masonry over their heads; and to the spectator of 
 both these sparks of colour at the castle-foot are 
 dazzling and charming ; they are like rubies, sap- 
 
152 'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 pKires, and pink topaz, in some uncouth, angular, 
 ancient setting. 
 
 Between tlie central towers is a sharp arch, filled 
 by a huge oak door, of the same shape and size, 
 which, for further security or ornament, is closely 
 studded with large diamond-headed nails. A man 
 with keys at his girdle, like the ancient housewives, 
 opens the huge door to you with slight effort, so well 
 oiled is it. You slip under a porch into an enclosed 
 yard, the great door shuts almost of itself, and now it 
 depends upon the housewifely man whether you ever 
 see the vain, idle, and every way objectionable world 
 again. 
 
 Passing into the interior of the vast building, you 
 find yourself in an extensive aisle traversed at right 
 angles by another of similar dimensions, the whole in 
 form of a cross. In the centre of each aisle is an iron 
 staircase, so narrow that two people cannot pass, and so 
 light and open that it merely ornaments, not obstructs, 
 the view of the aisle. These staircases make two 
 springs ; the first takes them to the level of two corri- 
 dors on the first floor. Here there is a horizontal space 
 of about a yard, whence the continuation staircase rises 
 to the second and highest floor. This gives three cor- 
 ridors, all studded with doors opening on small separate 
 apartments, whereof anon. 
 
 Nearly all the inmates of this grim palace wear a 
 peculiar costume and disguise, one feature of which is 
 a cap of coarse materials, with a vizor to it, which con- 
 ceals the features all but the chin and the eyes, which 
 
' IT IS NEV^ TOO LATE TO MEND.' 153 
 
 last peep, in a very droll way, tlirough two lioles cut 
 for that purpose. 
 
 Tliey are distinguished by a courteous manner to 
 strangers, whom they never fail to salute in passing, 
 with great apparent cordiality; indeed, we fear we 
 shall never meet in the busy world with such uniform 
 urbanity as in this and similar retreats. It arises from 
 two causes : one is that here strangers are welcome from 
 their rarity ; another, that politeness is a part of the 
 education of the place, which, besides its other uses, is 
 an adult school of manners, morals, religion, grammar, 
 writing, and cobbling. 
 
 With the exception of its halls and corridors, the 
 building is almost entirely divided into an immense 
 number of the small apartments noticed above. These 
 are homely inside, but exquisitely clean. The furni- 
 ture, moveable and fixed, none of which is superfluous, 
 can be briefly described: — A bedstead, consisting of the 
 side walls of the apartment ; polished steel staples are 
 fixed in these walls, two on each side the apartment, at 
 an elevation of about two feet and a half. The occu- 
 pant's mattress (made of cocoa bark) has two stout steel 
 hooks at each end ; these are hooked into the staples, 
 and so he lies across his abode. A deal table, the size 
 of a pocket-handkerchief ; also a deal tripod. A water- 
 spout so ingeniously contrived, that, turned to the 
 right, it sends a small stream into a copper basin, and 
 to the left, into a bottomless close stool, at some dis- 
 tance. A small gas-pipe, tipped with polished brass. 
 In one angle of the wall, a sort of commode, or open 
 
 h3 
 
154 'IT IS KEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 cupboard, on whose shelves a bright pewter plate, 
 a knife and fork, and a wooden spoon : in a drawer of 
 this commode, yellow soap and a comb and brush. A 
 grating down low for hot air to come in, if it likes, and 
 another up high for foul air to go out, if it chooses. 
 On the wall over table, a large placard containing rules 
 for the tenant's direction, and smaller placards contain- 
 ing texts from Scripture, the propriety of returning 
 thanks after food, &c. ; a slate, and a couple of leathern 
 knee guards, used in polishing the room. And that is 
 all. But the deal furniture is so clean you might eat 
 off it. The walls are snow, the copper basin and the 
 brass gas-pipe glitter like red gold and pale gold, and 
 the bed hooks like silver hot from the furnace. Alto- 
 gether it is inviting at first sight. 
 
 To one of these snowy snug retreats was now 
 ushered an acquaintance of ours, Tom Eobinson. A 
 brief retrospect must dispose of his intermediate 
 history. 
 
 When he left us he went to the county bridewell, 
 where he remained until the assizes, an interval of 
 about a month. He was tried ; direct evidence was 
 strong against him, and he defended himself with so 
 much ingenuity and sleight of intellect, that the jury 
 could not doubt his sleight of hand and morals too. 
 He was found guilty, identified as a notorious thief, 
 and condemned to twelve months' imprisonment and 
 ten years' transportation. He returned to the county 
 bridewell for a few days, and then was shifted to the 
 castellated building. 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 155 
 
 Tom Eobinson had not been in gaol this four years, 
 and, since his last visit, great changes had begun to 
 take place in the internal economy of these skeleton 
 palaces, and in the treatment of their prisoners. 
 
 Prisons might be said to be in a transition state. In 
 some, as in the county bridewell Eobinson had just 
 left, the old system prevailed in full force. The two 
 systems vary in their aims. Under the old, gaol 
 was a finishing school of felony and petty larceny. 
 Under the new, it is intended to be a penal hospital 
 for diseased and contagious souls. 
 
 The treatment of prisoners is not at present 
 invariable. Within certain limits, the law unwisely 
 allows a discretionary power to the magistrates of the 
 county where the gaol is ; and the gaoler or as he is 
 now called the governor is their agent in these par- 
 ticulars. 
 
 Hence, in some new gaols you may now see the 
 non-separate system ; in others, the separate system 
 without silence; in others, the separate and silent 
 system; in others, a mixture of these, i. e., the 
 hardened offenders kept separate, the improving ones 
 allowed to mix; and these varieties are at the dis- 
 cretion of the magistrates, who settle within the legal 
 limits each gaol's system. 
 
 The magistrates, in this part of their business, are 
 represented by certain of their own body, who are 
 called " the visiting justices ;" and these visiting 
 justices can even order and authorize a gaoler to flog a 
 prisoner for offences committed in gaol. 
 
156 'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND/ 
 
 Now, a year or two before our tale, one Captain 
 O'Connor was governor of this gaol. Captain O'Connor 
 was a man of great public merit. He had been one 
 of the first dissatisfied with the old system, and had 
 written very intelligent books on crime and punish- 
 ment, which are supposed to have done their share in 
 opening the nation's eyes to the necessity of regene- 
 rating its prisons. But after a while the visiting 
 justices of this particular county became dissatisfied 
 with him ; he did not go far enough nor fast enough 
 with the stone he had helped to roll. Books and 
 reports came out which convinced the magistrates 
 that severe punishment of mind and body was the 
 essential object of a gaol, and that it was wrong and 
 chimerical to attempt cures by any other means. 
 
 Captain O'Connor had been very successful by other 
 means, and could not quite come to this opinion ; but 
 he had a deputy-governor who did. System when it 
 takes a hold of the mind takes a strong hold, and the 
 men of system became very impatient of opposition, 
 and grateful for thorough acquiescence. 
 
 Hence it came to pass that, in the course of a few 
 months. Captain O'Connor found himself in an uncom- 
 fortable position. His deputy-governor, Mr. Hawes, 
 enjoyed the confidence of the visiting justices , he did 
 not. His suggestions were negatived; Hawes's 
 accepted. And to tell the truth, he became at last 
 useless as well as uncomfortable ; for these gentlemen 
 were determined to carry out their system, and had a 
 willing agent in the prison. O'Connor was little more 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 157 
 
 than a drag on the wheel he could not hinder from 
 gliding down the hill. At last, it happened that he 
 had overdrawn his account, without clearly stating at 
 the time that the sum, which amounted nearly to one 
 hundred pounds, was taken by him as an accommoda- 
 tion, or advance of salary. This, which though by no 
 means unprecedented, was an unbusiness-like though 
 innocent omission, justified censure. 
 
 The magistrates went farther than censure ; they 
 liad long been looking for an excuse to get rid of him, 
 and avail themselves of the zeal and energy of Hawes. 
 They therefore removed O'Connor, stating publicly as 
 their reason that he was old, and their interest put 
 Hawes into his place. There was something melan- 
 choly in such a close to O'Connor's public career. 
 Fortune used him hardly. He had been one of the 
 first tc improve prisons, yet he was dismissed on this 
 or thai pretence, but really because he could not keep 
 pace with the soi-disant improvements of three 
 inexperienced persons. Honorable mention of his 
 name, his doings, and his words, is scattered about 
 various respectable works by respectable men on this 
 subject, yet he ended in something very like dis- 
 credit. 
 
 However, the public gained this by the injustice done 
 him — that an important experiment was tried under 
 an active and willing agent. 
 
 With Governor Hawes the separate and silent system 
 flourished in Gaol. 
 
 The justices and the new governor were of one 
 
158 'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEXD.' 
 
 mind. They had been working together about two 
 years when Robinson came into the gaol. 
 
 During this period three justices had periodically 
 visited the gaol, perused the reports, examined, as in 
 duty bound, the surgeon, the officers, and prisoners, 
 and were proud of the system and its practical work- 
 ing here. 
 
 AVith respect to Hawes the governor, their opinion 
 of him was best shown in the reports they had to 
 make to the Home Office from time to time. In these 
 they invariably spoke of him as an active, zealous, and 
 deserving officer. 
 
 Robinson had heard much of the changes in gaol 
 treatment, but they had not yet come home to him ; 
 when, therefore, instead of being turned adrift among 
 seventy other spirits as bad as himself, and greeted 
 with their boisterous acclamations, and the friendly 
 pressure of seven or eight felonious hands, he was 
 ushered into a cell white as driven snow, and his 
 housewifely duties explained to him, under a heavy 
 penalty if a speck of dirt should ever be discovered on 
 his little wall, his little floor, his little table, or if his 
 cocoa-bark mattress should not be neatly rolled up after 
 use, and the strap tight, and the steel hook polished 
 like glass, and his little brass gas-pipe glittering like 
 gold, etc., Thomas looked blank and had a misgiving. 
 
 ' I say guv'nor,' said he to the under-turnkey, ' how 
 long am I to be here before I go into the yard ?' 
 
 * Talking not allowed out of hours,' was the only 
 reply. 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 159 
 
 Eobinson whistled. The turnkey, whose name was 
 Evans, looked at him with a doubtful air, as much as 
 to say, ' Shall I let that pass unpunished or not ?' 
 However, he went out without any further observation, 
 leaving the door open; but the next moment he 
 returned and put his head in : ' Prisoners shut their 
 own doors,' said he. 
 
 ' Well !' drawled Eobinson, looking coolly and inso- 
 lently into the man's face, ' I don't see what I shall 
 gain by that.' And Mr. Eobinson seated himself, and 
 turning his back a little rudely, immersed liimself 
 ostentatiously in his own thoughts. 
 
 ' You will gain as you won't be put in the black 
 hole for refractory conduct, No. 19,' replied Evans, 
 quietly and sternly. 
 
 Eobinson made a wry face, and pushed the door 
 peevishly ; it shut with a spring, and no mortal power 
 or ingenuity could now open it from the inside. 
 
 ' Well I'm blest,' said the self-immured, ' every man 
 his own turnkey now ; save the Queen's pocket what- 
 ever you do. Times are so hard. Box at the opera 
 costs no end. Wliat have we got here ? A Bible ! ! 
 my eye ! invisible print ! Oh ! I see ; 'tisn't for us 
 to read, 'tis for the visitors to admire — like the new 
 sheet over the dirty blankets ! Wliat's this hung up ? 
 
 " Grace after Meat." 
 
 ' Oh ! with all my heart, your reverence ! Here, 
 turnkey, fetch up the venison and the sweet sauce, you 
 
160 'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEXD.' 
 
 niay leave tlie water-gruel till I ring for it. If I am 
 to say grace let me feel it first; drat yom- eyes all 
 round, governor, turnkeys, cliaplain, and all the Irypo- 
 critical crew !' 
 
 The next morning, at half-past five, the prison bell 
 rang for the officers to rise, and at six a turnkey un- 
 locked Eobinson's door, and delivered the following in 
 an imperious key all in one note and without any 
 rests : — ' Prisoner to open and shake bedding wash face 
 hands and neck on pain of punishment and roll up 
 hammocks and clean cells and be ready to clean corri- 
 dors if required.' So chanting slammed door vanished. 
 
 Eobinson sat to work with alacrity upon the little 
 arrangements ; he soon finished them, and then he 
 would not have been sorry to turn out and clean the 
 corridor for a change, but it was not his turn. He sat, 
 dull and lonely, till eight o'clock, when suddenly a key 
 was inserted into a small lock in the centre of his door, 
 but outside ; the effect of this was to open a small trap 
 in the door, through this aperture a turnkey shoved in 
 the man's breakfast, without a word, " like one fling- 
 ing guts to a bear " (Scott) ; and on the sociable Tom 
 attempting to say a civil word to him, drew the trap 
 sharply back, and hermetically sealed the aperture 
 with a snap. The breakfast was in a round tin, with 
 two compartments ; one pint of gruel and six ounces of 
 bread. These two phases of farina were familiar to 
 Mr. Eobinson. He ate the bread and drank the gruel, 
 adding a good deal of salt. 
 
* IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 161 
 
 At nine the chapel bell rang. Eobinson was glad ; 
 not that he admired the Liturgy, but he said to him- 
 self, ' now I shall see a face or two, perhaps some old 
 pals.' 
 
 To his dismay, the warder who opened his cell bade 
 liim at the same time put on the prison cap, with 
 the peak down ; and when he and the other male 
 prisoners were mustered in the corridor, he found 
 them all like himself, visor down, eyes glittering like 
 basilisks' or cats' through two holes, features undis- 
 tinguishable. The word was given to march in perfect 
 silence, five paces apart, to the chapel. 
 
 The sullen pageant started. 
 
 ' I've heard of this, but who'd have thought they 
 carried the game so far ; well, I must wait till we are 
 in chapel, and pick up a pal by the voice, whilst the 
 parson is doing his patter.' 
 
 On reaching the chapel, he found to his dismay that 
 the chapel was as cellular as any other part of the 
 prison ; it was an agglomeration of one hundred sentry- 
 boxes, open only on the side facing the clergyman, and 
 even there only from the prisoner's third button up- 
 wards. Warders stood on raised platforms, and 
 pointed out his sentry-box to each prisoner with a 
 very long slender wand; the prisoner went into it 
 and pulled the door, it shut with a spring, and next 
 took his badge or number from his neck, and hung it 
 up on a nail above his head in the sentry-box. Be- 
 tween the reading-desk and the male prisoners was a 
 small area where the debtors sat together. 
 
162 'IT IS XEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 Tlie female prisoners were behind a tliick veil of 
 close lattice-work. 
 
 Service concluded, the governor began to turn a 
 wheel in his pew ; this wheel exhibited to the congre- 
 gation a number, the convict whose number corre- 
 sponded instantly took down his badge (the sight and 
 position of which had determined the governor in 
 working his wheel), drew the peak of his cap over his 
 face, and went out and waited in the lobby. When 
 all the sentry-boxes were thus emptied, dead march of 
 the whole party back to the main building ; here the 
 warders separated them, and sent them dead silent, 
 vizors down, some to clean the prison, some to their 
 cells, some to hard labor r, and some to an airing in the 
 yard. 
 
 Eobinson was to be aired. ' Hurrah ! ' thought 
 sociable Tom. Alas ! he found the system in the yard 
 as well as in the chapel. The promenade was a 
 number of passages radiating from a common centre ; 
 the sides of passage were thick walls ; entrance to pas- 
 sage an iron gate locked behind the promenader. An 
 officer remained on the watch the whole time to see 
 that a word did not creep out or in tlu'ougli one of the 
 gates. 
 
 ' And this they call out of doors,' grunted Eobinson. 
 
 After an hour's promenade he was taken into his 
 cell, where at twelve the trap in his door was opened 
 and his 'dinner shoved in and the trap snapped-to 
 again all in three seconds. A very good dinner, better 
 than paupers always get — three ounces of meat no 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 163 
 
 bone, eight ounces of potatoes, and eiglit ounces of 
 bread. After dinner tliree weary hours without an 
 incident. At about three o'clock one of the warders 
 opened his cell door, and put his head in and swiftly 
 withdrew it. Three more monotonous hours, and then 
 supper — one pint of gruel, and eight ounces of bread. 
 He ate it as slowly as he could to eke out a few 
 minutes in the heavy day. Quarter before eiglit a bell 
 to go to bed. At eight the warders came round, and 
 saw that the prisoners were all in bed. The next day 
 the same thing, and the next ditto, with this excep- 
 tion, that one of the warders came into his cell and 
 minutely examined it in dead silence. The fourth 
 day the chaplain visited him, asked him a few ques- 
 Lions, repeated a few sentences on the moral responsi- 
 bility of every human being, and set him some texts 
 of Scripture to learn by heart. Tliis visit, though 
 merely one of routine, broke the thief's dead silence 
 and solitude, and he Tvould have been thankful to have 
 a visit every day from the chaplain, wdiose manner was 
 formal, but not surly and forbidding like the turnkeys 
 or warders. 
 
 Next day the governor of the gaol came suddenly 
 into the cell, and put to Eobinson several questions, 
 which he answered with great affability ; then turning 
 on his heel, said brusquely, ' Have you anything to say 
 to me ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, sir, if you please.' 
 
 ' Out with it then, my man,' said the governor im- 
 patiently. 
 
164 ' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 ' Sir, I was condemned to hard labour; now I 
 wanted to ask you when my hard labour is to begin, 
 because I have not been put upon anything yet.' 
 
 ' We are kinder to you than the judges, then it 
 seems.' 
 
 * Yes, sir 1 but I am not naturally lazy, and — ' 
 ' A little hard work would amuse just now.' 
 
 ' Indeed, sir, I think it would ; I am very much 
 depressed in spirits.' 
 
 ' You will be worse before you are better.' 
 
 * Heaven forbid 1 I think if you don't give me 
 something to do I shall go out of my mind soon, sir.' 
 
 ' That is what they all say ! You will be put on 
 hard labour, I promise you, but not when it suits you. 
 We'll choose the time.' And the governor went out, 
 with a knowing smile upon his face. 
 
 The thief sat hunself down disconsolately, and the 
 heavy hours, like leaden waves, seemed to rise and rise, 
 and roll over his head and suffocate him, and weigh 
 him down, down, down to bottomless despair. 
 
 At length, about the tenth day, this human being's 
 desire to exchange a friendly word with some other 
 human creature became so strong, that in the chapel 
 during service he scratched the door of his sentry box, 
 and whispered, ' Mate, whisper me a word for pity's 
 sake.' He received no answer; but even to have 
 spoken himself relieved his swelling soul for a minute 
 or two. Half an hour later four turnkeys came into 
 his cell, and took him down stairs, and confined him 
 in a pitch-dark dungeon. 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 165 
 
 The prisoner whose attention he had tried to attract 
 in chapel had told to curry favour, and was reported 
 favourably for the same. 
 
 The darkness in which Robinson now lay was not 
 like the darkness of our bed-rooms at night, in which 
 the outlines of objects are more or less visible ; it was 
 the frightful darkness that chilled and crushed the 
 Egyptians, soul and body ; it was a darkness that 
 mio^ht be felt. 
 
 This terrible and unnatural privation of all light is 
 very trying to all God's creatures, to none more so 
 than to man, and amongst men it is most dangerous 
 and distressing to those who have imagination and 
 excitability. Now Robinson was a man of this class, a 
 man of rare capacity, full of talent and the courage 
 and energy that vent themselves in action, but not rich 
 in the tough fortitude which does little, feels little, and 
 bears much. 
 
 When they took him out of the black hole after six 
 hours' confinement, he was observed to be white as a 
 sheet, and to tremble violently all over, and in this state 
 at the word of command he crept back all the way to 
 his cell; his hand to his eyes, that were dazzled by 
 what seemed to him bright day-light ; his body shaking, 
 while every now and then a loud convulsive sob burst 
 from his bosom. 
 
 The governor happened to be on the corridor, looking 
 down over the rails as Robinson passed him. He said 
 to him, with a victorious sneer, ' You wont be refractory 
 in chapel again, in a hurry.' 
 
166 ' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEXD.' 
 
 * No,' said tlie tliief, in a low gentle voice, despairingly. 
 The day after Eobinson was put in tlie black hole 
 
 the surgeon came his rounds : he found him in a corner 
 of his cell, with his eyes fixed on the floor. 
 
 The man took no notice of his entrance. The sur- 
 geon went up to him, and shook him rather roughly. 
 Eobinson raised his heavy eyes, and looked stupidly at 
 him. 
 
 The surgeon laid hold of him, and placing a thumb 
 on each side of his eye, inspected that organ fully. He 
 then felt his pulse; this done, he went out with the 
 warder. Making his report to the governor, he came 
 in turn to Eobinson. 
 
 * No. 19, is sinking.' 
 
 ' Oh ! is he ? ' Fry,' (turning to a warder,) ' what 
 has 19's treatment been?' 
 
 ' Been in his cell, sir, without labour since he came. 
 Black -hole yesterday, for communicating in chapel.' 
 
 ' What is the matter with him ?' 
 
 ' Doctor says he is sinking.' 
 
 * What the devil do you mean by his sinking ?' 
 
 ' Well, sir,' replied the surgeon, wdth a sort of dry 
 deference, ' he is dying — that is what I mean.' 
 
 ' Oh, he is dying, is he ; d — n him, we'll stop that : 
 here. Fry, take No. 19 out into the garden, and set him 
 to work : and put him on the corridors to-morrow.' 
 
 ' Is he to be let talk to us, sir.' 
 
 ' Humph ! yes 1' 
 
 Eobinson was taken out into the garden ; it was a 
 small piece of ground that had once been a yard ; it 
 
'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 167 
 
 was enclosed within walls of great height, and to ns 
 would have seemed a cheerless place for horticulture, 
 but to Eobinson it appeared the garden of Eden : he 
 gave a sigh of relief and pleasure, but the next moment 
 his countenance fell. 
 
 ' They won't let me stay here !' 
 
 Fry took him into the centre of the garden, and put 
 a spade into his hand. ' Now you dig this piece ' said 
 he in his dry unfriendly tone, ' and if you have time 
 cut the edges of this grass path square.' The words 
 were scarcely out of his mouth, before Robinson drove 
 the spade into the soil with all the energy of one of 
 God's creatures escaping from system back to nature. 
 
 Fry left him in the garden after making him pull 
 down his vizor, for there was one more prisoner work- 
 ing at some distance. 
 
 Robinson set to with energy, and dug for the bare 
 life. It was a sort of work he knew very little about, 
 and a gardener would have been disgusted at his ridges, 
 but he threw his whole soul into it and very soon had 
 nearly completed his task. Having been confined so 
 long without exercise his breath was short, and he 
 perspired profusely ; but he did not care for that. ' Oh, 
 how sweet this is after being buried alive,' cried he, 
 and in went the spade again. Presently he was seized 
 with a strong desire to try the other part of his task, 
 the more so as it required more skill and presented a 
 difficulty to overcome. A part of the path had been 
 shaved, and the knippers lay where they had been last 
 used. Robinson inspected the recent work with an in- 
 
168 ' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 telligent eye, and soon discovered traces of a white line 
 on one side of the path, that had served as a guide to 
 the knippers. * Oh ! I must draw a straight line,' 
 said Eobinson, out loud, indulging himself with the 
 sound of a human voice : ' but how ? can you tell me 
 that,' he inquired of a gooseberry bush that grew near. 
 The words were hardly out of his mouth before peer- 
 ing about in every direction he discovered an iron spike 
 with some cord wrapped round it and not far off a 
 piece of chalk. He pounced on them, and fastening 
 the spike at the edge of the path attempted to draw a 
 line with the chalk using the string as a ruler. Not 
 succeeding he reflected a little, and the result was that 
 he chalked several feet of the line all round until it 
 was all white ; then with the help of a stake, which he 
 took for his other terminus, he got the chalked string 
 into a straight line just above the edge of the grass : 
 next pressing it tightly down with his foot, he effected 
 a white line on the grass : he now removed the string, 
 took the knippers, and following his white line, trimmed 
 the path, secundum artem. ' There,' said Eobinson, to 
 the gooseberry-bush but not very loud for fear of 
 being heard and punished, ' I wonder whether that 
 is how the gardeners do it. I think it must be.' He 
 viewed his work with satisfaction, then went back to 
 his digging, and as he put the finishing stroke Fry 
 came to bring him back to his cell ; it was bed-time. 
 
 ' I never worked in a garden before,' began Robinson, 
 ' so it is not so well done as it might be, but if I was to 
 come every day for a week, I think I could master it. 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEKD.' 169 
 
 I did not know there was a garden in this prison. If 
 ever I build a prison there shall be a garden in it as 
 big as Belgrave Square.' 
 
 ' You are precious fond of the sound of your own 
 voice, No. 19/ said Fry, drily. 
 
 ' We are not forbidden to speak to the warders are 
 we?' 
 
 * Not at proper times.' 
 
 He threw open cell-door 19 and Robinson en- 
 tered. 
 
 Before he could close the door Eobinson said ' Grood 
 night and thank you.' 
 
 ' Gr'night,' snarled Fry, sullenly, as one shamed 
 against his will into a civility. 
 
 Eobinson lay awake half the night and awoke the 
 next morning rather feverish and stiff, but not the 
 leaden thing he was the day before. 
 
 A feather turns a balanced scale. This man's life 
 and reason had been engaged in a drawn battle with 
 three mortal enemies — solitude, silence, and privation 
 of all employment. That little bit of labour and whole- 
 some thought, whose paltry and childish details I half 
 blush to have given you, were yet due to my story, for 
 they took a man out of himself, checked the self- 
 devouring process, and helped elastic nature to recover 
 herself this bout. 
 
 The next day Robinson was employed washing the 
 
 prison. The next he got two hours in the garden 
 
 again, and the next the trades'-master was sent into 
 
 his ceil to teach him how to make scrubbing-brushes. 
 
 VOL. I. I 
 
170 ' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MENl).' 
 
 The man sat down and was commencing a discourse 
 when Eobinson interrupted him politely. 
 
 ' Sir, let me see you Avork, and watch me try to 
 do the same, and correct me.' 
 
 / With all my heart,' said the trades '-master. 
 
 He remained about half an hour with his pupil, and 
 when he went out, he said to one of the turnkeys, 
 ' There is a chap in there that can pick up a handicraft 
 as a pigeon picks up peas.' 
 
 The next day the surgeon happened to look in. He 
 found Eobinson as busy as a bee making brushes, 
 pulled his eye open again felt his pulse and wrote 
 something down in his memorandum-book. He left 
 directions with the turnkey that No. 19 should be 
 kept employed, with the governo"r'o permission. 
 
 Eobinson's hands were now full ; he made brushes, 
 and every day put some of them to the test upon the 
 floor and walls of the building. 
 
 It happened one day as he was aoing housemaid in 
 corridor B, that he suddenly heard unwonted sounds 
 issue from a part of the premises into which he had 
 not yet been • introduced, the yard devoted to hard 
 labour. First he heard a single voice shouting ; that 
 did not last long ; then a dead silence ; then several 
 voices, among which his quick ear recognised Fry's 
 and the governor's. He could see nothing; the 
 sounds came from one of the hard-labour cells. Eo- 
 binson was surprised and puzzled ; what were these 
 sounds that broke the silence of the livinor tomb? 
 An instinct told him it was no use asking a turnkey, 
 
* TT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 171 
 
 SO he devoured liis curiosity and surprise as best he 
 might. 
 
 The very next day, about the same hour, both were 
 again excited by noises from the same quarter equally 
 vmintelligible. He heard a great noise of water slashed 
 in bucketsful against a wall, and this was followed by a 
 sort of gurgling that seemed to him to come from 
 a human throat; this latter, however, was almost 
 drowned in an exulting chuckle of severs! persons, 
 amongst whom he caught the tones of a turnkey 
 called Hodges and of the governor himself Robinson 
 puzzled and puzzled himself, but could not understand 
 these curious sounds, and he could see nothing except 
 a quantity of water running out of one of the labour 
 cells, and coursing along till it escaped by one of the 
 two gutters that drained the yard. Often and often 
 Robinson meditated on this, and exerted all his in- 
 genuity to conceive what it meant. His previous 
 gaol experience afforded him no clue, and as he was 
 one of those who hate to be in the dark about any- 
 thing this new riddle tortured him. 
 
 However, the prison was generally so dead dumb and 
 gloomy, that upon two such cheerful events as water 
 splashing and creatures laughing he could not help 
 crowing a little out of sympathy without knowing 
 why. 
 
 The next day as Robinson was working in the cor- 
 ridor the governor came in with a gentleman whom 
 he treated with unusual and marked respect. This 
 gentleman was the chairman of the quarter-sessions, 
 
 i2 
 
172 ' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEXD.' 
 
 and one of those magistrates wlio had favoured the 
 adoption of the present system. 
 
 Mr. Williams inspected the prison; was justly 
 pleased with its exquisite cleanness; he questioned 
 the governor as to the health of the prisoners, and 
 received for answer that most of them were well, but 
 that there were some exceptions; this appeared to 
 satisfy him. He went into the labor-yard, looked at 
 the cranks, examined the numbers printed on each in 
 order to learn their respective weights, and see that the 
 prisoners were not overburdened. 
 
 Went with the governor into three or four cells, and 
 asked the prisoners if they had any complaint to make. 
 
 The unanimous answer was ' No ! ' 
 
 He then complimented the governor — and drove 
 home to his own house, Ashtown Park. 
 
 There after dinner he said to a brother magistrate, 
 ' I inspected the gaol to-day ; was all over it.' 
 
 The next morning Fry the morose came into Eo- 
 binson's cell with a more cheerful coimtenance than 
 usual. E-obinson noticed it. 
 
 ' You are put on the crank,' said Fry. 
 
 'Oh! ami?' 
 
 * Of course you are. Your sentence was hard labour, 
 wasn't it? I don't know why you weren't sent on a 
 fortnight ago.' 
 
 Fry then took him out into the labor-yard, which 
 he found perforated with cells about half the size of 
 his hermitage in the corridor. In each of these little 
 quiet grottoes lurked a monster, called a crank. A 
 
' IT IS XEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 173 
 
 crank is a machine of this sort — there springs out of a 
 vertical post an iron handle, which the workman taking 
 it by both hands works round and round as in some 
 country places you may have seen the villagers draw 
 a bucket up from a well. This iron handle goes at 
 the shoulder into a small iron box at the top of the 
 post ; and inside that box the resistance to the turner 
 is regulated by the manufacturer, who states the 
 value of the resistance outside in cast-iron letters. 
 Thus — 
 
 5 lb. crank. 
 
 71b. crank. 10, 12, etc., etc. 
 
 ' Eighteen hundred revolutions per hour,' said Mr. 
 Fry in his voice of routine, and ' you are to work two 
 hours before dinner.' So saying he left him, and Eo- 
 binson with the fear of punishment before him lost not 
 a moment in getting to work. He found the crank go 
 easy enough at first, but the longer he was at it the 
 stiflPer it seemed to turn. And after about four hun- 
 dred turns he was fain to breathe and rest himself. 
 He took three minutes rest, then at it again. All this 
 time there was no taskmaster, as in Egypt, nor whip- 
 per up of declining sable energy, as in Old Kentucky. 
 So that if I am so fortunate as to have a reader aged 
 ten, he is wondering why the fool did not confine his 
 exertions to saying he had made the turns. My dear, 
 it would not do. Though no mortal oversaw the thief 
 at his task, the eye of science was in that cell and 
 watched everv stroke and her inexorable fincrer 
 marked it down. In plain English on the face of the 
 
174 'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 macliine was a tiling like a chronometer witli numbers 
 set all round and a hand which, somehow or other, 
 always pointed to the exact number of turns the thief 
 had made. The crank was an automater, or self-mea- 
 surer, and in that respect your superior and mine my 
 little drake. 
 
 This was Eobinson's first acquaintance with the 
 crank. The tread-wheel had been the mode in his time ; 
 so by the time he had made three thousand turns, he 
 was rather exhausted. He leaned upon the iron handle, 
 and sadly regretted his garden and his brushes; but 
 fear and dire necessity were upon him ; he set to his 
 task and to work again. ' I won't look at the meter 
 again, for it always tells me less than I expect. I'll 
 just plough on till that beggar comes. I know he will 
 come to the minute.' 
 
 Sadly and doggedly he turned the iron handle, and 
 turned and turned again ; and then he panted and 
 rested a minute, and then doggedly to his idle toil 
 again. He was now so fatigued that his head seemed 
 to have come loose, he could not hold it up, and it went 
 round and round and round with the crank-handle. 
 Hence it was that Mr. Fry stood at the mouth of the 
 den without the other seeing him. ' Halt,' said Fry. 
 Kobinson looked up, and there was the turnkey inspect- 
 ing him with a discontented air. ' I'm done,' thought 
 Eobinson, ' here he is as black as thunder, the number 
 not right no doubt.-' 
 
 ' What are ye at,' growled Fry. ' You are forty over,' 
 and the said Fry looked not only ill-used, but a little 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 175 
 
 "unliappy. Eobinson's good behaviour had disappohited 
 the poor soul. 
 
 This Fry v/as a grim oddity ; he experienced a feeble 
 complacency when things went wrong but never else. 
 
 The thief exulted, and was taken back to his cell. 
 Dinner came almost immediately ; four ounces of meat 
 instead of three ; two ounces less bread, but a large 
 access of potatoes, which more than balanced the 
 account. 
 
 The next day Eobinson was put on the crank again, 
 but not till the afternoon. He had finished about half 
 his task, when he heard at some little distance from him 
 a faint moaning. His first impulse was to run out of 
 his cell, and see what was the matter, but Hodges and 
 Fry were both in the yard, and he knew that they 
 would report him for punishment upon the least breach 
 of discipline. So j^e turned and turned the crank, 
 with these moans ringing in his ears, and perplexing 
 his soul. 
 
 Finding they did not cease, he peeped cautiously into 
 the yard, and there he saw the governor himself as well 
 as Hodges and Fry : all three w^ere standing close to 
 the place whence these groans issued and with an air 
 of complete unconcern. 
 
 But presently the groans ceased, and then myste- 
 riously enough the little group of disciplinarians tlirew 
 oflP their apathy. Hodges and Fry went hastily to the 
 pump with buckets, which they filled, and then came 
 back to the governor ; the next minute Eobinson heard 
 water dashed repeatedly against the walls of the cell, 
 
176 'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEXD.' 
 
 and then the governor laughed, and Hodges laughed, 
 and even the gloomy Fry vented a brief grim chuckle. 
 
 And now Eobinson quivered with curiosity- as he 
 turned his crank, but there was no means of gratifying 
 it. It so happened, however, that some ten minutes 
 later the governor sent Hodges and Fry to another part 
 of the prison, and they had not been gone long, before 
 a message came to himself, on which he went hastily 
 out, and the yard was left empty. Eobinson's curiosity 
 had reached such a pitch, that notwithstanding the risk 
 he ran, for he knew the governor would send back to the 
 yard the very first disengaged ofl&cer he met, he could 
 not stay quiet. As the governor closed the gate he ran 
 with all speed to the cell, he darted in, and then the 
 thief saw what made the three honest men laugh so. 
 He saw it, and started back with a cry of dismay, for 
 the sight chilled the felon to the bone. 
 
 A lad about fifteen years of age was pinned against 
 the wall in agony by a leathern belt passed round his 
 shoulders and drawn violently round two staples in 
 the wall. His arms were jammed against his sides by 
 a strait waistcoat fastened with straps behind and 
 those straps drawn with the utmost severity. But 
 this was not all. A high leathern collar a quarter of 
 an inch thick squeezed his throat in its iron grasp. 
 His hair and his clothes were drenched with water which 
 had been thrown in bucketsful over him, and now 
 dripped from him on the floor. His face was white, 
 his lips livid, his eyes were nearly glazed, and his teeth 
 chattered with cold and pain. 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 177 
 
 A more unprincipled man than Eobinson did not 
 exist; but burglary and larceny do not extinguish 
 humanity in a thinking rascal, as resigning the soul to 
 system can extinguish it in a dull dog. 
 
 ' Oh, what is this !' cried Eobinson, ' what are the 
 villains doing to you ?' 
 
 He received no answer ; but the boy's eyes opened 
 wide, and he turned those glazing eyes the only part of 
 his body he could turn towards the speaker. Eobinson 
 ran up to him, and began to try and loosen him. 
 
 At this the boy cried out, almost screaming with 
 terror, ' Let me alone I let me alone ! They'll give it 
 me worse if you do, and they'll serve you out too !' 
 
 ' But you will die, boy.' Look at his poor lips !' 
 
 ' No, no, no ! I shan't die ! No such luck !' cried 
 the boy impatiently and wildly. ' Thank you for 
 speaking kind to me. Who are you ? tell me quick, 
 and go. 1 am — Josephs, No. 15, Corridor A.' 
 
 ' I am Eobinson, No. 19, Corridor B.' 
 
 'Good-bye, Eobinson, I shan't forget you. Hark, 
 the door ! Go ! go ! go ! go ! go !' 
 
 Eobinson was already gone. He had fled at the first 
 click of a key in the outward door, and darted into his 
 cell at the moment Fry got into the yard. An instinct 
 of suspicion led this man straight to Eobinson's her- 
 mitage. He found him hard at work. Fry scrutinized 
 his countenance, but Eobinson was too good an actor to 
 betray himself; only when Fry passed on he drew a 
 long breath. What he had seen surprised as well as 
 alarmed him, for he had always been told the new 
 
 i3 
 
178 'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEXD.' 
 
 system discouraged personal violence of all sorts ; and 
 in all liis experience of the old gaols, lie had never seen 
 a prisoner abused so savagely as the young martyr in 
 the adjoining cell. His own work done he left for his 
 own dormitory. He was uneasy, and his heart was 
 heavy for poor Josephs, but he dared not even cast a 
 look towards his place of torture, for the other execu- 
 tioners had returned and Fry followed grim at his 
 heels like a mastiff dogging a stranger out of the 
 premises. 
 
 That evening Eobinson spent in gloomy reflections 
 and forebodings. ' I wish I was in the hulks, or any- 
 where out of this place,' said he. As for Josephs, the 
 governor, after inspecting his torture for a few minutes, 
 left the yard again with his subordinates, and Josephs 
 was left alone with his great torture for two hours 
 more ; then Hodges came in, and began to loose him, 
 swearing at him all the time for a little rebellious 
 monkey that gave more trouble than enough. The 
 rebellious monkey made no answer, but crawled slowly 
 away to his dungeon, shivering in his drenched clothes, 
 stiff and sore, his bones full of pain, his heart full of 
 despondency. 
 
 Robinson had now eight thousand turns of the crank 
 per day, and very hard work he found it ; but he pre- 
 ferred it to being buried alive all day in his cell ; and 
 warned by Josephs' fate, he went at the crank with all 
 his soul, and never gave them an excuse for calling 
 him " refractory." It happened, however, one day 
 just after breakfast, that he was taken with a headache 
 
'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 179 
 
 and sliivering ; and not getting better after chapel, but 
 rather worse, he rang his bell and begged to see the 
 surgeon. The surgeon ought to liave been in the gaol 
 at this hour : he was not though, and as he had been 
 the day before, and was accustomed to neglect the pri- 
 soners for any one who paid better, he was not expected 
 this day. Soon after Fry came to the cell and 
 ordered Robinson out to the crank. Eobinson told him 
 he was too ill to work. 
 
 ' I must have the surgeon's authority for that, before 
 I listen to it,' replied Fry amateur of routine. 
 
 ' But he is not in the gaol, or you would have it.' 
 
 ' Then he ought to be.' 
 
 ' Well, is it my fault he's shirking his duty ? Send 
 for him, and you'll see he will tell you I am not fit 
 for the crank to-day ; my head is splitting.' 
 
 ' Come, no gammon. No. 19 ; it is the crank or the 
 jacket, or else the black hole. So take which you like 
 best.' 
 
 Kobinson rose with a groan of pain and despondency. 
 
 'It is only eight thousand words you have got to 
 say to it, and that is not many for such a tongue as 
 yours.' 
 
 At the end of the time. Fry came to the mouth of 
 the labour-cell with a grim chuckle : ' He will never 
 have done his number this time.' He found Robinson 
 kneeling on the ground, almost insensible, the crank- 
 handle convulsively grasped in his hands. Fry's first 
 glance was at this figure, that a painter might have 
 taken for a picture of labour overtasked ; but this was 
 
180 ' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 neither new nor interesting to Fry. He went eagerly 
 to examine the meter of the crank — there lay his 
 heart, such as it was — and to his sorrow he found 
 that No. 19 had done his work before he broke down. 
 What it cost the poor fever-stricken wretch to do it 
 can easier be imagined than described. 
 
 They assisted Robinson to his cell, and that night he 
 was in a burning fever. The next day, the surgeon 
 happened by some accident to be at Jiis post, and 
 prescribed change of diet and medicines for him. ' He 
 would be better in the infirmary.' 
 
 ' Why ?' said the governor.' 
 
 ' More air.' 
 
 ' Nonsense, there is plenty of air here ; there is a 
 constant stream of air comes in through this,' and he 
 pointed to a revolving cylinder in the window con- 
 structed for that purpose. ' You give him the right 
 stuff doctor,' said Hawes jocosely ' and he won't slip 
 his wind this time.' 
 
 The surgeon acquiesced according to custom. 
 
 It was not for him to contradict Hawes, who allowed 
 him to attend the gaol or neglect it according to his 
 convenience, i. e., to come three or four times a week 
 at different hours, instead of twice every day at fixed 
 hours. 
 
 It was two days after this that the governor saw 
 Hodges come out of a cell, laughing. 
 
 ' What are ye grinning at ?' said he in his amiable 
 way. 
 
 ' No. 19 is light-headed, sir, and I have been 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 181 
 
 listening to him. It would make a cat laiigli, sir,' said 
 Hodges apologetically. He knew well enough the 
 governor did not approve of laughing in the gaol. 
 
 The governor said nothmg, but made a motion with 
 his hand, and Hodges opened cell 19 and they both 
 went in. 
 
 No. 19 lay on his back flushed and restless with 
 his eyes fixed on vacancy. He was talking inces- 
 santly and without sequence. I should fail signally, 
 were I to attempt to transfer his words to paper. I 
 feel my weakness and the strength of others who in 
 my day have shown a singular power of fixing on 
 paper the volatile particles of frenzy ; however, in a 
 word the poor thief was talking as our poetasters 
 write, and amidst his gunpowder daffodils bosh, and 
 other constellations there mingled gleams of sense and 
 feeling that would have made you and me very sad. 
 
 He often recurred to a girl he called Mary, and said 
 a few gentle words to her; then off again into the 
 wildest flights. While Mr. Hawes and his myrmidons 
 were laughing at him, he suddenly fixed his eyes on 
 some imaginary figure on the opposite wall, and began 
 to cry out loudly, ' Take him down. Don't you see 
 you are killing him! The collar is choking him! 
 See how white he is ! His eyes stare ! The boy will 
 die ! Murder ! murder ! murder ! I can't bear to see 
 him die.' And with these words he buried his head in 
 the bed-clothes. 
 
 Mr. Hawes looked at Mr. Fry ; Mr. Fry answered 
 
182 'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEXD.' 
 
 tlie look : ' He must have seen Josephs the other 
 day.' 
 
 ' Ay ! he is mighty curious. Well, when he gets 
 well!' and, shaking his fist at the sufferer, Mr. Hawes 
 went out of the cell soon after. 
 
( 183 ) 
 
 CHAPTEE XL 
 
 ' What is your report about No. 19, doctor?' 
 
 ' The fever is gone.' 
 
 * He is well, then?' 
 
 ' He is well of the fever, but a fever leaves the 
 patient in a state of debility for some days. I have 
 ordered him meat twice a-day, — that is meat once and 
 soup once.' 
 
 ' Then you report him cured of his fever ?' 
 
 ' Certainly.' 
 
 ' Hodges, put No. 19 on the crank.' 
 
 ' Yes, sir.' 
 
 Even the surgeon opened his eyes at this. ' Why, 
 he is as weak as a child,' said he. 
 
 'Will it kill him?' 
 
 ' Certainly not ; and for the best of all reasons. He 
 can't possibly do it.' 
 
 ' You don't know what these fellows can do when 
 they are forced.' 
 
 The surgeon shrugged his shoulders and passed on 
 to his other patients. Eobinson was taken out into the 
 yard. ' What a blessing the fresh air is!' said he, 
 gulping in the atmosphere of the yard. ' I should 
 
184 'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEXD.' 
 
 have got well long ago if I had not been stifled in my 
 cell for want of room and air.' 
 
 Eobinson went to the crank in good spirits ; he did 
 not know how weak he was till he began to work ; but 
 he soon found out he could not do the task in the 
 time. He thought therefore the wisest plan would 
 be not to exhaust himself in vain efforts, and he sat 
 quietly down and did nothing. In this posture he 
 was found by Hawes and his myrmidons. 
 
 ' What are you doing there not working ?' 
 
 ' Sir I am only just getting well of a fever, and I 
 am as weak as water.' 
 
 ' And that is why you are not trying to do any- 
 thing, eh?' 
 
 ' I have tried, sir, and it is impossible. I am not fit 
 to turn this heavy crank.' 
 
 ' Well, then, I must try if I can't make you. Fetch 
 the jacket.' 
 
 ' Oh ! for heaven's sake don't torture me, sir. There 
 is nobody more willing to work than I am. And if 
 you will but give me a day or two to get my strength 
 after the fever, you shall see how I will work.' 
 
 ' There ! there ! your palaver ! Strap him up.' 
 
 He was in no condition to resist and moreover 
 knew resistance was useless. They jammed him in 
 the jacket pinned him tight to the wall and throttled 
 him in the collar. This collar, by a refinement of 
 cruelty was made with unbound edges, so that when 
 the victim exhausted with the cruel cramp that racked 
 his aching bones in the fierce gripe of Hawes's infernal 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 185 
 
 machine sank Ms heavy head and drooped his chin, 
 the jagged collar sawed him directly and lacerating 
 the flesh drove him away from even this miserable 
 approach to ease. Eobinson had formed no idea of the 
 torture. The victims of the Inquisition would have 
 gained but little by becoming the victims of the sepa- 
 rate and silent system in gaol. 
 
 They left the poor fellow pinned to the wall, jammed 
 in the strait waistcoat and throttled in the round saw. 
 Weakened by fever and unnatural exertion, he suc- 
 cumbed sooner than the inquisitors had calculated 
 upon. The next time they came into the yard they 
 found him black in the face, his lips livid, insensible 
 throttled and dying. Another half-minute and there 
 would have hung a corpse in the Hawes pillory. 
 
 When they saw how nearly he was gone they were 
 all at him together. One unclasped the saw collar, 
 one unbraced the waistcoat, another sprinkled water 
 over him — not a bucketful this time, because they 
 would have wetted themselves. Eeleased from the 
 infernal machine the body of No. 19 fell like a lump 
 of clay upon the men who had reduced him to this 
 condition. Then these worthies were in some little 
 trepidation ; for though they had caused the death of 
 many men during tlie last two years, they had not yet 
 as it happened murdered a single one on the spot 
 openly and honestly like this ; and they feared they 
 might get into trouble. Adjoining the yard was a 
 bath-room : to this they carried No. 19; they stripped 
 him, and let the water run upon him from the cock, 
 
186 ' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEXD.' 
 
 but he did not come to ; then they scrubbed him just 
 as they would a brick floor witli a hard brush upon 
 the back till his flesh was as red as blood ; with this 
 and the water together he began to gasp and sigh 
 and faintly come back from insensibility to a new set 
 of tortures ; but so long was the struggle between life 
 and death, that these men of business detained thus 
 unconscionably about a single thief lost all patience 
 with him ; one scrubbed him till the blood came under 
 the bristles, another seized him by the hair of his 
 head and jerked his head violently back several times, 
 and this gave him such pain that he began to struggle 
 instinctively and the blood now fairly set in motion 
 he soon moved. The last thing he remembered was a 
 body full of aching l^ones ; the first he awoke to was 
 the sensation of being flayed alive from the crown of 
 his head to the sole of his foot. 
 
 The first word he heard was — ' Put his clothes on 
 his shamming carcase !' 
 
 * Shall we dry him, sir ?' 
 
 ' Dry him !' roared the governor, with an oath. ' Xo ! 
 Hasn't he given us trouble enough.' (Another oath.) 
 
 They flung his clothes upon his red-hot dripping- 
 skin, and Hodges gave him a brutal push. ' Gro to your 
 cell.' Eobinson crawled off, often wincing, and trying 
 in vain to keep his clothes from rubbing those parts of 
 his person where they had scrubbed the skin off him. 
 
 Hawes eyed him with grim superiority. Suddenly 
 he had an inspiration. ' Come back !' shouted he. ' I 
 never was beat by a prisoner yet, and I never will. 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 187 
 
 Strap him up.' At this command even the turnkeys 
 looked amazed at one another, and hesitated. Then 
 the governor swore horribly at them, and Hodges 
 without another word went for the jacket. 
 
 They took hold of him ; he made no resistance ; he 
 never even looked at them. He never took his eye ofi 
 Hawes ; on him his eye fastened like a basilisk. They 
 took him away and pinioned jammed and throttled 
 him to the wall again. Hodges was set to watch him, 
 and a bucket of water near to throw over him should 
 he show the least sign of shamming again. In an hour 
 another turnkey came and relieved Hodges — in another 
 hour Fry relieved him, for this was tiresome work for 
 a poor turnkey — in another hour a new hand relieved 
 Fry, but nobody relieved No. 19. 
 
 Five mortal hours had he been in the vice without 
 shamming. The pain his skin suffered from the late 
 remedies, and the deadly rage at his heart, gave him 
 unnatural powers of resistance, but at last the infernal 
 machine conquered, and he began to turn dead faint ; 
 then Hodges, his sentinel at the time, caught 
 up the bucket and dashed the whole contents over 
 him. The effect was magical; the shock took away 
 his breath for a moment, but the next the blood 
 seemed to glow with fire in his veins, and he felt a 
 general access of vigour to bear his torture. When this 
 man had been six hours in the vice the governor and 
 his myrmidons came into the yard and unstrapped him. 
 
 ' You did not beat me, you see, after all,' said the 
 governor to No. 19. The turnkeys heard and revered 
 
188 'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEXD.' 
 
 tlieir chief. No. 19 looked him full in the face with 
 an eye glittering like a sabre, but said no word. 
 
 ' Sulky brute !' cried the governor, ' lock him up ' 
 (oath). And that evening, as a warder was rolling the 
 prisoner's supper along the little natural railway made 
 by the two railings of corridor B, the governor stopped 
 the carriage and asked for 19's tin. It was given him, 
 and he abstracted one-half of the man's gruel. ' Ee- 
 fractory in the yard to-day ; but I'll break hira before 
 I've done with him ' (oath). 
 
 The next day, brushes were wanted for the gaol. 
 This saved Eobinson for that day. It was little 
 Josephs' turn to suffer. The governor put him on a 
 favourite crank of his, and gave him eight thousand 
 turns to do in four hours and a-half. He knew the boy 
 could not do it, and this was only a formula he went 
 through previous to pillorying the lad. Josephs had been 
 in the pillory about an hour, when it so happened that 
 the Eeverend John Jones, the chaplain of the gaol, 
 came into the yard. Seeing a group of warders at the 
 mouth of a labour cell, he walked up to them, and there 
 was Josephs in peine forte et dure. 
 
 ' What is this lad's offence ?' inquired Mr. Jones. 
 
 ' Eefractory at the crank,' was the reply. 
 
 ' Why, Josephs,' said the reverend gentleman, ' you 
 told me you would always do your best.' 
 
 ' So I do, your reverence, ' gasped Josephs, ' but this 
 crank is too heavy for a lad like me, and that is why I 
 am put on it to get punished.' 
 
 ' Hold your tongue,' said Hodges roughly. 
 
'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 189 
 
 ' Why is lie to liold his tongue Mr. Hodges ?' said 
 the chaplain quietly ; ' how is he to answer my question 
 if he holds his tongue ? You forget yourself 
 
 ' Ugh ! beg your pardon sir, but tliis one has always 
 got some excuse or other.' 
 
 ' What is the matter ?' roared a rough voice behind 
 the speakers. This was Hawes, who had approached 
 them unobserved. 
 
 ' He is gammoning his reverence, sir — that is all.' 
 
 ' What has he been saying ?' 
 
 ' That the crank is too heavy for him, sir, and the 
 waistcoat is strapped too tight it seems.' 
 
 ' Who says so ?' 
 
 ' I think so, Mr. Hawes.' 
 
 ' Will you take a bit of advice, sir ? If you wish 
 a prisoner well, don't you come between him and me. 
 It will always be the worse for him, for I am master 
 here and master I will be.' 
 
 ' Mr. Hawes,' replied the chaplain, ' I have never done 
 or said anything in the prison to lessen your authority, 
 but privately I must remonstrate against the uncommon 
 severities practised upon prisoners in this gaol. If you 
 will listen to me I shall be much obliged to you — if 
 not, I am afraid I must as a matter of conscience call 
 the attention of the visiting justices to the question.' 
 
 ' Well parson the justices will be in the gaol to-day — 
 you tell them your story and I wiU tell them mine,' 
 said Hawes, with a cool air of defiance. 
 
 Sure enough, at five o'clock in the afternoon, two of 
 the visiting justices arrived accompanied by Mr. Wright 
 
190 'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEXD.' 
 
 a young magistrate. They were met at tKe door by 
 Hawes, who wore a look of cleliglit at their appearance. 
 They went round the prison with him, whilst he de- 
 tained them in the centre of the building, till he had 
 sent Hodges secretly to undo Josephs and set him on 
 the crank ; and here the party found him at work. 
 
 ' You have been a long time on the crank my lad' 
 said Hawes, ' you may go to your cell.' 
 
 Josephs touched his cap to the governor and the 
 gentlemen, and went off. 
 
 * That is a nice quiet-looking boy,' said one of the 
 justices ; ' what is he in for ?' 
 
 ' He is in this time for stealing a piece of beef out of 
 a butcher's shop.' 
 
 ' This time ! what ! is he a hardened offender ? he 
 does not look it.' 
 
 ' He has been three times in prison ; once for throw- 
 ing stones, once for orchard-robbing, and this time for 
 the beef 
 
 ' What a young villain ! at his age — ' 
 
 ' Don't say that Williams,' said Mr. Wright, drily, 
 ' you and I were just as great villains at his age. 
 Didn't we throw stones? rather !' 
 
 Hawes laughed in an adulatory manner, but observ- 
 ing that Mr. Williams, who was a grave pompous per- 
 sonage did not smile at all he added — 
 
 ' But not to do mischief like this one, I'll be bound.' 
 
 '■ No,' said Mr. Williams, with an air of ruffled dignity. 
 
 * No ?' cried the other, ' where is your memory ? 
 Why, we threw stones at everything and everybody. 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 191 
 
 and 1 suppose we did not always miss, eh? I 
 remember your throwing a stone through the window 
 of a place of worship — (this was a schoolfellow of mine, 
 and led me into all sorts of wickedness) : I say, was it a 
 Wesleyan shop, Williams, or a Baptist? for I forget. 
 Never mind, you had a fit of orthodoxy. What was 
 the young villain's second offence ?' 
 
 ' Kobbing an orchard, sir.' 
 
 ' The scoundrel ! robbing an orchard ? Oh, what 
 sweet reminiscences those words recall. I say W^il- 
 liams do you remember us two robbing Farmer 
 Harris's orchard ?' 
 
 ' I remember your robbing it, and my character 
 suffering for it.' 
 
 ' I don't remember that ; but I remember my climb- 
 ing the pear-tree, and flinging the pears down, and 
 finding them all grubbed on my descent. What is the 
 young villain's next — Oh 1 snapping a piece of beef off 
 a counter. Ah ! we never did that because we could 
 always get it witliout stealing it.' 
 
 With this Mr. Wright strolled away from the others, 
 having had what the jocose wretch used to call " a slap 
 at humbug." 
 
 His absence was a relief to the others. These did 
 not come there to utter sense in fun but to jest in sober 
 earnest. 
 
 Mr. Williams hinted as much, and Hawes, whose 
 cue it was to assent in everything to the justices, 
 brightened his face up at the remark. 
 . ' Will you visit the cells, gentlemen,' said he, with 
 
192 'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 an accent of cordial invitation, ' or inspect the book 
 first ?' 
 
 They gave precedence to the latter. 
 
 By the book, was meant the log-book of the gaol. 
 In it the governor was required to report for the jus- 
 tices and the Home-Office all gaol events a little out 
 of the usual routine. For instance, all punishments of 
 prisoners, all considerable sicknesses deaths and their 
 supposed causes, etc., etc. 
 
 ' This Josephs seems by the book to be an ill-con- 
 ditioned fellow, he is often down for punishment' 
 
 ' Yes ! he hates work. About Gillies, sir — rinoringr 
 his bell, and pretending it was an accident ?' 
 
 ' Yes ! how old is he ?' 
 
 ' Thirteen.' 
 
 ' Is this his first offence ?' 
 
 ' Not by a good many. I think, gentlemen, if 
 you were to order him a flogging, it would be better 
 for him in the end.' 
 
 ' Well, give him twenty lashes. Eh ! Palmer ?' 
 
 Mr. Palmer assented by a nod. 
 
 ' I beg your pardon, sir,' said Hawes, ' but will you 
 allow me to make a remark ?' 
 
 ' Certainly, Mr. Hawes, certainly !' 
 
 ' I find twenty lashes all at once rather too much 
 for a lad of that age. Now, if you would allow me to 
 divide the punishment into two, so that his health 
 might not be endangered by it, then we could give 
 him ten or even twelve, and after a day or two as 
 many more.' 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 193 
 
 * That speaks well for your liumanitj Mr. Hawes ; 
 your zeal we have long known.' 
 
 ' Augh sir ! sir !' 
 
 ' I will sign the order, — and we authorize you here 
 to divide the punishment according to your own sug- 
 gestion ' — (order signed). 
 
 The justices then went round the cells accompanied 
 by Hawes. They went into the cells with an expres- 
 sion of a little curiosity but more repugnance on 
 their faces, and asked several prisoners if they were 
 well and contented The men looked with the slirewd- 
 ness of their class into their visitors' faces and mea- 
 sured them : saw there first a feeble understanding, 
 secondly an adamantine prejudice ; saw that in those 
 eyes they were wild beasts and Hawes an angel, and 
 answered to please Hawes, whose eye was fixed on 
 them all this time and in whose power they felt they 
 were. 
 
 All expressed their content : some in tones so lan- 
 guid and empty of heart that none but Justice Shal- 
 low could have helped seeing through the Jiumbug. 
 Others did it better; and not a few over-did it, so 
 that any but Justice Shallow would have seen through 
 them. These last told Messrs. Shallow and Slender, 
 that the best thing that ever happened to them, was 
 
 coming to Gaol. They thanked heaven they 
 
 had been pulled up short in an evil career that must 
 have ended in their ruin body and soul. As for their 
 present situation, they were never happier in their 
 lives, and some of them doubted much, whether, when 
 
 VOL. 1. K 
 
194 'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 they should reach the penal settlements, the access of 
 liberty would repay them for the increased temptations 
 and the loss of quiet meditation and self-communion, 
 and the good advice of Mr. Hawes, and of his reverence 
 the chaplain. 
 
 The gaol-birds who piped this tune were without 
 a single exception the desperate cases of this moral 
 hospital ; they were old offenders — hardened scoundrels 
 who meant to rob and kill and deceive to their dying * 
 day. While in prison their game was to be as com- 
 fortable as they could. Hawes could make them un- 
 comfortable; he was always there. Under these cir- 
 cumstances, to lie came on the instant as natural to 
 them as to rob would have come had some power 
 transported them outside the prison doors with these 
 words of penitence on their lips. 
 
 They asked where that Josephs' cell was. Hawes 
 took them to him. They inspected him with a pro- 
 found zoological look, to see whether it was more wolf 
 or badger. Strange to say it looked neither, but a 
 simple quiet youth of the human genus — species 
 snob. 
 
 * He is very small to be such a ruffian,' said Mr. 
 Palmer. 
 
 ' I am sorry, Josephs,' said Mr. Williams pompously, 
 * to find your name so often down for punishment.' 
 
 Josephs looked up hoping to see the light of sym- 
 pathy in this speaker's eyes. He saw two owls' faces 
 attempting eagle but not reaching up to sparrow- 
 hawk, and he was silent. He had no hope of being 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 195 
 
 believed ; moreover, the grim eye of Hawes rested on 
 him, and no feebleness in it. 
 
 Messrs. Shallow and Slender receiving no answer 
 from Josephs, who was afraid to tell the truth, were 
 nettled, and left the cell shrugging their shoulders. 
 
 In the corridor they met the train just coming 
 along the bannisters with supper. Pompous Mr. 
 Williams tasted the prison diet on the spot. 
 
 ' It is excellent,' cried he ; ' why the gruel is like 
 glue.' And he fell into meditation. 
 
 ' So far everything is as we could wish, Mr. Hawes, 
 and it speaks well for the discipline and for your- 
 self.' 
 
 Hawes boAved with a gratified air. 
 
 ' I will complete the inspection to morrow.' 
 
 Hawes accompanied the gentlemen to the outside 
 gate. Here Mr. Williams turned. For the last 
 minute or two he had been in the throes of an idea, 
 and now he delivered himself of it. 
 
 ' It would be well if Josephs' gruel were not made 
 so strong for him.' 
 
 Mr. Williams was not one of those who often say a 
 great thing, but this deserves immortality, and could I 
 confer immortality this of Williams' should never die ! 
 Unlike most of the things we say it does not deserve 
 ever to die : — 
 
 ' It would BE WELL IF JOSEPHS' GRUEL WERE NOT 
 MADE SO STRONG FOR HIM ! !' 
 
 k2 
 
( 196 ) 
 
 CHAPTEE XII. 
 
 ' Will you eat your' mutton witli me to-day, Palmer ?' 
 said Mr. Williams, at the gate of the gaol. 
 
 * I should be very happy, but I am engaged to dine 
 with the lord-lieutenant.' 
 
 So Mr. Williams tdrove home to Ashtown Park, and 
 had to sit down. to dinner with his own small family 
 party- 
 Mr. Williams's mutton consisted of first a little 
 strong gravy soup lubricated and gelatinized with a 
 little tapioca ; vis-a-vis the soup a little piece of salmon 
 cut out of the fish's centre ; lobster patties, rissoles, 
 and two things with French names stinking of garlic 
 on the flank. 
 
 Enter a boiled turkey poult with delicate white 
 sauce ; a nice tongue, not too green nor too salt, and 
 a small saddle of six-tooth mutton, home-bred home- 
 fed ; after this a stewed pigeon, faced by greengage 
 tart, and some yellow cream twenty -four hours old ; 
 item, an iced pudding. A little Stilton cheese brought 
 up the rear with a nice salad. This made way for 
 
* IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 197 
 
 a foolish trifling dessert of muscadel grapes, guava 
 jelly, and divers kickshaws, diluted with agreeable 
 wines varied by a little glass of Marasquino and Co., 
 at junctures. So far so nice ! 
 
 But alas ! nothing is complete in this world, not 
 even the dinner of a 
 
 Fair round justice with fat capon lined. 
 There is always some drawback or deficiency here 
 below confound it ; 'the wretch of a cook had forgotten 
 to send up the gruela la Josephs. 
 
 Next day, after Mr. Williams had visited the female 
 prisoners, and complimented Hawes on having initiated 
 them into the art of silence, he asked where the chap- 
 lain was. Hawes instantly despatched a messenger to 
 inquire, and remembering that gentleman's threatened 
 remonstrance, parried him by anticipation thus- — 
 
 ' By-the-by, sir, I have a little complaint to make 
 of him.' 
 
 ' Indeed !' said Mr. Williams, ' what is that ?' 
 
 ' He took a prisoner's part against the discipline ; 
 but he doesn't know them, and they humbug him. 
 But, sir, ought he to preach against me in the chapel 
 of the gaol ?' 
 
 ' Certainly not ! Surely he has not been guilty of 
 such a breach of discipline and good taste.' 
 
 ' Oh ! but wait, sir,' said Hawes, ' hear the whole 
 truth, and then perhaps you will blame me. You 
 must know sir that I sometimes let out an oath. I 
 was in the army, and we used all to swear there; 
 and now a little of it sticks to me in spite of my teeth, 
 
198 'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 and if his reverence had done me the honor to take 
 me to task privately about it, I would have taken off 
 mj hat to him ; but it is another thing to go and 
 preach at me for it before all the gaol.' 
 
 ' Of course it is. Do you mean to say he did that ?' 
 ' He did, sir. Of course, he did not mention my 
 name, but he preached five-and-thirty minutes all about 
 swearing, and they all knew who he was hitting. I could 
 see the warders grinning from ear to ear, as much as 
 to say, " There's another rap for you, governor 1" ' 
 ' I'll speak to him.' 
 
 ' Thank you, sir ; don't be hard on him, for he is a 
 deserving officer ; but if you would give him a quiet 
 hint not to interfere with me. We have all of us plenty 
 to do of our own in a gaol, if he could but see it. Ah! 
 here comes the chaplain, sir. I will leave you together, 
 if you please ;' and Mr. Hawes made off with a busi- 
 ness air. 
 
 The chaplain came up and bowed to Mr. Williams, 
 who saluted him in turn somewhat coldly. There was 
 a short silence. Mr. Williams was concocting a digni- 
 fied rebuke. Before he could get it out the chaplain 
 began : — 
 
 ' I wished to speak with you yesterday, sir.' 
 ' I am at your service Mr. Jones. What is it?' 
 ' I want you sir to look into our punishments ; they 
 are far more numerous and severe than they used to be.' 
 ' On the contrary I find them less numerous.' 
 ' Why there is one punished every day.' 
 * I have been carefully over the books, and I assure 
 
*IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 199 
 
 you there is a marked decrease in the number of punish- 
 ments.' 
 
 ' Then they cannot be all put down, sir.' 
 
 ' Nonsense, Mr. Jones, nonsense !' 
 
 * And, then, the severity of these punishments, sir ! 
 Is it your wish that a prisoner should be strapped in 
 the jacket so tight that we cannot get a finger between 
 the leather and his flesh ?' 
 
 ' Not unless he is refractory.' 
 
 ' But prisoners are very seldom refractory.' 
 
 ' Indeed ! that is news to me.' 
 
 ' I assure you, sir, there are no quieter set of men 
 than prisoners generally. They know there is nothing 
 to be gained by resistance.' 
 
 ' They are on their good behaviour before you. You 
 don't see through them my good sir. They are like 
 madmen— you would take them for lambs till tliey 
 break out. Do you know a prisoner here called 
 Josephs ?' 
 
 ' Yes sir perfectly well.' 
 
 ' Well now, what is his character may I ask ?' 
 
 ' He IS A MILD, QUIET, DOCILE LAD.' 
 
 ' Ha ! ha ! ha ! I thought so. Prisoners are the 
 refuse of the earth. The governor knows them, and 
 how to manage them. A discretion must be allowed 
 him, and I see no reason to interfere between him and 
 refractory prisoners except when he invites us.' 
 
 ' You are aware that several attempts at suicide have 
 been made within the last few months ?' 
 
 * Sham attempts, yes.' 
 
200 'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 ' One was not sliam, sir,' said Mr. Jones, gravely. 
 
 ' Oh, Jackson, you mean. No, but he was a lunatic, 
 and would have made away with himself anywhere — 
 Hawes is convinced of that.' 
 
 'Well, sir, I have told you the fact; I have remon- 
 strated against the uncommon severities practised in this 
 gaol — severities unknown in Captain O'Connor's day.' 
 
 ' And I have received and answered your remon- 
 strance, sir, and there that matter ought to end.' 
 
 This, and the haughty tone with which it was said 
 discouraged and nettled the chaplain; he turned red 
 and said, — 
 
 ' In that case, sir, I have no more to say. I have 
 discharged my conscience.' With these words he was 
 about to withdraw, but Mr. Williams stopped him. 
 
 ' Mr. Jones, do you consider a clergyman justified in 
 preaching at people ?' 
 
 ' Certainly not.' 
 
 ' The pulpit surely ought not to be made a handle 
 for personality. It is not the way to make the pulpit 
 itself respected.' 
 
 ' I don't understand you, sir.' 
 
 ' Mr. Hawes is much hurt at a sermon you preached 
 against him.' 
 
 ' A sermon against him — never 1' 
 
 ' I beg your pardon ; you preached a whole sermon 
 against swearing — and he swears.' 
 
 ' Oh — yes ! I remember — the Sunday before last. 
 I certainly did reprobate in my discourse the habit of 
 swearing, but no personality to Hawes was intended.' 
 
* IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 201 
 
 ' No personality intended when you know he swears !' 
 
 ' Yes, but the warders swear too. Why should Mr. 
 Hawes take it all to himself?' 
 
 ' Oh ! if the turnkeys swear, then it was not so 
 strictly personal.' 
 
 ' To be sure' put in Mr. Jones inadvertently, ' I 
 believe they learned it of the governor.' 
 
 ' There you see 1 Well, and even if they did not, why 
 preach against the turnkeys ? why preach at any indi- 
 viduals or upon passing events at all ? I can remember 
 the time no clergyman throughout the length and 
 breadth of the land noticed passing events from the 
 pulpit.' 
 
 ' I am as far from approving the practice as you are, 
 sir.' 
 
 ' In those days the clergy and the laity respected one 
 another, and there was peace in the church.' 
 
 ' I can only repeat, sir, that I agree with you : the 
 pulpit should be consecrated to eternal truths not 
 passing events.' 
 
 ' Good ! very good ! Well then ?' 
 
 ' What Mr. Hawes complains of was a mere accident.' 
 
 ' An accident, Mr. Jones ? Oh, Mr. Jones !' 
 
 ' An accident which I undertake to explain to Mr. 
 Hawes himself.' 
 
 * By all means ; that will be the best way of making 
 friends again. I need not tell you that a gaol could 
 not go on in which the governor and the chaplain did 
 not pull together. The fact is, Mr. Jones, the clergy 
 of late have been assuming a little too much, and that 
 
 k3 
 
202 *1T IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 lias made tlie laity a little jealous. Now, although you 
 are a clergyman, you are Her Majesty's servant so long 
 as you are here, and must co-operate with the general 
 system of the gaol Come sir, you are younger than I 
 am ; let me give you a piece of advice — " Don't over- 
 step YOUR DUTY," etc. 
 
 In this strain Mr. Williams buz, buz, buzzed longer 
 than I can afford him paper, it is so dear. He pumped 
 a stream of time-honored phrases on his hearer, and 
 dissolved away with him as the overflow of a pump 
 carries away a straw on its shallow stream down a 
 stable-yard. 
 
 When the pump was pumped dry, he stopped. 
 
 Then the chaplain, who had listened with singular 
 politeness, got in a word. ' You forget, sir, I have re- 
 signed the chaplaincy of the gaol ?' 
 
 * Oh I ah 1 yes ! well then I need say no more sir ; 
 good day, Mr. Jones.' 
 
 ' Good morning, sir.' 
 
 Soon after this up came Hawes with a cheerful 
 countenance. 
 
 ' Well, parson, are you to manage the prisoners and 
 I to preach to them, or are we to go on as we are.' 
 
 * Things are to go on as they are, Mr. Hawes ; but 
 that is nothing to me, I have discharged my conscience. 
 I have remonstrated against the severities practised on 
 
 our prisoners. COLD WATER HAS BEEN THROWN ON MY 
 
 REMONSTRANCES, and I shall therefore interfere no more. 
 ' That is the wise way to look at it, you may depend !* 
 * We sliall see which was in the right, I have discharged 
 
'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 203 
 
 my conscience. But Mr. Hawes I am hurt you 
 should say I preached a sermon against you.' 
 
 ' I dare say you are sir, but who began it ; if you 
 had not talked of complaining to the justices of me I 
 should never have said a word against you.' 
 
 ' That is all settled : but it is due to my character to 
 show you that I had no intention of pointing at you 
 or any living creature from the pulpit.' 
 
 ' Well, make me believe that.' 
 
 ' If you will do me the favour to come to my room 
 I can prove it to you.' 
 
 The chaplain took the governor to his room and 
 opened two drawers in a massive table. 
 
 ' Mr. Hawes,' said he, ' do you see this pile of ser- 
 mons in this riglit hand drawer.' 
 
 ' I see them,' said Hawes, with a doleful air, ' and I 
 suppose I shall hear some of them before long.' 
 
 ' These,' said Mr. Jones, smiling with perfect good- 
 humour at the innocuous sneer, ' are sermons I com- 
 posed when I was curate of Little-Stoke. Of late I have 
 been going regularly through my Little-Stoke dis- 
 courses, as you may see. I take one from the pile in 
 this drawer, and after first preaching it in the gaol I 
 place it in the left drawer on that smaller pile.' 
 
 ' That you mayn't preach it again by accident ; well, 
 that is business.' 
 
 ' If you look into the left pile near the top, you will 
 find the one I preached against profane discourse, with 
 the date at which it was first composed.' 
 
 ' Here it is, sir,— Little-Stoke, May 15, 1847.' 
 
204 ' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEXD.' 
 
 ' Well, Mr. Hawes, now was that written against 
 you ? — come !' 
 
 ' No 1 I confess it could not ; but look here, if a man 
 sends a bullet into me, it doesn't matter to me whether 
 he made the gun on purpose or shot me out of an old 
 one that he had got by him.' 
 
 ' But I tell you that I took the sermon out in its 
 turn, and knew no more what it was about until I 
 opened it in the pulpit, than I knew what this one is 
 about which I am going to preach next Sunday morn- 
 ing, it was all chance.' 
 
 ' It was my bad luck, I suppose,' said Hawes, a little 
 sulkily. 
 
 ' And mine too, could I anticipate that a discourse 
 composed for and preached to a rural congregation 
 would be deemed to have a personal application 
 here.' 
 
 ^ Well ! no !' 
 
 ' I have now only to add sir that I extremely re- 
 gret the circumstance.' 
 
 ' Say no more sir. When a gentleman expresses his 
 regret to another gentleman, there is an end of the 
 grievance.' 
 
 ' I will take care the sort of thing never happens 
 again.' 
 
 ' No more about it sir pray.' 
 
 ' It never can however, for I shall preach but one 
 more Sunday here.' 
 
 ' And I am very sorry for it Mr. Jones.' 
 
 ' And after this occurrence I am determined to write 
 
* IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 205 
 
 both sermons for the occasion, so there is sure to be 
 nothing personal in them.' 
 
 ' Yes that is the surest way ; well, sir, you and I 
 never had but this one little misunderstanding, and 
 now that is explained, we shall part friends.' 
 
 ' A glass of ale, Mr. Hawes ?' 
 
 ' I don't care if I do. Sir' — (the glasses were filled 
 and emptied,) — ' I must go and look after my chickens; 
 the justices have ordered Gillies to be flogged. You 
 will be there I suppose in half an hour.' 
 
 ' Well, if my attendance is not absolutely neces- 
 sary— 
 
 ' We will excuse you sir if not convenient.' 
 
 ' Thank you, good morning !' and the reconciled 
 officials parted. 
 
 Little Gillies was hoisted to receive twenty lashes ; 
 at the twelfth the governor ordered him down. 
 
 He broke ofi" the tale as our magazines do, with a 
 promise — ' To be continued.' 
 
 Little Gillies, like their readers, cried out, * No, sir. 
 Oh, sir ! please flog me to an end, and ha' done with 
 it. I don't feel the cuts near so much now — my back 
 seems dead like.' 
 
 Little ass to tell Hawes this, as if that gentleman, 
 with his military experience, did not know all about 
 it — Hawes, who had been in the army throughout that 
 glorious period, recently expired, in which all our 
 soldiers' wounds were received in the back — and at 
 the hands of their comrades. 
 
 Little Gillies was arguing against himself. Hawes 
 
206 'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 had not divided Ms punisliment with the view of lessen- 
 ing his pain. It was droll, but more sad than droll to 
 hear the poor little fellow begging Hawes to flog him 
 to an end — to flog him out ; with similar idioms. 
 
 * Hold your [oath] noise 1' Hawes shrank with 
 disgust from noise in his prison, and could not com- 
 prehend why the prisoners could not take their punish- 
 ments without infringing upon the great and glorious 
 silence of which the gaol was the temple and he the 
 high priest. ' The beggars get no good by kicking 
 up a row,' argued he. 
 
 * Hold your noise 1 — take him to his cell I' 
 Whether it was because he had desecrated the 
 
 temple with noise, or from the accident of having 
 attracted the governor's attention, the weight of the 
 system fell on this small object now. 
 
 Gillies was ordered to make a fabulous number of 
 crank revolutions — fabulous, at least, in connection with 
 his tender age; he was put on the lightest crank, but 
 the lightest was heavy to thirteen years. Not being 
 the infant Hercules he could not perform this labour ; 
 so Hawes put him in jacket and collar almost the 
 whole day. His young and supple frame was in his 
 favour, but once or twice he could hardly help sham- 
 ming, and then they threw half a bucket over 
 him. 
 
 The next day he was put on the crank, and not 
 being able to complete the task that was set him before 
 dinner he was strapped up until the evening. The 
 next day the governor tried another tack. He took 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 207 
 
 away his meat soup and gruel, and gave liim nothing 
 but bread and water. Strange to say, this change of 
 diet did not supply the deficiency ; he could not do the 
 infant Hercules his work even on bread and water. 
 Then the governor deprived the obstinate little dog of 
 his chapel. * If you won't work, I'm [participle] if you 
 shall pray.' The boy missed the recreation of hearing 
 Mr. Jones hum the liturgy ; missed it in a way you 
 cannot conceive. Your soporific was his excitement ; 
 think of that. 
 
 Little Gillies became sadly dispirited, and weaker at 
 the crank than before ; ergo, the governor sentenced 
 hhn to be fourteen days without bed or gas. 
 
 But when they took away his bed and did not light 
 his gas, little Gillies began to lose his temper ; he made 
 a great row about this last stroke of discipline. * I 
 won't live such a life as this,' said little Gillies, in a 
 pet. ' Why don't the governor hang me at once ?' 
 
 * What is that noise ?' roared the governor, who was 
 in the corridor, and had long ears. 
 
 ' It is No. 50 kicking up a row at having his bed 
 and gas taken,' replied a turnkey, with a note of ad- 
 miration in his voice. 
 
 The governor bounced into the cell. * Are you 
 grumbling at that you rebellious young rascal; you 
 forget there are a dozen lashes owing you yet.' Now 
 the boy had not forgotten but he hoped the governor 
 had. ' Well, you shall have the rest to-morrow.' 
 
 With these words ringing in his ears little Gillies 
 was locked up for the night at six o'clock. His 
 
208 ' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 companions darkness and unrest — for a prisoner's 
 bed is the most comfortable tbing be bas, and tbe 
 change from it to a stone floor is as great to him 
 as it would be to us — darkness and unrest, and the cat 
 waiting to spring on him at peep of day. 
 
 Quae cum ita erant 
 as the warder put the key into bis cell the next 
 morning he heard a strange gurgling ; he opened the 
 door quickly, and there was little Gillies hanging ; a 
 chair was near him on which he had got to suspend 
 himself by his handkerchief from tbe window ; he was 
 black in the face, but struggling violently, and had 
 one hand above his head convulsively clutching the 
 handkerchief. Fry lifted him up by the knees, and 
 with some difficulty loosed the handkerchief. 
 
 Little Gillies, as soon as his throat could vent a 
 sound, roared with fright at the recent peril, and 
 then cried a bit, finally expressed a hope his breakfast 
 would not be taken from him for this act of insub- 
 ordination. 
 
 This infraction of discipline was immediately reported 
 to the governor. 
 
 ' Little beast,' cried Hawes, viciously, ' I'll work 
 himl' 
 
 * Oh ! he knew I was at hand, su',' said Fry, ' or he 
 would not have tried it.' 
 
 ' Of course he would not ; I remember last night he 
 was grumbling at his bed being taken away. I'll serve 
 him out !' 
 
 Soon after this the governor met the chaplain, and 
 
'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 209 
 
 told liim the case ; ' He shall make you an apology,' 
 — imperative mood him. 
 
 ' Me, an apology !' 
 
 ' Of course, you are the officer that has the care of his 
 soul, and he shall apologise to you for making away 
 with it or trying it on.' 
 
 This resolution was conveyed to Gillies with fearful 
 threats, so when the chaplain visited him he had got 
 his lesson pat. 
 
 ' I beg your reverence's pardon for hanging myself 
 began he at sight rather loud and as bold as brass. 
 
 ' Beg the Almighty's pardon, not mine.' 
 
 ' No 1 the governor said it was yours I was to beg,' 
 demurred Grillies. 
 
 ' Very well. But you should beg God's pardon 
 more than mine.' 
 
 * For why, sir ?' 
 
 * For attempting your life, which was his gift.' 
 
 ' Oh! I needn't beg his pardon; he doesn't care 
 what becomes of me ; if he did he wouldn't let them 
 bully me as they do day after day, drat 'em.' 
 
 ' I am sorry to see one so young as you so hardened. 
 I dare say the discipline of the gaol is bitter to you, it 
 is to all idle boys ; but you might be in a much worse 
 place — and will if you do not mend.' 
 
 ' A worse place than this, your reverence ! Oh, 
 my eye !' 
 
 ' And you ought to be thankful to Heaven for send- 
 ing the turnkey at that moment (here I'm sorry to say 
 little Gillies grinned satirically), or you would be in a 
 
210 'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 worse place. Would you rather be here or in Hell ?' 
 half asked, half explained the reverend gentleman in 
 the superior tone of one closing a discussion for ever. 
 
 ' In Hell,' replied Gillies, opening his eyes with 
 astonishment at the doubt. 
 
 Mr. Jones was dumb-foundered ; of all the mis- 
 chances that befall us in argument this coup perplexes 
 us most. He looked down at the little ignorant wretch, 
 and decided it would be useless to- waste theology on 
 him. He fell instead into familiar conversation with 
 him, and then Gillies, with the natural communicative- 
 ness of youth, confessed to him ' that he had heard the 
 warder at the next cell before he ventured to step off 
 the chair and suspend himself.' 
 
 ' Well ! but you ran a great risk too. Suppose he 
 had not come into your cell — suppose he had been 
 called away for a minute.' 
 
 ' I should have been scragged, and no mistake,' said 
 the boy, with a shiver. Throttling had proved no joke. 
 * But I took my chance of that,' added Gillies. ' I was 
 determined to give them a fright ; besides if he hadn't 
 come it would all be over by now sir, and all the 
 better for me I know.' 
 
 Further communication was closed by the crank, 
 which demanded young Hopeful by its mouth-piece 
 Fry. After dinner, to his infinite disgust, he received 
 the other moiety of his flogging; but by a sort of 
 sulky compensation his bed was kicked into his cell 
 again at night by Fry acting under the governor's 
 orders. 
 
* IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 211 
 
 ' That was not a bad move, hanging myself a little — 
 a very little,' said the young prig. He hooked up his 
 recovered treasure ; and, though smarting all over, 
 coiled himself up in it and in three minutes forgot 
 present pain past dangers and troubles to come. 
 
 The plan pursued with Robinson was to keep him at 
 low-water mark by lowering his diet; without this, 
 so great was his natural energy and disposition to work, 
 that no crank excuse could have been got for punishing 
 him ; and at this period he was too wise and self- 
 restrained to give any otlier. But after a few days of 
 unjust torture he began to lose hope ; and with hope 
 patience oozed away too, and his enemy saw with grim 
 satisfaction wild flashes of mad rage come every now 
 and then to his eye, harder and harder to suppress. 
 ' He will break out before long,' said Hawes to himself, 
 ' and then — ' 
 
 Robinson saw the game, and a deep dark hatred of 
 his enemy fought on the side of his prudence. This 
 bitter raging struggle of contending passions in the 
 thief's heart harmed his soul more than had years of 
 burglary and petty larceny. All the vices of the old 
 gaol system are nothing compared with the diabolical 
 effect of solitude on a heart smarting with daily wrongs. 
 
 Brooding on self is always corrupting ; but to brood 
 on self and wrongs, is to ripen for madness murder 
 and all crime. Between Robinson and these there lay 
 one little bit of hope — only one, but it was a reasonable 
 one. There was an official in the gaol possessed of a 
 large independent authority ; and paid (Robinson 
 
212 'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 argued) to take the side of liumanity in the place. 
 This man was the representative of the national re- 
 ligion in the gaol, as Hawes was of the law. Robinson 
 was too sharp at picking up everything in his way, and 
 had been too often in prisons and their chapels not to 
 know that cruelty and injustice are contrary to the 
 Gospel, and to the national rehgion which is in a great 
 measure founded thereon. He therefore hoped and 
 believed the chaplain of the gaol would come between 
 him and his persecutor if he could be made to under- 
 stand the case. Now it happened just after the justices 
 had thrown cold water on Mr. Jones's little expostula- 
 tion, that Robinson was pinned to the wall, jammed in 
 the waistcoat, and throttled in the collar. He had 
 been thus some time, when casting his despairing eyes 
 around they alighted upon the comely, respectable face of 
 Mr. Jones. Mr. Jones was looking gravely at the victim. 
 
 Robinson devoured him with his eyes and his 
 ears. He heard him say in an under-tone, 
 
 ' What is this for ?' 
 
 ' Hasn't done his work at the crank,' was the answer. 
 
 Then Mr. Jones, after taking another look at 
 the sufferer, gave a sigh and walked away. Robin- 
 son's hopes from this gentleman rose ; moreover, part 
 of his sermon next Sunday inveighed against inhu- 
 manity ; and Robinson, who had no conception the 
 sermon was several years old, looked on it as aimed at 
 Hawes and his myrmidons, and as the precursor of 
 other and effective remonstrances. Not long after this, 
 to his delight, the chaplain visited him alone. He 
 
*IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 213 
 
 seized this opportunity of securing the good man's in- 
 terference in his favour. He told him in glowing 
 words the whole story of his sufferings ; and with a 
 plain and manly eloquence appealed to him to make his 
 chapel words good, and come between the blood- 
 hounds and their prey. 
 
 ' Sir, there are twenty or thirty poor fellows besides 
 me that will bless your four bones night and day, if 
 you will but put out your hand and save us from being 
 abused like dogs and nailed to the wall like kites and 
 weasels. We are not vermin sir we are men. Many 
 a worse man is abroad than we that are caged here like 
 wild beasts. Our bodies are men's bodies, sir, and our 
 hearts are men's hearts. You can't soften their hearts, 
 for they haven't such a thing about them ; but only 
 just you open your mouth and speak your mind in 
 right-down earnest, and you will shame them into 
 treating us openly like human beings, let them hate 
 us and scorn us at bottom as they will. We have no 
 friend here, sir, but you, not one ; have pity on us ! 
 have pity on us ! ' 
 
 And the thief stretched out his hands, and fixed his 
 ardent glistening eyes upon the successor of the 
 apostles. 
 
 The successor of the apostles liung his head, and 
 showed plainly that he was not unmoved. A moment 
 of suspense followed — Eobinson hung upon his answer. 
 At length Mr. Jones raised his head, and said with icy 
 coldness — 
 
214 'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 ' Mr. Hawes is tlie governor of this gaol. I liave 
 no power to interfere with his acts supported as they 
 are by the visiting justices ; and I have but one advice 
 to give you : Submit to the discipline and to Mr. 
 Hawes in everything; it will be the worse for you 
 if you don't.' 
 
 So saying he went out abruptly, leaving his peti- 
 tioner with his eyes fixed ruefully upon the door by 
 which his last hope had left him. 
 
 The moment the reveiend official had got outside 
 the door, his countenance Vv'hich had fallen took a 
 complacent air. He prided himself that he had con- 
 quered an impulse, an idle impulse. 
 
 ' The poor fellow is in the right/ said he to himself 
 as he left the cell ; ' but if I had let him see I thought 
 so he might have been encouraged to resist, and then ' 
 he would have only suffered all the more.' 
 
 And so having done what he calculated was the 
 expedient thing to do, he went his way satisfied and at 
 peace with Mr. Hawes and all mankind. 
 
 When he glided away and took hope with him, dis- 
 dain despair and phrenzy gushed from the thief's 
 boiling bosom in one wild moan ; and with that moan 
 he dashed himself on his face on the floor, though it 
 was as hard as Hawes and cold as Jones. 
 
 Thus he lay crushed in blank despair a moment, 
 the next he rose fiercely to his knees, he looked up 
 through the hole they called his window, and saw a 
 little piece of blue sky no bigger than a Bible, he held 
 
* IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 215 
 
 his hand up to that bkie sky, he fixed his dilating eye 
 on that blue sky, and with one long raging yell of 
 horrible words hurled from a heart set on fire by 
 wrongs and despair and tempting fiends, he cursed 
 the successor of the apostles before the Majesty of 
 Heaven. 
 
( 216 ) 
 
 CHAPTEE XIII. 
 
 Solitude is no barrier whatever to sin. Such prayers 
 as Eobinson's are a disgrace to those who provoke 
 them, but a calamity to him who utters them. Eobin- 
 son was now a far worse man than ever he had been 
 out of prison. The fiend had fixed a claw in his heart, 
 and we may be sure he felt the recoil of his ill prayers. 
 He hated the human race, which produced such 
 creatures as Hawes and nothing to keep them in 
 check. 
 
 ' From this hour I speak no more to any of those 
 beasts ! ' 
 
 Such was his resolve, made with clenched teeth and 
 nails ; and he curled himself up like a snake and 
 turned his back upon mankind, and his face to the 
 wall. Eobinson had begun his career in this place full 
 of hopes. He hoped by good conduct to alleviate his 
 condition as he had done in other gaols ; conscious of 
 various talents he hoped by skill as well as by good 
 conduct to better his condition even in a gaol; such 
 hopes are a part of our nature, and were not in his 
 case unreasonable. These hopes were soon extin- 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 217 
 
 guished. He came down to a confident hope that by 
 docility and good conduct he should escape all evils 
 except those inseparable from a prisoner's lot. 
 
 When he discovered that Hawes loved to punish his 
 prisoners, and indeed could hardly get through the day 
 without it, and that his crank was an unavoidable trap 
 to catch the prisoners and betray them to punishment, 
 he sank lower and lower in despondency, till at last 
 there was but one bit of blue hope in all his horizon. 
 He still hoped something against tyranny and cruelty 
 from the representative of the gospel of mercy in the 
 place. But when his reverence told him nothing was 
 to be expected from that quarter, his last hope went 
 out and he was in utter darkness. 
 
 Yet Mr. Jones was not a hypocrite nor a monster ; he 
 was only a common-place man — a thing moulded by 
 circumstances instead of moulding them. In him the 
 official outweighed the apostle, for a very good reason 
 — he was common-place. This was his defect. His 
 crime was misplacing his common-place self A man 
 has a right to be common-place in the middle of the 
 New Forest, or in the great desert, or at Fudley-cum- 
 Pipes in the fens of Lincolnshire. But at the helm of 
 a struggling nation, or in the command of an array in 
 time of war, or at the head of the religious department 
 of a gaol, fighting against human wolves tigers and 
 foxes, to be common-place is an iniquity and leads to 
 crime. 
 
 The man was a humane man. It was not in his 
 nature to be cruel to a prisoner, and his humanity vras, 
 
 VOL. I. L 
 
218 'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 like himself, negative not positive passive not active 
 — of course : it was common-place humanity. 
 
 After looking on in silence for a twelvemonth or 
 two he remonstrated against Hawes's barbarity. He 
 would have done more ; he would have stopped it — if 
 it could have been stopped without any trouble. Cold 
 water was thrown on his remonstrance ; he cooled 
 directly ! 
 
 Now cold water and hot fire have been thrown on 
 men battling for causes no higher nor holier than this, 
 yet neither has fire been able to wither nor water to 
 quench their honest zeal. But this good soul on being 
 sprinkled laid down his arms ; he was common-place. 
 Moreover, he was guilty of something beside 
 cowardice. He let a small egotistical pique sully as 
 well as betray a great cause. ' The justices have 
 thrown cold water on my remonstrance — very well, 
 gentlemen, torture your prisoners ad libitum ; I shall 
 interfere no more ; we shall see which was in the 
 right, you or I.' 
 
 This was a narrow little view of wide and terrible 
 consequences ; it was infinitesimal egotism — the spirit 
 and essence of common-place. 
 
 His inclinations were good, but feeble — he was 
 common-place. His heart was good, but tepid — he 
 was common-place. Had he loved the New Testament 
 and the Saviour of mankind, he would have fought 
 Hawes tooth and nail ; he could not have helped it ; 
 but he did not love either ; he only liked them — he 
 was common-place. When the thief cursed this man, 
 
* IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 219 
 
 he was guilty of an extravagance as well as a crime ; 
 the man was not worth cursing — he was common-place. 
 
 The new chaplain arrived soon after these events. 
 The new chaplain was accompanied by his friend the 
 Eev. James Lepel chaplain of a gaol in the north of 
 England. After five years' unremitting duty he was 
 now enjoying a week's leave of absence. 
 
 The three clergymen visited the cells. Mr. Lepel 
 cross-examined several prisoners. The new chaplain 
 spoke little, but seemed observant, and once or twice 
 made a note. Now it so happened that almost the last 
 cell they entered was Tom Eobinson's. They found 
 him sitting all of a heap in a corner, moody and sullen. 
 
 At sight of three black coats and white ties the thief 
 opened his eyes, and with a snort of repugnance, 
 turned his back on the intruders. 
 
 *Come, my lad,' said the turnkey sternly, 'no 
 tricks, if you please. Turn round,' cried he savagely, 
 * and make your bow to the gentlemen.' 
 
 Eobinson wheeled round with flashing eyes, and 
 checking an evident desire to dash at them, instantly 
 made a bow so very low, so very obsequious, and by a 
 furtive expression, so contemptuous, that Mr. Lepel 
 coloured with indignation and moved towards the door 
 in silence. 
 
 The turnkey muttered, ' He has been very strange 
 this few days past. Mr. Fry thinks he is hardly safe.' 
 Then, turning to the new chaplain, the man, whose 
 name was Evans, said, * Better not go into his cell sir 
 without one of us with you.' 
 
 l2 
 
220 'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEXD.' 
 
 * What is the matter with him ?' inquired the 
 reverend gentleman. 
 
 ' Oh, I don't know as there is anything the matter 
 with him ; only he has been disciplined once or twice, 
 and it goes down the wrong way with some of them at 
 first starting. Governor says he will have to be put in 
 the dark cell if he does not get better.' 
 
 ' The dark cell ? hum ! Pray what is the effect of 
 the dark cell on a prisoner ?' 
 
 ' Well sir it cows them more than anything.' 
 ' Where are your dark cells ?' 
 
 * They are down below, sir. You can look at them 
 after the kitchen.' 
 
 ' I must go into the town,' said Mr. Lepel, looking 
 at his watch. ' I promised to dine with my relations 
 at three o'clock.' 
 
 ' Come and see the oubliettes first. We have seen 
 everything else.' 
 
 ' With all my heart !' 
 
 They descended below the ground-floor, and then 
 Evans unlocked a massive tight-fitting door opening 
 upon what appeared to be a black substance ; this 
 was, however, no substance but vacancy without any 
 degree of light. The light crossing the threshold from 
 the open door seemed to cut a slice out of it. 
 
 The new-comers looked into it. Mr. Lepel with 
 grim satisfaction, the other with awe and curiosity. 
 
 * When shall you be back, Lepel ?' inquired he 
 thoughtfully. 
 
 ' Oh, before nine o'clock.' . 
 
* IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 221 
 
 ' Then perhaps you will both do me the honour to 
 drink a cup of tea with me,' said Mr. Jones, cour- 
 teously. 
 
 ' With pleasure.' 
 
 * Grood-bye then for the present,' said the new chaplain. 
 ' Why, where are you going ?' 
 
 * In here.' 
 
 ' What into the dark cell ?' 
 
 'Yes!' 
 
 ' Well !' ejaculated Evans. 
 
 ' You won't stay there long.' 
 
 ' Until you return Lepel.' 
 
 * What a fancy!' 
 
 Mr. Jones looked not a little surprised. The turn- 
 key grinned. The reverend gentleman stepped at 
 once into the cell, and was lost to sight. 
 
 ' Do not let me out before eight o'clock,' said his 
 voice, ' and you, Lepel, inquire for me as soon as you 
 return, for I feel a little nervous. Now shut the door.' 
 
 The door was closed on the reverend gentleman, and 
 the little group outside, after looking at one another 
 with a humorous expression, separated, and each went 
 after his own affairs. 
 
 Evans lingered behind, and took a look at the massy 
 door, behind wliich for the first time a man had gone 
 voluntarily, and after grave deliberation delivered him- 
 self at long intervals of the two following profound 
 reflections : 
 
 ' Well! I'm blest!! 
 
 'Well! I'mblowed!!' 
 
( 222 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Mr. Lepel returned somewhat earlier than he had in- 
 tended. On entering the gaol it so happened that he 
 met the governor, and seized this opportunity of con- 
 versing with him. 
 
 He expressed at once so warm an admiration of the 
 gaol and the system pursued in it, that Hawes began 
 to take a iancy to him. 
 
 They compared notes, and agreed that no system 
 but the separate and silent had a leg to stand on ; and 
 as they returned together from visiting the ground- 
 floor cells, Mr. Lepel had the honour of giving a new 
 light to Hawes himself. 
 
 ' If I could have my way the debtors should be in 
 separate cells. I would have but one system in a gaol.' 
 
 Hawes laughed incredulously. 'There would be a 
 fine outcry if we treated the debtors the same as we do 
 the rogues.' 
 
 ' Mr. Hawes,' said the other firmly, ' an honest man 
 very seldom finds his way into any part of a gaol. 
 Extravagant people, and tradesmen who have abused 
 the principle of credit, deserve punishment, and above 
 
'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 223 
 
 all require discipline and compulsory self-communion 
 to bring them to amend their ways.' 
 
 * That is right, sir/ cried Hawes, a sudden light 
 breaking on him, ' and it certainly is a mistake letting 
 them enjoy themselves.' 
 
 * And corrupt each other/ 
 
 Hawes. A prison should be confinement. 
 
 Lepel. And seclusion from all but profitable company. 
 
 Hawes, It is not a place of amusement. 
 
 Lepel. There should be no idle conversation. 
 
 * And no noise,' put in Hawes hastily. 
 
 ' However this prison is a model for all the prisons 
 in the land, and I shall feel quite sad when I go back 
 to my duty in Cumberland.' 
 
 * Cumberland? Why you are our new chaplain, 
 aren't ye ?' 
 
 ' No ! I am not so fortunate, I am a friend of his ; 
 my name is Lepel.' 
 
 ' Oh, you are Mr. Lepel, and where is our one? I 
 heard he had been all over the gaol.' 
 
 ' What have you not seen him ?' 
 
 ' No ! he has never been near me. Not very polite, 
 I think.' 
 
 'Oh! Oh!' 
 
 * Hallo ! what is wrong !' 
 
 ' I think I know where he is ; he is not far off. I 
 will go and find him if you will excuse me.' 
 
 ' No! we won't trouble you. Here Hodges, come 
 here. Have you seen the new chaplain — where is he ?' 
 
 * Well, sir, Evans tells me he is — ' click ! 
 
224 ' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 * Confound you, don't stand grinning. Where is he ?' 
 
 ' In the black hole, sir !' 
 
 ' What d'ye mean by the black hole ? The dust-hole?' 
 
 ' No, sir, I mean the dark cells.' 
 
 ' Then why don't you say the dark cells ? Has he 
 been there long?' 
 
 Mr. Lepel answered the question. * Ever since 
 three o'clock, and it is nearly nine ; and we are both of 
 us to drink tea with Mr. Jones.' 
 
 Mr. Hawes showed no hurry. * What did he want 
 to go in them for ?' 
 
 ' I have no idea, unless it was to see what it is like.' 
 
 ' Well, but I like that !' said Hawes. ' That is en- 
 tering into the system. Let us see how he comes on.' 
 
 Mr. Hawes, Mr. Lepel, and Hodges, went to the 
 dark cells ; on their way they were joined by Evans. 
 
 The governor took out his own keys, and Evans 
 having indicated the cell, for there were three, he im- 
 locked it, and threw the door wide open. They all 
 looked in, but there was nothing to be seen. 
 
 ' I hope nothing is the matter,' said Mr. Lepel, in 
 considerable agitation, and he groped his way into the 
 cave. As he put out his hand it was taken almost 
 violently by the self-immured, who cried — 
 
 * Oh, Lepel !' and held him in a strong, but tremu- 
 lous grasp. Then after a pause, he said more calmly : 
 ' The light dazzles me ! the place seems on fire now ! 
 Perhaps you will be kind enough to lend me your arm, 
 Lepel.' 
 
 Mr. Lepel led him out ; he had one hand before his 
 
*IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 225 
 
 eyes, which he gradually withdrew while speaking. 
 He found himself in the middle of a group, with a sly 
 sneer on their faces, mixed with some curiosity. 
 
 * How long have I been there ?' asked he, quietly. 
 ' Six hours ; it is nine o'clock.' 
 
 ' Only six hours ! incredible !' 
 
 * Well, sir, I suppose you are not sorry to be out ?' 
 
 * This is Mr. Hawes, the governor,' put in Mr. 
 Lepel. 
 
 Hawes continued jocosely — ' What does it feel like, 
 sir?' 
 
 * I shall have the honour of telling you that in private, 
 Mr. Hawes. I think, Lepel, we have an engagement 
 with Mr. Jones at nine o'clock.' So saying, the new 
 chaplain, with a bow to the governor, took his friend's 
 arm, and went to tea with Mr. Jones. 
 
 ' There now,' said Hawes to the turnkeys, ' that is 
 a gentleman. He doesn't blurt everything out before 
 you fellows ; he reserves it for his superior officer.' 
 
 Next morning the new chaplain requested Mr. 
 Lepel to visit the prisoners' cells in a certain order, 
 and make notes of their characters as far as he could 
 guess them. He himself visited them in another 
 order and made his notes. In the evening they com- 
 pared these. We must be content with an extract or 
 two. 
 
 l3 
 
226 
 
 'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND/ 
 
 Mr. Lepel's. 
 Rocli, No. 37. — A very pro- 
 mising subject, penitent and 
 resigned. Says, * if the door 
 of the prison was left open he 
 would not go out.' Has learned 
 250 texts, and is learning fif- 
 teen a-day. 
 
 Josephs, No. . — An in- 
 teresting boy, ignorant, but 
 apparently well-disposed. In 
 ill health. The surgeon should 
 be consulted about him. 
 
 Strutt, No. . — Sullen, 
 impenitent, and brutal. Says, 
 it is no use his learning texts, 
 they won't stay in his head. 
 Discontented ; wants to go out 
 in the yard. The best one 
 can hope for here is, that the 
 punishment which he finds so 
 severe will deter him in future. 
 Says, he will never come here 
 again, but doubts whether he 
 shall get out alive. Gave him 
 tracts. 
 
 -The prisoner whose 
 term, owing to his excellent 
 conduct, is reduced from 
 
 The New Chaplain's. 
 
 37, Rock. — Professes peni- 
 tence. Asked him suddenly 
 what sins weighed most on his 
 conscience. No answer. Pre^ 
 pared with an abstract peni- 
 tence, but no particulars : rea- 
 son obvious. 
 
 Mem. With this man speal: 
 on any topic rather than re- 
 ligion at present. Pray for this 
 self-deceiver as I would for a 
 murderer. 
 
 Josephs . — An amiable 
 
 boy ; seems out of health and 
 spirits. Says, he has been 
 overworked and punished for 
 inability. Shall intercede with 
 the governor for him. 
 
 Mem. Pale and hollow-eyed, 
 pulse feeble. 
 
 Strittt. — This poor man is 
 in a state of deep depression. 
 I much fear the want of light, 
 and air, and society is crushing 
 him. He is fifty years old. 
 
 Mem. Inquire whether se- 
 parate confinement tries men 
 harder after a certain age. 
 Talked to him ; told him stories 
 with all the animation I could. 
 Stayed half an hour with him : 
 he brightened up a little, and 
 asked me to come again. No- 
 thing to be done here at present 
 but amuse the poor soul. 
 
 Mem. Watch him jealously, 
 
 Jessup. — Like Eock, pro- 
 fesses extravagant penitence, 
 indijBference to personal liberty, 
 
IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND. 
 
 227 
 
 Mk. Lepel's. 
 twelvemonths to nine months ; 
 so that he goes out next week. 
 Having discovered that the 
 news had not been conveyed 
 to him, I asked Mr. Hawes to 
 let me be the bearer. When 
 I told him, his only remark 
 was, with an air of regret : 
 ' Then I shall not finish my 
 gospels !' I begged for an ex- 
 planation, when he told me 
 that for eight months he had 
 been committing the gospels to 
 heart, and that he was just 
 beginning St. John, which now 
 he should never finish. I said 
 he must finish it at home in 
 the intervals of honest labour. 
 His countenance brightened, 
 and he said he would. 
 
 A most cheering case, and 
 one of the best proofs of the 
 efficacy of the separate and 
 silent system I have met with 
 for some time. I fear I almost 
 grudge you the possession of 
 such an example. 
 
 The New Chaplain's. 
 and love of Scripture. He 
 overdoes it greatly : however 
 it appears he has gained his 
 point by it. He has induced 
 Mr. Jones to plead for him in 
 mitigation of punishment, and 
 next week he leaves prison for 
 a little while. 
 
 He asked me to hear him 
 some texts. I said, ' No, my 
 poor fellow ; they will do you 
 as much good whether I hear 
 you them or not.' By a light 
 that flashed into his eye I saw 
 he comprehended the equi- 
 voque ; but he suppressed his 
 intelligence, and answered 
 piously, ' that they will, your 
 reverence.' 
 
 EoUnson. — This man wears 
 a singular look of scorn as well 
 as hatred, which, coupled with 
 his repeated refusals to speak 
 to me, provoked me so that I 
 felt strongly tempted to knock 
 him down. How unworthy, 
 to be provoked at anything a 
 great sufferer can say or do : 
 every solitary prisoner must 
 surely be a great sufferer. 
 
 My judgment is quite at 
 
228 ' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND/ 
 
 Mr. Lepel's. The New Chaplain's. 
 
 Robinson. — A bad subject, fault here. I know no more 
 rebellious and savage ; refuses than a child what is this man's 
 to speak. Time and the disci- character, and the cause of his 
 pline will probably break him strange conduct. 
 of this ; but I do not think Mem. Inquire his antece- 
 
 he will ever make a good dents of the turnkeys. Oh, 
 prisoner. Lord, enlighten me, and give 
 
 me wisdom for the great and 
 deep and difficult task I have 
 so boldly undertaken ! 
 
 The next day tlie new chaplain met the surgeon in 
 the gaol, and took him into Josephs' cell. 
 
 ' He onlj wants a little rest, and nourishing food ; 
 he would be the better for a little amusement, but — ' 
 and the man of science shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 * Can you read ?' said Mr. Lepel. 
 ' Very little, sir.' 
 
 * Let the schoolmaster come to him every day,' sug- 
 gested that experienced individual. He knew what 
 separate confinement was. What bores a boy out of 
 prison amuses him in it. 
 
 Hawes gave a cold consent. So poor little Josephs 
 had a richer diet, and rest from crank and pillory, and 
 the schoolmaster spent half an hour every day teaching 
 him ; and above all the new chaplain sat in liis cell, 
 and told him stories that interested him — told him how 
 very wicked some boys had been ; what a many clever 
 wicked things they had done and not been happy, then 
 how they had repented and learned to pray to be good, 
 and how by divine help they had become good, and 
 how some had gone to heaven soon after, and were now 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 229 
 
 liappy and pure as the angels ; and others had stayed on 
 earth and were good and honest and just men ; not so 
 happy as those others who were dead, but content (and 
 that the wicked never are) , and waiting God's pleasure 
 to go away and be happy for ever. 
 
 Joseph listened to the good chaplain's tales and con- 
 versation with wonderful interest, and his face always 
 brightened when that gentleman came into his cell. 
 The schoolmaster reported him not quick, but docile. 
 These were his halcyon days. 
 
 But Eobinson remained a silent basilisk. The chap- 
 lain visited him every day, said one or two kind words 
 to him, and retired without receiving a word or a look 
 of acknowledgment. One day, surprised and hurt by 
 this continued obduracy the chaplain retired with an 
 audible sigh. Eobinson heard it, and ground his teeth 
 with satisfaction. Solitary tortured and degraded, he 
 had still found one whom he could annoy a little bit. 
 
 The governor and the new chaplain agreed charm- 
 ingly ; constant civilities passed betw^een them. The 
 chaplain assisted Mr. Hawes to iuin the phrases of 
 his yearly report; and Mr. Hawes more than repaid 
 him by consenting to his introducing various handi- 
 crafts into the prison — at his own expense, not the 
 county's. 
 
 Parson must have got a longer purse than most of 
 us thought Hawes, and it increased his respect. 
 
 Hawes shrugged his shoulders, as much as to say, 
 * You are just flinging your money into the dirt ;' but 
 the other interpreting his look, said — 
 
230 
 
 * I hope more good from this than from all tlie ser- 
 mons I shall preach in ^^our chapel.' 
 
 Probably Mr. Hawes woiild not have been so in- 
 different had he known that this introduction of ra- 
 tional labor was intended as the first step towards 
 imdermining and expelling the sacred crank. 
 
 This clergyman had a secret horror and hatred of the 
 crank He called it a monster got by folly upon 
 science to degrade labour below theft; for theft is 
 immoral, but crank labour is immoral and idiotic too, 
 said he. The crank is a diabolical engine, to keep thieves 
 from ever beinor anything but thieves. He arrived at 
 this conclusion by a chain of reasoning for which there 
 is no room in a narrative already smothered in words. 
 The man wrote a pamphlet on tliis head, an extract 
 from which shall be printed in my appendix — if there 
 is room. 
 
 This antipathy to the crank quite overpowered him. 
 He had been now three weeks in the gaol, and all that 
 time only thrice in the labor-yard. It cut his under- 
 standing like a knife to see a man turn a handle for 
 hours and nothing come of it. 
 
 However, one day, from a sense of dut}^ he forced 
 himself into the labor-yard, and walked wincing down 
 the row. 
 
 * These are our school-men,' said he. ' As the 
 school-men laboured most intellectually and scientifi- 
 cally — practical result, nil, so these labour harder 
 than other men — result, ml. This is literally " beating 
 the air." The ancients imagined tortures particularly 
 
* IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 231 
 
 trying to nature, that of Sisyphus to wit ; everlasting 
 labor embittered by everlasting nihilification. We 
 have made Sisyphism vulgar. Here are fifteen 
 Sisyphi. Only the wise or ancients called this 
 thing infernal torture ; our old women call it salutary 
 discipline.' 
 
 He was running on in this style, heaping satire and 
 sorrow upon the crank, when suddenly, at the mouth 
 of one of the farthest cells, he stopped and threw up his 
 hands with an ejaculation of astonishment and dismay. 
 There was a man jammed in a strait waistcoat, 
 pinned against the wall by a strap, and throttling in 
 a huge collar ; his face was white, his lips livid, and 
 his eyes rolling despairingly. It was Thomas Eobin- 
 son. This sight took away the chaplain's breath. 
 When he recovered himself, ' Wliat is this/ said he 
 to the turnkeys, sternly. 
 
 * Prisoner refractory at the crank,' answered Hodges, 
 doggedly. 
 
 The clergyman walked up to Eobinson and examined 
 tbe collar, the waistcoat, and the strap. ' Have you 
 the governor's authority for this act ?' said he firmly. 
 
 ' Eule is if they won't do their work, the jacket.' 
 
 ' Have you the governor's authority for this par- 
 ticular act?' 
 
 ' In a general way we have.' 
 
 ' In a word you are not acting under his authority 
 and you know it ; take the man down this moment.' 
 
 The men hesitated. 
 
 ' If you don't I shall.' 
 
232 *IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 The turnkeys, a little staggered by his firmness, 
 began to confer in whispers. The chaplain, who was 
 one of your decided men, could not wait the consulta- 
 tion. He sprang to Robinson's head and began to 
 undo the collar. The others seeing this decided move 
 came and helped him. The collar and the strap being 
 loosed, the thief's body ensacked as it was fell help- 
 lessly forward. He had fainted during the discussion, 
 in fact his senses were shut when the chaplain first 
 came to the cell. The chaplain caught him, and 
 being a very strong man saved him from a dangerous 
 fall, and seated him gently with his back to the wall. 
 Water was sprinkled in his face. The chaplain went 
 hastily to find the governor. He came to him pale 
 and out of breath. 
 
 ' I found the turnkeys outraging a prisoner.'. 
 
 ' Indeed !' said the governor. It was a new idea to 
 him that anything could be an outrage on a prisoner. 
 
 ' They confessed they had not your authority, so I 
 took upon me to undo their act.' 
 
 * Humph !' 
 
 ' I now leave the matter in your hands, sir.' 
 
 ' I will see into it, sir.' 
 
 The chaplain left Mr. Hawes abruptly, for he was 
 seized with a sudden languor and nausea ; he went to 
 his own house and there he was violently sick. Shak- 
 ing off as quickly as he could this weakness, he went at 
 once to Robinson's cell. He found him coiled up like 
 a snake. He came hastily into the cell with the natu- 
 ral effusion of a man who had taken another man's part. 
 
'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 233 
 
 * I want to ask you one question : — What had you 
 done that they should use you like that ?' 
 
 No answer. 
 
 ' It is not from idle curiosity I ask you, but that I 
 may be able to advise you, or intercede for you if the 
 punishment should appear too severe for the offence.' 
 
 No answer. 
 
 ' Come, I would wait here ever so long upon the 
 chance of your speaking to me if you were the only 
 prisoner, but there are others in their solitude longing 
 for me ; time is precious, will you speak to one who 
 desires to be your friend ?' 
 
 No answer. 
 
 A flush of impatience and anger crossed the chap- 
 lain's brow : in most men it would have found vent in 
 words. This man but turned away to hide it from its 
 object. He gulped his brief ire down and said only, 
 ' So then I am never to be any use to you,' and went 
 sorrowfully away. 
 
 Eobinson coiled himself up a little tighter, and 
 hugged his hatred of all mankind closer, like a trea- 
 sure that some one had just tried to do him out of 
 
 As the chaplain came out of his cell he was met by 
 Hawes, whose countenance wore a gloomy expression, 
 that soon found its way into words. 
 
 ' The chaplain is not allowed to interfere between 
 me and the prisoners in this gaol.' 
 
 ' Explain, Mr. Hawes.' 
 
 * You have been and ordered my turnkeys to relax a 
 punishment.' 
 
234 * IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEXD. 
 
 ' You forget, Mr. Hawes, I explained to you that 
 they were acting without the requisite authority from 
 you/ 
 
 ' That is all right, and I have called them to ac- 
 count, but then you are not to order them either ; you 
 should have applied to me, sir.' 
 
 ' I see, I see ! Forgive me this little breach of 
 routine where a human creature's sufferings would 
 have been prolonged by etiquette.' 
 
 ' Ugh ! Well it must not occur again.' 
 
 ' I trust the occasion will not.' 
 
 ' For that matter you will often see refractory pri- 
 soners punished in this gaol. You had better mind 
 your own business in the gaol, it will find you work 
 enough.' 
 
 ' I will, Mr. Hawes ; to dissuade men from cruelty 
 is a part of it.' 
 
 * If you come between me and the prisoners, sir, 
 you won't be long here.' 
 
 The new chaplain smiled. 
 
 ' What does it matter whether I'm here or in Pata- 
 gonia, so that I do my duty wherever I am ?' said he 
 with a fine mixture of good-humour and spirit. 
 
 Hawes turned his back rudely, and went and re- 
 duced Robinson's supper fifty per cent. 
 
 ' Evans, is that sort of punishment often inflicted 
 here ? ' 
 
 ' Well, sir, yes. It is a common punishment of this 
 gaol' 
 
 ' It must be very painful.' 
 
'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 235 
 
 * No, sir, it's a little ow comfortable that is all; and 
 then we've got such a lot here we are obliged to be 
 down on'em like a sledge-hammer, or they'd eat us up 
 alive.' 
 
 * Have you got the things, the jacket, collar, etc' 
 
 * I know where to find them,' said Evans with a sly 
 look. 
 
 ' Bring them to me directly to this empty cell.' 
 
 ' Well, sir,' higgled Evans, ' in course I don't like to 
 refuse your reverence,' 
 
 ' Then don't refuse me,' said the other, sharp as a 
 needle. 
 
 Evans went off directly and soon returned with tlie 
 materials. The chaplain examined them awhile; he 
 then took off his coat. 
 
 ' Operate on me, Evans.' 
 
 ' Operate on you, sir !' 
 
 ' Yes ! There, don't stand staring my good man, 
 hold up the waistcoat — now strap it tight — tighter — 
 no nonsense — Eobinson was strapped tighter than that 
 yesterday. I want to know what we are doing to our 
 fellow -creatures in this place. The collar now.' 
 
 ' But, sir, the collar will nip you. I tell you that 
 before hand. 
 
 * Not more than it nips my prisoners. Now strap 
 me to the wall. Why do you hesitate ? ' 
 
 ' I don't know whether I am doing right, sir, you 
 being a parson. Perhaps I shall have no luck after this/ 
 
 ' Don't be silly, Evans. Volenti non fit injuria, that 
 means, you may torture a bishop if he bids you.' 
 
236 ' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 * There you are, sir.' 
 
 ' Yes ! here I am. Now go away and come in half 
 an hour.' 
 
 ' I think I had better stay, sir. You will soon be 
 sick of it.' 
 
 ' Go, and come in half an hour,' was the firm reply. 
 
 Our chaplain felt that if the man did not go he 
 should not be five minutes before he asked to be 
 released, and he was determined to know ' what we are 
 doing.' 
 
 Evans had not been gone ten minutes before he 
 bitterly repented letting him go, and when that worthy 
 returned he found him muttering faintly, ' It is in a 
 good cause — it is in a good cause — ' 
 
 Evans wore a grin. 
 
 * You shall pay for that grin,' said the chaplain to 
 himself. 
 
 * Well, sir, have you had enough of it ?' 
 
 ' Yes, Evans, you may loose me,' said the other w^ith 
 affected nonchalance. 
 
 ' What is it like, sir ? haw ! haw ! ' 
 
 ' It is as you described it, (^comfortable ; but the 
 knowledge I have gained in it is invaluable. You 
 shall share it.' 
 
 ' With all my heart, sir ; you can tell me what it is 
 like.' 
 
 ' Oh, no 1 such knowledge can never be imparted 
 by description ; you shall take your turn in the jacket.' 
 
 ' Not if I know it.' 
 
 ' What not for the sake of knowledge ? ' 
 
'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 237 
 
 * Oh ! I can guess what it is like.' 
 
 * But you will oblige me ? ' 
 
 * Some other way, sir, if you please.' 
 
 * Besides, I will give you a guinea.' 
 
 * Oh ! that alters the case, sir. But only for half an 
 hour, sir.' 
 
 * Only for half an hour.' 
 
 Evans was triced up and pinned to the wall ; the 
 chaplain took out a guinea and placed it in his sight, 
 and walked out. 
 
 In about ten minutes he returned, and there was 
 Evans his face drawn down by pain. 
 
 * Well, how do you like it ? ' 
 
 * Oh ! pretty well, sir, it isn't worth making an out- 
 cry about.' 
 
 ' Only a little o/icomfortable.' 
 
 * That is all ; if it wasn't for the confounded cramp.' 
 
 * Let us compare notes,' said the chaplain, sitting 
 down opposite. ' I found it worse than uncomibrtable. 
 First there was a terrible sense of utter impotence, 
 then came on racking cramps, for which there was no 
 relief, because I could not move.' 
 
 *0h!' 
 'What?' 
 
 * Nothing, sir ! mum — mum — dear guinea ! ' 
 
 ' The jagged collar gave me much pain too, it rasped 
 my poor throat like a file.' 
 
 ' Why the dickens didn't you tell me all this 
 before, sir,' said Evans ruefully; 'it is no use now 
 I've been and gone into the same oven like a fool.' 
 
238 ' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO IVIEND.' 
 
 ' I Kad my reasons for not telling you before ; good- 
 bye for the present.' 
 
 ' Don't stay over tlie half hour for goodness' sake, sir.' 
 
 * No ! adieu for the present.' 
 
 He did not go far : he listened and heard the plucky 
 Evans groan. He came hastily in. 
 
 ' Courage, my fine fellow, only eight minutes more 
 and the guinea is yours.' 
 
 ' How many more minutes, sir ? ' 
 
 ' Eight.' 
 
 * Then, oh ! undo me, sir, if you please.' 
 
 ' What ! forfeit the guinea for eight minutes — seven, 
 it is only seven now. 
 
 ' Hang the guinea, let me down, sir, if there's pity 
 in you.' 
 
 * With all my heart,' said the reverend gentleman, 
 pocketing the guinea, and he loosed Evans with all 
 speed. 
 
 The man stretched his limbs with ejaculations of 
 pain between every stretch, and put his handkerchief 
 on very gingerly. He looked sulky and said nothing. 
 The other watched him keenly, for there was some- 
 thing about him that showed his mind was working. 
 
 ' There is your guinea.' 
 
 * Oh, no ! I didn't earn it.' 
 
 * Oh, if you think that (putting it to the lips of his 
 pocket), let me make you a present of it' (handing it 
 out again). Evans smiled. 'It is a good servant. 
 That little coin has got me one friend m-ore for these 
 poor prisoners. You don't understand me, Evans. 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 239 
 
 Well, you will. Now, look at me ; from this mo- 
 ment, sir, you and I stand on a different footing from 
 others in this gaol. We know what v^e are doing 
 when we put a prisoner in that thing; the others 
 don't. The greater the knowledge, the greater the 
 guilt. May we both be kept from the crime of cruelty. 
 Good night !' 
 
 ' Good night, your reverence !' said the man gently, 
 awed by his sudden solemnity. 
 
 The chaplain retired. Evans looked after him, and 
 then down into his own hand. 
 
 ' Well I'm blowed ! Well I'm blest !— Got a guinea, 
 though ! !' 
 
( 240 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 Governor Hawes had qualities good in themselves, 
 but ill-directed, and therefore not good in their re- 
 sults — determination for one. He was not a man to 
 yield a step to opposition. He was a much greater 
 man than Jones : he was like a torrent, to whose pro- 
 gress if you oppose a great stone, it brawls and 
 struggles past it and round it and over it with more 
 vigor than before. 
 
 ' I will be master in this gaol !' was the creed of 
 Hawes. He docked Robinson's supper one half, ditto 
 his breakfast next day, and set him a tremendous task 
 of crank. Now in gaol a day's food and a day's crank 
 are too nicely balanced to admit of the weights being 
 tampered with. So Robinson's demi-starvation paved 
 the way for further punishment. At one o'clock he 
 was five hundred revolutions short, and instead of going 
 to his dinner, he was tied up in the infernal machine. 
 Now the new chaplain came three times into the yard 
 that day, and the third time, about four o'clock, he 
 found Robinson pinned to the v/all, jammed in the 
 waistcoat, and griped in the collar. His blood ran 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 241 
 
 cold at sight of* him, for the man had been hours in the 
 pillory and nature was giving way. 
 ' What has he done ?' 
 
 * Eefractory at crank.' 
 
 ' I saw him working at the crank when I came here 
 last.' 
 
 ' Hasn't made his number good though.' 
 
 ' Humph ! You have the governor's own orders ?' 
 
 * Yes sir.' 
 
 ' How long is he to be so ?' 
 
 ' Till fresh orders.' 
 
 ' I will see the effect of this punishment on the pri- 
 soner and note it down for my report.' And he took 
 out his note-book, and leaned his back against the wall. 
 
 The simple action of taking ^out a note-book gave 
 the operators a certain qualm of doubt. Fry whis- 
 pered Hodges to go and tell the governor. On his 
 return Hodges found the parties as he had left them, 
 except Kobinson — he was paler and his lips turning 
 bluer. 
 
 ^ Your victim is fainting ' said the chaplain sternly . 
 
 ' Only shamming sir' said Fry. * Bucket, Hodges.' 
 
 The bucket was brought and the contents were flung 
 over Robinson. 
 
 The chaplain gave a cry of dismay. The turnkeys 
 both laughed at this. 
 
 * You see he was only shamming sir,' said Hodges. 
 ' He is come to the moment the water touched him,' 
 
 * A plain proof he was not shamming. A bucket of 
 water thrown over any one about to faint would always 
 
 VOL. L M 
 
242 * IT IS XEVER TOO LATE TO MEXD.' 
 
 bring them to ; but if a man bad made up bis mind to 
 sbam, be could do it in spite of water. Of course you 
 will take bim down now ?' 
 
 ' Not till fresb orders.' 
 
 ' On your peril be it if any barm befalls tbis prisoner 
 — you are warned.' 
 
 At tbis juncture Hawes came into tbe yard. His 
 cbeek was flusbed and bis eye glittered. He expected 
 and ratber boped a collision witb bis reverence. 
 
 * Well, wbat is tbe matter ?' 
 
 'rf^Notbing sir ; only bis reverence is tbreatening us.' 
 
 * Wbat is be tbreatening you for ?' 
 
 ' Tbis way Mr. Hawes, if you please. It is not 
 well a prisoner or turnkey sbould bear our difference 
 of opinion. I told tbese men tbat I sbould bold tbem 
 responsible if any barm came to tbe prisoner for tbeir 
 cruelty. I now tell you tbat be bas just fainted from 
 bodily distress caused by tbis infernal engine, and I 
 bold you Mr. Hawes responsible for tbis man's life 
 and well-being, wbicb are bere attacked contrary to 
 tbe custom of all ber Majesty's prisons, and contrary to 
 tbe intention of all punishment, which is for the cul- 
 prit's good not for bis injury either in soul or body.' 
 
 ' And wbat will you do?' said Hawes glaring con- 
 temptuously at tbe turnkeys, who wore ratber a blank 
 look. 
 
 * Mr. Hawes,' replied tbe other gravely, ' I ha^'e 
 spoken to warn you not to threaten you.' 
 
 * What I do is done with tbe consent of tbe visiting 
 justices. They are my masters, and no one else.' 
 
* IT IS XEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 243 
 
 * They have not seen a prisoner crucified.' 
 
 * Crucified ! What d'ye mean by crucified ?' 
 
 * Don't you see that the torture before our eyes is 
 crucifixion ?' 
 
 * No ! I don't. No nails !' 
 
 * Nails were not always used in crucifixion ; some- 
 times cords. Don't deceive yourself with a name ; 
 nothing misleads like a false name. This punishment 
 is falsely called the jacket — it is jacket, collar, straps, 
 applied with cruelty. It is crucifixion minus nails 
 but plus a collar.' 
 
 ' Whatever it is the justices have seen and approved 
 it. Haven't they, Fry ?' 
 
 ' That they have sir ; scores of times.' 
 
 * Then may heaven forgive them and direct me.' 
 And the chaplain entered the cell despondently, and 
 bent his pitying eye steadily on the thief, who seemed 
 to him at the moment a better companion than the 
 three honest but cruel men. 
 
 He waited there very very sorrowful and thought- 
 ful for more than half an hour. Then Hawes, who 
 left the yard as soon as he had conquered his opponent, 
 sent in Evans with an order to take Eobinson to his 
 dormitory. 
 
 The chaplain saw the man taken down from the 
 wall, and that done went hastily to his own house ; 
 there, the contest being over, he was seized with a 
 violent sickness and trembling. To see a fellow-crea- 
 ture sufiPer and not be able to relieve him was death 
 to this man. He was game to the last drop of his 
 
 m2 
 
244 'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEXD.' 
 
 blood SO long as there was any good to be done, but 
 action ended, a reaction came, in wliicb lie was all pity 
 and sorrow and distress because of a fellow-creature's 
 distress. No one that saw liis firmness in the torture- 
 cell would have guessed how weak he was within, and 
 how stoutly his great heart had to battle against a sen- 
 sitive nature and nerves tuned too high. 
 
 He gave half an hour to the weakness of nature, and 
 then he v/as all duty once more. 
 
 He went first into Eobinson's cell. He found him 
 worse than ever, despair as well as hatred gleamed in 
 his eye. 
 
 ' My poor fellow, is there no way for you to avoid 
 these dreadful punishments ?' 
 
 No answer. 
 
 It is to be observed though that Eobinson had no idea 
 liow far the chaplain had carried his remonstrance 
 against his torture ; that remonstrance had been uttered 
 privately to the turnkeys and the governor. Besides 
 the man was half stupified when the chaplain first 
 came there. And now he was in such pain and despair. 
 He was like the genii confined in the chest and thrown 
 into the water by Soliman. Had this good friend come 
 to him at first starting, he would have thrown himself 
 into his arms ; but it came too late now : he hated all 
 mankind. He had lost all belief in genuine kindness. 
 Like Orlando, 
 
 He thought that all things had been savage here. 
 
 The chaplain, on the other hand, began to think 
 that Robinson was a downris^ht brute, and one on 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 245 
 
 whom kindness was and would be wasted. Still, 
 true to his nature he admitted no small pique ; he 
 reasoned gently and kindly with him — very kindly. 
 ' My poor soul,' said he, ' have you so many friends in 
 this hard place that you can afford to repulse one who 
 desires to be your friend, and to do you good V 
 
 No answer. 
 
 ' Well then, if you will not let me comfort you, 
 at least you cannot prevent my praying for you, 
 for you are on the road to despair and will take no 
 help.' 
 
 So then this good creature did actually kneel upon the 
 hard stones of the cell and offer a prayer — a very sliort 
 but earnest one. 
 
 ' Oh God, to whom all hearts are open, enlighten me 
 that 1 may understand this my afflicted brother's heart, 
 and learn how to do him good, and comfort him out of 
 thy word — thy grace assisting me.' 
 
 Eobinson looked down at him with wild staring but 
 lack-lustre eyes and open mouth. He rose from the 
 lloor, and casting a look of great benignity on the sullen 
 brute, he was about to go when he observed that 
 Eobinson was trembling in a very peculiar way. 
 
 ' You are ill,' said he hastily, and took a step to- 
 wards him. 
 
 At this Eobinson with a wild and furious gesture 
 waived him to the door and turned his face to the wall ; 
 then this refined gentleman bowed his head, as much 
 as to say you shall be master of this apartment and dis- 
 miss any one you do not like, and went gently away 
 
246 '■ IT IS XEVER TOO LATE TO MEXD.' 
 
 witli a little sigli. And the last tliat lie saw was Ro- 
 binson trembling witb averted face and eyes bent 
 down. 
 
 Outside lie met Evans, wlio said to him half' bluntly 
 half respectfully, ' I don't like to see you going into 
 that cell, sir ; the man is not to be trusted. He is very 
 strange.' 
 
 ' What do you mean ? do you fear for his reason ?' 
 ' Wliy not, sir ? We have sent a pretty many to 
 the lunatic asylum since I was a warder here.' 
 
 * Ah !' 
 
 * And some have broke prison a shorter way than 
 that,' said the man very gloomily. 
 
 The chaplain groaned — and looked at the speaker 
 with an expression of terror. Evans noticed it and 
 said gravely, 
 
 ' You should not have come to such a place as tliis, 
 sir ; you are not fit for it.' 
 
 * Why am I not fit for it?' 
 ' Too good for it sir.' 
 
 * You talk foolishly Mr. Evans. . In the first place 
 " too good " is a ludicrous combination of language, in 
 the next the worse a place is the more need of some- 
 body being good in it to make it better. But I suppose 
 you are one of those who think that evil is naturally 
 stronger than good. — Delusion — springs from this ; that 
 the wicked are in earnest and the good are luke- 
 warm. Good is stronger than evil. A single really 
 good man in an ill place is like a little yeast in a gal- 
 lon of dough; it can leaven the mass. If St. Paul or 
 
* IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEXD.' 24: 
 
 even Greorge Whitfield had been in Lot's place all 
 those years, there would have been more than fifty 
 good men in Sodom; but this is out of place. 1 
 want you to give me the benefit of your experience, 
 Evans. Wlien I went to Eobinson and spoke kindly to 
 him he trembled all over. What on earth does that 
 mean ?' 
 
 ' Trembled did he, and never spoke ?' 
 
 'Yes! Well?' 
 
 ' I'm thinking, sir ! I'm thinking. You didn't 
 touch liim ?' 
 
 ' Touch him, no ; what should I touch him for ?' 
 
 ' Well don't do it, sir. And don't go near him. 
 You have had an escape, you have. He was in two 
 minds about pitching into you.' 
 
 ' You tliink it was rage I Humph ! it did not give 
 me that impression.' 
 
 ' Sir, did ever you go to pat a strange dog ?' 
 
 ' I have done myself that honour.' 
 
 ' Well if he wags his tail you know it is all right ; 
 but say he puts his tail between his legs, what will he 
 do if you pat him ?' 
 
 ' Bite me : experto crede.' 
 
 ' No ! if you are ever so expert he will bite you or 
 try. Now putting of his tail between his legs, that 
 passes for a sign of fear in a dog, all one as trembling 
 does in a man. Do you see what I am a driving at.' 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 ' Then you had better leave the spiteful brute to 
 himself.' 
 
248 ' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 ' No ! that would be to condemn him to the worst 
 companion he can have.' 
 
 ' But if he should pitch into you, sir !' 
 
 ' Then he will pitch into a man twice as strong as 
 himself, and a pupil of Bendigo. Don't be silly, Evans.' 
 
 SUNDAY. 
 
 Hodges. Pity you wasn't in chapel, Mr. Fry. 
 
 Fry. Why? 
 
 Hodges. The new chaplain ! 
 
 Fry. Well, what did he do ? 
 
 Hodges. He waked 'em all up I can tell you. Go- 
 vernor couldn't get a wink all the sermon. 
 
 Fry. What did he tell you ? 
 
 Hodges. Told us he loved us. 
 
 Fry. Loved who ? 
 
 Hodges. All of us. Governor, turnkeys, and es- 
 pecially the prisoners, because they were in trouble. 
 ' My Master loves you, though he hates your sins,' says 
 he ; ' and I love every mother's son of you.' What 
 d'ye think of that ? He loves the whole biling ! Told 
 'em so, however. 
 
 Fry. Loves em does he ? Well, that's a new lay ! 
 j^fter all there's no accounting for tastes you know. 
 Haw ! haw ! 
 
 Hodges. Haw ! haw ! ho ! 
 
 This same Sunday afternoon soon after servdce the 
 chaplain came to Eobinson's cell. Evans unlocked it 
 looking rather uneasy, and would have come in with 
 the reverend gentleman ; but he forbade him and 
 
* IT IS XEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 249 
 
 walked quickly into the cell, as Van Amburgli goes 
 among his leopards and panthers. He had in his hand 
 a little box. 
 
 ' I have brought you some ointment — some nice 
 cooling ointment ' said he ' to rub on your neck. I 
 saw it was frayed by that collar.' 
 
 (Pause). No answer. 
 
 * Will you let me see you use it ?' 
 
 No answer. 
 
 ^Come!' 
 
 No answer. 
 
 The chaplain took the box off the table, opened it, 
 and went up to Eobinson, and began quietly to apply 
 some of the grateful soothing ointment to his frayed 
 throat. The man trembled all over. The chaplain 
 kept his eye calm but firm upon him, as on a dog of 
 doubtful temper. Eobinson put up his hand in a 
 feeble sort of way to prevent the other from doing him 
 good. His reverence took the said hand in a quiet but 
 powerful grasp, and applied the ointment all the same. 
 Eobinson said nothing, but he was seized with this ex- 
 traordinary trembling. 
 
 ' Good-bye,' said his reverence kindly. ' I leave you 
 the box ; and see here are some tracts I have selected 
 for you. They are not dull ; there are stories in them, 
 and the dialogue is pretty good. It is nearer nature 
 than you will find it in works of greater pretension. 
 Here a carpenter talks something like a carpenter, a 
 footman something like a footman, and a factory -girl 
 something like a girl employed in a factory. They 
 
 m3 
 
250 'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 don't all talk book, you will be able to read them. 
 Begin witli this one — " The Wages of Sin are Death." 
 Good-bye !' And with these words and a kind smile 
 he left the cell. 
 
 ' From the chaplain sir ' said Evans to the governor, 
 touching his hat. 
 
 ' Dear sir, 
 
 * Will you be good enough to send me by the 
 bearer a copy of the prison-rules, especially those that 
 treat of the punishments to be inflicted on prisoners. 
 
 *I am, 
 
 ' Yours, &c.' 
 
 Hawes had no sooner read this innocent-looking 
 missive, than he burst out into a tide of execrations ; 
 he concluded by saying, ' Tell him I have not got a 
 spare copy ; Mr. Jones will give him his.' 
 
 This answer disappointed the chaplain sadly; for 
 Mr. Jones had left the town, and was not expected to 
 return for some days. The hostile spirit of the go- 
 vernor was evident in this reply. The chaplain felt he 
 Vv^s at war, and his was an energetic but peace-loving 
 nature. He paced the corridor, looking both thought- 
 ful and sad. The rough Evans eyed him with interest, 
 and he also fell into meditation and scratched his head, 
 invariable concomitant of thought with Evans. 
 
 It was towards evening, and his reverence still paced 
 the corridor, downhearted at opposition and wicked- 
 ness, but not without hope, and full of lovely and 
 
' IT IS KEVER TOO LATE TO MEND/ 251 
 
 charitable wishes for all his flock, when the melancholy 
 Fry suddenly came out of a prisoner's cell radiant. 
 
 ' What is amiss ?' asked the chaplain. 
 
 ' This is the matter,' said Try, and he showed 
 him a deuce of clubs, a five of hearts, and an ace of 
 diamonds, and so on ; two or three cards of each suit. 
 ' A prisoner has been making these out of his tracts !' 
 
 ' How could he do that ?' 
 
 ' Look here sir. He has kept a little of liis gruel 
 till it turned to paste, and then he has pasted three or 
 four leaves of the tracts together and dried them, and 
 then cut them into cards.' 
 
 ' But the colors — how could he get them ?' 
 
 ' That is what beats me altogether ; but some of 
 these prisoners know more than the bench of bishops.' 
 
 * More evil I conclude you mean ?' 
 
 ' More of all sorts, sir. However I am taking them 
 to the governor, and he will fathom it if any one can.' 
 
 * Leave one red card and one black with me.' 
 While Fry was gone the chaplain examined the 
 
 cards with curiosity and that admiration of inventive 
 resource which a superior mind cannot help feeling. 
 There they were, a fine red deuce of hearts and a fine 
 black four of spades — cards made without pasteboard 
 and painted without paint. But how? that was the 
 question. The chaplain entered upon this question 
 with liis usual zeal ; but happening to reverse one of 
 the cards, it was his fate to see on the back of it — 
 *' The Wages of Sin are Death." 
 
 A Tract. 
 
252 'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEXD.' 
 
 He reddened at the sight. Here was an affront ! ' The 
 sulky brute could amuse himself cutting up my tracts !' 
 
 Presently the governor came up with his satellites. 
 
 * Take No. 19 out of his cell for punishment.' 
 
 At this word the chaplain's short-lived anger began 
 to cool. They brought Eobinson out. 
 
 ' So you have been at it again,' cried the governor 
 in threatening terms. ' Now you will tell me where 
 you got the paint to make these beauties with ?' 
 
 No answer. 
 
 ' Do you hear ye sulky brute ?' 
 
 No answer, but a glittering eye bent on Hawes. 
 
 ' Put him in the jacket,' cried Hawes with an oath. 
 
 Hodges and Fry laid each a hand upon the man's 
 shoulder and walked him off. 
 
 'Stop!' cried Hawes suddenly; 'his reverence is 
 here, and he is not partial to the jacket.' 
 
 The chaplain was innocent enough to make a grace- 
 ful grateful bow to Hawes. 
 
 'Give him the dark cell for twenty-four hours,' 
 continued Hawes with a malicious grin. 
 
 The thief gave a cry of dismay and shook liimself 
 clear of the turnkeys. 
 
 ' Anything but that,' cried he with trembling voice. 
 
 ' Oh! you have found your tongue, have you?' 
 
 'Any punishment but that,' almost shrieked the 
 despairing man. ' Leave me my reason. You have 
 robbed me of everything else. For pity's sake leave 
 me my reason !' 
 
 The governor made a signal to the turnkeys : they 
 
'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 253 
 
 stepped towards the thief. The thief sprung out of 
 their way, his eye rolling wildly as if in search of 
 escape. Seeing this the two turnkeys darted at him 
 like bulldogs one on each side. This time, instead of 
 flying, the thief was observed to move his body in a 
 springy way to meet them ; with two motions rapid as 
 light and almost contemporaneous he caught Hodges 
 between the eyes with his fist, and drove his head like 
 a battering-ram into Fry's belly. Smack ! ooff ! and 
 the two powerful men went down like ninepins. 
 
 In a moment all the warders within sight or hearing 
 came buzzing round, and Hodges and Fry got up, the 
 latter bleeding ; both staring confusedly. Seeing him- 
 self hemmed in, Robinson offered no further resistance. 
 He plumped himself down on the ground and there 
 sat, and they had to take him up and carry him to the 
 dark cells. But as they were dragging him along by 
 the shoulders, he caught sight of the governor and 
 chaplain looking down at him over the rails of corridor 
 B. At sight of the latter the thief wrenched himself 
 free from his attendants, and screamed to him — • 
 
 ' Do you see this, you in the black coat ? You that 
 told us the other day you loved us, and now stand 
 coolly there and see me taken to the black hole to be 
 got ready for the mad-house? D'ye hear?' 
 
 ' I hear you,' replied the chaplain gravely and 
 gently. 
 
 ' You called us your brothers you.' 
 
 ' I did, and do.' 
 
 ' Well then, here is one of your brothers being taken 
 
254 'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 to hell before your 'eyes. I go tliere a man, but I 
 shall come out a beast, and that cowardly murderer by 
 your side knows it, and you have not a word to say. 
 That is all a poor fellow gets by being your brother. 
 My curse on you all ! butchers and hypocrites !' 
 
 ' Give him twelve hours more for that,' roared 
 Hawes. * his eyes, I'll break him, him.' 
 
 ' Ah,' yelled the thief, ' you curse me, do you ? d'ye 
 
 hear that? The son of a appeals to Heaven 
 
 against me! What! does this lump of dirt believe 
 there is a God? Then there must be one.' Then 
 suddenly flinging himself on his knees, he cried, ' If 
 there is a God who pities them that suffer, I cry to 
 him on my knees to torture you as you torture us. 
 May your name be shame may "your life be pain and 
 your death loathsome ! May your skin rot from your 
 flesh, your flesh from your bones, your bones from 
 your body, and your soul split for ever on the rock of 
 damnation !' 
 
 ' Take him away,' yelled Hawes, white as a sheet. 
 
 They tore him away by force, still threatening his 
 persecutor with outstretched hand and raging voice 
 and blazing eyes, and flung him into the dark dun- 
 geon. 
 
 * Cool yourself there, ye varmint,' said Fry spite- 
 fully. Even his flesh crept at the man's blasphemies. 
 
 Meantime, the chaplain had buried his face in his 
 hands, and trembled like a woman at the frightful 
 blasphemies and passions of these two sinners. 
 
 ' I'll make tliis place hell to him. He shan't need 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 255 
 
 to go elsewhere/ muttered Hawes aloud between his 
 clenched teeth. 
 
 The chaplain groaned. 
 
 The governor heard him and turned to him : ' Well, 
 parson, you see he doesn't thank you for interfering 
 between him and me. He would rather have had an 
 hour or two of the jacket and have done with it.' 
 
 The chaplain sighed. He felt weighed down in 
 spirit by the wickedness both of Hawes and of 
 Robinson. He saw it was in vain at that moment to 
 try to soften the former in favour of the latter. He 
 moved slowly away. Hawes eyed him sneeringly. 
 
 ' He is down upon his luck,' thought Hawes ; ' his own 
 fault for interfering with me. I liked the man well 
 enough, and showed it, if he hadn't been a fool and 
 put his nose into my business.' 
 
 Half an hour had scarce elapsed when the chaplain 
 came back. 
 
 ' Mr. Hawes, I come to you as a petitioner.' 
 
 ' Indeed !' said Hawes with a supercilious sneer 
 very hard to bear. 
 
 The other would not notice it. ' Pray do not think 
 I side Avith a refractory prisoner if I beg you not to 
 countermand but to modify Robinson's punishment.' 
 
 'What for?' 
 
 ' Because he cannot bear so many hours of the dark 
 cell.' 
 
 ' Nonsense, sir.' 
 
 ' Is it too much to ask that you will give him six 
 hours a-day for four days, instead of twenty-four at a 
 stretch ?' 
 
256 ' IT IS XEVER TOO LATE TO 3HEND.' 
 
 ' I don't know whether it is too much for you to ask. 
 I should say by what I see of you that nothing is ; but 
 it is too much for me to grant. The man has earned 
 punishment ; he has got it, and you have nothing to do 
 with it at all.' 
 
 ' Yes, I have the care of his soul, and how can I do 
 his soul good if he loses his reason ?' 
 
 ' Stuff! his reason's safe enough, what little he has.' 
 
 ' Do not say stuff! Do not be rash where the stake 
 is so great, or confident where you have no know- 
 ledge. You have never been in the dark cell, Mr. 
 Hawes; I have; and I assure you it tried my 
 nerves to the uttermost. I had many advantages over 
 this poor man. I went in of my own accord, animated 
 by a desire of knowledge, supported by the conscious- 
 ness of right, my memory enriched by the reading of 
 five-and-twenty years, on which I could draw in the 
 absence of external objects; yet so dreadful was the 
 place that, had I not been fortified by communion with 
 my omnipresent God, I do think my reason would have 
 suffered in that thick darkness and solitude. I repeated 
 thousands of lines of Homer, Virgil, and the Grreek 
 dramatists; then I came to Shakspeare, Corneille, 
 Racine, and Victor Hugo ; then I tried to think of a 
 text and compose a sermon ; but the minutes seemed 
 hours, leaden hours, and they weighed my head down 
 and my heart down, and so did the Egyptian darkness, 
 till I sought refuge in prayer, and there I found it.' 
 
 ' You pulled through it and so will he ; and now I 
 think of it, it is too slight a punishment to give a re- 
 fractory blaspheming villain no worse than a pious 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 257 
 
 gentleman took on him for sport,' sneered Hawes. 
 ' You heard his language to me, the blaspheming 
 dog?' 
 
 * I did ! I did ! and therefore pray you to pity his 
 sinful soul exasperated by the severities he has already 
 undergone. Oh, sir I the wicked are more to be pitied 
 than the good; and the good can endure trials that 
 wreck the wicked. I would rather see a righteous man 
 thrown into that dismal dungeon than this poor blas- 
 pheming sinner.' 
 
 ' The deuce you would !' 
 
 ' For the righteous man has a strong tower that the 
 sinner lacks. He is fit to battle with solitude and fear- 
 ful darkness ; an unseen light sliines upon his soul, an 
 unseen hand sustains him. The darkness is no dark- 
 ness to him, for the Sun of righteousness is nigh. In 
 the deep solitude he is not alone, for good angels whis- 
 per by his side. " Yea, though he walk through the 
 valley of the shadow of death, yet shall he fear no evil, 
 for God is with him ; his rod and his staff they comfort 
 him." The wicked have not this comfort : to them 
 darkness and solitude must be too horrible. Satan — 
 not God — is their companion. The ghosts of their 
 past crimes rise and swell the present horror. Eemorse 
 and despair are added to the double gloom of solitude 
 and darkness. You don't know what you are doing 
 when you shut up a poor lost sinner of excitable tem- 
 perament in that dreadful hole. It is a wild experi- 
 ment on a human frame. Pray be advised, pray be 
 warned, pray let your heart be softened, and punish the 
 
258 'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEXD.' 
 
 man as he deserves but do not destroy him ! oh do not ! 
 do not destroy him !' 
 
 Up to this moment Hawes had worn a quiet mali- 
 cious grin. At last his rage broke through this veil. 
 He turned round black as night upon the chaplain, who 
 was bending towards him in earnest gasping yet sweet 
 and gentle supplication. 
 
 ' The vagabond insulted me before all my servants, 
 and that is why you take his part I suppose. He would 
 send me to hell if he had the upper hand. I've got the 
 upper hand, and so he shall taste it instead of me, till 
 he goes down on his marrowbones to me with my fool 
 on his viper's tongue. him 1' 
 
 ' Oh 1 do not curse him, above all now that he is in 
 trouble and defenceless.' 
 
 * Let me alone, sir, and I'll let you,' retorted Hawes 
 savagely. ' If I curse him, you can pray for him. I 
 don't hinder you. Good night ;' and Mr. Hawes turned 
 his back very rudely. 
 
 * I will pray for liim, and for you !' 
 ' Ugh !' 
 
 So then the chaplain retired sorrowfully to his private 
 room, and here, sustained no longer by action, his high- 
 tuned nature gave way. A cold languor came over him. 
 He locked the door that no one might see his weakness, 
 and then succumbing to nature, he feU first into a sick- 
 ness and then into a trembling, and more than once 
 hysterical tears gushed from his eyes in the temporary 
 prostration of his spirit and his powers. Such are the 
 great. Men know their feats but not their struggles ! 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND/ 259 
 
 Meantime Eobinson lay in tlie dark cell with a 
 morsel of bread and water and no bed or cbair, tliat 
 hunger and unrest might co-operate with darkness and 
 solitude to his hurt. To this horrid abode it is now 
 our fate to follow a thief and a blasphemer. We must 
 pass his gloomy portal, over which might have been 
 inscribed what Dante has written over the gates of hell — 
 
 "ALL YE WHO ENTER HERE ABANDON HOPE." 
 
 At six o'clock Eobinson was thrust in, and his pit- 
 tance of bread and water with him ; the door which 
 fitted like mosaic was closed. The steps retreated 
 carrying away hope and human kind ; there was silence, 
 and the man shivered in the thick black air that seemed 
 a fluid, not an atmosphere. 
 
 When the door closed his heart was yet beating with 
 rage and wild desire of vengeance. He nursed this 
 rage as long as he could, but the thick darkness soon 
 cooled him and cowed him. He sat down upon the 
 floor, he ate his pittance very slowly two mouthfuls a 
 minute. ' I will be an hour eating it ' said he, ' and 
 then an hour will have passed.' He thought he was an 
 hour eating it, but in reality he was scarce twenty 
 minutes. The blackness seemed to smother him. ' I will 
 shut it out,' said he. He took out his handkerchief and 
 wrapped his head in it. 'What a weak fool I am' 
 cried he, ' when we are asleep it does not matter to us 
 light or dark. I will go to sleep.' He lay down, his 
 head still wrapped up, and tried to sleep. So passed 
 the first hour. 
 
 Second hour. He rose from the stone floor after a 
 
260 ' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 vain attempt to sleep. * Oli no !' cried he, ' sleep is 
 for those who are well and happy, and who could enjoy 
 themselves as well awake, it won't come to me to save 
 a poor wretch from despair. I must tire myself, and I 
 am too cold to sleep : here goes for a warm.' He 
 groped to the wall, and keeping his hand on it went 
 round and round like a caged tiger. ' Hawes hopes to 
 drive me to Bedlam. I'll do the best I can for my- 
 self to spite him. May he lie in a place narrower 
 than this, and almost as dark, with his jaw down 
 and his toes up before the year is out, curse him !' But 
 the poor wretch's curses quavered away into sobs and 
 tears. ' Oh ! what have I done to be used so as I am 
 here? They drive me to despair, then drive me to hell for 
 despairing. Patience, or I shall go mad. Patience ! 
 Patience !' This hour was passed cursing and weeping,, 
 and groping for warmth, and fatigue — in vain. 
 
 Third hour. The man sat rocking himself to and fro, 
 trying not to think of anything : for now the past too 
 was coming with all its weight upon him ; every minute 
 he started up as if an adder had stung him ; crawled 
 about his cell seeking refuge in motion, and finding 
 none ; then he threw himself on the floor and struggled 
 for sleep. Sleep would not come so sought ; and now 
 his spirits were quite cowed. He would cringe to 
 Hawes ; he would lick the dust at his feet to get out 
 of this horrible place ; who could he get to go and tell 
 the governor he was penitent. He listened at the door ; 
 he rapped ; no one came. He put his ear to the ground 
 and listened ; no sound — blackness, silence, solitude. 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 261 
 
 ' Tliey have left me here to die,' shrieked the despairing 
 man, and he flung himself on the floor and writhed upon 
 the hard stone. " It must be morning, and no one comes 
 near me ; this is my tomb ;" fear came upon him, and 
 trembling and a cold sweat bedewed his limbs; and 
 once more the past rushed over him with tenfold 
 force; days of happiness and comparative innocence 
 now forfeited for ever. His whole life whirled round 
 before his eyes in a panorama, scene, dissolving into 
 scene with inconceivable rapidity; thus passed more 
 than two hours ; and now remorse and memory con- 
 centrated themselves on one dark spot in this man's 
 history. ' She is in the tomb,' cried he, ' and all through 
 me, and that is why I am here. This is my grave. Do 
 you see me Mary? she is here. The spirits of the 
 dead can go anywhere.' Then he trembled and cried for 
 help. Oh 1 for a human voice or a human footstep ! 
 none. His nerves and senses were now shaken. He 
 cried aloud most piteously for help, ' Mr. Fry, Mr. 
 Hodges, help ! help ! help ! The cell is full of the dead, 
 and devils are buzzing round me waiting to carry me 
 away, they won't wait much longer.' He fancied some- 
 thing supernatural passed him like a wind ; he struck 
 wildly at it. He flung himself madly against the door 
 to escape it ; he fell back bruised and bleeding, and lay 
 a while in stupor. 
 
 Sixth hour. Eobinson was going mad. The black- 
 ness and solitude and silence and remorse and despair 
 were more than his excitable nature could bear any 
 longer. He prayed Hawes to come and abuse him. He 
 
262 ' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEXD.' 
 
 prayed Fry to bring the jacket to him. * Let me but 
 see a man, or hear a man !' He screamed, and cursed, 
 and prayed, and dashed himself on the ground, and ran 
 round the cell wounding his hands and his face. Sud- 
 denly he turned deadly calm. He saw he was going 
 mad, better die than so — ' I shall be a beast soon — I will 
 die a man' — he tore down his collar — he had on cotton 
 stockings, he took one off — he tied it in a loose knot 
 round his naked throat, he took a firm hold with each 
 hand. 
 
 And now he was quiet, and sorrowed calmly. A 
 man to die in the prime of life for want of a little light 
 and a word from a human creature to keep him from 
 madness. 
 
 Then as the thought returned, clenching his teeth 
 he gathered the ends of the stocking and prepared 
 with one fierce pull to save his shaken reason and end 
 his miserable days. Now at this awful moment, while 
 his hands griped convulsively the means of death, a 
 quiet tap on the outside of the cell door suddenly rang 
 through the dead stillness, and a moment after a human 
 word forced its Ways into the cave of madness and 
 death — 
 
 ' Brother !' 
 
 When this strange word pierced the thick door, and 
 came into the hell-cave feeble as though wafted over water 
 from a distance, yet distinct as a bell and bright as a 
 sun-beam, Eobinson started, and quaked with fear and 
 doubt. Did it come from the grave that unearthly tone 
 and word. 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 263 
 
 Still holding the ends of the stocking he cried out 
 wildly in a loud but quavering voice : 
 
 ' Who — o — o calls Thomas Sinclair brother?' The 
 distant voice rang back — 
 
 ' Francis Eden !' 
 
 * Ah ! — where are you, Francis Eden ?' 
 
 ' Here ! within a hand's-breadth of you ;' and Mr. 
 Eden struck the door. * Here !' 
 
 ' There ! are you there ?' and Kobinson struck the 
 door on his side. 
 
 * Yes, here !' 
 
 * Ha ! don't go away, pray don't go away !' 
 
 * I don't mean to ! — take courage — calm your fears — 
 a brother is close by you !' 
 
 ' A brother ! — again ! now I know who it must be, 
 but there is no telling voices here.' 
 ' What were you doing V 
 
 * What was I doing ? Oh ! don't ask me — I was 
 going mad, — where are you, sir ?' 
 
 ' Here !' (rap). 
 
 * And I am here close opposite ; you won't go away 
 yet awhile ?' 
 
 ' Not till you bid me, — compose yourself — do you 
 hear me ? — calm yourself, compose yourself !' 
 
 ' I will try, sir ! — thank you, sir, — I will try, — 
 what o'clock is it ?' 
 
 ' Half-past twelve.' 
 
 ' Night or day ?' 
 . * Night.' 
 
 * Friday night, or Saturday ?' 
 
264 * IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEXD.' 
 
 ' Thursday.' 
 
 ' How came you to be in tlie prison at this hour ?' 
 
 ' I was anxious about you.' 
 
 ' You were what ?' 
 
 ' Fearful about you.' 
 
 ' What ! did you give up your sleep only to see 
 after me ?' 
 
 ' Are you not glad I came ?' 
 
 ' Is a shipwrecked sailor glad when a rope is flung 
 him ? I hold on to life and reason by you !' 
 
 * Is not this better than sleeping ? — Did you speak ?" 
 ' No ! I am thinking ! I am trying to make you 
 
 out. Were you ever a p (hum) ' 
 
 ' Was I ever what ? the door is so thick !' 
 
 ' Oh! nothing sir; you seem to know what a poor 
 
 fellow suffers in the dark cell.' 
 
 * I have been in it !' 
 
 ' Whee-ugh-wheet ! — what a shame ! what did they 
 put you in for ?' 
 
 ^ They didn't put me in, I went in.' 
 
 ' The devil you did !' muttered the immured. 
 
 ' A¥hat ? speak out.' 
 
 ' Nothing your reverence,' bawled Robinson. 
 * Why did you go into such a cur — into such a hole ?' 
 
 ' It was my duty to know what a fellow-creature 
 suffers there, lest, through inexperience, I might be 
 cruel. Ignorance is the mother of cruelty !' 
 
 * I hear you sir.' 
 
 ' And cruelty is a fearful crime in His eyes, whose 
 servant I am.' 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 265 
 
 * I am thinking, sir ; I am putting two or three 
 things together — I see — ' 
 
 ' Speak more slowly and articulately.' 
 
 ' I will ; I see what you are now — you are a Chris- 
 tian.' 
 
 ' I hope so !' 
 
 ' I might have guessed as much, and I did suspect 
 it; but I couldn't know, I had nothing to go by. I 
 never fell in with a Christian before.' 
 
 * Where did you go to look for them,' said Mr. 
 Eden his mouth twitching. 
 
 * I have been in many countries, and my eyes open ; 
 and I've heard and read of Christians, and I've met 
 hypocrites ; but never met a living Christian till to- 
 night;' — then, after a pause, ' Sir, I want to apologize 
 to you !' 
 
 ' What for ?' 
 
 * For my ignorant and ungrateful conduct to you in 
 my cell.' 
 
 ' Let bygones be bygones !' 
 ' Could you forgive me, sir ?' 
 ' You punished yourself, not me ; I forgive you.' 
 ' Thank you.' 
 Robinson was silent. 
 After a pause, Mr. Eden tapped. 
 ' What are you doing?' 
 ' I am thinking over your goodness to me.' 
 ' Are you better now ?' 
 
 ' That I am. The place was a tomb ; since you 
 came it is only a closet. I can't see your face — I feel 
 VOL. I. N 
 
266 * IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 it tliough ; and your voice is music to me. Have you 
 nothing to say to me, sir ?' 
 
 ' I have many things to say to you ; but this is not 
 the time. I want you to sleep.' 
 
 'Why, sir?' 
 
 ' Sleep is the balm of mind and body ; you need 
 sleep.' 
 
 * And you, sir ?' 
 
 ' I shall sit here.' 
 
 ' You will take your death of cold.' 
 ' No, I have my great coat.' 
 There was a long pause. 
 Eobinson tapped. ' Sir, grant me a favour.' 
 'What is it?' 
 ' Go home to your bed.' 
 ' What, leave you ?' 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 ' Shall you not miss me ?' 
 
 ' Yes, sir, but you must go. The words you have 
 spoken will stay with me while you are gone.' 
 ' I shall stay.' 
 ' No, sir, no ! I can't bear it — it isn't fair I' 
 
 * What do you mean ?' 
 
 ' It isn't fair that a gentleman like you should be 
 kept shivering at an unfortunate man's door like me. — 
 1 am not quite good for nothing, sir, and this will dis- 
 grace me in my own eyes.' 
 
 ' I am on the best side of the door ; don't trouble 
 your head about me.' 
 
 ' I shouldn't, sir, if you had not about me — but 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 267 
 
 kindness begets kindness; — go to your comfortable 
 bed.' 
 
 Mr. Eden hesitated. 
 
 ' You will make me more unhappy than I am if' you 
 stay here in the cold.' 
 
 Now at the beginning of this argument Mr. Eden 
 was determined not to go ; but on reflection he made 
 up his mind to, for this reason : ' This,' said he to him- 
 self, ' is an act of uncommon virtue and self-denial in 
 this poor fellow. I must not baulk it, for it will be 
 good for his soul ; it is a step on the right road. This 
 good and I might say noble act is a foundation-stone 
 on which I ought to try and build an honest man and 
 a Christian.' 
 
 ' Well then as you are so considerate I will go. 
 
 ' Thank you.' 
 
 ' Can I do nothing for you before I go ?' 
 
 ' No, sir ; you have done all a man can ; yes, you 
 can do something — you spoke a word to me when you 
 came ; it is a word I am not worthy of, but still if you 
 could leave me that word it would be a companion for 
 me.' 
 
 ' Brother !' 
 
 ' Thank you.' 
 
 When he heard Mr. Eden's steps grow fainter and 
 fainter, and at last inaudible, Robinson groaned ; the 
 darkness turned blacker and the solitude more desolate 
 than ever. 
 
 Mr. Eden paced the corridors in meditation. ' And 
 this man seemed an unredeemable brute, yet his heart 
 
 n2 
 
268 ' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 was to be touched by persevering kindness ; and once 
 touched, how much of goodness left in his fallen 
 nature — genuine gratitude, and even the embers of 
 self-respect. " I hate myself for my conduct in the 
 cell ; it would disgrace me in my own eyes if I let you 
 shiver at my door." Poor fellow, my heart yearns to- 
 wards him for that. " Go, or you will make me more 
 unhappy." Why that was real delicacy. I must not 
 let him suffer for it. In an hour I will go back to 
 him. If he is asleep, well and good; if not, there I 
 stay till morning.' 
 
 He went to his room and worked ; the hour soon 
 glided by to him ; not so to the poor prisoner. At 
 two in the morning Mr. Eden came softly back to the 
 dark cell to see whether Eobinson was asleep. He 
 scratched the door with a key. A loud, unsteady 
 voice cried out, * What is that ?' 
 
 * It is I, brother.' 
 
 ' Why are you not in your bed ?' 
 
 ' I couldn't sleep for anxiety. Come, chat with me 
 till you feel sleepy. How did you color those 
 cards?' 
 
 ' I found a coal and a bit of brick in the yard. I 
 pounded them and mixed them with water, and laid 
 them on with a brush I had made and hid.' 
 
 ' Very ingenious ! Are you cold ?' 
 
 ' No.' 
 
 * Because your voice trembles/ 
 ' Does it ?' 
 
 ' What is the matter ?' 
 
* IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND,' 269 
 
 * Can't jou guess ?' 
 
 ' ]S[o ! But I remember you used to tremble when I 
 spoke to you in the cell. Why was that? Have 
 your nerves been shaken by ill-usage my poor fellow ?' 
 
 ' Oh, no ! it is not that' 
 
 ' Tell me then !' 
 
 ' Oh, sir ! you know all a poor fellow feels. You 
 can guess what made me tremble, and makes me trem- 
 ble now like an aspen I do.' 
 
 ' No, indeed ! pray tell me ! Are we not friends ?' 
 
 ' The best ever I had, or ever shall.' 
 
 ' Then tell me.' 
 
 ' I'll try ; but it is a long story, and the door is so 
 thick.' 
 
 ' Ah ! but I hear you better now ; I have got used 
 to your voice.' 
 
 ' Well, sir ; but I've no words to speak to you as I 
 ought. Why did I use to tremble when you used to 
 speak kind to me? Sir, when I first came here I 
 hadn't a bad heart. I was a felon, but I was a man. 
 They turned me to a brute by cruelty and wrong. 
 You came too late, sir. It wasn't Tom Eobinson you 
 found in that cell. I had got to think all men were 
 devils. They poisoned my soul ! I hated God and 
 man I 
 
 ' The very chaplain before you said good kind words 
 in church, but out of it he was Hawes's tool ! Then 
 you came and spoke good kind words. My heart ran to 
 meet them ; then it drew back all shivering and said, 
 
270 ' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 this is a hypocrite too ! I was a fool and a villain to 
 think so for a moment, and perhaps I didn't at bottom, 
 but I was turned to gall. 
 
 ' Oh, sir ! you don't know what it is to lose hope, 
 to find out that do what you will you can't be right, 
 can't escape abuse and hatred and torture. Treat a 
 man like a dog and you make him one ! 
 
 *But you came: your voice, your face, your eye, 
 were all pity and kindness. I hoped, but I was afraid 
 to hope ! I had seen but two things — butchers and 
 hypocrites. Then I had sworn in my despair never to 
 speak again, and I wouldn't speak to you. Fool ! How 
 kind and patient you were. Sir, once when you left 
 me you sighed as you closed the cell door. I came 
 after you to beg your pardon, when it was too late ; 
 indeed I did, upon my honour. And w^hen you would 
 rub the ointment on my throat in spite of my in- 
 gratitude, I could have worshipped you, but my pride 
 held me back like an iron hand. Why did I tremble ? 
 that was the devil and my better part fighting inside 
 me for the upper hand. And another thing, I did 
 not dare speak to you. I felt that if I did I should 
 give way altogether, like a woman or a child : I feel 
 so now. For, oh 1 can't you guess what it must be 
 to a poor fellow when all the rest are savage as wolves, 
 and one is kind as a woman ? Oh ! you have been 
 a friend to me. You don't know all you have done ; 
 you have saved my life. When you came here a 
 stocking was knotted round mj throat ; a minute later 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 271 
 
 the man you call your brother — God bless you — would 
 have been no more. There I never meant you should 
 know that, and now it has slipped out. My benefac- 
 tor I my kind friend ! my angel ! for you are an angel 
 and not a man. What can I do to show you what I 
 feel? What' can I say? There, I tremble all over 
 now as I did then. I'm choking for words, and the 
 cruel thick door keeps me from you. I want to put 
 my neck under your foot, for I can't speak. All I 
 say isn't worth a button. Words ! words ! words ! 
 give me words that mean something. They shan't 
 keep me from you, they shan't ! they shan't 1 My 
 stubborn heart was between us once, now there is only 
 a door. Give me your hand ! give me your hand 
 before my heart bursts.' 
 
 * There 1 there !' 
 ' Hold it there !' 
 
 * Yes ! yes !' 
 
 ' My lips are here close opposite it. I am kissing 
 your dear hand. There ! there ! there ! I bless you ! 
 I love you ! I adore you ! I am kissing your hand, 
 and I am on my knees blessing you and kissing. Oh, 
 my heart ! my heart ! my heart !' 
 
 There was a long silence, disturbed only by sobs that 
 broke upon the night from the black cell. Mr. Eden 
 leaned against the door with his hand in the same 
 place ; the prisoner kissed the spot from time to time. 
 
 * Your reverence is crying too !' was the first word 
 spoken, very gently. 
 
272 * IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 ' How do you know ?' 
 
 ' You don't speak, and my heart tells me you are 
 shedding a tear for me ; there was only that left to do 
 for me.' 
 
 Then there was another silence, and true it was that 
 the good man and the bad man mingled some tears 
 through the massy door. These two hearts pierced it, 
 and went to and fro through it, and melted in spite of 
 it, and defied and utterly defeated it. 
 
 ' Did you speak, dear sir ?' 
 
 ' No ! not for the world ! Weep on my poor 
 sinning, suffering brother. Heaven sends you this 
 blessed rain ; let it drop quietly on your parched soul, 
 refresh you, and shed peace on your troubled heart. 
 Drop gentle dew from heaven upon his spirit ; prepare 
 the dry soil for the good seed I' 
 
 And so the bad man wept abundantly; to him old 
 long-dried sources of tender feeling were now un- 
 locked by Christian love and pity. 
 
 The good man shed a gentle tear or two of sympathy ; 
 of sorrow too, to find so much goodness had been shut 
 up driven in and well-nigh quenched for ever in the 
 poor thief. 
 
 To both these holy drops were as the dew of Hermon 
 
 on their souls. 
 
 lacrymarum fons tenero sacros 
 Ducentium ortiis ex animo ; qiiater 
 Felix in imo qui scatentem 
 Peotore te pia Nympha sensit. 
 Robinson was the first to break silence. 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 273 
 
 ' Go home, sir, now ; you have done your work, you 
 have saved me. I feel at peace. I could sleep. You 
 need not fear to leave me now.' 
 
 ' I shall sit here until you are asleep, and then I 
 will go. Do you hear this ? ' and he scratched the 
 door with his key. 
 
 * Yes, sir.' 
 
 ' Well, when I do so and you do not tap in reply I 
 shall know you are asleep.' 
 
 Eobinson, whose heart was now so calmed, felt his 
 eyes get heavier and heavier. After awhile he spoke 
 to Mr. Eden but received no reply. 
 
 ' Perhaps he is dozing,' thought Eobinson. ' I won't 
 disturb him.' 
 
 Then he composed himself, lying close to the door 
 to be near his friend. 
 
 After awhile Mr. Eden scratched the door with his 
 key. There was no answer ; then he rose softly and 
 went to his own room. 
 
 Eobinson slept. Slept like an infant after this 
 feverish day. His body lay still in a hole dark and 
 almost as narrow as the grave, but his spirit had broken 
 prison. Tired nature's sweet restorer descended like a 
 dove upon his wet eye-lids, and fanned him with her 
 downy wdngs, and bedewed the hot heart and smarting 
 limbs with her soothing vivifying balm. 
 
 At six o'clock Evans went and opened Eobinson's 
 cell door. He was on the ground sleeping, with a 
 placid smile on his face. Evans looked down at him 
 
 n3 
 
274 ' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEXD.' 
 
 with a puzzled air. Whilst contemplating him he was 
 joined by Fry. 
 
 ' Ugh ! ' grunted that worthy, ' seems to agree with 
 him.' And he went off and told Hawes. 
 
 Directly after chapel, which he was not allowed to 
 attend, came an order to take Eobinson out of the dark 
 cell and put him on the crank. 
 
 The disciplinarian, defeated in his attempt on Eobin- 
 son, was compensated by a rare stroke of good fortune — 
 a case of real refractoriness ; even this was not perfect, 
 but it answered every purpose. 
 
 In one of the labor cells they found a prisoner 
 seated with the utmost coolness across the handle of his 
 crank. He welcomed his visitants with a smile, and 
 volunteered a piece of information — ' it is all right.' 
 
 Now it couldn't be all right, for it was impossible he 
 could have done his work in the time. Hawes looked 
 at the face of the crank to see how much had been 
 done, and lo ! the face was broken and the index had 
 disappeared. As Mr. Hawes examined the face of the 
 crank, the prisoner leered at him with a mighty silly 
 cunning. 
 
 This personage's name was Carter ; it may be as 
 well to explain him. Go into any large English gaol 
 on any day in any year you like, you shall find there 
 two or three prisoners who have no business to be in 
 such a place at all — half-witted, half-responsible crea- 
 tures, missent to gaol by shallow judges contentedly 
 executing those shallow laws they ought to modify 
 
* IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND. 275 
 
 and stigmatize until civilization shall come and correct 
 them. 
 
 These imbeciles, if the nation itself was not both 
 half-witted and a thoughtless ignorant dunce in all 
 matters relating to such a trifle (Heaven forgive us ! ) 
 as its prisons, would be taken to the light not plunged 
 into darkness ; would not be shut up alone with their 
 own no-minds to accumulate the stupidity that has 
 undone them, but forced into collision with better 
 understandings ; would not be closeted in a gaol, but 
 in a mild asylum with a school attached. 
 
 The offences of these creatures is seldom theft, 
 hardly ever violence. This idiot was sentenced to two 
 years' solitary confinement for being the handle with 
 which two knaves had passed base coin. Sentenced by 
 his own brother sitting on an English judgment-seat 
 with horse-hair outside his skull and wool in to 730 
 days' prison — in other words my Lord Noodle cut the 
 cat's paw off at the shoulder because the monkey took 
 chestnuts with it and ate them all to his own cheek. 
 The same day this same animal sentenced a scoundrel 
 who was not an idiot, and had beaten and kicked his 
 wife to the edge of the grave — to fourteen years' im- 
 prisonment ? no to four months. Beast ! 
 
 Mr. Carter had observed that Fry looked at a long 
 iron needle on the face of the crank, and that when he 
 had been lazy somehow this needle pointed out the fact 
 to Fry. He could not understand it, but then the 
 world was brimful of things he could not understand 
 one bit. It was no use standing idle till he could 
 
276 'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND/ 
 
 compreliend rerum naturum — bother it. In short, Mr. 
 Carter did what is a dangerous thing for people in his 
 condition to do, he cogitated, and the result of this 
 unfamiliar process was that he broke the glass of the 
 crank face, took out the index, shied the pieces of glass 
 carefully over the wall, secreted the needle, took about 
 ten turns of the crank, and then left oiF and sat down 
 exulting secretly. 
 
 When they came as usual and went to consult the 
 accusing needle, he chuckled and leered with foolish 
 cunning. But his chuckle died away into a most dole- 
 ful quaver when he found himself surrounded, jacketed, 
 strapped, and collared. He struggled furiously at first, 
 like some wild animal in a net ; and when resistance 
 was hopeless the poor half-witted creature lifted up his 
 voice, and uttered loud wild-beast cries of pain and 
 terror that rang through the vast prison. 
 
 These horrible cries brought all the warders to the 
 spot, and Mr. Eden. There he found Carter howliiig, 
 and Hawes in front of him, cursing and threatening 
 him with destruction, if he did not hold his noise. 
 
 He might as well have suspended a dog from a 
 branch by the hind leg, and told him he shouldn't 
 howl. 
 
 This sight drove a knife through Mr. Eden's heart. 
 He stood amongst them white as a sheet. He could 
 not speak; but his pale face was a silent protest against 
 this enormity. His look of horror, and rigliteous in- 
 dignation chilled and made uneasy the inquisitors, all 
 but Hawes. ■ 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 277 
 
 ' Hold your noise, ye howling brute, or I'll ' — and 
 he clapped his hand before Carter's mouth. 
 
 Carter seized his thumb with his teeth, and bit it to 
 the bone. Hawes yelled with pain, and strove furiously 
 to get his hand away, but Carter held it like a tiger. 
 Hawes capered with agony, and yelled again. The first 
 to come to his relief was Mr. Eden. He was at the 
 biped's side in a moment, and pinched his nose. Now as 
 his lungs were puffing like a blacksmith's bellows his 
 mouth flew open the moment the other breathing-hole 
 was stopped, and Hawes got his bleeding hand away. 
 
 He held it with the other and shook it, and moaned 
 dismally like a great girl; but suddenly looking up 
 he saw a half grin upon the faces of his myrmidons. 
 
 For the contrast of a man telling another who w^as in 
 pain not to make a row, and the next moment making 
 an abominable row himself for no better reason, was 
 funny. 
 
 For all this occurred ten times quicker in action than 
 in relation. 
 
 Mr. Hawes's conversion to noise came rapidly in a 
 single sentence after this fashion. 
 
 * you ! hold your infernal noise Oh ! Augh ! 
 
 Ah! EE! EE! Aah! Oh! Oh! EE! EE! 00! 
 00! 00! 00! 00! 00!' 
 
 So Fry and Hodges and Evans and Davis grinned. 
 
 For all these men had learned from Hawes to la,ugh 
 at pain — (another's). One man alone did not even 
 smile. He was an observer, and did not expect any 
 one to be great at bearing pain who was rash in in- 
 
278 'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.* 
 
 flicting it ; moreover he suffered witli all who suffer. 
 He was sorry for the pilloried biped, and sorry for the 
 bitten brute. 
 
 He then gave them another lesson. ' All you want 
 the poor thing to do is to suffer in silence. Withdraw 
 twenty yards from him.' He set the example by re- 
 treating, the others, Hawes included, being off their 
 guard, obeyed mechanically the superior spirit. 
 
 Carter's cries died away into a whimpering moan. 
 The turnkeys looked at one another, and with a sort 
 of commencement of respect at Mr Eden. 
 
 ' Parson knows more than we do.' 
 
 Hawes interrupted this savagely. 
 
 ' Ye fools ! couldn't you see it was the sight of your 
 ugly faces made him roar, not the jacket ? Keep him 
 there 'till further orders ;' and he went off to plaister 
 his wounded hand. 
 
 Mr. Eden sat down and covered his face. He was 
 as miserable as this vile world can ever make a man 
 who lives for a better. The good work he was upon 
 was so difficult in itself, and those who ought to have 
 helped fought against him. 
 
 When with intelligence, pain, and labour he had 
 built up a little good, Hawes was sure to come and 
 knock it down again ; and this was the way to break 
 his heart. 
 
 He had been taking such pains with this poor biped ; 
 he had played round his feeble understanding to find 
 by what door a little wisdom and goodness could be 
 made to enter him. At last he had found that pictures 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 279 
 
 pleased him and excited liim, and awakened all the 
 intelligence he had. 
 
 Mr. Eden had a vast collection of* engravings and 
 photographs. His plan with Carter was to show him 
 some engraving presenting a fact or anecdote. First 
 he would put under his eyes a cruel or unjust 
 action. He would point out the signs of suffering in 
 one of the figures. Carter would understand this 
 because he saw it. Then Mr. Eden would excite his 
 sympathy. ' Poor so and so,' would Mr. Eden say in a 
 pitying voice. ' Poor so and so,' w^ould biped Carter 
 echo. After several easy lessons he would find him a 
 picture of some more moderate injustice, and so raise 
 the shadow of a difficulty, and draw a little upon Car- 
 ter's understanding as well as sympathy. Then would 
 come pictures of charity, of benevolence, and other 
 good actions. These and their effects upon the several 
 figures Carter was invited to admire, and so on to a 
 score of topics. The first thing was to make Carter 
 think and talk, which he did in the happy-go-lucky 
 way of his class, uttering nine mighty simple remarks, 
 and then a bit of superlative wisdom, or something that 
 sounded like it. And when he had shot his random 
 bolts, Mr. Eden would begin, and treat each picture as 
 a text, and utter much wisdom on it in simple words. 
 
 He found Carter's mind in a state of actual lethargy. 
 He got it out of that ; he created an excitement and 
 kept it up. He got at his little bit of mind through 
 his senses. Honor to all the great arts ! The limit to 
 their beauty and their usefulness has never yet been 
 
280 ' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEXD/ 
 
 found and never will. Painting was the golden key 
 this thinker held to the Bramah lock of an imbecile's 
 ■understanding — the ponderous wards were beginning 
 to revolve when a blockhead came and did his best 
 to hamper the lock. 
 
 In English, Eden was gradually making the biped a 
 man, comes Hawes and turns him to a brute. The 
 whimpering moans of Carter were thoroughly animal, 
 and the poor biped's degradation as well as his suffering 
 made Mr. Eden wretched. 
 
 To-day for the first time the chaplain saw a pri- 
 soner crucified without suffering that peculiar physical 
 weakness which I have more than once noticed. Poor 
 soul, he was so pleased at this that he thanked Heaven 
 for curing him of that contemptible infirmity, so he 
 called it. But he had to pay for this victory : he never 
 felt so sick at heart as now. He turned for relief to 
 the duties he had in his zeal added to a chaplain's ac- 
 knowledged routine, he visited his rooms and all his 
 rational workpeople. 
 
 The sight of all the good he was doing by teaching 
 the sweets of anti-theft was always a cordial to him. 
 
 Almost the last cell he visited was Thomas Robin- 
 son's. The man had been fretting and worrying him- 
 self to know why he did not come before. As soon as 
 the door was opened he took an eager step to meet 
 him, then stopped irresolutely, and blushed and 
 beamed with pleasure mixed with a certain confusion. 
 He looked volumes, but waited out of respect for his 
 reverence to address him. 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 281 
 
 Mr. Eden held out his hand to him with a frank 
 manner and kind smile. At this Eobinson tried to 
 speak but could only stammer, something seemed to 
 rise in his throat and block up the exit of words. 
 
 ' Come,' said Mr. Eden, ' no more of tliat ; be com- 
 posed, and I will sit down for I am tired.' 
 
 Eobinson brought him his stool, and Mr. Eden sat 
 down. 
 
 They conversed, and after some kind inquiries, Mr. 
 Eden came to the grand purport of this visit, which, to 
 the surprise and annoyance of Eobinson, was to repro- 
 bate severely the curses and blasphemies he had ut- 
 tered as they were dragging him to the dark cell. And 
 so threatening and severe was Mr. Eden, that at last 
 poor Eobinson whined out, — 
 
 ' Sir, you will make me wish I was in the dark cell 
 again, for then you took my part, now you are against me.' 
 
 ' There is a time for everything under the sun. 
 When you were in the dark cell, consolation and 
 indulgence were the best things for your soul, and I 
 gave them you as well as I could. You are not in 
 the dark cell now, and out of the same love for your 
 soul, 1 tell you that if Grod took you this night the 
 curses you uttered yesterday would destroy your own 
 soul to all eternity.' 
 
 ' I hope not, your reverence !' 
 
 ' Away with delusive hopes, they war against the soul. 
 I tell you those curses that came from a tongue set on 
 fire of Hell have placed you under the ban of Heaven.' 
 
282 ' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 Are you not this Hawes's brother, his brother every 
 way — two unforgiven sinners ?' 
 
 ' Yes, sir,' said Robinson, truckhng, ' of course I 
 know I am a great sinner, a desperate sinner, not 
 worthy to be in your reverence's company. But I 
 hope,' he added, with sudden sincerity and spirit, 
 * you don't think I am such an out-and-out scoundrel 
 as that Hawes.' 
 
 * Mr. Hawes would tell me you are the scoundrel 
 and he a zealous servant of morality and order ; but 
 these comparisons are out of place. I am now deferring 
 not to the world's judgment but to a Higher, in whose 
 eye Mr. Hawes and you stand on a level — two unfor- 
 given sinners ; if not forgiven you will both perish 
 everlastingly, and to be forgiven you must forgive. 
 God is very forgiving — he forgives the best of us a 
 thousand vile oiFences. But he never forgives uncon- 
 ditionally. His terms are our repentance and our for- 
 giveness of those who offend us one- millionth part as 
 deeply as we offend him. Therefore in praying against 
 Hawes you have prayed against yourself. Give me 
 your slate. No ; take it yourself. Write — ' 
 
 Robinson took his pencil with alacrity. He wrote a 
 beautiful hand, and wanted to show off this accom- 
 plishment to his reverence. 
 
 « " Forgive us our sins as we forgive them that 
 trespass against us." ' 
 
 ' It is down, sir.' 
 
 *Now particularize.' 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 283 
 
 ' Particularize, your reverence ?' 
 
 'Write under *' us," "our," and "we," "me," 
 "my," and " I " respectively.' 
 
 ' All right, sir.' 
 
 ' Now, under " them," write " Mr. Hawes." ' 
 
 ' Ugh ; yes, your reverence, " Mr. Hawes." ' 
 
 ' And under the last four words write, " his cruelty 
 to me. 
 
 This was wormwood to Mr. Robinson. '"His 
 cruelty to me !" ' 
 
 ' Now read your work out.' 
 
 ' ' ' Forgive me my sins as I forgive Mr. Hawes his 
 cruelty to me." ' 
 
 ' Now ponder over those words. Keep them before 
 your eye here, and try at least and bow your stubborn 
 heart to them. Fall on them and be broken, or 
 they will fall on you and grind you to powder.' 
 He concluded in a terrible tone ; then, seeing Robin- 
 son abashed, more from a notion he was in a rage 
 with him than from any deeper sentiment, he bade 
 him farewell kindly as ever. 
 
 ' I know,' said he, 'I have given you a hard task. 
 We can all gabble the Lord's Prayer, but how few have 
 ever prayed it ! But at least try my poor soul and I 
 will set you an example. I will pray for my brother 
 Robinson and my brother Hawes, and I shall pray for 
 them all the more warmly, that at present one is a 
 blaspheming thief and the other a pitiless block- 
 head.' 
 
 The next day being Sunday, Mr. Eden preached 
 
284 ' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEXD.' 
 
 two sermons that many will remember all their lives. 
 The first was against theft and all the shades of 
 dishonesty. I give a few of his topics. The dry 
 bones he covered with flesh and blood and beauty. 
 The tendency of theft was to destroy all moral and 
 social good. For were it once to prevail so far as to 
 make property insecure, industry would lose heart, 
 enterprise and frugality be crushed, and at last the 
 honest turn thieves in self-defence. Nearly every act 
 of theft had a baneful influence on the person robbed. 
 
 Here he quoted by name instances of industrious, 
 frugal persons, whose savings having been stolen, they 
 had lost courage and good habits of years' standing, 
 and had ended ill. Then he gave them a simile. 
 These great crimes are like great trunk railways. 
 They create many smaller ones : some flow into them ; 
 some out of them. Drunkenness generally precedes 
 an act of theft ; drunkenness always follows it ; lies 
 flow from it in streams, and perjury rushes to its defence. 
 
 It breeds, too, other vices that punish it, but 
 never cure it — prodigality and general loose living. 
 The thief is never the richer by this vile act which 
 impoverishes his victim ; for the money obtained by 
 this crime is wasted in others. The folly of theft ; its 
 ill economy. What high qualities are laid out to 
 their greatest disadvantage by the thief; acuteness, 
 watchfulness, sagacity, determination, tact. These 
 virtues, coupled with integrity, enrich thousands 
 every year. How many thieves do they enrich? 
 How many thieves are a shilling a-year the better for 
 
* IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 285 
 
 the hundreds of pounds that come dishonestly into 
 their hands ? 
 
 ' In gaol (Mr. Lepel's), there is now a family 
 
 that have stolen, first and last, property worth 
 eighteen thousand pounds. The entire possessions of 
 this family are now two pair of shoes. The clothes 
 they stand in belong to Government ; their own had 
 to be burned, so foul were they. Eighteen thousand 
 pounds had they stolen to be beggars, and this is the 
 rule, not the exception, as you all know. Why is this 
 your fate and your end? Because a mightier power 
 than man's has determined that thieving shall not 
 thrive. The curse of God is upon theft !' 
 
 Then came life-like pictures of the honest man and 
 the thief. The one with an eye that faced you, with a 
 conscious dignity, and often a cheerful countenance ; 
 the other with a shrinking eye, a conscious meanness, 
 and never with a smile from the heart; sordid, sly, 
 and unhappy, for theft is misery. No wonder this 
 crime degrades a man when it degrades the very 
 animals. Look at a dog who has stolen. Before this, 
 when he met his master or any human friend he used 
 to run up to greet them, with wagging tail and 
 sparkling eye. Now see him : at sight of any man, he 
 crawls meanly away, with cowering figure and eye 
 askant, the living image of the filthy sin he has 
 committed. He feels he has no longer a right to greet 
 a man, for he is a thief. 
 
 And here the preacher gathered images facts and 
 satire, and hurled a crushing hailstorm of scorn upon 
 
286 ' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 the sordid sin. Then he attacked the present situation 
 (his invariable custom). 
 
 ' Not all the inmates of a gaol were equally guilty 
 on their arrival there. A large proportion of felons 
 were orphans or illegitimate children ; others, still 
 more unfortunate, were the children of criminals who 
 had taught them crime from their cradles. Great 
 excuses were to be made for the general mass of 
 criminals ; excuses that the ignorant, shallow world 
 could not be expected to make ; but the balance of the 
 Sanctuary is not like the world's clumsy balance; it 
 weighs all men to a hair. Excuses will be made i'ov 
 many of you in Heaven up to a certain point. And 
 what is that point? The day of your entrance into 
 prison. But now plead no more the ill example of 
 parents and friends, for here you are cut off from it. 
 
 ' Plead no more that you cannot read, for here you 
 have been taught to read. 
 
 ' Plead no more the dreadful power of vicious habits, 
 that began when you were unguarded ; for those 
 habits have now been cut away from you by force, and 
 better habits substituted. 
 
 * Plead no more ignorance of God's Word, for here 
 day by day it is poured into your ears. 
 
 Your situation has other less obvious advantages. Here 
 you are little exposed to the soul's most dangerous enemy 
 — self-deception. The world destroys thousands of sin- 
 ners by flattery. Half the great sinners upon earth are 
 what is called respectable. The world tells them they 
 are good — they believe it, and so die as they have 
 
* IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 287 
 
 lived, and are lost eternally. The world, intending to 
 be more unkind to you, is far more kind ; it tells you 
 the truth — that you are desperate sinners. Here then, 
 where everything opens your eyes, oh ! fight not 
 against yourselves. Eepent, or fearful will be the fresh 
 guilt heaped upon your heads ! Even these words of 
 mine must do you good or do you harm. I tremble 
 when I tell you so. It is an awful thing to think — ' 
 The preacher paused. ' You know that I love you — 
 that I would give my life to save one soul of all those 
 1 see before me now ! Have pity on me and on your- 
 selves ! Let me not be so unfortunate as to add to your 
 guilt— I, whose heart yearns to do you good ! Oh, my 
 poor brothers and sisters, do not pity yourselves so 
 much less than I pity you — do not love yourselves so 
 much less than I love you ! Why will ye die ? Eepent, 
 and be forgiven ! 
 
 ' Some of you profess attachment to me — some talk 
 of gratitude. There are some of my poor brothers and 
 sisters in this gaol that say to me, " Oh, 1 wish I could 
 do something for you, sir !" Perhaps you have noticed 
 that I have never answered these professions. Well, I 
 will answer them now once for all.' 
 
 While the preacher paused, there was a movement 
 observed amongst the prisoners. 
 
 ' Would you make me very — very sad ? Eemain 
 impenitent I Would you make me happy ? Eepent, 
 and turn to God ! Not to-morrow, or next day, but on 
 your knees in your own cells the moment you go 
 
288 ' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 hence. You don't know, you can't dream what hap- 
 piness you will confer on me if you do this !' 
 
 Then suddenly opening his arms, with wonderful 
 grace and warmth and energy he ciied, ' My poor 
 wandering sheep, come — come to the heavenly fold ! 
 Let me gather you as a hen gathers her chickens under 
 her wing. You are my anxiety, my terror — be my 
 joy, my consolation here, and hereafter the brightest 
 jewels in my heavenly crown.' 
 
 In this strain he soared higher than my poor earth- 
 clogged wings can follow him. He had lashed sin 
 severely, so he had earned a right to show his love for 
 the sinner. Gracious words of entreaty and encourage- 
 ment gushed from him in a crystal stream with looks 
 and tones of more than mortal charity. Men might 
 well doubt was this a man, or was it Christianity 
 speaking? Christianity, born in a stable, was she 
 there, illuminating a gaol ? For now for a moment or 
 two the sacred orator was more than mortal, so high 
 above earth was his theme so great his swelKng words. 
 He rose, he dilated to heroic size, he flamed with sacred 
 fire, his face shone like an angel's, and no silver 
 trumpet or deep-toned organ could compare with his 
 thundering, pealing, melting voice, that poured the 
 soul of love and charity and heaven upon friend and 
 foe. Then seemed it as though a sudden blaze of 
 music and light broke into that dark abode. Each 
 sinful form stretched wildly forth to meet them — each 
 ear hung aching on them — each glistening eye lived on 
 
* IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 289 
 
 tliem, and every heart panted and quivered as this 
 great Christian swept his immortal harp amongst 
 thieves and homicides and oppressors in that sad 
 house of God. 
 
 * What did you think of the sermon, Fry ?' 
 
 Fry, Liked the first part, sir, where he walked into 
 thieving. Don't like his telling 'em he loves 'em. 
 'Tisn't to be supposed a gentleman could really love 
 such rubbish as that. Sounds like palaver. 
 
 Hawes. Now I liked it all, though it spoiled my nap. 
 
 Fry. Well sir it is very good of you to like it, for 
 I don't think you like the man. 
 
 Hawes. The man is all very well in his place. He 
 ought to be bottled up in one of the dark cells all the 
 week, and then brought up and uncorked in chapel 
 o' Sundays. It is as good as a romance is a sermon of 
 his. 
 
 Fry. That it is, sir. Comes next after the Newgate 
 Calendar, don't it now ? But there's one thing about 
 all his sermons I can't get over. 
 
 Hawes. And what is that ? 
 
 Fry. Preaches at 'em so. 
 
 Hawes. Why, ye fool, that is the beauty of him. 
 How is he to hit 'em, if he doen't hit at 'em? 
 
 Fry. Mr. Jones usen't. 
 
 Halves. Oh, Jones ! He shot his arrow up in the 
 air, and let it fall wherever the wind chose to blow it, 
 and then, if it came down on the wrong man's head, 
 he'd say, never mind, my boy, accident ! — pure acci- 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
290 ' IT IS XEVER TOO LATE TO iMEND.' 
 
 dent I No ! give me a cliap tliat liits out straiglit from 
 tlie shoulder. Can't you see tliis is worth a hundred 
 Joneses beating about the bush and droning us all 
 asleep. 
 
 Fry. So he is, sir. So he is. But then I think he 
 didn't ought to be quite so personal. Fancy his 
 requesting such a lot as ours to repent their sins and 
 go to heaven just to oblige him. There's a induce- 
 ment ! I call that himper dig from the pulpit. 
 
 ' What d'ye call it ?' growled Hawes, snappishly. 
 
 * Himper dig !' replied Fry stoutly. 
 
 In the afternoon Mr. Eden preached against cruelty. 
 
 ' JSTo crime is so thoroughly without excuse as this. 
 Other crimes have sometimes an adequate temptation, 
 this never. The patli to other crimes is down-hil ; to 
 cruelty is up-hil. In the very act. Nature, who is on 
 the side of some crimes, cries out within us against this 
 monstrous sin. The blood of our victim flowing from 
 our blows, its groans and sighs and pallor, stay the 
 uplifted arm and appeal to the furious heart. Wonder- 
 ful they should ever appeal in vain. Cruelty is not 
 one of our pleasant vices, and the opposite virtues are 
 a garden of delights : " mercy is twice blessed, it 
 blesseth him that gives and him that takes." Grod has 
 written his abhorrence of this monstrous sin in letters 
 of fire and blood on every page of history.' 
 
 Here he ransacked history, and gave them some 
 thirty remarkable instances of human cruelty, and of 
 its being punished in kind so strangely, and with such 
 an exact*ness of retribution, that the finger of God 
 
* IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 291 
 
 seemed visible writing on the world — * God hates 
 cruelty.' 
 
 At the end of his examples he instanced two that 
 happened under his own eye — a favorite custom of 
 this preacher. 
 
 ' A man was tried in London for cruelty to animals ; 
 he was acquitted by a legal flaw, though the evidence 
 was clear against him. This man returned homewards 
 triumphant. The train in which he sat was drawn up 
 by the side of a station. An express-train passed on 
 the up-line at full speed. At the moment of passing 
 the fly-wheel of the engine broke ; a large fragment 
 was driven into the air, and fell upon the stationary 
 train : it burst through one of the carriages, and killed 
 a man upon the spot. That man was seated between 
 two other men, neither of whom received the slightest 
 injury. The man so singled out was the cruel man 
 who had evaded man's justice, but could not escape 
 His hand who created the beasts as well as man, and 
 who abhors all men who are cruel to any creature he 
 has formed. 
 
 * A man and his wife conspired to rob and murder 
 their friend and constant guest. Determined to 
 escape detection, they coldly prepared for the deed of 
 blood. Long before the murder they dug a hole in the 
 passage leading from their parlor to their dining- 
 room, and this hole was to receive the corpse of the 
 man with whom mean time these heartless wretches 
 eat bread day after day and drank his health at their 
 own board. Several times the unfortunate man walked 
 
 o2 
 
292 ' IT IS NEVEU TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 with his host and hostess over this concealed hole, his 
 destined tomb, before the time came to sacrifice him. 
 At last they murdered him, and buried him in the 
 grave they had prepared for him. The deed done, 
 spite of all their precaution fear fell on them and 
 hatred, and they fled from the house where the corpse 
 was and from each other, one to the north one to the 
 south. Fled they ever so fast, or so far apart, justice 
 followed to the north, justice followed to the south, and 
 dragged the miscreants together again and flung them 
 into one prison. They were convicted and condemned 
 to death. There came a fatal morning to tliis guilty 
 pair, when the sun rose upon them and found them full 
 of health and strength, yet in one short hour they 
 must be dead. They were taken into the prison chapel 
 according to custom, and from the chapel they must 
 pass at once to the gallows. Now it so happened that 
 the direct path from the chapel to the gallows was 
 blocked up by some repairs that were going on in the 
 prison, so the condemned were obliged to make a long 
 circuit. It was one of the largest of our old prisons, a 
 huge, irregular building, constructed with no simplicity 
 of design, and one set of officers did not always know at 
 once what was going on in a distant department. Hence 
 it befel that in a certain passage of the gaol the con- 
 demned and their attendants came suddenly upon a 
 new-made grave ! Stones liad been taken up, and a 
 grave dug in this passage : the workmen had but just 
 completed it. The grave filled up the passage, which 
 was narrow, and but little used. The men who accom- 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 293 
 
 panied the murderers paused abashed and chilled. The 
 murderers paused, and looked, at one another ; no 
 words can describe that look ! Planks were put down, 
 and they walked over their own grave to their death. 
 Is there a sceptic who tells me this was chance? 
 Then I tell him he is a credulous fool to believe 
 that chance can imitate omniscience, omnipotence, and 
 holiness so inimitably. In this astounding fact of exact 
 retribution I see nothing that resembles chance. I 
 see the arm of Grod, and the finger of God. His arm 
 dragged the murderers to the gallows, his finger thrust 
 the heartless cruel miscreants across the grave that was 
 yawning for their doomed bodies ! Tremble, ye cruel, 
 God hates ye ! Men speak of a murder — and some- 
 times, by way of distinction, they say " a cruel mur- 
 der." See, now, what a crime cruelty must be since it 
 can aggravate murder, the crime before which all other 
 sins dwindle into nothing.' 
 
 ' Of minor cruelties that do not attack life itself the 
 most horrible he thought was cruelty to women. Here 
 the man must trample on every manly feeling, on the 
 instinct and the traditions of sex, on the opinion of 
 mankind, on the generosity that goes witli superior 
 strength and courage. A man who is cruel to a woman 
 is called a brute, but if the brutes could speak they 
 would appeal against this phrase as unjust to them. 
 What animal but man did you ever see maltreat a 
 female of his species ? The brutes are not such beasts 
 as bad cruel men are. Or if you ever saw such a mon- 
 strosity the animal that did it was some notorious coward, 
 
294 'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEXD.' 
 
 sucli as the deer, whicli I believe is now and then guilty 
 in a trifling degree of this dirty sin, being a rank 
 coward. But who ever saw a lion or a dog or any 
 courageous animal let liimself down to the level of a 
 cowardly man so far as this ?' 
 
 Here sprang from his lips a true and tender picture 
 of a wife : the narrow and virtuous circle of her joys, 
 her many sufferings, great and little — no need of being 
 cruel to her; she must suffer so much without that. 
 The claims to pity and uncommon consideration every 
 woman builds up during a few years of marriage ! Her 
 inestimable value in the house ! How true to the 
 hearth she is unless her husband corrupts her or drives 
 her to despair ! How often she is good in spite of his 
 example ! How rarely she is evil but by his example ! 
 God made her weaker that man might have the honest 
 satisfaction and superior joy of protecting and supporting 
 her. To torture her with the strength so intrusted him 
 for her good is to rebel against heaven's design — it is to 
 be a monster, a coward, and a fool ! 
 
 * There was one more kind of cruelty it was his duty 
 to touch upon : harsh treatment of those unhappy per- 
 sons to whom it has not pleased God to give a full 
 measure of reason. 
 
 ' This is a sacred calamity to which the intelligent 
 and the good in all ages and places have been tender 
 and pitiful. In some countries these unfortunates are 
 venerated, and being little able to guard themseh'es are 
 held to be under heaven's especial protection. This is 
 a beautiful belief and honours our fallen nature. Yet 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 295 
 
 in Christian England, I grieve and blusli to say, cruelty 
 often falls on their unprotected heads. Who has not 
 seen the village boys follow and mock these afflicted 
 persons ? Youth is cruel, because the great parent of 
 cruelty is general ignorance and inexperience of the 
 class of suffering we inflict. Men who have come to 
 their full reason have not this excuse. What ! perse- 
 cute those whom God hath smitten, but whom he still 
 loves, and will take vengeance on all who maltreat them. 
 On such and on all of you who are cruel, shame and 
 contempt will fall sooner or later even in this world, and 
 at that solemn day when the cruel and their victims 
 shall meet the Judge of the quick and the dead— he on 
 whose mercy hangs your eternal fate will say to you, 
 "Have ye shown mercy?" Oh! these words will 
 crush your souls. Madmen ! know ye not that the 
 most righteous man on earth can only be saved by 
 God's mercy, not by his justice ? Would you forfeit 
 all hope, all chance, all possibility of that mercy by 
 merciless cruelty to your brothers and sisters of the 
 race of Adam? Does the day of judgment seem to 
 you uncertain or so distant that you dare be cruel here 
 during the few brief days you have to prepare yourself 
 for eternity? If you are under this delusion here I 
 tear it from your souls. That day is at hand, at the 
 door.' 
 
 Then in a moment, by the magic of eloquence, the 
 great day of retribution was no longer faint and distant, 
 but upon them in all its terrors ; and they who in the 
 morning had leaned forward eagerly to catch the mes- 
 
296 ' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 sage of mercy now shrank and cowered from the thunder 
 that pealed over their heads, and the lightning of awful 
 words that showed them by flashes the earth quaking 
 and casting forth her dead — the sea trembling and cast- 
 ing forth her dead — the terrible trumpet pealing from 
 pole to pole — the books opened — the dread Judge seated 
 — and hell yawning for the guilty. 
 
 * Well, sir, how did you like this sermon ?' said Fry, 
 respectfully. 
 
 * He won't preach many more such (imperative 
 mood) him. I'll teach him to preach at people from the 
 pulpit.' 
 
 ' Well, that is what I say, sir, but you said you liked 
 to hear him preach at folk.' 
 
 ' So I do ' replied Hawes angrily, ' but not at me ye 
 fool !' 
 
 This afternoon two of the prisoners rang their 
 bells, and on the warder coming to them begged in 
 much agitation to see the chaplain. Mr. Eden was 
 always at the prisoners' orders, and came to both of 
 these ; one was a man of about thirty, the other a mere 
 boy. The same evening Mr. Hawes sat down, his 
 features working wrathfully, and despatched a note to 
 Mr. Locock one of the visiting justices and a particular 
 admirer of his. 
 
 Meeting Mr. Eden in the prison, he did not return 
 that gentleman's salute : this was his way of implying 
 war ; events were thickening ; a storm was brewing. 
 This same evening, there was a tap at Mr. Eden's 
 private door, and Evans entered the room. The man's 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 297 
 
 manner was peculiar. He wore outside a dogged look, 
 as if fighting against some inward feeling; he entered 
 looking down most pertinaciously at the floor. ' Well, 
 Evans.' 
 
 Evans approached, his eyes still glued upon the 
 floor. He shoved a printed paper roughly into Mr. 
 Eden's hand, and said in a tone of sulky reproach 
 ' Saw ye fret because ye could not get it, and could'nt 
 bear to see ye fret.' 
 
 ' Thank you Evans thank you !' 
 
 'You are very welcome sir' said Evans with 
 momentary deference and kindness. Then turning 
 suddenly at the door in great wrath with a tendency 
 to whimper, he roared out, ' Ye'll get me turned out of 
 my place, that's what ye'll do !' and went off" apparently 
 in tremendous dudgeon; the printed paper contained 
 * the rules of the prison,' a copy of which Mr. Eden 
 had asked from Hawes, and been refused. Evans 
 had watched his opportunity, got them from another 
 warder in return for two glasses of grog outside the 
 gaol. 
 
 Mr. Eden fell to and studied the paper carefully till 
 bed-time. As he read it his eye more than once 
 flashed with satisfaction in spite of a great despondency 
 that had now for a day or two been creeping upon him. 
 
 This depression dated from biped Carter's cruci- 
 fixion or soon after. He struggled gallantly against it ; 
 it appeared in none of his public acts. But when alone 
 his heart seemed to have turned to lead. A cold languid 
 hopelessness most foreign to his high sanguine nature 
 
 o3 
 
298 ' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEXD.' 
 
 weiglied him to the earth, and the Dead Sea rolled over 
 his spirit. 
 
 Earnest Mr. Hawes hated good Mr. Eden ; one com- 
 fort, by means of his influence with the justices he 
 could get him turned out of the prison. Meantime 
 what could he do to spite him. Begin by punishing a 
 prisoner, that is the only thing that stings him. With 
 these good intentions; earnest Hawes turned out and 
 looked about for a prisoner to punish ; unfortunately for 
 poor Josephs, the governor's eye fell upon him as he came 
 out of the chapel. The next minute he was put on a 
 stiff crank, which led in due course to the pillory. 
 When he had been in about an hour and a half, Hawes 
 winked to Fry, and said to him under his breath, ' Let 
 the parson know.' 
 
 Fry strolled into the prison, he met Mr. Eden at a 
 cell-door. ' Josephs refractory again, sir,' said he, with 
 mock civility. 
 
 Mr. Eden looked him in the face, but said nothing. 
 He wont to his own room, took a paper off the table, 
 and came into the yard. Josephs was beginning to 
 sham, and a bucket had just been thrown over him 
 amidst the coarse laughter of Messrs. Fry, Hodges and 
 Hawes. Evans who happened to be in attendance 
 stood aloof with his eyes fixed on the ground. 
 
 As soon as he saw Mr. Eden coming Hawes gave a 
 vindictive chuckle, 'Another bucket,' cned he, and 
 taking it himself he contrived to sprinkle Mr. Eden, as 
 well as to sluice his immediate victim. 
 
 Mr. Eden took no notice of this impertinence, but to 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 299 
 
 the surprise of all there he strode between the victim 
 and his tormentors, and said sternly, ' Do you know 
 that you are committing an illegal assault upon this 
 prisoner ?' 
 
 ' No, I don't,' said Hawes, with a cold sneer. 
 
 ' Then I shall show you. Here are the printed rules 
 of the prison, you have no authority over a prisoner, 
 but what those rules give you. Now show me where 
 they permit you to pillory a prisoner ?' 
 
 ' They don't forbid it, that is enough.' 
 
 * No ! it is not : they don't forbid you to hang him, 
 or to sear him with a hot iron, but they tell you in this 
 paragraph what punishments you may inflict, and that 
 excludes all punishments of your own invention. You 
 may neither hang him nor burn him nor famish him 
 nor crucify him, all these acts are equally illegal. So take 
 warning all of you here, you are all servants of the law, 
 don't let me catch you assaulting a prisoner contrary to 
 the law, or you shall smart to the uttermost. Evans, I 
 command you in the name of the law release that 
 prisoner.' 
 
 Evans thus appealed to fidgeted, and turned colour, 
 and his hands worked by his side ; ' Your reverence,' 
 cried he, in an imploring tone, and stayed where he 
 was ; on this Mr. Eden made no more ado, but darted 
 to Josephs' side, and began to unfasten him with nimble 
 fingers. 
 
 Hawes stood dumb-foundered for a minute or two, 
 then recovering himself he roared out — 
 
 ' Officers do your duty !' 
 
300 ' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEXD.' 
 
 Fry and Hodges advanced upon Mr. Eden, but before 
 they could get at liim the huge body of Evans inter- 
 posed itself. The man was pale but doggedly resolved. 
 
 ' Mustn't lay a finger on his reverence,' said he 
 almost in a w^hisper but between his clenched teeth, 
 and with the look of a bulldog over a bone. 
 
 * What do you rebel against me, Evans ? ' 
 
 ' No, sir,' said Evans softening his tone, ' but nobody 
 must affront his reverence. Look here sir, his rever- 
 ence knows a great deal more than I do, and he says 
 this is against the law. He showed you the Act 
 sh', and you couldn't answer him except by violence, 
 which ain't no answer at all. Now I am a servant 
 of the law, and I know better than go against the 
 law.' 
 
 ' There I want no more of your chat : loose the 
 prisoner.' 
 
 * Seems to me he is loosed ' said Fry. 
 
 ' Go to the 51b. crank, No. 2 Josephs, and let me 
 see how much you can do in half an hour. 
 
 ' That I will your reverence,' and off he ran. 
 
 ' Now sir ' said Hawes sternly, ' I put up with this 
 now because it must end next week. I have written 
 to the visiting justices, and they will settle whether 
 you are to be master in the gaol or L' 
 
 * Neither, Mr. Hawes. The law shall be your master 
 and mine.' 
 
 ' Yery good ! but there's a hole in your coat for as 
 clever as you are ; every gaol has its customs as well as 
 its rules.' 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 301 
 
 * Wliicli customs if illegal are abuses, and shall be 
 swept out of it.' 
 
 ' I'll promise you one thing — the justices shall sweep 
 you out of the gaol.' 
 
 ' How can you promise that ? ' 
 
 ' Because they only see with my eyes, and hear with 
 my ears ; they would do a great deal more for me than 
 kick out a refractory chaplain.' 
 
 Mr. Eden's eye flashed, he took out his note-book. 
 
 ' Present Fry, Hodges, Evans. Mr. Hawes asserts 
 that the visiting justices see only with his eyes, and 
 hear with his ears.' 
 
 Hawes laughed insolently, but a little uneasily. 
 
 ' In spite of your statement that the magistrates are 
 unworthy of their office, I venture to hope, for the 
 credit of the county, there will not be found three magis- 
 trates to countenance your illegal cruelties. But should 
 there be — ' 
 
 ' Ay ; what then ? ' 
 
 ' I shall go higher and appeal to the Home Secre- 
 tary.' 
 
 ' Ha ! ha 1 He won't take any notice of you.' 
 
 ' Then I shall appeal to the Sovereign.' 
 
 ' And if she takes you for a madman.' 
 
 ' I shall appeal to the people. Oh ! Mr. Hawes, I 
 give 3^ou my honour this great question whether or 
 not the law can penetrate a prison shall be sifted to 
 the bottom. Pending my appeals to the Home Office 
 the Sovereign and the people, I have placed a thou- 
 sand pounds in my solicitor's hands — ' 
 
302 *IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 ' A thousand pounds ! have you, sir. Wliat for, if 
 I am not too curious ? ' 
 
 * For this, sir. Each prisoner whom you have pil- 
 loried and starved and assaulted contrary to law shall 
 bring an action of assault against you the moment he 
 leaves the prison. He shall have counsel, and the 
 turnkeys and myself shall be subpoenaed as evidence. 
 When once we get you into court you will find that a 
 prison is the stronghold of law, not a den of lawlessness.' 
 
 He then turned sharp on the warders. 
 
 * I warn you against all your illegal practices ; Mr. 
 Hawes's orders shall neither excuse nor protect you ; 
 you owe your first obedience to the crown and the law. 
 Here are your powers and your duties, you can all 
 read. Here it is ruled that a prisoner shall receive 
 four visits a day from the governor, chaplain, and 
 two turnkeys ; these four visits are to keep the man 
 from breaking down under the separate and silent 
 system. You have all been breaking this rule, but 
 you shall not. I shall report you Evans, you Fry, and 
 you Hodges, and you Mr. Hawes, to the authorities, if 
 after this warning you leave a single prisoner unvisited 
 and unspoken with.' 
 
 ' Have you done preaching, parson ? ' 
 
 ' Not quite, gaoler.' 
 
 He tapped the printed paper. 
 
 ' Here is a distinct order that sick prisoners shall be 
 taken out of their cells into the infirmary, a vast room 
 where they have a much better chance of recovering 
 than in these stinking cells ventilated scientifically, 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEXD.' 303 
 
 i. e., not ventilated at all. Now there are seven pri- 
 soners dangerously ill at this moment ; yet you smother 
 these unfortunates in their solitary cells, instead of 
 giving them the infirmary and nurses according to the 
 law. Let these seven persons be in the infirmary 
 before post-time this evening, or to-morrow I report 
 you to the Secretary of State.' 
 
 With these words he went off leaving them all look- 
 ing at one another. 
 
 * He is coming back again,' said Fry. 
 
 He did come back again with heightened color and 
 flashing eyes. 
 
 ' Here is the prisoners' diet,' cried he, tapping the 
 printed rules ; ' it is settled to an ounce by law, and I 
 see no authority given to the gaoler to tamper with it 
 under any circumstances. Yet I find you perpetually 
 robbing prisoners of their food. Don't let me catch 
 either gaoler or turnkeys at this again. Gaolers and 
 turnkeys have no more right to steal a prisoner's food 
 than to rob the till of the Bank of England. He 
 receives it defined in bulk and quality from the law's 
 own hand, and the wretch who will rob him of an 
 ounce of it is a felon without a felon's excuse ; and as 
 a felon I will proceed against him by the dog-whip of 
 the criminal law, by the gibbet of the public press, and 
 by every weapon that wit and honesty have ever found 
 to scourge cruelty and theft since civilization dawned 
 upon the earth.' 
 
 He was gone and left them all turned to statues. A 
 righteous man's wrath is far more terrible than the 
 
304 * IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND,' 
 
 sliort-lived passion of tlie unprincipled. It is rarer, 
 and springs from a deeper source than temper. 
 
 Even Hawes staggered under this mortal defiance 
 so fierce and unexpected. For a moment he regretted 
 having pushed matters so far. 
 
 This scene let daylight in upon shallow earnest 
 Hawes, and showed him a certain shallow error he had 
 fallen into. Because insolence had no earthly effect 
 on the great man's temper, he had concluded that 
 nothing could make him boil over. A shade of fear 
 was now added to rage hatred and a desire of 
 vengeance. 
 
 ' Fry come to my house.' 
 
 Evans had a wife and children, and these hostages 
 to fortune weighed down his manly spirit. He came 
 to Hawes as he was going out and said submissively, 
 though not graciously — 
 
 ' Very sorry sir to think I should disobey you, but 
 when his reverence said it was against the law ' — 
 
 ' That is enough my man ' replied Hawes quietly ; 
 ' he has bewitched you it seems. When he is kicked 
 out you will be my servant again I dare say.' 
 
 The words and the tone were not ill humoured. . It 
 was not Hawes's cue to quarrel with a turnkey. 
 
 Evans looked suddenly up, for his mind was relieved 
 by Mr. Hawes's moderation ; he^ looked up and saw a 
 cold stern eye dwelling on him with a meaning that 
 had nothing to do with the words spoken. 
 
 Small natures read one another. 
 
 Evans saw his fate inscribed in Hawes's eye. 
 
( 305 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 Hawes and Fry sat in council. A copy of the prison 
 rules was before them, and the more they looked at 
 them after Mr. Eden's interpretation, the less they 
 liked them ; they were severe, and simple ; stringent 
 against the prisoners on certain points ; stringent in their 
 favor on others. 
 
 * The sick list must go to the infirmary, I believe,' 
 said Hawes, thoughtfully. ' He'd beat us there. The 
 justices will support me on every other point, because 
 they must contradict themselves else. I'll have that 
 fellow out of the gaol Fry before a month is out, and 
 mean time what can I do to be revenged on him ?' 
 
 ' Punish 'em all the more,' suggested the simple- 
 minded Fry. 
 
 ' No, that won't do ; better keep a little quiet now 
 till he is out of the gaol. Fine it would look if he was 
 really to bribe these vermin to bring actions against 
 me, and subpoena himself and that sneaking dog 
 Evans.' 
 
 ' Well sir, but if you turn him out he will do it all 
 the more.' 
 
 ' You fool, can't you see the difference. If he 
 
306 ' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEXD.' 
 
 comes into court a servant of the crown every lie lie 
 tells will go for gospel. But if he comes a disgraced 
 servant cashiered for refractory conduct, why then we 
 could tell the jury it is all his spite at being turned 
 off.' 
 
 * You know a thing or two sir ' whined the doleful 
 Fry. 
 
 Hawes passed him a fresh tumbler of grog, and 
 pondered deeply and anxiously. But suddenly an idea 
 flashed on him that extinguished his other meditations. 
 ' Grive me the rules.' He ran his eye rapidly over 
 them. ' Why no ! of course not, what a fool I was not 
 to see that half an hour ago.' 
 
 ' What is it, sir ?' 
 
 ' Finish your grog first, and then I have a job for 
 you.' He sat down and wrote two lines on a slip of 
 paper. 
 
 ' Have you done ?' 
 
 ' Yes sir.' 
 
 ' Then take this order.' 
 
 * Yes sir .' 
 
 ' And the printed rules in your hand, here take 
 em. 
 
 * Yes, sir.' 
 
 ' And take Hodges and Evans with you, and tell 
 me every word that sneaking dog Evans says and 
 everything he does.' 
 
 ' Yes sir. But what are we all three to do ?' 
 
 ' Execute this order !' 
 
 An ebullition of wrath was as rare with Mr. Eden as 
 
* IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 307 
 
 an eruption of Vesuvius. His deep-rooted indignation 
 against cruelty remained ; it was a part of his nature. 
 But his ruffled feathers smoothed themselves the mo- 
 ment little Hawes and Co. were out of his eye. He 
 even said to himself " what is the matter with me ? one 
 moment so despondent, the next irascible. I hardly 
 know myself. I must take a little of my antidote." 
 So saying he proceeded to visit some of those cells into 
 which he had introduced rational labor (anti-theft he 
 called it). Here he found cheerful looks as well as 
 busy hands. Here industry was relished with a gusto 
 inconceivable to those who have never stagnated body 
 and soul in enforced solitude and silence. Here for 
 the time at least were honest converts to anti- 
 theft. He had seen them dull and stupid, brutalised, 
 drifting like inanimate bodies on the heavy waters of 
 the Dead Sea. He had drawn them ashore and put" life 
 into them. He had taught their glazed eyes to sparkle 
 with the stimulus of rational and interesting work, and 
 those same eyes rewarded him by beaming on him with 
 pleasure and 'gratitude whenever he came. This soothed 
 and cheered his weary spirit vexed by the wickedness 
 and stupidity that surrounded him and obstructed the 
 good work. 
 
 His female artisans gave him a keen pleasure, for 
 here he benefited a sex as well as a prisoner. He had 
 long been saying that women are as capable as men of 
 a multitude of handicrafts, from which they are ex- 
 cluded by man's jealousy and grandmamma's imbecility. 
 And this wise man hoped to raise a few Englishwomen 
 
308 ' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 tu tlie industrial level of Frencliwomen and English- 
 men ; not by writing and prattling that the sex are 
 (A.D. 1854) men's equals in intelligence and energy, 
 which is a stupid falsehood calculated to keep them 
 for ever our inferiors by persuading them they need 
 climb no higher than they have climbed. 
 
 His line was very different. ' At present you are 
 infinitely man's inferior in various energy,' said he. 
 ' Dependants are inferiors throughout the world.' 
 
 If they were not so at first starting such a relation 
 would make them so in two months. 
 
 ' Try and be more than mere dependents on men,' 
 was his axiom. ' Don't talk that you are his equal, 
 and then open that eloquent mouth to be fed by his 
 hand — do something ! It is by doing fifty useful and 
 therefore lucrative things to your one that man be- 
 comes your creditor, and a creditor will be a superior 
 to the world's end. Out of these fifty things you 
 might have done twenty as well as he can do them, 
 and ten much better; and those thirty added to the 
 domestic duties in which you do so Uiuch more tlian 
 your share, would go far to balance the account and 
 equalize the sexes.' 
 
 T]ms he would sometimes talk to the more intelli- 
 gent of his hussies ; but he did a great deal more than 
 talk. He supplied from himself that deficiency of in- 
 ventive power and enterprise which is woman's weak 
 point; and he tilled those wide powers of masterly 
 execution which they possess unknown to grandpapa 
 Cant and grandmamma Precedent. As this clear head 
 
* IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 309 
 
 had foreseen, his women came out artisans. The eye 
 that could thread a needle proved accurate enough for 
 anything. Their supple taper fingers soon learned to 
 pick up type, and place it quite as quick as even the 
 stiff digits of the male all one size from knuckle to 
 nail. The same with watch-making, and other trades 
 reputed masculine; they beat the men's heads off at 
 learning many kinds of finger-work new to both ; their 
 singular patience stood them in good stead here ; they 
 undermined difiiculties that the males tried to jump 
 over and fell prostrate. 
 
 A great treat was in store ; one of the fruit-trees 
 
 he liad planted in the huge fallow of Gaol, was to 
 
 be shaken this afternoon. Two or three well-disposed 
 prisoners had been set to review their past lives can- 
 didly, and to relate them simply, with refiections. Of 
 these Mr. Eden cut out every one which had been put 
 in to please him, retaining such as were sober and 
 seemed genuine to his lynx eye. 
 
 Mr. Eden knew that some men and women listen 
 more to their fellows than their superiors — to the ex- 
 periences and sentiments of those who are in their own 
 situation, than to those who stand higher but farther 
 away. He had found out that a bad man's life honestly 
 told is a beacon. So he set '' roguery teaching by 
 examples." 
 
 There were three male narratives in the press, and 
 two female. For a day or two past, the printers (all 
 women,) had been setting up the type, and now the 
 sheets were to be struck off. 
 
310 ' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 There was no little expectation among tlie prisoners. 
 They were curious to see their compeers in print, and 
 to learn their stories, and see how they would tell them ; 
 and as for the writers, their bodies were immured, but 
 their minds fluttered about on tip -toe round the great 
 engine of publicity, as the author of the " Novmn 
 Organon " fluttered when he first went into print, and 
 as the future authoress of " Lives and Careers of Infants 
 in Arms " will flutter. 
 
 The press stood in the female-governor's room. One 
 she-artisan, duly taught before, inked the type, and 
 put in a blank sheet. 
 
 No. 2 pulled the bar of the press towards her, and at 
 the moment of contact threw herself back with sudden 
 vigour, and gave the telling knip; the types were 
 again covered with ink, the sheet reversed, and No. 3 
 (one of the writers) drew out a printed sheet — two 
 copies of two stories complete. 
 
 ' Oh 1 oh ! oh !' cried No. 3, flushing with surprise 
 and admiration, ' how beautiful ! See, your reverence, 
 here is mine — " Life of an Unfortunate Girl." 
 
 ' Yes, I see it. And pray what do you mean by an 
 unfortunate girl ?' 
 
 ' Oh, sir ! you know.' 
 
 ' Unfortunate means one whom we are bound to 
 respect as well as pity. Has that been your character ?' 
 
 ' No,' was the mournful reply. 
 
 ' Then why print a falsehood ? Falsehoods lurk in 
 adjectives as well as substantives. Misapplied terms are 
 strongholds of self-deception. Nobody says " I am un- 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 311 
 
 fortunate, therefore I abhor myself and repent in dust 
 and ashes." Such words are fortifications to keep self- 
 knowledge and its brother repentance from the soul.' 
 
 ' Oh, sir ! what am I to call myself?' She hid her 
 face in her hands. 
 
 ' My dear, you told me a week ago you were — a 
 penitent.' 
 
 ' So I am, indeed I am. Sir, may I change it to "a 
 penitent girl ?" ' 
 
 ' You would make me very happy if you could do it 
 with truth.' 
 
 ' Then I can, indeed I can.' And she took out " an 
 unfortunate," and put in " a penitent." 
 
 ' There,' said she, glowing with exultation and satis- 
 faction, ' " Life of a Penitent Girl." ' 
 
 Oh J it was a pretty sight. Their little hearts were 
 all in it. Their little spirits rose visibly as the work 
 went on — such beaming eyes — such glowing cheeks, 
 and innocent looks of sparkling triumph to their friend 
 and father, who smiled back like Jupiter, and quizzings 
 of each other to stimulate to greater speed. 
 
 In went the sheets, on went the press, out came 
 the fictions, up grew the pile, amidst quips and 
 cranks and rays of silver-toned laughter, social labour's 
 natural music. They were all so innocent and so 
 happy, when the door was unceremoniously opened, 
 and in burst Fry and Hodges, followed by Evans 
 crawling with his eyes on the ground. 
 
 The workAvomen looked astonished, but did not in- 
 terrupt their work. Fry came up to Mr. Eden, and 
 
312 ' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEXD. 
 
 gave him a slip of paper on wliicli Hawes had written 
 an order that all work not expressly authorised by the 
 law should be expelled from the gaol on the instant. 
 
 Mr. Eden perused the order, and the colour rose to 
 the roots of his hair. By way of comment Fry put the 
 prison-rules under his eye. 
 
 ' Anything about printing, or weaving, or watch- 
 making in these rules, sir?' 
 
 Mr. Eden was silent. 
 
 ' Perhaps you will cast your eye over 'em and see, 
 sir' continued Fry slily. ' Shouldn't like to offend 
 the law again.' 
 
 Mr. Eden took the paper, but not to read it — he 
 knew it by heart. It was to hide his anguish from the 
 enemy. Hawes had felled him with his own weapon. 
 He put down the paper, and showed his face, which 
 was now stern and composed. 
 
 ' What we are doing is against the letter of the 
 law as your pillory and your starvation of prisoners 
 are against both letter and spirit. Mr. Hawes shall 
 find no excuse for his illegal practices in any act of 
 mine ,' 
 
 He then turned to the artizans. ' Grirls, you must 
 leave off.' 
 
 ' Leave off, sir ?' cried No. 3, faintly. 
 
 ' Yes, no words ; obey the prison-rules ; they do not 
 allow it.',. 
 
 ' Come my birds,' shouted Hodges roughly to the 
 women. ' Stand clear, we want this gear.' 
 
 ' What do you want of it, Mr. Hodges ?' 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 313 
 
 ' Only to put it outside tlie prison-gate sir. That 
 is the order.' 
 
 The printing-press, representative of knowledge, 
 enemy of darkness stupidity cruelty ; organ of civili- 
 zation, was ignominiously thrust to the door. 
 
 This feat performed, they went to attack anti-theft. 
 
 ' Will you come along with us sir, to see it is all 
 legal?' sneered Fry. 
 
 ' I will come to see that insolence is not added to 
 cruelty.' 
 
 At the door of Mary Baker's cell Mr. Eden hung back 
 as Hodges and Fry passed in. At last after a struggle he 
 entered the cell. The turnkeys had gathered up the 
 girl's work and tools, and were coming out with them, 
 whilst the artisan stood desolate in the middle of the cell. 
 
 ' Oh sir ' cried she to Mr. Eden ' I am glad you 
 are here. These blackguards have broke into my cell, 
 and they are robbing it.' 
 
 ' Hush, Mary ; what they are doing is the law, and 
 we were actino^ against the law.' 
 
 ' Were we, sir ?' 
 
 ' Yes. It is a bad law, and will be changed ; but 
 till it is changed we must obey it. You are only one 
 victim among many. Be patient, and pray for help to 
 bear it.' 
 
 ' Yes, your reverence : are they all to be robbed of 
 their tools ? ' 
 
 ' AIL' 
 
 ' Poor things !' said Mary Baker. 
 
 ' Evans, it is beyond my strength — I am but a man ; 
 
 VOL. I. P 
 
314 * IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MENB. 
 
 I can bear even this, but I can't bear to see it done. 
 I can't bear it ! I can't bear it !' 
 
 And his reverence turned his back on the moral 
 butchers, and crept away to his own room. There he 
 sank into a chair, and laid his brow upon the table with 
 his hands stretched out before him and his whole frame 
 trembling most piteously. 
 
 Eden and Hawes are not level antagonists — one takes 
 things to heart, the other to temper. 
 
 In this bitter hour it seemed to him impossible that 
 he could ever counteract the pernicious Hawes. 
 
 ' There is but one chance left for these poor souls. 
 I shall try it, and it will fail. Well 1 let it fail. Were 
 there a thousand more chances against me than there 
 are I must battle to the last. Let me mature my plan ;' 
 and he fell into a sad but stern reverie. 
 
 He lay thus crushed, though not defeated, more than 
 two hours in silence. Had Hawes seen him he would 
 have exulted at his appearance. 
 
 ' A man from the gaol to speak to you sir.' 
 
 A heavy rap at the parlour door, and Evans came in 
 sheepishly smoothing down his hair. Mr. Eden turned 
 his head as he lay on the sofa, and motioned him to a 
 seat. 
 
 ' I couldn't sleep till I had spoken to you. I obeyed 
 your orders, sir. We have undone your work.' 
 
 ' How did the poor souls bear it ?' 
 
 ' Some cried, some abused us, one or two showed 
 they were better than we are.' 
 
 'How?' 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 315 
 
 * They prayed heaven to forgive us and hoped we 
 might never come to know what they felt. I w^ish I'd 
 never seen the inside of a gaoL Fry got a scratched 
 face in one cell, sir.' 
 
 ' I am sorry to hear that. 1 shall have to scold her ; 
 who w^as it?' 
 
 ' You won't scold her; you won't have the heart.' 
 
 ' I will scold her whether I have the heart or not. 
 Who was it ?' 
 
 ' No. 57, a gal that had some caterpillars.' 
 
 ' Silkworms !' 
 
 ' Yes sir, silkworms, and it seems she has got to be 
 uncommon fond of them, calls 'em her children, poor 
 soul. When we came in and went to take them 
 away she stood up for 'em and said we had no right, 
 his reverence gave them her.' 
 
 'Well?' 
 
 ' Well, sir, of course they made short woik and took 
 them away by force. Then I saw the girl turn white 
 and her eye getting wildish ; however I don't know as 
 it would have come to anything, but with them snatch- 
 ing away the leaves and the grubs one of them fell on 
 the ground. The poor girl she goes to lift it up, and 
 Fry he sees her and put his foot on it before she could 
 get to it' 
 
 'Ahl' 
 
 ' I dare say he did'nt stop to think you know ; 
 but I don't envy him having done it. Well, sir, he 
 paid for it. The girl just gave one sort of a yell — you 
 
 p2 
 
316 ' IT IS XEVER TOO LATE TO MEXD.' 
 
 could not call it anything else — and she went right at 
 his head both claws going and as quick one after 
 another as a cat. The blood squirted like a fountain 
 — I never saw anything like it. She'd have killed 
 him if it hadn't been for Hodges and me.' 
 
 ' Killed him? nonsense — a great strong fellow!' 
 
 ' No nonsense at all, sir. She was stronger than he 
 was for a moment or two, and that moment would have 
 done his business. She meant killing. Sir,' said 
 Evans lowerins; his voice, ' her teeth were makino- for 
 his jugular when I wrenched her away, and it was like 
 tearing soul from body to get her off him, and she 
 snarling; and her teeth o-nashina; for him all the time.' 
 
 Mr. Eden winced. 
 
 ' The wretched creature ! I was putting her on the 
 way to heaven, and in one moment they made a fiend 
 of her. Evans, you are not the same man you were a 
 month ago.' 
 
 ' No sir that I am not. When I think of what a 
 brute I used to be to them poor creatures, I don't seem 
 to know myself.' 
 
 ' What has changed you ?' 
 
 ' Oh you know very well.' 
 
 'Do I ? No ; I have a guess ; but — ' 
 
 ' Why your sermons to be sure.' 
 
 ' My sermons ?' 
 
 ' Yes, sir. Why, how could I hear them and my 
 heart be as hard as it used? They would soften a 
 stone.' 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 317 
 
 A faint streak of surprise and simple satisfaction 
 crossed Mr. Eden's sallow face. 
 
 'Bat it isn't your sermons only it is your life 
 as the saying is. I was no better than Hawes and 
 Fry, and the rest. I used to look on a prisoner as so 
 much dirt. But when I saw a gentleman like you 
 respect them, and say openly you loved them, I began 
 to take a thought, and says I, Hallo ! if his reverence 
 respects them so, an ignorant brute like Jack Evans 
 isn't to look down on them.' 
 
 *Ah! confess too that half-hour in the jacket 
 opened your eyes and so your heart.' 
 
 ' It did, sir ; it did. I was like a good many more 
 that misuse prisoners. I did'nt know how cruel I was.' 
 
 ' You are on my side, then ?' 
 
 * Yes I am on your side, and I am come here 
 mainly to speak my mind to you. Sir, it goes to my 
 heart to see you lost and wasted in such a place as 
 this.' 
 
 ' You think I do no good here ?' 
 
 ' No ! no ! sir. Why I am a proof the other way. 
 But you would do more good anywhere else. Every 
 body says you are a bright and a shining light, sir. 
 Then why stay where there is dirty water thrown over 
 you every day ? Besides, it is killing you ! I don't 
 want to frighten you, sir, but if you could only see 
 how you are changed since you came here — ' 
 
 * I do feel very ill.' 
 
 ' Of course you do ; you are ill, and you will be 
 worse if you don't get out of this dreadful place. If 
 
318 ' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 you are so fond of prisons sir, you can go from here to 
 another prison. There is more than one easy-going 
 chaplain as would be glad to change with you.' 
 
 ' Do you think so ?' said Mr. Eden faintly lying on 
 his back on the sofa. 
 
 ' Not a doubt of it. If it warn't for Hawes you 
 would convert half this prison ; but you see the 
 governor is against you, and he is stronger than you. 
 So it is no good to go wasting yourself. Now what 
 will be the upshot? Why, you'll break your heart to 
 begin, and lose your health ; and when all is done, at 
 a word from Hawes the justices will turn you out of 
 the gaol — and send me after you for taking your part.' 
 
 ' What do you advise ?' 
 
 ' Why cut it.' 
 
 'Cut it?' 
 
 ' Turn your back on the whole ignorant lot, and 
 save yourself for better things. Why, you will win 
 many a battle yet your reverence, if you don't fling 
 ^AOLirself away this time,' said Evans in tones of 
 homely cheerfulness and encouragement. 
 
 There was a deal of good sense in the rough fellow's 
 words and a homely sympathy not intruded but 
 rather as it were forcing its way against the speaker's 
 intention. All this co-operated powerfully with Mr. 
 Eden's present inclination and feeling as he lay sick 
 and despondent upon the couch. 
 
 ' So that is really your advice?' inquired Mr. Eden 
 feebly and regretfully. 
 
 ' Yes your reverence that is my advice.' 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 319 
 
 Mr. Eden rose in a moment like an elastic spring, 
 and whirled round in front of Evans. ' And this is 
 my answer — Eetro Satanas!' shouted he, with two 
 eyes flashing like a pair of sabres in the sun. 
 
 * Mercy on us,' roared Evans, recoiling so hastily 
 that he rolled over a chair, 'what is that?' and he 
 sat upon the floor a long way off, with eyes like 
 saucers, and repeated in a whisper 
 
 ' What is that ? ' 
 
 ' A quotation,' replied the other grimly. 
 
 * A quotation ! now only think of that,' said Evans 
 much relieved. ' Sounded like cussing- and swearinor 
 in Latin.' 
 
 ' Come here my good friend and sit beside me.' 
 
 Evans came gingerly. 
 
 ' Well, but ye mustn't thunder at me in Latin any 
 more.' 
 
 'Well, I wont.' 
 
 ' It isn't fair ; how can I stand up against Latin ?' 
 
 ' Well, come here and I'll have at you in the vulgar 
 tongue. Aha ! So you come here in robust health 
 and spirits and tempt a poor broken sick creature to 
 mount the white feather ; to show his soldierly qualities 
 by running from the foe to some cool spot where there 
 are no enemies, and there fighting the good fight in 
 peace. Evans you are a good creature, but you are a 
 poor creature. Yes, Hawes is strong, yet I will resist 
 him. And I am weak — yet I will resist. He will 
 get the justices on his side — yet I will resist. I am 
 
320 ' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 sick and dispirited — yet I will resist. The repre- 
 sentative of humanity and Christianity in a strong- 
 hold of darkness and cruelty and wrong must never 
 sagg with doubt nor shake with fear. I will fight 
 with pen and hand and tongue against these outlaws, 
 so long as there is a puff of wind in my body and a 
 drop of indomitable blood in my veins.' 
 
 ' No doubt you are game enough,' mourned Evans, 
 ' I wish you wern't.' 
 
 ' And as for you, you came here to seduce a sick 
 broken creature from his Master's service ; you shall 
 remain to be enlisted in it yourself instead.' 
 
 Evans shufiled uneasily on his chair at these words : 
 • I think I am on your side,' said he. 
 
 ' Half ! but it is no use being half anything ; your 
 hour is come to choose between all right and all 
 wrong.' 
 
 ' I wouldn't be long choosing if it warn't for one 
 thins;.' 
 
 ' And what is that one thing which can outweigh 
 the one thing needful ?' 
 
 ' My wife and my four children ; if I get myself 
 turned out of this gaol how am I to find bread for that 
 small lot ?' 
 
 ' And do you think shilly-shallying between two 
 stools will secure your seat? You have gone too far 
 with me to retract ; don't you see that the gaoler means 
 to get you dismissed the next time the justices visit 
 the gaol for business? Can't you read your fate in 
 the man's eye ?' 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 321 
 
 Evans groaned. ' I read it, I read it, but I didn't 
 want to believe it.' 
 
 ' He set a trap for you half an hour after you had 
 defended me.' 
 
 ' He did ! I told my wife I was a gone coon, but 
 she over-persuaded me; "keep quiet" said she "and 
 'twill blow over." But you see it in the same light as I 
 did, don't you sir ?' 
 
 Mr. Eden smiled grimly in assent. 
 
 ' You are a doomed man, ' said he coolly ; ' half 
 measures can't save you, but whole measures may — 
 perhaps.' 
 
 ' What is to be done, sir ?' asked Evans helplessly. 
 
 * Your only chance is to go heart and hand with me 
 in the project which occupies me now.' 
 
 ' I will sir' cried Fluctuans with a sudden burst of 
 resolution, ' lor I'am druv in a corner. So please tell 
 me what is your project ?' 
 
 ' To get Mr. Hawes dismissed from this gaol.' 
 
 As he uttered these words the reverend gentleman 
 had a severe spasm which forced him to lie back 
 and draw his breath hard. Evans uttered something 
 between a cry of dismay and a groan of despair, and 
 stared down upon this audacious invalid with 
 wonder and ire at his supernatural but absurd cool 
 courage. 
 
 ' Turn our governor out of this gaol ? Now hark to 
 that ; you might as well try to move a mountain ; and 
 look at you lying there scarce able to move yourself, 
 and talking like that.' 
 
 p3 
 
322 ' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 ' Pour me out a cup of tea, Mr. Faintheart ; I am 
 in great pain — thank you.' 
 
 He took the cup, and as he stirred it he said coolly, 
 ' Did you ever read of Marshal Saxe, Mr. Faintheart ? 
 He fought the battle of Fontenoy as he lay a dying. 
 He had himself carried on his bed of death from one 
 part of the field to another; at first the fight went 
 against him, but he spurned craven counsels with his 
 expiring heart ; he saw the enemy's blunder with his 
 dying eye, and waved his troops on to victory with 
 his dying hand. This was one of the great feats of 
 earth. But the soldiers of Christ are as stout- 
 hearted as any man that ever carried a marshal's 
 baton or a Serjeant's pike. Yes I I am ill, and I feel 
 as if I were dying, Evans; but living or dying I am 
 the Lord's. I will figlit for him to the last gasp, and 
 I will thrust this malefactor from his high office with 
 the last action of my hand. Will you help me, or 
 will you not ?' 
 
 ' 1 will, sir ! I will ! What on earth can I 
 do?' 
 
 ' You can turn the balanced scale and win the day !* 
 
 ' Can I, sir ?' cried Evans, greatly puzzled. 
 
 ' You will find some wine in that cupboard, my 
 man ; fill yourself a tumbler ; I will sip my tea, and 
 explain myself. You think this Hawes is a mountain ; 
 — no ! he is a large pumpkin hollow at the core. You 
 think him strong ; — no ! he but seems so, because some 
 of the many at whose mercy he is are so weak. There 
 IS a flaw" in Hawes, which nmst break him sooner or 
 
*IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.* 323 
 
 late. He is a felon, the law hangs over his head by 
 a single hair ; he has forfeited his office, and will be 
 turned out of it the moment we can find among his 
 many superiors one man with one grain either of 
 honesty or intelligence.' 
 
 ' But how shall we find that, sir ?' 
 
 ' By looking for it everywhere, till we find it some- 
 where. Mr. Hawes tells me in other words that the 
 visiting justices do not possess the one grain we require. 
 I profit by the intelligence the enemy was weak enough 
 to give me, and I go — not to the visiting justices. To- 
 morrow, if my case is ready, I send a memorial to the 
 Home-Office, accuse Hawes of felonious practices, and 
 demand an inquiry.' 
 
 Evans's eye sparkled ; he began to gather strength 
 from the broken man. 
 
 ' But now comes the difficulty. A man should 
 never strike a feeble blow. My appeal will be read by 
 half-educated clerks. If 1 don't advance something 
 that the small official mind can take in, I shall never 
 reach the heads of the office. It would be madness 
 to begin by attacking national prejudices, by com- 
 bating a notion so stupid, and therefore so deep-rooted, 
 as that prisoners have no legal rights. No ! the pivot 
 of my assault must be something that a boy can afford 
 to be able to comprehend for eighty poimds a year 
 and a clerk's desk in a Government-office. Islow Mr. 
 Hawes has, for many months past furnished false re- 
 ports to the justices and to the Home-Office. Here is 
 the true stepping-stone to an inquiry, here is the fact 
 
324 ' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.* 
 
 to tell on the official mind ; for the man's cruelty and 
 felonious practices are only offences against God and 
 the law ; but a false report is an offence against the 
 office. And here I need your help.' 
 
 ' You shall have it sir.' 
 
 ' I want to be able to prove this man's reports to be 
 lies ; I think such a proof exists,' said Mr. Eden 
 very thoughtfully ; ' now, if it does, you alone can get 
 hold of it for me. One of the turnkeys notes down 
 every punishment of a prisoner in a small pocket-book, 
 for I have seen him.' 
 
 ' Yes, sir ; Fry does — never misses T 
 
 ' What becomes of those notes ?' 
 
 ' I don't know.' 
 
 ' What if he keeps a book and enters everything in 
 it?' 
 
 ' But if he had, shouldn't we have caught a glimpse 
 of it?' 
 
 ' Humph ! A man does not make notes constantly 
 and destroy them; Fry too is an enthusiast in his 
 way ; I am sure he keeps a record, and if he does it is 
 a true one, for he has no object in tampering with his 
 own facts. Bring me such a book or any record kept 
 by Fry ; let me have it for twelve hours and Hawes 
 shall be turned out of the gaol and you stay in it.' 
 
 ' Sir !' cried Evans, in great excitement, ' if there is 
 such a thing you shall see it to-morrow morning.' 
 
 ' No ! to-night ! come, you have an hour before you. 
 Do you want the sinews of war ? here, take this five 
 pounds with you ; you may have to buy a sight of it ; 
 
* IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 325 
 
 but if jou ask him whether I am right in telling you it 
 is not the custom of gaols to crucify prisoners in the 
 present century, perhaps the barbarian will produce 
 his record of abuses to prove to you that it is. Work 
 how you please ; but be wary — be intelligent, and bring 
 me Fry's ledger, or never look me in the face again.' 
 
 He waved his hand, and Evans strode out of the 
 room animated with a spirit not his own. He who 
 had animated him lay back on the sofa prostrated. 
 Half an hour elapsed, no Evans ; a quarter of an hour 
 more, still no Evans ; but just before the hour struck, 
 in he burst out of breath but red with triumph. 
 
 ' Your reverence is a witch— you can see in the 
 dark — look here, sir !' and he flung a dirty ledger on 
 the table. ' Here's all the money, sir. He did not 
 get a farthing of it. I flattered the creature's pride, 
 and he dropped the cheese into my hand like the old 
 carrion crow when they asked him for one of his 
 charming songs. But he had no notion it was going 
 out of the gaol ; so you'll bring it in and give it me 
 back the first thing to-morrow, sir. I must run back, 
 time's up ! — Good night, your reverence. Am I on 
 your side, or whose ?' 
 
 ' Good night, my fine fellow ; you shan't be turned 
 out of the gaol now. Goodnight.' 
 
 He wanted him gone. He went to a drawer and 
 took out his own book, a copy of Hawes's public log- 
 book, which he had made as soon as he came into the 
 gaol, with the simple view of guiding himself by the 
 respectable precedents he innocently expected to find 
 
326 * IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 there. He ligiited candles, placed his sheets by the 
 side of Fry's well-thumbed ledger, and plunged into a 
 comparison. 
 
 It was as he expected. On one side lay the bare, 
 simple brutal truth in Fry's hand, on the other the 
 same set of facts colored moulded and cooked in 
 every imaginable way to bear inspection, with occa- 
 sional suppressions where the deed and consequences 
 were too frightful to bear coloring moulding ex- 
 tenuating or cooking. 
 
 The book was a thick quarto, containing a strict 
 record of the prison for four years; two years of 
 Captain O'Connor, and two of Hawes, the worthy who 
 had supplanted him. 
 
 Mr. Eden was a rapid penman ; he set to, and by 
 half-past eleven o'clock he had copied the first part ; for 
 under O'Connor there were comparatively few punish- 
 ments. Then he attacked Hawes's reign. Sheet after 
 sheet was filled and numbered. He threw them^ on 
 another table, as each was filled. Three o'clock ; still 
 he wrote like blazes. Four o'clock ; black spots danced 
 before his eyes, and his fingers ached, and his brow 
 burned, and his feet were ice. Still the light indefati- 
 gable pen galloped along the paper. Meantime the 
 writer's feelings were of the most mixed and extraordi- 
 nary character. Often his eye flashed with triumph, 
 as Fry exposed the dishonesty and utter mendacity of 
 Hawes. Oftener still it dilated with horror at the 
 frightful nature of these very revelations. At six 
 o'clock Fry's record was all copied out. 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 327 
 
 Mr. Eden shaved and took his bath, and ran into the 
 town. He knocked up a solicitor, with whom he was 
 acquainted. 
 
 ' I want you to make my will, while your son attests 
 this copy of this ledger/ 
 
 ^ But my son is in bed.' 
 
 * Well ! he can read in bed. Which is his room ?' 
 ' That one.' — Eap ! (Come in.) 
 
 * Here, Mr. Edward, compare these two, and correct 
 or attest this as a true copy. Twenty minutes' work. 
 Two guineas ; here they are on your drawers ;' and he 
 chucked the documents on the bed, opened the shutters, 
 and drew the bed-curtains ; and passing his arm under 
 the father's, he drew him into his own office ; opened 
 the shutters, put paper before him, and dictated a will. 
 Three bequests, (one to Evans,) and his mother re- 
 siduary legatee. The will written, he ran up stairs, 
 made father and son execute it, and then darted out, 
 caught a fly that was going to the railway, engaged it ; 
 up stairs again. Tlie work was done, copy attested. 
 
 * Half-a-crown if you are at the gaol in five minutes.' 
 Galloped off with his two documents — entered the 
 
 gaol — went to his own room — sent for Evans — gave liim 
 Fry's book, and ordered himself the same breakfast the 
 prisoners had. 
 
 * I am bilious, and no wonder. I have been living 
 too luxuriously ; if I had been content with the diet 
 my poor brothers live on, I should be in better health ; 
 it serves me just right.' 
 
 Then he sat down and wrote a short memorial to the 
 
328 * IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 Secretary for the Home Department, claiming an in- 
 quiry into the gaoler's conduct. 
 
 ' I have evidence on the spot to show that for two 
 years he has been guilty of illegal practices. That he 
 has introduced into the prison an unlawful instrument 
 of torture. That during his whole period of office he 
 has fabricated partial colored and false reports of his 
 actions in the prison, and also of their consequences ; 
 that he has suppressed all mention of no less than seven 
 attempts at suicide, and has given a false color, both 
 with respect to the place of death, the manner of death, 
 and the causes of death of some twenty prisoners besides. 
 That his day-book, kept in the prison for the inspec- 
 tion and guide of the magistrates, is a tissue of frauds 
 equivocations exaggerations diminutions, and direct 
 falsehoods ; that his periodical reports to the Home 
 Office are a tissue of the same frauds suppressions in- 
 ventions and direct falsehoods. 
 
 ' The truth therefore is inaccessible to you, except 
 by a severe inquiry conducted on the spot. That 
 inquiry I pray for on public grounds, and if need be, 
 demand in my own person, as Her Majesty's servant 
 driven to this strait. 
 
 ' I am responsible to Her Majesty for the lives and 
 well-being of the prisoners, and yet unable, without 
 your intervention, to protect them against illegal 
 violence covered by organized fraud.' 
 
 Mr. Eden copied this, and sent the copy at once to 
 Mr. Hawes with two lines to this effect, that the 
 duplicate should not leave the town till seven in the 
 
* IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 329 
 
 evening, so Mr. Hawes had plenty of time to write 
 to the Home Secretary by same post, and parry or meet 
 this blow if he thought it worth his while. 
 
 It now remained only to post the duplicate for the 
 Home Office. Mr. Eden directed it and waxed it, but 
 even as he leaned over it sealing it, the room became 
 suddenly dark to him, and his head seemed to weigh a 
 ton. With an instinct of self preservation he made for 
 the sofa, which was close behind him, but before he 
 could reach it his senses had left him, and he fell with 
 his head and shoulders upon the couch, but his feet on 
 the floor, the memorial to the Home Office tight in his 
 hand. He paid the penalty of being a blood horse- 
 he ran till he dropped. 
 
( 330 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 ' Two ladies to see you,' grunted the red-kaired 
 servant, throwing open the door without ceremony ; 
 and she actually bounced out again without seeing 
 anything more than that her master was lying on the 
 sofa. 
 
 Susan Merton and her aunt came rapidly and cheer- 
 fully into the room. 
 
 * Here we are, Mr. Eden, aunt Davies and I — Oh !' the 
 table being between the sofa and the door, the poor 
 gentleman's actual condition was not self-evident from 
 the latter, but Susan was now in the middle of the 
 room and her gaiety gave way in a moment to terror. 
 
 ' Why the man has fainted !' cried Mrs. Davies hur- 
 riedly. Susan clasped her hands together, and turned 
 very pale ; but for all that she was the first at Mr. 
 Eden's head ; ' he is choking 1 he is choking ! help 
 me, aunt, help me !' but even while crying for help her 
 nimble fingers had untied and flung away Mr. Eden's 
 white neck-tie, which being high and stifi' was doing 
 him a very ill turn, as the air forcing itself violently 
 through his nostrils plainly showed. 
 
* IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 331 
 
 ' Take his legs, aunt ; oh ! oh ! oh !' 
 
 * Don't be a fool girl, it is only a faint.' 
 
 Susan flew to the window and threw it open, then 
 flew back and seized one end of the couch. Her aunt 
 comprehended at a glance, and the two carried it with 
 its burden to the window. 
 
 ' Open the door, aunt,' cried Susan, as she whipped 
 out her scent-bottle, and with her finger wetted the 
 .inside of his nostrils with the spirit as the patient 
 lay in the thorough draught. Susan sobbed with 
 sorrow and fear, but her emotion was far from dis- 
 abling her. 
 
 She poured some of her scent into a water-glass, and 
 diluted it largely. She made her aunt take a hand- 
 screen from the mantle-piece. She plunged her hand 
 into the liquid and flung the drops sharply into Mr. 
 Eden's face ; and Mrs. Davies fanned him rapidly at 
 the same time. 
 
 These remedies had a speedy effect : first the 
 film cleared from the patient's bright eye, then a little 
 colour diflused itself gradually over his cheek, and last 
 his lips lost their livid tint. As soon as she saw him 
 coming to Susan composed herself; and Mr. Eden, on 
 his return to consciousness, looked up and saw a beau- 
 tiful young woman looking down on him with a cheer- 
 ful encouraging smile and wet cheeks. 
 
 ^ Ah !' sighed he, and put out his hand faintly to 
 welcome Susan, ' but what — how do I come here?' 
 
 ' You have been a little faint,' said Susan smiling, 
 ' but you are better now, you know !' 
 
332 * IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 ' Yes, thank you ! how good of you to come ! Who 
 is this lady ?' 
 
 ' My aunt, sir, a very notable woman. See she is 
 setting your things to rights already. Aunt, I wonder 
 at you !' 
 
 She then dipped the corner of her handkerchief in 
 scent, and slightly coloring now that her patient was 
 conscious, she made the spirit enter his nostrils. 
 
 He gave a sigh of languid pleasure — ' That is so in- 
 vigorating.' Then he looked upward — ' See how good 
 God is to me ! in my sore need he has sent me help. 
 Oh ! how pleasant is the face of a friend. By the way 
 I took you for an angel at first,' added he, naively. 
 
 * But you have come to your senses now, sir ! ha ! 
 ha ! ha !' cried busy, merry Mrs. Davies, hard at work. 
 For as soon as the patient began visibly to return to 
 life, she had turned her back on him and fallen on the 
 furniture. 
 
 ' I hope you are come to stay with me.' 
 
 As Susan was about to answer in the negative, Mrs. 
 Davies made signals for a private conference ; and after 
 some whispering, Susan replied, ' that her aunt wanted 
 to put the house in apple-pie order, and that she, Susan, 
 felt too anxious about him to go until he should be 
 quite recovered.' 
 
 ' In that case, ladies,' said he, 'I consecrate to you 
 my second floor, three rooms,' and he rang the bell and 
 said to the servant; ' take your orders from these 
 ladies and show them the second floor.' 
 
 While his visitors were examining their apartments, 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 333 
 
 Mr. Eden songJit a little rest, and liad no sooner di'opped 
 upon his bed, than sleep came to his relief. 
 
 He slept for nearly four hours ; at first soundly, 
 then dosing and dreaming. While he slept a prisoner 
 sent for him butS usan would not have him awakened 
 for that. 
 
 By-and-by Susan went into the town leaving her 
 aunt sole guardian. 
 
 ' Now aunt ' said she, ' don't let liim be disturbed 
 whoever comes for hiju. It is as much as his life is 
 worth ?' 
 
 ' Well then I won't ! there.' 
 
 Susan had not been long gone when a turnkey called, 
 and was shown into the parlour where Mrs. Davies was 
 very busy. He looked about him and told her he had 
 called for a book Mr. Eden promised him, 
 
 ' Mr. Eden is asleep.' 
 
 ' Asleep at this time of day ?' said the man, incredu- 
 lously. 
 
 ' Yes, asleep,' answered Mrs. Davies, sharply ; ' is he 
 never to have any sleep ?' 
 
 ' Well, perhaps you will tell him Mr. Fry has come 
 for the book as requested.' 
 
 * Couldn't think of disturbing him for that, Mr. Fry,' 
 replied Mrs. Davies, not intermitting her work for a 
 single moment. 
 
 ' Very well, ma'am !' said Mr. Fry, in dudgeon. ' I 
 never was here before, and I shan't ever come again 
 that is all,' and off he went. 
 
 Mrs. Davies showed her dismay at this threat by 
 
334 * IT IS NEVEK TOO LATE TO MEND.* 
 
 dusting on without once taking lier eye or lier mind off 
 her job. 
 
 It was eight o'clock. Mr. Eden woke and found it 
 ahuost dark. 
 
 He rose immediately ; ' why I have slept the day 
 away,' thought he in dismay ; * and my memorial to 
 the Home Office ; it is past post time, and I have not 
 sent it.' He came hastily down stairs and entered the 
 parlor ; he found it in a frightful state. All the 
 chairs were in the middle of tha room ; every part of 
 which was choked up except a pathway three feet broad 
 that ran by the side of the wall all round it. From 
 this path all access into the interior was blocked by the 
 furniture which now stood upon an area frightfully 
 diminished by this loss of three feet taken from each 
 wall. Mrs. Davies was a character, a notable woman. 
 Mr. Eden's heart sank at the sight. 
 
 To find himself put to rights gives a bachelor an 
 innocent pleasure, but the preliminary process of being 
 put entirely to wrongs crushes his soul. ' Another 
 fanatic let loose on me,' thought he, ' and my room is 
 like a road that is just mended as they call it.' He 
 peered about here and there through a grove of chairs 
 whose legs were kicking in the air as they sat bosom 
 downwards upon their brethren, but he could see no 
 memorial. He rang the bell and inquired of the ser- 
 vant whether she had seen it. While he was describing 
 it to her, Mrs. Davies broke in. 
 
 ' I saw it — I picked it up off the floor — it was lying 
 between the sofa and the table.' 
 
* IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 335 
 
 * And what did you do with it ?' 
 ' Why dusted it to be sure.' 
 
 ' But where did you put it ?' 
 
 ' On the table I suppose.' 
 
 Another search and no memorial. 
 
 ' Somebody has taken it.' 
 
 ' But who ? has anybody been in this room since ?' 
 
 * Plenty. You don't get much peace here I should 
 say ; but Susan gave the order you were not to be 
 disturbed.' 
 
 ^ This won't do,' thought Mr. Eden. 
 
 ' Who has been here ?' said he to the servant. 
 
 ' Mr. Fry is the only one that came into this room.' 
 
 ' Mr. Fry !' said Mr. Eden, with some surprise. 
 
 ' Ay ! ay !' cried Mrs. Davies. * I remember now 
 there was an ill-looking fellow of that name here talk 
 ing to me pretending you had promised him a book.' 
 
 ' But I did promise him a book.' 
 
 * Oh, you did ; did you ! well he looked like a thief, 
 perhaps he has — goodness gracious me I hope there was 
 no money in it,' said Mrs. Davies, losing her ruddy 
 colour in a moment. 
 
 ' No ! no ! it was only a letter, but of great import- 
 ance.' 
 
 Another violent search at the risk of shins and 
 hands. 
 
 ' That Fry has taken it. I never saw such a hang- 
 dog looking fellow.' 
 
 Mr. Eden was much vexed ; but he had a trick of 
 blaming himself, heaven only knows where he caught 
 
336 'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEXD.' 
 
 it. ' My own forgetf'ulness ; even if the paper had 
 not been lost I had allowed post-tune to go bj — and 
 Mr. Hawes will anticipate me with the Home Secre- 
 tary.' He sighed. 
 
 In so severe a struggle he was almost as reluctant to 
 give an unfair advantage as to take one. 
 
 He ordered a fire in his little back parlour ; and with 
 a sigh sat down to rewrite his memorial and to try and 
 recover if he could the exact words, and save the next 
 post that left in the morning. 
 
 As Mr. Eden sat trying to recover the words of his 
 memorial, Hawes was seated in Mr. Williams' study 
 at Ashtown Park, concerting with that worthy magis- 
 trate the best way of turning the ncAV chaplain out of 
 
 gaol. He found no difficulty. Mr. Williams had 
 
 two very strong prejudices, one in favour of Hawes 
 personally, the other in favor of the system pursued 
 this two years in that gaol. Egotism was here too, and 
 rendered these prejudices almost impregnable. Williams 
 had turned out O'Connor and his milder system, and 
 put in Hawes and his more rigorous one. Hawes was 
 " my man — his system mine." 
 
 He told his story, and Williams burned to avenge his 
 injured friend, whose patron and director he called him- 
 self, and whose tool he was. 
 
 ' Nothing can be done until the 25th, when Palmer 
 returns. We must be all there for an act of this im- 
 portance. Do your duty as you always have, carry out 
 the discipline, and send for me if he gives you any great 
 annoyance in the meantime.' 
 
* IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 337 
 
 That zealous servant of Her Majesty earnest Mr. 
 Hawes had never taken a day's holiday before. No man 
 could accuse him of indolence, carelessness, or faint dis- 
 charge of the task he had appointed himself. He per- 
 verted his duties too much to neglect them. He 
 had been reluctant to leave the prison on a personal 
 affair. The drive however was pleasant, and he returned 
 freshened and animated by assurances of support from 
 the magistrate. 
 
 As he strode across the prison yard to inspect every- 
 thing before going to his house, he felt invulnerable and 
 sneered at himself for the momentary uneasiness he had 
 let a crack-brained parson give him. He went home ; 
 there was a nice fire, a clean-swept hearth, a glittering 
 brass kettle on the hob for making toddy, and three 
 different kinds of spirits in huge cruets. For system 
 reigned in the house as well as the gaol, with this 
 difference, that the house system was devoted to making 
 self comfortable — the gaol system to making others 
 wretched. 
 
 He rang the bell. In came servant with slippers and 
 candles unlighted, for he was wont to sip his grog by 
 fire-light. He put on his slippers. Then he mixed his 
 grog. Then he noticed a paper on the table, and putting 
 it to the fire he found it was sealed. So he lighted the 
 candles and placed them a little behind him. Then he 
 stirred his grog and sipped it, and placing it close beside 
 him leaned back with a grunt of satisfaction, opened the 
 paper, read it first slowly, then all in a flutter, started 
 up as if he was going to act upon some impulse, but the 
 
 VOL. L Q 
 
338 * IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 next moment sat down again and stared wildly a picture 
 of stupid consternation. 
 
 Meantime as Mr. Eden with a heavy heart was 
 writing himself out — nauseous task — Susan stood before 
 him with a colour like a rose. She was in a brown 
 cloak, from imder which she took out a basket brimful 
 of little packages some in blue some in white paper. 
 
 ' These are grits' said she, ' and these are arrowroot.' 
 
 * I know — one of the phases of the potato.' 
 
 ' Oh for shame Mr, Eden. Well I never ! And I 
 posted your letter, sir.' 
 
 ' What letter ? what letter ?' 
 
 ' The lonof one. I found it on the table.' 
 
 ' You don't mean you posted that letter ?' 
 
 ' Why, it was to go wasn't it ?' 
 
 ' Yes it was to go, but it was wonderfully intelligent 
 of you.' 
 
 ' La ! Mr. Eden, don't talk so ; you make me 
 ashamed. Why there was " immediate " written on it 
 in your own hand. Was I to wake you up to ask 
 whether that meant it was to stay here immediate or 
 go to London immediate ?' Then slie pondered a 
 moment. ' He thinks I am a fool ' said she in quiet 
 explanation without a shade of surprise or anger. 
 
 ' Well ! Susan, my dear friend, you don't know what 
 a service you have done me.' 
 
 Susan glittered with pleasure. 
 
 ' There !' cried he, ' you have spared me this most 
 unpleasant task ;' and he flung his unfinished papers 
 into a basket. Mr. Eden congratulated himself in his 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 339 
 
 way, i. e., thanked heaven Susan had come there ; the 
 next thing; was, he had a twhio;e of" conscience. ' I 
 half suspected Fry of taking it in the interest of Hawes 
 his friend. Poor Fry, who is a brute, but as honest a 
 man as myself every bit. He shall have his book at 
 all events. I'll put his name on it that I mayn't 
 foro^et it aorain.' Mr. Eden took the book from its 
 shelf, wrapped it in paper, and wrote on the cover, 
 " For Mr. Fry from F. Eden." As the incidents of 
 the day are ended I may as well relate what this book 
 was, and how Fry came to ask for it. 
 
 The book was " Uncle Tom," a story which discusses 
 the largest human topic that ever can arise ; for the 
 human race is bisected into black and white. Now-a- 
 days a huge subject greatly treated receives justice 
 from the public, and " Uncle Tom " is written in many 
 places with art, in all with red ink and with the biceps 
 muscle. 
 
 Grreat by theme, and great by skill, and greater by a 
 writer's soul honestly flung into its pages, " Uncle 
 Tom," to the surprise of many that twaddle traditional 
 phrases in reviews and magazines about the art of fic- 
 tion, and to the surprise of no man who knows anything 
 about the art of fiction, was all the rage. Not to have 
 read it was like not to have read " The Times " for a 
 week. 
 
 Once or twice during the crucifixion of a prisoner, 
 Mr. Eden had said bitterly to Fry, ' Have you read 
 "Uncle Tom?'" 
 
 ' No !' would Fry grunt. 
 
 Q2 
 
340 * IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 But one day that the question was put to him, he 
 asked with some appearance of interest * Who is 
 Uncle Tom ?' 
 
 Then Mr. Eden began to reflect. 'Who knows? 
 The cases are in a great measure parallel. Prisoners are 
 a tabooed class in England, as are blacks in some few 
 of the United States. The lady writes better than I 
 can talk. If she once seizes his sympathies by the won- 
 derful power of fiction, she will touch his conscience 
 through his heart. This disciple of Legree is fortified 
 against me : Mrs. Stowe may take him off his guard. 
 He said slily to Fry, " Not know Uncle Tom ! Why 
 it is a most interesting story — a charming story. There 
 are things in it too, that meet your case." ' 
 
 ' Indeed, sir.' 
 
 ' It is a book you will like. Shall I lend it you ?' 
 
 ' If you please sir. Nights are drawing in now.' 
 
 ' I will then.' 
 
 And he would ; but that frightful malady jaundice, 
 amongst its other feats, impairs the patient's memory : 
 and he forgot all about it. So Fry whose curiosity was 
 at last excited came for the book. The rest we know. 
 
( 341 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 Mr. Ha WES went about the prison next day morose 
 and melancholy. He spoke to no one, and snapped 
 those who spoke to him. He punished no prisoner all 
 day, but he looked at them as a wolf at fortified sheep. 
 He did not know what to do to avert the blow he 
 had drawn so perse veringly on his own head. At one 
 time he thought of writing to the Home Office and 
 aspersing his accuser ; then he regretted his visit to 
 Ashtown Park. * What an unlucky dog I am ! I go 
 to see a man that I was sure of before I went, and 
 
 while I am gone the parson steals a march on 
 
 me. He will beat me 1 If I hadn't been a fool I 
 should have seen what a dangerous devil he is. No put- 
 ting him out of temper ! — and no putting him out of 
 heart ! He will beat me ! The zealous services of so 
 many years won't save me with an ungrateful Govern- 
 ment. I shall lose my stipend !' 
 
 For a while even stout-hearted earnest Mr. Hawes 
 was depressed with gloom and bitter foreboding ; but 
 he had a resource in trouble good Mr, Eden in similar 
 case had not. 
 
342 ' IT IS xe^t:r too late to mexd/ 
 
 In the despondency of liis soul lie turned — to GROG. 
 
 Under the inspiration of that deity he prepared for a 
 dogged defence. He would punish no more prisoners 
 let them do what they might, and then if an inquiry 
 should take place he would be in case to show that by 
 liis past severities he had at last brought his patients to 
 such perfection that weeks had elapsed without a single 
 punishment. With this and the justices' good word he 
 would weather the storm yet. 
 
 Thus passed three days without one of those assaults 
 on prisoners he called punishment ; but this enforced 
 forbearance made him hate his victims. He swore at 
 them, he threatened them all round, and with deep 
 malice he gave open orders to punish which he secretly 
 countermanded, so that in fact he did punish, for blows 
 suspended over the head fall upon the souL Thus he 
 made his prisoners share his gloom. He was unhappy ; 
 he was dull; robbed of an excitement which had 
 become butter to his daily bread. 
 
 All prison life is dull Chaplain turnkeys gaolers 
 all who " live in prisons are prisoners. Barren of 
 mental resources, too stupid to see far less read the 
 vast romance that lay all roimd him, every cell a 
 volume ; too mindless to comprehend his own grand 
 situation on a salient of the State and of human 
 nature, and to discern the sacred and endless pleasures 
 to be gathered there, this unhappy dolt flung 
 into a lofty situation by shallow blockheads, who like 
 himself saw in a gaol nothing greater nor more than a 
 ' place of punishment,' must still like his prisoners 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 343 
 
 and the rest of us have some excitement to keep him 
 from going dead. What more natural than that such 
 a nature should find its excitement in tormenting, 
 and that by degrees this excitement should become 
 first a habit then a need? Growth is the nature of 
 habit, not of one sort or another but of all even of an 
 unnatural habit. Gin grows on a man, charity grows on 
 a man, tobacco grows on a man, blood grows on a 
 man. 
 
 At a period of the reign of terror the Parisians got to 
 find a day weary without the guillotine. If by some 
 immense fatuity there came a day when they were not 
 sprinkled with innocent blood the poor souls 
 s'ennuyaient. This was not so much thirst for any 
 particular liquid as the habit of excitement. Some 
 months before, dancing theatres boulevard etc. would 
 have made shift to amuse these same hearts, as they did 
 some months after when the red habit was worn out. 
 Torture had grown upon stupid earnest Hawes ; it 
 seasoned that white of egg a mindless existence. 
 
 Oh! how dull he felt these three deplorable days, 
 barren of gToans and white faces and livid lips and 
 fellow-creatures shamming* and the bucket. 
 
 Mr. Hawes had given a sulky order that the 
 infirmary should be prepared for the sick, and now on 
 the afternoon of the third day the surgeon had met 
 him there by appointment. 
 
 * A generic term for swooning, or sickening, or going mad, in 
 a prison. 
 
344 'IT 13 NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND/ 
 
 ' Will thej get well any quicker here ?' asked 
 Hawes ironically. 
 
 ' Why certainly' replied the other. 
 Hawes gave a dissatisfied grunt. 
 
 * I hate moving prisoners out of the cells ; but I 
 suppose I shall get you into trouble if I don't.' 
 
 'Indeed!' said the other with an inquiring air; 
 * how ?' 
 
 ' Parson threatens you very hard for letting the sick 
 ones lie in their cells ' said Hawes slily. ' But never 
 mind old boy I shall stand your friend and the 
 j ustices mine. We shall beat him yet ' said Hawes, 
 assuming a firmness he did not feel lest this man 
 should fall away from him and perhaps bear witness 
 against him. 
 
 ' 1 think you have beat him already ' replied the 
 other calmly. 
 
 ' What do you mean ?' 
 
 * I have just come from Mr. Eden. He sent for me.' 
 
 * What, isn't he well ?' 
 *No.' 
 
 * I wish he'd die ! But there is no chance of that.' 
 
 * Well there is, always a chance of a man dying who 
 has got a bilious fever.' 
 
 * Why you don't mean he is seriously ill ?' cried 
 Hawes in excitement. 
 
 ' I don't say that, but he has got a sharp attack.' 
 Mr. Hawes examined the speaker's face. It vas as 
 legible as a book from the outside. He went from the 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 345 
 
 subject to one or two indifferent matters, but he could 
 not keep long from what was uppermost. 
 
 ' Sawyer ' said he ' you and I have always been 
 good friends.' 
 
 ' Yes Mr. Hawes.' 
 
 ' I have never been hard upon you. You ought to 
 be here every day, but the pay is small and I have 
 never insisted on it because I said he can't afford to 
 leave patients that pay.' 
 
 ' No, Mr. Hawes, and I am much obliged to you.' 
 
 * Are you ? Then tell me, between ourselves now, 
 how ill is he ?' 
 
 ' He has got bilious fever consequent upon 
 jaundice.' 
 
 Hawes lowered his voice. ' Is he in danger ?' 
 ' In danger ? Why no, not at present.' 
 
 * Oh ! then it is only an indisposition after all.' 
 
 'It is a great deal more than that — it is fever and 
 bile.' 
 
 ' Can't you tell me in two words how ill he is ?' 
 
 ' Not till I see how the case turns.' 
 
 ' When will you be able to say then ?' 
 
 ' When the disorder declares itself more fully.' 
 
 Hawes exploded in an oath, ' You humbugs of 
 doctors could'nt speak plain to save yourselves from 
 hanging.' 
 
 There was some truth in this ill-natured excuse. 
 After fifteen years given to the science of obscurity, 
 Mr. Sawyer literally could not speak plain all in one 
 moment. 
 
 q3 
 
346 ' IT 13 NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.* 
 
 The next morning there was no service in the 
 chapel, the chaplain Avas in bed. This spoke for itself, 
 and Hawes wore a grim satisfaction at the announce- 
 ment. 
 
 But this was not all. In the afternoon came a letter 
 from Mr. Williams with a large enclosure signed by 
 her Majesty's secretary's secretary and written by her 
 secretary's secretary's secretary. 
 
 Its precise contents will be related elsewhere. Its 
 tendency may be gathered from this. 
 
 Hawes had no sooner read it, than exultation painted 
 itself on his countenance. 
 
 ' Close the infirmary, and bring me the key. And 
 you Fry put these numbers on the cranks to-morrow.' 
 He scribbled with his pencil, and gave him a long list 
 of the proscribed. 
 
 No Mr. Eden shone now upon Robinson's solitude. 
 He waited, and waited, and hoped till the day ended, but 
 no ! The next day the same thing. He longed for Mr. 
 Eden's hour to come ; it came, but not with it came his 
 one bit of sunshine, his excitement, his amusement, his 
 consolation, his friend, his brother, his all. And so 
 one heavy day succeeded another, and Eobinson be- 
 came fretful, and very very sad. One day as he sat 
 disconsolate and foreboding in his cell, he heard a 
 stranger's voice talking to Fry outside : and what was 
 more strange. Fry appeared to be inviting this person 
 to inspect the cells. The next moment his door was 
 opened, and a figure peeped timidly into the cell from 
 behind Fry, whose arm she clutched in some anxiety. 
 
* IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 347 
 
 Robinson looked up, it was Susan Merton. Slie did 
 not instantly know him in his prison dress and his 
 curly hair cut short ; he hung his head, and this action 
 and the recognition it implied made her recognize him. 
 Oh !' cried she, ' it is Mr. Robinson !' 
 
 The thief turned his face to the wall, even he was 
 ashamed before one who had known him as Mr, Robin- 
 son ; but the next moment he got up and said earnestly . 
 
 ' Pray Miss Merton do me a favour, you had always a 
 kind heart. Ask that man what has become of Mr. 
 Eden, he will answer you.' 
 
 ' Mr. Robinson ' cried Susan ' I have no need to ask 
 Mr. Fry. I am staying at Mr. Eden's house. He is 
 very ill Mr, Robinson.' 
 
 * Ah ! I feared as much ! he never would have de- 
 serted me else. What is the trouble ?' 
 
 * You may well say trouble ? it is the prison that has 
 fretted him to death' cried Susan half bitterly half 
 sorrowfully. 
 
 ' But he will get well ! it is not serious ?' inquired 
 Robinson anxiously. 
 
 Fry pricked his ears. 
 
 ' He is very ill Mr. Robinson,' and Susan sighed 
 heavily. 
 
 ' I'll pray for him. He has taught me to pray — all 
 the poor fellows will pray for him that know how. 
 Miss Merton, good for nothing as I am, I would die for 
 Mr. Eden this minute if I could save his life by it.' 
 
 Susan thought of this speech afterwards. Now she 
 but said, ' I will tell him what you say.' 
 
o48 ' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND. 
 
 ' And won't you bring me one word back from his 
 dear mouth ?' 
 
 ' Yes ! I will ! good-bye, Mr. Robinson.' 
 
 Robinson tried to say good-bye, but it stuck in his 
 throat. Susan retired, and his cell seemed darker than 
 ever. 
 
 Mr. Eden lay stricken with fever. He had been 
 what most of us would have called ill long before this. 
 The day of Carter's crucifixion was a fatal day to him. 
 On that day for the first time he saw a crucifixion 
 without being sick after it. The poor soul congratu- 
 lated himself so on this, but there is reason to think 
 that some sickness acted as a safety valve to his nature ; 
 wdien it ceased the bile overflowed and mixed with his 
 blood, producing that horrible complaint jaundice. 
 Even then if the causes of grief and wrong had ceased 
 he might perhaps have had no dangerous attack, but 
 everything was against him : constant grief, con- 
 stant worry, and constant preternatural exertions to 
 sustain others while drooping himself. Even those 
 violent efforts of will by which he thrust l)ack for a 
 time the approaches of his malady told heavily upon 
 him at last. The thorouo;h-bred horse ran much lontrer 
 than a cock-tail would, but he could not run for ever. 
 
 He lay unshaven hollow-eyed and sallow. Mrs. 
 Davies and Susan watched him by turns, except when 
 he compelled them to go and take a little rest or amuse- 
 ment. The poor thing's thoughts were never on him- 
 self, even when he was light-headed, and this was often, 
 though not for long together. It was generally his 
 
* IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 349 
 
 poor prisoners, and what he was going to do for 
 them. 
 
 This is how Susan Merton came to visit Eobinson : 
 One day seeing his great interest in all that concerned 
 the prison, and remembering there was a book addressed 
 to one of the officers, Susan, who longed to do some- 
 thing however small to please him, remembering how 
 she had been praised for posting the memorial on her 
 own authority, determined to take this book to its 
 destination. Leaving Mrs. Davies with a strict injunc- 
 tion not to stir from Mr. Eden's room till she came 
 back, she went to the prison and knocked timidly at 
 the great door. It was opened instantly, and as Susan 
 fancied, fiercely, by a burly figure. Susan, suppressing 
 an inclination to run away, asked tremulously — 
 
 ' Does Mr. Fry live here ? ' 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 ' Can I speak to him ? ' 
 
 * Yes. Come in, Miss.' 
 
 Susan stepped in. 
 
 The man slammed the door. 
 
 Susan wished herself on its other side. 
 
 ' My name is Fry : what is your pleasure with me ? ' 
 
 ' Mr. Fry I am so glad I have found you. I am 
 come here from a friend of yours.' 
 
 ' From a friend of mine,' said Fry, with a mystified air. 
 
 ' Yes from Mr. Eden. Here is the book Mr. Fry ; 
 poor Mr. Eden could not bring it you himself, but you 
 see he has written your name on the cover with his 
 own hand.' 
 
350 ' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEXD.' 
 
 Fiy took the book from Susan's hand, and in so 
 doing observed that she was lovely ; so to make her a 
 return for bringing him "Uncle Tom" and for being 
 so pretty, Fry for once in his life felt generous, and 
 repaid her by volunteering to show her the prison — 
 indulgent Fry ! 
 
 To his surprise Susan did not jump at this remune- 
 ration. On the contrary, she said hastily — 
 
 ' Oh ! no ! no ! no ! ' 
 
 Then seeing by his face that her new acquaintance 
 thought her a m.adwoman she added — 
 
 * That is yes ! I think I should like to see it a 
 little — a very little — but if I do you must keep close 
 by me, Mr. Fry.' 
 
 ' Why of course I shall keep with you ' replied Fry 
 somewhat contemptuously. ' No strangers admitted 
 except in company of an officer.' 
 
 Susan still hung fire a little. 
 
 ' But you mustn't go to show me the very wicked 
 ones.' 
 
 ' Why they are all pretty much of a muchness for 
 that.' 
 
 ' I mean the murderers — I couldn't bear such a 
 sight.' 
 
 ' Got none,' said Fry sorrowfully ; ' parted with the 
 last of that sort four months ago — up at eight down at 
 nine — you imderstand, Miss.' 
 
 Happily Susan did not understand this brutal allu- 
 sion ; and, not to show her ignorance, she said nothing, 
 but passed to a second stipulation — 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 351 
 
 ' And Mr. Fry I know the men that set fire to 
 Farmer Dean's ricks are in this gaol ; I won't see them ; 
 they woukl give me such a turn, for that seems to me 
 the next crime after murder to destroy the crops after 
 the very weather has spared them.' 
 
 Fry smiled superior ; then he said sarcastically — 
 
 ' Don't you be frightened, some of our lot are 
 beauties ; your friend the parson is as fond of some of 
 'em as a cow is of her calf.' 
 
 ' Oh ! then show me those ones.' 
 
 Fry took her to one or two cells. Whenever he 
 opened a cell door she always clutched him on both 
 ribs, and this tickled Fry, so did her simplicity. 
 
 At last he came to Eobinson's cell. 
 
 ' In here there is a sulky chap.' 
 
 ' Oh ! then let us go on to the next.' 
 
 ' But this is one his reverence is uncommon fond of,' 
 said Fry with a sneer and a chuckle ; so he flung open 
 the door, and if the man had not hung his head Susan 
 would hardly have recognized in his uniform corduroy 
 and close cropped hair the vulgar Adonis who had sat 
 glittering opposite her at table the last time they met. 
 
 After tlie interview which I have described Susan 
 gratified Fry by praising the beautiful cleanliness of 
 the prison, and returned leaving a pleasant impression 
 even on this rough hide and " Uncle Tom " behind her. 
 
 When she got home she found her patient calm but 
 languid. 
 
 W^hile she was relating her encounter with Eobin- 
 son, and her previous acquaintance with him, the 
 
350 'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEXD.' 
 
 Fry took the book from Susan's hand, and in so 
 doing observed that she was lovely ; so to make her a 
 return for bringing him "Uncle Tom" and for being 
 so pretty, Fry for once in his life felt generous, and 
 repaid her by volunteering to show her the prison — 
 indulgent Fry 1 
 
 To his surprise Susan did not jump at this remune- 
 ration. On the contrary, she said hastily — 
 
 ' Oh ! no ! no ! no ! ' 
 
 Then seeing by his face that her new acquaintance 
 thought her a m.adwoman she added — 
 
 ^ That is yes ! I think 1 should like to see it a 
 little — a very little — but if I do you must keep close 
 by me, Mr. Fry.' 
 
 ' Why of course I shall keep with you ' replied Fry 
 somewhat contemptuously. ' No strangers admitted 
 except in company of an officer.' 
 
 Susan still hung fire a little. 
 
 ' But you mustn't go to show me the very wicked 
 ones.' 
 
 ' Why they are all pretty much of a muchness for 
 that.' 
 
 ' I mean the murderers — I couldn't bear such a 
 sight.' 
 
 * Got none,' said Fry sorrowfully ; ' parted with the 
 last of that sort four months ago — up at eight down at 
 nine — you understand, Miss.' 
 
 Happily Susan did not understand this brutal allu- 
 sion ; and, not to show her ignorance, she said nothing, 
 but passed to a second stipulation — 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 351 
 
 ' And Mr. Fry I know the men that set fire to 
 Farmer Dean's ricks are in this gaol ; I won't see them ; 
 they woukl give me such a turn, for that seems to me 
 the next crime after murder to destroy the crops after 
 the very weather has spared them.' 
 
 Fry smiled superior ; then he said sarcastically — 
 
 ' Don't you be frightened, some of our lot are 
 beauties ; your friend the parson is as fond of some of 
 'em as a cow is of her calf.' 
 
 ' Oh ! then show me those ones.' 
 
 Fry took her to one or two cells. Whenever he 
 opened a cell door she always clutched him on both 
 ribs, and this tickled Fry, so did her simplicity. 
 
 At last he came to Eobinson's cell. 
 
 ' In here there is a sulky chap.' 
 
 ' Oh ! then let us go on to the next.' 
 
 ' But this is one his reverence is uncommon fond of,' 
 said Fry with a sneer and a chuckle ; so he flung open 
 the door, and if the man had not hung his head Susan 
 would hardly have recognized in his uniform corduroy 
 and close cropped hair the vulgar Adonis who had sat 
 glittering opposite her at table the last time they met. 
 
 After the interview which I have described Susan 
 gratified Fry by praising the beautiful cleanliness of 
 the prison, and returned leaving a pleasant impression 
 even on this rough hide and " Uncle Tom " behind her. 
 
 When she got home she found her patient calm but 
 languid. 
 
 W^hile she was relating her encounter with Eobin- 
 son, and her previous acquaintance with him, the 
 
352 'IT IS xe\t:r too late to mend.' 
 
 knock of a born fool at a sick man's door made 
 them all start. It was Rutila with a long letter 
 bearing an ample seal. 
 
 Mr. Eden took it with brightening eye, read it. and 
 ground it almost convulsively in his hand. ' Asses !' 
 cried he ; but the next moment he groaned and bowed 
 his head. Her Majesty's secretary's secretary's secretary 
 had written to tell him that his appeal for an inquiry 
 had travelled out of the regular course : it ought to 
 have been made in the first instance to the visiting 
 justices, whose business it was to conduct such in- 
 quiries, and that it lay with these visiting justices to 
 apply to the Home Office for an extraordinary inquiry 
 if they found they could not deal with the facts in the 
 usual way. The office therefore had sent copies of 
 his memorial to each of the visiting justices, who at 
 their next inspection of the gaol would examine into 
 the alleged facts, and had been requested to insert the 
 results in their periodical report. 
 
 Mr. Eden sat up in bed his eye glittering : ' Bring 
 me my writing-desk.' 
 
 It was put on tlie bed before him, but with many 
 kind injunctions not to worry himself He promised 
 faithfully. He wrote to the Home Office in this 
 style : 
 
 * A question of life and death cannot be played with 
 as you have inconsiderately proposed ; nor can a higher 
 jurisdiction transfer an appeal to a lower one without 
 the appellant's consent. Such a course is still more 
 out of order when the higher judge is a salaried servant 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 353 
 
 of the State and the lower ones are amateurs. Tliis 
 was so self-evident that I did not step out of the direct 
 line to cast reflections upon unpaid servants. You 
 have not seen what is self-evident, you drive me there- 
 fore to explanations. 
 
 ' I offered you evidence that this gaoler is a felon, 
 who has hoodwinked the visiting justices and has 
 deceived you. But between you and the justices is 
 this essential difference : they have been hoodwinked 
 in spite of their own eyes, their own ears, and contact 
 with that mass of living and dying evidence the 
 prisoners. You have been deceived without a single 
 opportunity of learning the truth. 
 
 ' Therefore I appealed, and do appeal, not to con- 
 victed incompetency, but to those whose incompetency 
 remains to be proved. Perhaps you will understand 
 me better if I put it thus : I still accuse the gaoler of 
 more than a hundred felonious assaults upon prisoners, 
 of attacks upon their lives by physical torture, by 
 hunger thirst preposterous confinement in dark dun- 
 geons, and other illegal practices ; and I now advance 
 another step and accuse the visiting justices of gross 
 dereliction of their duty, of neglecting to ascertain the 
 real practice of the gaoler in some points, and in others 
 of encouraging aiding and abetting him in open 
 violations of the prison rules printed and issued by Act 
 of Parliament. Of these rules, which are the gaol 
 code, I send you a copy. I note the practices of the 
 gaol by the side of the rules of the gaol : by comparing 
 the two you may calculate the amount of lawless 
 
354 'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEXD.' 
 
 cruelty perpetrated here in each single day ; then ask 
 yourself whether an honest man who is on the spot can 
 wait four or five months, till justice crippled by rou- 
 tine comes hobbling instead of sweeping to their relief. 
 ' For heaven's sake bring to bear upon a matter vital 
 to the State one half the intelligence zeal and sense of 
 responsibility you will throw this evening into some 
 ambiguous question of fleeting policy or speculative 
 finance. Here are one hundred and eighty souls to whose 
 correction cure and protection the State is pledged. 
 No one of all these lives is safe a single day. In six 
 weeks I have saved two lives that were gone but for 
 me. I am now sick and enfeebled by the exertions I 
 have had to make to save lives, and am in no condition 
 to arrest the progress of destruction. I tell you that 
 more lives will fall if you do not come to my aid at 
 once ! and for every head that falls from this hour, I 
 hold you responsible to God and the State. 
 
 ' If I fail to prove my several accusations, as a 
 matter of course I shall be dismissed from my office 
 deservedly ; and this personal risk entitles me not only 
 to petition for, but to demand an inquiry into the 
 
 practice of Gaol. And in the Queen's name, 
 
 whose salaried servant I am, I do demand it on the 
 instant and on the spot.' 
 
 Thus did flesh and blood address gutta-percha. 
 
 The excitement of writing this letter did the patient 
 no good. A reaction came, and that night his kind 
 nurses were seriously alarmed about him. They sent 
 for the surgeon, who felt his pulse and his skin and 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEXD/ 355 
 
 looked grave. However he told them there was no 
 immediate danger, and wrote a fresh prescription. 
 
 The patient would eat nothing but bread and water 
 and gruel ; but he took all the doctor's medicines, 
 which were raking ones ; only at each visit and pre- 
 scription he cross-examined him as to what effect he 
 hoped to produce by his prescription, and compared the 
 man's expectations with the result. 
 
 This process soon brought him to the suspicion that 
 in his case ^sculapius's science was guess-work. But 
 we go on hoping and hoping something from traditional 
 remedies, even when they fail and iail and fail before 
 our eyes. 
 
 He was often light-headed, and vented schemes of 
 charity and benevolence ludicrous by their unearthly 
 grandeur. One day he was more than light-headed — 
 he was delirious, and frightened his kind nurses ; 
 and to this delirium succeeded great feebleness, and 
 this day for the first time Susan made up her mind 
 that it was Heaven's will earth should lose this man of 
 whom in truth earth was scarce worthy. She came to 
 his side and said tenderly ' Let me do something for you. 
 Shall I read to you, or sing you a hymn.' Her voice 
 had often soothed and done him good. ' Tell me what 
 can I do for you !' 
 
 The man smiled gratefully, then looked imploringly 
 in her eyes, and said, ' Dear Susan go for me into the 
 prison and pay Strutt and Eobinson each a visit. Strutt 
 the longest, he is the oldest. Poor things ! they miss 
 me sadly.' 
 
356 ' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 Susan made no foolisli objection. She did what she 
 was asked, and came back and told him all they had 
 said and all she had said ; and how kind everybody 
 was to her in the prison ; and how they had all asked 
 how he was to-day. 
 
 ' They are very good,' said he feebly. 
 
 Soon after he dosed ; and Susan who always wore a 
 cheerful look to his face could now yield to her real 
 feelings. 
 
 She sat at some little distance from the bed and 
 tried to work, and every now and then looked up to 
 watch him, and again and again her eyes were blinded; 
 and she laid down her work, for her heart said to her 
 ' A few short days and you will see him no more.' 
 
 Mrs. Davies too was grave and sad. She had made 
 the house neat and clean from cellar to garret, and now 
 he who should have enjoyed it lay there sick unto death. 
 
 * Susan ' said she ' I doubt I have been sent here to 
 set his house in order against his ' 
 
 ' Oh ! don't tell me that ' cried Susan, and she burst 
 into a fit of sobbing, for Mrs. Davies had harped her 
 own fear. 
 
 ' Take care, he is waking, Susan. He must not see 
 us.' 
 
 * Oh no!' and the next moment she was by her pa- 
 tient's side with a cheerful look and voice and manner 
 well calculated to keep any male heart from sinking 
 sick or well. 
 
 Heavy heart and hopeful face ! such a nurse was 
 Susan Merton. This kind deception became more 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 357 
 
 difficult every day. Her patient wasted and wasted ; 
 and the anxious look that is often seen on a death- 
 stricken man's face showed itself. Mrs. Davies saw it 
 and Susan saw it ; but the sick man himself as yet 
 had never spoken of his decease : and both Mrs. Davies 
 and Susan often wondered that he did not seem to see 
 his real state. 
 
 But one day it so happened that he was light-headed 
 and greatly excited, holding a conversation. His eye 
 was flashing, and he spoke in bursts, and then stopped 
 awhile and seemed to be listening in irritation to some 
 arguments with which he did not agree. 
 
 The enthusiast was building a prison in the air. A 
 prison with a farm, a school, and a manufactory attached. 
 Here were to be combined the good points of every 
 system, and others of his own. 
 
 ' Yes,' said he in answer to his imaginary companion, 
 of course, ' there shall be both separation and silence 
 for those whose moral case it suits — for all perhaps at 
 first— but not for all always. Away with your 
 Morrison's pill-system ; your childish monotony of 
 moral treatment in cases varying and sometimes op- 
 
 ' Yes, but I would. I would allow, a degree of in- 
 tercourse between such as were disposed to confirm 
 each other in good. Watch them? why of course — 
 and closely too.' 
 
 ' Intelligent labor for every creature in the place. 
 No tickets-of-leave to let the hypocritical or self- 
 deceiving ones loose upon the world.' 
 
358 * IT IS NE\^R TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 ' No, I test tlieir repentance first with a little liberty.' 
 
 * How ? Why fly tliem with a string before I let 
 them fly free !' 
 
 ' Occupation provided outside the prison-gates ; 
 instead of ticket-of-leave let the candidate work there 
 on parole and come into the prison at night.' 
 
 ' No, not all of them. Some will break parole and 
 run away ?' 
 
 ' All the better. Then you know their real cha- 
 racter. Telegraph them. You began by photographing 
 them, send their likenesses to every town — catch them 
 — cell them.' 
 
 ' Indeed ! And pray what would these same men 
 have done had you given them the ticket-of-leave in- 
 stead ?' 
 
 ' By the present plan your pseudo-convert commits a 
 dozen crimes before liis hypocrisy is suspected; by 
 ours a single offence warns you and arms you against 
 him.' 
 
 ' Sj^'stems avail less than is supposed. For good or 
 ill all depends on your men — not your machinery.' 
 
 ' We have got rid of the old patch that rotted our 
 new garment. When I first was chaplain of a gaol — ' 
 
 His mind had gone forward some years. 
 
 ' Then we were mad — thought a new system could 
 be worked by men of the past, by gaolers and turnkeys 
 belonging to the dark and brutal age that came before 
 ours.' 
 
 ' Those dark days are passed. Now we have really a 
 governor and warders instead of gaolers and turnkeys. 
 
*IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 359 
 
 The nation has discovered these are high offices, not 
 mean ones.' 
 
 ' Yes, Lepel, yes ! Our officers are men picked out 
 of all England for intelligence and humanity. They 
 co-operate with me. Our gaol is one of the nation's 
 eyes — it is a school thank heaven it is not a dungeon ! 
 I am in bed !' 
 
 With these last words he had come to himself, and 
 oh, the sad contrast 1 Butcherly blockheads in these 
 high places, and himself lying sick and powerless, un- 
 able to lift a hand for the cause he loved. 
 
 The sigh that burst from him seemed to tear his 
 very heart; but the very next moment he put his 
 hands humbly togedier and said ' God's will be done !' 
 Yet one big tear gathered in his lion eye, and spite of 
 all trickled down his cheek while he said, ' God's will 
 be done.' 
 
 Susan saw it, and turned quickly away and hid her 
 face; but he called her, and though his lip quivered 
 his voice was pretty firm. 
 
 ' Dear friend, God can always find instruments. The 
 good work will be done, though not by me.' 
 
 So then Susan judged by these few words, and the 
 tear that trickled from his closed eyes, that he saw 
 what others saw and did not look to live now. 
 
 She left the room in haste not to agitate him by the 
 sorrow she could no longer restrain or conceal. The 
 patient lay quiet, languidly dozing. 
 
 Now about four o'clock in the afternoon the surgeon 
 came to the door; but what surprised Susan was that a 
 
360 'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 man accompanied him whom she only just knew by 
 sight, and who had never been there before — the turn- 
 key Hodges. The pair spoke together in a low tone ; and 
 Susan, who was looking down from an upper window, 
 could not hear what they said ; but the discussion 
 lasted a minute or two before they rang the bell. 
 Susan came down herself and admitted them. But as 
 she was leading the way up-stairs her aunt suddenly 
 bounced out of the parlour looking unaccountably red, 
 and said 
 
 ' I will go up with them Susan.' 
 
 Susan said ' If you like aunt,' but felt some little 
 surprise at Mrs. Davies's brisk manner. 
 
 At the sick man's door Mrs. Davies paused, and said 
 drily with a look at Hodges ' Who shall I say is come 
 with you ?' 
 
 ' Mr. Hodges, one of the warders, is come to inquire 
 after his reverence's health ' replied the surgeon, 
 smoothly. 
 
 ' I must ask him first whether he will receive a 
 stranger.' 
 
 ' Admit him ' was Mr. Eden's answer. 
 
 The men entered the room, and were welcomed with 
 a kind but feeble smile from the sick man. 
 
 ' Sit down Hodges.' 
 
 The surgeon felt his pulse and wrote a prescription ; 
 for it is a tradition of the elders that at each visit the 
 doctor must do some overt act of medicine. After 
 this he asked the patient how he felt. 
 
 Mr. Eden turned an eloquent look upon him in reply. 
 
*IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 361 
 
 ' I must speak to Hodges ' said he. ' Come near me 
 Hodges ' said he in a kind voice, ' perhaps I may not 
 have many more opportunities of giving you a word of 
 friendly exhortation.' 
 
 Here a short dissatisfied contemptuous grunt was 
 heard at the window-seat. 
 
 ' Did you speak Mrs. Davies ?' 
 
 * No I didn't ' was the somewhat sharp reply. 
 
 ' We should improve every occasion Mrs. Davies, 
 and I want this poor man to know that a dying man 
 may feel happy and hope everything from God's love 
 and mercy, if he has loved and pitied his brothers and 
 sisters of Adam's race.' 
 
 Wlien he called himself a dying man, Hodges, who 
 was looking uncomfortable and at the floor, raised his 
 head, and the surgeon and he interchanged a rapid look ; 
 it was observed though not by Mr. Eden. 
 
 That gentleman seeing Hodges wear an abashed look 
 which he misunderstood, and aiming to improve him for 
 the future, not punish him for the past, said * But 
 first let me thank you for coming to see me,' and with 
 these words he put his hand out of the bed with a kind 
 smile to Hodges. His gentle intention was roughly 
 interrupted : Mrs. Davies flung down her work and 
 came like a flaming Turkey-cock across the floor in a 
 moment, and seized his arm and flung it back into the 
 bed. 
 
 ' No ye don't ! ye shan't give your hand to any such 
 rubbish.' 
 
 ' Mrs. Davies !' 
 
 VOL. I. R 
 
362 
 
 ' Yes, Mrs. Davies ; you don't know what they've 
 come here for — I overheard ye at the door ! You 
 have got an enemy in that filthy gaol, haven't 
 you sir ? Well ! this man comes from him to see how 
 bad you are — they were colloguing together backwards 
 and forwards ever so long, and I heard 'em — it is not 
 out of any kindness or good will in the world. Now 
 suppose you march out the way you came in ' cackled 
 Mrs. Davies. 
 
 Mrs. Davies be quiet, and let me speak ?' 
 Of course I will sir ' said the woman with a ludi- 
 crously sudden calm and coaxing tone. 
 
 There was a silence; Mr. Eden eyed the men. 
 Small guilt peeped from them by its usual little signs. 
 
 Mr. Eden's lip curled magnificently. 
 
 ' So you did not come to see me, you were sent by 
 that man. (Mrs. Davies be quiet ; curiosity is not a 
 crime, like torturing the defenceless) ' Mr. Hawes sent 
 you that you might tell him how soon his victims are 
 like to lose their only earthly defender.* 
 
 The men colored and stammered; Mrs. Davies 
 covered her face with her apron and rocked herself on 
 her chair. 
 
 Mr. Eden flowed gently on. 
 
 ' Tell your master that I have settled all my 
 worldly affairs, and caused all my trifling debts to be 
 paid. 
 
 ' Tell him that I have made my will ! (I have pro- 
 vided in it for the turnkey Evans — he will know 
 why). 
 
'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 363 
 
 ' Tell him you found my clieeks fallen away, my eye 
 nollow, and my face squalid. 
 
 ' Tell him my Bible was by my side, and even the 
 prison was mingling with other memories as I drifted 
 from earth and all [ its thorns and tears. All was 
 blunted but the Christian's faith and trust in his Ee- 
 deemer. 
 
 ' Tell him that there is a cold dew upon my fore- 
 head. 
 
 ' Tell him that you found me ty the side of the 
 river Jordan, looking across the cold river to the 
 heavenly land, where they who have been washed in 
 the blood of the Lamb walk in white garments, and. 
 seem even as I gaze to welcome and beckon me to join 
 them. 
 
 ' And then tell him ' cried he in a new voice like a 
 flash of lightning ' that he has brought me back to 
 earth. You have come and reminded me that if I die 
 a wolf is waiting to tear my sheep. I thank you, and 
 I tell you,' roared he, ' as the Lord liveth and as my 
 soul liveth, I will not die but live, and do the Lord's 
 work, and put my foot yet on that caitiff's neck who 
 sent you to inspect my decaying body you poor tools — 
 THE DOOR !' 
 
 He was up in the bed by magic, towering above 
 them all, and he pointed to the door with a tremendous 
 gesture and an eye that flamed. Mrs. Davies caught 
 the electric spark, in a moment she tore the door open, 
 and the pair bundled down the stairs before that terrible 
 eye and finger. 
 
 k2 
 
364 'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 '' Susan, Susan !' — Susan had heard his elevated voice, 
 and came running in in great anxiety. 
 
 ' They say there is no such thing as friendship be- 
 tween a man and a woman. — Prove to me this is a 
 falsehood !' 
 
 ' It is sir.' 
 
 * Do me a service.' 
 
 ' Ah !— what is it ?' 
 
 ' Go a journey for me.' 
 
 ' I will go all round England for you Mr. Eden ' 
 cried the girl parting and flushing. 
 
 ' My writing desk ! it is to a village sixty miles 
 from this, but you will be there in four hours; in 
 that village lives the man who can cure me if any one 
 can.' 
 
 * What will you take with you ?' asked Mrs. Davies 
 all in a bustle.' 
 
 ' A comb and brush, and a chemise.* 
 
 ' I'll have them down in a twinkling.' 
 
 The note was written. 
 
 ' Take this to his house, see him, tell him the truth, 
 and bring him with you to-morrow — it will be fifty 
 pounds out of his pocket to leave his patients — but I 
 think he will come. Oh yes ! he will come — for auld 
 lang syne.' 
 
 ' Good-bye Mr. Eden — God bless you aunt. I want 
 to be gone ; I shall bring him if I have to carry him in 
 my arms.' And with these words Susan was gone. 
 
 ' Now, good Mrs. Davies, give me the Bible. Often 
 has that book soothed the torn nerves as well as the 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEXD.' 365 
 
 bleeding heart — and let no one come here to grieve or 
 vex me for twenty-four hours, and fling that man's 
 draught away — I want to live.' 
 
 Mrs. Davies had heard Hodges and Fry aright. 
 Mr. Eden by her clue had interpreted the visit aright, 
 with this exception, that he overrated his own import- 
 ance in Mr. Hawes's eyes. For Hawes mocked at the 
 chaplain's appeal to the Home Office ever since the 
 office had made his tools the virtual referees. 
 
 Still a shade of uneasiness remained. During the 
 progress of this long duel Eden had let fall two dis- 
 agreeable hints : one was that he would spend a thou- 
 sand pounds in setting such prisoners as survived 
 Hawes's discipline to indict him, and the other that he 
 would appeal to the public press. 
 
 This last threat had touched our man of brass ; for if 
 there is one thing upon earth that another thing does 
 not like, your moral malefactor who happens to be out 
 of the law's reach hates and shivers at the New Bailey 
 in Printing-house-yard. So upon the whole Mr. 
 Hawes thought that the best thing Mr. Eden could do 
 would be to go to heaven without any more fuss. 
 
 ' Yes, that will be the best for all parties.' 
 
 He often questioned the doctor in his blunt way ho\v 
 soon the desired event might be expected to come off, 
 if at all. The doctor still answered per ambages, ut mos 
 oraculis. 
 
 ' I see I must go myself — No I won't, I'll send Fry. 
 Ah here is Hodges. Go and see the parson, and come 
 back and tell me whether he is like to live or like to 
 
366 *IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 die. Mr. Sawyer here can't speak English about a 
 patient ; he would do it to oblige me if he could, but 
 him he can't.' 
 
 ' Don't much like the job ' demurred Hodges sulkily. 
 
 'What matters what you like? You must all do 
 things you don't like in a prison, or get into trouble.' 
 
 More accustomed to obey than to reflect, Hodges 
 yielded, but at Mr. Eden's very door, his commander 
 being now out of sight, his reluctance revived; and 
 this led to an amicable discussion in wdiich the surgeon 
 made him observe how very ferocious and impatient 
 of opposition the governor had lately become. 
 
 ' He can get either of us dismissed if we oiFend him.' 
 
 So the pair of cowards did what they were bid and 
 got themselves trode upon a bit. It only remains to be 
 said that as they trudged back together a little venom 
 worked in their little hearts. They hated both duellists 
 — one for treating them like dogs, the other for sending 
 them where they had got treated like dogs ; and they 
 disliked each other for seeing them treated like dogs. 
 One bitterness they escaped, it did not occur to them 
 to hate themselves for being dogs. 
 
 If you force a strong-willed stick out of its bent, with 
 what fury it flies back ad statum quo or a little farther 
 when the coercion is removed. So hard-grained Hawes, 
 his fears of the higher powers removed, returned with a 
 spring to his intermitted habits. 
 
 There was no incarnate obstacle now to " discipline." 
 There was a provisional chaplain, but that chaplain was 
 worthy Mr. Jones, who having visited the town for a 
 
'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 367 
 
 month, had consented for a week or two to supply the 
 sick man's place, and did supply it so far as a good clock 
 can replace a man. Viewing himself now as something 
 between an officer and a guest he was less likely to show 
 fight than ever. 
 
 Earnest Hawes pilloried, flung into black dungeons, 
 stole beds and gas-light, crushed souls with mysterious 
 threats and bodies with, a horrible mixture of those 
 tortures that maddens and those other tortures that ex- 
 haust. No Spanish Inquisitor was ever a greater adept 
 at this double move than earnest Hawes. The means 
 by which he could make any prisoner appear refractory 
 have already been described, but in the case of one stout 
 fellow whom he wanted to discipline he now went a step 
 further : he slipped into the yard and slily clogged one 
 of the cranks with a weight which he inserted inside 
 the box and attached to the machinery. This contriv- 
 ance would have beaten Hercules and made him seem 
 idle to any one not in the secret.. In short this little 
 blockhead bade fair to become one of Mr. Carlyle's great 
 men. He combined the earnest sneak with the earnest 
 butcher. 
 
 Barbarous times are not wdiolly expunged as book- 
 makers affect to fear. Legislators moralists and writers 
 (I don't include book-makers imder that title) try to 
 clap their extinguishers on them with God's lielp ; but 
 they still contrive to shoot some lurid specimens of them- 
 selves into civilised epochs. Such a black ray of the 
 narrow self-deceiving stupid bloody past was earnest 
 Hawes. 
 
368 'IT IS XEVEK TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 Not a tithe of his exploits can be recorded here, for 
 though he played upon many souls and bodies, he re- 
 peated the same notes — hunger thirst the blackness of 
 darkness crucifixion solitude loss of sleep — so that a 
 description of all his feats would be a catalogue of names 
 subjected to the above tortures, and be dry as well as 
 revoltino-. 
 
 I shall describe therefore only the grand result of 
 all, and a case or two that varied by a shade the mono- 
 tony of discipline. He kept one poor lad without any 
 food at all from Saturday morning till Sunday at 
 twelve o'clock, and made him work ; and for his Sun- 
 day dinner gave the famished wretch six ounces of 
 bread and a can of water. He strapped one prisoner up 
 in the pillory for twenty-four hours, and directed him 
 to be fed in it. This prisoner had a short neck, and 
 the cruel collar would not let him eat, so that the 
 tortures of Tantalus were added to crucifixion. The 
 earnest beast put a child of eleven je^rs old into a 
 strait-waistcoat for three days, then kept him three 
 days on bread and water, and robbed him of his bed 
 and his gas for fourteen days. AYe none of us know 
 the meaning of these little punishments so vast beyond 
 our experience ; but in order to catch a glimmer of the 
 meaning of the last item, we must remember first that 
 the cells admit but little liffht, and that the e^as is the 
 prisoner's sunlight for the hour or two of rest from hard^ 
 toil that he is allowed before he is ordered to bed, and 
 next that a prisoner has but two sets of clothes those 
 he stands upright in and his bed-clothes; these are 
 
'it is xever too late to mexd.' 369 
 
 rolled up inside the bed every morning. When there- 
 fore a prisoner was robbed of his bed, he was robbed of 
 the means of keeping himself warm as well as of that 
 rest, without which life soon comes to a full stop. 
 
 Having victimized this child's tender body as afore- 
 said Mr. Hawes made a cut at his soul. He stopped 
 his chapel. 
 
 One ought not to laugh at a w^orm coming between 
 another worm and his God, and saying ' No ! you shall 
 not hear of God to-day — you have displeased a func- 
 tionary whose discipline takes precedence of his ;' and 
 it is to be observed, that though this blockhead did not 
 in one sense comprehend the nature of his own im- 
 pious act any more than a Hottentot would, yet as 
 broad as he saw he saw keenly. 
 
 The one-ideaed man wanted to punish ; and depriv- 
 ation of chapel is a bitter punishment to a prisoner 
 under the separate and silent system. 
 
 And lay this down as a rule, whenever in this tale a 
 punishment is recorded as having been inflicted by 
 Hawes, however light it may appear to you who never 
 felt it, bring your intelligence to bear on it — weigh the 
 other conditions of a prisoner's miserable existence it 
 was added to, and in every case you will find it was a 
 blow with a sledge-hammer; in short, to comprehend 
 Hawes and his fraternity it is necessary to make a 
 mental effort and comprehend the meaning of the word 
 " accumulation." 
 
 The first execution of biped Carter took place about 
 a week after Mr. Eden was laid prostrate. 
 
 r3 
 
370 *IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 It is not generally very difficult to outwit an imbe- 
 cile, and the governor enmeshed Carter, made him out 
 refractory and crucified him. The poor soul did not 
 hallo at first, for he remembered they had not cut his 
 throat the last time, as he thought they were going to do 
 (he had seen a pig first made fast — then stuck). But 
 when the bitter cramps came on, he began to howl and 
 cry most frightfully ; so that Hawes, who was talking 
 to the surgeon in the centre of the building, started 
 and came at once to the place. Mr. Sawyer came with 
 him. They tried different ways of quieting him, 
 in vain. They went to a distance, as Mr. Eden had 
 suggested it, but it was no use ; he was howling now 
 from pain, not fear. 
 
 ' Gag him !' roared Hawes, ' it is scandalous ; I hate 
 a noise.' 
 
 ' Better loose him ' suggested the surgeon. 
 
 Hawes blighted him with a look. ' What ! and let 
 him beat me.' 
 
 ' There is no gag in the prison,' said Fry. 
 
 ' A pretty prison without a gag in it ' said Hawes ; 
 the only reflection he was ever heard to cast on his 
 model gaol ; then, with sudden ferocity he turned on 
 Sawyer. ' What is the use of you ; don't you know 
 anything for your money ? can't all yoiu: science stop 
 this brute's windpipe, you !' 
 
 Science thus blandly invoked came to the aid of" 
 inhumanity. 
 
 ' Humph ! have you got any salt ?' 
 
 * Salt !' roared Hawes, ' what is the use of salt ? 
 
*IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 371 
 
 Oil ! ay, I see ! run and get a pound, and look sKarp 
 with it.' 
 
 They brought the salt. 
 
 ' Now, will you hold your noise ? then, give it 
 him.' 
 
 The scientific operator watched his opportunity, 
 and when the poor biped's mouth was open howling, 
 crammed a handful of the salt into it. He spat it out 
 as well as he could, but some of it dissolved by the 
 saliva found its way down his throat. The look of 
 amazement and distress that followed was most amusing 
 to the operators. 
 
 ' That was a good idea doctor ' cried Hawes. 
 
 The triumph was premature. Carter's cries were 
 choked for a moment by his astonishment. But the 
 next, finding a fresh torture added to the first, he 
 howled louder than ever. Then the governor seized 
 the salt, powdered a good handful, and avoiding his 
 teeth crammed it suddenly into the poor creature's 
 mouth. He spat it furiously out, and the brine fell 
 like sea-spray upon all the operators, especially on 
 Hawes, who swore at the biped, and called him a beast ; 
 and promised him a long spell of the cross for his nasti- 
 ness. After Hawes, Fry must take his turn ; and so 
 now these three creatures, to whom heaven had given 
 reason, combined their strength and their sacred reason 
 to torture and degrade one of those whom the French 
 call " betes du bon Dieu," — a heaven -afflicted — hea- 
 ven-pitied brother. 
 
 They respected neither the hapless wight, nor his 
 
372 *IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEl^D.' 
 
 owner. Whenever he opened his mOuth with the 
 instinct that makes animals proclaim their hurts 
 and appeal for pity on the chance of a heart being 
 within hearing, then did these show their sense of 
 his appeal thus : One of the party crammed the sting- 
 ing salt down his throat ; the others watched him, and 
 kept clear of the brine that he spat vehemently out, 
 and a loud report of laughter followed instantly each 
 wild grimace and convulsion of fear and torture. 
 Thus they employed their reason, and flouted as well 
 as tortured him who had less. 
 
 ' Haw ! haw ! haw ! haw ! haw !' 
 
 No lightning came down from Heaven upon these 
 merry souls. The idiot's spittle did not burn them 
 when it fell on them. All the worse for them ! 
 
 They left Carter for hours in the pillory, and soon a 
 violent thirst was added to his sufferings. Prolonged 
 pain brings on cruel thirst, and many a poor fellow 
 suffered horribly from it during the last hours of his 
 pillory. But in this case the salt he had swallowed 
 made it more vehement. Most men go through life 
 and never know thirst. It is a frightful torture, as 
 any novice would have learned who had seen Carter at 
 six in the evening of this cruel day. The poor 
 wretch's throat was so parched he could hardly breathe. 
 His eyes were all bloodshot and his livid tongue lolled 
 stringless and powerless out of his gasping mouth. He 
 would have given diamonds for drops of water. 
 
 The earnest man going his rounds of duty saw his 
 pitiable state and forbade relief till the number of 
 
^IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 373 
 
 hours he had appointed for his punishment should be 
 completed. Discipline before all ! 
 
 There was one man in the gaol, just one, who could 
 no longer view this barbarity unmoved. His heart had 
 been touched and his understanding wakened, and he 
 saw these prodigies of cruelty in their true light. 
 But he was afraid of Hawes, and unfortunately the 
 others by an instinct felt their comrade was no longer 
 one of them and watched him closely. But his 
 intelligence was awakened with his humanity. After 
 much thought he hit upon this ; he took the 
 works out of his watch — an old hunting watch — and 
 strolling into the yard, dipped the case into the 
 bucket, then closed it ; and soon after getting close to 
 Carter, and between him and Fry, he affected to 
 examine the prisoner's collar, and then hastily gave 
 him a watchful of cold water. Carter sucked it with 
 frightful avidity, and small as the draught was no 
 mortal can say what consequences were averted by 
 it. 
 
 Evans was dreadfully out of spirits. His ally lay 
 dying and his enemy triumphed. He looked to be 
 turned out of the gaol at the next meeting of magis- 
 trates. But when he had given the idiot his watch to 
 drink out of an unwonted warmth and courage seemed 
 to come into his heart. 
 
 This touch of humanity coming suddenly among the 
 most hellish of all fiends — men of system — was like the 
 little candle in a window that throws its beams so far 
 
374 'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 when we are bewildered in a murky night. For the 
 place was now a moral coal-hole. The dungeons at 
 Eome that lie under the wing of Eoderick Borgia's 
 successors are not a more awful remnant of antiquity or 
 a fouler blot on the age on the law on the land and 
 on human nature. 
 
 A thick dark pall of silence and woe hung over its 
 huge walls. If a voice was heard above a whisper it 
 was sure to be either a cry of anguish or a fierce 
 command to inflict anguish. Two or three were 
 crucified every day; the rest expected crucifixion 
 from morning till night. No man felt safe an hour; 
 no man had the means of averting punishment; all 
 were at the mercy of a tyrant. Threats frightful, 
 fierce, and mysterious, hung like weights over 
 every soul and body. Wlienever a prisoner met 
 an officer he cowered and hurried crouching by 
 like a dog passing a man with a whip in his 
 hand ; and as he passed he trembled at the thunder 
 of his own footsteps, and wished to Heaven they 
 Avould not draw so much attention to him by ringing 
 so clear through that huge silent tomb. When an 
 officer met the governor he tried to slip by with a 
 hurried salute lest he should be stopped, abused, and 
 sworn at. 
 
 The earnest man fell hardest upon the young ; boys 
 and children were favourite victims ; but his favourites 
 of all were poor Eobinson and little Josephs. These 
 were at the head of the long list he crucified, he 
 
*IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 375 
 
 parched he famished he robbed of prayer of light of 
 rest and hope. He disciplined the sick; he closed 
 the infirmary again. That large room, furnished with 
 comforts nurses and air was an inconsistency. 
 
 ' A new prison is a collection of cells ' said Hawes. 
 The infirmary was a spot in the sun. The exer- 
 cise yard in this prison was a twelve-box stable for 
 creatures concluded to be wild beasts. The labor-yard 
 was a Efteen-stall stable for ditto. The house of God 
 an eighty-stalled stable, into which the wild beasts 
 Avere dispersed for public worship made private. Here 
 in early days, before Hawes was ripe, they assembled 
 apart and repeated prayers ; and sang hymns on Sunday. 
 But Hawes found out that though the men were 
 stabled apart their voices were refractory and mingled 
 in the air, and with their voices their hearts might, 
 who knows ? He pointed this out to the justices, who 
 shook their sculls and stopped the men's responses and 
 hymns. These animals cut the choruses out of the 
 English liturgy with as little ceremony and as good 
 effect as they would have cut the choruses out of 
 Handel's "Messiah," if the theory they were working 
 had been a musical instead of a moral one. 
 
 So far so good ; but the infirmary had escaped 
 Justice Shallow and Justice Woodcock. Hawes abo- 
 lished that. 
 
 Discipline before all. Not because a fellow is sick is 
 he to break discipline. 
 
 So the sick lay in their narrow cells gasping in vain 
 for fresh air, gasping in vain for some cooling drink, 
 
376 *IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 or some little simple delicacy to incite their enfeebled" 
 appetite. 
 
 The dying were locked up at the fixed hour for 
 locking up, and found dead at the fixed hour for open- 
 ing. How they had died no one knew. At what 
 hour they had died no one knew. Whether in some 
 choking struggle a human hand might have saved 
 them by changing a suffocating position or the like no 
 one knew. 
 
 But this all knew, that these our sinful brethren had 
 died not like men but like vultures in the great desert. 
 They were separated from their kith and kin, who how- 
 ever brutal would have said a kind word and done a 
 tender thing or two for them at that awful hour ; and 
 nothing allowed them in exchange, not even the routine 
 attentions of a prison nurse ; they were in darkness 
 and alone when the king of terrors came to them and 
 wrestled with them, all men had turned their backs on 
 them, no creature near to wipe the dews of death, to 
 put a cool hand to the brow, or soften the intensity of 
 the last sad sigh that carried their souls from earth. 
 Thus they passed away, punished lawlessly by the law 
 till they succumbed and then since they were no 
 longer food for torture ignored by the law and aban- 
 doned by the human race. 
 
 They locked up one dying man at eight o'clock. 
 At midnight the thirst of death came on him. He 
 prayed for a drop of water but there was none to hear 
 him. Parched and gasping the miserable man got out 
 of bed and groped and groped for his tin mug, but 
 
* IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 377 
 
 before lie could drink the death agony seized him. 
 When they unlocked him in the morning they found 
 him a corpse on the floor with the mug in his hand and 
 the water spilled on the floor. They wrenched the 
 prison property out of its dead hand, and flung the 
 carcass itself upon the bed as if it had been the clay 
 cast of a dog, not the remains of a man. 
 
 All was of a piece. The living tortured ; the dying 
 abandoned ; the dead kicked out of the way. Of these 
 three the living were the most unfortunate, and among 
 the living Eobinson and Josephs. Never since the 
 days of Cain was existence made more bitter to 
 two hapless creatures than to these — above all to 
 Josephs. 
 
 His day began thus : — Between breakfast and dinner 
 he was set five thousand revolutions of a heavy crank ; 
 when he could not do it his dinner was taken away 
 and a few crumbs of bread and a can of water given 
 him instead. Between his bread and water time and 
 six o'clock if the famished worn-out lad could not do 
 five thousand more revolutions, and make up the pre- 
 vious deficiency, he was punished ad libitum. As the 
 whole thing from first to last was beyond his powers, 
 he never succeeded in performing these preposterous 
 tasks. He was threatened, vilified, and tortured every 
 day and every hour of it. 
 
 Human beings can bear great sufferings if you give 
 them periods of ease between ; and beneficent nature 
 allows for this, and when she means us to suffer short 
 of death she lashes us at intervals ; were it otherwise 
 
378 'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 we should succumb under a tithe of what we suffer 
 intermittently. 
 
 But Hawes besides his cruelty was a noodle. He 
 belonged to a knot of theorists into whose hands the 
 English gaols are fast falling ; a set of shallow dreamers, 
 who being greater dunces and greater asses than four 
 men out of every six that pass you in Fleet-street or 
 Broadway at any hour, think themselves wiser than 
 Nature and her Author. Josephs suffered body and 
 spirit without intermission. The result was that his 
 flesh withered on his bones; his eyes were dim and 
 seemed to lie at the bottom of two caverns ; he crawled 
 stiffly and slowly instead of walking. He was not 
 sixteen years of age, yet Hawes had extinguished his 
 youth and blotted out all its signs but one. Had you 
 met this figure in the street you would have said — 
 
 ' What an old man and no beard.' 
 
 One day as Eobinson happened to be washing the 
 corridor with his beaver up, what he took for a small 
 but aged man passed him, shambling stiffly, with joints 
 stiffened by perpetual crucifixion and rheumatism, that 
 had ensued from perpetually being wetted through. 
 This figure had his beaver down : at sight of Eobinson 
 he started, and instantly went down on his knee and 
 untied both shoe strings ; then while tying them again 
 slowly he whispered — 
 
 ' Eobinson I am Josephs, don't look towards me.' 
 
 Eobinson scrubbino; the wall with more vio;or than 
 before whispered, ' How are they using you now 
 boy?' 
 
' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 379 
 
 ' Hush 1 don't speak so loud. Eobinson — they are 
 killing me.' 
 
 ' The ruffians ! They are trying all they know to 
 kill me too.' 
 
 ' Fry coming.' 
 
 ' Hist !' said Robinson as Josephs crept away ; and 
 having scraped off a grain of whitewash with his nail 
 he made a little white mark on his trowser just above 
 his calf for Joseph to know him by, should they meet 
 next time with visors both down. Josephs gave a 
 slight and rapid signal of intelligence as he disap- 
 peared. Two days after this they met on the stair- 
 case. The boy, who now looked at every prisoner's 
 trowsers for the white mark, recognized Eobinson at 
 some distance and began to speak before they met. 
 
 ' I can't go on much longer like this.' 
 
 * No more can I.' 
 
 * I shall go to father.' 
 ' Why where is he ?' 
 
 ' He is dead.' 
 
 ' I don't care how soon I go there either, but not 
 till I have sent Hawes on before — not for all the 
 world. Pass me, and then come back.' 
 
 They met again. 
 
 ' Keep up your heart boy till his reverence gets 
 %vell, or goes to heaven. If he lives he will save us 
 somehow. If he dies — I'll tell you a secret. I know 
 where there is a brick I think I can loosen. I mean to 
 smash that beast's scull with it, and then you will be 
 all right, and my heart will feel like a prince.' 
 
380 'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND/ 
 
 ' Oh ! don't do that ' said Josephs plteously. ' Better 
 for us he should murder us than we him.' 
 
 ' Murder !' cried Eobinson contemptuously. And 
 there was no time to say any more. 
 
 After this many days passed before these two could 
 get a syllable together. But one day after chapel as 
 the men were being told off to their several tasks 
 Eobinson recognised the boy by his figure, and jogging 
 his elbow withdrew a little apart ; Josephs followed 
 him, and this time Eobinson was the first speaker. 
 
 * We shall never see Mr. Eden alive again boy ' said 
 he in a faltering voice. Then in a low gloomy tone he 
 muttered, * I have loosened the brick : the day I lose 
 all hope that day I send Hawes home.' And the thief 
 pointed towards the cellar. 
 
 ' The day you have no more hope Eobinson ; that 
 day has come to me this fortnight and more. He tells 
 me every day he will make my life hell to me, and I 
 am sure it has been nothing else ever since I came here.' 
 
 ' Keep up your heart boy ; he hasn't long to live.' 
 
 * He will live too long for me. I can't stay here 
 any longer. You and I shan't often chat together 
 again ; perhaps never.' 
 
 ' Don't talk so laddie. Keep up your heart — for my 
 sake.' 
 
 One bitter tearing sob was all the reply. And so 
 these tw^o parted. 
 
 This was just after breakfast. At dinner-time 
 Josephs, not having performed an impossible task, was 
 robbed of his dinner. A little bread and water was 
 
*IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 381 
 
 served out to liim in the yard, and he was set on the 
 crank again with fearful menaces. In particular Mr. 
 Hawes repeated his favourite threat — ' I'll make your 
 life hell to you.' Josephs groaned ; but what could a 
 boy of fifteen do over-tasked and famished for a month 
 past and fitter now for a hospital than for hard labor 
 of any sort ? At three o'clock his progress on the crank 
 was so slow that Mr. Hawes ordered him to be crucified 
 on the spot. 
 
 His obedient myrmidons for the fiftieth time seized 
 the lad and crushed him in the jacket, throttled him in 
 the collar, and pinned him to the waJl, and this time, 
 the first time for a long while, the prisoner remon- 
 strated loudly. 
 
 ' Why not kill me at once and put me out of my misery I' 
 
 ' Hold your tongue.' 
 
 ' You know I can't do the task you set me. You 
 know it as well as I do.' 
 
 ' Hold your tongue you insolent young villain. 
 Strap him tighter Fry.' 
 
 ' Oh no ! no ! no ! don't go to strap me tighter or 
 you will cut me in half — don't Mr. Fry. I will hold 
 my tongue sir.' Then he turned his hollow mournful 
 eyes on Hawes and said gently, ' It can't last much 
 longer you know.' ; 
 
 ' It shall last till I break you, you obstinate whining 
 dog. You are hardly used are you? Wait till to- 
 morrow, I'll show you that I have only been playing 
 with you as yet. But I have got a punishment in store 
 for you that will make you wish you were in hell.' 
 
382 ' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MENp/ 
 
 Hawes stood over the martyr fiercely threatening 
 him. The martyr shut his eyes. It seemed as though 
 the enraged Hawes would end by striking him. He 
 winced with his eyes. He could not wince with any 
 other part of his body, so tight was it jammed together, 
 and jammed against the wall. 
 
 Hawes however did but repeat his threat of some 
 new tortiu'e on the morrow that should far eclipse all 
 he had yet endured ; and shaking his fist at his helpless 
 body left him with his torture. 
 
 One hour of bitter, racking, unremitting anguish had 
 hardly rolled over this young head, ere his frame 
 weakened by famine and perpetual violence began to 
 give the usual signs that he would soon sham — swoon 
 we call it when it occurs to any but a prisoner. As 
 my readers have never been in Mr. Hawes's man-press, 
 and as attempts have been made to impose on the inex- 
 perience of the public, and represent the man-press as 
 restriction not torture, I will shortly explain why 
 sooner or later all the men that were crucified in it 
 ended by shamming. 
 
 Were you ever seized at night with a violent cramp ? 
 then you have instantly with a sort of wild and alarmed 
 rapidity changed the posture which had cramped you ; 
 ay though the night was ever so cold you have sprimg 
 out of bed sooner than lie cramped. If the cramp 
 would not go in less than half a minute, that hall- 
 minute was long and bitter. As for existing cramped 
 half an hour that you never thought possible. Imagine 
 now the severest cramp you ever felt artificially pro- 
 
'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 383 
 
 longed for hours and hours. Imagine yourself cramped 
 in a vice, no part of you moveable a hair's breadth, ex- 
 cept your hair and your eye-lids. Imagine the fierce 
 cramp growing and growing, and rising like a tide of 
 agony higher and higher above nature's endurance, and 
 you will cease to wonder that a man always sunk under 
 Hawes's man-press. Now then add to the cramp a 
 high circular saw raking the throat, jacket straps cut- 
 ting and burning the flesh off the back — add to this 
 the freezing of the blood in the body, deprived so long 
 of all motion whatever (for motion of some sort or de- 
 gree is a condition of vitality), and a new and far more 
 rational wonder arises, that any man could be half an 
 hour cut, sawed, crushed, cramped, Mazeppa'd thus 
 without shamming^ — still less be four, six, eight hours 
 in it and come out a living man. 
 
 The young martyr's lips were turning blue, his face 
 was twitching convulsively, when a word was ^unex- 
 pectedly put in for him by a bystander. 
 
 The turnkey Evans had been half sullenly half sor- 
 rowfully watching him for some minutes past. 
 
 A month or two ago the lips of a prisoner turning 
 blue, and his skin twitching, told Evans nothing. He 
 saw these things without seeing them. He was cruel 
 from stupidity — from blockhead to butcher there is but 
 a step. Like the English public he realized nothing 
 where prisoners were concerned. But Mr. Eden had 
 awakened his intelligence, and his heart waked with it 
 naturally. 
 
 Now when he saw lips turning blue and eyes rolling 
 
384 ' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 in sad despair, and skin twitching convulsively, it oc- 
 curred to him — ' this creature must be suffering very 
 badly,' and the next step was, ' let me see what is hurt- 
 ing him so.' 
 
 Evans now stood over Josephs and examined him. 
 ' Mr. Fry,' said he doggedly, ' is not this overdoing it ?' 
 
 ' What d'ye mean, we are to obey orders I suppose ?' 
 
 ' Of course, but there was no need to draw the jacket 
 straps so tight as all this. Boy's bellows can't hardly 
 work for 'em.' 
 
 He now passed his hand round the hollow of the 
 lad's back. 
 
 ' I thought so ' cried he ; 'I can't get my finger be- 
 tween the straps and the poor fellow's flesh, and, good 
 heavens, I can feel the skin rising like a ridge on each 
 side of the straps ; it is a black, burning shame to use 
 any Christian like this.' 
 
 These words were hardly out of the turnkey's mouth 
 when a startling cry came suddenly from poor Josephs ; 
 a sudden, wild, piercing scream of misery. In that 
 bitter, despairing cry burst out the pent-up anguish 
 of weeks, and the sense of injustice and cruelty more 
 than human. The poor thing gave this one terrible 
 cry. Heaven forbid that you should hear such a one 
 in life, as I hear his in my heart, and then he fell to 
 sobbing as if his whole frame would burst. 
 
 They were not much, these rough words of sympathy, 
 but they were the first — the first words too of humanity 
 and reason a turnkey had spoken in his favor since he 
 came into this hell. Above all the first in which it 
 
'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 385 
 
 liad ever been liinted or implied that his flesh was hu- 
 man flesh. The next moment he began to cry, but 
 that was not so easy. He soon lost his breath and 
 couldn't cry, though his very life depended on it. 
 Tears give relief. 
 
 Dame Nature said, ' Cry my suffering son, cry now, 
 and relieve that heart swelling with cruelty and 
 wrong.' 
 
 But Hawes's infernal machine said, ' No, you shall 
 not cry. I give you no room to cry in.' The cruel 
 straps jammed him so close his swelling heart could but 
 half heave. The jagged collar bit his throat so hard he 
 could but give three or four sobs and then the next 
 choked him. The struggle between Nature panting 
 and writhing for relief and the infernal man-press was 
 so bitter strong that the boy choked and blackened and 
 gasped as one in the last agony. 
 
 ' Undo him ' cried Evans hastily, ' or we shall kill 
 h. amongst us.' 
 
 ' Bucket ' said the experienced Fry quite coolly. 
 The bucket was at hand, its contents were instantly 
 discharged over Josephs' head. 
 
 A cry like a dying hare, two or three violent gasps 
 and he was quiet all but a strong shiver that passed 
 from head to foot; only with the water that now 
 trickled from his hair down his face scalding tears 
 from his young eyes fell to the gTound undistin- 
 guished from the water by any eye but God's. 
 
 At SIX o'clock Hawes came into the yard and or- 
 dered Fry to take him down. Fry took this oppor- 
 VOL. I. S 
 
386 'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.* 
 
 tunity of informing against Evans for his mild inter- 
 ference. 
 
 ' He will pay for that along with the rest,' said 
 Hawes with an oath. 
 
 Then he turned on Josephs, who halted stiffly by him 
 on his way to his cell. 
 
 ' I'll make your life hell to you you young vagabond, 
 you are hardly used are you ; all you have ever known 
 isn't a stroke with a feather to what I'll make you 
 know by-and-by. Wait till to-morrow comes, you shall 
 see what I can do when I am put to it.' 
 
 Josephs sobbed, but answered nothing, and crawled, 
 sore stiff dripping shivering to his cell. In that 
 miserable hole he would at least be at peace. 
 
 He found the gas lighted. He was glad, for he was 
 drenched through and bitterly cold. He crept up to 
 the little gaslight and put his dead white hands over it 
 and got a little warmth into them ; he blessed this 
 spark of light and warmth ; he looked lovingly down 
 on it, it was his only friend in the gaol, his companion 
 in the desolate cell. He wished he could gather it into 
 his bosom ; then it would warm his heart and his 
 blighted flesh and aching shivering bones. 
 
 AVhile he hung shivering over his spark of light and 
 warmth and comfort, a key was put into his door. 
 ' Ah ! here's supper ' thought he, ' and I am so 
 hungry.' It was not supper, it was Fry who came 
 in empty handed leaving the door open. Fry went 
 to his gaslight and put his finger and thumb on the 
 screw. 
 
'IT It. NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 387 
 
 * Oh ! it burns all right Mr. Fry ' said Josephs, 
 ' it won't go any higher, thank you. 
 
 * No, it won't' said. Fry drily, and turned it out 
 leaving the cell in utter darkness. 
 
 * There I told you so ' said Josephs pettishly, ' now 
 you have been and turned it out.' 
 
 ' Yes, I have been and. turned it out ' replied Fry 
 with a brutal laugh, ' and it won't be turned on again 
 for fourteen days, so the governor says however, and 
 I suppose he knows,' and Fry went out chuckling. 
 
 Josephs burst out sobbing and almost screaming at 
 this last stroke ; it seemed to hurt him more than his 
 iiercer tortures. He sobbed so wildly and so loud that 
 Mr. Jones passing on the opposite corridor heard him 
 and beckoned to Evans to open the cell. 
 
 They found the boy standing . in the middle of his 
 duno^eon shaking with cold in his drenched clothes 
 and sobbing with his whole body. It was frightful to 
 see and hear the agony and despair of one so young in 
 years so old in misery. 
 
 Mr. Jones gave him words of common-place conso- 
 lation. Mr. Jones tried to persuade him that patience 
 was the best cure. 
 
 ' Be patient, and do not irritate the governor any 
 more — the storm will pass.' 
 
 He seemed to Josephs as one that mocketh. Jones's 
 were such little words to fling in the face of a great 
 despair; to chatter unreasonable consolation was to 
 mock his unutterable misery of soul and body. 
 
 Mr. Jones was one of those who sprinkle a burning 
 
388 *IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 mountain with a tea-spoonful of milk and water, and 
 then go away and make sure they have put it out. 
 When lie was gone with this impression, Evans took 
 down the boy's bed and said — 
 
 ' Don't ye cry now like that ; it makes me ill to hear 
 any Christian cry like that.' 
 
 ' Oh Mr. Evans ! oh 1 oh ! oh ! oh 1 What have I 
 done ? Oh, my mother ! my mother ! my mother !' 
 
 Evans winced. What ! had he a mother too ? If 
 she could see him now ! and perhaps he was her 
 darling though he was a prisoner. He shook the bed- 
 clothes out and took hold of the shivering boy and with 
 kind force made him lie down ; then he twisted the 
 clothes tight round him. 
 
 ' You will get warm, if you will but lie quiet and 
 not think about it.' 
 
 Josephs did what he was bid. He could not still his 
 sobs, but he turned his mournful eyes on Evans with a 
 look of wonder at meeting with kindness from a human 
 being, and half doubtingly put out his hand. So then 
 Evans to comfort him took his hand and shook it several 
 times in his hard palm, and said — 
 
 ' Good night. You'll soon get warm, and don't think 
 of it — that is the best way ;' and Evans ran away in the 
 middle of a sentence, for the look of astonishment this 
 boy wore at his humanity went through the man's 
 penitent heart like an arrow. 
 
 Josephs lay quiet and his sobs began gradually to go 
 down, and, as Evans had predicted, some little warmth 
 began to steal over his frame; but he could not comply 
 
*IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 389 
 
 with all Evans's instructions ; he could not help thinking 
 of it. For all that, as soon as he got a little warm, 
 Nature, who knew how much her tortured son needed 
 repose, began to weigh down his eyelids, and he dozed. 
 He often started, he often murmured a prayer for pity 
 as his mind acted over again the scenes of his miserable 
 existence; but still he dosed, and sleep was stealing 
 over him. Sleep! life's nurse sent from heaven to 
 create us anew day by day ! — sleep that has blunted and 
 gradually cured a hundred thousand sorrows for one 
 that has yielded to any moral remedy — sleep ! that has 
 blunted and so cured by degrees a million fleshly ills 
 for one that drugs or draughts have ever reached — sleep 
 had her arm round this poor child and was drawing him 
 gently gently, slowly slowly to her bosom when sud- 
 denly his cell seemed to him to be all in a blaze, and a 
 rough hand shook him, and a harsh voice sounded in 
 his ear. 
 
 ' Come, get up out of that, youngster,' it said, and 
 the hand almost jerked him off the floor. 
 
 ' What is the matter ?' inquired Josephs yawning. 
 
 * Matter is, I want your bed.' 
 
 Josephs rose half stupid, and Hodges rolled up his 
 bed and blanket. 
 
 ' Are you really going to rob me of my . bed ?' in- 
 quired Josephs slowly and firmly. 
 
 * Eob you, you young dog ? Here is the governor's 
 order. No bed and gas for fourteen days.' 
 
 ' No bed nor gas for fourteen days ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 ha! ha!' 
 
 s2 
 
390 'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 
 
 ' Oil, you laugli at that do you ?' 
 
 * 1 laugli at Mr. Hawes thinking to keep me out of 
 bed for fourteen days, a poor worn-out boy like me. 
 You tell Hawes I'll find a bed in spite of him long be- 
 fore fourteen days.' 
 
 Hodges looked about the cell for this other bed. 
 
 ' Come,' said he, ' you mustn't chaff the officers. The 
 governor will serve you out enough without your giving 
 us any of your sauce.' 
 
 Hodges was going with the bed. Josephs stopped 
 him. The boy took this last blow quite differently 
 from the gas ; no impatience or burst of sorrow now. 
 
 ' Won't you bid me good-bye, Mr. Hodges ?' asked 
 he. 
 
 'Why not? Goodnight.' 
 
 ' That isn't what I meam. Mr. Evans gave me his 
 hand.' 
 
 'Did he? what for?' 
 
 ' And so must you. Oh, you may as well, Mr. 
 Hodges. I never came to you and took away your 
 little bit of light and your little bit of sleep. So you 
 can take my hand if I can give it you. You will be 
 sorry afterwards if you say no.' 
 
 ' There it is — what the better are you for that you 
 young fool. I'll tell you what it is you are turning 
 soft. I don't know what to make of you. I shall come 
 to your cell the first thing in the morning.' 
 
 * Ay, do, Mr. Hodges,' said Josephs, ' and then you 
 won't be sorry you shook hands at night.' 
 
 At this moment the boy's supper was thrust through 
 
'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.' 391 
 
 the trap-door ; it was not the supper by law appointed, 
 but six ounces of bread and a can of water. 
 
 Hodges, now that he had touched the prisoner's 
 hand, felt his first spark of something bordering on sym- 
 pathy. He looked at the grub half ashamed and made 
 a wry face. Joseph caught his look and answered it. 
 
 ' It is as much as I shall want,' said he very calmly, 
 and he smiled at Hodges as he spoke, a sweet and 
 tender but dogged smile ; a smile to live in a man's 
 memory for years. 
 
 The door was closed with a loud snap, and Josephs 
 was left to face the long night (it was now seven 
 o'clock) in his wet clothes, which smoked with the 
 warmth his late bed had begun to cherish ; but they 
 soon ceased to smoke as the boy froze. 
 
 Night advanced. Josephs walked about his little cell, 
 his teeth chattering, then flung himself like a dead log 
 on the floor, and finding Hawes's spirit in the cold, 
 hard stone, rose and crawled, shivering, to and fro again. 
 
 Meantime we were all in our nice soft beds ; such as 
 found three blankets too little added a dressing-gown 
 of flannel or print, lined with wadding or fleecy 
 hosiery, and so made shift. In particular all those 
 who had the care of Josephs took care to lie warm and 
 soft. Hawes, Jones, Hodges, Fry, Justices Shallow 
 and Woodcock, all took the care of their own carcasses 
 they did not take of Josephs' youthful frame. 
 
 ' Be cold at night ? Not if we know it ; why you 
 can't sleep if you are not thoroughly warm ! !' 
 
( 392 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 Midnight ! 
 
 Josephs was crouched shivering under the door of liis 
 cell, listening. 
 
 * All right now. I think they are all asleep ; now 
 is the time.' 
 
 Hawes, Hodges, Jones, Fry, were snoring without a 
 thought of him they had left to pass the live-long 
 night, clothed in a sponge, cradled on a stone. 
 
 DORMEZ, MESSIEURS ! TOUT EST TRANQUILLE ; DORMEz! 
 
( 393 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 Past one o'clock ! 
 
 The moon was up, but often obscured ; clouds drifted 
 swiftly across her face ; it was a cold morning, past one 
 o'clock. Josephs was at his window standing tiptoe on 
 his stool. Thoughts coursed one another across his 
 broken heart as fast as the clouds flew past the moon's 
 face, but whatever their nature, the sting was now out 
 of thera. The bitter sense of wrong and cruelty was 
 there, but blunted. Fear was nearly extinct, for hope 
 was dead. 
 
 There was no tumult in his mind now ; he had gone 
 through all that, and had got a step beyond grief or 
 pain. 
 
 Thus ran his thoughts ; ' I wonder what Hawes was 
 going to do with me to-morrow. Something worse 
 than all I have gone through,' he said. That 
 seemed hard to believe. ' But I don't know. Best 
 not give him the chance. He does know how to tor- 
 ture one. Well, he must keep it for some other poor 
 fellow. I hope it won't be Robinson. I'll have a look 
 at out a doors first. Ah 1 there is the moon. I 
 
394 *IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEiSID.' 
 
 wonder does she see wKat is done here : and there is 
 the sky ; it is a beautiful place. Who would stay 
 here under Hawes if they could get up there. God 
 lives up there : I am almost afraid he won't let a poor 
 wicked boy like me come where he is. And they say 
 this is a sin too : he will be angry with me but I couldn't 
 help it. I shall tell him what I went through first, 
 and perhaps he will forgive me. His reverence told 
 me he takes the part of those that are ill-used. It will 
 be a good job for me if 'tis so. Perhaps he will serve 
 Hawes out for tliis instead of me : I think I should if I 
 was him. I know he can't be so cruel as Hawes ; that 
 is my only chance, and I'm going to take it. 
 
 ' Some folk live to eighty ; I am only fifteen ; that 
 is a long odds. I dare say it is five times as long as 
 fifteen. It is hard, but I can't help it. Hawes 
 wouldn't let me live to be a man ; he is stronger than 
 I am. Will it be a long job, I wonder. Some say it 
 hurts a good deal ; some think not. I sliall soon know, 
 but I shall never tell. That doesn't trouble me, it is 
 only throttling when all is done ; and ain't I throttled 
 every day of my life. Shouldn't I be throttled to- 
 morrow if I was such a spoon as to see to-morrow. I 
 mustn't waste much more time or my hands will be 
 crippled with cold, and then I shan't be able to. 
 
 ' Mr. Evans will be sorry : I can't help it. Bless 
 him for being so good to me ; and bless Mr. Eden ; I 
 hope he will get better, I do. My handkerchief is old, 
 I hope it won't break ; oh, no ! there is no fear of that. 
 I don't weigh half what I did when I came here. 
 
*IT IS NEVEIi TOO LATE TO MEND.' 395 
 
 * My mother will fret, but I can't help it. Oh dear ! 
 oh dear ! oh dear ! I hope some one will tell her what 
 I went through first ; and tlien she will say " better so 
 than for my body to be abused worse than a dog every 
 day of my life." I can't help it ! and I should be dead 
 any way before the fourteen days were out. 
 
 ' Now is as good a time as any other ; no one is 
 stirring, no. Please forgive me mother, I couldn't 
 help it. Please forgive me God Almighty if you care 
 what a poor boy like me does or is done to, I couldn't 
 help it.' 
 
 ****** 
 
 II EST DEUX HEURES; TOUT EST TRANQUILLE ; 
 DORMEZ, MAlTRESj DORMEZ ! 
 
 END OF VOL. T 
 
LONDON: 
 
 PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, STAMFORD STREET 
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