The Project Gutenberg eBook of Household Words, No. 12, June 15, 1850
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Title: Household Words, No. 12, June 15, 1850
Editor: Charles Dickens
Release date: March 9, 2026 [eBook #78155]
Language: English
Original publication: London: Bradbury & Evans, 1850
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HOUSEHOLD WORDS, NO. 12, JUNE 15, 1850 ***
“_Familiar in their Mouths as HOUSEHOLD WORDS._”—SHAKESPEARE.
HOUSEHOLD WORDS.
A WEEKLY JOURNAL.
CONDUCTED BY CHARLES DICKENS.
N^{o.} 12.] SATURDAY, JUNE 15, 1850. [PRICE 2_d._
OLD LAMPS FOR NEW ONES.
The Magician in “Aladdin” may possibly have neglected the study of men,
for the study of alchemical books; but it is certain that in spite of
his profession he was no conjuror. He knew nothing of human nature, or
the everlasting set of the current of human affairs. If, when he
fraudulently sought to obtain possession of the wonderful Lamp, and went
up and down, disguised, before the flying-palace, crying New Lamps for
Old ones, he had reversed his cry, and made it Old Lamps for New ones,
he would have been so far before his time as to have projected himself
into the nineteenth century of our Christian Era.
This age is so perverse, and is so very short of faith—in consequence,
as some suppose, of there having been a run on that bank for a few
generations—that a parallel and beautiful idea, generally known among
the ignorant as the Young England hallucination, unhappily expired
before it could run alone, to the great grief of a small but a very
select circle of mourners. There is something so fascinating, to a mind
capable of any serious reflection, in the notion of ignoring all that
has been done for the happiness and elevation of mankind during three or
four centuries of slow and dearly-bought amelioration, that we have
always thought it would tend soundly to the improvement of the general
public, if any tangible symbol, any outward and visible sign, expressive
of that admirable conception, could be held up before them. We are happy
to have found such a sign at last; and although it would make a very
indifferent sign, indeed, in the Licensed Victualling sense of the word,
and would probably be rejected with contempt and horror by any Christian
publican, it has our warmest philosophical appreciation.
In the fifteenth century, a certain feeble lamp of art arose in the
Italian town of Urbino. This poor light, Raphael Sanzio by name, better
known to a few miserably mistaken wretches in these later days, as
Raphael (another burned at the same time, called Titian), was fed with a
preposterous idea of Beauty—with a ridiculous power of etherealising,
and exalting to the very Heaven of Heavens, what was most sublime and
lovely in the expression of the human face divine on Earth—with the
truly contemptible conceit of finding in poor humanity the fallen
likeness of the angels of God, and raising it up again to their pure
spiritual condition. This very fantastic whim effected a low revolution
in Art, in this wise, that Beauty came to be regarded as one of its
indispensable elements. In this very poor delusion, Artists have
continued until this present nineteenth century, when it was reserved
for some bold aspirants to “put it down.”
The Pre-Raphael Brotherhood, Ladies and Gentlemen, is the dread Tribunal
which is to set this matter right. Walk up, walk up; and here,
conspicuous on the wall of the Royal Academy of Art in England, in the
eighty-second year of their annual exhibition, you shall see what this
new Holy Brotherhood, this terrible Police that is to disperse all
Post-Raphael offenders, has “been and done!”
You come—in this Royal Academy Exhibition, which is familiar with the
works of WILKIE, COLLINS, ETTY, EASTLAKE, MULREADY, LESLIE, MACLISE,
TURNER, STANFIELD, LANDSEER, ROBERTS, DANBY, CRESWICK, LEE, WEBSTER,
HERBERT, DYCE, COPE, and others who would have been renowned as great
masters in any age or country—you come, in this place, to the
contemplation of a Holy Family. You will have the goodness to discharge
from your minds all Post-Raphael ideas, all religious aspirations, all
elevating thoughts; all tender, awful, sorrowful, ennobling, sacred,
graceful, or beautiful associations; and to prepare yourselves, as
befits such a subject—Pre-Raphaelly considered—for the lowest depths of
what is mean, odious, repulsive, and revolting.
You behold the interior of a carpenter’s shop. In the foreground of that
carpenter’s shop is a hideous, wry-necked, blubbering, red-headed boy,
in a bed-gown; who appears to have received a poke in the hand, from the
stick of another boy with whom he has been playing in an adjacent
gutter, and to be holding it up for the contemplation of a kneeling
woman, so horrible in her ugliness, that (supposing it were possible for
any human creature to exist for a moment with that dislocated throat)
she would stand out from the rest of the company as a Monster, in the
vilest cabaret in France, or the lowest gin-shop in England. Two almost
naked carpenters, master and journeyman, worthy companions of this
agreeable female, are working at their trade; a boy, with some small
flavor of humanity in him, is entering with a vessel of water; and
nobody is paying any attention to a snuffy old woman who seems to have
mistaken that shop for the tobacconist’s next door, and to be hopelessly
waiting at the counter to be served with half an ounce of her favourite
mixture. Wherever it is possible to express ugliness of feature, limb,
or attitude, you have it expressed. Such men as the carpenters might be
undressed in any hospital where dirty drunkards, in a high state of
varicose veins, are received. Their very toes have walked out of Saint
Giles’s.
This, in the nineteenth century, and in the eighty-second year of the
annual exhibition of the National Academy of Art, is the Pre-Raphael
representation to us, Ladies and Gentlemen, of the most solemn passage
which our minds can ever approach. This, in the nineteenth century, and
in the eighty-second year of the annual exhibition of the National
Academy of Art, is what Pre-Raphael Art can do to render reverence and
homage to the faith in which we live and die! Consider this picture
well. Consider the pleasure we should have in a similar Pre-Raphael
rendering of a favourite horse, or dog, or cat; and, coming fresh from a
pretty considerable turmoil about “desecration” in connexion with the
National Post Office, let us extol this great achievement, and commend
the National Academy!
In further considering this symbol of the great retrogressive principle,
it is particularly gratifying to observe that such objects as the
shavings which are strewn on the carpenter’s floor are admirably
painted; and that the Pre-Raphael Brother is indisputably accomplished
in the manipulation of his art. It is gratifying to observe this,
because the fact involves no low effort at notoriety; everybody knowing
that it is by no means easier to call attention to a very indifferent
pig with five legs, than to a symmetrical pig with four. Also, because
it is good to know that the National Academy thoroughly feels and
comprehends the high range and exalted purposes of Art; distinctly
perceives that Art includes something more than the faithful portraiture
of shavings, or the skilful colouring of drapery—imperatively requires,
in short, that it shall be informed with mind and sentiment; will on no
account reduce it to a narrow question of trade-juggling with a palette,
palette-knife, and paint-box. It is likewise pleasing to reflect that
the great educational establishment foresees the difficulty into which
it would be led, by attaching greater weight to mere handicraft, than to
any other consideration—even to considerations of common reverence or
decency; which absurd principle, in the event of a skilful painter of
the figure becoming a very little more perverted in his taste, than
certain skilful painters are just now, might place Her Gracious Majesty
in a very painful position, one of these fine Private View Days.
Would it were in our power to congratulate our readers on the hopeful
prospects of the great retrogressive principle, of which this thoughtful
picture is the sign and emblem! Would that we could give our readers
encouraging assurance of a healthy demand for Old Lamps in exchange for
New ones, and a steady improvement in the Old Lamp Market! The
perversity of mankind is such, and the untoward arrangements of
Providence are such, that we cannot lay that flattering unction to their
souls. We can only report what Brotherhoods, stimulated by this sign,
are forming; and what opportunities will be presented to the people, if
the people will but accept them.
In the first place, the Pre-Perspective Brotherhood will be presently
incorporated, for the subversion of all known rules and principles of
perspective. It is intended to swear every P. P. B. to a solemn
renunciation of the art of perspective on a soup-plate of the willow
pattern; and we may expect, on the occasion of the eighty-third Annual
Exhibition of the Royal Academy of Art in England, to see some pictures
by this pious Brotherhood, realising HOGARTH’S idea of a man on a
mountain several miles off, lighting his pipe at the upper window of a
house in the foreground. But we are informed that every brick in the
house will be a portrait; that the man’s boots will be copied with the
utmost fidelity from a pair of Bluchers, sent up out of Northamptonshire
for the purpose; and that the texture of his hands (including four
chilblains, a whitlow, and ten dirty nails) will be a triumph of the
Painter’s art.
A Society, to be called the Pre-Newtonian Brotherhood, was lately
projected by a young gentleman, under articles to a Civil Engineer, who
objected to being considered bound to conduct himself according to the
laws of gravitation. But this young gentleman, being reproached by some
aspiring companions with the timidity of his conception, has abrogated
that idea in favour of a Pre-Galileo Brotherhood now flourishing, who
distinctly refuse to perform any annual revolution round the Sun, and
have arranged that the world shall not do so any more. The course to be
taken by the Royal Academy of Art in reference to this Brotherhood is
not yet decided upon; but it is whispered that some other large
Educational Institutions in the neighbourhood of Oxford are nearly ready
to pronounce in favour of it.
Several promising Students connected with the Royal College of Surgeons
have held a meeting, to protest against the circulation of the blood,
and to pledge themselves to treat all the patients they can get, on
principles condemnatory of that innovation. A Pre-Harvey-Brotherhood is
the result, from which a great deal may be expected—by the undertakers.
In literature, a very spirited effort has been made, which is no less
than the formation of a P. G. A. P. C. B., or Pre-Gower and
Pre-Chaucer-Brotherhood, for the restoration of the ancient English
style of spelling, and the weeding out from all libraries, public and
private, of those and all later pretenders, particularly a person of
loose character named SHAKESPEARE. It having been suggested, however,
that this happy idea could scarcely be considered complete while the art
of printing was permitted to remain unmolested, another society, under
the name of the Pre-Laurentius Brotherhood, has been established in
connexion with it, for the abolition of all but manuscript books. These
MR. PUGIN has engaged to supply, in characters that nobody on earth
shall be able to read. And it is confidently expected by those who have
seen the House of Lords, that he will faithfully redeem his pledge.
In Music, a retrogressive step, in which there is much hope, has been
taken. The P. A. B., or Pre-Agincourt Brotherhood has arisen, nobly
devoted to consign to oblivion Mozart, Beethoven, Handel, and every
other such ridiculous reputation, and to fix its Millennium (as its name
implies) before the date of the first regular musical composition known
to have been achieved in England. As this Institution has not yet
commenced active operations, it remains to be seen whether the Royal
Academy of Music will be a worthy sister of the Royal Academy of Art,
and admit this enterprising body to its orchestra. We have it on the
best authority, that its compositions will be quite as rough and
discordant as the real old original—that it will be, in a word, exactly
suited to the pictorial Art we have endeavoured to describe. We have
strong hopes, therefore, that the Royal Academy of Music, not wanting an
example, may not want courage.
The regulation of social matters, as separated from the Fine Arts, has
been undertaken by the Pre-Henry-the-Seventh Brotherhood, who date from
the same period as the Pre-Raphael Brotherhood. This society, as
cancelling all the advances of nearly four hundred years, and reverting
to one of the most disagreeable periods of English History, when the
Nation was yet very slowly emerging from barbarism, and when gentle
female foreigners, come over to be the wives of Scottish Kings, wept
bitterly (as well they might) at being left alone among the savage
Court, must be regarded with peculiar favour. As the time of ugly
religious caricatures (called mysteries), it is thoroughly Pre-Raphael
in its spirit; and may be deemed the twin brother to that great society.
We should be certain of the Plague among many other advantages, if this
Brotherhood were properly encouraged.
All these Brotherhoods, and any other society of the like kind, now in
being or yet to be, have at once a guiding star, and a reduction of
their great ideas to something palpable and obvious to the senses, in
the sign to which we take the liberty of directing their attention. We
understand that it is in the contemplation of each Society to become
possessed, with all convenient speed, of a collection of such pictures;
and that once, every year, to wit upon the first of April, the whole
intend to amalgamate in a high festival, to be called the Convocation of
Eternal Boobies.
SAVINGS’ BANK DEFALCATIONS.
It is exactly fifty years ago since the clergyman of a little town in
Bucks circulated among the poorer part of his parishioners a proposal,
which excited the ridicule of many and the apprehension of not a few.
“If any inhabitant of Wendover chooses,” said he, “to entrust me with
any amount of his savings, in sums of not less than twopence at a time,
I shall be happy to receive the money, and to repay the sum to him next
Christmas, with an addition of one-third upon the amount of his
deposit.” It was some time before the population of Wendover could be
brought to understand the value of the proposal; but it was still longer
before its universal application became appreciated. Five years elapsed
ere any similar institution rose into existence: then a “Charitable
Bank” was opened at Tottenham, by a lady named Priscilla Wakefield,
assisted by six gentlemen, who undertook from their private purses to
allow five per cent. interest on the deposits. Three years passed, and
another society upon the same principle was formed at Bath. After this,
the eyes of the public began to be opened; and by 1816, there were
established in England seventy different Savings’ Banks; whilst Wales
boasted of four, and Ireland of five. At present the number of Savings’
Banks in operation in Great Britain, is five hundred and eighty-four.
Those doing the largest amount of business are of course in London; and
some idea may be formed of the magnitude of their transactions, when it
is stated that the St. Martin’s Bank, near Trafalgar Square, alone, has
on its books at present, forty thousand depositors, whose investments
amount to upwards of a million and a quarter sterling. Since this
establishment was first commenced in 1816, it has opened one hundred and
seventy-three thousand accounts for nearly eight millions of money. The
bank which approaches the nearest to the St. Martin’s Bank in magnitude,
is the Bishopsgate Bank in Moorfields. That bank has three-quarters of a
million invested in it. The Bloomsbury Bank has half a million: the
Marylebone Bank about 300,000_l._ There are banks as large as the last,
at Newcastle, Nottingham, Norwich, Bristol, Hull, Devonport, Leeds, and
Birmingham. The Liverpool and Manchester Banks have deposits of half a
million each. In Exeter there is a bank with thirty-five thousand
depositors, and half a million of money.
This immense amount of business is done at no very great cost. For the
five hundred and eighty-four banks, there are altogether only eleven
hundred and forty paid officers. The salaries of these officers amount
to no more than seventy-five thousand pounds a year; and they manage the
business of more than a million of depositors, whose accounts exceed
twenty-eight millions sterling—a sum equal to the capital of the Bank of
England.
The mere fact of any institution having to deal with so enormous a
capital, renders it one of great importance commercially. But when it is
remembered that the vast aggregate is made up of small savings; and that
additions to, or withdrawals from it, furnish a clue to the fluctuations
between the prosperity and depression of the largest, most useful, and
least wealthy among us—the thews and sinews of the nation—the
administration and management of Savings’ Banks cannot be too jealously
watched.
Unhappily a painful interest has been lately imparted to the system by
the abstraction of large sums by certain local managers; and by the
discovery that to make these defalcations good, there exists no
government liability. Indeed by law (the act of 1844) even the Trustees
are not liable; but honour has always, as we shall see, proved with them
stronger than the statute. A clear understanding of the actual
connection of the State with Savings’ Banks is of vital importance, not
only to depositors, but to those who interest themselves in promoting
the banking system among the humbler classes; a system, which, it may be
safely affirmed, has hitherto proved of the utmost benefit not only to
the worldly prosperity, but to the morals of the working bees of our
Great Hive.
Savings’ Banks were first established from motives of benevolence. They
soon, however, came to involve such great responsibility that the
managers were anxious that the State should give them the benefit of its
support. The State was nothing loth, for it saw the advantage of having
such large amounts of money in possession. Accordingly, in 1817, there
was opened at the National Debt Office, a “Fund for the Banks for
Savings,” and an act was passed compelling the Trustees to pay in their
deposits to that Fund, receiving a debenture which bore interest at the
rate of 4_l._ 10_s._ per cent.
The Government, therefore, is only responsible for the money _after_ it
is paid to the National Debt Office: it is not accountable for
deficiencies arising in the course of Savings’ Bank transactions, or
from the embezzlement or mismanagement of local officers. Still
depositors are seldom defrauded; for when such defaults have happened,
the Trustees and Managers of the Bank concerned have stepped in to cover
the deficiencies, except in a case which occurred in Wales in 1824, and
in other instances subsequently in Ireland. In no one case, on the other
hand, has the Government ever rendered assistance to the value of a
farthing. Why, will be seen when the dealings between the local
authorities of these banks and the National Debt Office are explained.
They are simply as follows:—The accumulated deposits of each Savings’
Bank, are paid over to some neighbouring banker, or other person, who
acts gratuitously as treasurer. The treasurer pays the money, by check
or otherwise, to the National Debt Commissioners, who invest it in
Exchequer Bills or Stock. At the end of the year they allow an interest
upon the amount deposited. Out of this interest the Savings’ Banks
Trustees are authorised by law to pay interest to the depositors at the
rate of not less than 2_l._ 15_s._, nor more than 3_l._ 0_s._ 10_d._ per
cent. per annum. The Banks vary in the precise rate; the average rate of
interest afforded by all the Banks in the United Kingdom is 2_l._ 17_s._
6_d._ Thus 7_s._ 6_d._ per cent.—which constitutes the difference
between 2_l._ 17_s._ 6_d._ and the 3_l._ 5_s._—forms the fund out of
which is defrayed the charges of management.
In the majority of Banks, there is only one paid officer; but of course
the number varies according to the amount of business. The St. Martin’s
Bank is the most complete establishment of the kind, and consists of
sixteen persons. Some Banks have only one remunerated official. In every
case, the National Debt Commissioners have power to make such
regulations, under the Savings’ Bank Act, as enforce each paid officer
giving heavy security for his honesty.
It is of great consequence that the public should understand that the
defalcations which have of late caused some distrust in the stability of
Savings’ Banks, have not arisen from any defect of the great principles,
but only in the details, and from the abuses of the system. They have
happened chiefly in consequence of the culpably loose and irregular
conduct of the local managers; but partly from the carelessness or
ignorance of depositors. The chief manager of an Institution in
default—as in the latest case which has come before the public—has left
everything to the actuary or cashier, who did precisely as he pleased,
and he is blamable for laxity. On the other hand, most of the monies of
which depositors were plundered never passed through a Savings’ Bank at
all. They were paid to the Officers of the Banks at their own abodes,
and these officers never gave any account of them to the Managers. The
only way to stop this, is to make it criminal for any officer of a Bank
to receive the money of any depositor, at any other time or place than
at the Bank during the regular Bank hours. The fact is that there have
rarely, if ever, hitherto been any _genuine_ frauds upon Savings’ Banks.
The frauds have taken place upon irregular transactions out of doors.
Hence it is that the National Debt Commissioners repudiate all liability
to the depositors.
Against, however, the National Debt Office itself there is a very
serious charge. As we have stated, it is bound to invest, in the public
securities, the monies paid over to them by the Trustees and Treasurers
of Savings’ Banks. It appears, from parliamentary returns, that at
different periods the Commissioners have accumulated large sums of this
money, and dealt with it in different classes of securities; although
the necessities of Savings’ Banks did not require any such operations.
The result has been very unfortunate. The National Debt Commissioners
appear, by their accounts, to have less stock by _two millions_ of
money, than the capital paid to them ought to represent. This glaring
fact appears on the face of the public accounts. No explanation has ever
been given; no reasons have ever been assigned. The belief is, that the
operations by which the Savings’ Banks fund so seriously suffered, were
necessitated by the financial exigencies of government some years since.
They commenced in 1834 and continued down to 1843, when they were
discovered and checked by public opinion. As, then, for this amount the
Government is responsible, the nation will be, ultimately, obliged to
pay it up to the depositors.
But a calm review of these facts—startling as some of them are—should
not essentially affect the stability of Savings’ Banks, and alarm is
comparatively groundless. Firstly, the defalcations of officers are
generally made good by their sureties, or by the local trustees; and
secondly, the deficiency of two millions is not likely to be called for
so suddenly as to inconvenience the public purse.
It is now necessary to point out how—to glance at the opposite page of
the account—the law guards against frauds attempted _by_ the public upon
Savings’ Banks. The only way in which they could be so abused, would be
by attempts, on the part of the comparatively wealthy, to obtain a
higher rate of interest, for investments, than they could get elsewhere.
But an average interest, 2_l._ 17_s._ 6_d._ per cent. with a maximum of
3_l._ 0_s._ 10_d._, would seem a sufficient bar to such deposits. But in
order to guard against such a possibility, the law has enacted that no
one person shall be permitted to deposit more than 30_l._ in any one
year, or more than 150_l._ pounds in the whole; and if his principal and
interest together ever amounts to 200_l._, then the payment of all
further interest is stopped. These restrictions are effectual in
preserving Savings’ Banks to the sole object of savings—the savings of
the poor.
As regards actual frauds and attempts at fraud by the public, we have
been obliged with the experience of the St. Martin’s Bank, which very
probably speaks for that of all the Savings’ Banks in England:—“Since
this Bank was instituted, in 1816,” says our informant, “there have been
only five attempts at fraud, by forgery of depositors’ signatures, or
otherwise. In two of those five cases the forgery was detected and no
loss ensued. In the other three cases the Bank sustained the loss, which
amounted in the whole to less than 50_l._ Attempts at personation seldom
succeed,—nor are these always fraudulent; absent depositors are often
consenting parties, in order to save themselves the trouble of attending
personally. Such cases lead to dispute; but two such cases which have
occurred here are rather curious. In 1847 a man married a female
depositor, and induced her to withdraw the whole of her money (exceeding
100_l_), of which having possessed himself, he abandoned her.
Subsequently he deposited 90_l._., part of this money, in three
different Savings’ Banks, our own among the number. The wife having
stated her case to us, we took advantage of the law which prohibited him
from depositing in more than one Bank, and refused to allow him to
withdraw. The case was referred; and the barrister appointed by act of
Parliament to settle such questions awarded that, under the statute, the
deposits were forfeited to the Commissioners of the National Debt. The
Lords of the Treasury, upon the wife’s memorial, ordered the restitution
of the money to her, for her own separate use, free from her husband’s
control; and this arrangement we had the pleasure of carrying into
effect.—The other case was equally singular. In 1848 the Painters’ and
Glaziers’ Friendly Society had an account with us. They sought to eject
one of the trustees of their fund from the benefits of their Society, on
the ground that on the ‘10th of April’ he had acted as a Special
Constable, contrary to the rule prohibiting him from ‘voluntarily
entering Her Majesty’s service.’ The trustee protested to us, and we
objected to pay the Society’s money without his signature to the order.
Thereupon ‘the Painters and Glaziers’ caused the case to be referred,
and the barrister awarded that the funds should not be transferred or
withdrawn without the trustee’s consent.”
From the same quarter we ascertained, in reference to unclaimed money, a
remarkable circumstance. The amount of unclaimed deposits in the St.
Martin’s Place Bank has of late decreased instead of increased. In 1842
the Bank held 10,800_l._, which had been unclaimed for seven years. In
1849, although its business had so amazingly augmented, the amount which
had remained unclaimed for seven years was 9898_l._ or nearly 1000_l._
less. This is accounted for by the great pains taken to trace and summon
the depositors and their representatives. It certainly is remarkable
that out of transactions to the extent of more than eight and a half
millions of money, only 9900_l._ should remain unclaimed.
From what we have stated on this subject it will be seen that although
Savings’ Banks are not on a satisfactory footing as between the
Government and depositors, or as between the latter and the local
managers; yet, on the whole, the system is so well contrived, that no
good reason has lately been revealed for the public to withdraw their
confidence from them. The cure of the more glaring defects is now under
the consideration of Government, and this paper will be best concluded
by a sketch of the proposed remedy. The bill introduced by the
Chancellor of the Exchequer deals with all the defects we have pointed
out: perhaps it introduces some new ones, but these it will be purged of
probably in Committee. One of the chief evils is that exemption from
liability which was extended to trustees in 1844: and it is proposed,
for wilful or neglectful losses, to restore this liability. These
officers are now unpaid; and it is proposed to pay them, Government
being responsible for their acts, and having the privilege of
appointing. To prevent fraud, occasioned by the treasurer or actuary
receiving monies at his own house, it is intended that the treasurer
alone shall receive money, and that he shall attend at certain stated
times for that purpose. A local banker is to fill the office, who will
not be wholly unremunerated. For any other person than the treasurer to
receive money as a savings’ bank deposit, will be a misdemeanour. Daily
accounts are to be rendered to the Commissioners of the National Debt;
and those Commissioners will appoint auditors, who shall exercise a
constant revision of the accounts, subject to supervision by special
inspectors despatched at discretion. These arrangements will necessarily
entail greater expence, and to meet it, the rate of interest allowed to
depositors, is to be reduced to 2_l._ 15_s._, and deposits limited to
100_l._ Above that amount, Government will either hold the money without
interest, or, at the depositor’s option, invest it in the funds free of
charge.
THE SUMMER SABBATH.
The woods my Church, to-day—my preacher boughs,
Whispering high homilies through leafy lips;
And worshippers, in every bee that sips
Sweet cordial from the tiniest flower, that grows
’Mid the young grass, and, in each bird, that dips
Light pinions in the sunshine as it throws
Gold showers upon green trees. All things around
Are full of Prayer! The very blush which tips
Yon snowy cloud, is bright with adoration!
The grass breathes incense forth, and all the ground
Is a wide altar; while the stillest sound
Is vibrating with praise. No profanation
Reaches the thoughts, while thus to ears and eyes
Nature her music and her prayer supplies!
NEWSPAPER ANTECEDENTS.
Those in whom the appetite for news on which we have already commented
is very strong, must wonder how our forefathers existed without
newspapers; for so it happened that the lieges of these realms did get
on very well without them up to the days of the first of the Stuarts.
But although they had no printed newspapers, they could not and did not
do without news; conveyed orally in the form of gossip, or by means of
manuscript intelligencers. Friendly communications containing the gossip
of the town for the enlightenment of cousins in the country are as old
as pen and ink, and much older than paper; for many, still extant in the
British Museum, were written on vellum. By-and-bye, the writing of such
letters became a profession, and every country family of pretension
could boast of “our own correspondent.” These writers were generally
disbanded military officers, younger sons very much “about town,” and,
not unfrequently, clergymen. Shirley in his “Love Tricks” draws the
portrait of one of these antecedents of the present race of Editors.
“_Easparo._ I tell you, Sir, I have known a gentleman that has spent
the best part of a thousand pounds while he was prentice to the trade
in Holland, and out of three sheets of paper, which was his whole
stock, (the pen and ink-horn he borrowed,) he set up shop, and spent a
hundred pounds a year. It has been a great profession. Marry, most
commonly they are soldiers; a peace concluded is a great plague upon
them, and if the wars hold we shall have store of them. Oh, they are
men worthy of commendation. They speak in print.
“_Antonio._ Are they soldiers?
“_Eas._ Faith so they would be thought, though indeed they are but
mongrels, not worthy of that noble attribute. They are indeed
bastards, not sons of war and true soldiers, whose divine souls I
honour, yet they may be called great spirits too, for their valour is
invisible; these, I say, will write you a battle in any part of Europe
at an hour’s warning, and yet never set foot out of a tavern; describe
you towns, fortifications, leaders, the strength of the enemy, what
confederates, every day’s march. Not a soldier shall lose a hair, or
have a bullet fly between his arms, but he shall have a page to wait
on him in quarto. Nothing destroys them but want of a good memory, for
if they escape contradiction they may be chronicled.”
By the time James the First began to reign, this employment had so
completely moulded itself into a regular craft, that news-writers set up
offices and kept “emissaries,” or reporters, to bring them accounts of
what was going on in various parts of the metropolis. These reports were
sifted, collected, and arranged by the master of the office, or
“Register,” who acted as Editor. To Nathaniel Butter, a news-writer of
that period, was the British public indebted for the first printed
newspaper. Ben Jonson in his “Staple of News” gives a vivid picture of
Mr. Butter’s office before he took to printing.
_Enter Register and Nathaniel._
_Reg._ What, are those desks fit now? Set forth the table,
The carpet and the chair; where are the News
That were examined last? Have you filled them up?
_Nath._ Not yet, I had no time.
_Reg._ Are those News registered
That emissary Buz sent in last night,
Of Spinola and his eggs?
_Nath._ Yes, sir, and filed.
_Reg._ What are you now upon?
_Nath._ That our new emissary
Westminster gave us, of the golden heir.
_Reg._ Dispatch; that’s news indeed, and of importance.—
_Enter a Country-woman._
What would you have, good woman?
_Woman._ I would have, sir,
A groat’s-worth of any News, I care not what,
To carry down this Saturday to our vicar.
_Reg._ O! you are a butter-woman; ask Nathaniel,
The clerk there.
_Nath._ Sir, I tell her she must stay
Till emissary Exchange, or Paul’s send in,
And then I’ll fit her.
_Reg._ Do, good woman, have patience;
It is not now, as when the Captain lived;
You’ll blast the reputation of the office,
Now in the bud, if you dispatch these groats
So soon: let them attend in name of policy.
To have served his gaping customers too quickly, would have seemed as
though the News was _made_ instead of being collected; so thought the
Register.
Respecting the first English printed newspaper, the public have lain
under a mistake for nearly a century. Some ten years ago, however, Mr.
Thomas Watts of the British Museum exploded the long prevalent fallacy
that the “_English Mercurie_,” dated in 1588, was originally the
progenitor of modern journals. A copy of such a paper exists in the
Birch Collection; but it is a manifest forgery, the concoction of which
was traced to the second Lord Hardwicke. It pretends to give news from
the expedition against the Spanish Armada; but, besides a host of
blunders in dates, it is printed on paper made posterior to the date it
bears. The truth is that no periodically printed newspaper appeared till
thirty years after.
When the reign of James the First was drawing to a close; when Ben
Jonson was poet laureate, and the personal friends of Shakspeare were
lamenting his then recent death; when Cromwell was trading as a brewer
at Huntingdon; when Milton was a youth of sixteen, just trying his pen
at Latin verse, and Hampden a quiet country gentleman in
Buckinghamshire; London was solicited to patronise its first Newspaper.
There is now no reason to doubt that the puny ancestor of the myriads of
broad sheets of our time was published in the metropolis in 1622, and
that the most prominent of the ingenious speculators who offered the
novelty to the world was Nathaniel Butter. His companions in the work
appear to have been Nicholas Bourne, Thomas Archer, Nathaniel Newberry,
William Sheffard, Bartholomew Downes, and Edward Allde. All these
different names appear in the imprints of the early numbers of the first
Newspaper—THE WEEKLY NEWES.[1] This prime, original progenitor of the
acres of news which are now rolled out from the press failed, after many
lapses and struggles, chiefly occasioned by the Star Chamber. Its end
was untimely. The last number appeared on the 9th of January, 1640.
Could it have survived a little longer it might have run a long career,
for the incubus which smothered it was itself stifled—the Star Chamber
was abolished in 1641.
Footnote 1:
The Fourth Estate, by F. K. Hunt.
Butter’s print was succeeded by a host of “Mercuries,” but none of them
were long-lived. They were started for particular objects, to advocate
certain views, and sometimes to circulate the likeliest lies that could
be invented to serve the cause espoused. Each of these was laid down
when its mission was accomplished. During the civil war, nearly thirty
thousand journals, pamphlets, and papers were issued in this manner. In
the heat of hostilities, each army carried its printing-press as part of
its munitions of war. Leaden types were employed with as much rancour
and zeal as leaden bullets. These were often headed as News, such as
“Newes out of Worcestershire,” “Newes of a bloody battle,” fought at
such a place, &c. In 1662 a regular periodical, called the “Kingdom’s
Intelligencer,” was started, and in the following year the
“Intelligencer, published for the satisfaction and information of the
people,” was set up by Sir Roger L’Estrange.
All these were superseded by a journal, which has stood its ground so
well that the last number came out only yesterday. This was the “Oxford
Gazette,” set up in that city in 1665, and now known as the “London
Gazette.” For many years after the Restoration this was the only
newspaper; for the law restricted any man from publishing political news
without the consent of the Crown. Charles and James the Second withheld
that consent whenever it suited them, and put those who took “French
leave” into the pillory.
As a specimen of a newspaper, when these restrictions were abated, after
the flight of James the Second, we may instance the “Universal
Intelligencer.” It was small in size, and meagre in contents. It
appeared only twice a week, and consisted of two pages; that is to say,
one leaf of paper a little larger than the page on which the reader’s
eye now rests, and with hardly so much matter. The number for December
11, 1688, boasts two advertisements. A small paragraph amongst its News
describes the seizing of Judge Jefferies, in his attempt to escape from
the anger of his enemies. Besides this interesting morsel of
intelligence, the paper has sixteen lines of News from Ireland, and
eight lines from Scotland; whilst under its News of England, we have not
very much more. One of the items tells us, that “on the 7th inst. the
Prince of Orange supt at the Bear Inn, Hungerford.” There are other
headings, such as “Forrain News” and “Domestick News.” Each item of
intelligence is a mere skeleton—more in the nature of memoranda, or
notifications of events, than accounts of them. “Further particulars”
had not been invented then.
By Anne’s time, journalism had improved, and—when the victories of
Marlborough and Rooke, the political contests of Godolphin and
Bolingbroke, and the writings of Addison, Pope, Prior, Congreve, Steele,
and Swift, created a mental activity in the nation which could not wait
from week to week for its News—the first daily paper was started. This
was the Daily Courant, which came out in 1709. Other such journals
followed; but three years afterwards, they received a severe check by
the imposition of the Stamp Duty. “All Grub Street,” wrote Swift to
Stella, “is ruined by the Stamp Act.” On the 7th of August, 1712, he
writes:—
“Do you know that Grub Street is dead and gone last week? No more
ghosts or murders now for love or money. I plied it pretty close the
last fortnight, and published at least seven penny papers of my own,
besides some of other people’s, but now every single half-sheet pays a
halfpenny to the Queen. The ‘Observator’ is fallen; the ‘Medleys’ are
jumbled together with the ‘Flying Post;’ the ‘Examiner’ is deadly
sick; the ‘Spectator’ keeps up, and doubles its price; I know not how
long it will hold. Have you seen the red stamp the papers are marked
with? Methinks it is worth a halfpenny the stamping.”
Grub Street was not, however, so easily put down; and from that time to
the days of Dr. Johnson, newspapers had considerably increased in number
and influence. In the Idler the Doctor says:—“No species of literary men
has lately been so much multiplied as the writers of News. Not many
years ago, the nation was content with one Gazette, but now we have not
only in the metropolis Papers for every morning and every evening, but
almost every large town has its weekly historian, who regularly
circulates his periodical intelligence, and fills the villagers of his
district with conjectures on the events of war, and with debates on the
true interests of Europe.”
In Dr. Johnson’s day, the newspaper press was fairly set upon its legs,
and it has gone on with some few vicissitudes to its present condition.
As illustrations of the antecedents of the modern newspaper, we now
purpose giving, at random, a few curious extracts from the earliest of
them.
The Daily Courant, dated March 1, 1711, contains the following
announcement of a publication which is still read with delight, and
which was destined to play an important part in the reform of the coarse
social manners of the time. It runs thus:—
“_This day is Published_,
“A paper entitled THE SPECTATOR, which will be continued every day.
Printed for James Buckley, at the Dolphin in Little Britain, and sold
by A. Baldwin, in Warwick Lane.”
In the first number thus announced, which was written by Addison, the
Spectator says:—“As my friends have engaged me to stand in the front,
those who have a mind to correspond with me may direct their letters to
Mr. Buckley’s, in Little Britain.”
Hogarth never painted a more graphic picture of a horseman of the last
century than that drawn in the Postman of Saturday, August 10, 1710. It
is presented in the form of a hue and cry after a stolen horse.
“A Full Face, Round shoulder Middle sized Man, with a light Bob Goat’s
Hair Wig, a snuff-coloured Secretary Drugget coat, the trimming the
same colour, 2 waistcoats, one of Black cloath, the other blue,
trimmed with silver lace, Black cloath breeches, a Mourning Hatband,
wears a cane with a silver Head, made to screw at the top, a seafaring
man, stammering in his speech, his name William Tunbridge but goes by
the name of William Richardson, rode away from 7 Oaks in Kent the 20th
of July last, with a Sorrel Horse full 14 hands high, a star in his
forehead, white feet behind, high mettled, loth to have his hind feet
taken up, Bob Tail, a black saddle stitched with silver, Tan Leather
stirrup Leathers with a slit crupper buckled on the saddle with 2
buckles. Whoever gives notice of man or horse to Mr. Adams, Postmaster
of Seven Oaks, shall have a guinea reward and reasonable charges.”
The Daily Courant of Thursday, March 15, 1711, puts forth the
announcement of a performance at the Haymarket Theatre, “on the 1st of
April,” to which the Bottle Conjuror’s promised feat must sink into a
mere common occurrence. A gentleman was to sup off several children “to
the music of kettledrums.” The same advertisement appeared in the
Spectator on the day after, namely, Friday, March 16:—
“On the first of April will be performed at the play house in the Hay
Market an Opera called the Cruelty of Atræus. N. B. The scene wherein
Thyestes eats his own children is to be performed by the famous Mr.
Psalmanazaar, lately arrived from Formosa, the whole supper being set
to kettle drums.”
Scattered through the journals of 1712 are advertisements of a patent
medicine, which has not wholly ceased to be imbibed by the ailing of
1850. The Spectator of April 18th has it thus:—
“Daffy’s famous Elixir Salutis prepared by Catherine Daffy, the finest
now exposed for sale, prepared from the best drugs and the original
receipt which my Father Mr. Thomas Daffy having experienced the
virtues of it imparted it to Mr. Anthony Daffy who published the same
to his own great advantage. This very original receipt is now in my
possession, left me by my father under his own bond. My brother Mr.
Daniel Daffy, late apothecary in Nottingham, made this Elixir from the
same receipt and sold it there during his life. Those who know me will
believe me, and those who do not know me may be convinced I am no
counterfeit by the colour, taste, smell and just operation of my
Elixir. Sold at the Hand and Pen, Maiden-lane, Covent Garden, London,
and in many other places in Town and Country.”
Mist’s weekly journal of Saturday, March 6th, 1725, contains an artful
paragraph most likely emanating from a despairing author whose play had
not succeeded:—
“Mrs. Graspall, who has been our customer two years, desires us to
inform the masters of Drury Lane playhouse, that if they please to
play the comedy, called _A Wife to be Let_, within ten days, they will
oblige her and a great many of the quality to whom she has
communicated her design.”
We find by subsequent numbers that Mrs. Graspall’s request was not
complied with.
There is an anecdote of historical interest in the St. James’s Evening
Post of Sept. 17th, 1734. It relates to the Chevalier St. George,
afterwards the rash but chivalric “Pretender” to the British throne. It
appears that when the Spaniards made the Conquest of Italy, and were
sailing for Sicily, the Chevalier was on board one of their ships with
the young King of Naples, the latter, doubtless, a prisoner;—
“When the fleet set sail,” says the ‘special correspondent,’ “a blast
of wind blew the young Chevalier St. George’s hat off his head into
the sea. Immediately there were several officious enough to endeavour
to take it up; but the young Chevalier called out, _Let it alone, let
it alone; I will go and get another in England_. Whereupon the young
King of Naples threw his hat into the sea, and said, _and I will go
along with you_. But they may happen to go bare-headed a long time; if
they get no hats till they come amongst you: for we are well assured
that they will find none in England that will fit their heads.”
The designs of young Charles Edward must have been deeply rooted to have
been entertained so early—for he was then only fourteen years old—and so
long before they were fulfilled. At the end of his ’45 adventures, he
did indeed go bare-headed for months without a hat or a roof to cover
him.
The Daily Post of Thursday, August 17th, 1738, must be a priceless
treasure in the eye of the collector for two remarkable paragraphs with
which it is enriched. On one of them was founded the most pathetic and
popular of Scott’s novels—The Heart of Mid-Lothian. The story of the
girl “of a fine soul,” even as told by the paragraphist is touching. The
communication is dated “Edinburgh, August 20th, 1738.”
“Isabel Walker, under sentence of death at Dumfries for child-murder,
has actually got a remission. This unhappy creature was destitute of
friends, and had none to apply for her but an only sister, a girl of a
fine soul, that overlooked the improbability of success, helpless and
alone went to London to address the Great, and solicit so well (_sic_)
that she got for her, first, a reprieve, and now a remission. Such
another instance of onerous friendship can scarce be shown; it well
deserved the attention of the greatest who could not but admire the
virtue, and on that account engage in her cause.”
The other paragraph records the death of Joe Miller, posthumous sponsor
of the most profitable jest book ever published. He was as innocent of
it as of any one of the jokes; the collection—having been benevolently
made by his friend Jack Mottley for the benefit of Miller’s
widow—eventually proved to be the best benefit ever known in the
theatrical world. The obituary is brief but complimentary:—
“Yesterday morning died Jo: Miller, Comedian, of merry memory. Very
few of his profession have gained more applause on the stage, and few
have acted off it with so much approbation from their neighbours.”
The London Daily Post (there were three “Posts” in those days) of the
same date gives more information on the mournful subject. It says:—
“Yesterday morning died of Pleurisy, Mr. Joseph Miller, a celebrated
Comedian belonging to the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane; much admired
for his performances in general, but particularly in the character of
Teague, in _The Committee, or the Faithful Irishman_.”
The papers from which this _mélange_ of extracts has been culled are
pigmies beside the present race of Giants. There is about as much matter
in a single modern London morning newspaper as was contained in a year’s
contents of the Postman, before it had two leaves. To present the
contrast between to-day’s monsters of the press and their antecedents
the more forcibly, we shall conclude with an extract from a paper
recently read by Mr. E. Cowper at the Institution of Civil Engineers,
relative to the _Times_:—
“On the 7th of May, 1850, the _Times_ and _Supplement_ contained 72
columns, or 17,500 lines, made up of upwards of a million pieces of
type, of which matter about two-fifths were written, composed, and
corrected after seven o’clock in the evening. The _Supplement_ was
sent to press at 7 50 P. M., the first form of the paper at 4 15 A.
M.; and the second form at 4 45 A. M.; on this occasion, 7000 papers
were published before 6 15 A. M., 21,000 papers before 7 30 A. M., and
34,000 before 8 45 A. M., or in about four hours. The greatest number
of copies ever printed in one day was 54,000, and the greatest
quantity of printing in one day’s publication was on the 1st of March,
1848, when the paper used weighed 7 tons, the weight usually required
being 4½ tons; the surface to be printed every night, including the
Supplement, was 30 acres; the weight of the fount of type in constant
use was 7 tons; and 110 compositors and 25 pressmen were constantly
employed.”
At the beginning of the reign of Queen Anne, we question whether so many
operatives as are now required, with the help of its extraordinary
machinery, to produce the “Times,” found employment on the whole then
existing newspaper press.
THE ROYAL ROTTEN ROW COMMISSION.
The Commission appointed to enquire into and report upon the state of
Rotten Row, was entirely unpaid. The right honourable gentleman on whom
the appointment of the Commissioners devolved, took great credit to
himself that the members of a Commission whose report was likely to
prove of such infinite value to society, and especially to metropolitan
equestrians, had undertaken all the laborious duties appertaining to
their office without expressing the slightest desire for remuneration or
reward. “He believed,” he said, “that all the charges connected with the
performance of this great public duty would begin and terminate with the
mere cost of the indispensable official staff, and he undertook to
pledge his word that the expenses connected with that department should
all be settled at the lowest practicable scale.”
In accordance with this declaration, the Honourable Augustus Aigulet,
first cousin of the right hon. gentleman aforesaid, was shortly after
appointed Secretary to this indispensable Commission, at a salary of
1400_l._ per annum, and Mr. Slaney, of Somerset House, under a Special
Minute of my Lords Commissioners of the Treasury, was promoted to
perform the active duties of clerk to the Commission, at an increased
salary of 60_l._ a year, “in accordance with the scale of savings
recently effected in the public service.”
These economic views were further carried out by the saving of rent. The
Rotten Row Commission was to be accommodated in certain new buildings,
recently erected at a small charge of 300,000_l._ The apartments
consisted of an office, a Secretary’s apartment, and a Board-room. Mr.
Slaney took possession of his desk in the office, having instructions to
prepare the large room for the meeting of a Board, which instructions he
duly performed by arranging the inkstands in the centre of a table, and
by spreading sundry sheets of blotting-paper, with a due proportion of
foolscap and official pens, at equal distances on either side. The Board
was to meet at two o’clock. At half-past one the Honourable Augustus
Aigulet opened the door of the office, and proceeded to instal himself
as Secretary. By the time he had taken possession of the key of a great
despatch box, on which was emblazoned, in gilt letters, the words
ROTTEN ROW COMMISSION.
the Chairman and three of the Commissioners arrived. Her Majesty’s
Commissioners for enquiring into the state and condition of Rotten Row,
Hyde Park, did not commence business immediately; but began an ardent
gossip about things in general. The noble President was in the midst of
a discussion with his colleagues respecting the exact circumference of
Carlotta Grisi’s ancle, when there came from the chimney an enormous
volume of smoke. With prompt alacrity, Mr. Aigulet rose from behind the
despatch box, rang the bell, summoned the clerk to his presence, and
desired him to poke the fire. This was done; but the result was
overwhelming. The smoke was so dense, that the noble chairman could
scarcely find his way to the chair; but having succeeded, and a board
having been formed, he addressed the secretary.
“These rooms” he said, “are excessively ill-ventilated; the air is
positively pestilential; we must at once draw up a minute to the
Treasury for alteration.”
“A minute, my Lord?”
“Yes, Sir; a minute.”
Mr. Aigulet took a sheet of paper, folded it lengthways, to make a
margin; and proceeded to write as his superior instructed him.
ROTTEN ROW COMMISSION.
[Such a date.]
[Sidenote: Minute No. 1. ]
1, 6, 4—.
Her Majesty’s Commissioners represent to my Lords, that with a view to
a complete and satisfactory discharge of the important duties devolved
upon them opportunity is necessary for calm consideration of the
varied subjects into which it is committed to them to inquire:—That
such opportunity is totally denied them in the apartments assigned by
my Lords, in which no suitable provision exists for ventilation, and
in which the Smoke appears to come down the Chimney, instead of
ascending in conformity with custom. In order to the due performance
of their duties to the public Her Majesty’s Commissioners, therefore,
request that my Lords will make an order for the attendance and
inspection of the Ventilator-General, with instructions to consider
and report upon a plan for improving the ingress of air, and egress of
smoke, to and from the said apartments of Her Majesty’s Commissioners.
By order of the Board.
(Signed) AUGUSTUS AIGULET.
The document was then handed to Mr. Slaney, who made a fine copy
thereof, on an extremely large and thick sheet of cream-coloured
foolscap, enclosed it in a ditto envelope, sealed it with an enormous
official signet, rang the bell for the messenger, and dispatched the
document to the Assistant Secretary of the Lords Commissioners of Her
Majesty’s Treasury.
In two hours a reply was returned. This sufficiently demonstrates the
extraordinary despatch which all matters of this sort receive at the
hands of “my Lords,” and at once exhibits the fallacy and absurdity of
the constant and therefore unreasonable complaints, which are made by
poor widows, orphans, and other troublesome and disagreeable
complainants concerning the delays which they suppose that they
encounter in getting even the most reasonable claims attended to.
ROTTEN ROW COMMISSION.
[Sidenote: No. A. X. L.
C. E. T.
24783261107.
1,6,4.
1. 1,6,4—
Minute.
A. C. C. S.
2460077221.]
My Lords having taken into consideration the minute of Her Majesty’s
Commissioners appointed specially to enquire into the state and
condition of the district known as Rotten Row, in which statement is
made of the important duties devolving on them, of the necessity for
calm opportunity to consider the subjects committed to their inquiry;
and of the imperfect provision for ventilation, &c., in those
apartments placed at their disposal: are pleased to order that the
Ventilator-General be instructed to inspect and report upon the
condition of the said ventilation, and to propose a plan to be
approved by Her Majesty’s Commissioners, and by them submitted to my
Lords for improving the ingress and egress of air to and from the said
apartments.
“Communicate this minute to the Ventilator-General, and direct him to
prepare estimate.
“Inform Her Majesty’s Commissioners hereof.”
The Treasury minute was acted on, and this was the first day’s work of
the Rotten Row Commission.
The Ventilator-General, who was thus instructed to attend to the wishes
and directions of her Majesty’s Commission, applied the next day and Mr.
Aigulet formed “a Board” for his reception. He took a survey of the
office, and declared that all the architectural arrangements were so
utterly erroneous in principle, as to place it beyond all possible skill
to render the ventilation perfect. He demonstrated most completely that
for the purposes of ventilation the door ought to have been precisely
where the chimney was, and that the chimney should have stood exactly
where the window was. The window itself he proposed to abrogate
altogether, supplying its place either by oil burners, or by a fan-light
opening into a dark passage, neither of which arrangements would
interfere with the process of ventilation. He suggested, in addition, “a
breathing floor,” which he thought it would be easy to obtain even in
the present ill-constructed edifice; and to obviate the smoke, he
proposed to place a hot air apparatus under Mr. Slaney’s desk, whereby,
he said, the necessity of a chimney would be dispensed with altogether.
A new shaft, communicating with an apparatus in the ceiling would, he
said, carry off all the foul gases generated in the room; and if the
height of the shaft outside was such as to injure the general effect of
the building, why, the fault would not be his so much as that of the
architect who had not adapted the edifice so as to anticipate this
necessary erection. Upon the whole, his opinion was that the Rotten Row
Commissioners would do well to postpone their sittings until early in
the ensuing year, in order to enable him, during the interval, to carry
out his designs for reconstructing the building with a view to its
efficient ventilation.
Had this recommendation been made at the close of a Session, and the
commencement of the grouse shooting, it is difficult to say whether the
great and important business of the Rotten Row Commission might not have
stood adjourned for six months, as the Ventilator-General suggested. But
as the Opera season was still at its height, and as Mr. Augustus Aigulet
had before his eyes the fear of an awkward question from some of those
busybodies who occasionally interfere about other people’s business in
the House of Commons, the secretary thought it desirable to recommend
the Board to resolve at present only to adjourn to that day week.
Adjourned accordingly.
This was the Board’s second day’s work.
On the day of re-assembling, the Hon. Mr. Augustus Aigulet found the
following official communication from the chief of the ventilating
department.
VENTILATOR-GENERAL’S OFFICE.
[Such a Date.]
The Ventilator-General presents his compliments to the Hon. Augustus
Aigulet, and begs to inform him of a serious abuse of Mr. Aigulet’s
authority, discovered in the office of the Rotten Row department, this
morning.
It is reported to the Ventilator-General that in the absence of Mr.
Aigulet, the clerk of the department, Mr. Slaney caused the chimney to
be swept, and the window to be thrown open. The Ventilator-General
submits that this is an interference with his peculiar duty which the
Secretary to the Rotten Row Commission will not sanction.
It is also reported to the Ventilator-General that the clerk has had
the consummate assurance to object to the proposed formation of an
apparatus for heating air immediately under his own desk: an
obstruction to the Ventilator-General’s proceedings which calls for
marked reprobation.
The Ventilator-General repeats the occurrences to Mr. Aigulet, in
order that the fact may be duly laid before my lords.
The Commissioners having assembled, their secretary read the letter, and
the Chairman ordered in the Clerk. Mr. Slaney appeared, trembled a
little, and thought he had done something dreadful. The following
dialogue ensued:—
_Chairman._ _Did_ you open the window, Mr. Slaney?
_Clerk._ Yes, my lord.
_Chairman._ Did you order the chimney to be swept?
_Clerk._ Yes, my lord.
_Chairman._ Be pleased to state, briefly, your reasons for these
proceedings.
_Clerk._ The chimney was very foul, and the rooms not having been
recently used, the window had apparently not been opened for some time.
The sash line was broken, and there is a little difficulty about opening
it.
_Chairman._ You may withdraw.
Blushing to the very forehead, and feeling as if his ears were setting
his hair on fire, Mr. Slaney retired.
After some discussion at the Board, the following minute to the Lords of
the Treasury, was dictated to the Secretary.
ROTTEN ROW COMMISSION.
[Sidenote: Minute No. 2. ]
7, 6, 4—
[Sidenote: No. A. XL. ]
C. F. T. 24,783,261,107 1,6,4—
Her Majesty’s Commissioners having had from the Ventilator-General his
report upon the state of ventilation in the apartments allotted to
them in the Treasury Chambers, are of opinion that the adoption of his
plans would involve very considerable expense, and would cause a delay
seriously prejudicial to the business of the Commission. Her Majesty’s
Commissioners, therefore, request that my lords will be pleased to
dispense with the services of the Ventilator-General in this case, as
granted under their lordships’ minute, referred to in the margin, and
instead thereof, that they will pass a minute authorising the
attendance of the Treasury carpenter to repair a line in a window,
which does not at present open with all the facility desirable.
By Order of the Board.
(Signed) AUGUSTUS AIGULET.
These labours concluded the third day’s proceedings.
The fourth day was occupied in receiving counter instructions from the
Lords Commissioners of Her Majesty’s Treasury in accordance with the
Rotten Row Board’s minute, No. 2—and in communicating with the
official carpenter. The result was, that this humble individual
superseded in half an hour the threatened six months’ labour of the
Ventilator-General.
At its fifth meeting, the Royal Commission drew up a list of witnesses
to be examined. The sixth day was wholly occupied in granting the
summonses, and as the Board has not yet finished examining its first
witness, the report will not, it is expected, be ready for the
Exhibition of the Works of Industry of All Nations in May, 1851.
A VILLAGE TALE.
The rooks are cawing in the elms,
As on the very day—
That sunny morning, mother dear,
When Lucy went away;
And April’s pleasant gleams have come,
And April’s gentle rain—
Fresh leaves are on the vine—but when
Will Lucy come again?
The spring is as it used to be,
And all must be the same;
And yet, I miss the feeling now,
That always with it came;
It seems as if to me she made
The sweetness of the year—
As if I could be glad no more,
Now Lucy is not here.
A year—it seems but yesterday,
When in this very door
You stood; and she came running back,
To say good bye once more;
I hear you sob—your parting kiss—
The last fond words you said—
Ah! little did we think—one year,
And Lucy would be dead!
How all comes back—the happy times,
Before our father died;
When, blessed with him, we knew no want,
Scarce knew a wish denied—
His loss, and all our struggles on,
And that worst dread, to know,
From home, too poor to shelter all,
That one at last must go.
How often do I blame myself,
How often do I think,
How wrong I was to shrink from that
From which she did not shrink;
And when I wish that I had gone,
And know the wish is vain;
And say, she might have lived, I think,—
How can I smile again.
I dread to be alone, for then,
Before my swimming eyes,
Her parting face, her waving hand,
Distinct before me rise;
Slow rolls the waggon down the road—
I watch it disappear—
Her last “dear sister,” fond “good-bye,”
Still lingering in my ear.
Oh, mother, had but father lived
It would not have been thus;
Or, if God still had taken her,
She would have died with us;
She would have had kind looks, fond words,
Around her dying bed—
Our hands to press her dying hands,
To raise her dying head.
I’m always thinking, mother, now,
Of what she must have thought;
Poor girl! as day on day went by,
And neither of us brought;—
Of how she must have yearned, one face,
That was not strange, to see—
Have longed one moment to have set
One look on you and me.
Sometimes I dream a happy dream—
I think that she is laid
Beside our own old village church,
Where we so often played;
And I can sit upon her grave,
And with her we shall lie,
Afar from where the city’s noise,
And thronging feet go by.
Nay, mother—mother—weep not so,
God judges for the best,
And from a world of pain and woe,
He took her to his rest;
Why should we wish her back again?
Oh, freed from sin and care,
Let us the rather pray God’s love,
Ere long to join her there.
THE FIRE ANNIHILATOR
“Water, and nothing _but_ water!” exclaimed Mr. John Diggs, the great
sugar-baker (everybody knows old John Diggs), “Water, I say, is the
natural enemy of fire; and any man who dares to say otherwise is no
better that a fool or a charlatan. I should like to knock such a fellow
down. I know more about fire than all the learned talking chaps in
England, and it’s of no use to tell me when a house is in a blaze, that
any thing but water _can_ put it out. Not a bit of it. Don’t attempt to
say so; I won’t hear it!”
Mr. Diggs gave vent to his feelings in the above oracular form at his
Club, on Thursday evening last, on which occasion he happened to be the
Chairman. It was in consequence of one of the junior members reading a
passage from a scientific Journal, to the effect that water was almost
as much a friend to fire, as an enemy—and that, at any rate, they were
near of kin—quoting Mr. Phillips, the Inventor of the Fire Annihilator,
as a practical authority on the subject. This was what had so enraged
Mr. Diggs, sugar-baker, and chairman of the Albert Rock and Toffee Club.
Mr. John Diggs is a man who always carries his will before him, like a
crown on a cushion, while his reason follows like a page, holding up the
skirts of his great coat. Honest-hearted, and not without generosity, he
is much esteemed in spite of his many perversities. He possesses a
shrewd observation, and a good understanding, when once you can get at
it; but his energies and animal spirits commonly carry him out of all
bounds, so that to bring him back to rational judgment is a work of no
small difficulty. He is _open_ to conviction, as he always says, but he
is a tip-top specimen of the class who commonly use that expression; his
open door is guarded by all the bludgeons of obstinacy, behind which
sits a pig-headed will, with its eyes half shut.
This is the man, and in the condition of mind which may be conjectured
from his speech in the chair, just quoted, who drove up in his gig last
Friday, as the clock struck four, to the gates of the London Gas Works,
Vauxhall, in order to hear, with his own ears, Mr. Phillips dare to say
he could extinguish the most violent flames without the use of water;
and to see, with his own eyes, the total failure of the attempt, and the
exposure of the humbug.
To make sure of entire sympathy in all his perversities, Mr. Diggs had
brought his wife with him; and to insure a ready assistance in the
detection of any tricks, his foreman, Mr. White, had been sent on by the
steamer. A real reason lay at the bottom of all this; for the work-place
and warehouse of Mr. Diggs were worth 60,000_l._; part of which sum, no
insurance could cover; and his stock in trade as well as his works, he
but too well knew, were of a most combustible nature. No laughing
matter—therefore not a thing to be trifled with.
Mr. Diggs met his foreman in the yard, waiting for his arrival; and the
party having displayed their tickets, were ushered across and around,
till they came to a large brick building, with a long row of arched
window holes along the top, apparently for the ready escape of volumes
of smoke. The window holes all looked very black about the edges. So did
the door-posts. The walls were very dingy and besmutched. Mrs. Diggs had
put on her best spring bonnet with orange ribbons, and her pink and
fawn-coloured silk shawl. She had a sudden misgiving, but it couldn’t be
helped now.
They were ushered through a large, smutty door, into a brick building,
paved with bricks, and having arched recesses, here and there, at the
lower part. Commodious retreats, in case the flames put forth their
tongues beyond their usual range, and advanced towards the centre of the
building,—as Mr. Diggs devoutly hoped they might. At one end, the wooden
frame-work of a house, with ground-floor, and first and second floor,
presented its front. It was black and charred from recent fire, with
sundry repairs of new planks, which “brought out” the black of the rest,
both without and within, to the greatest advantage. Level with the
lowest window was a sort of lecturer’s stage of rough planks, at the
back of which lay the model of a ship’s hull, some six or seven feet in
length; and to the right of this, the model of a house, with lower and
upper floor, of about two feet and a half in height.
Fronting this stage, model ship, model house, and actual house, was a
semicircle of chairs and benches—not too near—with ample room left at
the sides for the sudden flight of visitors who had seated themselves in
an incredulous and unimaginative state of mind, nearer than subsequent
events seemed to warrant. Then, there were the arched recesses; then, a
low stage with seats; then, a broad flight of wooden stairs at the
opposite end, by which visitors could ascend to a high platform, leading
also to side galleries, on the same level. The whole place was most
eloquent to the olfactory nerves of coal-tar, pitch, resin, turpentine,
&c. A light sprinkling of sawdust completed the furnishing of this hall,
in which one of the most extraordinary of all our modern discoveries
(provided it prove thoroughly efficient) was about to be subjected to
trial.
Mr. Diggs having planted his foreman at one horn of the crescent of
chairs, and dragging his wife (whose thoughts of her handsome bonnet and
shawl were written in shady lines all over her face) to a dirty-seated
bench, on the other, he darted straight across to the scene of action,
and without a moment’s hesitation or ceremony, ascended the lecturer’s
stage, and diving with nose and hands into the model of the ship’s hull,
began to explore its contents.
The hold, and, indeed, all the interior of the hull, he found to be full
of patent fire-wood, for the rapid kindling of fire, each separate piece
being sufficient to light an ordinary fire; but here, there was nothing
else. He passed on to the model house; opened the door, and looked in.
Here, also, he found a quantity of patent fire-wood, lying on both
floors. A trap-door was left open in the roof to allow of the escape of
the smoke. Mr. Diggs now descended from the little stage, and advanced
to the door of the house which was to be set on fire. He entered the
door-way, and immediately found himself in a dark chamber filled with
charred planks, pitched planks, cross-pieces of new wood, blackened
beams, and a variety of hangings and festoons made of shavings saturated
with coal-tar, resin, and turpentine. A staircase, or, rather, a broad
charred ladder, led up to the first floor. Mr. Diggs forthwith ascended,
and stepped upon a flooring perfectly black; in fact, the whole room
seemed made of charcoal, with here and there a new plank laid across, or
slanting upwards, smeared with coal-tar, and adorned like the
ground-floor, with shavings steeped in resin, pitch, turpentine, and
other combustible matter. “Well,” thought Mr. Diggs, “at all events,
there’ll be flames enough.” A second charred ladder formed a staircase
leading to the top floor; but this was so dilapidated and rotten from
recent burning, that our sceptical sugar-baker could venture to do no
more than clamber up, and rest his chin on the blackened boards of the
floor above, in which position he clung by the smutty tips of his
fingers, and stared around, above him, and on all sides. He then slowly
descended, and as he made his way out of the front door, he hugged
himself with the firm belief that if the house were fairly set on fire
(as he determined it _should_ be), and the flames were allowed to get
into full play, nothing could stop them till they had burned the house
to the ground, and communicated with the brick building—when the regular
fire-engines, with their torrents of water, would, of course, be sent
for, with all imaginable speed.
Meantime, a considerable number of people of all ranks had assembled,
many of them of the aristocratic class, to judge by the row of liveries,
coachmen, and footmen, who lined one of the side galleries. Mrs. Diggs
comforted herself with the sight of many elegantly-dressed ladies, who
seated themselves on the chairs and benches in front of the little
stage, or platform. Perhaps the smoke and smuts might not be so very
bad, after all, or might be driven back by the wind. Of this it was
rational to entertain some hopes, as the whole building was in a
thorough draught, evinced by many a sneeze and cough,—a condition some
of the visitors thought very unnecessary to be endured before the
conflagration commenced.
Mr. Phillips now ascended the platform, and commenced his brief lecture.
He said he had no sort of intention to undervalue the real service of
water in cases of fire, but only to show that water was by no means the
most efficient agent. The more active part of fire was flame; all fire
commenced with flame, and upon this, when at a great height, water in
any portable quantities, was comparatively powerless. Moreover, there
were many materials, forming the staple commodity of various trades,
which, being ignited, not only defied the power of water, but their
state of combustion was actually increased by the application of water.
This was the case with oil or turpentine, when on fire, with tar, gas,
ardent spirits, &c. Every distiller must know this—and so must every
sugar-baker.
Mr. Diggs suddenly shifted his _pose_ from the right to the left leg;
but said nothing. This was not the point at issue.
In illustration of his last remark, Mr. Phillips called upon his
audience to imagine the hull of the model ship to be a ship at sea with
a large crew, many passengers, and a valuable cargo on board,—part of
the cargo consisting of highly combustible materials. The ship takes
fire! The alarm is given, all hands called on deck, the fire-engine got
out, the pumps set to work! But before this has been done, it happens
that a cask of spirits of turpentine has taken fire! (So saying, Mr.
Phillips sets light to a quantity of spirits of turpentine in an iron
vessel in the ship). The flames rise rapidly!—terrifically—they ascend
the fore-rigging, which, being all tarred, is quickly in a blaze! Now
all is dismay and confusion, more especially among the passengers. Some
of these, however, retain sufficient presence of mind to be able to
assist the sailors in pumping. They drench the ship with water,—they
pour a continual stream from the engine upon the flames of the
turpentine! (At these words Mr. Phillips dips a jug in a bucket of
water, and pours it upon the flames.) But it only increases them—(it
does so)—more water is dashed upon the flames by the men (Mr. Phillips
suits the action to the word) and by the boldest of the passengers, but
with no better result. Now, the fire communicates with a second barrel
of spirits of turpentine; the flames rise on all sides, and ascend with
a continuous roar to the rigging of the mainmast, which is rapidly in a
blaze. (The model ship is literally all in a blaze.) In despair and
madness, buckets of water are flung at random—nobody knows what he is
doing; all rush wildly about, preparing to leap overboard at the very
moment they scream loudest for the boats!—the boats!—when an individual
suddenly recollects, as by a flash of thought, that there is a machine
on board called a Fire Annihilator. (Here Mr. Phillips seizes upon a
small brass machine, out of which he causes a white vapour to issue.) In
a second or two the flames are half extinguished;—he carries the machine
to the other flaming mast, and to the casks in the forehold,—the flames
are gone!
And so they are! Of the volume of flames in the model ship, which by
this time had risen to the height of eight or nine feet, not a flash
remains,—they were annihilated in four or five seconds. The machine
which wrought this wonder was like a brass shaving-pot, or bachelor’s
coffee-pot, and certainly not larger.
But how was Mr. Diggs affected by this? Did the worthy sugar-baker look
peculiarly wise, or did he stand rather aghast at his own wisdom?
Neither the one, nor the other. Had Mr. Phillips been a fine actor, the
foregoing scene, with its fiery illustration, and the frantic yet
fruitless use of water, would have had a tremendous effect; but his
manner was not sufficiently excited, and, worse than this, he very much
damaged the effect, and the conviction it would have carried with it, by
turning his back towards the audience when he poured the water upon the
flames, so that “standing in his own light,” it was impossible for many
people to see whether the water was really poured into the model ship,
or over the other side, unless they could have seen through his body.
This was not lost upon John Diggs, who loudly murmured his
dissatisfaction, accordingly, in opposition to the general applause of
those who _did_ see, which followed the rapid extinction of the flames.
How _this_ was accomplished Mr. Diggs did not know; he simply considered
that water had not had fair play. He suspected some trick.
“The existence of water,” pursued Mr. Phillips, “is continuous, flowing,
not quickly to be destroyed; the life of fire is momentary. (He explodes
a large lucifer-match.) Now you see it at its height! (He dashes it into
water). Now it is nothing! Its life is from instant to instant. Why has
it become nothing? Because water is its natural antagonist? No—but
because fire cannot exist without a certain quantity of _air_; and when
it is entirely immersed in water, this requisite quantity of air is
suddenly withdrawn, and the fire as instantly dies. The very same result
would follow if I were to dash a lighted match into oil.”
“Let us see!” exclaimed Mr. Diggs; but he was called to order by a
number of voices.
Mr. Phillips had been led many years ago, as he now informed us, to
consider the nature of fire and water. It so chanced that he had
witnessed most of the great conflagrations which have happened in London
during the last twenty or thirty years. The destruction to the Royal
Exchange, the Houses of Parliament—the fire at the Tower, theatres,
great warehouses—he was present at them all; and he could not but
observe amidst the prodigious efforts made to save them, that water was
comparatively powerless upon violent flames; and therefore inadequate to
the task it was called upon to perform. He was also witness of a series
of terrible volcanic eruptions. He was in a seventy-four gun-ship in the
Mediterranean at the time. For thirty or forty days there was an
eruption, and sometimes two or three, almost daily. The most terrific of
these—and by which they were nearly lost, having been driven towards it,
and only saved by a sudden change of wind—was of such force, that the
shock was felt throughout the south of Europe,—from the Rock of
Gibraltar, to Stromboli. A volcanic island was thrown up in the middle
of the sea, from a depth of four or five hundred feet. This island was
of molten lava, and rose in the form of a crescent with an open crater,
into which the sea continually rushed like a cataract. But the fire
within was not extinguished. At each successive eruption, the water was
ejected with a force that sent it up two miles, and sometimes three
miles high—again to descend in thousands of tons upon the crater, but
without extinguishing the fire. The sea was boiling for a quarter of a
mile on one side of the island: the fire was completely beyond its
power. Instead of extinguishing fire, the water was made to boil. But he
observed this further phenomenon. A dense cloud of vapour was sometimes
generated; and whenever the wind bore this vapour into the flames, they
were immediately extinguished.
A consideration of these phenomena led Mr. Phillips to the following
conclusions. Fire and water are not natural enemies, but very near
relations. They are each composed of the same elements; and in the same
proportions; the component parts of water can be turned into fire; and
when fire ceases to be fire, it becomes water. (This latter proposition
caused Mr. Diggs to prick up his ears, but he said nothing.) The two
elements had by no means the direct and immediate power over each other
that was generally supposed. Water was a compact body, and acting in
this body, it could not act simultaneously on the particles of gases
which produce flame; but a gaseous vapour being of an equally subtle
nature with the gases it has to attack, can instantly intermix with
them. Find, therefore, a gaseous vapour, which shall intercept the
contact of the gases of flame, and thus prevent their chemical union,
their inflammatory forces are thereby destroyed, and the flame is at
once extinguished.
The means of immediately generating this gaseous vapour had, after
numerous experiments during many years, been discovered by Mr. Phillips.
With this composition, his machine, called the Fire Annihilator, was
charged.
He pointed to the small model house. It was made of iron, and filled
with combustible materials. He had had the honour of exhibiting it
before many crowned heads.
“Like the Wizard of the North!” muttered Mr. Diggs, looking
contemptuously at the model.
The fuel within it, is now ignited. The flames rapidly spread, and
ascend to the upper floor. A thick smoke issues from the trap-door on
the roof.
“Here,” said Mr. Phillips, “is a house on fire! Some of the inmates are
trying to escape by the trap-door on the roof. They make their way out.
The fire-escapes of the Royal Society are in attendance with their usual
promptitude; their courageous men are ascending the ladders to assist
the inmates in their descent. But where are the inmates? Two of them
have fallen down somewhere, another has actually got back into the
attic. The reason is, that life cannot exist in that smoke which the
fire generates.”
A lighted match being held in it, instantly went out. This was repeated
quickly, once or twice. It always went out. The interior of the house
was full of flames. One of the little Fire Annihilators was now applied
to the door of the model. The flames sunk to nothing almost immediately.
A thick vapour was left in their place. But in this vapour life _can_
exist. Mr. Phillips again lights a match, and applies it to the vapour
issuing through the trap-door. The match continues to burn. Mr. Phillips
then thrusts his arm through the door, and holds the match in the
interior of the house, where it still continues to burn amidst the
vapour. In this vapour human life can equally exist.
“Don’t believe it!” muttered Mr. Diggs, amidst the otherwise unanimous
applause, in which was lost his additional request,—“Set fire to the
real house, and have done with it!”
Mr. Phillips here described his machine. Its various complications had
been reduced to a simple form and action. As he has printed this for
general circulation, it will be sufficient to state that the ordinary
size is less than that of a small upright iron coal-skuttle, and its
weight not greater than can be easily carried by man or woman to any
part of the house. It is charged with a compound of charcoal, nitre, and
gypsum, moulded into the form of a large brick. The igniter is a glass
tube inserted in the top of the brick, inclosing two phials—one filled
with a mixture of chlorate of potassa and sugar, the other containing a
few drops of sulphuric acid. A slight blow upon a knob drives down a
pin, which breaks the phials, and the different mixtures coming in
contact, ignite the whole; and the gas of this, acting upon a water
chamber contained in the machine, produces a steam, and the whole
escapes forcibly in a dense and expanding cloud.
Preparations were now made for setting fire to the three-roomed house. A
“sensation” passed over the room, and several ladies began to rise from
their chairs, and retire from the semicircle in front of the
lecture-stage. Mr. Phillips assured them there was no danger, as he had
a perfect command over the flames; at the same time, he requested the
company to observe that he had purposely arranged that every
disadvantage should be against him. The house was full of combustible
materials—the whole building was in a thorough draught (it was indeed)
and they would observe that the commencement of the full force of the
fire would be almost immediate, and without any of the gradual advances
which were usual in almost all conflagrations. Lastly, he called upon
them to take note that the fury of the flames would be such that no life
could exist near them for a single instant.
Without further words a lighted match is applied to one of the tarred
and turpentined shavings that hang in the ground-floor of the house.
It sparkles—blazes—and in one moment the lower room is full of flames!
In the next, they have risen to the floor above—they crackle, roar, and
beat about, springing up to the roof, and darting out tongues and forks
to the right and left of the building, while a dense hot cloud of smoke,
full of red fragments of shavings and other embers comes floating and
dancing over the heads of the assembled company. Everybody has arisen
from his seat,—ladies—gentlemen,—and now all the visitors, are crowding
towards the other end of the building! The whole place is filled with
the roar of flames, the noise of voices, hurrying feet, and rustling
garments—and clouds of hot smoke!
But suddenly a man enters the building from a side-door, bearing a
portable Fire Annihilator of the size we have mentioned; he is followed
by a second. The machines are vomiting forth a dense white vapour. They
enter just within the door-way of the blazing house. A change instantly
takes place in the colour and action of the flames, as though they grew
pale in presence of their master. They sink. There is nothing but
darkness—and the dense white vapour coiling about in triumph.
“Life can now exist!” cries Mr. Phillips, rushing into the house, and
ascending the blackened stairs. Mr. Diggs (hoping he might be
suffocated) instantly follows. He gains the top of the ladder, and
plants one foot on the floor. He cannot see for the thick vapour. The
hand of Mr. Phillips assists him, and they both go to the window and
look out upon the company. Mr. Diggs coughs a little, but, to his
disappointment, is not suffocated. In another second or two, he can take
his breath freely. Very odd.
Mr. Diggs is more than staggered by such a proof. He begins to suspect
there may be something in it. As Mr. Phillips assists the worthy
sugar-baker over a piece of very burnt and precarious-looking flooring,
out at a side hole in the house, as the stairs are no longer safe, Mr.
Diggs thanks him very civilly for his attention, and—he almost adds—for
the satisfactory result of this last experiment; but he checked himself.
Time would show.
Meanwhile, all was pleasant confusion, and applause, and wonder, and
satisfaction, and congratulation, and the re-arrangement of habiliments,
and the polishing of smutty faces, and laughing and good humour among
the company. With some difficulty, Mr. Diggs discovered his wife, and
with almost equal difficulty recognised her after he had found her. She
had been honoured more than almost any one else, with the falling embers
and black smut of the conflagration. Her pink and fawn-coloured silk
shawl was spotted all over, and looked like a leopard-skin; the orange
ribbons on her bonnet were speckled, and otherwise toadied, while her
face, after a diligent use of her handkerchief (having no glass, or
friend to ask), had a complete shady tint all over it, giving her the
appearance of one of those complexions of lead colour, presented by
unfortunate invalids who have had occasion to undergo a course of
nitrate of silver. Many other persons were in a spotty and smutted
predicament, but none so bad as poor Mrs. Diggs, except, indeed her
husband; but he was insensible to such matters.
Issuing forth into the spacious yard of the gas works, a final
demonstration was about to be given to the visitors on their way out. A
circular pool, of eighteen feet in circumference, was filled with tar
and naphtha. This thick liquid mixture was ignited, and in a few seconds
the whole surface sent up a prodigious blaze of great brilliancy. A boy
of about eleven years of age (apparently a stranger to the machine, to
judge from his awkwardness) was desired to strike down the knob which
put the portable Fire Annihilator in action. He did so; and immediately
the thick white vapour began to gush forth. The boy carried the machine,
with very little effort, to within four or five feet of the flames.
Instantly the flames changed colour, as though with a sort of ghastly
purple horror of their destroyer—and, in a few seconds, down they sank,
and became nothing. There lay the black mixture, looking as if it had
never been disturbed. But the machine, meantime, went on vomiting forth
its vapour, with surplus power, like the escape-pipe of a steam-engine,
and the boy being in a state of confusion, was bringing the machine back
among the company assembled round, who all begun to retreat, when
somebody connected with the Works told him to let it off against the
dead wall. While this was taking place, the same individual remarked
aloud, that the vapour could not only be breathed after it had ascended
and extinguished a fire, but would not burn even as it gushed forth
fresh and furious from the machine. As he said this, he passed his hand
through it once or twice. Mr. Diggs suddenly thought he had a last
chance,—and, rushing forward, passed his hand (hoping he might be
dreadfully scorched) through the fierce vapour as it rushed out.
Actually, he was not at all scorched. It was only rather hot. He passed
his hand backwards and forwards twice more—a sort of greasy and rather
dirty warm moisture covered his hand—this was all. John Diggs was fairly
conquered—admitted it to himself—and, seeking out Mr. Phillips, went
honestly up to him, and shook him heartily by the hand—saying, with a
laugh, that if all was fairly done, and no necromancy, he had witnessed
a great fact, and he congratulated him.
Still—in a friendly way—he could not help asking Mr. Phillips for a word
of explanation as to his assertion that fire and water were of the same
family—in fact, convertible, each into the other. Mr. Phillips
accordingly favoured Mr. Diggs with the following remarks:—“Fire,” said
he, “is mainly composed of eight parts of oxygen, and one part of
hydrogen; thus making a whole of nine parts. When fire ceases to be
fire, it becomes water, retaining the same elements and proportions,
viz., eight of oxygen and one of hydrogen, and will weigh (if the
measure has been in pounds) nine pounds or parts. If you decompose these
nine pounds of water by voltaic battery, the gases generated will render
eight pounds of oxygen and one of hydrogen. Moreover, this law of nature
cannot be deranged or disturbed by human agency. If, to make fire, you
take eight parts of oxygen, and _two_ of hydrogen, the false proportion
will not prevent the product of fire; for the principle of fire, as if
by instinct, will elect its own proper proportions, become fire, and
throw over the excess, whether the error be an excess of oxygen or
hydrogen.”
“Thank you, Sir—thank you!” said Mr. John Diggs;—but he determined to
take a glass of punch with a friend of his, an experimental chemist,
that same evening.
Now, taking it for granted that there is no necromancy in all this, it
may be asked, how will the discovery affect, not only the Fire Brigade
of London, but the use of fire-engines (with hose and water) all over
the country, and the civilised world. Will they not be superseded? We
answer without hesitation, we think they will by no means be superseded.
One great value of this magnificent discovery of Mr. Phillips, consists
in its immediate command over the active part of fire, viz., flame:
whereby a fire in a large building full of combustible materials, a
private dwelling, a theatre, or a ship at sea, may be extinguished
before it has time to make any very destructive advances. But in all
cases where a fire has gained any ascendancy, and extended over a
considerable space, the use of water _after_ the flames have been
extinguished, continues as important as ever. The _red heat_ which
remains on the smouldering and heated materials, may re-ignite; and it
is to prevent this, that water is still an imperative requisition.
Moreover, water is necessary to drench adjoining chambers, partywalls,
or adjoining houses and premises, to prevent their liability to taking
fire from the conflagration that has already commenced. We earnestly
trust, therefore, that the greatest unanimity will exist in all branches
of this great Fire and Water Question, and that they will cordially
receive the new Vapour into amicable partnership and co-operation. Fully
recognising the immense importance to the community at large, of a body
of brave, well-trained, and skilful men, like those of the Fire Brigade,
and those who compose the staff of the Fire-Escapes of the Royal Society
(and two more efficient and admirable staffs do not exist in this
country, or any other country); we think, after Mr. Phillips’s invention
has passed through every test that can reasonably be required, that all
Fire-engines, and every Fire-escape, would do well to have one or more
of these Fire Annihilators with them as a regular part of their
apparatus.
Of the Fire-escapes of the Royal Society, the promptitude of their
action (they are almost always first at a fire), and the many lives
saved by them every year—nay, sometimes, in the course of a week—we had
contemplated a substantive account, but have been withheld by the
impossibility of doing justice to the various patents without accurate
drawings and diagrams. However, as these are already before the public,
we may content ourselves by saying, that, whether the Royal Society make
use of the Fire-escape invented by Winter and Sons, by Wivell, or by
Davies, the humane exertions of the Society have attained a success
which commands the admiration, and ensures the gratitude, of society at
large.
Respecting the annihilating properties of water, much may be said, and
will be said; but all in vain, until the water companies are brought to
their senses, and the utter abolition of domestic cisterns and
water-butts is effected. Without the continuous supply system—till all
the water-pipes in all the houses and all the streets are kept always
fully charged at high pressure, conflagrations never will, and never
can, be promptly put out by the agency of what the penny-a-liners have
lately taken to call the “antagonistic element.” Fire-engines, if not
wholly laid aside, must be only kept for exceptional cases, and the Fire
Brigade—well conducted, efficient, courageous as it is—may, some of
these days, be turned into a corps of reserve. With the mains ever
charged, with water at high service, no engines will be required. At the
first alarm of fire, the policeman pulls up the fire plug—which should
be opposite every sixth or eighth house—fixes the hose, and out spouts a
cataract in two minutes. Assistance arrives; trails of hoses are made to
lead from the rows of plugs on either side, or in other streets, and in
five minutes a deluge—and no more fire.
For the extinguishing of fire, _time_ is a most important consideration.
A few gallons of water would be effective if used at once, where
thousands of gallons would effect little after ten or fifteen minutes
had elapsed. The average time the Brigade engines take in arriving at a
fire after the first alarm is ten minutes or a quarter of an hour, rapid
as are their movements. The Parish engines are far more numerous, but
always last—and seldom of any use when they _do_ come. Conceive a parish
beadle at a fire!
In some towns in the north—among others Preston, Oldham, Ashton, Bolton,
Bury, and Manchester—the continuous water supply system has been in use
for some time with manifest benefit to the inhabitants. The fire plug
and jet, without engines, have, in these places, already done great
execution. Under recent improvements, also, the same plans have been
adopted in Hamburgh; Philadelphia and other American towns have, in
their wisdom, “done likewise.” On one occasion, at Liverpool, a fire was
extinguished by a hose which was promptly applied; a fire-engine arrived
presently after, when the engine-man, finding the fire had been
extinguished, knocked the hoseman down, as an impertinent fellow.
In factories, and other large buildings, if an arrangement of the above
kind were adopted, on the first alarm of fire a man would only have to
unwind a hose, and turn a cock. This, with one of the Fire Annihilators
at hand, would probably render the building quite secure.
These improvements and precautions carry with them a variety of
interesting consequences,—such as the check to incendiarism, the effect
on insurances, the benefit to health by the plug and hose being used
daily in washing the streets, and thus destroying foul exhalations after
a storm, &c.
While bringing this paper to a conclusion, we learn that Mr. John Diggs
has determined to have a _self-acting_ Fire Annihilator fixed in a
central position of his warehouse; so that if a fire should burst out in
the night, the flames would melt one or other of a series of leaden
wires, any one of which being thus divided, would liberate a heavy
weight, which would instantly run down an iron wire leading to the knob
and pin of his special Annihilator—ignite the contents of the machine,
and destroy the flames in his sugar-bakery, while he slept soundly in
his bed.
THE SICKNESS AND HEALTH OF THE PEOPLE OF BLEABURN.
IN THREE PARTS.—CHAPTER VIII.
The spectacle of carrying the Good Lady up to the brow was more
terrifying to the people of Bleaburn than any of the funerals they had
seen creeping along by the same path,—more even than the passage of the
laden cart, with the pall over it, on the morning of the opening of the
new burying-grounds. The people of Bleaburn, extremely ignorant, were
naturally extremely superstitious. It was not only the very ignorant who
were superstitious. The fever itself was never supposed to be more
catching than a mood of superstition; and so it now appeared in
Bleaburn. For many weeks past the Good Lady had been regarded as a sort
of talisman in the people’s possession. She breathed out such
cheerfulness wherever she turned her face, that it seemed as if the
place could not go quite to destruction while she was in it. Some who
would not have admitted to themselves that they held such an impression
were yet infected with the common dismay, as well as with the sorrow of
parting with her. If Mary had had the least idea of the probable effect
of her departure, she would have been less admired by the Kirbys for her
docility,—for she would certainly have insisted on staying where she
was.
“I declare I don’t know what to do,” the doctor confessed in confidence
to the clergyman. “Every patient I have is drooping, and the people in
the street look like creatures under doom. The comet was bad enough;
and, before we have well done with it, here is a panic which is ten
times worse.”
“I tried to lend a hand to help you against the comet,” replied Mr.
Kirby. “I think I may be of some use again now. Shall I tell them it is
a clear case of idolatry?”
“Why, it is in fact so, Mr. Kirby; but yet, I shrink from appearing to
cast the slightest disrespect on her.”
“Of course; of course. The thing I want to show them is what she would
think,—how shocked she would be if she knew the state of mind she left
behind.”
“Ah! if you can do that!”
“I will see about it. Now tell me how we are going on.”
The Doctor replied by a look, which made Mr. Kirby shake his head.
Neither of them liked to say in words how awful was the state of things.
“It is such weather you see,” said the Doctor. “Damp and disagreeable as
it is, this December is as warm as September.”
“Five-and-twenty sorts of flowers out in my garden,” observed Mr. Kirby.
“I set the boys to count them yesterday. We shall have as many as that
on Christmas-day. A thing unheard of!”
“There will be no Christmas kept this year, surely,” said the Doctor.
“I don’t know that. My wife and I were talking it over yesterday. We
think * * Well, my boy,” to a little fellow who stood pulling his
forelock, “what have you to say to me? I am wanted at home, am I? Is
Mrs. Kirby there?”
The Doctor heard him say to himself, “Thank God!” when they saw the lady
coming out of a cottage near. The Doctor had long suspected that the
clergyman and his wife were as sensible of one another’s danger as the
most timid person in Bleaburn was of his own; and now he was sure of it.
Henceforth, he understood that they were never easy out of one another’s
sight; and that when the clergyman was sent for from the houses he was
passing, his first idea always was that his wife was taken ill. It was
so. They were not people of sentiment. They had settled their case with
readiness and decision, when it first presented itself to them; and they
never looked back. But it did not follow that they did not feel. They
agreed, with the smallest possible delay, that they ought to succeed to
the charge of Bleaburn on Mr. Finch’s death; that they ought to place
their boys at school, and their two girls with their aunt till Bleaburn
should be healthy again; and that they must stand or fall by the duty
they had undertaken. As for separating, that was an idea mentioned only
to be dismissed. They now nodded across the little street, as Mrs. Kirby
proceeded on her round of visits, and her husband went home, to see who
wanted him there.
In the corner of the little porch was a man sitting, crouching and
cowering as if in bodily pain. Mr. Kirby went up to him, stooped down to
see his face (but it was covered with his hands), and at last ventured
to remove his hat. Then the man looked up. It was a square, hard face,
which from its make would have seemed immovable; but it was anything but
that now. It is a strange sight, the working of emotion in a countenance
usually as hard as marble!
“Neale!” exclaimed Mr. Kirby. “Somebody ill at the farm, I am afraid.”
“Not yet, Sir; not yet, Mr. Kirby. But Lord save us! we know nothing of
how soon it may be so.”
“Exactly so: that has been the case of every man, woman, and child, hour
by hour since Adam fell.”
“Yes, Sir; but the present time is something different from that. I
came, Sir, to say * * I came, Mr. Kirby, because I can get no peace or
rest, day or night; for thoughts, Sir; for thoughts.”
Mr. Kirby glanced round him. “Come in,” said he, “Come into my study.”
Neale followed him in; but instead of sitting down, he walked straight
to the window, and seemed to be looking into the garden. Mr. Kirby, who
had been on foot all the morning, sat down and waited, shaving away at a
pen meanwhile.
“On Sunday, Sir,” said Neale at last, in a whispering kind of voice,
“you read that I have kept back the hire of the labourers that reaped
down my fields, and that their cry has entered into the ears of the
Lord.”
“That _you_ kept back the hire of the labourer?” exclaimed Mr. Kirby,
quickly turning in his seat, so as to face his visitor. He laid his hand
on the pocket-bible on the table, opened at the Epistle of James, and,
with his finger on the line, walked to the window with it.
“Yes, Sir, that is it,” said Neale. “I would return the hire I kept
back,—(I can’t exactly say by fraud, for it was from hardness)—I would
pay it all willingly now; but the men are dead. The fever has left but a
few of them.”
“I see,” said Mr. Kirby. “I see how it is. You think the fever is
dogging your heels, because the cries of your labourers have entered
into the ears of the Lord. You want to buy off the complaints of the
dead, and the anger of God, by spending now on the living. You are
afraid of dying; and you would rather part with your money, dearly as
you love it, than die; and so you are planning to bribe God to let you
live.”
“Is not that rather hard, Sir?”
“Hard?—Is it true? that is the question.”
When they came to look closely into the matter, it was clear enough.
Neale, driven from his accustomed methods and employments, and from his
profits, and all his outward reliances, was adrift and panic-stricken.
When the Good Lady was carried out of the hollow, the last security
seemed gone, and the place appeared to be delivered over to God’s wrath;
his share of which, his conscience showed him to be pointed out in the
words of scripture which had so impressed his mind, and which were
ringing in his ears, as he said, day and night.
“As for the Good Lady,” said Mr. Kirby, “I am sure I hope she will never
hear how some of the people here regard her, after all she has done for
them. If anything could bow her spirit, it would be that.” Seeing Neale
stare in surprise, he went on. “One would think she was a kind of witch
or sorceress; that there was some sort of magic about her; instead of
her being a sensible, kind-hearted, fearless woman, who knows how to
nurse, and is not afraid to do it when it is most wanted.”
“Don’t you think then, Sir, that God sent her to us?”
“Certainly; as he sent the Doctor, and my wife and me: as he sends
people to each other whenever they meet. I am sure you never heard the
Good Lady say that she was specially sent.”
“She is so humble,—so natural, Sir,—she was not likely to say such a
thing.”
“Very true: and she is too wise to think it. No—there is nothing to be
frightened about in her going away. She could have done no good here,
while unable to walk or sit up; and she will recover better where she is
gone. If she recovers, as I expect she will, she will come and see us;
and I shall think that as good luck as you can do; not because she
carries luck about with her, but because there is nothing we so much
want as her example of courage, and sense and cheerfulness.”
“To be sure,” said Neale, in a meditative way, “she could not keep the
people from dying.”
“No indeed,” observed Mr. Kirby; “you and some others took care that she
should not.”
In reply to the man’s stare of amazement, Mr. Kirby asked:—
“Are not you the proprietor of several of the cottages in Bleaburn?”
“Yes: I have seven altogether.”
“I know them well,—too well. Neale, your conscience accuses you about
the hire of your labourers: but you have done worse things than oppress
them about wages. Part of the mischief you may be unaware of; but I know
you are not of all. I know that Widow Slaney speaks to you, year by
year, about repairing that wretched place she lives in. Have you done it
yet? Not you! I need not have asked; and yet you screw that poor woman
for her rent till she cannot sleep at night for thinking of it. You know
in your heart that what she says is true,—that if her son was
alive,—(and it was partly your hardness that sent him to the wars, and
to his terrible fate)—”
“Stop, Sir! I cannot bear it!” exclaimed Neale. “Sir, you should not
bear so hard on me. I have a son that met another bad fate at the wars:
and you know it, Mr. Kirby.”
“To be sure I do. And how do you treat him? You drove him away by
harshness; and now you say he shall not come back, because you cannot be
troubled with a cripple at home.”
“Not now, Sir. I say no such thing now. When I said that, I was in a bad
mood. I mean to be kind to him now: and I have told him so:—that is, I
have said so to the girl he is attached to.”
“You have? You have really seen her, and shown respect to the young
people?”
“I have, Sir.”
“Well: that is so far good. That is some foundation laid for a better
future.”
“I should be thankful, Sir, to make up for the past.”
“Ah!” said Mr. Kirby, shaking his head; “that is what can never be done.
The people, as you say, are dead: the misery is suffered: the mischief
is done, and cannot be undone. It is a lie, and a very fatal one, to say
that past sins may be atoned for.”
“O, Mr. Kirby!—don’t say that!”
“I must say it, because it is true. You said yourself that you cannot
make it up to those you have injured, because the men are dead. What is
that you are saying? that you wish the fever had taken you; and you
could go now and shoot yourself? Before you dare to say such things, you
should look at the other half of the case. Is not the future greater
than the past, because we have power over it? And is there not a good
text somewhere about forgetting the things that are behind, and pressing
forwards to those that are before?”
“O, Sir! if I could forget the past!”
“Well: you see you have scripture warrant for trying. But then the
pressing forwards to better things must go with it. If you forget the
past, and go on the same as ever, you might as well be in hell at once.
Then, I don’t know that your shooting yourself would do much harm to
anybody.”
“But, Sir, I am willing to do all I can. I am willing to spend all I
have. I am, indeed.”
“Well, spend away,—money, time, thought, kindness,—till you can fairly
say that you have done by everybody as you would be done by! It will be
time enough then to think what next. And, first, about these cottages of
yours. If no more people are to die in them, murdered by filth and damp,
you have no time to lose. You must not sit here, talking remorse, and
planning fine deeds, but you must set the work going this very day.
Come! let us go and see.”
Farmer Neale walked rather feebly through the hall: so Mr. Kirby called
him into the parlour, and gave him a glass of wine. Still, as they went
down the street, one man observed to another, that Neale looked ten
years older in a day. He looked round him, however, with some signs of
returning spirits, when he saw the boys at their street-cleaning, and
observed, that hereabouts things looked wholesome enough.
“Mere outside scouring,” said Mr. Kirby. “Better than dirt, as far as it
goes; unless, indeed, it makes us satisfied to have whited sepulchres
for dwellings. Come and see the uncleanness within.”
Mr. Kirby did not spare him. He took him through all the seven cottages,
for which he had extorted extravagant rents, without fulfilling any
conditions on his own part. He showed him every bit of broken roof, of
damp wall, of soaked floor. He showed him every heap of filth, every
puddle of nastiness caused by there being no drains, or other means of
removal of refuse. He advised him to make a note of every repair needed;
and, when he saw that Neale’s hand shook so that he could not write,
took the pencil from his hand, and did it himself. Two of the seven
cottages he condemned utterly: and Neale eagerly agreed to pull them
down, and rebuild them with every improvement requisite to health. To
the others he would supply what was wanting, and especially drainage.
They stood in such a cluster that it was practicable to drain them all
into a gully of the rock which, by being covered over, by a little
building up at one end, and a little blasting at one side, might be made
into a considerable tank, which was to be closed by a tight-fitting, and
very heavy slab at top. Mr. Kirby conceded so much to the worldly spirit
of the man he had to deal with, as to point out that the manure thus
saved would so fertilise his fields as soon to repay the cost of this
batch of drainage. Neale did not care for this at the moment. He was too
sore at heart at the spectacle of these cottages and their inmates,—too
much shaken by remorse and fear,—for any idea of profit and loss: but
Mr. Kirby thought it as well to point out the fact, as it might help to
animate the hard man to proceed in a good work, when his present melting
mood should be passing away.
“Well: I think this is all we can do to-day,” said Mr. Kirby, as they
issued from the seventh cottage. “The worst of it is, the workmen from
O—— will not come,—I am afraid no builder will come, even to make an
estimate—till we are declared free of fever. But there is a good deal
that your own people can do.”
“They can knock on a few slates before dark, Sir; and those windows can
be mended to-day. I trust, Mr. Kirby, you will give me encouragement;
and not be harder than you can help.”
“Why, Neale; the thing is this. You do not hold your doom from my hand;
and you ought not to hang upon my words. You come to me to tell me what
you feel, and to ask what I think. All I can do is to be honest with
you, and (as indeed I am) sorry for you. Time must do the rest. If you
are now acting well from fear of the fever only, time will show you how
worthless is the effort; for you will break off as soon as the fright
has passed away. If you really mean to do justly and love mercy, through
good and bad fortune, time will prove you there, too: and then you will
see whether I am hard, or whether we are to be friends. This is my view
of the matter.”
Neale touched his hat, and was slowly going away, when Mr. Kirby
followed him, to say one thing more.
“It may throw light to yourself, on your own state of mind, to tell you
that it is quite a usual one among people who have deeply sinned, when
any thing happens to terrify them. Histories of earthquakes and plagues
tell of people thinking and feeling as you do to-day. I dare say you
think nobody ever felt the same before; but you are not the only one in
Bleaburn.”
“Indeed, Sir!” exclaimed Neale, exceedingly struck.
“Far from it. A person who has often robbed your poultry-yard, and taken
your duck eggs, thought that I was preaching at him, last Sunday; though
I knew nothing about it. He wished to make reparation; and he asked me
if I thought you would forgive him. Do you really wish to know my
answer? I told him I thought you would not: but that he must confess and
make reparation, nevertheless.”
“You thought I should not forgive him?”
“I did: and I think so now, thus far. You would say and believe that you
forgave him: but, at odd times, for years to come, you would show him
that you had not forgotten it, and remind him that you had a hold over
him. If not,—if I do you injustice in this, I should——”
“You do not, Sir. I am afraid what you say is very true.”
“Well, just think it over, before he comes to you. This is the only
confession made to me which it concerns you to hear: but I assure you, I
believe there is not an evil doer in Bleaburn that is not sick at heart
as you are; and for the same reason. We all have our pains and troubles;
and yours may turn out a great blessing to you,—or a curse, according as
you persevere or give way.”
Neale said to himself as he went home, that Mr. Kirby had surely been
very hard. If a man hanged for murder was filled with hope and triumph,
and certainty of glory, there must be some more speedy comfort for him
than the pastor had held out. Yet, in his inmost heart, he felt that Mr.
Kirby was right; and he could not for the life of him, keep away from
him. He managed to meet him every day. He could seldom get a word said
about the state of his mind; for Mr. Kirby did not approve of people’s
talking of their feelings,—and especially of those connected with
conscience: but in the deeds which issued from conscientious feelings,
he found cordial assistance given. And Farmer Neale sometimes fancied
that he could see the time,—far as it was ahead—when Mr. Kirby and he
might be, as the pastor had himself said,—friends.
The amount of confession and remorse opened out to the pastor was indeed
striking, and more affecting to him than he chose to show to anybody but
his wife; and not even to her did he tell many of the facts. The
mushroom resolutions spawned in the heat of panic were offensive and
discouraging to him: but there were better cases than these. A man who
had taken into wrath with a neighbour about a gate, and had kept so for
years, and refused to go to church lest he should meet him there, now
discovered that life is too short for strife, and too precarious to be
wasted in painful quarrels. A little girl whispered to Mr. Kirby that
she had taken a turnip in his field without leave, and got permission to
weed the great flower-bed without pay, to make up for it. Simpson and
Sally asked him to marry them; and for poor Sally’s sake, he was right
glad to do it. They were straightforward enough in their declaration of
their reasons. Simpson thought nobody’s life was worth a halfpenny now,
and he did not wish to be taken in his sins: while Sally said it would
be worse still if the innocent baby was taken for its parents’ sin. They
had to hear the publication of banns, at a time when other people were
thinking of anything but marriage; and, when the now disused church was
unlocked to admit them to the altar,—just themselves and the clerk,—it
was very dreary; but they immediately after felt the safer and better
for it. Sally thought the Good Lady would have gone to church with her,
if she had been here; and she wished she could let her know that Simpson
had fulfilled his promise at last. Other people besides Sally wished
they could let the Good Lady know how they were going on;—how frost came
at last, in January, and stopped the fever;—how families who had lived
crowded together now spread themselves into the empty houses; and how
there was so much room that the worst cottages were left uninhabited, or
were already in course of demolition, to make airy spaces, or afford
sites for better dwellings; and how it was now certain that above
two-thirds of the people of Bleaburn had perished in the fever, or by
decline, after it. But they did not think of getting anybody who could
write to tell all this to the Good Lady: nor did it occur to them that
she might possibly know it all. The men and boys collected pretty spars
for her; and the women and girls knitted gloves and comforters, and made
pincushions for her, in the faith that they should some day see her
again. Meanwhile, they talked of her every day.
CHAPTER IX, AND LAST.
It was a fine spring day when the Good Lady re-appeared at Bleaburn.
There she was, perfectly well, and glad to see health on so many of the
faces about her. Some were absent whom she had left walking about in the
strength of their prime; but others whom she had last seen lying
helpless, like living skeletons, were now on their feet, with a light in
their eyes, and some little tinge of colour in their cheeks. There were
sad spectacles to be seen of premature decrepitude, of dreadful sores,
of deafness, of lameness, left by the fever. There were enough of these
to have saddened the heart of any stranger entering Bleaburn for the
first time, but to Mary, the impression was that of a place risen from
the dead. There was much grass in the churchyard, and none in the
streets: the windows of the cottages were standing wide, letting it be
seen that the rooms were white-washed within. There was an indescribable
air of freshness and brightness about the whole place, which made her
feel and say that she hardly thought the fever could harbour there
again. As she turned into the lane leading to her aunt’s, the sound of
the hammer, and the chipping of stone were heard; and some workmen whom
she did not know, turned from their work of planing boards, to see why a
crowd could be coming round the corner. These were workmen from O——,
building Neale’s new cottages, in capital style. And, for a moment, two
young ladies entering from the other end, were equally perplexed as to
what the extraordinary bustle could mean. Their mother, however,
understood it at a glance, and hastened forward to greet the Good Lady,
sending a boy to fetch Mr. Kirby immediately. Mrs. Kirby’s dryness of
manner broke down altogether when she introduced her daughters to Mary.
“Let them say they have shaken hands with you,” said she, as she herself
kissed the hand she held.
It was not easy for Mary to spare a hand, so laden was she with
pincushions and knitted wares; but the Kirbys took them from her, and
followed in her train, till the Widow Johnson appeared on her threshold,
pale as marble, and grave as a monument, but well and able to hold out
her arms to Mary. Poor Jem’s excitement seemed to show that he was aware
that some great event was happening. His habits were the same as before
his illness, and he had no peace till he had shut the door when Mary
entered. Everybody then went away for the time; plenty of eyes, however,
being on the watch for the moment when the Good Lady should be visible
again.
In a few minutes, the movements of Jem’s head showed his mother that, as
she said, something was coming. Jem’s hearing was uncommonly acute: and
what he now heard, and what other people heard directly after, was a
drum and fife. Neighbour after neighbour came to tell the Johnsons what
their ears had told them already,—that there was a recruiting party in
Bleaburn again; and Jem went out, attracted by the music.
“It is like the candle to the moth to him,” said his mother. “I must go
and see that nobody makes sport of him, or gives him drink.”
“Sit still, Aunty; I will go. And there is Warrender, I see, and Ann. We
will take care of Jem.”
And so they did. Ann looked so meaningly at Mary, meantime, as to make
Mary look inquiringly at Ann.
“Only, Ma’am,” said Ann, “that Sally Simpson is standing yonder. She
does not like to come forward, but I know she would be pleased.”
“Her name is Simpson? How glad I am he has married her!” whispered Mary,
as she glanced at the ring which Sally was rather striving to show. “I
hope you are happy at last, Sally.”
“Oh, Ma’am, it is such a weight gone! And I do try to make him happy at
home, that he may never repent.”
Mary thought the doubt should be all the other way—whether the wife
might not be the most likely to repent having bound herself to a man who
could act towards her as Simpson had done. Widow Slaney was not to be
seen. The fife and drum had sent her to the loft. She came down to see
Mary; but her agitation was so great that it would have been cruelty to
stay. They heard her draw the bolt as they turned from the door.
“She does not like seeing Jack Neale any more than hearing the drum,”
observed the host of the Plough and Harrow, who had come forth to invite
the Good Lady in, ‘to take a glass of something.’ “That is Jack Neale,
Ma’am; that wooden-legged young man. He is married, though, for all his
being so crippled. The young woman loved him before; and she loves him
all the more now; and they married last week, and live at his father’s.
It must be a sad sight to his father; but he says no word about it.
Better not; for Britons must be loyal.”
“And why not?” said the Doctor, who had hastened in from the brow, on
seeing that something unusual was going forward below, and had ventured
to offer the Good Lady his arm, as he thought an old comrade in the
conflict with sickness and death might do.
“Why not?” said the Doctor. “We make grievous complaints of the fatality
of war; and it _is_ sad to see the maiming and hear of the slaughter.
But we had better spend our lamentations on a fatality that we can
manage. It would take many a battle of Albuera to mow us down, and hurt
us in sense and limb, as the fever has done.”
“Why, that is true!” cried some, as if struck by a new conviction.
“True, yes,” continued the Doctor. “I don’t like the sight of a
recruiting party, or the sound of the drum much better than the poor
woman in yonder house, who will die of heart-break after all—of horror
and pining for her son. But there is something that I like still less;
the first giddiness and trembling of the strong man, the sinking
feebleness of the young mother, the dimming of the infant’s eyes; and
the creeping fog along the river-bank, the stench in the hot weather,
and the damp in the cold, that tell us that fever has lodged among us. I
know then that we shall have, many times over, the slaughter of war,
without any comfort from thoughts of glory to ourselves or duty to our
country. There is neither glory nor duty in dying like vermin in a
ditch.”
“I don’t see,” said Warrender, “that the sergeant will carry off any of
our youngsters now. If he had come with his drum three months since,
some might have gone with him to get away from the fever, as a more
terrible thing than war; but at present I think he will find that death
has left us no young men to spare.”
And so it proved. The sergeant and his party soon marched up to the
brow, and disappeared, delivering the prophecy that Bleaburn would now
lose its reputation for eagerness to support king and country. And in
truth, Bleaburn was little heard of from that time till the peace.
Mary could not stay now. She had been detained very long from home—in
America—and somebody was waiting very impatiently there to give her a
new and happy home. This is said as if we were speaking of a real
person—and so we are. There was such a Mary Pickard; and what she did
for a Yorkshire village in a season of fever is TRUE.
THE REVENGE OF ÆSOP.
IMITATED FROM PHÆDRUS.
A blockhead once a stone at Æsop threw:
‘A better marksman, friend, I never knew,’
Exclaimed the wit, and gaily rubbed his leg;
‘A hand so dexterous ne’er will come to beg.
‘Excuse these pence; how poor I am, you know!
‘If _I_ give these, what would the rich bestow?
‘Look, look! that well-drest gentleman you see;
‘Quick, prove on him the skill misspent on me!
‘Here, take the stone. Be cool—a steadfast eye—
‘And make your fortune with one lucky shy.’
The blockhead took the counsel of the wit;
He poised the pebble, and his mark he hit.
‘Arrest the traitor! He has struck the king!’
And Æsop, smiling, saw the ruffian swing.
THE GOLDEN FAGOTS.
A CHILD’S TALE.
An old woman went into a wood to gather fagots. As she was breaking,
with much difficulty, one very long, tough branch across her knee, a
splinter went into her hand. It made a wound from which the blood
flowed, but she bound her hand up with a ragged handkerchief, and went
home to her hut.
Now this old woman was very cross, because she had hurt herself; and
therefore when she arrived home and saw her little granddaughter, Ellie,
singing and spinning, she was very glad that there was somebody to
punish. So she told little Ellie that she was a minx, and beat her with
a fagot. But the old woman had for a long time depended for support upon
her granddaughter, and the daily bread had never yet been wanting from
her table.
Then this old woman told little Ellie that she was to untie the
handkerchief and dress the wound upon her hand.
“The cloth feels very stiff,” said the old woman.
And that was a thing not to be wondered at, for when the bandage was
unrolled, one half of it was found to be made of a thick golden tissue.
And there was a lump of gold in the old woman’s hand, where otherwise a
blood clot might have been.
At all this Ellie was not much surprised, because she knew little of
gold, and as her grandmother was very yellow outside, it appeared to her
not unlikely that she was yellow the whole way through.
But the sun now shone into the little room, and Ellie started with
delight: “Look at the beautiful bright beetles there among the fagots!”
She had often watched the golden beetles, scampering to and fro, near a
hot stone upon the rock. “Ah, this is very odd!” said little Ellie,
seeing that the bright specks did not move. “These poor insects must be
all asleep!”
But the old woman, who had fallen down upon her knees before the wood,
bade Ellie go into the town and sell the caps that she had finished; not
forgetting to bring home another load of flax.
Grannie, when left to herself, made a great many curious grimaces. Then
she scratched another wound into her hand, and caused the blood to drop
among the fagots. Then she hobbled and screamed, endeavouring, no doubt,
all the while to dance and sing. It was quite certain that her blood had
the power of converting into gold whatever lifeless thing it dropped
upon.
For many months after this time little Ellie continued to support her
grandmother by daily toil. The old woman left off fires, although it was
cold winter weather, and the snow lay thick upon the cottage roof. Ellie
must jump to warm herself, and her grandmother dragged all the fagots
into her own bedroom. Ellie was forbidden ever again to make Grannie’s
bed, or to go into the old woman’s room on any account whatever.
Grannie’s head was always in a bandage; and it never required dressing.
Grannie could not hurt Ellie so much now when she used the stick, her
strength was considerably lessened.
One day, this old woman did not come out to breakfast; and she made no
answer when she was called to dinner; and Ellie, when she listened
through a crevice, could not hear her snore. She always snored when she
was asleep, so Ellie made no doubt she must be obstinate.
When the night came, Ellie was frightened, and dared not sleep until she
had peeped in.
There was a stack of golden fagots; and her grandmother was on the floor
quite white and dead.
When she alarmed her neighbours they all came together, and held up
their hands and said, “What a clever miser this old woman must have
been!” But when they looked at little Ellie, as she sat weeping on the
pile of gold, they all quarrelled among each other over the question,
Who should be her friend?
A good spirit came in the night, and that was Ellie’s friend; for in the
morning all her fagots were of wood again.
Nobody then quarrelled for her love; but she found love, and was happy;
because nobody thought it worth while to deceive her.
* * * * *
Monthly Supplement of ‘HOUSEHOLD WORDS,’
Conducted by CHARLES DICKENS.
_Price 2d._, _Stamped 3d._,
THE HOUSEHOLD NARRATIVE
OF
CURRENT EVENTS.
_The Number, containing a history of the past month, was issued with
the Magazines._
Published at the Office, No. 16, Wellington Street North, Strand.
Printed by BRADBURY & EVANS, Whitefriars, London.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
● Fixed typos; non-standard spelling and dialect retained.
● Renumbered footnotes.
● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.
● The caret (^) is used to indicate superscript, whether applied to a
single character (as in 2^d) or to an entire expression (as in
1^{st}).
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