The Project Gutenberg eBook of Illustrations of political economy
Volume 2 (of 9), by Harriet Martineau
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Title: Illustrations of political economy Volume 2 (of 9)
Author: Harriet Martineau
Release Date: May 11, 2023 [eBook #70737]
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ILLUSTRATIONS OF POLITICAL
ECONOMY VOLUME 2 (OF 9) ***
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Transcriber’s Note:
This version of the text cannot represent certain typographical effects.
Italics are delimited with the ‘_’ character as _italic_.
The volume is a collection of three (apparently) already published
texts, each with its own title page, table of contents, and pagination.
The table of contents for all three is repeated at the opening of the
volume. The redundant tables have been retained.
Minor errors, attributable to the printer, have been corrected. Please
see the transcriber’s note at the end of this text for details regarding
the handling of any textual issues encountered during its preparation.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
ILLUSTRATIONS
OF
POLITICAL ECONOMY.
BY
HARRIET MARTINEAU.
——o——
DEMERARA.
ELLA OF GARVELOCH.
WEAL AND WOE IN GARVELOCH.
——o——
_IN NINE VOLUMES._
VOL. II.
——o——
LONDON:
CHARLES FOX, PATERNOSTER-ROW.
---
MDCCCXXXIV.
LONDON:
Printed by WILLIAM CLOWES,
Duke-street, Lambeth.
CONTENTS.
DEMERARA.
CHAP. PAGE
1. Sunrise brings Sorrow in Demerara 1
2. Law endangers Property in Demerara 14
3. Prosperity impoverishes in Demerara 28
4. Childhood is Wintry in Demerara 45
5. No haste to the Wedding in Demerara 58
6. Man worth less than Beast in Demerara 64
7. Christianity difficult in Demerara 81
8. The Proud covet Pauperism in Demerara 93
9. Calamity welcome in Demerara 103
10. Protection is Oppression in Demerara 113
11. Beasts hunt Men in Demerara 123
12. No Master knows his Man in Demerara 129
ELLA OF GARVELOCH.
1. Landlord and Tenant 1
2. A Highland Farm 18
3. The first Excursion 34
4. Whom have we here? 44
5. A Highland Night 55
6. The Scotch abroad 67
7. Innovations 81
8. Seclusion not Peace 94
9. A Fool’s Errand 111
10. What is to happen next? 116
11. Understand before you complain 123
12. A waking Dream 132
WEAL AND WOE IN GARVELOCH.
1. Times are changed 1
2. Neighbourly chat 17
3. Kindred not kindness 27
4. Looking before and after 38
5. More haste than good speed 51
6. A dreary prospect 67
7. The discipline of the Teachable 83
8. The discipline of the Unteachable 105
9. Troubles never come alone 121
10. Conclusion 133
------------------------------------------------------------------------
ILLUSTRATIONS
OF
POLITICAL ECONOMY.
--------------
No. IV.
DEMERARA.
=A Tale.=
BY HARRIET MARTINEAU.
----------
‘Till now, ye have gone on and filled the time
With all licentious measure, making your wills
The scope of justice: till now, as many such
As slept within the shadow of your power,
Have wandered with their traversed arms, and breathed
Their sufferance vainly. Now the time is flush
When crouching marrow, in the bearer strong,
Cries of itself—NO MORE.’—SHAKSPEARE.
_THIRD EDITION._
LONDON:
CHARLES FOX, 67, PATERNOSTER-ROW.
---
1833.
LONDON:
Printed by WILLIAM CLOWES,
Stamford Street.
DEMERARA.
=A Tale.=
BY
HARRIET MARTINEAU.
‘Till now, ye have gone on and filled the time
With all licentious measure, making your wills
The scope of justice: till now, as many such
As slept within the shadow of your power,
Have wandered with their traversed arms, and breathed
Their sufferance vainly. Now the time is flush
When crouching marrow, in the bearer strong,
Cries of itself—NO MORE,’—SHAKSPEARE.
_THIRD EDITION._
LONDON:
CHARLES FOX, 67, PATERNOSTER-ROW
---
1833.
PREFACE.
---
Instead of encumbering my small pages with references to authorities and
acknowledgments of suggestions, I give notice in this place that I am
indebted to various authors and to some private friends, not only for
the information on which the argument of this tale is founded, but for
lights respecting negro character and manners which have enabled me to
impart whatever truth may be recognized in my slave personages. My
object having been to appropriate every thing, properly authenticated,
which could illustrate my subject, I leave it to those who may be amused
by the employment to point out whence I derived this argument, or that
anecdote, or those elements of scenery. At the same time, I cannot admit
that I have _copied_. The characters are intended to be original, the
arguments are recast, the descriptions recomposed, and, to the best of
my knowledge, no part of the work is a mere republication of what has
been written before.
If it be objected that the characters for which sympathy is claimed
might have been made more interesting, I reply that our sympathy for
slaves ought to increase in proportion to their vices and follies, if it
can be proved that those vices and follies arise out of the position in
which we place them, or allow them to remain. If the champions of the
slave had but seen how his cause is aided by representing him as he
is,—not only revengeful, but selfish and mean,—not only treacherous to
his master, but knavish to his countrymen, indolent, conceited,
hypocritical, and sensual,—we should have had fewer narratives of slaves
more virtuous than a free peasantry, and exposed to the delicate
miseries of a refined love of which they are incapable, or of social
sensibilities which can never be generated in such a social condition as
theirs.
That slaves cannot be made objects of attachment is one argument against
them in the mouths of slaveholders. I have attempted to employ the same
argument in their behalf. That they command our sympathies by their
injuries alone, that they claim our compassion by their vices yet more
than by their sufferings, is a statement the force of which their
adversaries cannot gainsay, since they themselves have furnished us with
the plea.
While endeavouring to preserve the characteristics of Negro minds and
manners, I have not attempted to imitate the language of slaves. Their
jargon would be intolerable to writer and readers, if carried through a
volume. My personages, therefore, speak the English which would be
natural to them, if they spoke what can be called English at all.
If I had believed, as many do, that strong feeling impairs the soundness
of reasoning, I should assuredly have avoided the subject of the
following tale, since SLAVERY is a topic which cannot be approached
without emotion. But, convinced as I am, on the contrary, that the
reason and the sensibilities are made for co-operation, and perceiving,
as I do, that the most stirring eloquence issues from the calmest logic,
I have not hesitated to bring calculations and reasonings to bear on a
subject which awakens the drowsiest, and fires the coldest. Whether the
deductions which appear to me as clear as day, are here made equally
apparent to others, I am unable to judge. I can only testify that it has
been my most earnest desire to make them so, and to lead the minds of my
readers through the same course with my own. If I have succeeded, they
will find that the argumentative part of the subject arises naturally
from that which appears at first sight to bear the least relation to
argument.
While conversing directly with my readers, I take the opportunity of
thanking those friends to my undertaking whom I cannot approach through
other channels, for the important assistance they have afforded me, by
furnishing me with books and other means of information on the topics of
my course which yet remain to be treated. Of all the kind offices which
have been rendered to me on account of this work, the one in question is
perhaps the most acceptable, because the most widely beneficial.
H. M.
CONTENTS.
DEMERARA.
CHAP. PAGE
1. Sunrise brings Sorrow in Demerara 1
2. Law endangers Property in Demerara 14
3. Prosperity impoverishes in Demerara 28
4. Childhood is Wintry in Demerara 45
5. No haste to the Wedding in Demerara 58
6. Man worth less than Beast in Demerara 64
7. Christianity difficult in Demerara 81
8. The Proud covet Pauperism in Demerara 93
9. Calamity welcome in Demerara 103
10. Protection is Oppression in Demerara 113
11. Beasts hunt Men in Demerara 123
12. No Master knows his Man in Demerara 129
DEMERARA.
----------------------------
CHAPTER I.
SUNRISE BRINGS SORROW IN DEMERARA.
The winter of the tropics is the most delicious of all seasons of any
climate to inhabitants of the temperate zone. The autumnal deluge is
over: there is no further apprehension of hurricanes for many months:
the storms of hail are driven far southwards by the steady north winds,
which spread coolness and refreshment among the groves and over the
plains. The sea, whose rough and heavy swell seemed but lately to
threaten to swallow up the island and desolate the coasts, now spreads
as blue as the heavens themselves, and kisses the silent shore. Inland,
the woods are as leafy as in an English June; for there, buds, blossoms,
and fruits abound throughout the year. The groves of cedar and mahogany,
of the wild cotton-tree and the fig, form an assemblage of majestic
columns, roofed by a canopy of foliage which the sun never penetrates,
while the winds pass through, and come and go as they list. In the
richest regions of this department of the globe, the cane-fields look
flourishing at this season, and coffee-plantations clothe the sides of
the hills. All inanimate things look bright; and birds of gay plumage,
and animals of strange forms and habits add to the interest and beauty
of the scene in the eye of a stranger.
The brightest beauty, the deepest interest, however, is not for
strangers, but for those who return to a region like this after years of
absence, like two travellers who were hastening, one fine January day,
to reach their long-left home,—a plantation in Demerara. Alfred Bruce
and his sister Mary had been sent to England for their education when
they were, the one seven, the other six years of age. They had spent
fourteen years without seeing their parents, except that their father
paid one short visit to England about the middle of the time. Of him,
they had, of course, a very vivid recollection, as they believed they
had of their mother, of their nurse, of the localities of the
plantation, and the general appearance of the country. They now,
however, found themselves so much mistaken in the last particular, that
they began to doubt the accuracy of their memories about the rest.
On landing, they had been full of delight at the contrast between an
English and a Guiana winter. When they had gone on board, in the Thames,
a thick fog had hung over London, and concealed every object from them
but the houses on the banks, which looked all the more dingy for the
snow which lay upon their roofs. When they landed, their native shores
reposed in the serene beauty of an evening sunshine. By as bright a
sunshine they were lighted on the next day; and it still shone upon them
as they approached their father’s estate; but it no longer seemed to
gladden them, for they became more and more silent, only now and then
uttering an exclamation.
“How altered every place looks!” said Mary. “The birds seem the only
living things.”
A servant, who had come to meet the travellers with the carriage,
reminded her that it was now the time of dinner, and that in an hour or
so the slaves would be seen in the fields again.
“It is not only that we see no people,” said Alfred; “but the country,
cultivated as it is, looks uninhabited. No villages, no farm-houses!
Only a mansion here and there, seemingly going to decay, with a crowd of
hovels near it. I remembered nothing of this. Did you, Mary?”
No. Mary thought the face of the country must have changed very
considerably; but the old servant said it was much the same as it had
always been in his time.
“Something must have befallen the cattle, surely?” observed Mary. “I
never saw such wretched, starved-looking cows in England.”
The servant, who had never beheld any better, smiled at his young
mistress’s prejudices, and only answered that these were her father’s
cattle, and that yonder mansion was his house.
In a few minutes more, the long-anticipated meeting had taken place.
Alfred, sitting beside his mother’s couch, with his beautiful little
sister Louisa on his knee; and Mary, with her father’s arm about her
waist, forgot all their expectations, all their confused recollections,
in present happiness. Their only anxiety was for Mrs. Bruce, who looked
as if recovering from an illness. They would not believe her when she
declared, with a languid smile, that she was as well as usual; but her
husband added his testimony that she had never been better. Mrs. Bruce
would have been as much surprised at her daughter’s fresh colour and
robust appearance, if she had not been more in the habit of intercourse
with Europeans than her daughter with West Indians.
These young people were far happier this first day—far more exempt from
disappointment—than many who return to the home of their childhood after
years of absence. Their father was full of joy,—their mother, of
tenderness. Louisa was as spirited, and clever, and captivating a little
girl as they had ever seen; and her perfect frankness and ease of manner
showed them how much liberty of speech and action was allowed her by her
parents, and how entirely they might therefore reckon on the freedom
which is so precious to young people when they reach what appears to
them the age of discretion. Alfred was as much surprised as pleased to
observe this spirit of independence in other members of the family. The
white servants, as well those whom he had never seen before as the
companions of his childhood, met him with an out-stretched hand and a
hearty welcome; and he observed that they addressed his father more as
if they were his equals than his domestics. Alfred immediately concluded
that his most sanguine hopes were justified, and that his father was
indeed no tyrant, no arbitrary disposer of the fortunes of his
inferiors, but a just and kind employer of their industry.
Mary, meanwhile, could not help observing the strangeness of the
domestic management she witnessed. The black servants whom she met about
the house were only half-clothed, and many of them without shoes and
stockings; while her mother was as splendidly dressed as if she had been
going to a ball. The rich sideboard of plate, and the whole arrangement
of the table, answered to her dim but grand remembrances of the
magnificence in which her parents lived; but the house was in as bad
repair, and every apartment as unfinished, as if the mansion was going
to decay before it was half completed. Having been told, however, before
she left England, that she must not look for English comfort in another
climate, she presently reconciled herself to whatever displeased her eye
or her taste.
Before Louisa went to bed, her brother asked her if she would take a
walk with him and Mary in the cool of the morning; they remembered the
sound of the conch of old, and they wished to see the people go forth to
their work. Louisa laughed heartily, supposing her brother to be in
jest; and Mrs. Bruce explained that nobody in the house was up for many
hours after the conch sounded; but when it appeared that Alfred was
serious, Louisa, liking the idea of a frolic, promised to be ready.
There was no occasion, as there would have been in England, to make any
proviso about the weather being fine.
It was a delicious morning, bright and balmy, when the young people went
forth. The sun was just peeping above the horizon, and the families of
slaves appearing from their dwellings. They came with a lagging step, as
if they did not hear the impatient call of the white man who acted as
superintendent, or the crack of the driver’s whip. Their names were
called over, and very few were missing. The driver pointed with his whip
to the sun, and observed that there was no excuse for sluggards on so
bright a morning.
“Do you find the weather make much difference?” inquired Alfred.
“All the difference, sir. On a chill, foggy morning, such as we
sometimes have at this season, it is impossible to collect the half of
them before breakfast; and those that come do little or no work. They
like the whip better than a fog, for they are made to live in sunshine.”
“Does my father insist on their working in raw weather?” asked Alfred.
“I should not have thought it could answer to either party.”
“They are so lazy,” replied the overseer, “that it does not do to admit
any excuse what ever, except in particular cases. If we once let them
off on such a plea, we should soon hear of more just as good.”
“True enough,” thought Alfred, who, earnestly as he had endeavoured to
keep his mind free from prejudice respecting the institution of slavery,
yet entertained a deep dislike of the system.
More than a third of the slaves assembled were men and women of the ages
most fitted for hard labour, and of the greatest strength of frame that
negroes attain in slavery. These brought with them their hoes and
knives, and each a portion of provision for breakfast. Having delivered
their vegetables to the women who were to cook their messes, they were
marched off to their labour in the coffee-walks. The second gang
consisted of young boys and girls, women who were not strong enough for
severe toil, and invalids who were sufficiently recovered to do light
work: these were dispersed in the plantations, weeding between the rows
of young plants. Little children, with an old woman near to take care of
them, were set to collect greens for the pigs, or to weed the garden, or
to fetch and carry what was wanted. These formed the third gang; and
they showed far more alacrity, and were found to do much more in
proportion to their strength, than the stoutest man of the first
company. They alone showed any interest in the presence of the
strangers. They looked back at Mary from time to time as the old woman
sent them before her to the garden, and were seen to peep from the gates
as long as Alfred and his sisters remained in sight. The other gangs did
not appear to observe that any one was by; and such of them as were
spoken to scarcely looked at their young master as they made their
reply.
The young people took a turn through the walks, where the slaves were
setting coffee-plants. There could not be better materials to work upon,
a finer climate to live in, a richer promise of a due reward for labour,
than Alfred saw before him; but never had he beheld employment so
listlessly pursued, and such a waste of time. When he observed how the
walks were sheltered from the north winds, how thriving the young plants
appeared, how fit a soil the warm gravelly mould formed for their
growth, he almost longed to be a labourer himself, at least during the
cool morning hours. But the people before him did not seem to share his
taste. At a little distance he could scarcely perceive that any of them
moved; and when they did, it was in a more slow and indolent manner than
he could have conceived. He had seen labourers in an English plantation
marking out the ground, and digging the holes, and spreading the roots,
and covering them with so much despatch, that the business of the
superintendent was to watch that they did not get over their ground too
fast; while here it took eight minutes to measure eight feet from stem
to stem; and as for laying the roots, one would have thought each fibre
weighed a stone by the difficulty there seemed to be in the work. He
reminded Mary how, at this hour of the morning, an English ploughman
leads forth his team in the chill of a February mist, and whistles,
while eye and hand are busy marking out his furrows; while, in this
bright and fragrant season, the black labourers before them seemed to
heed neither their employment on the one hand nor the sunshine on the
other. Quite out of patience, at last, at seeing a strong man throw down
his hoe, when the hole he was preparing was all but cleared, Alfred
snatched up the tool, finished the business, and went on to another and
another, till he had done more in half an hour than any slave near him
since sunrise. Louisa looked on in horror; for she had never seen a
white man, much less a gentleman, at work in a plantation; but when she
perceived that her sister looked more disposed to help than to find
fault, she ran away laughing to tell the overseer what Alfred was doing.
“You look well pleased to have your work done for you,” said Alfred to
the slave; “but I hope you will now bestir yourself as briskly for your
master as I have done for you.”
When Alfred looked at the man for an answer, he fancied that he knew his
face.
“What is your name?”
“Willy.”
“What, old Mark’s son, Willy?”
“Yes, old Mark is my father.”
“Why, Willy, have you forgotten me as I had nearly forgotten you? Don’t
you remember master Alfred?”
“O yes, very well.”
“Is this Willy who used to carry you on his shoulders?” asked Mary, “and
who used to draw my little chaise round the garden? He was a
high-spirited, merry boy, at——what age was he then?”
“Twelve when we went away. But, Willy, why did not you come and speak to
me as soon as you saw me? You might have been sure that I should
remember you when you told me your name.”
Willy made no answer, so Alfred went on—
“I find your father is alive still, and I mean to go and see him to-day;
for I hear he keeps at home now on account of his great age. Can you
show me his cottage?”
Willy pointed out a cottage of rather a superior appearance to some
about it, and said his father was always within or in the
provision-ground beside it. His mother was dead, but his two sisters,
Becky and Nell, were at hand; one was now in the field yonder, and the
other was one of the cooks, whom he would see preparing breakfast under
the tree.
There was time to see the slaves at breakfast before the same meal would
be ready at home. They assembled in the shade at the sound of the conch,
and each had his mess served out to him. The young people did not wish
to interfere with this short period of rest, and therefore, after
speaking kindly to two or three whom they remembered, they walked away.
As they were going, they met a few of the sluggards who had not put in
their appearance at the proper hour, and who sauntered along, unwilling
(as they well might be) to meet the driver.
“What will be done to them?” asked Mary.
“They will only be whipped a little,” said Louisa. Her sister stared to
hear her speak so lightly of being whipped.
“O, I do not mean flogged so that they cannot work; but just a stroke or
two, this way.”
And she switched her brother with the cane she snatched from his hand.
Seeing that both looked still dissatisfied, she went on—
“What better can they do in England when people are late at their work?
for I suppose people sleep too long there sometimes, as they do here.”
Her brother told her, to her great surprise, that lazy people are
punished in England by having their work taken from them; there being
plenty of industrious labourers who are glad to get it. She said there
was nothing her papa’s slaves would like so much as not to have to work;
but she had never heard of such a thing being allowed, except on Sundays
and holidays.
In their way home they looked in on old Mark, whom they found eating his
breakfast, attended upon by his daughter Becky, who had come in from the
field for that purpose. Mark had been an industrious man in his day—in
his own provision-ground at least; and, in consequence, he was better
off than most of his neighbours. His cottage consisted of three rooms,
and had a boarded floor. He had a chest for his clothes, and at holiday
times he was more gaily dressed than any of his younger neighbours. A
few orange-trees and bananas shaded the cottage, and gave the outside a
somewhat picturesque appearance, but the inside looked anything but
agreeable, Mary thought. The walls were merely wattled and smeared with
plaster; and the roof, thatched with cocoa-nut leaves, had holes in it
to let out the smoke of the nightly fire, which is necessary to keep
negroes warm enough to sleep. In the day-time they cook out of doors.
Mark had never been very bright in his intellects during his best days;
and now the little light he had was clouded with age. He was easily made
to understand, however, who his guests were. He told some anecdotes of
Alfred’s childhood; and when once set talking, went on as if he would
never have done. He appeared excessively conceited; for the tendency of
all he said was to prove his own merits. He related how he had told the
truth on one occasion, and been brave on another; and how the overseer
had been heard to say that he made the most of his provision-ground, and
how the estimate of his value had been raised from time to time. Even
when he gave instances of his master’s kindness to him, it appeared that
he only did so as proving his own merit. What was yet more strange,
Becky had exactly the same taste in conversation. She not only listened
with much deference to all her father had to say, but took up the strain
when he let it fall. The young people soon grew tired of this, and cut
short the rambling narratives of the compliments which Becky had
received from white people in her time. The conceit only took a new
form, however; at every word of kindness which either Alfred or Mary
spoke, both the slaves looked prouder and prouder.
“What odd, disagreeable people!” exclaimed Mary, as she turned away from
the door; “I always thought we should find slaves too humble, servile; I
hardly know how to treat them when they are proud.”
“Our slaves are particularly proud, because papa has treated them
kindly,” observed Louisa. “Mr. Mitchelson laughs at us when we are tired
of hearing them praise themselves, and says that if we used them
properly they would never tease us in that way; and I have heard that
Mrs. Mitchelson says to her daughter, ‘My dear, do not look so
conceited, or I shall think you have been talking with Mr. Bruce’s
slaves.’”
Louisa could not satisfy her brother as to why slaves were made
disagreeable by being kindly treated. All she knew was, that slaves were
either silent and obstinate, like Willy, or talkative and conceited like
his father and sisters. Alfred pondered the matter as he went home. “My
loves!” said their mother, in her usual feeble voice, as the young folks
entered the breakfast-room, “how weary you must be with all you have
done! I would have had breakfast an hour earlier than usual if you had
been in; for I am sure you must all be tired to death. Louisa, love,
rest yourself on my couch.”
Louisa did so; and her brother and sister were not believed when they
declared they were untired.
“When you know our climate a little better,” said Mr. Bruce, “you will
no more dream of such long walks than the English of staying at home all
a fine summer’s day; which I suppose they seldom do. But if you really
are not tired, Alfred, we will ride over to Paradise by and by. I
promised to take you to see your old friends, the Mitchelsons, as soon
as you arrived; and they are in a hurry to welcome you.”
CHAPTER II.
LAW ENDANGERS PROPERTY IN DEMERARA.
During a ride of several miles, Mr. Bruce and his son were deep in
conversation on the subject of their affairs, which were in a state to
cause great anxiety to both, though the anxiety of each differed much in
character. Mr. Bruce had made less and less by his plantation every year
for some years past; and he was now quite out of heart, and full of
complaints about the hardships inflicted on himself and his brother
planters, by what he called oppression at home, and the competition of
other countries in their trade. He was not a very clear-headed, though a
good-hearted man; and he had passed nearly his whole life within the
bounds of his own plantation; so that he, as a matter of course, adopted
the views of planters in general, and joined in the cry for higher
bounties on West India produce, and thought that the obvious way to
relieve West India distress was to obtain more exclusive monopolies. He
took credit to himself for being even better entitled than most of his
brethren to complain of neglect and want of protection, as he could not
oppress his slaves in his turn, nor endeavour to wrest out of them a
compensation for his losses in trade. He was too humane a man for this.
Thus believing that through the cruelty of the government and nation at
home, and his own tender-heartedness, he was going to ruin at a great
rate, he was heartily tired of his occupations, and ready to open his
mind to his son, and consult with him as to what should be done.
Young as Alfred was, he was deserving of his father’s confidence, and
far more likely to offer him good counsel, when he should have had a
little experience, than any of the neighbouring gentlemen who met from
time to time to condole with each other, and draw up memorials to
Government. Alfred had been in good hands in England. He had been
educated for the station he was to hold, and so carefully instructed in
both sides of the great questions which were to be before him through
life, that there was no danger of his being blind to all but what he
chose to see, or deaf to all but that which a certain class chose to
say. A fine estate in Barbadoes was likely soon to lapse to him; and the
knowledge that he might at any hour be called upon to act in the
responsible situation for which he had been educated, stimulated his
study of his duties and his insight into his prospects. He did not, of
course, make up his mind respecting the details of the management of a
plantation before he had had the opportunity of observing how the actual
system worked; but certain broad principles were fixed in his
mind,—principles which may be attested in any part of the world, and
which could not, he thought, be made void by any connexion, or obscured
by any aspect of circumstances whatever. With these principles full in
his mind, he began, from the moment he set foot on shore, to observe all
that surrounded him wherever he went, and to obtain information from
every class of persons to whom he could gain access.
On the present occasion, his father enforced his complaints of West
India adversity, by pointing to the estates on either hand as they rode
along, and relating how they had changed owners, and what disasters had
befallen their various proprietors.
“In England,” said he, “estates go down from generation to generation,
and a man may have some pleasure in improving and cultivating, in the
hope that his children’s great-grand-children may profit by and carry on
his labours. But here, no man knows whether his son will be the better
for all he does.”
“We shall never prosper,” replied Alfred, “till the system is wholly
changed. Security of property is one of the prime elements of
prosperity.”
“And that security can never be reached here, son. As soon as a man
thinks he is likely to do well, there comes a hurricane, or a mortality
among his slaves, or, worst of all, an insurrection; and perpetually,
some thwarting measure of our enemies at home. They need not envy us our
possessions here; for I am sure it requires the patience of Job to be an
India planter.”
“It must require more patience, father, than I shall ever have, to hold
property which is needlessly insecure.”
“How do you mean _needlessly_ insecure?”
“I mean insecure through bad institutions. I do not see at present how
we are to guard against hurricanes; but if I were convinced that the
other evils you mention could not be removed, I would as soon go into
Turkey and hold my chattels at the pleasure of the sultan, as be your
heir. There is little to choose between any two countries where there is
not security of property.”
“But what I complain of, Alfred, is, that the law does not secure us our
property. If the same law secures property in England, why does it not
here?”
“Aye, there is the question, father. Is it not clear that there is some
flaw in our institutions here which keeps them out of the pale of the
protection of law? Hurricanes and bad seasons are answerable for a very
small portion of our distress; and to set against them, we have, as with
all our complaints we cannot deny, a very extraordinary degree of
protection from government; though we cannot manage to benefit much by
it. By far the larger share of our evils are such as law cannot remedy;
and since that law works far better in England than here, it is plain
that the fault does not rest with the law.”
“I am sure it is time we were looking into it, son.”
“High time, indeed: but people are unwilling to look deep enough. If
some of the pains that are spent in providing expedients for the
management of property, were employed in examining into its nature and
tenure, we should be more in the way of finding out what part of our
system is wrong.”
“My dear son, you really are too hard upon us. Do you think we do not
know what property is?”
“I do; because I think we hold a great deal that does not belong to us.
We can find that out presently by going back to the beginning. Taking
the old pagan fable of the first pair of human beings coming out of a
cave, and supposing that cave to be in yonder hill,—what property,—what
of _their own_ would that man and woman have on first coming into the
day-light?”
“As soon as they chose to take possession, they might have a whole
continent.”
“Aye; but before they took possession: as they stood, hand in hand, at
the mouth of the cave.”
“Why nothing: for if the man said, ‘That tree, bending with fruit, is
mine,’ the woman might say, ‘No, I want it;’ and neither could give a
reason for keeping it that the other might not offer as well.”
“True,—as to the fruit tree; but there is a possession for each which
each has a sound reason for claiming. Suppose the man to say to the
woman, ‘The hair of my head is too short, and I will have some of
yours;’ or the woman to say, ‘I have not strength enough in my limbs,
and you must work for me,’ has either any property in the person of the
other?”
“Certainly not. If the woman wants the whole of her hair to shade her
face at noonday, and the man the whole strength of his limbs for toil or
sport, there is no reason why each should not keep his own if he can.
But most likely one would be stronger than the other, and then
possession would be taken.”
“But not property established. If the man cut off the woman’s tresses
while she slept, the hair would be no longer a part of the woman, as
strength of limb or faculties of sense: yet the woman would still have
the best title to it as having been hers by original endowment. If the
woman, in her turn, bound the man’s feet as he lay sick on the ground,
and would not release him till he had dug up as many roots for her as
she chose, would the man, therefore, or his strength of limb, become her
property?”
“Certainly not; for if he chooses to dig up no more roots than he eats
himself, she can do nothing with him for her own advantage; and the
moment he can free himself he will. This is merely force acting against
force, and there is no right in the case.”
“But the woman has a right to cut off her own hair, and the man to
employ his own strength, as long as he does not trespass on his
companion’s personal rights. Now, we see that man has no natural
property in man.”
“Nor in anything else but himself,” interrupted Mr. Bruce, “as you began
by showing. If you can prove that man has now any right to property in
the fruits of the earth, it follows that he may in man.”
“I think not,” said Alfred. “The question depends on what constitutes
_right_. I think that man has a conventional, though not a natural
right, to the productions of the earth; but neither the one nor the
other can sanction his holding man in property. There may be a general
agreement that men shall take and keep possession of portions of land;
but there can never be a general agreement that man shall be lord of
man. If the man and woman agree to take each a portion of land, and not
to interfere with one another, that agreement is a kind of law; and, in
proportion as it is observed, the property of each will be secure. The
same plan is pursued by their descendants till they become too numerous
to make a mere agreement a sufficient security. They then agree upon an
express law, sanctioned by certain punishments, which once more secure
to each the possession of what has now become his property by common
consent.”
“Such agreement and such law,” said Mr. Bruce, “are essential to the
general good; for there would be no end to violence and fraud, no
inducement to improvement, no mutual confidence and enjoyment, if the
law of brute force were to exclude all other law.”
“True,” said Alfred. “The general good is not only the origin, but ought
to be the end and aim of the institution of property. With the property
in man which has been assumed from age to age, the case is very
different; and there never was a time when that sort of property could
be secure, or established by general agreement, or conducive to the
general good. One needs but to draw a parallel between the histories of
the two kinds of property to see this.”
“Histories too long for me and my neighbours to study, I am afraid,
Alfred.”
“They may be very briefly sketched, father. Capital held by the tenure
of mutual agreement,—that is, property in all things created subordinate
to man, has a perpetual tendency to increase and improvement; and every
such increase is an addition to the good of society. Cultivators of the
land have made their portions more and more productive, so as to
maintain a greater number of people perpetually. Inventions have arisen,
arts have improved, manufactures have extended, till a far larger
multitude of people spend their lives in ease and enjoyment, than would
ever have been born if security of property had been unknown. There is
this conspicuous mark of blessing on capital rightly applied, that the
more it increases the more it will increase; while precisely the reverse
is the fact with that which is unrighteously made capital. The more
eagerly it is applied, the faster it dwindles away; the more it is
husbanded, the more want it causes. Its increase adds to the sum of
human misery; its diminution brings a proportionate relief.”
“Why, then, has there been slavery in all ages of the world?”
“Because the race, like the individual, is slow in learning by
experience: but the race has learned, and goes on to learn
notwithstanding; and slavery becomes less extensive with the lapse of
centuries. In ancient times, a great part of the population of the most
polished states was the property of the rest. Those were the days when
the lords of the race lived in barbarous, comfortless splendour, and the
bulk of the people in extreme hardship;—the days of Greek and Roman
slavery. Then came the bondage and villeinage of the Gothic nations,—far
more tolerable than the ancient slavery, because the bondmen lived on
their native soil, and had some sort of mutual interest with their
owners; but it was not till they were allowed property that their
population increased, and the condition of themselves and their masters
improved. The experience of this improvement led to further
emancipation; and that comparative freedom again to further improvement,
till the state of a boor as to health, comfort, and security of
property, is now superior to that of the lord of his forefathers. In the
same manner, my dear sir, it might be hoped that the condition of the
descendants of your slaves, a thousand years hence, would be happier
than yours to-day, if our slaves were the original inhabitants of the
soil they till. As it is, I fear that our bad institutions will die out
only in the persons of those most injured by them. But that they will
die out, the slave-history of Europe is our warrant; and then, and then
only, will the laws of England secure the property of Englishmen as
fully abroad as at home. It is no reproach upon laws framed to secure
righteous property, that they do not guard that which is unrighteous.
Consider once more who are the parties to the law, and the case will be
clear.
“The government and the holders of the property are the parties to the
maintenance of the law. The infringers of the law are the third party,
whom it is the mutual interest of the other two to punish. So the matter
stands in England, where the law works comparatively well. Here the case
is wholly changed by the second and third parties being identical, while
the first treats them as being opposed to each other. The infringer of
the law,—that is, the rebellious slave, being the property of—that is,
the same party with, his owner, the benefits of the compact are
destroyed to all. If the slave is not to be punished, the owner’s
property (his plantation) is not safe. If he is punished, the owner’s
property (the slave) is injured. No wonder the master complains of the
double risk to his property; but such risk is the necessary consequence
of holding a subject of the law in property.”
“You put me in mind, son, of old Hodge’s complaint,—you remember
Hodge,—about his vicious bull. He thought it very hard that, after all
the mischief done to his own stock, he should be compelled by the
overseer to kill the bull. Hodge owned a rebellious subject of the law.”
“True; and Hodge was to be pitied, because there was no making a free
labourer of his bull. But if he had had the choice whether to hold the
animal itself as capital, or only its labour, we should have laid the
blame of his double loss upon himself.”
“You must hear what Mitchelson has to say on that subject, son. He has
suffered as much in his time as any man from troublesome slaves. More
than one was executed, and several ran away while his last lease was
current. His management has changed, however, with the change of times.”
“Is he suffering, like every body else?”
“Yes; and I do not think he would have renewed his lease if he had
anticipated how prices would fall. But he is a prudent man, and knows
how to mould his plan to differences of circumstance.”
“Who is his landlord?”
“Stanley, who has lived in England these fifteen years, you know. When
he left this neighbourhood, he let Paradise to Mitchelson for ten years,
at a thousand a year. There was a permanent population of 300 slaves on
the estate at that time.”
“If there were no more than 300 slaves, sugars must have borne a better
price than they do now, to make it a good bargain to Mitchelson.”
“They averaged a gross price of 30_l._ a ton. In addition to the rent,
the other charges amounted to about 20_l._ a ton; so that Mitchelson’s
net income was 1000_l._”
“And prices being higher than at present, he was tempted to work his
slaves to the utmost?”
“Yes; but another part of the agreement was, that the plantation, with
all belonging to it, should be appraised when the lease expired, and
that Mitchelson should pay up for any damage it might have sustained, or
pocket the value of any improvement. He made his calculations carefully,
and found that it would hardly answer to overwork his slaves
considerably, as what he would have to pay up for the sacrifice of life
at the end of ten years, would balance the present increase of profits
from making more sugar; so he began moderately: but when prices rose to
40_l._ a ton, adding 2000_l._ to his income, it became clearly his
interest to increase his crop. He determined therefore to add 100 tons
to it, even at an expense of life of 1000_l._ But it is inconceivable
what trouble he had after a time. He can tell you as much as any man I
know about the inefficiency of the law for the protection of property.”
Alfred made no reply; and there was a long silence.
“Well!” continued his father, “do not you wish to know the end of
Mitchelson’s speculation?”
“O! by all means. I was thinking what would be the issue of it——at the
end of time.”
“At the close of the lease,—that is, five years ago,—he willingly paid
up for the slaves that were under-ground, and got a renewal——”
“Pray, did Stanley understand his system?”
“Why, I should suppose he did, having lived here some years himself; but
whether he did or not, he found Mitchelson a good tenant, and that was
all that concerned him. No sooner was Mitchelson set going again, than
prices fell, and fell, till they were only 25_l._ a ton.”
“Thank God!” cried Alfred.
“Nay; I was really very sorry, independently of my own stake in the
market. It was truly mortifying that it should happen at the beginning
of a lease. He made the best of it, however, and saw that if he could
not bring his crops just to answer the rent and expenses, he might make
his profit at the end of the lease by a large claim on the score of
improvements. So he changed his system entirely, as you will see
presently. He raises food for slaves and cattle on ground which he
cropped before, feeds them well and works them lightly, so that their
numbers may increase, and has even had his slaves taught mechanical
arts. He will have a pretty heavy lump of profits, at the end of another
five years, if this state of things continues.”
“We are told in England, father, that it is the interest of planters to
be humane to their slaves, and the English are too apt to believe it. I
trust that you have never put your hand to such a declaration since
Mitchelson opened his affairs to you; or that you explain it away like
an innkeeper I knew in England.”
“What did he declare?”
“A gentleman was giving him a lecture about over-working his
post-horses. ‘Bless me, sir!’ said the man, ‘do you think I know my own
interest in the poor beasts no better than that? It is my interest, you
see, to keep them in good condition till the election, our great county
election, which comes on in three weeks.’ ‘And what becomes of your
horses then?’ ‘There must be wear and tear at those times, you know; but
when that fortnight is over, there will be rest for man and beast: for
it is always a dead time for posting just after an election.’ ‘Much good
may your tender mercies do your carrion!’ said the gentleman, as I shall
be tempted to say to Mitchelson, if he tells me the story of his two
leases.”
“Let me just observe, Alfred, that I hope you will not admit any
prejudice against Mitchelson on account of your peculiar opinions about
property. He is the most humane man to his white servants, the most
indulgent parent, the best——”
“Father,” interrupted Alfred, “I assure you, once for all, that when I
hear of cruelties in the gross, I execrate systems, not men. If I had
thought of individuals as I do of institutions here, you would have
already had my farewell, and I should have been on board ship again for
England by this time.”
“Patience! my dear boy, patience!”
“Not with abuses, father; not with social crimes. As much as you please
in enlightening those who are unaware of them: but with the abuses
themselves, no patience!”
----------------------------
CHAPTER III.
PROSPERITY IMPOVERISHES IN DEMERARA.
Alfred was not at all disposed to gainsay what his father protested
about Mr. Mitchelson’s native kindliness of disposition. He remembered
the days when it was a common indulgence to be carried about the grounds
in Mr. Mitchelson’s arms, or to sit on his knee, and listen to stories
of that England to which he was to go, some time or other. He ascribed
this gentleman’s treatment of his slaves, not to any love of tyranny for
its own sake, but to the grand error of regarding human beings as
property, operating upon pecuniary interest. Though, therefore, it was
impossible to regard him with the same esteem as if he had known how to
respect the rights of his fellow-men, Alfred was not disposed to visit
the sins of a system upon an individual who had always treated him with
kindness; and he therefore met his old friend’s cordial greeting with
frank good-humour.
The ladies were not at home; but they would be in long before it would
be necessary for the Bruces to be turning homewards. Would they step
indoors and rest, or prolong their ride to a once favourite seat of
Alfred’s, where the pavilion peeped out from among the trees? The
gentlemen were for proceeding, Alfred with the hope of making some
observations by the way, and obtaining a distant view of the sea from
the verandah of the pavilion.
The gangs of slaves were at work in the cane-fields through which they
passed; but the apathy with which they pursued their employment was even
more striking than on Mr. Bruce’s estate. Alfred thought within himself
how poor is the purchase of a man. It is the mind that makes the value
of the man. It is the mind which gives sight to the eye, and hearing to
the ear, and strength to the limbs; and the mind cannot be
purchased,—only that small portion of it which can be brought under the
dread of the whip and the stocks. Where the man is allowed the
possession of himself, the purchaser of his labour is benefited by the
vigour of his mind through the service of his limbs: where man is made
the possession of another, the possessor loses at once and for ever, all
that is most valuable in that for which he has paid the price of crime.
He becomes the owner of that which only differs from an idiot in being
less easily drilled into habits, and more capable of effectual revenge.
Alfred lingered to watch the scene before him, though the sun shed down
a flood of rays that would have been thought intolerable in England, and
though the doves were cooing in the shade which his companions had
already reached, and humming-birds were flitting among the stems like
flying blossoms from some paradise that better deserved the name than
this. The overseer was finding fault with one of the slaves, a
middle-aged man, of robust make and a more intelligent countenance than
most of his companions. Alfred asked what was the matter.
“He is lazy, sir, as usual: and as usual, he says that he is a very bad
labourer and never was worth much to his master; but he can work hard
enough in his provision-ground. Nobody brings so many vegetables and
pigs to market as Cassius.”
“How is this, Cassius?” said Alfred.
Cassius only repeated what he had said about the impossibility that he
should do much work, as he had always been a bad slave for labour.
At this moment the gong sounded the hour of dinner. The overseer went
away. Cassius slowly walked off, as it happened, in the same direction
that Alfred was going. When he had reached the shade, the slave looked
behind him to see that the overseer was not observing him, and then
quickened his pace almost to a run. Alfred tied his horse to a tree,
followed him, and reached his provision-ground a very few minutes after
him. Cassius was already at work, digging as if he were toiling for
wages.
Alfred laughed good-humouredly as he asked Cassius what he said now
about the impossibility of his working like other people.
Cassius put on a sullen look while he answered, “You may ask my master,
and he will tell you that he has always had trouble with me. When I was
a youth, I never liked work, and I have done less and less ever since. I
am worth very little to him. I have been whipped five times since last
crop, and I got into the stocks many times last year. I eat more than my
work pays for.”
“Then I wonder your master keeps you. Don’t you?”
“I wonder he puts such a high ransom upon me. It is too high for such an
one as I.”
“And are you working out your ransom, Cassius?”
“I am trying, sir. But I shall have eaten more than it is worth before I
get money to pay it.”
“Now,” thought Alfred, “I understand the meaning of this extraordinary
humility, and of old Mark’s and Becky’s conceit, too,” he added, as he
remembered what had passed in the morning; “they wish to enhance their
own value, from a suspicion that they will change masters one of these
days; and Cassius depreciates his, because he hopes to get off with a
lower ransom. Dreadful! that human beings should rate their own value
according to the depth of another man’s purse! They seem, too, to have
no idea of natural disinterested kindness; for Mark and Becky took all
the merit of my father’s little indulgences to themselves. They seemed
to think they must be much better than their neighbour Harry, because my
father roofed their cottage after the storm, while Harry was obliged to
wait till he could repair his himself. How this world is turned upside
down when slaves are in it!”
“Come, Cassius,” he said aloud, “I am not your master, and I am not
going to speak to your master about you.”
“You do not want to buy me?” inquired Cassius, looking inquisitively.
“Not I. I have no estate, and am not likely ever to want any slaves.”
“What did you follow me for then?”
“Because I was curious to see how you manage your provision-ground, if
you really cannot work. But do not attempt to deceive me any more. I see
you are afraid of having your ransom raised. But you need not fear. I
should be too much pleased to see you obtain your freedom to put any
hinderance in your way. Make me your friend, Cassius; and tell me how
much money you have earned, and how much more you want; and where you
mean to go if you get your liberty.”
This was going too straight to the point. Cassius had never had a friend
since he was parted from his father in his youth; and not remembering
much of the comfort of having one, he was not ready with his confidence.
He looked suspiciously at Alfred, put on a lazy, stupid look, and said
nothing but a few words without meaning.
Alfred’s next question, as it showed ignorance of what everybody in the
West Indies knows, did more towards establishing a right understanding
than anything else he could have said. It proved to the slave that the
gentleman was not practising upon him.
“This is very fine soil,” was Alfred’s remark, as he turned up a
spade-full of earth; “and yet I see nothing but plantains, and yams, and
potatoes, unless that patch of corn-ground is yours too. Why do not you
grow a few canes or coffee-plants? or cotton, at least, would answer
your purpose better, I should think.”
Cassius grinned with some feeling deeper than mirth, while he told the
young ignoramus that no slaves were allowed to grow any of the articles
their masters sell. This was clearly to guard against theft; but it
seemed hard that the labour by which a ransom could alone be raised,
must be employed on productions which can never become very valuable.
Cassius laughed so long at the idea of a slave growing canes or coffee,
that Alfred began to regret the joke, for it did not seem a very merry
one to him. He could and would have laughed in England to see a cottager
growing pine-apples on a quarter of a rood of ground, because it would
have been ridiculous, and it would not be against any law. Here the case
was reversed; it was not ridiculous, and it was against the law; and
Alfred was not disposed to laugh.
“How much time do you spend at work here, Cassius? Two hours a-day?”
Cassius laughed again, and said—
“I have not more than two hours for eating, and day-sleep, and my
ground, altogether.”
“Indeed! you go to work at six and leave off at eight for half an hour.
You come home again to dinner, and you have two hours then, have not
you?”
“No; one and a half: and sometimes I must sleep, when I have worked at
night, and when it is very hot. We blacks grow cross if we do not sleep
in the day.”
“Well, then, there is the evening. You leave work at six, and there is
time for much digging before dark.”
“Not when we have the cattle-feed to gather. Sometimes we are at that
till the night comes on. It is so cold,” he continued, shivering at the
thought of it. “When our bundles of grass are made up, we have to carry
them far, and they gather the dew, and it trickles down our backs, while
we wait to give them in. I had rather work two hours more in the field
by star-light than gather grass when the ground is damp, and be always
scolded because the bundle is not bigger.”
“Why,” thought Alfred, “should cattle be fed by human labour? Or, if
grass must be gathered, why not by people whose regular business it
shall be to do it by day-light, instead of exposing those to the damp
who are relaxed by the heat of the day? I will see how my father manages
this.”
During the whole time of conversation, as well as in each pause, Cassius
went on with his work as if he had not a moment to lose. The hope of
ransom was the spring that animated him. Everything about him testified
to his eagerness for saving. His bed of planks, with its single mat and
blanket, was his only furniture, except a few eating utensils; he had
but one wooden trencher and two calabashes. Handsome as he was, Cassius
did not seem to have the personal vanity of a negro, and on festival
days was the least gaily dressed of the group. He never took a farthing
from his hoard, and added to it on every possible occasion.
“Where do you mean to go when you have paid your ransom?” asked Alfred,
“or will you buy land and remain? or be a free labourer for your
master?”
“I go, sir, but my mind is not settled where. I hear there is a place
over the sea, in my own country, where we may live in the same way that
the whites live here; where we may grow sugar and coffee, and trade as
we like, and be rich, and even be governors—such as are most fit to be
so. One of our people got ransomed and went, but we have never heard if
he found such a place.”
“You mean Liberia?”
“Yes, sir. Have you been there?”
“No; but I have been where I heard a great deal about the place. If I
were you, I would go to Liberia as soon as I could—that is, if you can
labour. No man can prosper at Liberia, or anywhere else, unless he
exerts himself.”
Cassius stood erect, and pointed with a smile to his grove of plantains,
to his patch of maize, to his plots of vegetables, flourishing in a
clean soil.
“I see, Cassius,” said Alfred, “what you mean. I see that there was
deceit in your way of speaking of yourself before the overseer. Cease to
be a slave as soon as you can; but while you are here, be faithful to
your master.”
“Faithful!” exclaimed Cassius, looking full at him. “I have never stolen
his sugar—I have never murdered his children—I have never even listened
to those who talked of burning his canes or poisoning his cattle.”
“God forbid! but if you are not industrious—if you do not speak the
truth—you are not faithful.”
“I should be unfaithful if I had ever promised either; but I never did.
Why should I be industrious for him? And as for telling the truth, I
will do it when it helps me to get my ransom; but if telling the truth
hinders my being free, I lie to myself when I tell the truth to my
master, for I have said to myself that I will be free.”
Alfred had nothing to reply, for his principles of morality had all a
reference to a state of freedom, and he had not learned yet to apply
them in circumstances which they did not suit. He would have said
beforehand, that there could be no lack of arguments and sanctions for
truth and fidelity, the two most clearly necessary bonds of society;
but, at the moment, it appeared to him that not one would apply. He
inquired whether there was no religious teacher on the estate, and
whether he did not bid them be faithful and truthful?
“There was one some time ago, and he taught us a great deal. He told us
what it was to be Christians, and he made us Christians, and said that
our master and all his family were Christians too. But he could not
teach us long, and he went away in a little while.”
“What prevented his teaching you?”
“He could not make his stories seem true, and whenever he read the
Gospel, there was something either to make us laugh, or to make the
overseer or our master angry. At last, he preached one day about all men
being brothers, and about all being equal when they were born, and that
they should be equal again when they were dead. He was disgraced and
sent away after that; and so he ought to be for preaching what was
false; for our master says, the blacks never were and never will be
equal with the whites; and we know that our master and the overseer are
not at all like our brothers.”
“And yet,” said Alfred, speaking his own thoughts, rather than thinking
of the prudence of what he was saying, “there were men once who sold a
brother as a slave into Egypt.”
“But he was not like us,” said Cassius; “for God made him a great lord
over his brothers that sold him, and he let them go home again. I am
sure,” he continued, grinning as he spoke, “if God made us lords over
the white men, we should not let them go.”
“I am sorry,” said Alfred, “that your teacher is gone, for it seems as
if teaching like his was very much wanted. When you get to Liberia,
however, you will learn these things faster and better.”
He then asked for water; and while Cassius took down a calabash and
disappeared to fetch some, Alfred went on digging.
“Ah! ha!” said the slave when he returned, “if I had a white gentleman
to dig for me whenever I am away, I should soon go to Liberia: but I did
not know that white gentlemen could dig.”
“I cannot help you much in that way, Cassius; but here is what will do
as well;” and he put some money into his hand. Cassius leaped high into
the air, and was apparently going to sing; but checked himself in a
moment when he saw the face of an old negro, a neighbour of his, peeping
through the fence.
“I must be going,” said Alfred; “but I shall never find my way to the
pavilion. Will this old man go with me?”
“Yes, sir; and Robert is merry and will talk all the way.” So a
ludicrous introduction took place between the gentleman and the
roguish-looking old slave.
They had not far to go; but Robert found time to tell all his affairs to
Alfred by the way. He told him that he had a cottage and
provision-ground close by Cassius’s, and that he had a wife as old as
himself, and that they were too tired to dig and plant when they had
done work, so that their ground produced but little; but that their
neighbour took care that they had enough, and either gave them food or
worked in their ground on a Sunday, and that he piled their fire for
them every night. In answer to Alfred’s remark, that Cassius was
generous and kind in doing all this, old Robert said in a careless way,
that Cassius was young and he and his wife old. This reminded Alfred of
the fact, that respect for the aged is one of the characteristics of
negroes.
He was far from feeling any of this respect in the present instance. Old
Robert could not be got to answer a question straightforward, or to tell
anything without contradicting himself twenty times. He told fibs about
his master and Cassius and himself; had a story for every question that
was asked, the object of the story being to find out how the gentleman
would like to have the question answered; and praised everything and
everybody that he supposed would be acceptable to a white. Alfred soon
grew tired of this, and bade him mind where he was going and leave off
talking: whereupon the old man began to sing,—not, as Alfred would have
liked, one of the songs of his own land, in consideration of which the
cracked voice and antic action would have been forgiven,—but an English
hymn, which he shouted through the wood, shaking his head, clasping his
hands and turning up his eyes, which, however, never failed to warn him
of the boughs which straggled across the path, and which he held aside
that they might not incommode his companion. When they came within
hearing of the pavilion, the chaunt became doubly devout. Mitchelson
shouted to him, with an oath, to hold his tongue, to which he answered
with a flippant “Very well, sir,” and took his way back again, muttering
to himself as he hobbled along.
Alfred was surprised to find that Mrs. Mitchelson and her two daughters
had joined the party in the pavilion. Fruit and wine were on the table;
the ladies reposed on couches and the gentlemen lolled in their chairs,
as English people are wont to do in a hot climate. Alfred took his seat
by a window, where the spicy winds breathed softly in, and whence he
could look over cane-fields glaring in the sun with coffee-walks
interspersed, over groves of the cotton-tree, of the fig, the plantain
and the orange, to where the sea sparkled on the horizon, with here and
there a white sail gliding before the breeze.
“What luxury!” he exclaimed, “to sit in this very seat once more, to
look again on this landscape; to be regaled with such fragrance as I
have only dreamed of since my childhood, and to feast on such fruit,”
helping himself to an orange, “as the English at home have little more
idea of than the Laplanders.”
“Dear me!” said Miss Grace Mitchelson, “I thought the English ate
oranges. I am sure there was something about oranges in what papa read
out of the newspaper about the theatre.”
“Yes,” said her sister Rosa, “did not they throw orange-peel on the
stage, papa?”
Alfred explained that the oranges which are thought a great treat in
England, are such as would be thrown away as only half-ripe at Demerara.
His father looked pleased as he praised one after another of the things
in which a tropical climate excels a temperate one. Mr. Mitchelson
stopped him, however, in the midst of his observations on the fertility
of the soils which stretched from the height on which they sat to the
distant ocean.
“Fertile indeed they have been,” said he, “and fertile many of them
still are; but richness of soil is not a lasting advantage like a fine
climate. It wears out fast, very fast, as I can tell to my cost. If you
had seen what yonder cane-field produced when it first came into my
hands, and could compare it with last year’s crop, you would be
surprised at the change.”
“Do soils become exhausted faster at Demerara than elsewhere?” asked Mr.
Bruce. “If not, there is a poor prospect before our whole race. One
would fear they must starve in time. What do they say in England, son?”
“They say, sir, that soils used to be exhausted there, and that, as a
matter of course, they were suffered to lie fallow from time to time;
but I believe sugar-planters do not like fallows.”
“We cannot afford them,” said Mitchelson. “We must have crops year by
year to answer our expenses; and when we have short leases, we must make
the most of them, whatever becomes of the land when we have done with
it.”
“English farmers are so far of your opinion, that the best of them say
they cannot afford fallows; but neither do they exhaust their soils.”
“How in the name of wonder do they manage then?”
“They practise convertible husbandry to a greater extent than we
planters ever dream of. Wheat and barley exhaust the land like canes;
but by growing green crops in turn with grain, and changing corn land
into pasture, they renew the powers of the soil, and may go on for ever,
for aught I see, till fallows are banished from the land, and every rood
is fertile in its due proportion.”
“That is all very well,” said Mitchelson; “but it is no example for us.
Sugar is our staple, and sugar we must grow. We have little use for
green crops, and less for pasture.”
“In the present state of things, certainly,” replied Alfred. “The
question is, whether it might not answer to find a use for both? I have
seen a calculation, and I mean to verify it as I have opportunity, of
the expenses and profits of the management of such an estate as this by
methods of convertible husbandry. Such a system involves many changes;
but they seem to me likely to be all advantageous; and I long to see
them tried.”
“He who made the calculation had better try, son.”
“He means to do so, and I shall go over to Barbadoes, some day, and see
the result. He will begin by making his slaves more like English
labourers——”
“There is a foolish English fancy to begin with,” observed Mitchelson.
“Employing them,” continued Alfred, “in a greater variety of ways than
is common here, and doing much of their work with cattle. Instead of
buying provisions, importing bricks, and a hundred other things that
might be procured at hand, while the soil is all the time growing barren
as fast as it can, he will vary his crops, thus raising food for man and
beast; he will enlarge his stock of cattle, thus providing manure for
his land, and butcher’s meat for his people; his horses will graze for
themselves instead of the slaves doing it for them, and they, meanwhile,
will be making bricks and doing other things worthy of men, while the
work of cattle will be done by cattle.”
“Very fine, indeed! and what becomes of his sugar all this time?”
“A certain proportion of this estate will thus, he expects, be always
kept in good heart for the production of the staple on which his profits
depend. The profits of this portion and the savings consequent on his
management, will amount to at least as much, at the end of ten years, as
the profits of growing sugar only; while his land will be in as good
condition as ever, the number of his slaves increased, the quality of
his stock improved, and all in good train for going on to a state of
further prosperity.”
“Your friend is a proprietor, I suppose, Mr. Alfred?”
“He is; but he would follow the same plan if he held a lease.”
“Not he; at least if he once knew what slaves are.”
“He sees, sir, that whatever slaves may be, they can do many things that
cattle cannot do, while cattle do the hardest part of slaves’ work
better than slaves.”
“To say the truth,” said Mr. Bruce, “I have often wished for ploughs and
oxen, if I could but have fed the cattle and employed my lazy slaves. It
did seem strange, when I came back from England, to contrast the fine
farm-yards and dairies I saw there, with our paddocks, where our
half-starved beasts are fed with grass ready cut.”
“It reminds me,” observed Alfred, “of a child’s story-book I saw in
England, with pictures of the world turned topsy-turvy. There was one of
a mare perched in a gig, with her master in harness. We might make a
fellow to it of a man cutting grass for the ox, after having done the
work of the plough.”
Alfred had not forgotten that ladies were present all this time, and was
still further from supposing that the conversation could be interesting
to them; but he was relieved from all consideration for them, by having
seen them long before drop asleep, or shut their eyes so as to prohibit
conversation as much as if they were. When the gentleman rose, however,
to return to the mansion, the fair ones roused themselves and took each
an arm to be conducted through the wood. What was the subject of their
conversation is not recorded; but it was probably not convertible
husbandry, as the ladies of Demerara hear quite enough in the gross of
the troubles of a plantation, to be excusable for wishing to avoid the
details of grievances which they are told can be remedied by no other
power than the English government.
----------------------------
CHAPTER IV.
CHILDHOOD IS WINTRY IN DEMERARA.
Old Robert seemed to care so little for slavery himself, that perhaps it
was natural that he should expect others to care as little; and that he
should laugh at his neighbour Cassius for working so hard as he did in
his provision-ground, and for his general gravity of manner. Yet Robert
knew something of the worst treatment of slaves. He was one who had
survived the system of over-working which high prices had occasioned;
and he showed that he remembered its hardships by his present dislike of
work and contrivances to avoid it. Not a slave on the plantation was so
inventive of excuses, so rich in pretences, so ready with long stories
and jokes, all designed to stave off work, as Robert, unless it were his
wife. None were at the same time so impatient of idleness in others as
they; and there was not a hardship which they had suffered, not a threat
which had terrified them in former days, not a punishment that it came
within their power to inflict, that they did not practise whenever
opportunity threw an inferior in their way. If Robert had to lead a
horse or drive an ox anywhere, he was sure to beat and torment the
animal to the utmost by the way. If his wife found a reptile in her
dwelling, she killed it as slowly as she dared, and as cruelly as she
could. It would have been well if their power had not been extended
beyond beasts, birds, and reptiles; but it was not only shown, by their
example, that slavery is the school of tyranny, but, in the instance of
a poor little sufferer who lived with them, that the most dreadful lot
on earth is to be the slave of slaves.
Little Hester was only ten years old when she was first put under old
Sukey, according to the custom by which novices in bondage are made to
serve a sort of apprenticeship to those who have been long under the
yoke. Some humane masters observing the facilities thus afforded to
slave-tyranny, have attempted to break through the custom, but have
found that, with all its abuses, it is too much liked by the slaves to
be given up. The children prefer, at the outset, being instructed by
their own people; and the elderly folks find pleasure, some in the
exercise of authority, and others in reviving their impressions of their
own young days of friendless slavery. No one who knows how fond negroes
are of excitements of feeling, will wonder at their seeking this
melancholy enjoyment. There are many instances where the pupil has been
cherished by a mother whose babe had been early taken from her by death
or violence; or by a father who had seen his sons carried off to a
distance, one by one, as they became valuable for their strength or
skill. There are many more instances, however, where the young slave’s
lot is more chequered than that of childhood in any other part of the
world; where kindness is as capricious or rare as sunshine and warmth to
the blossoms of a Greenland meadow. Little Hester seemed to wither fast
under the treatment of her master and mistress, as they called
themselves; but a tone of voice gentler than usual, a mild word, a look
of encouragement, would revive her and strengthen her till the next
gleam came. There was no end to her troubles but in sleep; and she never
slept without dreading the waking. Wearied as she was when she laid
herself down on her mat, she was apt to sleep as long as the old people;
and if she ever failed to jump up when the gong sounded, Robert was sure
either to throw cold water over her, or to touch her feet with a blazing
piece of wood from the fire, and to laugh at her start and cry. However
foggy the morning, out she must go to the field, and do as much of other
people’s work as was put upon her by her master’s order. However tired
at noon, she must cook the mess of vegetables, and feed the pigs, and
run hither and thither in the broiling sun. However dewy the evening,
she must stand in the grass and pluck as much as she could carry; and,
having carried it, must be kept the last, as she was the youngest,
before she was relieved of her burden. She dared not put it down and
leave it; for, when she once did so, she was flogged for not having
gathered her portion. When she came home damp and shivering, she was
thrust from the fire; and creeping under her mat, lay awake till the
smoke hung thick enough round her to warm her, and make her forget her
bodily hunger and her cravings of the heart in sleep. These cravings of
the heart were her worst misery; for she had known what it was to be
cherished, and to love in return. Of her father she remembered little.
He had been executed for taking part in an insurrection when she was
very young; but her mother and she had lived together till lately. She
had seen her mother die, and had stood by the grave where she was
buried; yet she awoke every morning expecting to see her leaning over
her mat. She dreamed almost every night that her arm was round her
mother’s neck, and that her mother sang to her, or that they were going
together to find out the country where her father was waiting for them;
but as often as she awoke, she saw old Robert’s ugly face instead, as he
stood with his red and blue cap on, mocking her; or heard both shouting
the hymns which she hated, because they were most sung on Sundays when
she was more unhappy than on other days, being tormented at home, and
just as much overworked as in the field, without any one to pity her or
speak for her. Cassius now and then took her into his ground and gave
her some fruit; and he had once stopped Sukey when he thought she had
beat the girl enough; but his respect for the aged prevented his seeing
how cruel these people were; and, supposing that the poor child would be
a slave all her days, he did not “make her discontented with her
condition,” as the overseer’s phrase was on all occasions of
interference.
One day, when Hester returned from her morning’s work, she found the
cottage empty, and her dinner left on the table as if her master and
mistress had taken their’s, or did not mean to return for it. The little
girl danced to the door to shut it, and then sat down on her mat to eat
her mess of vegetables and herrings. Almost before she had done, she
sank down asleep, for, besides being overwearied as usual, the absence
of scolding tongues made such an unwonted quiet in the dwelling, that
she felt as if it was night. She slept this time without fear of being
roused by fire or water; for Robert was taking his turn that day as
watchman of the provision-grounds in the neighbourhood; and on these
occasions the old man frequently took his dinner in a neighbour’s
dwelling, and his wife made holiday also during the hour and a half she
could call her own. Hester therefore thought herself secure till the
gong should sound. She was mistaken, however; for after dreaming that
she heard the dreaded voice calling her, and that she knew it was only a
dream, she felt her hair twitched smartly, and started at Sukey’s shout
of—
“Don’t you hear your master calling you?”
“Sleep has no master,” said the poor little girl, trying to rouse
herself, and to remember what time of day it was. “Is the sun up? Shall
I be flogged?”
“Yes; you shall be flogged if you don’t run this moment to the sick
house and say that your mistress is ill, and can’t work any more to-day.
Make haste, or you won’t be there before the gong sounds.”
“But,” said the child, looking timidly at Sukey’s face, which showed
more signs of mirth than of pain; “they will not believe me, and then
they will flog me.”
Sukey said she should go down to the sick house as soon as she could;
and in the mean time began to hold her body and writhe herself about as
if in great pain, while Robert mixed something in a calabash as Hester
had seen him do before when he was lazy or bent on mischief, and wanted
to make himself ill for a short time to escape work. The little girl
still lingered, saying—
“If you would go with me now, the surgeon would see that you are ill.”
But Sukey flying at her in a passion, and Robert giving her a tremendous
kick to hasten her departure, the child fled away through the wood at
her utmost speed.
“Horner,” said the surgeon to the overseer, when Hester had made her way
through the crowd of reputed invalids who surrounded the door of the
sick house, “what is the matter with Sukey? Where was she this morning?”
“At her work, and so merry I was obliged to make her hold her tongue.
She was as well as I am two hours ago, and is now, I’ll be bound for
it.”
“If she is not really ill, child,” said the surgeon, “you shall be
punished for bringing such a story.”
“We’ll make you really ill, I can tell you,” Horner proceeded.
The child looked out wistfully, in hopes Sukey was coming to tell her
own story. She was rejoiced to see Robert approaching with a solemn face
and a calabash in his hand.
“Sukey is very bad, very bad,” he protested. “She can’t come; she can’t
walk; but if the surgeon will send her some physic, she hopes she can go
to her work to-morrow.”
And he displayed the contents of his calabash—some stinking black stuff
which he vowed she had just thrown up. The surgeon looked at it, and
then jerked the liquor in the old rogue’s face. Robert whined and
muttered as he shook the perfume from his locks and wiped it from his
nose and chin, but bowed humbly when the surgeon handed him a powder,
and hobbled away to avoid further question. The little girl had already
disappeared.
It was moonlight when she returned from delivering her bundle of
cattle-feed. As she passed slowly before the fence of Cassius’s ground,
it seemed to her that it was not in its usual order. Another look showed
her that the soil was as rough in some parts as if it had been dug up,
and that the green crop was trampled and the leaves strewn about as if a
herd of oxen had made their way through it. This might have been the
case, as the gate stood open; and Hester stepped in to see. She started
when she saw that somebody was there. Cassius stood, leaning his
forehead against his low threshold, his arms folded on his breast. The
child remained beside him for some minutes, hoping he would turn round,
but as he did not, she gently pulled his jacket. He still took no
notice. At last, a long deep sob broke from him, and the child,
terrified at his agitation, ran away. He strode after her, and caught
her at the gate. He held her with a strong grasp, as he cried—
“Who robbed my ground? You know, and you shall tell me. Don’t dare to
tell me a lie. Who robbed me?”
“Indeed, indeed, I don’t know. I did not know you had been robbed.”
“You did, you did. Why, don’t you see?” he cried, as he dragged her from
one plot to another, “here is not a potato left, the yams are all gone,
and look at the plantain boughs torn down. Everything is spoiled. I have
nothing to feed my pigs with. I have nothing to carry to market. I have
no more money than I had a year ago. I shall not be free this year—nor
the next—nor the next—nor—I wish I was dead. I shall never be free till
then.”
Hester did not understand what all this meant, so she remained silent
and quiet.
“Child!” Cassius broke forth again, “do you want to be free? Do you know
anybody that wants to be free?”
“I don’t know what it is to be free,” said the child, innocently.
“No, nor ever will,” muttered Cassius. “It was not you that helped to
rob me then. It is somebody else who wants a ransom by fair means or
foul.”
“You always gave me some fruit when I asked,” said the child, “so why
should I steal it? And I have been in the fields ever since
dinner-time.”
“And where have Robert and Sukey been?”
Instead of answering, Hester looked round for a way of escape. Her
impatient companion shook an answer out of her.
“They beat me sometimes when I say where they are.”
“I will beat you if you don’t. No, no, I won’t,” said Cassius, relenting
at the child’s tears; “I never beat you, did I?”
“No, never; and I had rather anybody beat me than you; but you won’t say
that I saw you?”
“Not if you tell me all you know.”
“Well; I don’t know anything about your ground being robbed; but my
master can tell you, I suppose, because he was watchman this afternoon,
and I think my mistress stayed from work to help him, for she said she
was ill.”
“And is she ill?”
“Only the same as she always is, when she does not like to go to the
field.”
Cassius made no other answer to all Hester told him, than to bid her go
home, as it was so late that Robert and Sukey would suspect her if she
stayed longer.
Robert’s door was fastened when the child got home; and when she called
to be let in, her master cried out, that she should be punished in the
morning for loitering; and that in the mean time she might get supper
and sleep where she could, for he and Sukey would not get up to let her
in. The child began to wail, but was threatened with a double flogging
if she did not hold her tongue and go to sleep at the door. She sat down
on the ground to consider whether she dared go and ask shelter of
Cassius, or whether she should lie down on the litter of straw beside
Robert’s dog, and try to keep herself warm in that manner. In a minute
she heard a giggle from within, and suspecting her master might not be
in bed, she crept round to where the fire-light shone through a chink,
and looking in, saw both the old people up and stirring. They seemed to
be making a plentiful supper, and little heaps of yams and potatoes were
lying about, which she had no doubt came out of Cassius’s ground. It was
by this time so very cold, and the sight of a fire was so tempting, that
she determined to seek shelter with Cassius, resolving, however, with a
prudence melancholy at her years, to say nothing of what she had seen,
and hoping that the spoils would be put out of the way of discovery
before the morning.
Cassius was not gone to bed, for he knew there would be no rest for him
this night. It was a relief to him to have something to do; and he
bestirred himself to heap wood on the fire, to get the child some
supper, and to cover her up warm. He also promised to beg her off from
the threatened flogging; so that the child was unusually happy at the
end of her day’s troubles, and got rest by pleasanter means than crying
herself to sleep.
Cassius laid his complaint against the watchman as a watchman, as he had
no means of proving him to be a thief; for Robert and Sukey had employed
the night in removing all traces of their spoils, which, however, filled
their pockets well the next market-day. Robert was slightly punished for
negligence on his beat, in the face of all the many stories he had to
tell of his unequalled excellence as a watchman, and of the
extraordinary difficulties which attended his duty on that particular
day. By dint of repeated and pertinacious complaints, Cassius obtained
some ungracious and imperfect redress, the overseer swearing at him for
his obstinacy, and his master complaining of the interference of the law
in his private property.
Mr. Mitchelson was perfectly correct in saying that planters are subject
to an evil which their countrymen in England are free from, when the law
interferes with private property; but that evil is chargeable upon the
nature of the property. It is another branch of the mischief of the
claimant and the infringer of the law being opposed to one another in
one sense, while in another they constitute the same party.
An injured slave appeals to the law; the law decrees him redress; and
the unwilling master, while he cannot set aside the decree,
complains—and the complaint, though unjust, is true in fact—that the law
intermeddles in the disposal of his private property.
This fact brings in another consideration, another instance of the
reversal, in the case of slavery, of all common rules,—that slaves are
better protected in despotic states than under a free government. Where
there is least scruple about interfering with private property,—that is,
where there is a despotic magistracy,—there will be the fewest
considerations to oppose to the impulses of humanity. Where the
slave-holder possesses the largest influence over public opinion,—where
he is a member of a colonial assembly, or an influential elector of such
a member, or a possessor of any of those means of keeping the magistracy
in check, which exist only under a free government,—there is the
strongest probability of the magistrate’s being tempted to stifle those
complaints which he knows cannot be urged elsewhere if disallowed by
him.
In the days of Augustus, one Vidius Pollio, in the presence of the
emperor, ordered one of his slaves, who had committed some slight fault,
to be cut in pieces and be thrown into his fish-pond to feed the fishes.
The emperor thereupon commanded him to emancipate, immediately, not only
that slave, but all the others that belonged to him.
In these days, no potentate can thus dispose of the property of a
Briton; and it is well. But it is clearly just that while the Briton
abjures despotic rule, he should hold none under him in such subjection
as to need the interference of despotic vengeance for the redress of
their wrongs.
To attempt to combine freedom and slavery is to put new wine into old
skins. Soon may the old skins burst! for we shall never want for a
better wine than they have ever held.
----------------------------
CHAPTER V.
NO HASTE TO THE WEDDING IN DEMERARA.
About this time there was occasion for a family consultation in old
Mark’s cottage; and it took place one day instead of the afternoon
sleep, to which the family regularly composed themselves when dinner was
done, except at such busy seasons as deprived them of the indulgence
necessary to negroes.
Old Mark had talked on, as usual, all dinner time, his children
listening to him as if he had been an oracle, except Nell, who, for
once, seemed inattentive to her father, and full of her own thoughts.
Becky observed upon this as soon as there was a pause, saying that she
supposed Nell had had some scolding, or was likely to be punished for
having spoiled some of her work that morning. Willy said that it was a
different sort of speech that Nell had had made to her; and he laughed.
Becky’s face clouded over at once; for, much as she had to say about the
compliments paid to herself, she knew that Nell had far more.—Nell was
handsomer and more spirited than Becky; and they were about equally
vain; so that, till they had each a lover, there were frequent quarrels
between the sisters; and even since their rivalry had ceased, Becky was
subject to pangs of envy as often as she heard of her sister being more
admired than herself.
Nell now explained that their neighbour Harry had made up his mind at
last to marry her if she chose; and she only waited to know what her
father would say.
He shook his head, and asked how long it was since there had been a
slave marriage on the estate. None of the young people remembered one on
their plantation, but there had been one in the neighbourhood within ten
years. Mark remembered that he had been happier with his wife than
before he married her; and from his own experience, would have
recommended his daughters to settle; but more and more difficulties had
arisen since his young days about the consequences of slaves’ marriages,
and he was afraid to advise the step; especially as Willy was altogether
against it, out of regard to his sister, and Becky, because her own
lover would not promise to marry her. Willy did not speak for a long
time, while his father went on prosing about how everybody would talk,
and stare, and wonder, and whether it would please or displease their
master, and lastly, whether Nell would be happier or less happy after
it.
“If you will marry too, Willy——”
“I won’t marry,” said Willy, doggedly.
“Your master values you, and so it is most likely he would not be angry;
and it would make people wonder less about Nell.”
“They might well wonder at me. No, father; I saw what came of the
marriage in the next plantation. It was just like no marriage.”
“But there is a law now to make our marriages as lawful as white
people’s.”
“To bind a man and his wife together as long as they are both slaves;
but if the man gets free, the woman cannot go with him. His money is not
hers because it is his; and if anybody buys her, her husband may not
follow her unless his master allows it. They cannot do their children
any good. They cannot make them free, nor save them from labour, nor
help them to get justice.”
“But there is a pleasure in living with a wife in a cottage, and in
sowing corn together, and in making the fire for one another, and in
having her to talk to, and to dance with, when holidays come.”
Willy observed that all this might be done without being married, and
was done by everybody on the plantation, who would have married if the
civil rights of marriage had been allowed to them as to the whites.
“But you do every thing for yourself, Willy. You want nobody to sing to
you, or to dance with you, or to go to market with you. You want nobody
to love.”
“I love you, father, and Nell, and Becky.”
“But I shall die soon, and Nell will marry, and Becky loves her lover.
It is time you should find somebody else to love.”
“The time is past, father. I began to love Clara once, just before she
died; and while I was forgetting my sorrow for her, I learned by what I
saw, never to love anybody else.”
“Why, Willy?”
“Because a black must be first a slave and then a man. A white woman has
nobody to rule her but her husband, and nobody can hurt her without his
leave: but a slave’s wife must obey her master before her husband; and
he cannot save her from being flogged. I saw my friend Hector throw
himself on the ground when his wife was put in the stocks; and then I
swore that I would never have a wife.”
“But think of Hector’s children, Willy. O, you do not know the pleasure
of hearing one’s little children laugh in the shade, when the sun makes
one faint at noon! It is like a wind from the north. And to let them
sleep under the same mat, and to see them play like the whites,—and then
their master pats their heads sometimes when they follow him.”
“Like dogs,” said Willy, “that as often get a kick as a kind word. When
I see little children as clever and as merry as whites, I take them up
in my arms and love them; but when they are carried away where their
father shall never see them again, or when their mothers look sad to
find them growing as stupid as we are, I am glad that I am not their
father.”
“Becky!” said her father, “are these the reasons that your lover will
not marry you?”
Becky made no answer; for the fact was she knew nothing more than that
he thought there was no occasion.
“Willy!” said the old man again, “if you will not love nor marry here,
you will try to go somewhere where you can be a man and a husband
without being a slave. You work in our ground. Is it that you may be
free when I am dead?”
“No, father, I shall not try to be free.”
“Why then do you sow corn and dig our ground for us? If you get money,
why will you not pay it to be free?”
“I sow corn that you may have as good food as when you were young and
could dig like me. I get money because others do so; but, unless it were
many times as much, it does little good to me, for I shall never be
free. The Englishmen, over the sea, tell us that they wish us to be
free, and bid us try to buy our ransom; and when we have nearly done so,
they put a higher price upon us, and laugh when we give up.”
“How can people so far off raise our price?”
“They raise the price of sugars because our masters ask them, and then
our masters raise our price. Hector once hoped to buy his freedom; and
it made him happy to see his master look sad, because then he knew that
his master could not sell his sugar, and did not want his slaves so
much, and Hector hoped that no more sugar would be sold till his master
had taken his ransom and let him go. But one day the overseer told him
that his ransom was too low and he must not go yet. It was because his
master wanted to make sugar again; and he wanted to make sugar because
the people in England pitied our masters, and made sugar dearer that
they might be rich.”
“If the whites in England pitied us,” said Nell, “they would make sugar
cheaper that we might be free.”
“Till they do,” said Willy, folding his arms, “I will be as I am, I will
work no more than I cannot help. I will sleep all I can, that I may
forget. I will love my father till he dies, and Nell and Becky till they
have husbands that will love them more than I. Then, since I cannot
love, I will hate; and I will call to the hurricane to bury me under my
roof and set me free.”
“You will love our young master, Willy? He did not forget you while he
was beyond the sea, and he is a kind master now he has come back.”
“I did not forget him,” said Willy. “I remember how he made me play with
him when we were both boys; but I did not love him then, because he was
oftener my master than my play-fellow; and I do not love him now,
because he will be my master again. Don’t ask me, father, to love
anybody. Slaves cannot love.”
Willy looked round for his sisters; but Nell was gone to Harry’s cottage
to tell him she would marry him, thus taking advantage of her brother’s
mention of husbands for herself and Becky. Becky had followed to see how
Harry would take the communication. So Willy threw himself down on his
mat as if going to sleep, while his father, whose ideas had been carried
back to his young days, sat at the door of the hut, singing to himself
the song with which he had courted his long-buried wife.
----------------------------
CHAPTER VI.
MAN WORTH LESS THAN BEAST IN DEMERARA.
“What can be the matter with Mitchelson?” said Mr. Bruce one day, when
his son was riding with him. “See what a hurry he is in, and how vexed
he looks! He is in a downright passion with his favourite mare.”
Mr. Mitchelson smoothed his countenance a little as he approached, but
still looked sorely troubled. The cause of his vexation was soon told.
His mill-dam had burst, and been carried away at a very critical season,
and nothing could repay the loss of time before it could be restored.
Time was everything in such a case.
“And how long will it take to repair it?” inquired Alfred.
“Three months,—three precious months, I expect.”
“Is it possible?” said Alfred. “I cannot think it.”
“You judge of everything, son, as if this were England,” said Mr. Bruce.
“Our people do not turn off work like the labourers you have been
accustomed to see.”
“Mr. Mitchelson must know best, of course,” replied Alfred; “but does
your surveyor, or contractor, or whoever he be, bid you wait three
months?”
“He will when he hears the story which I am now on my way to tell him. I
can’t stop, so good morning.”
“Let me go with you,—may I?” said Alfred. “I like to see and hear
everything I can.”
Mr. Mitchelson professing himself glad of his company, Alfred turned his
horse’s head in search of the contractor.
While this important personage was musing and calculating, Mr.
Mitchelson kept urging,—
“Time, you know, is everything. Anything to save time.”
Alfred modestly suggested that it would be worth trying the experiment
of making the slaves as much like English labourers for the occasion as
possible. Mitchelson laughed at the idea; but asked the contractor how
long the repairs would take if the number of slaves he meant to employ
were English labourers?
“From twelve to fifteen days, I should think.”
“And how long if they work like slaves in general?”
“Probably sixty days.”
“Somewhat under the time I fixed in my own mind. You know, Alfred, I
said three months at a round guess.”
“I wish—I wish——” Alfred kept saying, half to himself.
“What do you wish?” said the contractor, who understood the value of
labour, and suspected that he and Alfred were of the same way of
thinking on that class of subjects; “what is it you wish?”
“Perhaps Mr. Mitchelson will laugh at me for the notion; but I wish he
would let you and me manage this affair, as we shall agree; you pledging
yourself for the cost, and I for the time. You shall arrange the work,
and I will manage the slaves.”
“In that case,” replied the contractor, “I would engage to finish the
repairs in twenty days.”
“Twenty days!” cried Mitchelson. “My dear sir, you were more right in
saying sixty. You will not do it under sixty. But you may try. I give
you _carte blanche_; and to leave you perfectly free, I will go away. I
want to go into Berbice, and I may as well do it now while our regular
business is stopped.”
The other contracting parties were by no means sorry for this. Alfred’s
partner returned with him, and operations were commenced immediately.
The main feature of Alfred’s plan was to pay wages. He collected the
men, told them what they had to do and expect, promised them warm
clothing in case of their working early and late, showed them the ample
provision of meat, bread, and vegetables he had stored at hand, marched
them off, only staying behind to forbid the overseer to come within
sight of the mill-dam, and from that time never left the spot till the
work was finished. Horner was very angry, and full of scorn and evil
prognostications; but nobody cared except the poor women and children,
upon whom he vented his ill-humour as long as he was deprived of his
dominion over the able-bodied labourers.
Mr. Bruce arrived when the work was half done, to see how his son’s
speculation was likely to succeed. As he approached, he was struck with
the appearance of activity so unusual in that region. The first sound he
heard was a hum of voices, some singing, some talking, some laughing;
for negroes have none of the gravity of English labourers. When they are
not sullen they are merry; and now they showed that talk and mirth were
no hinderance to working with might and main. Cassius toiled the hardest
of all, and was the gravest; but he was happy: for this was an
opportunity of increasing the fund for his ransom which he had little
dreamed of. Alfred was talking with him, and lending a hand, as he did
continually to one or another, when his father appeared.
“Bravo! son,” cried Mr. Bruce, as Alfred ran to meet him. “You and your
partner are doing wonders, I see. Will you fulfil your contract?”
“Very easily, sir, if weather remains favourable—(O! I forgot there was
no fear of bad weather)—and if Mr. Mitchelson keeps out of the way, so
that I may keep Horner and his whip out of the way also till we have
done. The family are all absent, you see; but I will step in with you
while you rest yourself. I was surprised to find the ladies gone too
when I arrived.”
“Mitchelson always takes them with him when he is absent for more than a
few hours.”
Alfred thought within himself that he should not have suspected the
gentleman of being so very domestic.
“But come,” said Mr. Bruce, dismounting and fastening up his horse,
“show me the secrets of your management. What are these barrels, and
whence comes this savoury smell?”
“These barrels hold beef and pork, sir; and the savour is from the
cooking in yonder hut.”
“And what is your allowance per man?”
“As much as he chooses to eat. We should get little work done if we gave
each labourer weekly no more than two pounds of herrings and eight
pounds of flour, with the vegetables they grow themselves.”
“The law pronounces that to be enough.”
“But what says the law of nature? You and I do no hard work; and could
we keep ourselves sleek and strong on such a supply of food?”
“Negroes do not want so much as whites.”
“That is a good reason for their having as much as they do want. Our
people here are not troubled with indigestion, as far as I can perceive.
What do you think of our warm jackets?”
“I cannot imagine how they can support the heat in such clothing. No
wonder they throw them aside.”
“They are only for morning and evening. The people scarcely seem to heed
the morning fogs while they wear their woollens; and we make them put
them on again when the sun sets——”
“Do you mean that they work after sunset of their own accord?”
“We have difficulty in making them leave off at nine o’clock. They like
to sing to the moon as they work; and when they have done, they are not
too tired for a dance. Father, you would more than pay for a double suit
of clothing to your slaves by the improvement in their morning’s work;
and yet I believe you give them more than the law orders.”
“Yes. One hat, shirt, jacket, and trowsers, cannot be made to last a
year; and the clothing that the slaves buy for themselves is more for
ornament than warmth. I do not know how the overseer clothes them, but I
have always desired that they should have whatever was necessary.”
Alfred said to himself that the overseer’s notions of what was necessary
might not be the best rule to go by.
Mr. Bruce meanwhile was looking alternately at two gangs of slaves at
work after a rather different manner. He was standing on the confines of
two estates; and, in a field at a little distance, a company of slaves
was occupied as usual; that is, bending over the ground, but to all
appearance scarcely moving, silent, listless, and dull. At hand, the
whole gang, from Cassius down to the youngest and weakest, were as busy
as bees, and from them came as cheerful a hum, though the nature of
their work rather resembled the occupation of beavers.
“Task-work with wages,” said Alfred, pointing to his own gang; “eternal
labour, without wages,” pointing to the other. “It is not often that we
have an example of the two systems before our eyes at the same moment. I
need not put it to you which plan works the best.”
“It is indeed very striking; but what can we do? We must hold labour as
capital,—to put the question in the form you like best,—for our modes of
cultivation require continuous labour. We cannot begin our tillage, and
leave off and begin again, as may suit the pleasure of our labourers. We
must have labour always at command.”
“Undoubtedly; and which has the most labour at command at this
moment,—Mitchelson, or the owner of those miserable drones yonder? And
what is to prevent Mitchelson from having this efficient labour always
at command if he uses the same means that have secured it now? Labour is
the product of mind as much as of body; and, to secure that product, we
must sway the mind by the natural means,—by motives. A man must learn to
work from self-interest before he will work for the sake of another; and
labouring against self-interest is what nobody ought to expect of white
men,—much less of slaves.”
“I am quite of your opinion there, and, in consequence, make my slaves
as comfortable as I can. Of course, every man, woman, and child, would
rather play for nothing than work for nothing.”
“Then surely it is best for all parties to make the connexion between
labour and its reward as clear as possible. I doubt whether any slave
believes that his comforts depend on the value of his work. At any rate,
he often sees that they do not. And this difficulty will for ever attend
the practice of holding labourers as fixed capital.”
“But the maintenance of their labour, son, is reproducible as much as if
they were free.”
“It is; in the same way as the subsistence of oxen and horses. In both
cases it is consumed and reproduced with advantage: but cattle are fixed
capital, and so are slaves. But slaves differ from cattle, on the one
hand, in yielding (from internal opposition) a less return for their
maintenance; and from free labourers, on the other, in not being acted
upon by the inducements which stimulate production as an effort of mind
as well as body. In all three cases the labour is purchased. In free
labourers and cattle, all the faculties work together, and to advantage;
in the slave they are opposed: and therefore he is, as far as the amount
of labour is concerned, the least valuable of the three.”
“And too often as to the quality of his labour also, son. A slave does
some few things for us that cattle and machinery could not do; but he
falls far short of a free labourer in all respects. Our slaves never
invent or improve.”
“Why should they? No invention would shorten their toil, for they do no
task-work. No improvement does them any good, for they have no share in
the profits of their labour. They _can_ invent and improve,—witness
their ingenuity in their dwellings, and their skill in certain of their
sports; but their masters will never possess their faculties, though
they have purchased their limbs. Our true policy would be to divide the
work of the slave between the ox and the hired labourer; we should get
more out of the sinews of the one and the soul of the other, than the
produce of double the number of slaves.”
“I have sometimes wondered,” said Mr. Bruce, “whether we do not lose on
the whole by forbidding our slaves to raise exportable produce in their
own grounds. They, being better adapted than ourselves to the soil and
climate, might discover and practise modes of tillage from which we
might gather many useful hints, which might more than repay what we
should lose by their thefts.”
“What you would lose by theft is a mere trifle,” answered Alfred, “in
the account of the cost of a negro. If they were free labourers,
thieving as fast as opportunity would allow, (which being free
labourers, they would not,) your blacks would cost you little in
comparison of what they do now without thieving.”
“How do you know?”
“I took pains to calculate the cost of a slave before I left England;
and I have had the means of proving my calculation by the experience of
my friend yonder, the contractor, who has had more opportunity than most
people I know of mastering both sides of the question.”
“Does he speak of slaves newly imported, or of those born and bred on
the estate? for that makes a vast difference.”
“We have reckoned both. Those imported were, of course, by far the
dearest; for, in addition to the usual cost, we had to defray the
expenses, in life and money, of wars on the coast of Africa, and of
conveying them across the ocean, the loss under the seasoning when they
arrived, and the revenue to the African trader; and, after all, they are
worth less than those bred on the spot, from being unacquainted with the
language, and unused to the kinds of labour in which they were to be
employed.”
“I never was one to advocate the importation of slaves; it is so clear
that the expenses of their rearing are much less than those attending
their transport. But I really do not think the cost of maintaining
slaves can be greater than that of free labourers. They must both eat
and drink, you know, and be clothed and housed.”
“True, father; and the question therefore is, whether their maintenance
can be managed the more economically by their own contrivance when they
have an interest in saving, or by their master’s pinching them when they
have an interest in wasting his property. The free labourer has every
inducement to manage his field or other possession frugally, and to
husband whatever produce he may obtain. You need only look into the
state of our slave acres, to see how different the case is there. The
cultivation is negligently performed, the produce stolen or wasted, so
that we reap scarcely a third of the natural crop. In both cases, the
master pays the subsistence of the labourer, but the slave-owner pays in
addition for theft, negligence, and waste.”
“Well but, Alfred, give me the items. Tell me the value of a healthy
slave at twenty-one?”
“I believe his labour will be found at least 25 per cent. dearer than
free labour. From birth to fifteen years of age, including food,
clothing, life-insurance, and medicine, he will be an expense; will not
he?”
“Yes. The work he does will scarcely pay his insurance, medicine, and
attendance, leaving out his food and clothing; but from fifteen to
twenty-one, his labour may just defray his expenses.”
“Very well; then food and clothing for fifteen years remain to be paid;
the average cost of which per annum being at the least 6_l._, he has
cost 90l. over and above his earnings at twenty-one years. Then if we
consider that the best work of the best field-hand is worth barely
two-thirds of the average field-labour of whites,—if we consider the
chances of his being sick or lame, or running away, or dying,—and that
if none of these things happen, he must be maintained in old age, we
must feel that property of this kind ought to bring in at least 10 per
cent. per annum interest on the capital laid out upon him. Whether the
labour of a black, amounting to barely two-thirds of that of a white
labourer, defrays his own subsistence, his share of the expense of an
overseer and a driver, and 10 per cent. interest on 90_l._, I leave you
to say.”
“Certainly not, son, even if we forget that we have taken the average of
free labour, and the prime of slave labour. We have said nothing of the
women, whose cost is full as much, while their earnings are less than
the men’s. But you overlook one grand consideration;—that whites cannot
work in the summer time in this climate and on this soil.”
“It is only saying ‘free black’ instead of ‘white.’ The tenure of the
labour is the question, not the colour of the labourers, as long as
there is a plentiful supply of whichever is wanted. Only let us look at
what is passing before our eyes, and we shall see whether negroes
working for wages, or even under tribute, are not as good labourers as
whites.”
“I have often meditated adopting the plan of tribute, Alfred, since
times have gone badly with me; but it is difficult on a coffee
plantation. If I were in Brazil, the proprietor of a gold mine, or at
Panama, the lord of a pearl-fishery, I would adopt their customs. I
would supply my slaves with provisions and tools, and they should return
me a certain quantity of gold or pearls, and keep the surplus.”
“That is one way of making them work by fair means, father. It is an
important approach to emancipation, as I believe it was found in Russia.
It seems, too, an excellent preparative for a state of freedom; and
surely such a preparative would never have been adopted, and would not
have been allowed to proceed to entire emancipation, if such comparative
freedom had not been advantageous to the master as well as the slave. It
is a strong argument, brought forward by slave-holders, in favour of
emancipation.”
“But the plan could not be tried on a coffee plantation, son—that is the
worst of it. If we lived in the neighbourhood of a large town, I would
attempt it on a small scale. Some of my slaves should let their labour,
paying me a weekly tribute, and keeping whatever they earned over and
above. This is done in places south and west of us on this continent, as
a Spanish friend of mine was telling me lately.”
“Suppose we try task work instead, father?”
“I have no other objection than this, son. If the experiment did not
answer, there would be no getting the slaves back to the present
system.”
“A strong argument against the present system, father; but not the less
true for that: suppose then we try with some new employment. If the
blacks are as stupid as they are thought to be here, we need not fear
their carrying the principle out any farther than we wish. Suppose we
make bricks by task-work. Why should we import them, when we have
abundance of brick clay on the estate and labour to spare?”
“It has been found to answer better to import them.”
“Who says so?”
“Mr. Herbert, my old neighbour. He had not straw enough, to be sure,
growing, as he does little besides sugar.”
“Ah; the bounty is all in all with these sugar-growers, father. They
keep their eye fixed on that bounty, and give no other article of
production a fair chance. Besides, I suppose he did not try task-work?”
“Not he. But consider, Alfred, how very little the freight is; and then,
there is the fuel.”
“The fuel is easily had; and a ton of coal will serve for eight tons of
bricks. We are better supplied with straw than if we raised sugars only;
and the apparatus is not expensive. Only consider, father: the labour of
your slaves, at present, does not average more than fifteen-pence a day;
and brickmakers, in England, make from five to seven shillings a day. Do
let me try whether, by working by count, we cannot raise the value of
our slave-labour, and save the expense of importation.”
“But, my dear son, we do not want bricks enough to make it worth while.”
“Our neighbours want them as well as ourselves; and it may answer well
to withdraw a permanent portion of labour from our coffee-walks and
transfer it to our brick-field. The art is not difficult, and the
climate is most favourable, so confidently as we may reckon on the
absence of heavy rains for weeks together.”
“Well; we will see about it, son.”
“I give you warning, father,” said Alfred, laughing, “that I shall not
be content with one experiment. If we save by brickmaking, I shall
propose our making the bagging and packages for our coffee at home,
instead of paying so high as we do for them.”
“Nay, Alfred; what becomes of your boasted principle of the division of
labour?”
“I think as highly as ever of it where labour is as productive as it
ought to be. But where eight free labourers do as much work as twelve
slaves, it follows that if those twelve slaves were set free, four of
them would be at leisure for more work. If as much sugar was raised
already as was wanted, those four labourers might make a great saving by
refining and claying the sugars at home; which business is now done
elsewhere.”
“In the Spanish colonies, where there is a large proportion of free
labourers, I know they do many things among themselves which British
planters do not, and thus reduce the cost of cultivation in a way that
we should be very glad to imitate.”
“Such imitation is easy enough, surely. We have only to introduce as
large a proportion of free labour.”
“The wages of free labour are so dreadfully high,” objected Mr. Bruce.
“Only in proportion to the scarcity of free labour, I believe, father.
Wherever there is little of a good thing, it is dear, according to the
general rule. Slave-labour is not only dear in itself, but it makes free
labour dear also; and gives an undue advantage to free labourers at the
expense of the other two parties. If we would but allow natural
principles of supply and free competition to work, the rights of all
parties would be equalized.—But there is Horner hovering at a distance
and looking as if he longed to come and whip us all round. I must keep
him off, or he will spoil our work. The very sight of him is enough to
paralyse my men; they absolutely hate him.”
“And well they may,” observed Mr. Bruce. “I cannot think what makes
Mitchelson keep that man in his service. Even my overseer, who knows the
nature of the business well, calls him a brute.”
Alfred told his father, in a low voice, that he should think it his duty
to get this man discharged as soon as possible; for he was so enraged at
the adoption of a new plan, and at its evident success, that it was too
probable he would ill-treat the slaves to the utmost as soon as he had
them again in his power.
“He cannot vent his revenge upon me,” said Alfred, “and will therefore
pour it out upon them; and since I have done the deed, I must look to
the consequences. Having taken these poor creatures under my care, I
must see that they do not fall back into a worse state than before. I
will not quit Mr. Mitchelson’s side till I have seen him change his
overseer.”
Mr. Bruce shook his head, and made some grave remarks upon the
imprudence of making enemies. He did not perceive, and his son did not
remind him, that for his one new enemy he had secured a posse of
grateful friends.
Mr. Mitchelson and his family returned punctually on the twenty-first
day. The dam was, to their great surprise, finished, the mill fit for
use, the slaves in good plight, the contractor satisfied and gone home,
and all at a less cost than would have secured the reluctant labour of
as many hands for sixty days;—to say nothing of the vast advantage of
avoiding a suspension of the usual operations on the estate. Mr.
Mitchelson being, of course, pleased, all was right, except that Horner
snatched every opportunity of oppressing and thwarting the people under
him; and it was no easy matter to get him dismissed. He was foolish
enough to let fall words in the hearing of the slaves, which showed that
he was aware he owed his situation to his master’s favour only, and that
he owed Alfred a grudge. The natural consequence, among a people
perfectly ignorant, and yet subject to human passions, was that they
adored Alfred, and hated Mr. Mitchelson and his overseer with an intense
and almost equal hatred.
----------------------------
CHAPTER VII.
CHRISTIANITY DIFFICULT IN DEMERARA.
Mr. Mitchelson told his young friend that he must not think of leaving
Paradise at present. “You have served me in one way,” he said, “and you
now must do it in another. You have built up my mill-dam, and now you
must give me the pleasure of your society. I shall be little flattered,
if you give me to understand that you prefer intercourse with my slaves
to associating with me and my family.”
Alfred was quite disposed to remain at Paradise for a few days; and they
were made days of festivity, according to the hospitable customs of the
West Indies. An excursion was planned for one day, the main object of
which was to inspect an estate, now to be let on lease, for which Mr.
Mitchelson had been authorised by a friend to negotiate. The ladies of
the family cared little for the estate; but there was some pretty
country a little way beyond which Alfred had never seen, and which they
visited to show him. A party of pleasure was therefore formed, and all
the elegant accompaniments of such an arrangement were provided in
profusion. The ladies in carriages, the gentlemen on horseback, set out
in the cool of the morning, saw all they meant to see, dined luxuriously
at the house belonging to the plantation which Mr. Mitchelson had been
left behind to survey, and returned in good time in the evening. Alfred
was rather surprised at the anxiety of the ladies not to be delayed
beyond a certain hour, and remembered how apt parties of pleasure in
England are to transgress in this respect: how faithfully they promise
to be home “by ten, at latest,” and how fidgetty grandfathers, or
anxious mothers, or officious servants, sit at home listening for
carriage wheels, start when the clock strikes eleven, groan when it
comes to twelve, and forgive everything when the weary, unsociable,
young folks are at last safely housed, and yawn a good night to each
other, leaving everything to be told the next day. The most
unaccountable thing of all to him, was the extraordinary prudence of the
young people.
“Come, Alfred,” said Mr. Mitchelson, “we can go so much faster than the
carriage this cool afternoon, that it is a pity you should not see a
fine sea-view there is behind the wood there. You like a sea-view, I
know.”
“O papa!” exclaimed Miss Grace, as she saw them turning their horses,
“what are you going to do? You do not mean to leave us!”
“Only for half an hour, my dear. We shall join you where the roads
meet.”
There was a general cry from the ladies that it was too late for the
party to separate. Mr. Mitchelson urged that the carriages could take
care of each other, and that he and Alfred could come to no harm, for he
knew the road perfectly,—a fine open road, except one bit that led
through a wood;—and the gentlemen trotted off without more controversy.
It was true that the road could not be missed. It was true that, as Mr.
Mitchelson protested, the view was fine enough to have tempted them
twice as far out of their way; but it was not so true that he was clear
about the way back. He thought he was, or he would not have ventured;
and for a considerable way he guided his young friend confidently, and
congratulated himself on having suggested so pleasant a variety in their
journey home. But changes had been made since he last went over the
ground; changes which he was long in perceiving, and of which he was not
fully convinced till he had become completely bewildered about the
direction in which he was proceeding. They had entered an extensive wood
of which he remembered nothing: the road branched off, and he did not
know whether to go right or left; and, what was worse, both roads were
found to become wilder and less marked, till they ended in being no road
at all. There was nothing for it but to go back; a proceeding which
seemed to Alfred so easy, that he was astonished at the nervous
agitation of his companion, who alternately checked and urged on his
horse, talked fast, or would say nothing, and at last appeared so
irritable as well as panic-struck, that Alfred despaired of managing
him, and let him take his own way about what should be done. As might be
expected, he lost the track again. They became more involved in shade
than ever, and the short twilight of that climate was darkening every
moment.
If Alfred had been alone, or favoured with a more manly and agreeable
companion, he would have thought it no great hardship to be obliged to
pass the night in the woods of such a country as this. There could be no
richer bower than the foliage around him; no lamps in a pillared hall so
beautiful as the fire-flies that began already to flit among the
columnar stems which retired in long perspective on every hand; no
perfumes more delicious than the fragrance of the pimento, borne through
the groves by the whispering nightwind; no canopy so splendid as the
deep blue heaven where the constellations appeared magnified as if the
powers of the eye had been strengthened, where the milky-way seemed
paved with planets, and where Venus rose like a little moon, and in the
absence of the greater, casting a distinguishable shadow from trunk and
waving bough. Alfred’s heart leaped at the idea of watching, in so
favourable a situation, the solemn march of night, and repairing before
the dawn to the plains whence he might see the first sunbeams kiss the
ocean. He could perceive no danger, and he felt no want. He could pluck
grass for a bed; he could light a fire, if it should be necessary; and
both had so lately eaten that there was no fear of being starved before
morning. He turned to his companion, who had thrown himself from his
horse upon the ground; but Mitchelson’s countenance looked so gloomy in
the dim light, that his young friend hesitated to address him.
“Lord have mercy upon us!” groaned Mitchelson. “What may happen if we
cannot get home?”
“I was not aware there was any danger,” replied Alfred. “What is our
danger? not wild beasts, nor cold, nor hunger; we can light a fire——”
“O! my poor wife. O! my children. Their friends will leave them,
supposing we are coming.”
“I am sorry for the fright they will have,” said Alfred; “but surely
they will not think any great harm can befall us before morning?”
“O! what may not have happened before morning? Alfred, I had rather you
and I had to battle with wild beasts than women with slaves. If the
wretches find out my absence——”
The cause of all this terror now flashed upon Alfred: the same cause
which made Mitchelson carry his family with him wherever he went. He was
afraid to leave his household in the power of his slaves. Yet this was
the country where (so people are told in England) slaves are contented
and happy, and, in every respect, better off than the free peasantry of
the empire! This was the country whose proprietors dared to complain of
the inefficiency of British law for the security of property! The
present was not the moment, however, for venting his indignation, or
pointing to the obvious truths which stared him in the face. Alfred
looked on his terrified companion as he sat trembling on the trunk of a
fallen tree, and felt nothing but pity. He could not triumph while he
knew that the unhappy man was scared with visions of burning
cane-fields, of a murdered wife and insulted children.
“Do not let us give up, if you are really very anxious to get home,”
said Alfred gently. “I can guide you a little way back, I believe; and
if you will but compose yourself, you may observe some familiar object
before long which will help us into the right track. We may yet be home
before midnight.”
It was past midnight, however, and the moon was high in the heaven
before they got out of the wood and found themselves on a road—not the
one they wanted, but one which would lead them home at length, after a
circuit of a few miles. Mitchelson’s countenance, as seen by the
moonlight, was pale and haggard, and the horses were so weary that they
stumbled continually. Alfred, too, was sufficiently fatigued to be glad
to be relieved from all difficulty but that of going straight forward as
well as he could, and from all obligation to converse. He looked at his
companion from time to time, fearing that he might drop from his horse;
for Mitchelson, never strong, and exposed during the whole day to
unusual fatigue, was ill prepared for an adventure like the present, and
appeared utterly exhausted. Alfred looked about in vain for any place
where they might stop for a few minutes to refresh themselves. There
were none but clusters of negro-huts here and there, where all was
silent and motionless, except that smoke curled up from the roofs in
little white clouds as the silvery light fell upon them. Mitchelson
would not hear of calling up any one to furnish a calabash of water, or
any more substantial refreshment; and he seemed particularly uneasy
while in the neighbourhood of these dwellings, starting whenever a bough
dangled in the breeze, and casting a suspicious glance into the shadows
as he urged his horse forwards. He appeared more in a hurry than ever,
though he actually tottered in his saddle, as they came to a place which
seemed to Alfred as if he had seen it before.
“Surely,” said Alfred, “this is your own estate. Yes, that hut is
Cassius’s. You shall go no further till you have eaten and drunken, or I
shall have you fainting by the road-side.”
So saying, he dismounted, and fastened his horse to some palings at a
little distance from the hut. Mitchelson tried by word and gesture to
restrain him; but Alfred, who thought his companion in no condition to
take care of himself, was decided.
“Fear nothing,” he said, “Cassius and I are good friends, and it will
give him pleasure to be of service to us.”
He approached softly, and his footsteps were not heard, though Cassius
was awake, and somewhat differently engaged from what might have been
expected at such a time of night.
When Alfred reached the threshold, he thought he heard the murmurs of a
voice within, and stepped round to the opening, which served for a
window, to observe for his guidance what was passing within. Cassius was
alone: it was his voice that Alfred had heard. His night-fire was
smouldering on the earthen floor, and he was kneeling beside it, his
arms folded, his head drooped on his breast, except now and then when he
looked up with eyes in which blazed a much brighter fire than that
before him. A flickering blaze now and then shot up from the embers, and
showed that his face was bathed with tears or perspiration, and that his
strong limbs shook as if an icy wind was blowing upon him.
Alfred had often wondered, while in England, what Christianity could be
like in a slave country. Since he arrived in Demerara he had heard
tidings of the Christian teacher who had resided there for a time, which
gave him a sufficiently accurate notion of the nature of his faith and
of that of the planters; but he was still curious to know how the Gospel
was held by the slaves. He had now an opportunity of learning, for
Cassius was at prayer. These were snatches of his prayer.
“May he sell no sugar, that no woman may die of the heat and hard work,
and that her baby may not cry for her. If Christ came to make men free,
let him send a blight that the crop may be spoiled; for when our master
is poor, we shall be free. O Lord! make our master poor: make him sit
under a tree and see his plantation one great waste. Let him see that
his canes are dead, and that the wind is coming to blow down his house
and his woods; and then he will say to us, ‘I have no bread for you, and
you may go.’ O, God! pity the women who cannot sleep this night because
their sons are to be flogged when the sun rises. O, pity me, because I
have worked so long, and shall never be free. Do not say to me, ‘You
shall never be free.’ Why shouldst thou spare Horner who never spares
us? Let him die in his sleep this night, and then there will be many to
sing to thee instead of wailing all the night. We will sing like the
birds in the morning if thou wilt take away our fear this night. If
Jesus was here, he would speak kindly to us, and, perhaps, bring a
hurricane for our sakes. O, do not help us less because he is with thee
instead of with us! We have waited long, O Lord! we have not killed any
one: we have done no harm, because thou hast commanded us to be patient.
If we must wait, do thou give us patience; for we are very miserable,
and our grief makes us angry. If we may not be angry, be thou angry with
one or two, that a great many may be happy.”
These words caught Alfred’s ear amidst many which he could not hear. In
deep emotion, he was about to beckon his companion to come and listen
too, when he found he was already at his elbow.
“Stand and hear him out,” whispered Alfred. “You will do him no harm, I
am sure. You will not punish a man for his devotions, be their character
what it may. Let Cassius be master for once. Let him teach us that which
he understands better than we. He seems to have thought more than you or
I on what Christ would say to our authority if He were here. I will go
in when he rises, and hear more.”
“For God’s sake, do not trust yourself with him. Let us go. Don’t ask
him for water, or anything else. I will have nothing,—I am going home
this moment.”
“Then I will follow,” said Alfred, knocking at the door of the hut as
soon as he saw that Cassius had risen and was about to replenish his
fire.
“Cassius, I have overheard some of your prayers,” he said, when he had
explained to the astonished slave the cause of his appearance. “I was
glad when you told me that you had been made a Christian; but your
prayer is not that of a Christian. Surely this is not the way you were
taught to pray?”
“We were told to pray for the miserable, and to speak to God as our
Father, and tell him all that we wish. I know none so miserable as
slaves, and therefore I prayed that there might be an end of their
misery. I wish nothing so much as that I and all slaves may be free, and
so I prayed for it. Is it wrong to pray for this?”
“No. I pray for the same thing, perhaps, as often as you; but——”
“Do you? Do you pray the same prayer as we do?” cried the slave, falling
at Alfred’s feet, and looking up in his face. “Then let us be your
slaves, and we will all pray together.”
“I wish to have no slaves, Cassius: I would rather you should be my
servants, if you worked for me at all. But we could not pray the same
prayer while you ask for revenge. How dared you ask that the overseer
might die, and that your master might be poor, and see his estate laid
waste, when you know Jesus prayed for pardon for his enemies, and
commanded us to do them good when we could?”
“Was it revenge?” asked Cassius. “I did not mean it for revenge; but I
can never understand what prayer would best please God. I would not pray
for my master’s sorrow and Horner’s death if it would do nobody any
good, or even nobody but me; but when I know that there would be joy in
a hundred cottages if there was death in the overseer’s, may I not pray
for the hundred families? And if I know that the more barren the land
grows, the more the men will eat, and the women sing, and the children
play, and the sooner I myself shall be free, may I not pray that the
land may be barren? And as the land grows barren, my master grows poor.
You know the Gospel better than I do. Explain this to me.”
Alfred did his best to make it clear that, while blessings were prayed
for, the means should be left to Divine wisdom: but though Cassius
acquiesced and promised, it was plain he did not see why he should not
take for granted the suitableness of means which appeared to him so
obvious. When Alfred heard what provocation he had just received, he had
only wondered at the moderation of his petitions, and the patience with
which he bore reproof. Horner had given him notice the preceding
evening, that as it appeared from his exertions at the mill-dam, that he
was of more value than he had always pretended, his ransom should be
doubled. In such a case, a prayer for such low prices as would lessen
his own value was the most natural that could burst from the lips of a
slave.
Alfred resolved, in his own mind, to obtain justice for Cassius, but
refrained from exciting hopes which it might be out of his power to
realize. He cheered the slave by accepting food and drink from him, and
by imparting to him that luxury which it is to be hoped visits this
class of beings more frequently than formerly,—sympathy. When Cassius
came out to hold the stirrup for Alfred, he looked with a smile at the
moon, and said that there would be time for himself to sleep before the
gong should sound, and yet more for the gentleman, who need not mind the
gong.
Alfred’s horse had been grazing to such good purpose during the
conversation with Cassius, that he carried his master home without
another stumble.
----------------------------
CHAPTER VIII.
THE PROUD COVET PAUPERISM IN DEMERARA.
It was well that Alfred had held out no expectation to Cassius that his
ransom would be lowered, or to anybody that the overseer would be
dismissed. Mr. Mitchelson was willing to promise everything to any
person under whose influence he might be at the time; but as fear had
been his predominant passion ever since the days of the insurrection
which once happened on his estate, and as Horner had found some means of
making him afraid of him, there seemed little hope that any
counter-influence would be of any avail. Alfred continued to hover about
the plantation, however, and to give the slaves who had been exposed to
increased hardship by his means, the protection of his occasional
presence, till he was called away for a time, and obliged to leave his
charge to the tender mercies of their enemy, while he undertook a yet
more pressing responsibility. The Barbadoes’ estate became his, and it
was necessary that he should proceed to the spot.
“I wish I could make you think of returning to live with us, my dear
son,” said Mr. Bruce. “You see we cannot possibly break up our
establishment and come to you. Why cannot you arrange your concerns, and
then leave them to an agent, like other people?”
“He will, I am sure,” added his mother, “if he has any idea how we dread
losing him. Mary, love, you have more influence than anybody with your
brother; you can persuade him to return to us.”
Mary looked up through her tears, while she replied that she believed
her brother had long weighed the duty of living on his estate against
other claims; and she hoped he would do what he thought right, and then
it was certain he would come back if he could.
Alfred declared that it was a great grief to him to leave his family so
soon, and that he should return as speedily and as often as possible to
visit them; but that he could not promise to reside permanently anywhere
but on his own estate.
His father observed that there were plenty of agents to be had, and that
he was sorry some friends of his in England had prejudiced his son
against management by agents.
Alfred observed that, believing, as he did, that the non-residence of
proprietors was the curse of the West Indies, he could not
conscientiously add his weight to the burden. Neither was he at all sure
that he could afford the heavy expenses of agency, or that any of the
plans for which he had been expressly educated could be fairly tried
without his superintendence. Whatever might be the honesty and obedience
of an agent, and however strong his own confidence in one recommended by
his father, it was impossible that any man should discern his views so
clearly or take so warm an interest in their issue, as himself. It
appeared to him that a critical period in the state of his slave
population had arrived, and he could not forgive himself if he gave the
management into other hands.
“I am glad you are aware,” said his father, “that Barbadoes is little
like Demerara. What you have seen here affords no rule for what you are
to do there.”
“One kind of rule, perhaps,” said Alfred, smiling; “the rule of
contrary. Here soils are fertile, there barren; here the slave
population decreases as rapidly as it increases there; here slaves are
very valuable, there they are worth little; here they are manumitted at
the average of 27, there of 125 in a year, the impediment of a heavy tax
remaining in each.”
“Then you had rather have an estate in Barbadoes than here,” said Mary,
“whatever your profits may be?”
“Much rather. Slavery, like other institutions, is only enforced where
it is worth enforcing; and since it is found less worth enforcing in
Barbadoes than elsewhere, I shall meet with the less opposition to
measures which I should have adopted wherever my estate had happened to
lie. I do not despair of inducing some of my neighbours to make free
labourers of their blacks, if, as I expect, they already find that they
are of little value as slaves.”
“The reason why they are so little valuable,” said Mr. Bruce, “is that
there is less sugar grown in Barbadoes than in any of the colonies which
grow sugar at all.”
“True,” said Alfred. “The soil of Barbadoes produces less sugar; the
planters therefore profit less by the bounty on sugars: they are less
tempted to overwork their slaves, and to reduce their provision-grounds
to the narrowest limits prescribed by law; the slaves therefore increase
beyond the proportion wanted for the land, and of course obtain their
freedom easily. The exact reverse is the case here. Here the most sugar
is grown, the largest share of the bounty taken, the slaves most
overworked and underfed, their numbers decreasing, their value
increasing, and their freedom the most difficult to achieve.”
Mary looked up from her work, observing that the bounty was then the
great obstacle to emancipation.
“The one obstacle,” replied her brother, “without which no other could
stand for an hour. Louisa, my dear, bring me a map of the world.”
“Of the world!” exclaimed the little girl; “I could show you the way to
Barbadoes with a much smaller map than that.”
“You shall teach me the way to Barbadoes afterwards; I want the larger
map first. Look here, Mary. See here what the whole world owes to
British legislation on the sugar trade! Let us first find out to what
extent sugar might be grown if we had to consider climate only.”
“I have always wondered,” said Mary, “why there was no sugar grown in
Africa, or in any part of South America but the little angle we inhabit.
So it might be anywhere within that line.”
“Anywhere (as far as climate is concerned) within thirty degrees of the
equator. There are duties which prohibit the English from purchasing
sugar from China, New Holland, the Indian Archipelago, Arabia, Mexico,
and all South America, but our little corner here; and from Africa none
is to be had either. The slave-trade has destroyed all hope of that,
independently of all restrictions. The slave-trade has been like a
plague in Africa.”
“Well, but you have passed over Hindostan.”
“The trade is not absolutely prohibited there; but it is restricted and
limited by high duties.”
“What remains then?”
“Only our corner of the world, and a tiny territory it is, to be
protected at the expense of such vast tracts—only the West India
Islands, and a slip of the continent.”
“But surely it is a hardship on the inhabitants of these other
countries, to be prevented supplying the British with sugars?”
“It is a hardship to all parties in turn—to the British, that the price
is artificially raised, and the quantity limited; to the inhabitants of
these vast tracts, that they are kept out of the market; to the West
India planters; but most of all, to the slaves.”
“To the planters? Why, I thought it was for their sakes that the
monopoly was ordered!”
“So it is; but they suffer far more than they gain by it. The
cultivation of sugar is at present a forced cultivation, attended with
expense and hazard, and only to be maintained by a monopoly price, both
high and permanent.
“Look at Mitchelson’s plantation, and see whether its aspect is that of
a thriving property! A miserable hoe, used by men and women with the
whip at their backs, the only instrument used in turning up the soil,
while there are such things in the world as drill ploughs and cattle! A
soil exhausted more and more every year! A population decreasing every
year, in a land and climate most favourable to increase! Are these signs
of prosperity? Yet all these are the consequence of a monopoly which
tempts to the production of sugar at all hazards, and at every cost.
“I see how all these evils would disappear, brother, if the trade were
free; but could the proprietors stand the shock? Could they go through
the transition?”
“O yes; if they chose to set about it properly, living on their own
estates, and making use of modern improvements in the management of the
land. If the soil were improved to the extent it might be, the West
Indies might compete with any country in the world. The planter would
estimate his property by the condition of his land, and not by the
number of his slaves. He would command a certain average return from the
effective labour he would then employ, instead of the capricious and
fluctuating profits he now derives from a species of labour which it is
as impolitic as guilty to employ; and, as the demand for sugar would
continually increase, after the effects of free competition had once
been felt, there would be no fear of a decline of trade. A soil and
climate like this are sufficient warrants that the West Indies may trade
in sugar to the end of the world, if a fair chance is given by an open
trade.”
“Then if economy became necessary, there would be no slaves; for it is
pretty clear that slave labour is dear.”
“Slavery can only exist where men are scarce in proportion to land; and
as the population would by this time have increased, and be increasing,
slavery would have died out. At present, land is abundant, fertile, and
cheap in Demerara, and labour decreases every year; so that slaves are
valuable, and their prospect of emancipation but distant. But in my
estate, as I have told you, the land is by far less fertile, labour more
abundant, and slavery wearing out. My exertions will be directed towards
improving my land, and increasing the supply of labour; by which I shall
gain the double advantage of procuring labour cheap, and hastening the
work of emancipation. I hope no new monopoly will be proposed, which
should tempt me to change my plan, and aid and abet slavery.”
“I can trust you,” said Mary, smiling. “You would not yield to the
temptation.”
“I trust not, sister: but I will not answer for the effect of living
long in a slave country. The very sight of slavery is corrupting, to say
nothing of the evil of holding property under the system. But I feel
resolute enough at this moment.”
“Remember, my dear son,” said Mr. Bruce, “that you may find, as many
find, that principles which seem very clear when only reasoned on, turn
out very differently when applied to practice. There is your principle
that you argue upon, as if it was a settled matter, that high prices
stimulate supply——”
“Well, father, what of it? Is it not true, when things take their
natural course?”
“I only know that it is not true here, if what you have been saying is
true. The high prices you complain of lessen instead of increasing the
supply of labour. Did not you say so?”
“I did; and I think the fact only shows that labour is not supplied in
its natural course. You see the principle operates naturally upon the
masters. It stimulates _them_ to the production of sugar to such a
degree as to ruin their soils; and if the supply of labour fails in
proportion to the rise of prices, it proves,—not that a principle is
false, which holds good everywhere else,—but that the peculiar kind of
labour used here is not rightly held or naturally recompensed. This is
only another of the many reversals of all allowed rules, which are so
striking to those who watch West Indian policy from a distance. We might
make another picture out of it for our new Topsy Turvy.”
“I would make two pictures,” said Mary. “John Bull comes with a high
price in his hand to buy sugar of a free labourer, who works harder and
harder, grows rich, and employs a tribe of labourers under him. John
Bull brings the same price to a slave. He pines and will not work: the
price is lessened; he brightens, works, eats, and grows fat. It dwindles
to nothing, and he leaps for joy, snaps his fingers in his master’s
face, and hugs John Bull with might and main.”
Alfred laughed while he admitted this to be a true picture. In answer to
an objection from his father, that slaves were not fit to employ and
enjoy freedom, he mentioned the remarkable fact that scarcely any free
blacks receive parish relief in comparison with whites, though their
civil and political disabilities are such as to impose great hardships
upon them. If, in an average of six years, including the whole of our
West Indian colonies, it be found, (and it has been proved,) that out of
a free black and coloured population of 88,000, only one in 387 has
received even occasional parish relief, while, out of a white population
of 63,400, one in 38 has been so relieved, it is pretty plain that the
manumitted slaves are not too vicious or idle to take care of
themselves; and there is an end to the common objection to manumission,
that the freed slaves must increase the burden of pauperism.
It had frequently occurred to Alfred, that forebodings of pauperism came
with a very ill grace from a body who subsist on the most expensive
pauper establishment ever invented. The West India monopoly is a most
burdensome poor-rate, levied by compulsion, and bestowed on those who
ought to maintain themselves. It operates as poor-rates always do, in
producing discontents among those who pay, and indolence, recklessness,
waste, and profligacy, among those who receive it, together with
incessant and greedy demands for further assistance. The main difference
is, that the West India paupers might and would flourish, if the mother
country could be prevailed upon to withhold the alms so clamorously
craved; which is more, alas! than can be said in the case of parish
paupers. Alfred thought that this consideration would for ever
strengthen him to stem the current of public opinion, which, however
narrow and foul, runs so strongly in the West Indies as to require the
force of a strong mind to keep its place in it. Happen what might, he
could never submit to be a pauper.
He hoped, however, that the days of strong temptation were over,—that
slavery was a perishing system,—a system that must perish ere long under
any kind of management. High prices, rich lands, and scarcity of people,
in conjunction, he argued, are the only supports of slavery.
High prices exhaust lands; so there is a prospect of an end of slavery
this way.
Moderate prices cause an increase of people; so there is the same
prospect this way.
Low prices only effect the same end more rapidly.
So, with a clear conviction that slavery must, at all events, come to an
end, Alfred set sail for Barbadoes. The chief object of his going was to
learn what he could do to hasten the wished-for day.
----------------------------
CHAPTER IX.
CALAMITY WELCOME IN DEMERARA.
There was every promise of a fine crop this season in Mr. Bruce’s
plantation. The coffee-walks had been refreshed by frequent showers, and
were screened from the chill north winds; and the fruit looked so well
that, as the owner surveyed his groves the day before the gathering
began, he flattered himself with the hopes of a crop so much above the
average as might clear off some of the debts which began to press
heavily upon him.
His daughters remained at his side during the whole of this cheerful
season; for Mary had but a faint remembrance, which she wished to
revive, of its customs and festivities. The time of crop is less
remarkable and less joyous in a coffee than a sugar plantation; but
there is much in both to engage the eye and interest the heart. The
sugar crop had been got in three months before, and Mary had then
visited the Mitchelsons, and seen how marvellously the appearance of the
working population, both man and beast, had improved in a very short
time. Horses, oxen, mules, and even pigs, had fattened upon the green
tops of the cane and upon the scum from the boiling-house; while the
meagre and sickly among the slaves recovered their looks rapidly while
they had free access to the nourishing juice which oozed from the mill.
The abundance of food more than made up for the increase of labour; and
the slaves, while more hardly worked than ever, seemed to mind it less,
and to wear a look of cheerfulness sufficiently rare at other seasons.
There was less apparent enjoyment to all parties at the time of
gathering in the coffee, though it was a sight not to be missed by a
stranger. The slaves could not grow fat upon the fruit of the
coffee-tree as upon the juice of the cane; but as there was an extra
allowance of food in consideration of the extra labour, the slaves went
through it with some degree of willingness. The weather was oppressively
hot, too; but Mary found it as tolerable in the shade of the walks as in
the house. She sat there for hours, under a large umbrella, watching the
slaves, as each slowly filled the canvass-bag hung round his neck, and
kept open by a hoop. She followed them with her eyes when they sauntered
from the trees to the baskets to empty their pouches, and then back
again to the trees; and listened to the rebukes of the overseer when he
found unripe fruit among the ripe.
“I am sure,” said she to her father one day, “I should come in for many
a scolding if I had to pick coffee to-day. If the heat makes us faint as
we lie in the shade, what must it be to those who stand in the sun from
morning till night! I could not lift a hand, or see the difference
between one berry and another.”
“Blacks bear the heat better than we do,” observed Mr. Bruce. “However,
it is really dreadfully sultry to-day. I have seldom felt it so much
myself, and I believe the slaves will be as glad as we when night
comes.”
“The little puffs of air that leave a dead calm,” said Mary, “only
provoke one to remember the steady breeze we did not know how to value
when we had it. I should not care for a thunderstorm if it would but
bring coolness.”
“Would not you? You little know what thunderstorms are here.”
“You forget how many we had in the spring.”
“Those were no more like what we shall have soon, than a June
night-breeze in England is like a January frost-wind. You may soon know,
however, what a Demerara thunderstorm is like.”
Mary looked about her as her father pointed, and saw that the face of
nature was indeed changed. She had mentioned a thunderstorm because she
had heard the overseer predict the approach of one.
There was a mass of clouds towering in a distant quarter of the heavens,
not like a pile of snowy peaks, but now rent apart and now tumbled
together, and bathed in a dull, red light. The sun, too, looked large
and red, while distant objects wore a bluish cast, and looked larger and
nearer than usual. There was a dead calm. The pigeon had ceased her
cooing: no parrots were showing off their gaudy plumage in the sunlight,
and not even the hum of the enamelled beetle was heard.
“What is the moon’s age?” asked Mr. Bruce of the overseer.
“She is full to-night, sir, and a stormy night it will be I fear.” He
held up his finger and listened.
“Hark!” said Mary, “there is the thunder already.”
“It is not thunder, my dear.”
“It is the sea,” said Louisa. “I never heard it here but once before;
but I am sure it is the same sound.”
“The sea at this distance!” cried Mary.
Her father shook his head, muttering, “God help all who are in harbour,
and give them a breeze to carry them out far enough! The shore will be
strewed with wrecks by the morning. Come, my dears, let us go home
before yonder clouds climb higher.”
The whites have not yet become as weather-wise, between the tropics, as
the negroes; and both fall short of the foresight which might be
attained, and which was actually possessed by the original inhabitants
of these countries. A negro cannot, like them, predict a storm twelve
days beforehand; but he is generally aware of its approach some hours
sooner than his master. It depends upon the terms he happens to be on
with the whites, whether or not he gives them the advantage of his
observations.
Old Mark sent his daughter Becky to Mr. Bruce’s house to deliver his
opinion on the subject; but all were prepared. No such friendly warning
was given to the Mitchelsons, who, overcome with the heat, were, from
the eldest to the youngest, lying on couches, too languid to lift up
their heads or think of what might be passing out of doors. Cassius,
meanwhile, was leaning over the gate of his provision-ground watching
the moon as she rose, crimson as blood, behind his little plantain
grove. Every star looked crimson too, and had its halo like the moon. It
was as if a bloody steam had gone up from the earth. Not a breath of air
could yet be felt; yet here and there a cedar, taller than the rest,
stooped and shivered; and the clouds, now rushing, now poised
motionless, indicated a capricious commotion in the upper air. Cassius
was watching with much interest these signs of an approaching tempest,
when he felt himself pulled by the jacket.
“May I stay with you?” asked poor Hester. “My master and mistress dare
not keep at home because our roof is almost off already, and they think
the wind will carry it quite away to-night.”
“Where are they gone?”
“To find somebody to take them in; but they say there will be no room
for me.”
“Stay with me then; but nobody will be safe under a roof to-night, I
think.”
“Where shall we stay then?”
“Here, unless God calls us away. Many may be called before morning.”
The little girl stood trembling, afraid of she scarcely knew what, till
a tremendous clap of thunder burst near, and then she clung to Cassius,
and hid her face. In a few moments the gong was heard, sounding in the
hurried irregular manner which betokens an alarm.
“Aha!” cried Cassius. “The white man’s house shakes and he is afraid.”
“What does he call us for?” said the terrified child. “We can do him no
good.”
“No; but his house is stronger than ours; and if his shakes, ours may
tumble down, and then he would lose his slaves and their houses too. So
let us go into the field where we are called, and then we shall see how
pale white men can look.”
All the way as they went, Hester held one hand before her eyes, for the
lightning flashes came thick and fast. Still there was neither wind nor
rain; but the roar of the distant sea rose louder in the intervals of
the thunder.
Cassius suddenly stopt short, and pulled the little girl’s hand from
before her face, crying, “Look, look, there is a sight!”
Hester shrieked when she saw a whole field of sugar-canes whirled in the
air. Before they had time to fall, the loftiest trees of the forest were
carried up in like manner. The mill disappeared, a hundred huts were
levelled; there was a stunning roar, a rumbling beneath, a rushing
above. The hurricane was upon them in all its fury.
Cassius clasped the child round the waist, and carried rather than led
her at his utmost speed beyond the verge of the groves, lest they also
should be borne down and crush all beneath them. When he had arrived
with his charge in the field whither the gong had summoned him, slaves
were arriving from all parts of the plantation to seek safety in an open
place. Their black forms flitting in the mixed light,—now in the glare
of the lightning, and now in the rapid gleams which the full moon cast
as the clouds were swept away for a moment, might have seemed to a
stranger like imps of the storm, collecting to give tidings of its
ravages. Like such imps they spoke and acted.
“The mill is down!” cried one.
“No crop next year, for the canes are blown away!” shouted another.
“The hills are bare as a rock,—no coffee, no spice, no cotton! Hurra!”
“But our huts are gone: our plantation-grounds are buried,” cried the
wailing voice of a woman.
“Hurra! for the white man’s are gone too!” answered many mingled tones.
Just then a burst of moonlight showed to each the exulting countenances
of the rest, and there went up a shout louder than the thunder,—“Hurra
hurra! how ugly is the land!”
The sound was hushed, and the warring lights were quenched for a time by
the deluge which poured down from the clouds. The slaves crouched
together in the middle of the field, supporting one another as well as
they could against the fury of the gusts which still blew, and of the
tropical rains. An inquiry now went round,—where was Horner? It was his
duty to be in the field as soon as the gong had sounded, but no one had
seen him. There was a stern hope in every heart that his roof had fallen
in and buried him and his whip together. It was not so, however.
After a while, the roaring of water was heard very near, and some of the
blacks separated from the rest to see in what direction the irregular
torrents which usually attend a hurricane were taking their course.
There was a strip of low ground between the sloping field where the
negroes were collected and the opposite hill, and through the middle of
this ground a river rushed along where a river had never been seen
before. A tree was still standing here and there in the midst of the
foaming waters, and what had, a few minutes ago, been a hillock with a
few shrubs growing out of it, was now an island. The negroes thought
they heard a shout from this island, and then supposed it must be fancy;
but when the cloudy rack was swept away and allowed the moon to look
down for a moment, they saw that some one was certainly there, clinging
to the shrubs, and in imminent peril of being carried away if the stream
should continue to rise. It was Horner, who was making his way to the
field when the waters overtook him in the low ground, and drove him to
the hillock to seek a safety which was likely to be short enough. The
waters rose every moment: and though the distance was not above thirty
feet from the hillock to the sloping bank on which the negroes had now
ranged themselves to watch his fate, the waves dashed through in so
furious a current that he did not dare to commit himself to them. He
called, he shouted, he screamed for help, his agony growing more
intense, as inch after inch, foot after foot, of his little shore
disappeared. The negroes answered his shouts very punctually; but
whether the impatience of peril prompted the thought, or an evil
conscience, or whether it were really so, the shouts seemed to him to
have more of triumph than sympathy in them; and cruel as would have been
his situation had all the world been looking on with a desire to help,
it was dreadfully aggravated by the belief that the wretches whom he had
so utterly despised were watching his struggles, and standing with
folded arms to see how he would help himself when there was none to help
him. He turned and looked to the other shore; but it was far too distant
to be reached. If he was to be saved, it must be by crossing the
narrower gulley; and, at last, a means of doing so seemed to offer.
Several trees had been carried past by the current; but they were all
borne on headlong, and he had no means of arresting their course: but
one came at length, a trunk of the largest growth, and therefore making
its way more slowly than the rest. It tilted from time to time against
the bank, and when it reached the island, fairly stuck at the very point
where the stream was narrowest. With intense gratitude,—gratitude which
two hours before he would have denied could ever be felt towards
slaves,—Horner saw the negroes cluster about the root of the tree to
hold it firm in its position. Its branchy head seemed to him to be
secure, and the only question now was, whether he could keep his hold on
this bridge, while the torrent rose over it, as if in fury at having its
course delayed. He could but try, for it was his only chance. The
beginning of his adventure would be the most perilous, on account of the
boughs over and through which he must make his way. Slowly, fearfully,
but firmly he accomplished this, and the next glimpse of moonlight
showed him astride on the bare trunk, clinging with knees and arms, and
creeping forward as he battled with the spray. The slaves were no less
intent. Not a word was spoken, not one let go, and even the women would
have a hold. A black cloud hid the moon just when Horner seemed within
reach of the bank; and what happened in that dark moment,—whether it was
the force of the stream, or the strength of the temptation,—no lips were
ever known to utter; but the event was that the massy trunk heaved once
over, the unhappy wretch lost his grasp, and was carried down at the
instant he thought himself secure. Horrid yells once more arose, from
the perishing man, and from the blacks now dispersed along the bank to
see the last of him.
“He is not gone yet,” was the cry of one; “he climbed yon tree as if he
had been a water rat.”
“There let him sit if the wind will let him,” cried another. “That he
should have been carried straight to a tree after all!”
“Stand fast! here comes the gale again!” shouted a third.
The gale came. The tree in which Horner had found refuge bowed,
cracked,—but before it fell, the wretch was blown from it like a flake
of foam, and swallowed up finally in the surge beneath. This was clearly
seen by a passing gleam.
“Hurra! hurra!” was the cry once more. “God sent the wind. It was God
that murdered him, not we.”
When the planters were sufficiently recovered to exchange letters of
condolence, Mr. Mitchelson wrote thus to Mr. Bruce. “You have probably
heard that my overseer, poor Horner, was lost from the waters being out
when he was making his way to the field where his duty called him. We
all lament him much; but your son will be glad to hear (pray tell him
when you write) that my slaves are conducting themselves as well as if
still under the charge of him we have lost. I am persuaded they would
have risked their own lives to save his, if it had been possible. But,
as they say, it was God’s will that he should perish!”
----------------------------
CHAPTER X.
PROTECTION IS OPPRESSION IN DEMERARA.
The external devastation which attends a hurricane is by no means the
only evil it brings. Where there is any difficulty in the management of
affairs, public or private, it is sure to be increased or made
insurmountable by any general excuse for aggression or rebellion. Many
an insurrection has taken place during or immediately after a hurricane.
Many a half-ruined planter has found his embarrassments brought to a
crisis by the crowd of demands which are hastened instead of deferred by
disaster. This was now Mr. Bruce’s case.
As soon as this gentleman had seen the destruction of all the hopes he
had built on his coffee-crop, he began to fear a seizure of his slaves
by his creditors. He assembled them within an inclosure as fast as
possible, and erected his fences, and had them guarded with the utmost
care, that he might at all events exempt his human property from a legal
seizure. But his precautions were vain. Some gap was found, or pretended
to be found, through which the officers entered in the night, and levied
slaves for the benefit of his creditors. This was sad news for the
breakfast-table; and as Mr. Bruce was really a kind-hearted man, it
added to his concern that, in the confusion of the seizure and in the
darkness of midnight, the slaves had been carried off without the usual
care being taken not to separate families: for some regard is paid to
this consideration in the absence of temptation to overlook it. Old
Mark’s household, among others, had been divided. Becky was this morning
sitting in grief beside her aged father, while Willy and Nell (whose
lover had been left behind) were marching, in sullen despair, with
drivers at their backs, they knew not whither, to become the property of
they knew not whom.
It would have been hard to say among what class of persons the deepest
distress prevailed in consequence of this hurricane, which the
revengeful impulses of the blacks had made them for a moment hail as a
friend. The slaves who were levied for their master’s debts mourned as
if they were carried anew into a strange land: their friends at home
wept for them more bitterly than if they had been dead; for they were
gone to renew their mortal sorrows instead of finding peace and freedom
in the better land beyond the grave. Cassius’s heart was burning within
him because the prospect of freedom, of late so hopeful though not very
near, was now removed for ever, or to so great a distance as to leave
him in despair. He was to be sold; and it would be long before the value
of slaves, now considerably raised by the event which had happened,
would be so lowered as to admit of a hope of obtaining ransom. Cassius’s
earnings being found to be greater than was expected, his price was
considerably raised, and he was placed first in the lot of marketable
slaves on Mitchelson’s estate.
The master, meanwhile, was lamenting the loss of his factotum, Horner,
and indolently dreading the difficulties of making new arrangements, and
doing some things himself which he had been accustomed to leave to his
overseer. But his distress was nothing compared with his friend, Mr.
Bruce’s. In perpetual fear of arrest, he dared not go out of doors to
see what had happened and what must be done. He delayed from day to day
looking into his affairs, suspecting that he should find total ruin at
the bottom. He resisted, partly through shame, and partly through
tenderness for Alfred, every entreaty to send for his son and to bring
his affairs to a certain issue. He wrote, “do not think of coming” in
every letter; but it chanced one day that Mary found an opportunity of
putting in a postscript to this effect: “Notwithstanding what my father
says about your remaining where you are, I think, and so does my mother,
that it would do him a world of good to see you. He grows more anxious
every day, and there is nobody here who can help to comfort him as you
could.” Upon this hint Alfred appeared. He little thought how the other
suffering parties we have mentioned had cast a longing look towards him,
as the friend most likely to aid them, or to sorrow with them if he
could not assist.
“Our young master would have Willy and Nell brought back if he was
here,” observed Becky to her father.
“Mr. Alfred would not let my ransom be raised, or may be he would buy me
himself, now he has an estate,” sighed Cassius.
“I would persuade Alfred to train my new overseer, and advise me what to
do, if I could get at him,” observed Mitchelson. “He did wonders at that
mill-dam, and I am sure he would do no less now.”
So when Alfred appeared, a gleam of pleasure passed over many a heavy
countenance.
“My dear son!” exclaimed Mr. Bruce. “We are always glad to see you. Who
is not? But you have come at the very best moment. There is to be a
meeting of planters to-morrow. You cannot think how I dread appearing;
and now you will go instead of me. It is necessary that this estate
should be represented; and you may truly say that I am too ill to appear
in person.”
Alfred was ready to be useful in any way; but urged the necessity of his
being fully informed respecting his father’s affairs before he could act
as his proxy. He begged that this day might be devoted to an inspection
of the accounts. Mr. Bruce groaned; but on this point his son was firm.
The two gentlemen and the agent whom Mr. Bruce’s indolence had induced
him to employ, were closeted for the rest of the day with their books
and papers.
Mrs. Bruce lay sighing and weeping the whole day, offering a passive
resistance to all the comfort her daughter endeavoured to bestow. In the
evening, Mary left her for a few minutes, to seek the refreshment of the
cool air of the garden. She remained within sight of the room where the
inquiry was going forward on which so much depended; looking up to the
windows every moment as if she could learn anything by that means of the
probable fate of the family. At last she saw somebody moving within: it
was Alfred who came to the window, saw her, made a sign to her to remain
where she was, and presently was drawing her arm within his own, and
leading her where they could not be overheard.
Alfred explained that his father was indeed deep in debt, but that his
incumbrances might be cleared off by good management, as they had only
been brought on by indolence and waste. If his father would dismiss his
agent, and conduct his affairs himself; if he would introduce a better
division of labour, and a greater economy of the resources of the
estate, all might be redeemed within a few years.
“Can I do nothing to assist?” Mary anxiously inquired. “I know I can
introduce economy into our household arrangements, for my mother leaves
them more and more to me: but can I help my father as well?”
“You may, by taking an interest in what ought to be his business. Go
with him sometimes when he superintends in the field, and show him that
you understand accounts, and keep an eye upon the books. You know as
much of accounts as I do, and let him see that he may trust you.”
“I may thank Mrs. H—— for teaching me this part of a woman’s business,”
said Mary. “She managed the fortunes of her five children from the day
of her husband’s death till their majority, and I am thankful that she
taught me what may now be so useful. I may learn the values of coffee in
time; and in the meanwhile I will make use of what I know of that of
pounds, shillings, and pence.”
“It is no mean knowledge, sister, since, in your case, the happiness of
some hundreds of human beings is affected by it. The fate of our slaves
depends on the state of my father’s affairs. I commend their comfort to
you. Soften their hardships much as your influence allows, and then my
father will soon find that their happiness and his prosperity go
together.”
“O, Alfred! have I any power,—any responsibility of this kind? It makes
me tremble to think of it.”
“If ladies have been frequently cited to answer the complaints of
slaves, (which you know to be the case,) it is clear that they have
influence over the fate of these unhappy dependants. If the wife of a
planter has been imprisoned for torturing a slave, why should not the
daughter of a planter use her influence to save her father’s slaves from
punishment, or, better still, keep them from deserving it?”
“I have been with old Mark to-day,” said Mary, “and I have been trying
all means I could think of to get Becky to complain to my father,
instead of the Protector, about Sunday labour: but she is so fierce, I
can make nothing of her. She never said a word about it while she had
her brother with her, but she declares she must make her complaints for
herself now he is gone. I dread the exposure, and she might get redress
from my father, I am sure.”
Alfred had heard with grief that Willy and Nell were among the levied
slaves. What his sister now said determined him to seek out old Mark and
his daughter without delay; and the brother and sister were soon at the
door of the hut.
Mark was sitting in the only chair the hut contained, talking as if to
people round him, though he was alone. Alfred immediately saw that the
little light of intellect which old age had left was quenched. The cause
of this was evident from his taking every man who came near him for
Willy, and every woman for Nell.
“How much did you sell the pig for?” he asked Alfred. “He brought a good
price, for your clothes are as fine as a white’s.—But,” suddenly
recollecting himself, “how did you get back? O, you will be flogged for
a runaway.”
“This is Mr. Alfred. You remember your young master, Mr. Alfred?”
“Ah! Mr. Alfred is come to your wedding, Nell. Why, my wife did not look
as pretty as you on her wedding-day. And who married you, and why did
not you let me go to your wedding? Becky said you could not be married
because they had carried you away, but now you are back again, I will
sing you a song I made for you and Harry.”
Presently the old man broke off singing in a great passion.
“Willy, you are a dog to bring me no water when I am so thirsty;” and he
shook a stick at his young master.
Alfred humoured him and took down a calabash, and was filling it with
water when Becky came home.
“See, Becky, what it is to be married!” cried the old man. “When will
you be as fine as Nelly?”
Becky made no answer, but snatched the calabash from Alfred’s hand, and
served her father herself.
“You would not believe that I could save you from Sunday labour, Becky,”
said Mary. “Here is my brother: you had better make your complaint to
him.”
Becky was so far from being reserved, as she had been in the morning,
about this complaint, that she poured out her grievances as fast as she
could speak, and far faster than Alfred could understand her. The fact
was, she had applied to the Protector of slaves, and he had dismissed
her complaint as frivolous and vexatious, because she owned that she had
frequently gone through an equal portion of Sunday labour without
complaint. She was now furious against all parties, and would scarcely
hold her tongue long enough to hear Alfred say that he thought her’s a
hard case, and only blamed her for not having complained long before.
It appeared that the overseer was in the habit of appointing a heavier
task on Saturdays than other days, and of compelling the completion of
it on the Sunday. It was evident that, if he chose to appoint a double
task on the Saturday, the negroes might be deprived altogether of the
benefit of the Sunday: and the young people thought that one such
attempt to evade the law on the part of the overseer was enough to
warrant his immediate dismissal, if it could be proved against him; and
that the Protector of slaves could be little fit for his office, if he
made the frequent repetition of a grievance the reason for not
redressing it. Becky smiled incredulously when Alfred promised that he
would come, next Sunday morning, and see whether she was at work or at
leisure; and if the former, on what pretence.
He had some hope of being able by that time to make some arrangement for
the return of the brother and sister, as he was to meet their present
owner at the assembly of planters on the Wednesday; but the event
disappointed him. Everything went wrong at the meeting. He dissented
entirely from the prayer of the petition to government which had been
agreed on; he disapproved of the tone of indignant complaint assumed by
the planters, and failed in his endeavour to convince some of them that
the remedy for their grievances rested with themselves. He had laid his
accounts for being treated as a visionary, and for his own plans being
laughed at as absurd; but he was not prepared for being put down because
his father’s affairs were known to be in a bad state; or for the
insulting mirth with which all humane suggestions were received, even
while the name of Providence was on every tongue. But nothing disgusted
him so much as the apathy with which his father’s principal creditor
turned from the offer of a negociation about the restoration of Willy
and Nell. There seemed no hope of effecting their return; and the only
prospect he could hold out to Becky was that of joining them whenever
the death of her father should release her from her attendance upon him;
and this could be done only by sacrificing her lover, as her sister had
been compelled to do by force.
----------------------------
CHAPTER XI.
BEASTS HUNT MEN IN DEMERARA.
The absent brother and sister were less willing to relinquish the hope
of return. Upon this hope they had lived from the moment of their
departure: they saw it in each other’s eyes, while their captivity was
too new to allow them an opportunity of speaking of it; and they kept it
alive by sympathy when some relaxation of discipline allowed them to
exchange a whisper from time to time. They planned to escape in the
night, to take refuge in the woods, and subsist there as well as they
could till the search should be over, and they could find their way back
to Mr. Bruce’s estate, and throw themselves at their master’s feet to
petition for such an exchange of slaves as would allow them to remain in
their old habitation. They had no thought of evading slavery altogether.
They had no means of leaving the coast, or of obtaining their freedom
within it. The utmost they hoped was to spend a life of slavery under a
lenient master, and among those they had long known, and could love: a
wish not so very immoderate or presumptuous, it may be thought, as to
merit very severe chastisement. Yet they knew that no punishment would
be thought too heavy, if they should be detected in cherishing this
hope.
One afternoon, they and their black brethren on the estate were left
unguarded, owing to the sudden illness of the driver, who fell down in
the field and was carried home in fits. A glance instantly passed from
Willy to Nell, and joy was in their hearts that an opportunity of escape
should occur so much sooner than they had expected. There was no
roll-call that night. If there had been, the brother and sister would
have been called in vain, for they were already on their perilous way to
the woods. Nobody missed them: they met nobody as they proceeded in the
shade till sunset, and over the plain in the twilight, till they reached
the forest. They did not know their way any further than they had been
able to study it by observing the stars. They were to travel northward
when the time should come for them to proceed to Mr. Bruce’s; but their
immediate object was to escape pursuit: and as pursuit would most
probably be directed where it would be guessed they wished to go, they
turned due west for the present, as soon as they could make out the
points of the compass by the lights overhead. They pushed on at their
utmost speed, disregarding cold, hunger, and the difficulties of the
way. They hastily plucked wild fruit when it hung within reach, now
creeping through thick underwood, now helping one another over fragments
of rock, and never stopped till day began to dawn. Then Nell cast
herself down on the ground, and besought her brother to let her rest. He
now observed for the first time that one of her feet was covered with
blood, and frightfully swollen. A large thorn had pierced it some hours
before, and as she had in her hurry let it remain, it was buried too
deep to be easily got out, and she was so lame as to be unable to go
farther.
Willy looked round anxiously, and walked from side to side to gaze
abroad and see whether this spot was easily accessible from any quarter.
He came back presently with a more cheerful countenance, saying,
“The bushes are thick all round us, and the wood is very wild; and there
is fruit on the trees, and a little river near, where we may drink. If
we could but hide ourselves as long as the sun is up, we might be safe
for many days.”
“Cannot we pile up these big stones to make a hiding-place, Willy? Set
them one upon another against this bank, and leave a hole behind where
we may creep in.”
Willy found this not very difficult. The hiding place looked outside
like a natural heap of fragments of rock, while behind there was a hole
large enough for two people to sit upright; and when some dry grass was
shaken down to make the ground soft, the runaway slaves thought they
could be content to remain in this narrow dwelling for a long time.
Willy laughed as he had not laughed since childhood, when he leaned back
in his dark corner, and Nell smiled as much as the pain of her foot
would let her. Hope had already done her heart good. Twenty-four hours
sooner she would have made everybody near her melancholy with her
groans, for slaves are fond of pity, and are made selfish by their
wrongs; but now, Nell began to feel like a free-woman. She could procure
no indulgence by complaint, and she was grateful to her brother for his
assistance in making her escape. She therefore hoped that he would
sleep, and remained quite quiet that she might not hinder his doing so.
Perhaps she would have attempted to sing a drowsy song, if she had not
been afraid of betraying their retreat by permitting any sound to issue
from it.
Her fit of patience lasted longer than might have been expected from
such a novice in the virtue. For a few hours she sat bearing the pain
very well, and she might possibly have endured for another if she had
not heard, or fancied she heard, a sound which made her heart throb as
painfully as her foot. The woods reposed in all the stillness of noon,
or she would have supposed the sound to be some freak of the wind among
the high foliage of the forest; but there was no wind, there was nothing
to provoke an echo; and her ears were struck by something too like the
distant, the very distant baying of a hound. She laid her hand on her
brother’s arm. He did not stir. She paused to listen again before she
disturbed him. She had not long to wait. It came again, nearer, and too
distinct to be mistaken. She shook the sleeper.
“Willy, Willy! hark to the hounds! The hounds are after us!”
Willy groaned as he started up, and shook some of the stones overhead,
which rolled down with a great clatter.
“Never mind that, Nell. We could not keep under cover with the hounds
upon us. O, if we had but passed a stream in our way! If we could but
have baulked the hounds!”
“There is a river below,” cried Nell; and Willy was off at the word.
“O, Willy, Willy, do not leave me! I cannot walk. O, carry me with you!”
Willy hesitated a moment as his worse and better nature strove together.
He came back for his sister, took her on his back, and began to scramble
down to the stream. It was too late, however. The shouts of men were now
heard mingling with the loud and louder baying of the blood-hounds,
which might be expected the next moment to spring from the bushes upon
their victims. There was no hope of getting down to the stream in time,
much less of being hidden on the opposite side. Willy cast a hurried
look behind him every moment; and when at last he heard a rustling in
the underwood, and saw fierce eyes glaring upon him, he laid his burden
on the grass, crying,
“Nell, will you die or be a slave?”
Nell grovelled on the earth and made no answer.
“I will die!” shouted Willy, and was about to spring into the water. His
sister recalled him by her cry.
“Becky; poor Becky! She will be all alone when our father dies.”
Willy turned. What his choice would have been cannot be known, for there
was no time for choice. Before the slave-hunters could come up to see
what happened, a fierce blood-hound had sprung at Willy’s throat and
brought him down. Once having tasted blood, the animal was not to be
restrained by whistle, shouts or blows, till the long death-grapple was
over. When the mangled negro had ceased to struggle, and lay extended in
his blood, the hound slunk back into the bushes, licking his chops, and
growling at Nell as if he would make another spring if he dared.
The remaining fugitive had no power to resist, even if she had had the
will. But her will was annihilated. She had nothing to hope or to fear
in the present extremity of bodily and mental misery. She sat quietly on
the grass when they tied her hands behind her back. She attempted to
walk when she was bid, and submitted to be carried when it was found she
could not stand. She did not speak when they took up the body of her
brother from its bloody bed, nor start when they tossed it into the
stream, though splashed by the plunge.
She was conscious but of one passing impulse during her journey back,—to
throttle the man on whose shoulders she was carried, as the hound had
throttled her brother: but the effort only served to remind her that her
arms were fastened. She was asleep or in a stupor when brought back to
her hut, a circumstance which was pointed out by a white as conclusive
of the fact that negroes have no feeling. As she was too lame to work,
however, and not in the best condition for the lash, she was not roused.
There was some mercy in leaving her to find out for herself, when she
should again be able to collect her disordered thoughts, that the brand
and the stocks were waiting for her, and that the days of her bondage
must henceforth be spent alone.
----------------------------
CHAPTER XII.
NO MASTER KNOWS HIS MAN IN DEMERARA.
Though Alfred was mortified at the event of his meeting with the
planters, he had reason to be satisfied on the whole with the result of
his present visit to Demerara. Now that poor Horner’s opposition was at
an end, it became comparatively easy to carry two or three measures
about Mitchelson’s slaves that Alfred had much at heart.
“I cannot give up the point of Cassius’s freedom,” said he to
Mitchelson. “I feel myself pledged in honour to obtain it.”
“In honour! I will spare your honour, my young friend, and never think
the worse of you if you forgot Cassius from this day.”
“You!” exclaimed Alfred in astonishment. “I am not pledged to you but to
Cassius.”
“And what should Cassius know about honour?” asked Mitchelson, laughing.
“Call it humanity, if you please. Cassius knows what humanity is; or, at
any rate, what liberty is: and since my employing him at the mill-dam
was the means at once of exciting his hopes and raising his ransom, I
cannot lose sight of him till I lose sight of the vessel in which he
shall be sailing to Africa.”
“You must keep a sharp look out then; for he may be marched off south,
or west, or east any day. I can make nothing of him, and shall not keep
him.”
“South, or west, or east! I thought you said he was promised to a
planter in the neighbourhood?”
“He was; but the bargain is off. The fellow was so idle and mulish the
day that I wanted him to show to the best advantage, that my friend will
not have him, unless for a lower price than I mean to accept.”
“You had better take his ransom as it was first fixed, and let him go.
You will make nothing of him at home or in the market after what he has
gone through lately.”
“I am quite of your opinion, and would end the business at once, but
that a neighbour has been talking to me about it, and convincing me that
it would be wrong.”
“Wrong! how should it be wrong?”
“We planters determined long ago never to admit the right of slaves to
purchase their freedom. We mean to keep it optional on our part whether
to sell them or not, in the same manner as we deny the right of any one
to make us sell any other articles of our property. Now, so much has
been said about this particular slave, Cassius, that my neighbours are
afraid that, if I let him go, advantage will be taken of the case to
represent that we can be obliged to part with our slaves, like the
Spanish planters. So you see that, in justice to the West India
interest, I must refuse Cassius his freedom.”
“I remember,” replied Alfred, “that some reforms specified by an Order
in Council were objected to on the ground you have stated; and the
declaration is of a piece with all the declarations with which
government is insulted by the landholders here. But though your
neighbours disregard equally the law of nature, the law of God, and the
ordinances of the government under which they live, they admit, I
believe, the conventional law of honour, of which you think Cassius can
know nothing; they admit that a gentleman must keep a promise,
deliberately made, and often repeated.”
“A promise to a gentleman, certainly. Promises to slaves are nothing,
you know, if circumstances alter, as they have done in this case. The
usages of society, for whose sake alone promises are made binding, bear
no relation to slaves.”
“True enough,” said Alfred, smiling. “I take you at your word, Mr.
Mitchelson. You have deliberately and repeatedly promised me that
Cassius should ransom himself at a certain sum. That sum is now ready,
and if you refuse to take it and let the man go, I will expose your
breach of promise to every planter in Demerara.”
“My dear Alfred! How strange of you to treat an old friend so
ceremoniously!”
“If you will not grant my claim in a friendly way, I must urge it
ceremoniously. Tell me in so many words, do you mean to keep your
promise or break it?”
“I declare I am quite at a loss what to do. My neighbours fully
understand that the ransom is refused.”
“That shall be no difficulty. I will tell them that I have recalled to
your memory a positive promise to myself. I will take care of your
honour towards them, if you will take care of it towards myself. And now
let us go and finish this business.”
“I am sure, my dear young friend, it always gives me the greatest
pleasure to oblige you, and besides——”
Alfred stopped short as he was walking, and said, “We must understand
one another better before we have done. I cannot allow you to think that
you are doing an act of favour. It is an act of very tardy justice to
Cassius, and of ungracious necessity towards myself. I am very sorry to
speak thus to an old friend, Mr. Mitchelson; and no interests of my own
should make me thus fight my ground inch by inch; but for the sake of
the slaves I must deny that it is any matter of favour to let a slave go
free when he offers his stipulated ransom.”
Mitchelson muttered something about his being unable to cut fine like
his accomplished young friend.
“You cut fine just now,” replied Alfred, “on behalf of the planters; you
must allow me to do the same on behalf of the slaves.”
They presently reached the spot where Cassius was seemingly at work with
others who were repairing the devastation caused by the hurricane.
Alfred asked Cassius whether he still had money to buy his ransom as at
first fixed. He had. How soon could he bring it in his hand and buy his
freedom? “Presently; in an hour; in five minutes,” the slave said, as he
saw the benevolent smile broadening on Alfred’s face.
“Fetch it then, and you and I will not part till you sail away over the
blue sea yonder. Mr. Mitchelson, we will join you again presently, and
conclude the business.”
“You are not going with him, Alfred? He will return sooner without you.”
But Alfred determined to lose sight of his charge no more till they
should have quitted Paradise.
Cassius walked so rapidly that Alfred could scarcely keep up with him.
On reaching his hut, a part of which had fallen in during the hurricane,
he put his spade into Alfred’s hands, pointing to a place where a heap
of rubbish lay. He fetched another spade for himself from a neighbour’s
hut, and began to dig among the rubbish with might and main. Alfred
worked as hard as he, and neither had yet spoken a word. They first
uncovered the bed of planks and mat on which the slave had spent so many
nights of desolate grief, and which had been so often watered with his
tears. Cassius, by a sudden impulse, kicked these to as great a distance
as he could, snatched up a burning stick from his fire, and kindled
them. As the flame shot up, he danced and sang till the last chip and
shred were burned. He then spat upon the ashes and returned to his work.
A little way under ground, beneath where the bed had stood, a leathern
pouch appeared. Cassius seized it, showed Alfred with a rapid and
significant gesture that it was full of coin, and marched straight
towards the entrance of his garden.
“Stay a moment,” said Alfred, laying his hand on his shoulder; “you are
not aware that you will never come back to this place again. Is there
nothing here, nothing of your own, that you wish to take with you? No
clothes, no tools, or utensils?”
Cassius looked about him with an expression of intense disgust.
“Be prudent, Cassius. Your clothes and your tools will not be the less
useful to you in Liberia because they belonged to you as a slave.”
Cassius slowly returned and took up a few articles, but presently seemed
much disposed to throw them into the fire.
“Well, well,” said Alfred, “leave them where they are, and if your
master does not allow you the value of them, I will. Now take one more
look at the dwelling where you have lived so long, and then let us be
gone.”
Cassius had, however, no sentimental regrets to bestow on the abode of
his captivity. He refused the last look, and strode away as an escaped
malefactor from the gibbet, without any wish to look back. The first
words he spoke were uttered as he passed old Robert’s hut.
“Little Hester will cry when she comes home and finds that I am gone.
Can you do nothing for poor little Hester, Mr. Alfred?”
This was exactly what Alfred was turning over in his mind.
When Cassius had told down his ransom with Alfred’s assistance, when the
necessary forms of business were gone through, and the variety of coins
which the pouch contained were fairly transferred to Mitchelson, Alfred
said,
“Now that our affair of justice is concluded, I am going to bring
forward a matter of pure favour.” Mr. Mitchelson, who liked granting
favours better than doing justice, looked very gracious. Alfred
explained, that by Cassius’s departure, Hester would lose her only
friend. He begged that she might be taken from under the charge of
Robert and Sukey, and placed with some one who would treat her kindly,
and that Mr. Mitchelson would himself inquire after the friendless
little girl from time to time.
“With the utmost pleasure, Alfred. I shall always pay particular
attention, I am sure, to objects that interest you. But would you like
to purchase her? I am sorry that I cannot offer, in the present state of
my affairs, to give her to you; but the demand shall be moderate if you
are disposed to purchase her.”
Alfred was also sorry that the state of his own and his father’s affairs
was not such as could justify his purchasing slaves. He would fain have
made this child free; but as he could not, he consoled himself with the
hope that he had secured better treatment for her till he might be able
to render her a higher benefit still. Mr. Mitchelson passed his word of
honour that she should that day be removed to the dwelling of a
gentle-tempered woman, who had lately lost a daughter of about Hester’s
age.
“Have you nothing to say to me, Cassius?” asked Mr. Mitchelson, as
Cassius was turning his back for ever upon his master’s mansion. “Have
you no farewell for me, so long as we have lived together?”
No, not any. Cassius cared little for good manners just at this moment,
and was only in haste to be gone.
“Lived together!” said Alfred to himself, as he quitted Paradise. “These
slaveholders never dream that they may not use the language of the
employers of a free and reasonable service. An English gentleman may
speak to his household servants of the time they have ‘lived together;’
but it is too absurd from the slaveholder who despises his slave to the
degraded being who hates his owner.”
Mitchelson meanwhile was wondering as much at Alfred, thinking, as he
watched them from the steps of his mansion,—
“That young man is a perfect Quixote, or he could never see anything to
care about in such a sullen brute as Cassius. I am glad I was never
persuaded to send any of my children to England. No man is fit to be a
West Indian planter who has had what is called a good education in
England.”
As Alfred was crossing his father’s estate on his way home, he met the
overseer looking angry, and with his anger was mingled some grief. He
was very ready to tell what was the matter. He had just heard of the
“unfortunate accident,” by which Willy had been torn to pieces by
bloodhounds. When Alfred had made two strange discoveries, he saw that
nothing was to be made of the overseer, and rode on. One discovery was,
that the man’s anger was against Willy himself for the attempt at
escape; the other, that he had just blurted out the whole story to Mark
in Becky’s absence. Of course Alfred lost no time in seeing if he could
comfort the old man.
Mark was still alone when they went in, rocking himself in his chair,
and apparently aware of what had happened, for he was singing, in a
faint wailing voice, a funeral song in his own tongue.
He stopped when Alfred entered the hut, Cassius remaining outside, and
before he could be prevented, rose from his seat, saying,
“I am ready for the burial. I see them waiting for me outside. Don’t
stop me; I am ready for the burial.”
In attempting to move forwards, he fell heavily.
“Help, help!” cried Alfred to his companion. “Lay him on the mat:
sprinkle water on his face; chafe his hands!”
It was too late. He was gone. He was indeed “ready for the burial.”
Alfred waited for Becky that he might give her the only comfort in his
power, in the hope that, now her filial cares were ended, she might join
her sister by the exchange of the one or the other.
“Cassius has been climbing every hour since sunrise, to where he may see
the sea,” said Mr. Bruce, laughing, to Alfred, on the day preceding his
return to Barbadoes. “He is like a school-boy going home for the
holidays.”
“To compare great things with small,” added Alfred.
“So you ship him with a party of your own, and your neighbour’s
liberated slaves, for Liberia. How did you get leave? How did you gain
any interest with the American Colonization Society?”
“Our object being the same, father, there was no difficulty in coming to
an understanding. We planters take upon ourselves the expense of
transportation, and the society receives our free blacks under the
protection of its agent at Liberia.”
“And what do you suppose will become of them there?”
“That which has become of the free blacks of the United States who are
settled there. They will labour, and prosper and be happy. They will
become farmers, planters, merchants, or tradespeople. They will make
their own laws, guard their own rights, and be as we are, men and
citizens.”
“Do you expect me to believe all this, son? Do you think I know so
little what blacks are?”
“Neither you nor I, father, can learn, in this place, what Africans are
in a better place. I believe, and I certainly expect others to believe,
what I have told you, on the strength of sound testimony. I wish you
could once witness a shipment for Liberia. It would confirm the
testimony wonderfully.”
“I am aware, son, that there are powerful emotions in the mind of a
negro at the very mention of Africa, or of the sea, or even of a ship.
When the importation of slaves was more practised than it is now, the
most endearing name by which negroes called each other was ‘shipmate.’
If it was so endearing on their being brought to a foreign country, I
can fancy that it must be yet more so, when they return to their own.
The little feeling that blacks have is all spent upon their country.”
Alfred shook his head, observing that he believed nobody in Demerara was
qualified to pronounce on that point.
“What! not I, that have had to do with negroes all my life?”
“Do you remember the Canary bird that Mary showed you when you were in
England?” was Alfred’s reply.
“What the little pining thing that was kept in the housekeeper’s room at
the Grosvenor Square house? O yes! Mary was very fond of it, I
remember.”
“Mary gave that Canary its seed and water for years, and she would have
laughed if any one had told her that she knew nothing about Canary
birds; but it would have been very true; for that tame little creature,
drawing up its tiny bucket of water when it was bid, seeing the sunbeams
shut out as soon as ever it hailed them with a burst of song, was not
like one of the same species with the wild, winged creatures that flit
about its native islands, and warble unchecked till twilight settles
down upon the woods. And we, father, can never guess from looking at a
negro sulking in the stocks, or tilling lands which yield him no
harvest, what he may be where there is no white man to fear and hate,
and where he may reap whatever he has sown. Happily there are some who
have been to Liberia, and can tell us what a negro may become.”
SUMMARY.
-------
This volume, like the last, enlarges on principles already laid down. It
treats of the respective values of different kinds of labour, and of a
particular mode of investing capital. The truths illustrated may be
arranged as follows.
PROPERTY is held by conventional, not natural right.
As the agreement to hold man in property never took place between the
parties concerned, _i. e._, is not conventional, Man has no right to
hold Man in property.
LAW, _i. e._, the sanctioned agreement of the parties concerned, secures
property.
Where the parties are not agreed, therefore, law does not secure
property.
Where one of the parties under the law is held as property by another
party, the law injures the one or the other as often as they are
opposed. Moreover, its very protection injures the protected party,—as
when a rebellious slave is hanged.
-------
Human labour is more valuable than brute labour, only because actuated
by reason; for human strength is inferior to brute strength.
The origin of labour, human and brute, is the Will.
The Reason of slaves is not subjected to exercise, nor their will to
more than a few weak motives.
The labour of slaves is therefore less valuable than that of brutes,
inasmuch as their strength is inferior; and less valuable than that of
free labourers, inasmuch as their Reason and Will are feeble and
alienated.
-------
Free and slave labour are equally owned by the capitalist.
Where the labourer is not held as capital, the capitalist pays for
labour only.
Where the labourer is held as capital, the capitalist not only pays a
much higher price for an equal quantity of labour, but also for waste,
negligence, and theft, on the part of the labourer.
Capital is thus sunk, which ought to be reproduced.
As the supply of slave-labour does not rise and fall with the wants of
the capitalist, like that of free labour, he employs his occasional
surplus on works which could be better done by brute labour or
machinery.
By rejecting brute labour, he refuses facilities for convertible
husbandry, and for improving the labour of his slaves by giving them
animal food.
By rejecting machinery, he declines the most direct and complete method
of saving labour.
Thus, again, capital is sunk which ought to be reproduced.
In order to make up for this loss of capital to slave owners, bounties
and prohibitions are granted in their behalf by government; the waste
committed by certain capitalists abroad, being thus paid for out of the
earnings of those at home.
Sugar being the production especially protected, everything is
sacrificed by planters to the growth of sugar. The land is exhausted by
perpetual cropping, the least possible portion of it is tilled for food,
the slaves are worn out by overwork, and their numbers decrease in
proportion to the scantiness of their food, and the oppressiveness of
their toil.
When the soil is so far exhausted as to place its owner out of reach of
the sugar-bounties, more food is raised, less toil is inflicted, and the
slave population increases.
Legislative protection, therefore, not only taxes the people at home,
but promotes ruin, misery, and death, in the protected colonies.
A free trade in sugar would banish slavery altogether, since competition
must induce an economy of labour and capital; i. e., a substitution of
free for slave labour.
Let us see, then, what is the responsibility of the legislature in this
matter.
The slave system inflicts an incalculable amount of human suffering, for
the sake of making a wholesale waste of labour and capital.
Since the slave system is only supported by legislative protection, the
legislature is responsible for the misery caused by direct infliction,
and for the injury indirectly occasioned by the waste of labour and
capital.
-------
Printed by W. CLOWES, Stamford-Street.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
ILLUSTRATIONS
OF
POLITICAL ECONOMY.
----------
No. V.
ELLA OF GARVELOCH.
=A Tale.=
BY
HARRIET MARTINEAU.
_SECOND EDITION._
LONDON:
CHARLES FOX, 67, PATERNOSTER-ROW.
---
1832.
LONDON.
PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES,
Stamford Street.
ELLA
OF
GARVELOCH.
=A Tale.=
BY
HARRIET MARTINEAU.
_SECOND EDITION._
LONDON:
CHARLES FOX, 67, PATERNOSTER-ROW.
---
1832.
----------------------------
The Author must acknowledge herself indebted for much valuable
information on the subject of this volume to Dr. Macculloch’s
Description of the Western Islands of Scotland.
----------------------------
CONTENTS.
Chap. Page
1. Landlord and Tenant 1
2. A Highland Farm 18
3. The first Excursion 34
4. Whom have we here? 44
5. A Highland Night 55
6. The Scotch abroad 67
7. Innovations 81
8. Seclusion not Peace 94
9. A Fool’s Errand 111
10. What is to happen next? 116
11. Understand before you complain 123
12. A waking Dream 132
ELLA OF GARVELOCH.
----------------------------
CHAPTER I.
LANDLORD AND TENANT.
Among the islands which are clustered around the western shore of
Argyleshire, there is a small chain called the Garveloch Isles, or the
Isles of Rough Rock. There are four of them, divided from the coast of
Lorn by a tossing sea, and by scattered islands larger than themselves;
and from each other by narrow sounds, studded with rocks, and difficult
to navigate, on account of the force of their currents. This difficulty
would have placed the inhabitants nearly out of reach of intercourse
with those of the mainland, even if that intercourse had been desired by
either party; but it was not, at the date of our narrative, for they
knew and cared little about each other. The islanders, consisting of
only a few families scattered over Garveloch, (the principal of the
group, which therefore gives it name to the whole,) thought of nothing
but providing as they could for themselves alone; and their place of
habitation was so wild and dreary that it presented was the only
inhabited island of the four; Ilachanu, the westermost and next largest,
being a desert of rocks and moorland; and the easternmost, considerably
smaller, not having even yet received the poor distinction of a name.
The length of Garveloch is about a mile and a half; but its dwellers
were, in the days of our tale, as little acquainted with each other’s
concerns as if a chain of mountains had divided the north-eastern from
the south-western parts of their island. The difficulties which lay in
the way of their intercourse were so great from the nature of the
land,—it being divided by steep rocks into cliffs and narrow valleys
which were almost impassable,—that the rare communication which did take
place was by coasting when the weather was calm enough to render the
Sound safe for the crazy boats and small skill of the islanders. These
boats were but two; one belonging to a farmer who cultivated his sandy
fields on the southernmost and sunniest part of the land, and the other
to the family of a fisherman who had tenanted a good cottage and croft
on the shore some way higher up. These boats were borrowed as they were
wanted; and the intercourse of lending and receiving back again was all
that ever took place, except on the rare occasions of a marriage, a
birth, or a funeral, or the still rarer one of a visit from the
proprietor. These visits averaged about one in the lifetime of each
laird; for if it chanced that any one of the race was so fond of the
wildest kind of scenery, or so addicted to any pursuit in which the
productions of these islands could assist him, as to show his face a
second time to his amazed tenantry, it as often happened that another
was kept away entirely by the reports of those who had no love of dreary
lands and perilous waters.
There are traces in all the islands of times when they had been more
frequented; of times when the first introduction of a new faith into
this remote region was followed up by rites which must have given to it
an aspect of civilization which it had now long lost. Tombs of gray
stone, with a cross at the head of each, are conspicuous here and there;
and in the most secluded parts are mouldering walls which seem to have
formed hermitages in the olden times. If these establishments were, as
is most probable, connected with the cathedral of Iona, it seems strange
that so great a celebrity as they must have obtained should have died
away. There is not so much as one tradition, however obscure, among the
inhabitants, respecting these relics, and they therefore afford the less
interest to the traveller, who can only look at the remains and go away
as wise as he came.
There was once a laird, however, who was not willing to give up the
whole matter as a mystery without examination. He came again and again,
sometimes attended only by his steward, and sometimes by strangers as
curious as himself. He destroyed the average we have spoken of, greatly
to the joy of his island tenantry, and to the annoyance of the old
steward who had the charge of this range of islands, together with many
more in the neighbouring seas, and who much preferred talking big in the
name of the laird, and doing what he pleased among the people, to
following his principal in his excursions, standing by to hear the
statements of the tenantry, and receiving directions concerning their
affairs.
Notice of a visit from the laird was sometimes given and sometimes not,
according as Callum, the steward, happened to be in Garveloch or
elsewhere. He had an apartment of his own at the farm above-mentioned,
which he occupied sometimes for a few days together, and which was
therefore better furnished with accommodations than any other space
between four walls in the island. The convenience of having this
apartment prepared in case of the weather being too boisterous to permit
a return on the same day to the mainland, induced the proprietor to send
notice when Callum was on the spot to make arrangements. When he was
not, such notice served no purpose, as the people at the farm had no
power to levy supplies, and would not have known how to use them when
procured, so uncivilized were their habits and manners. On one occasion,
the omission of such notice caused the laird to witness a sight which he
had never before beheld in all its simplicity,—a funeral among his
tenants.
As the bark which contained himself and a party of friends approached
Garveloch, one fine spring morning, he saw two boats nearing the
landing-place before them. As these vessels were rocked in the surf,
snatches of a hoarse and wild music came from them, rising above the
roar and dash of the waves. The sound was not that of any instrument,
but of the rough voices of men, and it ceased when the labours of
landing began. This was done with all possible awkwardness, confusion
and noise, and then the companies of the two boats took their way up the
rocks without perceiving the laird’s vessel, which was still at a
considerable distance. Some of the men bore on their shoulders the body
about to be interred, and the rest followed at their own pace, not
forming themselves into any order of march, or seeming to be united by
any common object. The last of the stragglers disappeared behind a
projection of the rock, while the laird was preparing to be carried
through the surf by two of his boatmen. He pointed out to them, with
great exactness, the spot where they should land the rest of the party
when they should return from Ilachanu to join him at dinner, and then
took his way alone in the track of the funeral party.
He reached the burying-ground just as the ceremony was concluded; for
funerals in the Highlands are hurried over with an apparent negligence
and levity which shock the feelings of those who have been accustomed to
the solemnity which such a service seems fitted to inspire. The only
solemnity here arose from the desolation of the place. It was
unenclosed, so that the wild cattle had gone over it, defacing the
tombstones and cropping the coarse herbage which grew more plentifully
here than elsewhere. Thistles and docks appeared where there were some
traces of a path, and the fragments of broken crosses lay as rubbish
beside the newly-dug grave. The laird looked among the group for the
mourners. They were easily distinguished by their countenances, though
they shed no tears and spoke no word. They were three boys, the two
elder of whom were strong, ruddy, well-grown youths, apparently of the
ages of sixteen and fourteen. The third was either some years younger,
or was made to look so by his smallness of size and delicacy of
appearance. He fixed the attention of the laird at once by the signs of
peculiarity about him. His restlessness of eye and of manner was unlike
that which arises in children from animal spirits, and contrasted
strangely with the lost and melancholy expression of his countenance.
His brothers seemed not to forget him for a moment, sometimes holding
him by the hand to prevent his wandering from them, sometimes passing an
arm round his neck to control his restlessness, sometimes speaking to
him in the caressing tone which they would use to an infant. The laird,
learning from some who passed out of the burying-ground that these boys
were orphans, and had been attending the funeral of their father,
determined to learn more about them from themselves.
“You three are brothers, I find. Which of you is the eldest?”
“I am two years older than Fergus,” answered Ronald, “and Archie is
twelve, though he looks less.”
“And have you any brothers and sisters younger than you, Archie?”
enquired the laird.
Archie looked in the gentleman’s face for a moment, and then away again.
“He speaks to nobody but us,” said Ronald. “He heeds no other
voice,—that is, no man’s or woman’s voice. He knows the low of the
cattle and the cry of the sea-fowl when a storm is coming. He wants to
be down among the rocks now, ye see. We’re going, Archie, we’re going.
Stay a minute.—He’s not like us, your honour sees.”
“I see, I see. He looks quite lost.”
“To a stranger,” said Fergus, “but not to us. We know his ways so well
that we can always guide him, except when he is at the highest and
lowest, and then it is best to leave him to himself till the fit is
over.”
“He must require a great deal of watching; is there no one to take care
of him but you?”
“He takes to no folly, only to sport, Sir; and he is wiser than we about
many things, and sees farther. He is always housed before a tempest, or
safe in a hole in the rock, like the birds he seems to learn from, while
we breast the wind as we may, far from home. When he is dull or low,
Ella takes better care of him than we could do. She just puts fresh
heather under him and sings, and he sleeps sometimes many days
together.”
“And who is Ella?”
“Our sister, your honour; our elder sister. She is down by the boats,
and she will be glad to see your honour, for we have much to say to you
or to Mr. Callum. Where will your honour please to see Ella?”
“We will walk down to the boats, Ronald; or, if your sister should wish
to speak with me more privately, perhaps she will come up here.”
Ronald cast a hurried look at the new-made grave, and then said to
Fergus,
“Run down, Fergus, and ask Ella to come up to the cross yonder. The
laird will wait for her there: and let Archie go with you; he is in a
hurry for the shore.”
During the few minutes that they waited at the cairn or heap of stones
in which the cross was planted, the laird learned from his companion
something of the domestic circumstances of this orphan family. Their
mother had died at Archie’s birth, and their father had been growing
infirm for many years, so that almost the whole charge of the family had
rested upon Ella since she had been old enough to support it. Her
brother praised her only by stating facts; but these facts conveyed an
impression that she must be a woman of extraordinary energy, and one who
deserved all the respect and love with which her brothers could regard
her. It was very natural that, while listening to a tale of peculiar
interest concerning her, the laird should picture her to himself as
corresponding in outward appearance to the elevated idea which was given
him of her character; and it was with some disappointment that he looked
upon her for the first time. She appeared as much older than she really
was, as Archie looked younger. She might have been taken for his mother,
though she was, in fact, no more than five-and-twenty. Tall and gaunt in
person, and thinking as little of adornment in dress as her
country-women in general, on ordinary occasions, there was nothing at
first sight to attract a stranger. Her feet were bare, according to the
universal custom; her hair, unconfined by any cap, hanging down from
under the plaid which she had drawn over her head, the plaid itself
strapped round her in preparation for rowing her boat home, she looked
so unlike the maidens of a civilized country, that the laird, well as he
knew his own tenantry, was startled. When he looked again, however, and
observed the strong expression of her eye, and of her weather-stained
features, when he remembered what toils she had undergone, and that her
heart was now troubled and striving with natural grief, he felt that he
was wrong in expecting softness where it was not to be found.
“Have you anything to say to me, Ella; any complaint to make?”
“No complaint, your honour. Murmurs will not heal the grief of this day,
and other troubles are nothing. I only wished to speak to your honour
about the lads and myself; how we are to live and what to do.”
“Well; have you settled what you wish? and is there difficulty with
Callum, or any body else?”
“Your honour knows our farm, where we have lived till now. Mr. Callum
has given notice whenever he found my father ill, that we must quit it
at his death. So we are going to quit.”
“And what else would you do? Your brothers are not old enough to manage
a farm.”
“Mr. Callum is right, doubtless; and I have no desire to keep on what we
could not keep up. As for where we are to go,—we should be quite easy in
mind, if your honour would order the place down below to be made
weather-tight for us, and fix a rent upon it. Your honour would not ask
more than we could pay.”
“What, that half-ruined cottage in the bay, with the croft behind it!
How could you live there? There is not a fence complete, and not an ear
of barley has grown there these many years.”
“Your honour would have the fences mended at the same time with the
cottage; and there is the fishing to depend on, as well as the ground,
and the rocks shelve conveniently there for the weed, and Ronald could
sell kelp when I sell fish; and Fergus could bring us in peat,—and as
for Archie, the nearer the sea, the happier he is. So I hope your honour
will let us try the place.”
“It is a wretched place, Ella. I think we might find something better
for you. There are patches of richer soil in the vallies. Surely you had
better settle in a more sheltered situation. The wind will blow away
your soil and seed together before it has time to strike root.”
“We cannot get out of sight of the sea, on Archie’s account, sir.”
“He would never be happy between green hills,” added Fergus. “We should
ever be missing him from home, and finding him in the old places: but if
we settle on the beach, he will not be tempted to stray.”
“Though he could not stray very far, your honour, I am easier to have
him under my eye, which might be, if I lived by fishing.”
“That is scarcely a woman’s business, Ella. It brings toil and hardship
to the strongest men.”
“It is my business, your honour; and it is not the blackest night, nor
the stormiest day, that can weary me, thanks to Him that gives strength
where it is wanted. Would you be pleased to grant me what I ask, and let
me know with your own lips, what the rent shall be?”
“Let us go to the place, and see what it looks like.”
While they proceeded down the steep to the beach, Ella leading the way,
the laird marked her stern demeanour and masculine gait, and could not
fancy her singing her idiot brother to sleep, and couching him on fresh
heather. Presently, however, his idea of her was amended. Archie came
sauntering along the shore to join them, and yet with every appearance
of not observing them. He held a bunch of sea-bird’s feathers, which he
thrust into Ella’s hand without looking at her, but glanced back when he
had passed, as if to see what had become of them. Ella had thrown back
the plaid and stuck them in her hair, where they remained till he was
out of sight, when she threw them away and resumed her plaid.
“The people at the farm are relations of yours, I think, Ella?”
“They are fourth cousins of my mother’s; and disposed to be kind to us
for her sake: and that is another reason for our settling here.”
“But what will they think of such a dreary place in comparison with
their barley and oat fields, to say nothing of the house, with two
rooms, each as large as this cottage, besides Callum’s apartment?”
“It is what we think that matters most.”
“Very true. Now show me the boundaries that you would mark out if you
had your choice.”
“The rent will mark the boundary best: but we should like, besides this
field, to have the slope of the hill behind for our pony to graze on. We
must have the pony to carry the weed, and to draw the harrow, in case of
my being out at sea at the time. And I should like to take in a corner
of the peat moss yonder; that is all we wish for behind. Then Ronald
must be free to cut weed some way along these ledges to the left: they
shelve better than those on the other hand. Then the cottage should be
new roofed, and the fence put up; and your honour will name the rent.”
“You shall not be pressed for that, Ella. It would not be reasonable in
a situation like this.”
“I hope your honour sees we beg no favour,” replied Ella. “Ask Mr.
Callum, and he will tell you our rent has ever been ready, whether we
feasted or fasted: and ready it shall be, if it be God’s will to let the
sea and land yield us their own.”
“Better to fast and pay, than feast and owe,” said Fergus.
“Right, very right, Fergus. Well; you shall have your way; and I will
consult with Callum about the rent, and have the place made ready as
quickly as possible. Here he is. Let one of the lads come up to me at
the farm, an hour or two hence, and I will name the rent; meantime, you
can join your friends.”
Instead of going towards the boats, however, Ella slowly proceeded up
the rocks, in the direction of the burying-ground. The lads looked as if
they would fain have stayed to listen; but a glance from their sister
sent Fergus to look for Archie, and Ronald to join the little funeral
party, who were carousing as if it had been a wedding.
“There will be tears in those eyes within these few minutes, if there is
nobody nigh,” said Callum, looking after Ella as he came up. “They have
held tears, for as dry as they seem. Since her father began to fail, I,
for one, have seen heart-drops, though she would have had me think it
was but the wintry wind.”
“She has a proud spirit, Callum.”
“Proud! her pride ill becomes one that lives under your honour, and it
is more than I know how to master. There is no bringing her down; and if
she puts her spirit into her brothers, they will be beyond my reach
quite.”
“How do you mean, Callum? Why should you bring them down?”
“Only to make them like others that live under such as you,—grateful and
humble, and ready to obey.”
“To obey your pleasure, I suppose. No Callum, there has been far too
much servile obedience among the lower orders of our people, one sign of
which is their revengeful and turbulent temper. If they were less ready
to watch our pleasure in matters that do not concern them, they would do
fewer deeds that call for revenge, and have fewer causes of quarrel.
This proud woman, as we call her, has a peaceable temper, I hope and
believe?”
“Peaceable enough, your honour, or I own I should have picked a quarrel
with her before now, for I do not like her any more than I fancy she
likes me. But there has never been occasion for any words; for out comes
the pouch as sure as I show myself to gather the rent; and there is the
dinner and the whiskey on the table for me to take or leave, as I like.
She never kept me waiting, or stinted her hospitality, or got into a
quarrel with her neighbours that I could take hold of.”
“Then for what, in the name of wonder, Callum, would you have her be
grateful and ready to obey? I never did her any service that I am aware
of, (though I hope to do some yet,) and I know of no title to her
obedience that either you or I can urge. Can you tell me of any?”
Callum stared, while he asked if one party was not landlord and the
other tenant.
“You are full of our Scotch prejudices, I see, Callum, as I was once.
Only go into England, and you will see that landlord and tenant are not
master and slave, as we in the Highlands have ever been apt to think. In
my opinion, their connexion stands thus,—and I tell it you, that you may
take care not to exact an obedience which I am far from wishing to claim
from my tenants,—the owner and occupier of a farm, or other estate, both
wish to make gain, and for this purpose unite their resources. He who
possesses land wishes to profit by it without the trouble of cultivating
it himself; he who would occupy has money, but no land to lay it out
upon, so he pays money for the use of the land, and more money for the
labour which is to till it (unless he supplies the labour himself). His
tillage should restore him his money with gain. Now why should the
notion of obedience enter into a contract like this?”
“I only know,” replied Callum, “that in my young days, if the laird held
up a finger, any one of his people who had offended him would have been
thrown into the sea.”
“Such tyranny, Callum, had nothing to do with their connexion as
landlord and tenant, but only with their relation as chieftain and
follower. You have been at Glasgow, I think?”
“Yes; a cousin of mine is a master in the shawl-manufacture there.”
“Well; he has labourers in his employment there, and they are not his
slaves, are they?”
“Not they; for they sometimes throw up their work when he wants them
most.”
“And does he hold his warehouse by lease, or purchase?”
“He rents it of Bailie Billie, as they call him, who is so fierce on the
other side of politics.”
“If your cousin does not obey his landlord in political matters, (for I
know how he has spoken at public meetings,) why should you expect my
tenants to obey me, or rather you—for I never ask their obedience? The
Glasgow operative, and the Glasgow capitalist, make a contract for their
mutual advantage; and if they want further help, they call in another
capitalist to afford them the use of a warehouse which he lets for his
own advantage. Such a mutual compact I wish to establish with my people
here. Each man of them is usually a capitalist and labourer in one, and,
in order to make their resources productive, I, a landholder, step in as
a third party to the production required; and if we each fulfil our
contract, we are all on equal terms. I wish you would make my people
understand this; and I require of you, Callum, to act upon it yourself.”
The steward made no reply, but stood thinking how much better notions of
dignity the old laird had, and how much power he possessed over the
lives and properties of his tenants.
“Did this croft pay any rent before it was let out of cultivation?”
enquired the laird.
“No, your honour; it only just answered to the tenant to till it, and
left nothing over for rent; but we had our advantage in it too; for then
yon barley-field paid a little rent; but since this has been let down,
that field has never done more than pay the tillage. But we shall have
rent from it again when the lease is renewed, if Ella makes what I
expect she will make of this croft.”
“Is there any kelp prepared hereabouts, Callum?”
“Not any; and indeed there is no situation so fit for it as this that
Ronald is to have. There is nothing doing in Garveloch that pays us
anything, except at the farm.”
“Well, then, Ella can, of course, pay nothing at first but for the use
of the cottage, and the benefit of the fences, &c. Is there any other
capital laid out here?”
“Let us see. She has a boat of her own, and the boys will bring their
utensils with them. I believe, sir, the house and fence will be all.”
“Very well: then calculate exactly what they are worth, and what more
must be laid out to put them in good condition, and tell me; the
interest of that much capital is all that Ella must pay, till we see
what the bay and the little field will produce.”
The laird next gave particular directions what repairs should be made,
and that there should be no delay in completing them, and then left
Callum to make his estimate, bidding him follow to the farm when he had
done.
----------------------------
CHAPTER II.
A HIGHLAND FARM.
There was such a bustle at the farm as had not been seen for many a day.
At the first alarm of company landing, the girls of the family unyoked
themselves from the harrow which they were drawing over the light, sandy
soil, and hastened into the house, where their mother had already begun
her preparations. One of them set about fanning the smouldering peat
fire with the torn skirt of her woollen petticoat, while the other
climbed upon the settle to take down one of the regiment of smoked geese
which hung overhead from a pole, in somewhat the same kind of
arrangement in which they had once winged their flight through the upper
air. Lean, black, and coarse, the bird would have been little tempting
to the appetite of a stranger; but as all the approaching company were
not strangers, it stood a fair chance of being eaten with relish. The
mother, while calling to one or another to bring out a cheese from the
press, and barley-cakes from the cupboard, was now engaged in bringing
potatoes to light from under her own bed, and taking off the cream from
pans which were hidden from common observation by a curtain of
peat-smoke.
The goose being set to boil, and the potatoes ready to be put into the
same pot in due time, (possibly in order that the oil from the bird
might save the trouble of buttering them when they came to table,) the
readiest of the two maidens hastened to exhibit the snow-white cloth of
ancient home manufacture, which covered, on rare festivals, the table in
Callum’s apartment. By the time it was spread out to view, it displayed,
besides all its varieties of pattern, a further diversity, not intended
by the original designer. Here a streak of yellow oil imbibed from the
goose; there a brush of mould from a potatoe; here a few harmless drops
of cream, and there a corner dabbled in more fragrant whisky, were all
new for the occasion. The next thing to be done, was to unpack the
baskets of provisions which, out of consideration for the stomachs of
the strangers, had been sent in the boat by the laird’s housekeeper.
What jostling of helpers, what jingling of bottles, what spilling of
everything that could be spilt, what soiling of all that was solid! It
was well for those who were to eat, that they saw nothing of this
household preparation; if they had, neither the fresh sea-breeze, nor
the exercise they had taken, would have availed to give a relish to
their meal. To beguile the impatience they began to feel for their
dinner, some surveyed the farm, some seated themselves on a bench beside
the door, to regale their eyes with the splendid view of sea and islands
which presented itself: and these occasionally conversed with the
farmer’s sons,—two boys, who stood staring at a little distance, and
were, after much perseverance, prevailed upon to speak.
“What is your name?” asked a lady of the younger boy.
He put three fingers in his mouth and stared, but made no reply; and it
was some minutes before it appeared that his name was Rob.
“Well; now you have told me your own name, tell me the name of that
island, that looks so black with the shadow of the cloud upon it.”
“That’s Ilachanu.”
“No, no. Ilachanu lies the other way, and we have just come from it. Use
your eyes, my man. How should you know which I mean if you stand with
your back to it?”
“It’s Garveloch, maybe.”
“Nay; this is Garveloch that we stand upon. One would think it had no
name, by the little you know about it.”
“It has not any name,” cried the boy brightening.
“Well; why could not you say so before? Do you ever go there?”
“I have been there.”
“What do you go there for?”
“Father takes me in the boat.”
“And what do you do when you get there?”
“We go and then we come back again.”
“I suppose so: but do you fish, or get eggs, or visit your friends, or
what?”
Rob laughed, stared, and then looked at his brother, who conveyed with
some trouble that nobody lived there. The lady next tried to make
something of him.
“What do you go to that desert island for, my lad?”
“Why was you wanting to know?”
“Only out of curiosity. If your errand there is a secret, say so, and I
will not ask you.”
The boy laughed, and said they went sometimes for one thing and
sometimes for another; and this was all that could be made out.—What was
the distance? was the next question.
“It may be twelve mile.”
“Twelve! it cannot be so much surely.”
“Maybe ’tis five.”
“I do not believe it is more than two.”
“Indeed, I’m thinking ye’re right.”
“You do not seem to know much about the matter.”
“Indeed, I know nothing about it.”
And so forth, upon every subject started: nor did their father appear
much more enlightened in his way.
“The cattle seem to have done your field a world of mischief,” observed
an English gentleman, “and no wonder, with such a pretence of a fence as
that. How long has it been broken down?”
“Indeed I can’t remember.”
“Not this year, or last,” said his landlord, “for I remember advising
you three seasons ago to make your boys clear the ground of these
stones, which would have built up your wall presently.—You said you
would, and I suppose you still mean to do it some day.”
“O aye, some day; and I have spoken to the lads many a time.”
“Speaking does not seem to have done much good.”
“Indeed, your honour’s right.”
“Set about it yourself, I advise you, and then perhaps they will work
with you, if you can’t prevail upon them by other means.”
“Maybe I will some day.”
“I see no stock except a shaggy pony or two, or the few black cattle on
the moor there,” observed the English gentleman.
“There are both pigs and poultry, if you could find out where they are,”
said the laird laughing.
The gentleman looked round in vain, and then applied to farmer Murdoch
himself.
“Do ye think we’ve no more cattle than them?” asked he proudly. “There
are many more of the kine down below fishing.”
“Cattle fishing! What do you mean?”
“I just mean what I say,—the kine are getting fish for themselves in the
pools below, and the pigs——”
The laird explained to his friend that all domestic animals, even
horses, relish fish when their other food is poor of its kind; and that
it is the custom of the native cattle to go down to the beach at low
water, and help themselves out of the pools in which fish have been left
by the retiring tide.
“Well, Murdoch; and your pigs and poultry,—where are they? Do your pigs
live on wild ducks, and your fowls on sea-weed?”
“Na, na,” said Murdoch. “Where should they be but yonder? Ye’ll see them
when ye go in to dinner.”
“What! in the house?”
“To be sure,” said the laird. “As soon as you enter, the pig will run
between your legs, and the fowls will perch upon each shoulder, and then
you will be asked where the poor beasts could be better. If ever
accident should oblige you to sleep in a farm-house hereabouts, examine
your bed lest a sucking-pig should have taken possession before you, and
in the morning, look for eggs in your shoes before you slip your feet
into them.—But see, you must make acquaintance with these domestics out
of doors for once. Here comes the old grunter, and there are the fowls
fluttering as if they liked the day-light no better than bats.”
In honour of the guests, the house was cleared of live stock, and their
banishment was a sign that dinner was ready at last.—The meal was
conducted with tolerable decency, as in addition to the boatmen who
waited on the guests, Callum had arrived to keep things in order, and do
the honours of his apartment. By dint of swearing at one, flinging his
Highland bonnet at another, and coaxing a third, he procured a change of
trenchers, when his guests turned from fish to fowl, and thence to
cheese. This change did not much matter to those who ate of the
provisions of the farm-house, for everything had a smack of the sea. The
cream was fishy, the cheese was fishy, and the barley bannocks
themselves had a salt and bitter flavour as if they had been dipped in
sea-water; so at least the English gentlemen thought, remembering how
the cattle fed, and having seen the land manured with sea-weed. As it
was certainly pure fancy as far as the barley-cakes were concerned, it
might have been so in the other cases; but he turned with much greater
relish to the provisions which had been brought from the mainland.
Ella arrived before the meal was over, and waited outside till the laird
could speak with her. His first question, when he took his seat on the
bench beside the door, and his tenant stood before him, was, what had
made her brothers so unlike the boys within, and most of the other lads
belonging to the islands? He knew that they had been early taught
industry by their father’s example; but who had instructed them to
husband that industry, to make use of eyes, ears, and understanding as
well as limbs? Who had made them intelligent and skilful as well as
laborious?
“How does your honour know they are so?” asked Ella, for once following
the Highland fashion of answering one question by another.
“I saw at a glance that they were intelligent, and Ronald told me enough
while we were waiting for you to show that you know better how to live
with a little than these cousins of yours with much. How did you all
learn?”
“Did Ronald tell you about Angus?” asked Ella, her eye for the first
time sinking under that of the laird.
“Merely that Angus taught you the management of a boat, as he had
learned it in dangerous places abroad. Angus is a relation, I suppose,
or only a friend?”
“A friend; and he taught us all many things that are little thought of
here. My father ever said we should do well if we had Angus at hand to
advise us.”
“I suppose he will come and advise you again, Ella, at such an important
time as this. Will you not send for him? Can I carry any message to the
mainland, for I hear that it was from over the water that he used to
come.”
Ella answered in a somewhat stern voice, that if ever he came again it
must be from over the water, for that he had been in foreign parts for
five years, and nothing had been heard of him for long.
“Five years! then he could not have taught her brothers much, so young
as they must have been when he went away.” Ella replied that he taught
her whatever her father could not, and her brothers learned of her.
“Perhaps,” said the laird, “if his friends expected to hear of him,
something prevented his sending to them.”
“No doubt,” replied Ella.
“What do you imagine it could be, Ella?”
“Perhaps he is dead,” said she quietly, but still looking on the ground.
“You do not suppose he has forgotten his old friends? yet, such things
do sometimes happen, Ella.”
She made no answer; and the laird saw by the deep colour which made
itself seen through her weather-worn complexion, that he had gone too
far. He was very sorry; and now wondered at his own slowness in
perceiving the true state of the case; but there was so little in her
appearance to suggest the idea, and she seemed so wholly devoted to her
brothers, that he had fancied the connexion with Angus one of pure
friendship,—of that friendship which bears in the Highlands a character
of warmth, simplicity, and familiarity, not very common in some other
places.
To relieve Ella, the laird spoke immediately of business, relating what
was to be done to make the cottage and field tenantable, and explaining
to her that, twenty shillings a year being the interest upon the capital
laid out, twenty shillings a year was the sum he would take, if she
thought she could pay it.—Ella had no doubt of it.
“Try it for a year,” said the laird, “and then if either party is
discontented, we can change our terms. I hope you will meet with no
disturbance from any one, and that you may find all your little plans
answer well, so that you may be able to pay rent whenever the time comes
for neighbours to settle down beside you and increase the cost of the
place you hold. That time will come, I give you warning; and when it
comes, I hope you will be rich enough to meet it.”
“Surely, your honour, we hope to improve the land, and so to be able to
pay more than for the fencing; but how are we to improve the sea, or the
ledges where we cut weed?”
“You cannot improve them, Ella; but if you are in a more favourable
situation than your neighbours for obtaining their produce, you must
expect to pay for the advantage. If I were to ask a rent to-day for the
fishing in your bay, neither you nor others would pay it; you would say
‘I will go to some other situation as good, where there is no rent to
pay,’ and you would settle yourself down in Ilachanu or elsewhere, and
keep all you could obtain. But when all these best situations are taken
possession of, other comers say to me, ‘We will pay you a part of what
we get if you will let us have a line of shore that shelves conveniently
for our kelping, or where fish is plentiful.’”
“And then,” said Ella, “we must pay as much as they offer, if we mean to
stay; or take up with a worse situation if we will not pay. Well; I
doubt not we can pay your honour duly when that time comes, over and
above the twenty shillings for the house and fences. It may be in fish
or kelp, instead of money, but we will manage to pay, if Mr. Callum be
not hard upon us.”
“I shall tell Callum to receive my interest in any shape that it may
suit you best to pay it; in fish, or in kelp, or in grain, or even in
peat. This is but fair considering how far you are from any market. As
for the real rent, do not trouble your head about that at present. It
will be long before you will be called on for any; and I only mentioned
it to show you what you have to expect if you grow rich.”
“Will our growing rich make us liable to pay what your honour calls real
rent? You will excuse my asking, but I like to know what is before us.”
“Your growing rich will tempt people to come and try their fortune; and
then, as I said, the best situations must pay for being the best. Is not
this fair?”
“To be sure; your honour would not ask any thing unfair.”
“That is not enough, Ella. If there should be a new laird by that time—”
“God forbid!” exclaimed Ella. “A new laird would not come to Garveloch
in this way, like your honour, or listen to what your people have to
say.”
“But answer me,” said the laird, smiling, “Would you object to pay rent,
in the case I speak of, whoever might be laird?”
“Surely no,” replied Ella, “unless I could better myself by moving;
which I could not do if all situations as good as my own were taken up.”
“And how much would you be willing to pay?”
“Let’s see. If we had over and above, at the end of the year, two
barrels of herrings and half a ton of kelp, we’ll say,—I would find out
how much we should have over and above, in the same time, in the next
best place; and if it was one barrel of herrings and a quarter of a ton
of kelp, I would pay the difference,—that is one barrel of herrings and
a quarter of a ton of kelp, rather than move.”
“Very right; and then you would be as well off in the one place as in
the other. There would still be a fair profit on both.”
“And I am sure your honour would not ask more than our profits would
come to.”
“There would be little use in my asking, even if I wished it, Ella; for
it would not be paid. Your neighbour would not settle beside you, unless
the place answered to him; and if I demanded more of you than the
difference between your profits and his, you would, of course, move to a
situation like his?”
“I should be sorry to move,” said Ella, looking downwards to her new
place of abode, “but, in such a case, I must.”
“Such a case will not occur, Ella; for we are not so foolish as to let
our farms and cottages stand empty from our asking more rent than they
can pay.”
“I am not afraid, sir, of having to give up our place. Whenever there is
a rent, it will be small at first, I suppose?”
“Yes, and it will grow very slowly in a wild place like this, and it may
be years before it bears any at all. In the meanwhile, tell your
brothers what I have been telling you.”
Ella promised and then proceeded to the one thing more she had to say.
It was a request on Archie’s behalf,—a petition that he might amuse
himself as he pleased upon the Storr, a high rock, formed like a
pyramid, that stood out from one point in the bay in which Ella’s
cottage stood. This rock was an island at high water, being joined to
Garveloch only by a strip of sand, which was overflowed twice every day.
Myriads of sea-birds haunted this rock; and Archie having once found his
way to these, his favourite companions, could not, his sister believed,
be kept from going continually. The laird gave ready permission, only
offering a caution against the perils of the tide, rising and falling as
it did perpetually in the very path. Of this, Ella had no fear; for not
the most skilful seamen could be more cautious, or appear more knowing
than Archie, when he had to do with the tide. His sister observed that
he had never put life or limb in the way of peril; and this caution so
peculiar to children in Archie’s state, went far to confirm the island
superstition that the poor boy was under special invisible protection,
and therefore screened from ill usage at the hand of man, as well as
from natural perils.
The Storr being yielded to Archie as freely as the rocks to Ronald and
the peat-moss to Fergus, Ella’s business was done, and her gratitude
secured,—gratitude offered as soon as deserved, and in greater abundance
than the laird thought the occasion required, however Mr. Callum might
complain of the absence of this prime qualification of a tenant. Ella’s
gratitude was not eloquent, but the laird saw enough of its effects upon
her countenance and manner to wonder at the degree of satisfaction
caused by the present arrangement. He kindly bade Ella farewell, and
while she rapidly descended the rocks by one path, he sought his party
by another.
He found his companions in great consternation, and the boatmen looking
about on the beach, as if for something which had been dropped. What
were they looking for,—a bracelet, a brooch, or was it a watch?
Ornaments and valuables should not be trusted abroad on such
expeditions.—O it was nothing of that kind; it was the boat they were
looking for! The boat! and did they expect to find it among the
shingles, or hidden under the sea-weeds? Who had drawn it up on the
beach or moored it in the cove? Nobody could lay claim to the praise of
such a service; the boat had been left to itself, and had, of course,
drifted down the Sound with the tide, and was probably dashed to pieces.
While the responsible persons were bandying reproaches, the English
gentleman began to anticipate the fate he had been warned of,—a pig for
his pillow, and eggs in his shoes, if indeed he could hope for the
luxury of a bed, or of liberty to put off his clothes. The laird ordered
the only measure now in their power,—to borrow the boat in which Ella
and her brothers were about to return home. The farmer promised to house
his relations for the night, and to send them back when his boat should
return the next morning.
After waiting more than an hour, the people appeared at a great distance
on the beach bearing the boat, instead of on the sea, being borne by the
boat. The farmer explained that this was, perhaps, the shorter way, as
the jutting rocks must have compelled them to make a wide circuit.
“Where are the oars?” said the laird, as they approached; whereupon they
once more looked around them, saying, they thought the oars had been
safe enough though the boat was gone. It was not the case, however, and
more messengers were dispatched for Ella’s oars. The ladies began to
shiver and look at each other, when one of their companions observed it
would be terribly late and very dark before they could get home.
“Late, but not dark,” said the laird; “you forget how long our twilight
lasts. We shall be able to see our way till midnight.—Come, make haste
with your stowage, my good man. But look here! how are you to row? The
pins are out that should fix your oars.”
They had disappeared since morning, Fergus said, and he could not
imagine how; he and his brother never pretended to row without, and it
was not they who had loosened the pins. It was of more importance to
supply the pins than to find who had taken them. Farmer Murdoch sent his
boys to pull some teeth out of his wooden harrow, and, after another
hour, they were fitted in, the boat launched with the ladies in it, and
all apparently ready at last. No sooner, however, had the little vessel
left the cove, than it was found to be a pity that there was no sail, as
the wind seemed likely to be favourable, and might make up for lost
time. In the midst of doubt and debate, the rowers put back, waving
their bonnets to Murdoch and his party, who were ascending the rock.
“What’s your will?” cried all on shore.
“A sail! a mast!” answered all in the boat. One went one way and another
another, to find a pole for the mast, and a broomstick for the yard, and
blankets to make a sail. There was no step for a mast, nor provision for
a rudder; but no matter! The pole was tied with twine to one of the
benches, and an oar was held at the helm, while the blankets were pinned
together with wooden skewers, and managed by means of a scarlet garter
tied to the corner, and thus transferred from the knee of one of the
boatmen to his hand. The preparations being completed, the progress of
the party was again watched by Ella, who anxiously observed the length
of the shadows from the rocks upon the bay. When the boat emerged from
the shadow and was caught by the wind, it appeared likely to be blown
due north, and the party might have been landed very wide of their
destination, if a little puff of wind had not carried the sail
overboard, and obliged the men to take to their oars after all. It was
evident, from there being no delay, that nobody was lost or injured, and
Farmer Murdoch was, therefore, at liberty to laugh when he saw his
blankets, with their scarlet ornaments, gently floated down the Sound,
and seeming to excite the curiosity of the sea birds, which made a dip,
in their evening flight homewards, to look at this new marine
production.
----------------------------
CHAPTER III.
THE FIRST EXCURSION
The laird’s orders being too positive to be disobeyed, Ella and her
brothers were permitted to enter their new dwelling by the time the
herrings began to appear from the deep seas to the north. As Ella was
anxious to be preparing her resources against the rent day, she watched
the first signs of the approach of the fish, determining to try the
experiment of selling them fresh to the people at the other end of her
island, who, having no boats, could not fish for themselves. Ronald was
going out to his usual labour in the field one July morning, when he
observed Ella looking first up to the sky and then abroad over the
glittering Sound in which the islands lay, like vessels becalmed, and
beyond which arose the blue peaks of Argyleshire.
“The sun is bright over Lorn, Ella; were ye thinking of a trip to-day?”
“Indeed I was,—not with the nets,—time enough for that; but we might try
with the hook and see if the shoals are near; but if the sun will not
keep out, we shall only lose our day.”
“What is Archie going to do?”
“Archie, my man,” said his sister, “will ye bring me some eggs this day?
See, the fowl are waiting for ye.”
“We’ll wait a bit,” said Ella to her brother: “if he does not come back
in half an hour, we may trust to the sun not to cheat us.” So Ronald
looked out the rods and hooks, while his sister bustled about the
cottage before she girded herself for the oar. While thus employed, she
sang in the raised voice with which maidens sing in these islands. Ere
long, she turned round and saw Archie sitting at the door-sill fastening
a piece of string to a switch, in imitation of the rods Ronald was
preparing.
“Well, Archie; have you quarrelled with the birds to-day, that ye are
home so soon? And where are my eggs?”
“The fowl must wait,” muttered Archie. “I can’t play to-day.”
“Are ye ill, my lad?” enquired his sister, tenderly passing her hand
over his forehead: but Archie withdrew himself and began switching
himself with his new rod.
“Ye may go to the field, Ronald; I’m not for the sea to-day,” said Ella.
And in less than an hour the sky was overcast, and summer storms swept
over the Sound at intervals till night.
“We may always trust Archie,” observed Ronald. “He has a keener sight
into the place of storms than we.”
The next day the birds did not wait in vain for Archie. He was stirring
as soon as they, having stolen out from his sister’s side at dawn, and
crossed the bar of sand while the tide was yet low. When the sun peeped
above the mountains of Lorn, as fair as on the preceding day, the little
lad shouted and clapped his hands above his head; whereupon myriads of
sea-birds rose fluttering round him, and wheeled, and dipped, and
hovered with cries that would have dismayed a stranger, but which Archie
always gloried in provoking. While they drove round his head like autumn
leaves in a storm, the terns and gulls screaming, the auks piping, and
the cormorants croaking, the boy answered them with shouts and waved his
bonnet over his head. Then he clambered to the highest point he could
reach that he might watch the long files of solan geese, as they took
their morning flight southwards, and be sure that they were out of sight
before he filled his bonnet with their eggs.
His sister and Ronald observed him when they had pushed off from the
beach, and were winning their way, each with a steady oar, to the deep
waters beyond the bay.
“Fare ye well, Archie,” shouted Ronald in a voice which made the rocks
ring again; but Archie took no notice.
“He is too busy to mind. See how he peeps over yon ledge that neither
you nor I dare climb. I wager he finds a prize there: he’s dancing with
pleasure. He has taken them all, and down he creeps,—aye, take care, my
lad: that’s it; now on his knees, and there finding a step with his
foot. Ye see he never slips. Now he’s down, I’ll try to win a look.”
Ella sang with all the power of her lungs, and this time Archie turned,
clapped his hands and stood still to watch the boat.
“He will not be home sooner than we,” said Ronald. “He is happy to-day,
and he will wait for the afternoon ebb.”
“I have put some more bannocks in his hole,” said Ella, “and some fresh
water, so he will want for nothing till night.”
“And the storm cast up so much weed yesterday,” said Ronald, “that he
may float all the day, if he likes.”
This floating was Archie’s favourite amusement, in the interval between
the departure of the gannets in the morning and their return from the
south at eve. There was a strong current round the Storr, from an eddy
below the hole he called his cave quite round the point to a ledge of
rocks on the other side of the promontory; which ledge being a
favourable spot for embarkation, was called the quay. Archie’s delight
was to drop feathers, straws, weed, or eggshells, into the eddy, to
watch them come up again after they had disappeared, and float round the
point, and to find them again collected at the quay. Nobody could please
him so well as by giving him a new substance to float; and he brought
home many a gannet for the sake of the feathers, more than for the kind
smile and stroke of the head with which Ella rewarded such enterprises.
She was proud of Archie’s feats in bird-catching; and if ever she spoke
to a stranger on her domestic affairs, represented Archie as adding to
the resources of the household, in no small degree. He seldom exerted
himself to hunt the puffins out of their burrows in the rock, and had
not sense or patience to manage snares; but such birds as were stupid
enough to go on laying their eggs where they were taken away as soon as
they appeared, and such as were tame enough to sit still and be taken by
the hand, were Archie’s prey. He twisted their necks as he had seen his
brothers do, and pouched them in his plaid, and still conceived himself
to be on terms of close friendship with the species, fancying that their
morning screams were cries of invitation to him, and returning the
compliment at eve, by singing southwards from the highest point he could
reach, if he thought them late in coming home.
Ella was not mistaken in thinking the herrings were come. There were so
many stragglers ready to be caught with newly-tinned hooks, that it was
evident a shoal was at hand, and that her nets might be brought into use
within a few days.
“See there!” said Ella, when late in the afternoon she and her brother
suspended their labour to eat and rest; “it brightens one’s eyes to see
such a spoil for one day.”
“And such fine fish too,” replied Ronald. “My heart misgave me this
morning lest we should find them like what they were last year. It would
be a good thing for such as we if we could judge of herring like cod,
and know when we should find them well-fed and most fit to be eaten.
Last year they were as lean as a moor, and now they are as plump as a
barley-field.”
“Thanks be to Him that guides them in the deep waters,” said Ella;
“there will be joy under many a roof this season.”
Ronald reverently uncovered his head. “I wonder,” said he, “that we see
no more boats. Yon sloop is from Greenock, I wager; come to take up
herrings and kelp. She may keep her anchor down long; for not a hook has
been thrown in the Sound till ours, that I could see, and yonder is the
first kelp fire within sight this season.”
“Ye’ll have one of your own, next season, Ronald, and, I doubt not, it
will show light betimes. So willing as ye are to help in the field and
on the water, we owe ye our toil when the storms come. The field once
laid out, and the profits of the fish safe pouched, and Fergus’s peat
stored, he and I will be your servants in our turn, Ronald, and cut and
cull weed as fast as ye can draw it in. The rope is begun already.”
“Is it? How thoughtful ye are, Ella! When could ye find time to think of
my rope?”
“O, there’s ever time for what ought to be provided. I have thinned the
pony’s tail now and then for a long time, so that I have near hair
enough; and when Archie was heavy one day, I thought I could work for
you and sing to him at one time; and in the storm yesterday I twisted
more. We shall have a long stout rope before the first large drift of
weed, and if ye crop the ledges as plentifully as they promise, we shall
have a grand fire, one of the first of the season. How proud it will
make me, Ronald, to help to row over your first venture of kelp!”
“Not so proud as it will make me to put the money into the pouch, Ella.
To think that I help to pay the laird!”
“I wish it might be into his own hands,” said Ella. “I should like to
make you the bearer of it then.”
“And if not,” said Ronald, “it will be honour enough to discharge
ourselves of Mr. Callum. Ye have taught me my lesson there, Ella; and
when the time comes, I’ll show ye a picture of yourself as like as a lad
can be to a tall woman. I’ll go out beside the door when I hear the pace
of his pony on the shingle, and fold my arms in my plaid, and make a
reverence about half as low as to the laird, only stiffer. And I’ll show
the lap of the pouch and say, Here are the laird’s dues. Would it please
you to count them now or when we have pledged your head and ours?’”
“Ye’re a saucy lad,” said Ella: “you know he can’t bear to hear that any
one is head over him.”
“That is the very reason everybody puts him in mind of it,” replied
Ronald. “Well; all this time Fergus is holding his pony, and you are
spreading the best cloth, and he is looking doubtful whether he shall
come in, not liking the coldness of people so far below him, but
smelling the hot goose very savoury.—So he comes in to count the dues at
any rate, after which—”
“Now, Ronald, hold your tongue, or we shall have no dues to count. I’ve
done my meal, and see where we have drifted, and the sun going down
too.”
Ella plied both oars, while Ronald hastily devoured the rest of his
bannock. When they got within easy reach of home, they once more drew in
their oars and cast their hooks; but as it was with less success than
before, Ronald again gave a loose to his tongue, in a way which his awe
of his sister would not have allowed if Fergus had not been absent, and
if his being Ella’s sole partner in an excursion of business had not
established an unusual familiarity between them. After providing that
Fergus should have his turn as rent-payer, he went on—
“I should like to make Archie do it for once. Do you think we could
teach him his lesson?”
“I will not have him tried,” said Ella decidedly. “Archie is not made to
hold a money-pouch, nor to have any worldly dealings.”
“Yet he brings in what helps to fill it.”
“And how innocently! It is his love for the things that God made that
makes him follow sport. The birds are his playmates while they wheel
round his head, and when he takes them on the nest, he has no thought of
gain,—and evil be to him that first puts the thought into him! He
strokes their soft feathers against his cheek, and watches the white
specks wandering through the water like snow-flakes through the air. He
does not look beyond the pleasure to his eyes and to his heart, and he
never shall; and gold and silver are not the things to give pleasure to
such an eye and such a heart, and he shall never know them.”
“Then he can never know how much he owes you, Ella, for the care you
take of him. He little guesses how you have spun half the night to make
his plaid, and won money hardly to find him a bonnet, and all the toil
of your fishing, and grinding, and baking.”
“And why should he? He loves me, and all the better for not knowing why.
He wears his plaid as the birds do their feathers; he feels it warm, and
never thinks where it came from. He finds his barley-cakes and fresh
water in his cave as lambs find clover and springs in their pasture. I
see him satisfied, and like that he should love me for what costs me no
toil,—for singing when he is heavy, and for wearing what he brings me
when he is merry. When he lays his hot head in my lap, or pulls my skirt
to make me listen to the wind, I value his love all the more for its not
being bought.”
“I see you always lure him out when Mr. Callum is coming,” observed
Ronald.
“Yes; and for the same reason I let him hide himself among the rocks the
day the laird was here—I have a constant fear that Mr. Callum would be
for sending him away; and so I hinder our having any words about the
lad. I am easier about that since the laird himself took notice of him
so kindly: but Mr. Callum shall never lay a finger on his head, even to
bless him, if I can help it. Better keep him innocent of the man
entirely.”
“He is likely to be innocent of all but ourselves, and now and then the
Murdochs; for he sees nobody else.”
“He has more companions than we have, too. He makes friendship where we
only make war among living things. How he would handle these very fish
that we stow away so carelessly! But come; we have caught the last we
shall get to-day: let us make haste home and to rest. I must be stirring
early and away to make the first winnings for the pouch, and Fergus
shall have his turn with me to-morrow.”
Ella was determined to try for once whether she could not make her way
by land to the north of the island. There was no road, and the
difficulty of some of the passes was so great as to render the journey
as fatiguing as one of twenty miles. In a strait line, it would not have
been so much as two miles; but the many and steep ascents trebled the
actual distance, while some were nearly if not quite impassable. If she
could once, with her pony, traverse the island, she might be able to
judge whether it would afford any market for her fresh fish; and at the
same time learn whether there were fertile spots to which her brothers
might drive their cattle, and whether it would answer to load their pony
with weed for manure or kelp from different parts of the shore.
It proved a toilsome experiment. She sold some of her fish at her own
price; but there were so few families, and they could so seldom afford
to buy food, that it seemed hardly likely to answer to give up a whole
day of her own labour and the pony’s for so poor a return, in addition
to the previous day’s labour in fishing. They found some patches of good
grass among the dells, but too difficult of access to be of much use;
and their examination of the shore convinced them that Ronald had
possession of the best portion within the circuit of the island.—All
this settled, the next object was to prepare for a trip to the Greenock
sloop.
----------------------------
CHAPTER IV.
WHOM HAVE WE HERE?
Ronald had an opportunity of being dignified towards Mr. Callum long
before the rent-day came round. The steward’s curiosity led him to visit
the tenants and see how they were attempting to improve their croft; and
one day in October his boat was seen rounding the Storr, and making for
the landing-place. Archie happened to be amusing himself on his island
at the time, and Mr. Callum was observed by Ella to turn round as if
watching the boy’s proceedings up to the moment of landing. He looked by
no means in his pleasantest mood.
“Good morning,” said he, as Ella awaited him at the door of the cottage.
“Where are your brothers? I want your brothers.”
“Ronald is in the field. I will call him, if you will please to sit
down. He will not detain you.”
“Let him alone, pray. The other lads will do as well.”
“Fergus is gone a trip to-day to sell his peat; we do not expect him
till night.”
“To sell his peat! He had better take care of his own supply first, I
think. You will want to use all you can get before the winter is over.”
Ella replied by opening a boarded window on one side of the cottage,
through which was seen, at a little distance, a large well-built stack
of peat. She next added some to her fire, that Mr. Callum might not have
to complain that she grudged fuel in her hospitality.
“And pray how does Fergus manage to get peat enough for everybody? He
keeps within his boundary, I hope.”
Ella was too much offended to answer otherwise than by pointing the way
to the peat-land, where, however, the steward showed no inclination to
go.
“I would have him take care what he is about,” continued Callum. “I have
the laird’s strict orders that the live turf is to be replaced over
every inch from which peat is dug.”
Ella observed that it was for Fergus’s interest to observe this rule on
a land which he hoped to hold for a long time, since the peat could not
otherwise be renewed.
“No need to tell me that, Ella; but these youngsters are in such a hurry
to cut, especially when they can sell, that they forget the law.
Remember, if I find a foot bare, the peat-land is forfeited.”
“Your threat is harsh, sir, and if you should act upon it, I should be
obliged to appeal to the laird; but let us see whether Fergus has put
himself in your power.” And she moved on.
“What is all this?” cried the irritable steward, as they walked up the
little sloping beach towards the back of the tenement. “Your brothers
get the fairies to help them, I think. Who ever saw barley growing out
of a round shingle,—clean shingle without any soil?”
“My father saw it, as he used to tell us, in rocky places where soil was
scarce; and when we found we could do little with our field this season,
Ronald bethought himself of this plan; and it answers very well, you
see. We laid down sea-weed pretty thick, and dropped our seed into it,
and now the manure is changed into food for us.”
“Poor grain enough,” said Callum.
“Not so good as we hope to raise in our field, but good enough to be
acceptable to those who would otherwise have none.”
“And pray how long do you mean to let it stand? The wind will soon make
it shed its grain, and then much good, may the straw do you!”
Ella observed that it had been late sown, so that they were glad to let
it stand to the last moment. The autumn was particularly serene and
warm, so that the grain was still uninjured; but it was to be cut the
next day but one, when she should have sold her fish and made room for
her humble harvest.—What fish? and where was she going to sell it?—She
had salted a cask of herrings, and was about to make a trip to the sloop
from Glasgow now in the Sound to dispose of the produce of her fishing.
Callum muttered something about their taking good care of themselves;
and the too great kindness of the laird not to ask rent for all they
held. It should be done soon, he could promise them.—Whenever they had a
neighbour who should follow the same occupations, Ella quietly observed,
they should be willing to pay rent for the field, and the waters, and
the peat-ground, and the kelping-shore.
“And why not sooner, if I chose to ask it?”
“Because it would answer better to us to move to some place in equal
condition, where no rent would be asked.”
“And where will you find such an one, my lass?”
Ella mounted the rock near, and pointed to one island and another and
another where situations as good as this had not yet been taken
possession of, and which the laird would be glad to see improved,
provided he received the interest of the capital he laid out. Callum
observed that she seemed to think herself very knowing, and asked where
she got all this wisdom. When he found that the matter had been talked
over and settled with the laird himself, he had nothing more to say on
that subject.
He was not more fortunate on the next topic. He asked who it was on the
Storr that was screaming like a sea-gull, and throwing his arms about as
if he was going to fly across the Sound? Ella paused a moment before she
replied that it was her brother Archibald; and then underwent a
cross-questioning about the lad, and the reasons why he had not been
introduced with the rest into Mr. Callum’s august presence. An obvious
mode of venting his spleen now presented itself. He insisted upon what
Ella did not attempt to deny, that the Storr did not come within her
boundaries, and followed this up by a prohibition to every one of the
family to set foot on the rock. Ella was now truly glad that she had
obtained the laird’s special permission for Archie to haunt the rock as
much as he pleased. Mr. Callum’s temper was not improved by learning the
fact. He did not pretend to doubt it; for, in the first place, he knew
Ella to be remarkable for strict honour; and, in the next, she seemed so
guarded on all points, that he began to think it prudent not to expose
his authority to more mortifications.
Ronald now appeared, ready to show Mr. Callum what had been done in his
department, as well as in Fergus’s. Ella cautioned her brother by a look
which he well understood, to keep his temper and restrain his tongue,
and then returned to her occupations in the cottage. Callum resumed the
subject of Archie, but could make little out of Ronald about him; for,
besides that the tender respect in which they held the poor lad made
them unwilling to speak of his peculiarities to strangers, Ronald knew
his sister’s desire to keep Archie out of Callum’s notice. He was now
rather more discreet than was necessary, and left an impression on the
steward’s mind that there was some mystery about the boy,—a mystery
which must be penetrated.
He did not accept Ella’s proffered hospitality, having already ordered
his dinner at the farm; but he sauntered down again in the evening to
see Fergus come home, and hear whether he had made a good bargain of his
peat. A fit of superstition about the fairies came upon him again when
he heard that not only was the present cargo sold among the inhabitants
of a sandy island near, but so much more was wanted, that Ronald must
borrow Murdoch’s boat, the first convenient day, and accompany Fergus in
their own in another trip to the same market. Callum laughed when Fergus
said he had taken no money, his customers not being possessed of any
coin; but he brought oatmeal, salt, and a light basket, or rather pouch,
made of birch twigs and oatstraw, for Archie to carry eggs in. He was
offered oil, but thought they had obtained enough from their fish to
last the season. Ella approved his bargain, and said that oatmeal and
salt, being both wanted, were more to her than money just now, and would
save her a voyage. So Fergus was happy, and nothing remained to be
wished but that Mr. Callum would go away. He paced the little beach as
if he was waiting for something, and at last asked impatiently when the
younger lad would come home.
“When the tide is low enough for him to cross; maybe in two hours.”
This was too long for a cross person’s patience; so the steward departed
without seeing Archie this time.
The morrow was to be a busy day,—the day of the first sale of salted
herrings. As the cask was to be carried on board the sloop, Ella wished
her brothers to go with her. She wanted their help, and also desired
that they should gain such experience in that kind of traffic as would
fit them for going without her on a future occasion: for she did not
much like the idea of boarding the vessel and making her bargain among
the sailors.
The lads embarked their cask, fitted, for the first time, the wooden key
to the wooden lock of their door, carried Archie high and dry through
the surf, and deposited him, laughing, beside his sister, and pulled
stoutly round the point in the teeth of a strong and chilling wind.
Archie was in one of his merry moods this day, which made his sister the
less unwilling to leave him with the Murdochs at the farm till evening,
which she was about to do. He laughed when the wind drove the spray in
their faces, and mimicked the creaking of the oars in their sockets as
they strained against the force of a rough sea. He made some resistance
to being landed when they reached the cove below the farm, but took his
sister’s hand and ascended the cliff with her while repeating that he
wanted to go on the sea again.
The Murdochs were good-natured people, when nothing happened to make
them otherwise, and they declared themselves delighted to see Archie,
and promised to take all possible care of him. Ella reminded them that
the only care necessary was to give him his dinner, and see that he did
not stray beyond the farm.
When the rowers got fairly out to sea, they were dismayed to find that
the sloop had disappeared during the night. There was every reason to
fear that they were a day too late for the market, and that the last
vessel to be seen that season was now sailing away from them.
“If it be,” said Ronald, “we must take a voyage to the Clyde islands, or
perhaps to Greenock; and I should not much mind that: Ella could do
without us for a few days.”
“We must prevent such a waste of time,” said Ella; “so pull away
southwards, and let us see if we cannot overtake the sloop. She cannot
have gone far with this wind. The first of you that wearies, give me the
oar.”
The boys continued their rowing in silence till Ella desired Ronald to
make for a boat some way off and hail it. He did so.
“Holla! Which way lies the Jean Campbell?”
“Gone northwards before the wind.”
Northwards! Then she could not have completed her cargo yet; “but would
she return through the same Sounds?” they asked the people in the other
boat.
“Hardly likely,” was the answer; “but there is another coming up, the
Mary of Port Glasgow. If ye clear the point, ye’ll see her with all her
sails set, unless she has stopped to take in kelp or herrings.”
Away went the boat again, and eager were the rowers to learn whether the
market was yet open to them. In half an hour they came in sight of the
Mary, not sailing before the wind as they expected; but rolling idly on
the rough sea, while boats were making towards her from various points
of the shores within sight.
When they came alongside, Ella spoke her errand; and on receiving an
encouraging answer, would willingly have sent her brothers on board to
manage their bargain, while she remained in the boat. But it was too
important an affair for them to conduct, inexperienced as they were in
traffic; and it was necessary for her to go on deck of the Mary. While
talking with the master, and observing no one else, she did not
perceive, as Ronald did, that a man on deck who looked like a passenger,
was watching her closely, and drawing nearer to listen to what she said.
Ronald placed himself beside his sister, and then the stranger looked
down into the boat where Fergus remained.
“Will you make room for me, Fergus?” he asked. “Will you take me home
with you to see your father and Archie?”
Fergus reddened all over; and when he made his reply, the stranger was
moved also.
“Your father dead!” he exclaimed. “I never heard it. Let me come to you
that you may tell me all.”
“You must ask Ella if there’s room for you,” said Fergus; “besides, I
don’t know who you are.”
“Do you ever think of one Angus that you once knew?”
“Aye, often enough, and wonder if he be dead. Why, I do believe you are
Angus, sir! Ronald, Ronald! See if this be not Angus back again.”
It was Angus; but so changed, that it was no wonder his younger friends
did not know him after five years of absence. Ella knew him at a glance,
when the sound of his name made her turn her head. She looked steadily
in his face, and asked, with a calm voice, what brought him among the
islands again?—but her cheek was pale as ashes, and her hands trembled
so that she could hardly hold the money which the impatient master was
in a hurry to pay her. Angus, as agitated as herself, made no reply to
her question, but leapt into her boat in order to assist her down. She
drew back immediately.
“Ella! you will let me go home with you. We must not part almost before
we have met. I am bound for Garveloch, and you must let me row you
home.”
“You do not know our present home, Angus. If you choose to seek us
there, you will find a welcome; but I cannot take you.”
Angus now grew pale. He turned quickly round upon Fergus,—
“Is Ella married?”
“No.”
With a light step he sprang back into the Mary, whispering to Ella as he
handed her down,
“I have much to say, and am eager to say it. For whatever reasons you
refuse to let me go with you, you cannot prevent my following. Farewell
now. You will soon see me.”
Ella turned back as she was departing to tell him that she had removed,
and to describe where she might be found. Encouraged by this
circumstance, Angus smiled, and Ella’s stern countenance relaxed.—Never
had she frowned as Angus did when he heard the seamen jesting on the
fishwoman who carried herself as high as a princess to the master. “It
is not the way of fishwomen,” quoth they, “even when they bring half a
cargo, instead of one poor cask like that.”
Angus thought to himself that she was a princess,—the princess of
fishwomen. He knew her well,—all her thoughts and all her feelings, in
former days, and he saw already that she had lost none of her dignity
under the pressure of her cares. He presently arranged with the master
to meet the Mary at a certain point among the islands, within a few
days, for the purpose of removing his luggage; and obtained a seat in a
boat whose crew engaged to set him on shore in Garveloch.
----------------------------
CHAPTER V.
A HIGHLAND NIGHT
Scarcely a word was spoken in Ella’s boat during the return. Her
brothers began to revive their recollections of Angus, of what he had
taught them, and how he played with them, and of whatever he said and
did; but observing that Ella, instead of joining in their conversation,
drew her plaid over her head and fixed her eyes on the waters, they kept
a respectful silence, and even refrained from asking a single question
on the important subject of her traffic with the master of the Mary. The
wind still rose and increased the difficulty of rowing so much, that the
lads would soon have been disposed to leave off talking, if no restraint
had been upon them. At last, Ella observed poor Fergus wiping his brows,
though the gale was chill.
“Fergus, give me the oar. I have been very thoughtless,—or, rather, over
full of thought,—or you should not have toiled for me all this time.
Take my plaid, for this breeze is wintry.”
She threw her plaid round him and gave him a slight caress as she passed
to take his place.
“Sing, Fergus,” said his brother, “it lightens the way.”
As soon as he had recovered his breath, Fergus sang an air which Angus
used to love to time for them with his oar where he took them out to sea
for pleasure, before their days of toil began. Ella joined her voice,
perhaps for the purpose of checking the tears which began to flow faster
than at any time since the night of her parent’s death. Apparently
unconscious of them, she plied her toil and her song more vigorously
when the boat neared the cove where they were to take in Archie. They
looked out for him, hoping that the song might bring him down to the
boat and prevent any loss of time in getting home. Nobody appeared,
however, but one of Murdoch’s girls, standing stock still on the ridge
of the rock. Ella signed and beckoned, and her brothers shouted for
Archie; to all which the lass made no other answer than shaking her head
like a weathercock.
“Give me my plaid,” said Ella, who instantly stepped on shore and
mounted to the farm. She could see nobody for some time, and when she
did, it was only the girl who had watched her landing.
“Where are all the family, Meg?”
“All gone, except Archie; he’s back again. Father and others are gone to
the moor for peat, and mother is milking the cows a great way off.”
“And Archie? Call him, for we must be going.”
“He can’t get out,” said Meg, grinning, and pointing to Mr. Callum’s
apartment, the shutters of which were closed. “He’s all in the dark, and
he has been flogged for stealing the laird’s birds, and I don’t know how
many eggs and feathers.”
Ella had scarcely patience to stand and hear the story. Archie, being
left to himself, had wandered home and gained his rock. Callum had
watched and followed him, and caught the poor boy with a solan goose in
his bosom, eggs in his new basket, and a bunch of feathers in his cap.
The steward had flogged Archie unmercifully with his cane, partly
unaware, it must be hoped, of the true state of the case, since he had
told the sufferer that his discipline was meant to teach him not to take
what did not belong to him. He brought him back, closed the shutters of
his apartment, pushed the boy in, and double-locked the door, telling
the children who looked on in terror that they should be served in like
manner if they attempted to speak to Archie till he should be released.
He had now been shut up three hours, and Mr. Callum was not to be back
till night. Ella shuddered when she heard that the boy had looked much
flushed when he went in, and had screamed violently till, nobody taking
notice, his cry had gradually sunk to a low moaning. She rushed to the
door and called him in her gentlest voice. No answer. She sang as she
was wont to do when he was ill; and then the moan was heard again.
“He will die unless I can get to him. I know that sound well. Run, Meg,
and tell your father Archie will die, if we do not break the door that I
may nurse him. Run for your life!—Hush! Archie, hush! I am coming, lad,
and we will let in the light again, and you shall see how the sea is
tossing. I am coming, Archie; be patient, lad.”
She flew to the cliff to beckon her brothers. In a few minutes, almost
everybody came but the one most wanted, Mr. Callum. Everybody was very
sorry of course: none more so than those who ought to have prevented
this mischief. They were willing to do anything,—to break door or window
as soon as desired. But no proper tools were at hand, and the noise
terrified Archie so extremely, that it was thought best to let things
remain as they were till Callum’s return, which could not be much longer
delayed. Ella sent her brothers home directly, afraid that she should
not be able to keep their tempers within bounds when the enemy should
present himself. She waited, pacing up and down the steep rocky path
which overlooked her own dwelling, as well as the way by which the
steward was expected to approach.
After a while, she distinctly saw her brothers standing in conversation
with a third person, beside the gate of the field. Supposing the
stranger to be Callum, she watched with the utmost anxiety, expecting
each moment to see the lads show some sign of wrath; but their gestures
were not those of anger, nor did their companion, on a closer
examination, look like the steward. At this instant a voice close behind
her made her start.
“So you are come at last, Mr. Callum,” said she. “I hope it may be in
time to prevent your committing murder. How do you propose to comfort us
if you find Archibald dead?”
“Dead! Pooh, nonsense! let me tell you, madam, I came down just in time
to prevent theft this morning. If the laird is pleased to let idle boys
play on his estate, he gives no leave for them to steal the produce. I
have not done with master Archibald yet; I mean to make a further
example of him.”
“Ye’ll be too late,” replied Ella, with a convulsed countenance. “One on
whom God himself has put the mark of innocence, one that has been ever
under the guidance of good powers,—one that has only been kept here so
long by being cherished, and no ill being suffered to come nigh him—is
not one to live under your hands, Mr. Callum; and knowing this, I kept
him out of your sight, till an evil day has laid him open to blame and
punishment. Come, sir, and see if your work is not done; and if not,
beware how you finish it!”
So saying, she strode onwards and beckoned him after her; but he stood
still. Callum shared largely in the superstitions which abound in the
islands, where the strongest and proudest minds are subdued by fears too
absurd to affect children in more enlightened places. Connecting in a
moment Archie’s peculiarities, which he had been unable to understand,
Ella’s hints of his being the favourite of unseen powers, and all that
was extraordinary in herself as she stood with flashing eyes, and a
working countenance, and her tall form trembling with some other passion
than fear, Callum resolved to be quit of her and the boy as soon as
might be; but above all things to prevent their meeting in his presence,
lest they should work some harm upon him.
“Come back, Ella,” said he, in a somewhat softer tone; “you will only do
harm by going with me. The truth is, I have sent to the laird for his
pleasure about the lad, as there happened to be a messenger going. I
shall have an answer by the morn, and then I will release your
brother,—if you stay out of my sight, not otherwise, I promise you: so
go your ways home, and trust the boy with me for the night. You well
may, for he never lay in a gentleman’s room or on a gentleman’s bed
before, I’ll be bound to say.”
All remonstrance, all entreaty was vain to alter Callum’s pretended
purpose: so Ella had recourse to a secret plan in her turn. She resolved
to steal up to the farm as soon as it should be dark, and every one gone
to rest, and to work on Mr. Callum’s fears by means which she well
understood. She now asked impatiently where the laird was. Not where she
could reach him to lodge a counter-plea, the steward answered with a
grim smile: he held that part of justice in his own hands. Ella could
learn nothing more than she already knew,—that he must be near, as his
answer would arrive by morning.
As she was going slowly down to the beach, she met Angus. “If ye have
any friendship for us,” cried she, showing her surprise only by her
raised colour, “if ye ever valued my father’s blessing, help us now;”
and she related what had just passed. Angus instantly replied that the
laird was at Oban. If so, Ella said, the messenger’s boat ought to be in
sight; and she looked intently over the troubled expanse of waters, now
heaving and tossing in an autumn gale as if they would swallow up the
scattered islands.
“One might easily miss a small bark in such a sea,” said she, “and the
gloom is settling fast. See how the mists are gathering about the Storr!
The osprey will scarce find his nest, or the bark keep clear of shoals.”
“There he is!” cried Angus. “Just below, yonder, a boat shot out from
behind the rock, and now she is labouring with the swell. She has only
two rowers. Your brothers shall go with me, and we will reach the laird
first.”
“Go, and my blessing on you,” said Ella. “Bring back justice and a word
of kindness for Archie, and I will thank you for ever.”
No time was lost; and in a few minutes the two boats were seen rowing as
close a race as ever had honour or profit for its object. Ella could not
help wondering whether the steward was watching the struggle with all
the anxiety that he deserved to feel, and all the shame of being
discovered in a falsehood. It was impossible that an answer should
return from Oban before the morning, and Callum’s having said so was a
new proof that he was frightened at what he had done.—The daylight was
now failing fast: the Argyleshire mountains lost the red tinge which had
been cast upon them from the western sky. All was gray and misty, and
when Ella fancied for a moment that her brothers’ boat had given up the
race and changed its course, she supposed that her overstrained sight
had deceived her, and retired slowly homewards to await the hour when
she might make another attempt upon the farm.
It was a dreary night. The wind swept past in gusts, and hail pattered
in hasty showers upon her shingled roof, as she sat beside her
peat-fire, striving to compose her busy thoughts. She could settle to no
employment, but looked out frequently to see if she could discover the
moon’s place in the sky, in order to form some idea of the time. At
length, believing it was near midnight, she equipped herself for her
expedition, strapping her plaid close about her, and carrying warm
clothing for the boy. While doing this, she fancied she heard a footstep
without. She paused, but supposed it could only be the rattling of the
shingle as the waves retreated; but, not being perfectly convinced, she
looked about cautiously through the darkness as she went forth, and
listened intently. Before she had gone many paces, a sudden gleam of
moonlight showed her the shadow of a man, standing up against the side
wall of the cottage. She quickly retreated, but not through fear. She
lighted a slip of pinewood and without ceremony held it up in the man’s
face. It was Callum.
“You are come to tell me that Archie is dead,” said Ella, with forced
calmness. “No wonder you linger by the way.”
“He is not dead nor likely to die if, as you say, the good powers are
fond of him. I have left him with them, for he is past my management.”
“You have carried him to the sands to be drowned,” cried Ella, snatching
hold of his cloak which was dripping wet.
“It was more likely I should be drowned than he,” said Callum, sullenly.
“He scrambled over to the rock as if he saw the fairies waiting for him,
and I found my way back as I could, but the water was up to my knees.”
“How long since?”
“Not above five minutes.”
“There is time yet,” cried Ella, hastening in for food and a bottle of
milk. While she was making her rapid preparations, Callum, who had
followed her, proceeded with his explanations that, as he could do
nothing with the boy, who would neither eat, speak, nor sleep, he
thought it best to carry him back to his haunt and let those manage him
that could; and he hoped it would be the last he should have to do with
people of her sort. A half-smile passed over Ella’s countenance; she
made no reply, but pushed a seat beside the fire, set some barley-cakes
and whisky on the table, pointed to the heap of fuel in the corner, and
was gone, drawing the door after her. Callum had feeling enough to be
stung with the reproach implied in these observances of hospitality. He
pushed the food and drink from him and sat, with his hands upon his
knees, muttering beside the fire. A thought struck him, he started up
and ran after Ella, shouting,
“Let me hold the torch, lass, while you cross, and may be I can get over
too and help to bring him home.” But Ella, who had already reached the
low sand, waved him back contemptuously, and was half through the water
before he arrived on the brink. Dashing, foaming, the tide did not look
very tempting; and having seen Ella climb the opposite ledge, wring out
her wet plaid and stride on, Callum returned, full of mortification, to
the fireside.
The torch blew out before Ella reached Archie’s hole. As soon as she
came within hearing, she tried to attract his attention by the usual
methods, but obtaining no answer, began to fear that he had been placed
in some other recess of the Storr. She groped her way in, however, and
stumbled over him near the entrance. He shrieked as she had never heard
him shriek before, and a fierce pang of indignation shot through her
heart at him who had first made this innocent being subject to fear. She
succeeded in soothing the boy; she lavished on him all the tender words
that came with her tears; she cooled his hot forehead; persuaded him to
eat, and hoping to make him forget where he was, and that anything
painful had passed, she told him tales till he fell asleep with his arms
round her neck. She had soothed herself in soothing him, and was too
well inured to cold and wet to be much affected by them; so that she too
leaned against the wall of the little cave and slept.
It was some hours after, but while the dawn was yet very faint, that
Archie roused her by starting up and running to the mouth of the cave. A
red light flickered upon his face as he stood; and his sister following,
saw a kelp fire flaming high upon the beach. The season for kelp burning
was considered over; but a glance at the boat drawn up on the shingle
and at the figures about the fire showed her what it meant. Her brothers
were already home, and finding the cottage empty, and not knowing in
what direction she was gone, had lighted this fire as the best signal
which could intimate their return without alarming Mr. Callum, to whom a
kelp fire was one of the commonest of all sights.
“See, Archie, there is Ronald feeding the fire, and Fergus stirring it.
They have made the fire to light us home.”
But Archie did not clap his hands as usual at the sight of a kelp fire,
and seemed disposed to hide himself in the cave. It was because a third
figure stood between them and the light. It was the first time he had
feared a stranger; and again Ella had to battle with her mingled
compassion and indignation. She tried the experiment whether Archie had
any recollection of Angus, of whom he had been very fond five years
before. She tempted him to a baby game which Angus used to play with
him, but which had been laid aside as Archie grew taller. “Ah! Angus,
Angus, I want Angus!” cried the boy, just as he used to do, and just as
she wished to hear him, for the first time since Angus’s departure.
“Do you want Angus? Well, there he is, standing beside Fergus. Call him
and perhaps he will hear you.”
Poor Archie tried, but he was too much exhausted to make himself heard
to any distance; nor did Ella succeed better, as the wind was against
her. For a full hour, she saw the three figures pace the beach, and look
intently in all directions before they perceived her; but at last the
fluttering of her plaid became visible to them through the grey dawn,
and they ran down to the brink of the water, which was still too deep to
be crossed on foot, though too shallow for a boat. They waved their caps
in token of having succeeded in their errand, and awaited in the utmost
impatience the sinking of the water. When the first patch of sand was
left dry, Angus plunged through, and, well knowing Ella’s heart, gave
his first attention to Archie. Ella gave him his cue: he hid his face
with his bonnet, let Archie uncover it, as in old days, and was
immediately known. Archie’s loud laugh was like music to his sister’s
anxious heart. He put his arm lovingly round the neck of his old
play-fellow, in order to his being carried home; and though feverish and
evidently in pain, showed no greater signs of dulness and depression
than on some former occasions of illness.
Ronald was impatient to tell his sister that they had found the laird by
Angus having discerned his boat off one of the islands, half way between
Garveloch and the shore. Callum’s messenger, proceeding to Oban, had
overshot his mark, and missed giving the first version of the tale which
both parties were in haste to tell. The laird had pronounced no
judgment, but would probably land on Garveloch, in a day or two, and
hear both sides of the question.
“Then,” said Ella, “thanks to your zeal, our point is gained.”
----------------------------
CHAPTER VI.
THE SCOTCH ABROAD
Angus’s zeal had indeed been equal to that of the brothers; in addition
to which his patience had been most meritorious. He waited till Archie
was safe before he said a word of his errand to Garveloch or made any
reference to his former friendship with Ella and her family. His turn to
be cared for came at last. Ella recovered her courtesy when the little
party was seated at the morning meal.
“Welcome to our board, Angus,” said she. “You will excuse our being so
late in saying the words and offering the hand of welcome.”
“Far more easily,” said Angus, grasping her offered hand in great
emotion; “far more easily, Ella, than the coldness with which you offer
it at last. If I were an utter stranger, you could not look more haughty
than you do at this moment.”
“Nay, Angus; you have yourself ordered your reception. If you have made
yourself a stranger for five long years, you cannot wonder that we look
upon you as such.”
“I have ever explained, Ella, why I could not come; and as it pleased
you to take no notice of my reasons, I left off offering them, though
not till after a longer perseverance than you would have condescended to
use.”
Reasons! How offered? By whom brought? When were they sent? These and
many more questions were asked in a hurry by the two lads, while their
sister waited in evident anxiety for an answer. It appeared that Angus
had written two or three letters before he entered into the service of
the nobleman in whose suite he had gone to America. Being there employed
in the interior, he had no longer any means of sending to Scotland, but
hoped that his former letters had proved him trustworthy; and that when
he returned to his native country, he should be able to obtain some
intimation that he would be welcome among his old friends. None such
having arrived, he now came in person to see whether he was forgotten,
or whether the family was dead and dispersed like his own, or what else
could have happened. It now appeared for the first time that Ella and
her brothers knew neither that his mother had died in Lorn, nor that he
had entered into anybody’s service, nor that he had gone to America, or
returned from abroad.
“Bless me!” cried Angus. “I do believe the fairies are in Garveloch, and
Mr. Callum in the right after all! Come, Ronald, can you tell me who is
king of England now?”
Ronald looked at Fergus, and Fergus at Ella, and Ella said she heard one
of the seamen on board the Mary swear by king George.—Aye; but which
king George? This was more than our islanders could tell; and they
reminded Angus that till they boarded the sloop for the first time, they
had not seen a strange face for years. The laird and Mr. Callum were
their only visitors, and politics had never been talked in this island
since the rebellion under the Pretender.
Angus said he could not be jealous of their ignorance about his
proceedings in Canada, if no tidings of King George ever reached
Garveloch. He looked grave, however, when he remarked that such complete
separation from the world was a serious disadvantage in their traffic.
As long as they knew nothing of the prices which their herrings and kelp
bore in the market, they were completely at the mercy of those who came
to buy of them.
“There!” cried Ronald with great delight, “I always said we should go
ourselves to Greenock instead of selling to sloops in the Sound.”
“I do not think so, Ronald. You would pay more in time and trouble than
the information would be worth. If there was anybody here who could read
a newspaper——”
Nobody within reach, but Mr. Callum, had ever learned the alphabet, and
they could not take the liberty of asking him for information, even if
he came at the right time to give it. Angus observed that there would be
an end of this difficulty if, as he hoped, he should settle in
Garveloch.—In the midst of the shouts of the lads, and the shaking of
hands caused by this hint, Angus looked down as bashfully as if he had
never crossed the Atlantic and seen the world. He evaded all inquiries
as to his plans, and seemed anxious to go back to the past.—He related
that after being for some time in the service of the nobleman under whom
he went out, he took office, at the particular request of his master,
under the surveyor and agents appointed to measure and dispose of lands
to new settlers.
“What made your master choose you for that service?”
“Many of the settlers were from our part of the kingdom, and the
surveyor and agents were English. Quarrels arose out of their different
ways of thinking and managing; and some one was wanted to mediate
between them. I am heartily glad I was chosen, for I learned a great
deal that I should never have known by other means.—It was not utter
banishment either; for I now and then met a face I knew, and could talk
with a countryman of friends at home. There was Forbes for one; you
remember Forbes, Ella?”
“What! he that was suspected of pitching a man from his boat into the
sea after a quarrel?”
“The same. He was innocent, I am convinced; but he was so weary of
having it cast up to him, that he went abroad and settled in our
district in Canada. He had two neighbours that I knew something
of,—Keith, from Dumbarton, and Canmore the drover. Many a time did we
look back together to the bare rocks and bleak moors of Scotland, while
we were buried in the thickest of forests.—At those times, we used to
wish, for the sake of all parties, that we could send you half our
trees, for we were as much troubled with having too many as you with too
few.”
“Nay,” said Fergus, “not too few. There are near a dozen birches on the
farm above; and one may see a good many alders in the hollows near where
we used to live.”
Angus laughed heartily at Fergus’s idea of a sufficiency of wood, and
explained to him the proportion of trees to an acre in a Canadian
forest.
“What can they do with them?” Ronald asked.
“Get rid of them as fast as they can; but it costs vast labour.—Forbes,
who was not driven there by poverty, and carried money, was saved the
trouble of clearing. He took a fine fertile piece of ground on the
understanding that he would have to pay the highest rent of anybody in
the neighbourhood. Canmore was the next to settle; and he liking the axe
little better than Forbes, paid a sum for having his land cleared; but
as his land was not so good as Forbes’s, he did not pay real rent for
some time.”
“Did Forbes begin paying real rent?”
“No; for there was land equally good elsewhere, which he knew he could
have for the cost of clearing and enclosing.”
“Then he paid the interest of capital laid out, as we do for this
cottage and fence, and as Canmore did when he took possession of his
land?”
“Just so. He first began to pay rent when Canmore raised corn enough to
live upon. Forbes raised five quarters over and above what his neighbour
could procure from his land; and then the agent came upon Forbes for
rent, and he was willing to pay the surplus for the use of the best
land. Then Keith arrived, with his axe in his hand, and two stout sons
by his side, and no other wealth whatever; so they paid nothing. They
cleared the land themselves, and built their own log-hut, and just
managed to raise food enough to support them in the humblest way; and
thus they were living when I arrived in their neighbourhood.”
“But why do landowners give away land in this manner?”
“They only lent it to Keith till he should have brought it into a
condition to pay rent, till which time nobody would have given anything
for it; and for this loan they paid themselves by taking rent of
Canmore. He raised three quarters more than Keith, and was willing to
pay them as rent to keep the land he held.”
“Then Canmore paid more than half as much rent as Forbes?”
“No—that would not have been fair; for Forbes’s land was as much better
than his neighbour’s as it had been before, and the difference of rent
ought therefore to be the same. Forbes now paid eight quarters.”
“That is, five for his land being better than Canmore’s, and three for
Canmore’s being better than Keith’s. Then if any body had taken worse
land than Keith’s, he would have had to pay rent for the first time, and
the rents of his neighbours would have been raised.”
“Certainly, and very fairly: for no one would take land that was not
worth cultivating, and any land which produces more than would make it
worth cultivating can pay rent.”
“Forbes’s time, then, for growing rich,” said Ronald, “was before he
paid rent at all,—when he kept all the produce himself?”
“Yes; and a good deal of profit he made. He consulted me how he might
best employ his capital, which was now double what he began with. He
looked about for more land; but there was none but what was inferior to
Keith’s.”
“If he had taken that,” said Ronald, “poor Keith must have paid rent,
and so must Forbes himself,—not for his new land, but an increased sum
for the old.”
“I advised him to lay it out rather in improving his old land. He could
not, by using double capital, make it produce doubly; but he could make
it yield more than inferior new land: but this raised his rent as much
as if he had taken in inferior land. If the new land would have produced
only three quarters, while the improvement of the old yielded five, it
was perfectly fair that he should pay the surplus two quarters for
rent.”
“Why, then, did you advise him to lay out his capital upon his old land?
Either way must have been just the same to him in point of profit, if
whatever was left over was to go to the landlord.”
“By no means. Forbes had now a lease of his superior land, so that he
could take for his own share all the difference between his present rent
and that which he would have to pay when his lease expired. He went on
growing rich, since he not only made the fair profits of his capital,
but had the benefit of all improvements till the time came for a new
lease.—He laid out more and more capital upon his land, and though each
time it brought in a smaller return in proportion, and though each would
cause his rent to be raised hereafter, he went on improving for a long
time.”
“What made him stop?”
“Finding that he would not be repaid for a further outlay.”
“What did he do with his money then?”
“He came to the surveyor and agent, and told them that the corn raised
would sell much higher if there was an easier way of getting it into a
good market. There were so few who wanted to buy corn within a
convenient distance of this little settlement, that it was sold very
cheap indeed, and was often changed away for things not half the value
it would have had in a town. Forbes thought it would be worth while to
make a good road to join a canal on which there was traffic to many
populous places. He offered to advance a part of the capital necessary,
if the agent would pay the rest. It was done, and all parties found the
advantage of it. Poor Keith began to prosper now, though he had to pay
rent, and to see it raised from time to time.”
“What! Rent raised again! Every thing seems to raise rent.”
“High prices do, as a matter of course. When the corn sold so well as to
afford the settlers a fine profit, other settlers were in a hurry to
come and grow corn, and the original cultivators improved their land
more and more, and rents rose in proportion. Those who had long leases
got up in the world rapidly, and the owners of the land were presently
much more than paid for making the road.”
“But, Angus, rent seems to rise and rise for ever!”
“It would do so, if all countries were in the state of the one I have
been describing. Wherever there is the greatest variety of soil, and the
largest demand for food, rent rises fastest. The more equal in
productiveness lands are made by improvement, and the more easy it is to
obtain supplies from other places, the slower is the rise of rent.
Forbes and Canmore were expecting to have their rents lowered when I
left them, for it was so easy to get corn in abundance that the price
had fallen very much, and would not pay for tilling some stubborn soils,
which were therefore let out of cultivation.”
“I wish you would tell the Murdochs this,” said Ella. “They want me to
think it hard of the laird to ask rent for my fishery; and they say that
the price of herrings will rise as fast as the islands pay rent.”
“The laird can have no rent unless it answers to you to pay it. You
bargain for a mutual advantage. He receives money for the use of the
land and sea belonging to him, and you have the benefit of a good
station.”
“They say that the sea ought to be as free as the air, instead of rent
being asked for it.”
“The air would be let, if there were degrees of goodness in it, and if
it could be marked out by boundaries and made a profit of like the sea
and land; and again, if all land were equally good, and all parts of all
seas and rivers equally productive, there would be no rent paid for
either the one or the other. The laird who owns all the islands within
sight, owns the sounds which divide them, as if they were so many
fishponds; and if one part yields more herrings than another, or, which
is nearly the same thing, if the herrings can be got out at less expense
of capital and toil at one point than another, it is very fair that a
bargain should be struck for the benefit of both parties, whether the
property in question be land or water.”
“Or rock either, I suppose,” said Fergus. “If we sold the feathers of
Archie’s birds, might not the laird ask rent for the Storr?”
“He would ask a yearly sum of money, which we might fairly call rent.
The birds are not produced by the rock as corn is produced by the power
of the soil; but as long as the situation is so favourable to sea fowl
as to cause a constant supply on the same spot, it may be said that it
yields rent as justly as when we say the same thing of the sea; and much
more justly than of mines.”
“I used to hear my father speak,” said Ella, “of the lead-mines in Isla,
and of the high rent they once paid.”
“Yet the mines did not produce more lead in the place of that which was
taken away, and therefore the lessees paid the proprietor merely a
certain sum for the capital they removed from his property. They bought
the lead of him, in fact, to sell again. They bought it buried in the
ground, and sold it prepared for the market. Now, Fergus, tell me what
rent is, before we begin to guess what I shall have to pay the laird, if
I settle near you.”
“What farm will you have? Where is it? How large?”
“Answer me first,” said Angus, laughing. “What is rent?”
“The money that a man pays——”
“Nay; rent may be paid in corn, or kelp, or fish, or many things besides
money. Better say _produce_.”
“Rent is the produce that remains to a man——”
“Ella is to pay rent,” interrupted Ronald, laughing.
“Well, well. Rent is the part of the produce paid to the landlord when
his tenant has made as much as his neighbours on worse land will let him
gain.”
“True, as far as your account goes; but not clear or full enough. You do
not know yet, boys, how important it is for you to understand all this
rightly before you pay rent yourselves, and even if you were never to
pay.—Come, Ronald.”
“Rent,” said Ronald, “is that portion of produce which is paid to the
landlord for the use of whatever makes corn and fish grow in the land or
water which the tenant uses.”
“Or, as we say, ‘the use of the powers of production.’ Very well; this
is what we mean by rent. Now, what does rent consist of?”
“Of whatever the richest has left over what the poorest makes of the
same quantity of land and of money laid out upon it.”
“Just so; and therefore if your kelp-ledge yields more than mine next
season, with equal pains, whatever difference there is will go to the
laird as rent. If I get the intelligence I talked of from the market,
you may make more while paying a rent, than you would ever have done
rent-free, without knowing what your prices ought to be.”
“Had Forbes and his neighbours such intelligence before they sold their
corn?”
“O yes; even before the road was made, newspapers found their way across
the country; and afterwards we had intercourse with the towns at least
once a week.”
“Then I wonder you did not stay where you were. The place seems to have
been very prosperous.”
Angus answered, half laughing, that there was another kind of
intelligence which he wanted, and could not obtain there, or any where
but in Garveloch. Ella, seeing Angus’s eyes fixed upon her, rose and
bent over Archie’s bed of heather, where the poor lad was still sleeping
soundly.
“Your sister’s wheel has never stood still all this while,” said Angus
to the lads. “She shames us for being so idle. What shall we do next?”
All bustled about upon this hint, and Ronald and Fergus made haste to
their out-door employments, supposing that Angus would accompany them.
After letting them go out, however, he softly closed the door, and
returned to Ella’s side. He found no great difficulty in removing her
feelings of displeasure at his long silence, when it was in his power to
prove that he had indeed not been silent while he could persuade himself
that he had encouragement to write. When Ella heard that he had been
working for her all these five long years; that he had supported his
hopes upon their tacit agreement when they parted; that he had returned
for her sake alone, having no other tie than the natural love of
country; when, moreover, he declared his willingness to settle in this
very place, and adopt her sisterly cares as his own; when he kissed
Archie’s forehead, and promised to cherish him as tenderly as herself,
Ella had nothing to say. She shed tears as if she had been
broken-hearted, instead of finding healing to a heart sorely wounded;
and the only thing Angus had to afflict him was the thought how much
each had suffered.
“They that have called me proud and severe,” said Ella, when she began
to return his confidence, “little knew what a humbled spirit I bore
within me, and how easily I feared I should forgive at the first word.
They little guessed, when they bid me not be so careful and troubled
about whatever happened, that all these things were like motes in the
sunbeam to me, compared with the hidden thoughts from which my real
troubles sprang. When they half laughed at me and half praised me to my
father, as being like a mother to these growing lads, they did not know
that it was because I spent on them the love I could not spend as a
wife, nor how glad I was that my cheek withered, and that years left
their marks upon me, that I might fancy myself more and more like their
mother indeed. If you see me grow young again, and be made sport of like
a girl by these tall youths,” she continued, smiling through her tears,
“you will have to answer for it, Angus. Will you take the venture? You
were ever the merry one, however, and my part was to be grave for us
both. Are we to play the same part still, to keep the brothers in
order?”
In the midst of Angus’s reply, the lads burst in, crying,
“The laird’s bark! the laird’s bark! and Mr. Callum is standing at the
landing place, with his feet almost in the water, he is so eager to have
the first word. You should have seen him waive us off with his cane.”
“He is welcome to the first word,” said Ella: “all that matters to us
is, who shall have the last.”
----------------------------
CHAPTER VII.
INNOVATIONS
“Stand back, sir!” cried the laird to Callum, as soon as the boat
brought him within speaking distance. “I always doubt the soundness of a
plea which is urged in such a hurry.”
Callum, though much dismayed, ventured to reply that his enemies had
told their tale first.
“Through no good-will of yours, Callum. I saw the race between your
messenger’s bark and theirs. It grieves my heart to find that, even in a
remote corner of the world like this, men cannot live in peace. Angus, I
am surprised to find you engaged in a contentious appeal.”
Angus replied that he was as unwilling as any one to quarrel; but that
he would never submit to see the helpless injured.
“I was thinking,” said the laird looking about him, “that he who has the
most cause for complaint is the only absent one.—Ella, where is the lad
whom Callum took upon him to chastise?”
“Archie is at home.”
“Not dead or dying, I hope?”
“He is already much recovered, and——”
“What! neither half-killed, nor even shut up in the dark? How little a
doleful story may come to when told at noonday instead of midnight!”
“Much remains to be told,” Ella quietly replied.
“Well, call the boy, and let us hear it at once.”
Ella replied that he was asleep, and that she could not awake him, even
at his honour’s bidding.
Callum ventured to observe that the old laird would not have suffered
himself to be kept from his rest at midnight, and be told the next noon
that he must wait the waking of a child. Angus replied that blame should
fall where it was due. It was he who had encouraged the lads to seek
justice, even at an unseasonable hour; and, though he knew Ella would
not wake Archie this day for the king himself, it was he who had told
her that the laird would not desire it at the peril of the boy’s health.
“You told her right, Angus; and Callum may leave the care of my own
dignity to myself. And now to business; for I see I must be judge this
morning.”
So saying, the laird proceeded up the beach. All pressed upon him such
hospitality as they had to offer; a resting-place, food, whisky;—and
some presented the primitive conveyance of their broad shoulders on
which to ascend the steep. He declined accepting any of these favours at
present, and pointed to a spot on the skirts of the moor, sheltered from
the wind by the remaining wall of a ruined hermitage, and graced and
sanctified in the eyes of the people by the stone cross of rude
workmanship which retained its place in the building. If the laird had
been internally ruffled by the occurrences which had brought him hither,
his unpleasant feelings vanished in the presence of the monumental
remains which he loved to contemplate. As soon as he had chosen for his
place a slab of grey stone under which some one lay buried, half a dozen
plaids were ready to sweep away the sand and rubbish which bestrewed it;
and the judge took his seat amidst as much deference as if it had been
the woolsack.
“Murdoch!” said the laird, “you seem to be in great trouble, and as you
are the oldest tenant, you have a right to speak first. What is the
matter?”
“More than your honour can remedy; but if ye’ll please to be merciful,
Providence may bring me through yet.”
“Well; let us hear. You cannot pay your rent, I suppose. Are we to have
that old story over again?”
“Even so, your honour. We have had such high winds lately that they have
been the ruin of me. My seed, both barley and rye, is clean blown away
with the soil; and the wall is down, and I have nobody to help me to
build it up, for the boys are both tossing in their cribs at this
moment, and the Lord only knows whether they will ever come out again
except to be laid underground.”
“This is a sad story, Murdoch.” And the laird turned to Callum to ask if
the fever was in Garveloch. Callum knew of no sickness in any other
house.
“As to your wall,” continued the laird, beginning with the least painful
part of the subject, “I feared this accident would happen one of these
days. You had not built it up, I suppose?—No!—It seems strange that,
while your fields were encumbered with stones and your wall tottering
for want of support, you should not have remedied both evils by the
simple act of building up your fence. As to the looseness of the
soil,—how did you treat it this season?”
Murdoch twirled his bonnet in his hands and looked foolish. “Did you
send in the track of the cattle to collect manure?”
“Yes,” replied Callum, “that I can testify; they collected a large heap
independent of the weed. It darkened the whole window as it lay piled up
beside the house.”
“And when was it put into its proper place,—into the ground?”
Murdoch again looked foolish, and Callum again answered for him.
“In very good time, sir. You may be sure I would not let it remain where
it might breed a fever.”
Murdoch being called on to explain why his land was in bad condition if
properly manured, owned that he had moved the dung-heap to please Mr.
Callum; but not having time to manure his fields, had stowed away the
dung in the shed next the room where the family lived.—All the farmer’s
misfortunes were now accounted for. The laird told him that he was
unwilling to add to the distress of a man in misfortune, but reminded
him how frequently he had been warned that he must quit his farm if his
own bad management prevented his having his rent ready.
“I will give you one more chance,” he continued. “I will provide you
with seed (it is not yet too late) on condition that you employ at your
own cost such labour on your farm as shall bring it into as good
condition as when you took it. You shall not be asked for rent till you
have reaped your next crop; and then you may pay it in kind or in money
as you like best. This is the utmost indulgence I can allow you, and it
is enough; for, if you manage well, you may easily pay for the necessary
labour and make up your rent too.”
Murdoch did not know, he said, how he was to hire labour; it was the
dearest thing that could be had in Garveloch.—This would have been true
a few days before, but it was not the case now. It occurred to Angus
that he might so recommend himself to the laird by the management of
Murdoch’s farm as to obtain employment for himself on advantageous terms
the next year. The laird knew a great deal about Angus, and respected
his general character very highly, but was not acquainted with his
capabilities as a man of business; and the young man rightly believed
that if he could testify his skill and industry, he might secure a
comfortable settlement under the laird. He offered his services to
Murdoch for more moderate wages than would have been asked by any other
man within reach, and they were of course gladly accepted. When the
laird had declared his intention of sending for medicine and advice for
the two boys, Murdoch’s affairs were settled for the present.
Ella next approached to request permission to pay her half-year’s dues
into the laird’s own hands. He smiled, and said she need pay only once a
year, and might keep her money till Midsummer; but he frowned when she
answered that she had rather deal directly with himself, if he would
allow it, and take the opportunity while he was at hand, as the money
was ready. He declared his displeasure at all quarrels between his
steward and his tenants, and was not slow in laying blame on both
parties. His decision, when he heard the whole story, was far from
satisfactory to anybody. He secured good treatment to Archie indeed, and
full liberty to do as he liked, but Archie’s family thought him much too
lenient towards Mr. Callum. Callum was still less pleased to find that
he had been in the wrong from first to last.
Angus, to prevent a further outbreak of ill-humour, hastened to bring
forward his plea. It was of a nature to please the laird. He complained
of the absence of intercourse between the islanders and the people on
the mainland, and pointed out the evils arising thence to all parties:
the deficiency of some articles of production, and the impossibility of
disposing of the surplus of others; the disadvantage caused to the
islanders, whether they bought or sold, by their ignorance of market
prices, and the difficulties in the way of social improvement occasioned
by such seclusion. He had strong in his mind other difficulties and
other woes which had arisen out of this absence of communication; but as
he kept these to himself, they only served to animate his eloquence when
speaking of mere matters of business.
“What you say is very true,” observed the laird. “You have here more
peat than you can use, while in some of the neighbouring islands, the
people are half frozen in winter for want of fuel: and Callum tells me
that Murdoch’s harvest having failed last year, two or three families
were obliged to subsist on shell fish for nearly two months, till the
men were too weak to work, and several children might have died if
Callum had not come his rounds earlier, so as to send for potatoes just
in time to save them. He tells me too that the kelp manufacture is mere
child’s play compared with what it might be made, if a fair market were
opened.”
“I wish your honour would be pleased to step down to the shore yonder
and see what might be made of the kelping,” said Ronald.
“I will, presently. But, Angus, why does nobody make the voyage to Oban?
Who prevents it?”
Angus supposed that nobody was sufficiently aware of the advantage: the
passage, too, was a dangerous one for the island boats, which were, in
his humble opinion, quite unfit for such heavy seas, especially if they
had cargoes to take.
“Then why not have a proper vessel, Angus? If it went at regular times
to and from Oban, and if, moreover, it touched at some of the
neighbouring islands so as to discharge their errands likewise, it might
surely be made to answer to any one who would undertake the speculation.
Why do not you try?”
Angus was strongly disposed to make the attempt, if he could be
guaranteed from loss; but it would not do to venture his little capital
in the purchase of a boat, unless he were pretty secure that it would
not be laid by after a few trips. The laird was willing to enter into
the proposed guarantee, so assured was he that the interest of the
islanders would induce them to keep up the communication if it was once
begun. After some consultation, it was agreed that the new boat should
be started the next summer, as soon as Angus should have concluded his
engagement with the farmer, and before the fishing and kelping seasons
began. It was to make the circuit of the island on a particular day of
the week, and to touch wherever custom was likely to be obtained within
a reasonable distance. The sale of produce might either be conducted by
Angus, or its owners might cross with him and manage their business
themselves, as they chose; and the laird engaged that a newspaper should
be regularly forwarded to Oban, which should contain the commercial
information most useful to its tenants.
“You look very grave, Ella,” said the laird, when this matter was
settled. “You are thinking that this new plan will bring neighbours
around you and oblige you to pay rent?”
“No doubt it will, your honour; but I am not afraid. Prices must rise
before that comes to pass; and if prices rise, I can afford to pay
rent.”
It was a very different consideration which made Ella look grave. She
was thinking of the summer storms that sweep the sound, and of the
perils of the boisterous sea which lay between Garveloch and Oban. She
fancied what the anxiety would be of pacing the shore or breasting the
wind on the heights as midnight came on, to watch long and in vain for
her husband’s return; or to see his boat pitching or driving on the
waves, or half swallowed up by them. She shook off these selfish fears,
however, and listened to what the laird was saying to her brothers. He
was warning them to make the most of their tenure while they had the
whole produce to themselves, and not to be in too great a hurry to sell.
It might be an important advantage to them to store their produce till a
favourable time for selling; viz. in the interval between a rise of
prices and the establishment of a rent upon their ground. He ended by
proposing to view Ronald’s line of shore.
Ronald pointed out that, as the sea-weed was to be cut only once in
three years, and as it had never yet been made use of in this place, he
must profit by this first season at the expense of all the labour that
could be spared. He and his brother and sister now gave their chief
attention to it, gathering with great care whatever unbruised sea-weed
of the right kind was thrown on shore, and cutting diligently at
low-water whenever the sea was sufficiently calm to allow of the weed
being properly landed when the tide came in. The hair rope, twisted by
Ella, was now brought into use. It was laid at low-water beyond the
portion cut, the two ends being brought up and fastened on the shore;
and when the whole floated at high-water, the ends were drawn in, and
all the weed they enclosed was landed at once. Ronald pointed out
several inlets where the weed grew plentifully, sheltered from the
surge, and remarked on the advantage of a gradual slope of the shore
both for cutting and landing the weed, and for drying it when landed. He
showed the situation he had chosen for his fire, and the nook in which
he meant to stack the weed as it became dry. The laird, having a mind to
discover how much the lad knew about his business beyond the mere
preparation of the article, asked him a few questions.
“Would it not answer to you, Ronald, to give up some of this large crop
to your sister’s land for manure?”
“If there was no other manure to be had: but there is plenty of weed
thrown on shore after a storm, good enough to lay upon land, but too
much bruised to serve for kelp. At present, at least, we have enough for
both purposes.”
“Whenever your crop becomes scanty, will you give over kelping, or let
the land lie fallow?”
“We must take care of the land in the first place, I suppose, because we
are sure of making something by that; but the price of kelp rises and
falls so often, that we can never tell what we shall make by it. Angus
says, that if more barilla is brought to London from abroad than usual,
we may find any day that a cask may sell for next to nothing.”
“But if very little barilla comes from abroad, it may sell very high.”
“Yes, sir: but we should not know that till the time came for selling,
and it would not do to neglect the land in the meanwhile, so little else
as we have to depend on. Ella is welcome to help herself out of my
stack, as often as the land wants it; but that is not the case just
now.”
“How many tons of weed must you have to make a ton of kelp?”
Ronald smiled at the idea of his dealing with so large a quantity as a
ton. They that made for the laird, he said, reckoned that twenty-four
tons, properly dried, made a ton of kelp; and this might sell for any
sum between 7_l._ and 20_l._ according to the state of the market. It
was not for him to think of ever making a sum like the lowest of these
in one season: but he did think it would be possible, whenever he should
have the advantage of knowing how to deal direct with Greenock, to make
so much as to be able to improve the moorland on which the pony was now
grazing. If he could see that ground turned into a barley field, he
thought he should have nothing more to wish.
“Surely,” said the laird, “there must be much waste in the burning in
such a hole as this;—merely a pit, dug in the sand and lined with
stones. It would not be difficult to make a kiln, and Fergus could
furnish you with peat, if he has enough to spare to sell, as I am told
he has; could not you make a saving in this way?”
“We might in one respect, your honour; but we should lose more in
another. As it is, the weed is its own fuel entirely; in the other way
we should be at the expense of peat, you see.”
“It would have been well if some greater kelp-burners had seen this as
clearly as you do, Ronald; and then they would have been saved the
expense of building kilns which they cannot afford to use. But one great
evil is got rid of by the use of kilns.”
“Your honour means the smell: but a little care may prevent that being a
great evil to any but those who tend the fire, and they get used to
it.—When we lived northwards, we always had three places at least where
we might burn, according as the wind was; and if it so happened that the
smoke would blow towards the cottage, Ella used to take Archie, and
sometimes my father, to a place in the rocks where they might sleep in
their plaids.”
“And no great evil,” said Ella, “in summer nights when the red twilight
gleamed on the peaks till midnight. I shall do it again when the wind is
perverse, and the kelping must go on. The worst of it is that Archie
loves sleep no better than I on such nights.”
“Is he frightened at being away from home?”
“O, no: but he watches the fires till they smoulder. If it is calm for a
few minutes, so that the tall flame can shoot up from among the smoke,
you might think you saw that very flame in his eyes.”
“He is ever on the watch for such fires,” said Fergus. “It was but
lately that he pointed to the northern lights one clear evening, and
told me that kelping time was come again over the sea.”
“Why do you not carry him somewhere out of sight of the fires?” asked
the laird. “Does he know the purpose of the removal too well to be
satisfied?”
“He does, your honour: and, more than that, he must not be crossed in
his love of what is beautiful to the eyes that God gave him. God has
given him pleasures of his own, and he shall never be stinted in them by
me.”
Ella would not have spoken of Archie if Mr. Callum had been present.
Finding himself not wanted on the shore, he had gone up to the farm to
inspect the condition of the family; and now returned to say that the
boys were so ill of the fever, that he strongly advised the laird not to
enter their dwelling. Ella had, therefore, the honour of entertaining
her landlord, which she did as courteously as any mistress of castle and
park could have done. She formally invited Mr. Callum also, but he
abruptly excused himself, and hastened away.
Archie was still asleep when they returned to the cottage. As the laird
stood over him, and observed his flushed face, he offered that the
doctor, whom he should immediately send, should examine Archie before he
proceeded to the farm; but this Ella declined.
“He wants rest and soothing,” said she, “and that no strange face should
cross him till he has forgotten the last night. There is nothing that
gives ease so well as sleep like his; and there are none that can soothe
him like myself, if I may say so; and no man shall so much as stroke his
head these many days.”
In her heart she added, “Unless it be Angus.”
The laird had no opportunity of showing that he took her hint, for the
time arrived for his departure before Archie awoke.
----------------------------
CHAPTER VIII.
SECLUSION NOT PEACE
Murdoch’s day of adversity—a day long anticipated by his landlord—was
come at last. The fever ran through the family; one of the boys died,
and Murdoch himself and his daughter Meg had the greatest difficulty in
struggling through. No use had been made of years of tolerable health
and prosperity, to store up any resources against a change of times.
Murdoch had neither money, food, nor clothes laid by; the most he ever
aimed at was to reproduce his capital; if he did more, the surplus was
immediately spent; if less, no exertion was made to restore the balance,
and he therefore grew gradually poorer. He had already let some of his
land out of cultivation, and got his rent lowered in consequence, with
due warning, however, that, if the estate was let down any further, he
must give up his farm to a better tenant. This winter of illness having
consumed more of his little capital, he must have given up at once, if
it had not been for Angus’s care, skill, and industry. The utmost that
all those qualities could do, was to keep up the place in its present
extent. It was in vain to think of reclaiming what had become wild, of
increasing the stock, or of making any new arrangements of land or
buildings; and whatever was effected would not have sufficed to pay the
rent and recompense Angus, if the establishment of a communication with
a market, and a consequent rise of prices, had not been in prospect.
Angus built up the fence, manured the ground, and sowed it with the
laird’s seed, and then spent the months of winter in bringing the place
into such repair as might enable him to proceed to further operations
upon the soil in spring.
When Murdoch was so far recovered as to go abroad and see what had been
done, he quarrelled with everything he beheld. This was partly from the
fretfulness of sickness, but much more from jealousy of Angus. He felt,
but would not own, a considerable surprise at the extent of the repairs,
well knowing that there was no money of his with which to carry them on.
He affected to be angry at the extravagance, saying that he had always
wished to see his place in good condition, but had never thought it
right to afford such an outlay; and that they who took upon them to make
it might pay the rent. Angus good humouredly explained that one part
helped another; the stones of the field to build up the wall, the weeds
of the shore to manure the soil, the turf of the bog to cover the
cow-shed, and so on.
“And pray, how is all to be paid at last,—the laird, and you, and
everybody?”
“Out of the crops, if at all.”
“Ye may well say, ‘if at all.’ The crops never did more than just
discharge the rent yet; and here’s the funeral, and you, and the doctor,
to pay besides.”
“Your barley and oats will sell higher at Oban, or in yon islands, than
the price you have reckoned it at with Mr. Callum. When you go with me
to sell your crops, or let me sell them for you——”
“You shall never do that, Mr. Angus.”
“As you please, neighbour. As I was saying, it will come to the same
thing, if Mr. Callum, knowing you can get a higher price than formerly,
takes less for your rent: I shall, of course, be willing to receive my
wages in kind, at the same rate; and I hope you may find yourself clear,
neighbour, before the next season begins. One ought not to expect more—”
Murdoch laughed bitterly, choosing to suppose that Angus was mocking
him. Angus went on,
“Now that you are out of doors again, and have a prospect of being able
to work before long, our business will go on faster and more cheerily,
and——”
“Cease your mocking!” cried Murdoch, angrily. “You talk to me of work,
and I have no more strength than Rob there, when he creeps out into the
sunshine like a field-mouse in March, and slinks back again, at the
first breath of wind, like a scarce-fledged sea-fowl.”
“I see you are tired, even now,” said Angus, offering him his shoulder
to lean upon. “You had better sit on the bench, instead of standing to
fatigue yourself; but, as I was saying, it is a great thing to have got
out at all, and the power to work will come in time, and then all may go
as well as ever with your farm.”
Murdoch was in no humour to believe this; he tottered without assistance
to a seat, and sat watching with many bitter feelings the exertions of
Angus, to whom he owed thanks instead of jealousy for the activity of
his labour. An idle and unjust suspicion had entered his mind, and never
afterwards quitted it.
“He wants to supplant me,” he said to himself. “He plies his spade with
as much pleasure as if he was setting his foot on my neck at every
stroke. He wants to have the rent fall short that he may get the farm
himself, and that is why he tries to flatter me that there will be
enough to pay every body; that is why he talks so humbly and smoothly
about his own wages; that is why his goods are all brought here and
stored in Ella’s cottage instead of being landed in Lorn, where all his
kin used to live. O aye, he thinks to settle here. But if I cannot keep
my farm, that is no reason why he should have it; and Mr. Callum is
against him, which is a good thing. I have long meant to give up, and I
will do it now, unknown to him, that Callum may let the farm to somebody
else over his head. I’ll be beforehand with him; and as for what I am to
do myself, it will go hard if I cannot get my living by fishing if a
woman like Ella can.”
This scheme was no whim of the moment. Murdoch had turned it over in his
mind as he lay in the fever, irritated by confinement to which he was
little accustomed, harassed by grief, and ready to look on the dark side
of every thing. While recovering, he had softened towards Angus, and
been sorry for the harsh thoughts he had entertained of him; but
mortified vanity now recalled his jealousy, and he was ready, for the
sake of baffling the suspected designs of a supposed enemy, to take a
precipitate step which might ruin his family. He now determined to probe
the intentions of Angus, and himself played the traitor in trying to
discover treachery which did not exist.
“I wonder how,” said he, the next time Angus came within hearing, “I
wonder how you would set about the management of this place,—so well as
you think of it,—if you were the tenant.”
“The first thing I should do,” said Angus, looking up into the sky and
watching a black speck which was wheeling just beneath the fleecy
clouds, “would be to get at yon eagle that does so much mischief among
the fowls. I think the eyrie might be easily found, and should be if you
were strong enough to fasten the rope.”
Murdoch answered impatiently, supposing that Angus wished to evade his
question; “I am not asking you about the fowls, man. I want to know what
you would do with the land if you had a long lease of it?”
“I would spend all the capital I have upon it and get more as soon as I
could, and improve the powers of the soil to the utmost, for I am sure
it would repay me; at least if a market was opened.”
“Aye, that would be very well if you had a long lease; but if it was a
short one?”
“I should still do the same. I would keep the whole in complete repair,
and try to remedy the lightness of the soil; and when I had got one good
crop, I would apply the profit to taking in again the land that has been
let out of tillage, and——”
“That is, you would do exactly as you are doing now till you could get
power to do more.”
“Exactly so.”
“What a fool he takes me for!” said Murdoch to himself. “He does not
trouble himself to use any deceit.—But, Angus, you forget that your rent
would be raised presently, and would take away all your profit. You see
mine has been lowered since I let yon fields out of tillage.”
“And have your profits increased again? Rent follows prices instead of
leading them. Your rent was lowered _in consequence_ of your losing, and
mine would be raised in consequence of my gaining; so that I should have
clear gain at first as you had clear loss.”
“Hold your tongue about my losses!” cried Murdoch, in a greater passion
than ever.
“I beg your pardon, neighbour,” said Angus, “I forgot for the moment
that you were not well yet, and I was led on by what you were saying
about rent. To put you in heart again, then—when I was standing looking
abroad from yonder crag, I thought what a fine thing might be made of
this farm, when once a means of conveyance is set up.”
“I dare say ye did,” muttered Murdoch.
“I saw far off on the north shore, grown men and women as well as
children picking up shell-fish, and I thought how glad they would be to
barter for oatmeal or barley if a boat touched regularly with supplies.
I looked into all the deep dells, and not a patch of tillage did I see
over the whole island but here, and Ella’s single field. I saw the few
lean cattle on the moorland there, and thought that if the pasture was
improved as it might be, what a fine thing it would be for us all to be
supplied with meat. Then the sea towards Oban looked quite tempting, for
it was as blue as in summer, and the islands as fair as they seemed when
I was a boy, and every rock so well known to me, above or below the
water.”
“Well; what has all this to do with my farm?”
“Why, that I longed to be taking my first trip; going with my vessel
heaving slowly over the swell, heavily laden with all our produce, and
then coming back dancing over the billows as if it was no more than a
skiff, and with little other weight to carry than myself and the
winnings in my pocket.”
“And you would wish me joy and long life in my farm when you brought me
my money, I suppose?”
“To be sure I should: as I do now, and ever have done. Murdoch!” he
continued after a pause, “I cannot let you think me such a fool as not
to discern that you have some jealousy against me. I have seen enough of
the world to know what is meant by such a smile and speech as yours at
this moment. Don’t let us have any quarrel, for I know you cannot bear
it just now; but do keep in mind that I like plain speaking, and would
rather know at once when I have offended you.”
Murdoch waived him away contemptuously with his staff, calling his wife
to come and hear the news that Angus loved plain speaking. She joined in
the laugh, and the invalid Meg came creeping forth from the corner of
the hearth, braving the open air for the sake of witnessing the
quarrel,—a frequent amusement of highland women. Angus meanwhile was
wondering what all this could mean, but was little more tempted to be
angry with Murdoch in his present state than he would have been with a
cross child. Presently it occurred to him that they might be offended at
his never having alluded to his prospect of marrying Ella, they being
relations of her’s though very distant ones.
“You mean, neighbours,” said he, “that you would have liked me to be
more open about my future plans.”—Here they exchanged glances.—“But I
left them to be told by the one, from whom you had a better title to
hear them.”
“So he has spoken to Callum already,” thought Murdoch, “and has the art
to be beforehand with me after all.”
“If you had heard all from that one, or by some accident before you
learned it from me, you ought not to blame me, for you could hardly
expect me to be the first to mention it.”
“It would not have been delicate, I warrant, Mr. Angus.”
“I think not, considering how the parties stand to each other: but I am
sure if I had thought you would have taken offence, I would have told
you long ago.”
“And pray how long has it all been settled?”
“Since the autumn.”
“From the very time you landed?”
“From the very day after.”—Looks more fierce than ever.
“And pray how was your proposal received?”
“Nay,” cried Angus, now angry in his turn, “you push me too far. I have
been meek enough while your questions and your sneers regarded only
myself. I shall not satisfy your curiosity further, and I am sorry I
have borne so much. You may well laugh at delicacy, for you do not know
what it is.”
So saying he took a rope with him and went out to war against the eagle,
intending to ask Fergus to accompany him with his gun and to remain out
the whole day as the best means of avoiding deadly feuds. He left the
Murdochs wondering that, after bearing quietly so much reproach and
contempt, he should fly off at last through delicacy to Mr. Callum.
Never was misunderstanding more complete.
Ella was in the field when Angus appeared on the height. She saw by his
step that something had ruffled him, and she hastened towards him to
know what had happened. His first words were,—
“Where is Fergus? can he go with me eagle-nesting?”
“How happens it that you have time for sport?” replied Ella. “I thought
the season would be too short for your tasks at the farm.”
“Our poultry suffers,” replied Angus. “We must demolish the eyrie.”
“That is not your only reason, I am sure. Tell me what has happened.—The
laird says rightly that neighbours who ought to be the more friendly
because they are few, are often the first to quarrel; but you would not
quarrel, especially with the Murdochs, and less than ever now?”
“I would not willingly. I tried all I could. But, Ella, when did you
tell them of our plans?”
“Never,” said Ella, colouring; “nor did I mean it till summer.”
“Somebody has told, however.”
“Impossible; nobody knows it but the two boys; and they might be trusted
as if they were dumb.”
Angus explained, and both conjectured, and the two lads passed their
word that they had never told. There was no catching the little bird
that had carried the matter; so the two sportsmen set out in chase of
the great bird which was their further aim.
“O, Angus,” said Ella; “are ye certain your eye is as steady and your
foot as sure as when this was your daily sport?”
“Fear nothing,” said Angus, smiling. “I long to be dangling over the
surf again, with the sea fowl flapping and screaming about me, and I
feeling myself lord, like a lion in a wood of chattering monkeys. You
see we take heed to stake and rope, and that done, all is safe. I will
bring you home an egg that shall beat all that Archie ever gave you.”
“I am glad your sport will be out of his sight, or he would be wanting
to imitate you. Do you know, we have had to give him a cask to stow his
goods in, as we pack our herrings and the kelp. Ronald has carried it
over to the Storr and put it under a ledge where it cannot get wet, and
Archie is busy filling it to-day.”
“He learns to imitate more and more.”
“He does; and so haste away lest he should come and find out what that
rope is for. O, be back before the dusk, lest I should doubt your care
for Ronald and me.”
“I will remember Ronald,” said Fergus, laughing as he shouldered his
gun—“I leave the rest to Angus.”
Angus found that his favourite sport had lost none of its charms for
having been long unpractised. He forgot his wrath when he found himself
alone with Fergus in the wild region which the sea-eagles had chosen for
their abode. He loved it all the better for having beheld other scenes
of sublimity with which he could contrast it. While climbing steep rocky
paths, or springing from one point to another where there was no path at
all, while looking round in vain for traces of any but marine
vegetation, and casting a glance over an expanse which appeared to have
no boundary, he related to Fergus what he had seen in the forests of
Canada: how the grass and underwood grow tangled and high, so as to make
it difficult to proceed a step; how the trees prevent any thing being
seen beyond the stems around; and how, by climbing the highest, no other
view can be obtained than closewoven tree-tops spreading, apparently so
firm that you might walk over them, as far as the horizon.
“Hist!” said Fergus. “There he sits! his mate is just below on the nest,
no doubt. Shall I fire, or wait till he soars?”
“Wait!” said Angus; and he paused to watch the majestic bird, perched on
the extreme edge of a jutting crag, and apparently looking abroad for
prey. He was motionless, his dusky wings being folded, his black shining
talons clasping the verge of the rock, and his large brilliant eye
seeming fixed on some object too remote to be distinguishable by human
sight. Fergus was going to speak again, but his companion stopped him,
only allowing him to intimate by describing a hook, bending his fingers
and shuddering, how he pitied the prey that was even now fated to perish
under such a beak and talons. Surprised that they were unperceived, and
wishing to remain so, Angus pulled his companion back under the brow of
the crag to await the departure of the monarch of this solitude.
Presently they heard a rushing sound,—whether from a blast among the
crags or from the flight of the eagle, they did not for a moment know;
but they immediately saw him soaring high and abroad with that peculiar
mode of flight which shows that the eagle is not winging his way
homewards, but that there is prey beneath. His cry was distinctly heard,
even when he was scarcely visible, and it was answered by one so near
them that they both started.
“Now, now,” said Angus, “while he is afar, up, Fergus, and fix the
stake! Is your gun loaded? You must shoot her as she hovers, while I
take the egg.”
“Wait one moment,” cried Fergus. “He will drop this instant. There,
there! see him pounce! He drops plump as if he was made of lead. It is
but an instant since he was almost too high and the surge too low to be
heard, and now he is like a speck among the foam below.”
With all speed, the stake was made fast, the rope secured at one end to
this support, and at the other round Angus’s waist. When the knots had
been tried and found to be firm, the sportsmen raised a shrill cry to
alarm the mate, and the one prepared to take aim and the other to
descend as soon as she should rise. In the midst of the din she rushed
forth, was immediately struck beneath the wing, and fell fluttering,
tumbling, and screaming, from one point to another of the rocks,
mingling her dying cry with the distant echoes of the shot. Angus was by
this time scrambling to find the nest, sometimes dangling at the end of
the rope and buffeted by the sudden gales as they passed, sometimes
finding a step for the foot and a hold for the hand, and a resting place
where he could pause for an instant. When he discovered the nest, his
heart almost smote him for thus taking by storm the palace of the king
of the birds; till the sight of scattered feathers and of a few bones
reconciled him to the destruction of the formidable enemies of the
farm-yard. The large egg was yet warm. Angus put it in his pouch, sent
the stray feathers down the wind, cleared out the hole completely, so as
to leave no temptation to the enemy to return, and then ascended.
“You have been quick,” observed Fergus, “yet there he is, just below yon
cloud, and with a prey in his talons.”
“One can make more speed with an eagle’s nest than with a gannet’s,”
replied Angus. “One is not dizzied with the flapping of more wings than
one can count, or stunned with the din of more cries than one’s brain
will easily bear. Yonder bird is truly the monarch of the wild now. I
could pity him, but for the thought of our fowls.”
“If I were he,” said Fergus, “I would finish my lonely meal, and away to
find another mate.”
“So would not I,” said Angus; “as long as my dead mate lay below, I
would sit all day and watch; and when the tides sweep her bones away, I
would build again in the same nook for her sake.”
“But do not you mean to carry her home?” asked Fergus. “She lies within
reach from the shore. Let us go back that way.”
“With all my heart, and as we have time, we may as well make a circuit
by the bog, and send a shot each among the wild fowl. Perhaps Murdoch
may thank me for bringing such game when he has forgotten my offences.”
“If he does not thank you,” said Fergus, “I know somebody else who
will.”
The bird they had shot was in the agonies of death when they arrived
where she lay. Her claws were rigid, a film was over her piercing eye; a
faint gasping through the open beak, and a feeble fluttering of the
extended wings as she lay on her back, were the only signs of life.
Angus put her out of pain, slung her over his shoulder, and proceeded to
his sport where sport never fails,—among the pools where wild-fowl
collect.
No alarm was excited by their appearance on the margin of the reedy pool
where the fowl were diving, splashing, sailing or brooding, as suited
their several inclinations. They seemed as tame as farm-yard ducks and
geese, and were, indeed, little more accustomed to the report of a gun
than they: for Fergus had seldom time for sport, and no one in Garveloch
but himself and his brother ever fired a shot. He now offered his gun to
Angus.
“You disdain such game after having brought down an eagle,” said Angus,
laughing. “All in their turns say I; so now for it.” And another moment
made prodigious havoc and bustle among the fowl. As the smoke was wafted
from over the pool and slowly dispersed, what a flitting and skimming
and huddling together was there on the surface and in the inlets; what a
cluttering and cackling of the living, what a feeble cry from the dying,
while the dead floated in the eddy made by their terrified companions!
“Two, four, five at the first shot! Well done, Angus! If the bird-king
be still watching us, what murderous wretches he will think us!”
“He will revenge his species, perhaps, when the darkness, that is a
thick curtain to us, is only a transparent veil to him. He can carry off
a kid or a fowl at midnight as well as when he has been staring at the
sun. But I hope he will go and seek society, for we have no more prey to
spare him. Come, take your aim, and then let us be gone, for the shadows
are settling down in the hollows, and we have a difficult way to make
homewards.”
Ella was watching for them; not that they were late, but she had new
perplexities to relate. She had been up to the farm to try to
re-establish a good understanding; for which purpose she made a greater
effort and was more ready with concessions than she would have been if
the family had been well and prosperous. On explaining to them the
reasons why she had not communicated her intended connexion with Angus,
she was surprised, and scarcely knew whether or not to be vexed, to find
that they had no suspicion of the matter. The interview threw no light
whatever on the cause of offence; and Ella came away understanding
nothing more than that they seemed to think themselves injured, and had
refused to let Angus set foot on their premises again till they should
have seen Mr. Callum.
The affair was, of course, more mysterious than ever to Angus, who,
however, was less troubled at it than his betrothed.
“I will work for you and Ronald instead, till Mr. Callum comes, or till
my boat is ready for her first trip. You will neither of you pay me with
abuse, and turn me out as if I had robbed you.”
“We shall not be made fretful by illness, I trust.”
“True; thank you, for putting me in mind of that. I will nourish no
anger, and will go at once if they send for me. If they do, I hope it
will be while my game is good. I shall be all the better received if I
carry a handful of wild ducks, which invalids like better than smoked
geese that eat as tough as theirs. I wish they would learn from you,
Ella, how to cure their geese,—and many other things.”
----------------------------
CHAPTER IX.
A FOOL’S ERRAND.
The wild ducks were still fresh when Angus was sent for, as it so
happened that Murdoch’s wife came within an hour to say that the cattle
were in the rye-field, (Murdoch having left the gate open,) and it was
beyond the feeble strength of any of the household to drive them out.
Angus goodnaturedly refrained from any reference to what had passed,
returned, and saw the mischief the farmer’s carelessness had done, and
made no complaint thereof, but took his seat as usual beside the hearth,
and amused the invalids with an account of his day’s adventures. The
farmer being, for some time after this, as irritable as ever, Angus
avoided all mention of their quarrel, the cause of which, therefore,
remained as great a mystery as ever. Murdoch saw no mystery in it, so
prepossessed was he with the idea that his assistant meant to turn him
out and triumph over him; and he founded all his arrangements on this
notion. His jealousy was ever on the watch, and he felt he should have
no rest till he could see Mr. Callum, give up his farm on condition that
Angus should not have it, and obtain a promise of a cottage where he and
his family might live by plying their boat and nets. When Angus returned
from the field, one chill, dreary evening, he found Murdoch at the door,
looking out for him.
“Where have ye been so late, Angus? It has been nearly dark this hour,
and a killing fog.”
“I kept to my work to the last minute, neighbour, that’s all. I had a
particular reason for working hard to-day——”
“Aye, and every day, I think,” interrupted Murdoch. “Only remember that
this desperate hard work is no desire of mine, and it is not to come
into your wages.”
“Well, well, but you will not let one speak,” replied Angus, smiling. “I
was going to say that I have been working for to-day and to-morrow, too,
as I shall be on the sea the greater part of the day. Mr. Callum is in
Scarba, and as I want to see him, I must be off early in the morning;
and if I should not find him directly, I may not be back till night.”
“Mr. Callum landed in Scarba! Who told you?”
Angus pointed to the end of his telescope, which peeped out of his
bosom. Murdoch peevishly observed, that Angus seemed to see and hear
more than anybody in all the range of the islands.
“Very likely, as to the seeing,” replied Angus, “for there is not such
another glass as this in all the islands, I fancy. I thank my old
friend, the surveyor, for it every time I use it,—that is, every day of
my life.”
“What do you want with Mr. Callum?” asked Murdoch, abruptly.
“What matters it to you?” answered Angus, looking steadily at him. “I
take your wages for doing your work, but I am not answerable to you for
my private affairs.”
“O, certainly; I only asked because I must go with you to-morrow. I want
to see Mr. Callum, too.”
“Surely,” said Angus kindly, “you are not strong enough for the sea yet;
and besides, Mr. Callum may not be near the shore, and there may be
miles to walk to overtake him. Let me do your business when I do my
own.”
Murdoch laughed scornfully at this proposal, and yet more, when Angus
offered to persuade Mr. Callum to come to Garveloch. The farmer was bent
on making the attempt, and was not deterred by the dreary weather of the
next morning.
They landed in Scarba before they supposed that Mr. Callum would have
left his bed, but found that he intended to embark early from the
opposite side of the island, after having slept in the interior, and
that if they wished to reach him, they must take horse, and proceed as
fast as possible. There was but one horse to be had; and Murdoch, weary
as he already was, would not lose sight of Angus for an instant. He
insisted on mounting behind him, and thus, they set off. The roughness
of the roads, and of the horse’s pace, irritated Murdoch, as every
untoward circumstance, however trifling, was apt to do at present. From
being sullen, he became rude, surly, and passionate, till Angus began to
consider what mode of treatment would bring his companion to his senses.
“Take heed how you ride, I say, Angus. If you can bear jogging to
pieces, I can’t.”
“The road is terribly rough indeed, neighbour; but we shall find an even
reach when we have turned yon point.”
“Even! do you call this even?” cried Murdoch at the end of a quarter of
an hour, when they began to descend a steep.
“I did not answer for more than the reach we have passed, neighbour;
and, what is more, neither that nor this was of my making.”
“But it was of your choosing; and never tell me that there is no better
road than this across Scarba. You chose it to revenge yourself on me
because you could not make me stay behind.”
“You’re mistaken, neighbour.”
“Mistaken! I mistaken! Stop the horse, Angus; stop him this minute! I
won’t ride another step with you.”
“Do you mean that you wish to be set down?” asked Angus, who thought he
now saw a way to tame his companion. “Do you wish to get off here?”
“To be sure—this moment, this very moment. I won’t ride another step
with you.”
Angus let him get down, and proceeded leisurely. In two minutes, he
heard Murdoch calling him as he had expected.
“Let me get up again,” said he in an altered tone; and he began to
mutter something about the way being far for walking, and then held his
peace till they overtook Mr. Callum.
This important personage frowned on Angus, and cut short his conference
with him as much as he decently could. He smiled on Murdoch when he
heard the nature of his business, and favoured him with an audience of
unusual length. He could not say, in answer to Murdoch’s suspicions,
that Angus had ever asked for the farm; but they agreed that he
certainly meant to do it, and that it would be a great triumph to
disappoint him. Mr. Callum had a distant cousin who was in want of just
such a farm as Murdoch’s, and he had no doubt he could influence the
laird to let it be thus disposed of, and to build a dwelling for the
Murdochs where they might pursue their fishing. If so the workmen should
begin to build without delay, and it should be seen whether Murdoch’s
fishing might not begin as soon as Angus’s traffic with his new boat,
which was the talk of all Garveloch and the neighbouring isles.—Mr.
Callum would not give Angus the pleasure of hearing this, or the
progress which was making in the building of the little packet; but he
described to Murdoch all its conveniences and beauties, and told him how
the laird himself made frequent inquiries about it, and had been more
than once to see it on the stocks.
The two plotters having by mutual sympathy put themselves in mutual good
humour, were full of consideration for each other, and pointedly
neglectful of everybody else, when they returned from their long
conference. Callum ordered refreshment for Murdoch, and recommended rest
without consulting the convenience of Angus; and the farmer strove to
contrast his own deference to the great man’s wishes with Angus’s
independence of manner and speech. Both moralized on the beauty of
sincerity and the foulness of treachery, till the supposed plotter but
real plottee yawned without ceremony. They had rather he should have
blushed or trembled; but his yawns furnished a new topic to Murdoch on
his way home. In every respite from a hard trot on land and rolling on
sea, he discoursed on audacity as an aggravation of malice, till, having
reached his own door, he underwent a fainting-fit with a heroism worthy
of a better cause.
----------------------------
CHAPTER X.
WHAT IS TO HAPPEN NEXT?
No contrast would be more complete or more refreshing to Angus than the
state of affairs below to that which he was constantly witnessing at the
farm. With Ella and her brothers everything prospered; and their
external prosperity was not alloyed by troubles from within. The boys
used in former days to think there was no fault in Ella, and would have
been highly offended if any one had spoken of a time when they would
love her better, and be happier with her. That time had, however, come.
They were grateful to her for the new virtue to which time gave
rise,—the virtue of remembering that they were no longer children, and
of surrendering her authority accordingly, by natural degrees, and
before the change was demanded or even wished for. She waited to be
consulted about their little plans, asked their advice about her own,
and, still better, not only smiled indulgently upon their mirth as
formerly, but took part in it as if years were rolling backward over her
head. On her part, she felt that her brothers were her friends because
they loved Angus devotedly; and, as for Angus, all was, of course, right
in his eyes in a household whose chief bond was attachment to himself
and devotion to the interests which were most dear to him. He passed
every half hour that he could spare from his duties at the farm among
his friends below, now pointing out what ought to be done in the field,
now helping Ronald to strew and dry and stack his weed, now cutting peat
with Fergus, now singing songs or climbing rocks with Archie, but
oftenest talking with Ella in the cottage. He never could carry his
point of rowing her out to fish. She always declared that it would keep
him absent from the farm too long, and that she had had experience
enough in managing her nets to perform all the labour of that kind that
would be necessary till the herrings came again. She could not, however,
prevent his following her with his eyes. He now prized his excellent
glass more than ever, and twenty times in a morning he would fix it in
the direction of her boat, and watch and admire her proceedings. How
delicately and securely she kept clear of every sunken rock, how
steadily she plied her oars against wind and tide, how courteously she
answered a salute from a passing skiff, how firmly she stood on the
thwarts to throw her nets, how powerfully she drew them in, how
evidently she enjoyed setting her bark with its head to the wind, and
making every sudden gust serve her purpose and help to bring her home!
All this Angus saw; and seeing it, pronounced that there was no more
fitting occupation for such a woman as Ella than fishing; but then,
there were few such women—and he smiled at the thought. He had seen
young ladies angling in a trout stream; and this was pretty sport
enough; but here was an employment requiring strength, presence of mind,
dexterity, and patience: it was therefore a fitting employment for such
an one as Ella, and none but such as Ella could pursue it with success.
That success was great and well husbanded. Ella remembered that this
was, perhaps, the only year that she might appropriate the whole
produce, and she therefore stored what she could as capital to improve
the quantity and quality of her produce when she should hold her croft
on lease. She hoped to have money to lay out in improving the soil, and
not only to keep her nets and casks and boat in repair, but to purchase
a better boat and various conveniences for procuring and salting a
larger quantity of fish. She wished her brothers to do the same; and, to
set them going, made certain purchases of each. She paid Fergus for
whatever fuel was wanted for her own purposes, over and above that which
was used for the common convenience of the household. She bought weed to
manure her field from Ronald, and was pleased to find that he applied
his little fund in taking in the lot of moorland which he always looked
forward to rendering productive. She went every day to see what was
done, and often listened to Angus’s prophesy that it might be made a
very serviceable field in time, and would probably yield enough the next
season to prove that it was worth the tillage.
Thus were affairs proceeding when Angus appeared with a face of
surprise, one fine spring evening, and asked who could be coming to
settle in the next cove, round the point. As they did not know what he
meant, he proceeded to explain that a dwelling was being built just
above the beach. Ronald had not been visiting his shore for some days,
and knew neither of the arrival of workmen with their rude materials,
nor of any business of the kind going forward in the neighbourhood.
Nothing could be learned from the workmen, more choice in respect of
indolence and awkwardness than even the Highland workmen in general. All
they could tell was that they came by Mr. Callum’s orders, that they
were to build a house with two rooms of certain dimensions, and to get
the work finished as fast as possible for the purpose of being entered
by the tenant at Midsummer. Murdoch only smiled when Angus told the fact
on his return, and said that they must ask Mr. Callum what the new house
was for.
“Suppose,” he continued, “your packet-boat, that you reckon such an
advantage, should have tempted somebody to come and fish in rivalship of
Ella! What would you say then?”
“What I have said before,—the more the better, while there is produce
and a market. A market once opened, there is room for many; and then
there are all the advantages of neighbourhood and traffic, while there
are still enough for everybody, and will be for a long time to come.
Ella will be very happy to pay rent, if at the same time she can sell
her produce to better advantage, and buy what she wants cheaper, and
with more ease, and have good neighbours around her.”
“We shall see all about it when Mr. Callum comes,” was Murdoch’s reply.
“Yes, everything is to be done when Mr. Callum comes,” said Angus,
smiling. “This new house is to be occupied, and Ella and the boys are to
have a lease, and——”
“And you, Angus?——”
“And I am to take my first trip in my packet-boat, and——” Here he smiled
again, for he was thinking of another event which was to be connected
with this first trip; but Murdoch, as usual, misunderstood him, and took
this for a smile of malice. “And I,” continued Angus, “am to be paid my
dues, neighbour, I hope.”
“That you shall be, I promise you,” answered Murdoch, to whom the smile
of malice properly belonged.
It was observed that the Murdochs took great interest in the progress of
this new dwelling. They were now all as able to work as they had ever
been, the spring weather having restored their strength; but their
invalid habits accorded too well with the taste of the family to be
readily given up. The father still muffled himself in his plaid, and sat
with folded arms on a large stone on the beach, looking with half-shut
eyes at the builders, and leaving Angus to work his own pleasure at the
farm. Murdoch’s wife still complained as much of her fatigues and cares
as if the cribs were yet occupied by patients in the fever. Rob still
kept his fingers in his mouth and lay in the sun, when the sun shone, or
before the fire when the day was foggy. Meg and her sister still
disregarded their mother’s troubles, and whenever they could make their
escape, ran down to play pranks with the workmen, and to do mischief to
their work as soon as they turned their backs. All were clamorous alike
when anything went wrong,—which happened every day,—and blame was
divided between the two who alone kept matters going at all,—the
farmer’s wife and the farmer’s man. If the poultry were missing, the
cattle trampling the corn, the pig oversetting the milk-pails, the eggs
broken among the oatmeal, the farming utensils injured or not to be
found, there was a contention who should rail the loudest at mother or
Angus; and the only means of restoring quiet was to turn out the young
folks into the yard. Their father alone was strong enough both in limb
and will to do this—their mother not having bodily strength, nor Angus
inclination for a scuffle. Even this extreme measure only removed the
evil one degree, for the boy and girls, having pushed in vain at the
door, and thrown everything within reach at the window, (which, being
unglazed, received little injury,) ran down to plague the builders
below, as they had plagued the authorities above. Murdoch often swore
that it was time to give up farming, for it was a kind of life to kill a
peaceable man like him, and then he appealed to Angus, whether he did
not say truth; and when Angus could not agree with him, the usual reply
of the bitter laugh was sure to come.
At length, just before Midsummer-day, news arrived that Angus’s boat was
on its way, and that he might go in two days and meet her off the coast
below Scarba, and bring her home to her destination himself. Mr. Callum
sent word at the same time that he should land in Garveloch the next day
from Oban, and expected that every one would be ready to transact
business so as to occasion no delay. Nobody wished for delay. Murdoch
fancied that he should find ease and domestic peace in a change of
employment, and had already thrown his pride behind him. Angus believed
himself within three days of the marriage on which all his hopes had
been built for many years. Ella contented herself with saying that her
rent was ready; and the lads were eager to be in possession of the lease
which should secure to their sister and themselves the fruits of their
industry.
----------------------------
CHAPTER XI.
UNDERSTAND BEFORE YOU COMPLAIN.
“Angus!” said Murdoch, the next morning, “look through your glass, and
tell me if you see Mr. Callum’s boat yet. The day is none of the
clearest, but there is a gleam passing over the Sound at this moment.”
The mountains were wholly hidden and a dark grey cloud hung round the
horizon; but, after a little patient watching, Angus saw a boat emerging
from the mist, and observed that a sail was hoisted and began to swell
with the breeze which was chasing the fogs.
“I have not seen such a bark since the laird left us,” observed Angus;
“and she is full of people and heavily laden. There is company coming,
unless Mr. Callum is bringing over the tenants of the new house down
below.”
“That can hardly be, Angus; for the tenant of that house stands at your
elbow.”
“Well, you can keep a secret, I must own,” said Angus, laughing.
“However, I am truly glad, neighbour, that you think so much better of
your affairs than you did as to venture on following two occupations.”
When Murdoch explained that he was going to quit the farm this very day,
and should have no further interest in it after receiving an equivalent
for his growing crops, he was surprised to see how pleased Angus looked,
and asked the reason.
“You know how much I wish for more neighbours,” was the reply, “and for
improved tillage and increased traffic, and you cannot therefore wonder
that I am glad to find that the soil is likely to be taken care of now
that I have done my best for it.”
“But are you not vexed to give it up, Angus? Would not you like to have
kept it yourself?”
“I!” said Angus. “I have something else to do. My packet and Ella’s farm
will be as much as I can manage.”
“Well, I always thought you wished to keep the management of these
fields!”
“I wonder at that. Our engagement terminates to-day, you know. Was not
that made clear from the beginning, neighbour?”
“O yes.” Murdoch had no more to say. So Angus proceeded to Ella’s
dwelling, where he had promised to be present when the lease was talked
over.
Mr. Callum appeared immediately after landing, leaving the new tenants
and the Murdochs to settle themselves each in their dwelling,—a
proceeding which took very little time where there was but a small stock
of furniture, and where nobody dreamed of cleaning an empty house before
it was again occupied.
Mr. Callum explained that blanks were left in the lease, which were to
be filled up when the parties should have agreed upon the yearly rent to
be paid. It was necessary that he should survey the place afresh, and
that they should know that they no longer had the fishery to themselves.
Ella was prepared for this; but not so Ronald, for finding that by
tilling his piece of moorland he had created a rent on his sister’s
field. It was in vain that he wished he had let it alone at present,
that he remonstrated, that he grew angry: Mr. Callum was right, and kept
his temper, and was moreover supported by Angus and Ella against the
opposition of the two lads.
“But Ella had nothing to do with it,” argued Ronald. “It comes into my
share, and it is very hard that she should have to pay for what I have
taken it into my head to do.”
“This is no concern of the laird’s or mine,” replied Callum. “We let the
whole to your sister, and all we have to do is to ascertain the
difference in the productiveness of different parts, and to charge
according to the average.”
“Besides,” observed Angus, “the case would have stood the same if
Murdoch or any body else had tilled the moor. Rent is not an arbitrary
demand of the landlord, but a necessary consequence of the varying
qualities of the soil.”
Callum grew very civil towards Angus at once.
“You have seen much of the world, Mr. Angus; and I dare say you have
found discontent wherever you went upon this subject of rent. The
farmers will have it that the landlord lowers their profits.”
“And the people,” observed Angus, “that rent is an arbitrary tax imposed
on the consumer: each of which notions is as mistaken as the other.”
“I cannot say,” observed Ella, “that it is the laird that lessens my
profits. He asked for no rent while my field was the lowest soil tilled;
and he never would have asked it, if a worse land had not been taken
into cultivation. It is therefore the different degree of fertility
which causes rent, and not the will of the landlord.”
“And when the people complain,” said Angus, “that rent is paid by the
consumer as an arbitrary tax, they forget or do not know that rent is
the consequence and not the cause of high price. Your barley bannocks
and Murdoch’s look pretty much alike on the table, and would sell for
the same price; but yours are produced at near double the cost of his,
and therefore Murdoch pays the laird a part of the profits of his.”
“And very fair,” observed Callum; “and so it will be with your fish in a
little while, Mrs. Ella. Murdoch will sell fish which look like yours,
and at the same price: but it will have cost him more time and labour to
get them, and therefore the laird calls on you for a part of the profits
which you have till now kept to yourself, and would have kept still if
the fish had not brought a good enough price to tempt Murdoch to try his
luck.”
Angus hoped that rent would go on to rise, being, as it is, a symptom of
prosperity. Ronald wondered he could say so; for his part, he wished
there was no such thing as rent.
Angus explained that as rent rises in consequence of a rise of prices,
and a rise of prices shows that the article is in request, and that
there are purchasers able to buy it, a rise of rent is a symptom of
wealth, though many people err in supposing it a cause.
Mr. Callum observed that many wished for an abolition of rent, because
they thought high prices an evil in every case.
“Well,” said Fergus, “surely everybody had rather pay little than much
for a peck of oatmeal.”
“That depends on what causes the prices to be low or high,” replied
Callum. “If I take upon myself to forbid anybody in these islands to buy
oatmeal in Lorn when they have not enough at home, or if a bad season
should make a scarcity, and prices should rise in consequence, such a
rise of prices would be an evil, because the people would not have any
more wealth to give in exchange than if the meal was plentiful. But if
(which is a very different case) farmers find that their customers have
money enough to buy more and more oatmeal, and make it worth the
farmers’ while to take poorer and poorer soils into cultivation, the
consequent rise of price is no evil. It not only shows that wealth is
increasing, but also helps to increase it;—it causes oats to grow where
only heather grew before.”
“But after all,” said Ronald, “the landlord gets all the benefit of the
change. He grows richer and richer, the more prices rise.”
“Not so,” replied Angus. “Do not you remember my telling you that there
is a perpetual tendency to render the productiveness of land more equal
by improvements in the art of cultivation? and rent depends not on the
quantity produced, but on the inequality in the productiveness of soils.
An estate which once yielded one-third of its produce to the landlord
may afterwards yield him only one-fourth, and then again one-fifth,
though he may receive a larger amount of rent each time.”
“This has actually been the case,” said Callum; “and therefore it is a
mistake to say that the landlord has all the advantage of a rise of
prices.”
“I should like to know,” said Fergus, “what would happen if landlords
had no rent, and so bread became cheaper.”
“If landowners gave away their land! Very reasonable truly!” exclaimed
Callum.
“I rather think,” said Angus, “that the first consequence would be that
there would soon be no landlords. All land would be in the possession of
those who would cultivate it themselves, and then, in consequence of a
fall of prices, inferior lands would be let out of tillage, there would
be less food raised, and things would go back to the state they were in
centuries ago.”
“But if not,” persisted Fergus,—“if they did not sell their land, but
lent it without receiving any pay, bread would be cheaper surely, and
that would be a good thing.”
“Far from it,” replied Angus. “The next thing would be that we should
have a famine.”
“A famine from bread being cheaper!”
“Yes; for you must remember that we could not make the ground yield in a
hurry any quantity of grain we might happen to want. We have already
seen that land would not produce more for rent being abolished, and we
shall soon see that it would produce less; and if less was produced
while the price was so lowered as to tempt people to consume more, a
famine would soon overtake us.”
“If,” said Ella, “we have no more oatmeal in the islands than will last
till next harvest at the present price, and if people are tempted to use
more by the price being lowered, do not you see that the supply will
fall short before harvest? And then again, the lowering of the price
will have made it no longer worth while to till much that is tilled now,
and there will be still less produced next year.”
“In order to keep up the same extent of tillage,” said Angus, “how high
must the price rise again?”
“To what it is now, to be sure,” replied Ronald. “I see what you
mean:—that we must come round to rent-price again, even if the landlords
did not take rent. So, Mr. Callum, I beg your pardon for being angry
about Ella’s field; and I will say no more against rent being paid for
it, or for my line of shore, or for whatever will bear proper rent.”
“Your sister has made you a sensible lad,” was Mr. Callum’s reply, “and
that is more than I can say for most lads I meet in the islands. They
grumble at me, and tell all strangers about the hardship of paying high
rents, and the shame that rich men should empty the pockets of the
poor.”
“And what do strangers say?” inquired Ella.
“They look with contempt upon the tumble-down dirty huts in which the
people live, and ask what rent; and when they hear, they hold up their
hands and cry out upon the laird.”
“Not distinguishing, I suppose, between the real and nominal rent.”
“Just so. They do not inquire how much is for the fishery, and how much
for the land, and how much for the kelping-shore, and how very little
for the house; but they run away with the idea that the total rent is
for the roof and four walls, and tell their friends at home how hard the
Highland proprietors are upon their tenantry.”
“But is it not possible to make the people understand the true state of
the case?”
Callum said he had never tried, for they were a stupid, unmanageable set
that he had under him, and only fit to do the laird’s pleasure whatever
it might be. He began, however, to think that it would make matters very
easy to have the tenantry enlightened upon the subject of rent: and when
an amicable agreement was presently concluded about the lease, and the
blanks filled up without dispute, he said to himself that it was
pleasant to have to do with reasonable people where business was in
question, while their independence on other occasions was not perhaps
more troublesome than the ill behaviour of the ignorant.
Ella, being quite of this opinion, was anxious to know something of the
character of their new neighbours at the farm. As Mr. Callum said little
about them, and she did not choose to inquire, she must leave it to time
to satisfy her curiosity; but she augured well from Mr. Callum’s
expectation that they would find their rent no hardship, though it was
considerably higher than Murdoch had lately paid. The furniture, too, of
which she obtained a sight as it was being carried up, was of a superior
kind to what was often seen in Garveloch, and nearly equal to her own;
so that there was hope that the family were sober and industrious at any
rate, and that other virtues would show themselves as opportunity
offered.
----------------------------
CHAPTER XII.
A WAKING DREAM.
Not a drawback to the happiness of Angus and Ella now remained, and a
more cheerful family-party was never seen than assembled before the
cottage the next morning to arrange the few preparations necessary
before the marriage, which was to take place in two days.
Angus had finally given up his charge at the farm, and received security
for the payment of what was due to him out of the growing crops which
had been sown and tended by him. He was now about to make the circuit of
the island, and to touch at some others in the Sound, to make known the
time when he should take his first trip, in order that the commissions
of his customers might be ready. Ronald was his companion in this
excursion, from which they hoped to return by the middle of the next
day, before proceeding to meet the new boat. Fergus would accompany them
then to share the honour of bringing home the vessel which was to be the
first regular medium of the commerce of the island; and the next
morning, Ella and Archie were to be received on board and to proceed to
Oban, where the marriage was to take place.
Fergus and Ella were to occupy themselves during Angus’s present
excursion in improving their arrangements within doors. Angus’s goods
had been stored in a safe place; they were now unpacked, and served not
a little to ornament the dwelling and add to its conveniences. With what
a light heart did Ella pursue her employments this day! How gentle was
now her accustomed song, and how tender the glance she cast upon Archie,
from time to time, as he followed her to watch her proceedings and make
his strange remarks upon every new object he saw! Fergus waited upon
them both with all the quiet heedfulness of a girl, while his manly
spirit was eager to be busy upon the tossing sea.
“Ella! What can this be?” he cried, as he unpacked a bag of green baize
which contained some short tubes which seemed meant to fix into each
other.—Archie immediately snatched one and looked through the ends.
“He takes it for a telescope,” said Ella, smiling. “It is a flute; Angus
told me he would play to us, some day. It is played by blowing through
those holes, I believe, and not at the end, like the mouth-piece of a
bag-pipe.”
Fergus tried, and succeeded in producing a tremendous screech. Archie
first started, then laughed, and employed himself for the rest of the
day in applying a piece of alder wood to his mouth and screeching in
like manner.
“His music is as good as mine,” observed Fergus laughing. “I cannot
think how any body can fetch pleasant music out of those holes. I like a
bag-pipe far better.”
“Wait till you hear Angus play to-morrow,” said his sister. “He tells me
that he has heard some musicians play airs that would almost win the
eagle from her prey.”
“I wish he were such a one,” replied Fergus. “I would fain have an eagle
within reach, and pin her carcase to our wall as Angus has done at the
farm.”
“You would be a keen sportsman, Fergus, if you lived within reach of
better game than wild-fowl that lie still to be shot. But, come, lay
aside the flute, and leave off handling your gun, if you wish to be on
the steep to hail their return to-morrow. There is much to be done yet,
and I have a fancy that they will be home earlier than the hour they
bade us look for them.”
The boat was in earlier; but Fergus was already watching on the steep,
with Ella sitting by his side.
“All well?” cried Angus, as he sprang on shore; “why then, everything is
well, for we shall have as much business to manage in this first trip as
if our boat was bound for the port of London, instead of such a poor
place as Oban.”
“A poor place!” exclaimed Ronald. “Well, I suppose travelling abroad
makes one saucy. I never saw Oban, to be sure; but I should judge from
the number of things you are to be desired to buy, that almost any
traffic may be carried on there. Can ye tell Ella some of the articles
you will have to bring back?”
“There are more than I can remember now. One neighbour is going to try
his fortune with a flock, and I am to bring over some ewes with their
lambs. Then a rare housewife wants needles, and her husband hemp to make
nets; and many need barley-meal to make out till harvest. I am glad you
are going with me, Ella, for I am to have a commission for some woman’s
finery that I know less how to bargain for than for sheep and hemp. I
shall often have such articles in my freight, for shall women be within
reach of caps and ribbons and not buy?”
“You may reckon on beginning with me,” said Ella, smiling. “I purpose
trafficking for caps.”
There was more in this to delight Angus than would have met an English
ear. The Highland women wear no caps till they can assume the matronly
curch with which it was now Ella’s purpose to provide herself. She led
the way into the dwelling to show how she and Fergus had been employed.
“You have been as busy as we, Ella; so now let us make holiday for the
two hours that we are waiting for the tide. It is full soon to start
again: but the better we use the tide, the sooner we shall come back for
you and Archie. Where is Archie?”
“On the Storr since day-break. Would ye let him hear the flute?—that is,
if ye can make it heard so far, for we shall not win him home while day
lasts.”
Angus went out upon the beach, and his companions seated themselves
round him upon the shingle; and now, how astonished was Fergus to hear
what music might be brought out of a flute! Its clear sweet notes
reached Archie on his rock. He came out to the mouth of his hole at the
first sound, and stood intently listening while Angus played a slow air,
and danced merrily when it was changed to a jig. As often as it ceased,
he clapped his hands impatiently for more.
“O Angus,” cried Ella, “ye have brought a new pleasure to Archie!” and
Angus took this as it was meant,—as a strong expression of gratitude.
“How piercing the note is!” cried Ronald. “If you played among the dells
higher up, the rocks would be long in letting the music drop.”
“And if this sea were smooth water like an inland lake,” said Angus, “I
could make the people in Scarba hear me. I have heard it as far over
water where there was no ripple and when not a breath was stirring.”
The lads had seldom known so serene a state of the air as this, and
could not even conceive of waters that had not more or less swell.
On looking round, Ella perceived that the musician had other auditors
than Archie and themselves. The tenants of the farm were peeping over
the ridge behind, and the Murdochs were stationed at the point of the
promontory to the left which separated their cove from Ella’s. Though
Angus put up his instrument, they still lingered, at first hoping to
hear it again, and then being curious to see the preparations for
embarking.
“Take care of yourself and Archie till the morn,” said Ronald, “and then
be up with the sun,—bright may he shine!—and see us cut across the
Sound; and be sure ye await us at the quay, for that is where ye must
get on board.”
“It will save us a circuit if we push off from the quay now,” said
Fergus, “since we have to bear down due south some way, and we can
easily carry the boat over the bar.”
Angus thought the same. Just as they were hoisting the bark on their
shoulders, the young Murdochs came up; Rob to ask a passage a little way
down the Sound, and the girls to keep Ella company for a while.
“Archie is in his merriment to-day,” said one; “he has scarce ceased
dancing since he heard the music.”
“He knows what is doing now,” observed the other; “see him climbing to
the top to see them push off.”
The girls and Ella then walked slowly up the path from the beach to a
point whence they might watch the boat set off, and trace it for a
considerable way. It was a bright and serene afternoon; there were no
rough gales abroad, and the swell of the sea was no greater than in the
calmest days of that region. The air was so clear that the mountain
lights and shadows were distinctly visible as their peaks rose one
behind another on the eastern horizon. Within the shadow of the Storr,
the water was of the deepest green, while beyond, long streaks of
glittering light extended from island to island, and grew broader as the
sun descended.
The little boat pushed off from the quay in good style, with two pair of
oars, the three boatmen of Ella’s household having waved their bonnets
and cheered before they stept in, in honour of the spectators. It was
necessary to pull strongly and evenly till they should have crossed the
rapid current which flowed round the Storr: but Rob, heedless of this,
and remembering that he had not cheered and waved his bonnet, suddenly
started up, threw down his oar, destroyed the balance, and upset the
boat.—What shrieks rang from rock to rock, as the bark tumbled in the
current, and the rowers were borne, in spite of their struggles, down,
down, far and fast by the sweeping waters! Ella clasped her hands above
her head, and uttered no sound after the first shriek. Her companions
ran hither and thither with loud lamentations. The people at the farm
did what these girls should have done; they ran down with all speed to
desire Murdoch to get out his boat.
“There’s one safe!” cried Meg; “the rock is but just above the water,
but he is sitting upon it.”
“O God!” groaned Ella, “save me from praying which it may be!”
Another soon appeared on the same point; but nothing could yet be seen
of the other two.
Archie had beheld all this, and more: he could overlook Murdoch’s
proceedings also from his pinnacle. He was strongly wrought upon; for no
one understood better the signs of emotion, whether or not he understood
the cause. He acted with rapidity and strength, as if suddenly inspired
by reason; but alas! his energy could only manifest itself in the way of
imitation. The moment he saw Murdoch’s boat hastily launched, he ran
down to his “floating place,” as he called it, rolled his cask into the
water and got into it. Murdoch alone saw him standing up and waving his
bonnet, before he reached the eddy, which could not but be fatal to
him.—The cask came up again,—empty—and floated round the point, as
Archie had no doubt foreseen it would, and at length arrived within
Fergus’s reach, and was the means of saving him. He clung to it, not
aware of the nature of the friendly support, till taken up by Murdoch’s
boat. The two who had reached the rock were Angus and Ronald; and Rob
had had his wits so sharpened by the plunge, as to perceive that he had
better not leave hold of the oar he had clung to at first. He too was
taken up; so that Ella believed that all had come safe out of this awful
peril,—she alone being ignorant of what had happened at the Storr. When
she joined her brothers on the beach, they stood a moment aloof from her
embrace, with countenances in which there was as much of solemn
compassion as of grief. Angus was down upon his face; Murdoch alone
uttered a few broken words. It was some time before she could comprehend
or would believe what had happened, and then she was the only one who
retained her self-command.
An expression of unspeakable anguish passed over her countenance as
Fergus mourned that he had been saved by Archie’s loss.
“Nay, Fergus,” said she, “let us leave it to Him who guides us, to show
whose life had best be taken and whose left. God knows I strove for this
before I knew his pleasure; and now that we do know it, let us question
neither the purpose nor the means.—Let us devoutly bless Him that you
are here.”
While Angus took her home, the neighbours dispersed in search of the
body, which could not, however, be found, and was supposed to have been
carried by the current far out of reach. When all had gone home for the
night, and her companions had for some time retired to hide their grief,
or to forget it for a while in sleep, Ella stole out alone, and passed
the night among the rocks,—a night, whose natural beauty was worthy to
succeed to that of the day that was gone. It was light; and this it was
which, giving the faint hope of recovering the body, took Ella abroad.
The red lights of the west had not wholly vanished when the grey dawn
began to glimmer, while, in mid sky, the stars twinkled as if in
rivalship of the sparkles below. The sea was, as it often is in that
region, highly luminous; and as Ella sat watching the eddy within which
Archie had sunk, her eye marked, and not without pleasure even now, the
gleam which broke on the crest of every wave, and was scattered in
showers of sparkles as far as the spray could reach.
There she was found by Angus, at day-break.
“You have not been in his cave?” said he.
“No,” replied Ella. “I will go there first when you and the lads have
left me.”
“Left you! and when will that be?”
“In a few hours, I hope,” she replied, smiling. “I must see that Archie
is still honoured by being kept apart from that in which he had no
share. The business of our days went on without him while he lived, and
it shall go on now, if it were only to show that he bore no part in it.
You must perform your promises to our neighbours, Angus, and discharge
their business, and then you can come back to me with an easy mind.”
“I will,” replied Angus; “and I will not ask you to go with me this
time. It is for you to say whether there is cause for your remaining
behind.”
“There is; this once,—not longer, Angus. I cannot give up the hope of
laying Archie beneath the cross beside my father. This will either be
done or given up before your next voyage, and then I will go.”
For some hours of the morning of their intended marriage-day, Angus and
Ella were wandering along the shores engaged in the most melancholy
search in which eye and heart can be employed. At length Angus pointed
to a sign which could scarcely be misunderstood. He had observed an
osprey winging its flight for some distance over the sea, and now
perceived that it was joined by another, and that both were hovering as
if about to stoop. Endeavouring to scare them with cries, he hastened
onwards, followed by Ella, for some distance towards the south-west, and
succeeded in finding the object of their search. Archie lay, as if
asleep, on a beach of fine sand, still grasping the bosom of his plaid
which contained the gathered treasures of the day.—Long were those weeds
and feathers kept as memorials of Archie’s pleasures: they were Ella’s
only hoard.
Angus returned from his first voyage with the lads in safety, and in
time to lay Archie’s head in the grave. This done, Ella acknowledged
that no duty remained to prevent her fulfilling all her promises. She
accompanied him, the next week, to Oban, and returned his wife.
----------------------------
Having illustrated the leading principles which regulate the PRODUCTION
of Wealth, we proceed to consider the laws of its DISTRIBUTION.
The classes concerned in production are (as we have seen) two, Labourers
and Capitalists; but the latter class is usually divided into two, viz.—
Those who hold in possession the natural agents of production, as
Land-owners; and
Those who employ these natural agents, as Farmers, or others who apply
capital to land or water.
Of these three classes, among whom distribution takes place,
Labourers receive their share as Wages,
Capitalists as Profits,
Land-owners as Rent.
We proceed first to Rent, for reasons which will appear when we treat of
Wages and Profits; and, for the sake of clearness, shall confine our
Summary to the explanation of Land-Rent.
_Summary of Principles illustrated in this Volume_.
The total Rent paid by a farmer includes real Rent, and much besides;
viz. the profits of the capital laid out by the land-owner upon the
estate.
Real RENT is that which is paid to the land-owner for the use of the
original, indestructible powers of the soil.
Land has these powers in different degrees.
The most fertile being all appropriated, and more produce wanted, the
next best soil is brought into cultivation; then land of the third
degree, and so on, till all is tilled that will repay tillage.
An unequal produce being yielded by these different lands, the surplus
return of all above the lowest goes to the land-owner in the form of
Rent.
The same thing happens when repeated applications of capital are made to
the same land for the sake of increasing its productiveness. The produce
which remains over the return to the least productive application of
capital, goes to the land-owner in the form of Rent.
RENT, therefore, consists of that part of the return made to the more
productive portions of capital, by which it exceeds the return made to
the least productive portion.
New lands are not tilled, and capital is not employed for a less return,
unless the produce will pay the cost of production.
A rise of prices, therefore, creates, and is not created by, Rent.
When more capital is employed in agriculture, new land is tilled, a
further outlay is made on land already tilled; and thus also Rent arises
from increase of capital.
When capital is withdrawn from agriculture, inferior, _i. e._ the most
expensive soils, are let out of cultivation; and thus Rent falls.
A rise of Rent is, therefore, a symptom, and not a cause, of wealth.
The tendency of Rent is, therefore, to rise for ever in an improving
country.—But there are counteracting causes.
Art increases production beyond the usual returns to capital laid out:
prices fall in proportion to the abundance of the supply, and Rent
declines.
Improved facilities for bringing produce to market, by increasing the
supply, cause prices to fall and Rent to decline.
London: Printed by W. CLOWES, Stamford-street.
ILLUSTRATIONS
OF
POLITICAL ECONOMY.
No. VI.
WEAL AND WOE
IN
GARVELOCH.
=A Tale.=
BY HARRIET MARTINEAU.
_SECOND EDITION._
LONDON:
CHARLES FOX, 67, PATERNOSTER-ROW.
1832.
LONDON:
PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES,
Stamford Street
WEAL AND WOE
IN
GARVELOCH.
=A Tale.=
BY
HARRIET MARTINEAU.
_SECOND EDITION._
LONDON:
CHARLES FOX, 67, PATERNOSTER-ROW.
1832.
CONTENTS.
WEAL AND WOE IN GARVELOCH.
1. Times are changed 1
2. Neighbourly chat 17
3. Kindred not kindness 27
4. Looking before and after 38
5. More haste than good speed 51
6. A dreary prospect 67
7. The discipline of the Teachable 83
8. The discipline of the Unteachable 105
9. Troubles never come alone 121
10. Conclusion 133
WEAL AND WOE
IN
GARVELOCH.
----------------------------
CHAPTER I.
TIMES ARE CHANGED
About ten years before the period at which our story opens, the laird of
Garveloch had transferred his property in that and the neighbouring
isles to a large Fishing Company. The terms of the bargain were
advantageous to both parties. The laird was to receive, in addition to
the annual rent which his island-tenants had been accustomed to pay, and
which did not amount to more than sixty guineas a year all together, a
sum of several hundred pounds in consideration of the improvements to be
effected on the property. As there was little prospect of such
improvements being effected, to the extent of some hundreds of pounds,
by himself or his poor tenants, the transaction was evidently a
profitable one to him; while the Company reasonably expected that the
changes they were about to introduce would much more than repay their
advance—an expectation which was not disappointed. Among the numerous
fishing stations established by this opulent Company, there was one in
Islay. A warehouse was erected, where salt for curing the fish, hemp for
making nets, timber for boat-building, staves for cooperage, and all
materials necessary for the apparatus of an extensive fishery, were
stored. A curing-house, a building-yard, and a cooperage were at hand; a
pier, around which there was a perpetual traffic of boats, stretched out
into the sea. A little town had risen round these buildings, where but a
few years before there had been only a congregation of sea-fowl. Where
their discordant cries alone had been heard, there now prevailed a
mingling of sounds, not more musical to the ear perhaps, but by far more
agreeable to the heart. The calls of the boatmen, the hammer of the
cooper, the saw of the boat-builder, the hum from the curing-house,
where women and girls were employed in gutting, salting, and packing the
herrings, and drying the cod, the shouts and laughter of innumerable
children at play among the rocks,—all these together formed such a
contrast to the desolation which prevailed ten years before, that the
stranger who returned after a long absence scarcely knew the place to be
the same.
Nor was the change less remarkable in others of the islands. Rows of
dwellings stretched along many a favourable line of beach, and huts
peeped out of a cove here and there, where no trace of man had been
formerly seen, but an occasional kelping fire. On Garveloch a fishing
village had arisen where the dwelling of Angus and Ella had for some
years stood alone. The field which they had cultivated from the year of
their marriage till the establishment of the Fishing Company, was now
covered with cottages; and a row of huts, most of them with a patch of
ground behind, stretched from the bar on the one hand, to the promontory
which had been Ronald’s on the other. Angus and Ella lived in the old
house; but it was so much enlarged and improved as to look like a new
one: it was the best in the village; and it was made so for comfort, not
for show. There were nine children to be housed; and both their parents
knew enough of comfort to see the necessity of providing room and
ventilation if they wished to keep their large family in health and good
habits. They had worked hard, and on the whole successfully; and though
the perpetual calls upon them prevented their laying by much in the form
of money, they had been able to provide their dwelling with more
convenient furniture, and their children with more decent clothing, than
was usually thought necessary in the society of which they formed a
part.
Angus’s vessel had yielded him all the profit he had expected, and more.
Before the Company was established, he had usually had business enough
committed to him to make it answer to cross the Sound twice a week; and
since the fishing station had been opened in Islay, he had made a double
use of the Flora, as his boat was now called. The possession of a decked
vessel had enabled him to share the herring bounty; and he now gave his
principal attention to the fishery, only following the coasting trade in
spring and autumn,—the intervals of the herring seasons.
As they possessed so great a treasure in this boat, now of the rank of a
herring-buss, Angus and Ella thought they could afford to give the old
boat to Fergus for a wedding present, and thus enable him to fish for
cod on his own account, instead of being a hired fisherman on board one
of the Company’s vessels. Those who had only open boats were excluded
from the herring fishery by the bounty, which was granted to the produce
of decked vessels only, and which therefore gave an advantage to such
produce in the market which could not be contested; but there was a fair
sale for cod, however caught; and now that a market was always open at
hand, the possession of a boat seemed to Fergus to afford a prospect of
a certain and sufficient maintenance. He married at one-and-twenty, a
year after the opening of the station in Islay, and in consequence of
it; for he fell in love with a girl who had come with her family to
settle at the station as fishers. Janet was young and giddy, and quite
willing to leave her father, who was only a hired fisherman, for a
husband who had a boat of his own; and, after a short courtship, the
young folks settled down in a cottage within a stone’s throw of Angus’s
house. They had made a shift to get on till now, though their family
increased every year; and as they had never suffered actual want, they
began to think they never should, and to smile at some of Ronald’s wise
sayings. Fergus declared that, if one or two seasons of extraordinary
plenty would come, so as to enable him to get a new boat, he should have
no anxiety remaining. He had been anxious when he had only one child to
feed; and he was apt to be anxious at times now that he had five: but if
he was but sure of being able to continue his fishing, he would trust
that Providence would feed them as they had hitherto been fed. But if
these rare seasons should not come, Ronald observed, what was to be
done? for the boat was wearing out fast. It must be patched and mended
to the last, Fergus replied, and he must still hope for extraordinary
profits some happy year. He said nothing, though he probably thought
much, of the consequences of a season of failure.
Ronald was free from all cares of this kind, though he had had his share
of trouble in other ways. He was a single man and engaged in a good
business, and therefore well provided for as to external comfort. He was
a cooper at the station in Islay, and as casks were wanted as long as
fish were caught, he had reason to suppose himself supplied with
employment as long as the establishment should be kept up. He was truly
happy to be able to afford assistance to her who had carefully tended
his youth, and received Ella’s eldest boy with the intention of teaching
him his trade. The trouble from which we have mentioned that Ronald
suffered arose from disappointment in an attachment he had formed and
long cherished. He had loved a maiden who came in the train of the
company, but his friend Cuthbert had won her, and after having made her
happy for a few short years, had been taken from her by an accident at
sea, leaving her with four children, and no possessions but such as his
industry had earned. The widow Cuthbert lived in Garveloch, and
supported her little family by net-making. She was respected by all her
neighbours, and loved as much as ever by Ronald, who, however, conducted
himself towards her as the widow of his friend, rather than as the
object of his early and long attachment.
The widow Cuthbert was regarded as the lady of the island, though she
was no richer, no better dressed, and, for all her neighbours knew, no
better born than any around her. She was better educated; and this was
her title to distinction. No one else, except Angus, had seen so much of
the world; and even he could not make a better use of what he had
learned. There was a sober truth in the judgments she formed of people
and of circumstances, which was all the more impressive from the modesty
with which she held her opinions, and the gentleness with which she
declared them. Those opinions were respected by all, from the highest to
the lowest,—from Ella down to Meg Murdoch. Her management of her little
family was watched by all who cared for the welfare of their children,
and her skill and industry in her occupation were marvelled at by those
who did not attempt to imitate her.
It would have amused an attentive observer to see how a distinction of
ranks was already growing up in the little society of Garveloch, where
none had originally brought wealth enough to authorize such distinction.
Next to the widow Cuthbert ranked the farmer and his family—the Duffs,
who were looked up to from their great importance as corn-growers to the
society. The produce of their fields being much in request, they had
enlarged their farm, and improved it to a great extent. By means of the
more ample supplies of manure afforded by the curing of so much fish,
and through the help of the better implements and modes of tillage which
their prosperity enabled them to use, their land produced twice as much
as when they had entered upon the farm, fifteen years before. They had
every inducement to go on increasing its productiveness; for corn still
fell short, and supplies were brought now and then from other islands to
make out till harvest. Of late, indeed, the demand had somewhat
lessened, as an Irish family had set the example of growing potatoes in
their patch of ground, and many of their neighbours had done the same,
with the hope of saving the expense of oat and barley meal. Among these
were the former tenants of the farm, the Murdochs, who, having failed in
all their undertakings, now had recourse to what they supposed an easy
and nearly infallible method of getting a living. They had sunk from
year to year, and there was little hope of their rising again when they
began to place their dependence on potato tillage. They now filled a
station as much below that of Ella and her husband as Ella’s had been
supposed below theirs on the day of her father’s funeral. Murdoch had
not parted with any of his pride or jealousy as he parted with his
worldly comforts. He still looked with an evil eye on Angus; and, when
disposed to vent his complaints or seek counsel, went to new comers in
preference to old neighbours. He was particularly intimate with the
O’Rorys, who lived in a cottage next to his own, and who were of an age
and in circumstances too unlike his own to come into comparison with him
in any way.
Dan O’Rory was a lad of twenty, who had brought over his yet younger
wife to seek employment in the Garveloch fishery, as there was none to
be had at Rathmullin. He had not yet been able to make interest for
wages on board one of the busses, and he had no boat of his own; so he
dug up and planted his potato-ground, and was content, talking of future
doings, but caring little as yet whether they ever came to pass. One
evil of their coming to pass, indeed, would be that there would be no
longer time for talk, which Dan loved full as well as did Noreen, his
wife.
One day, when Noreen was tired of her husband, and had gently turned him
out of his cabin, he strolled to Murdoch’s door, and lay down to bask in
a July sun, his head resting on the wooden step, his fingers stuck into
his hair, and his feet reposing among the fishy remains which lay as
usual strewed round the door, and saluting more senses than one of the
passers by. Hearing a step on the shingle, Dan half opened his eyes, and
saw Murdoch approaching with a leaky barrel on his shoulder, from the
seams of which the red pickle was dropping down his clothes and
meandering over his face.
“Them are the briny tears for which ye’ll be never the worse,” cried
Dan. “I’d weep such tears every day, if the powers would give me leave.”
“Get up, Dan, can’t ye, and let me come in at my own door.”
“With all the pleasure in life,” said Dan, pushing the door open, and
withdrawing himself as little as was necessary to let Murdoch pass.
“Eh! it’s the herrings back again! O, father, what will ye do for the
money? What good does the bounty do to them that can’t sell their fish?”
resounded from the inside of the cottage in shrill tones of anger.
Murdoch swore at the bounty and the Company, and its officers, and at
those who, he said, supplanted him.
“Well, but what did they say this time?” inquired his wife. “I took the
largest barrel we had,—if it did not hold thirty-two gallons, there’s
not one in the island that does.”
“They did not dispute that this time; how should they? But they say, not
a cask that leaks shall be branded for the bounty.”
“Never deny the leaking,” said Dan, looking in from the door. “Your own
head is pickled as fine as if it stood for the bounty.”
Murdoch took no notice of him, but went on impatiently. “And for the
rest of the complaint, I may thank you, wife, or Meg, or both of ye.
There is not a fish clean gutted in the barrel; there is not one
untainted with the sun; and besides, the cask is half full of salt. You
women may raise the rent-money as well as you can, for I shall never do
it if this is the way you help me.”
Meg began to complain that the boat was so foul that the fish were
tainted before they came ashore; that her mother had given her something
else to do when she should have been curing the fish; that Rob had
carried off the knife, so that she was obliged to gut them with her
fingers; and that, as her mother would have a large barrel and her
father would not catch more fish, what could be done but to fill up the
cask with salt? The quarrel was beginning to run high, when Dan
interfered to divert the course of the storm.
“I wonder,” said he, “ye submit to be troubled with the villains that
carry themselves so high. I’d leave them to catch their own fish, and
keep cool and comfortable at home.”
“We must live, Dan; so you talk only nonsense.”
“True, neighbour; all that are not gentlemen must live. But there’s
nothing in life easier than to live without their help; and I’d be proud
to do it, if it were only to see them standing and standing all day, and
many days, to see the shoals go by, and never a boat out to catch a fish
for them. I’d go ten miles any day to see them stand idle, with all
their sheds and cranes, and the new pier with the boats lying about it
as if all the world was asleep. There would be easy work for a summer’s
day!”
“Easy enough for them, Dan, but hard enough for us that have not our
pockets full of money like them.”
“Never mind the money; where’s the money that will buy such a sunshine
as this?”
“If people like the sunshine as well with bare limbs and an empty
stomach, Dan, I have nothing to say to them. For my part, I begin to
feel the north wind chilling, now I am growing old; and I can’t fish
till I have had my morning meal.”
“O, the morning meal is the pleasantest thing in nature when it gives
one no trouble; and if you would do as I do, you would have one every
day in the year, without giving a triumph to them villains. Just bestir
yourself to plant your potatoes, and then you are provided without more
words. O, people should go to old Ireland to learn how to live!”
“I thought Ireland had been a bad place to live in.”
“Devil a bit, neighbour. It is the cheerfullest, brightest land the
saints reign over,—glory to them for it!”
“Then what brought you here?”
“Just somebody told Noreen’s father that one might fish guineas in these
seas; so he had us married, and sent us over; but, as I tell Noreen,
there is less gold here than at Rathmullin, seeing that the sun shines
one half less. But we make ourselves content, as they do in Ireland; and
that a man may do all the world over—let alone a woman that has a gentle
cratur like me for a husband.”
“But how would you have me make myself content, when I can’t sell my
fish either fresh or salted? I thought you had had more feeling for your
neighbours, Dan.”
“I! God help me, I’m as tinder-hearted as a lord’s lady. It is because I
am so tinder-hearted that I would have nobody bother themselves. Just
give a man a cabin, and a bit of ground, and a spade, and a girl for a
wife to crown all, and why should he trouble himself till the stars fall
out of the sky?”
“And is that the way you do in Ireland?”
“Just so; and that is why Ireland is better than any other land.”
“But I have more to provide for than my wife,” said Murdoch, casting a
look towards his little field.
“Make Rob dig it for you the first year,” said Dan; “and if there is
potatoes enough, well and good; and if not, go fish for what is wanting,
or let Rob get a potato-ground for himself.”
“But we shall want clothes, and money for rent.”
“Tell the Company you’ll work out the rent, or sell your boat for it, or
beseech the saints that love to help. Any way better than bother
yourself.”
“Anything rather than bother myself,” repeated Murdoch to himself, under
the united provocations of heat, fatigue, disappointment, and jealousy.
“I’ll be free of them all, and never trouble myself to offer another
fish to any man breathing. I can get fowl to help out our potatoes, and
then we shall do well enough.”
At this moment he saw farmer Duff approaching, and gave the hint to Dan,
that he should observe how the farmer would behave when it should appear
that he was to have no more custom from either family.
Duff declined the seat offered him by Murdoch’s wife, as his first
desire was to get to windward of that which strewed the ground where Meg
had been curing fish. He asked Murdoch to walk a little way with him;
but as Murdoch declined, Duff took the liberty of closing the door, and
attempting to open the shutter which occupied the unglazed window.
“I live on the height, you know,” said he, “and out of the way of your
kind of business, so that I may seem to you over nice; but I was going
to offer to relieve you of this litter. I have been round the village to
engage for all the offal of the season, and I will take up yours at the
same price with the rest.”
“I can’t spare it, farmer.”
“Well, just as you please; but I really hope you are going to remove it
directly, for your health’s sake.”
“I trust my health will serve me to sow and gather many a crop that
shall cost me less than your oatmeal, and be more wholesome than the
pickles in yonder barrel. I have done with herrings for ever. Do you
know any one that wants a boat, farmer?”
“More than you have boats to sell. There’s Dan, for one. Dan, you mean
to be a fisherman?”
“Perhaps I may, if the station offers me a place in a buss without any
trouble; but I could not bother myself with a boat. Murdoch and I are
content to be easy with our potatoes, no offence to you, I hope.”
“None whatever. The only offence in the case is the offence of a wet
season, if such a one should come;—where will the offence be then?”
“After a wet season comes a dry,” said Dan; “and the powers will
preserve us to witness it.”
“Let me see your boat,” said Duff. “Your relation Fergus was looking at
his this morning as if he thought it would bear little more patching.”
“Mine is nearly as old as his, but it will last a few fair seasons yet,
I expect. I will make him the offer of it.”
Duff was going there now; and having no more time to spare, Murdoch and
he set off together, leaving Dan to bask as before, or to vary his
amusements by watching the flow of the tide.
As they went, they looked in on Ella, with whom Duff wished to negociate
as with Murdoch. Ella was in the shed built for a curing-house,
surrounded by her children, three or four of whom were assisting her in
her employment of salting and packing herrings, and the rest amusing
themselves with playing hide and seek among the barrels.
“What a store of new barrels!” exclaimed Murdoch: “You must lose much by
the old ones.”
“Not at all,” replied Ella: “they serve for our coasting trade when they
will no longer do for the Company. If we often got such a cask as this,”
pointing to one beside her, “we should seldom have to buy. Kenneth made
that.”
“Your boy Kenneth!” exclaimed Murdoch. “Impossible!”
“He has been well taught by his uncle,” said Duff, “and has good
materials. See, the staves are half an inch thick, and even throughout,
and the flags laid between the seams at both ends, and the hoops as
regular and well fastened as Ronald himself could have made them.”
“You will only waste such a barrel,” said Murdoch, “if you let the
children touch the fish. My Meg has wasted tons of fish and bushels of
salt.”
Little Annie, who was sprinkling the salt at this moment, turned very
red, and looked at her mother as petitioning for a defence. Ella smiled
as she invited Murdoch to look and see how evenly the fish were packed,
and told him that there was a trial of skill among the children this
day, and that it was to be determined, when her husband came home,
whether Annie’s salting was worthy of Kenneth’s barrel.
“Kenneth is not to see till all is done,” said Annie; “he is helping
uncle Fergus to mend his boat, and uncle Fergus says he will make it
last much longer than any body else could do but uncle Ronald.”
“Ronald sent him this very morning, when he was most wanted,” said Ella.
“His father should have seen the landing. He brought me this barrel as a
present, and he himself thought of bringing his tools and some staves in
case Fergus’s boat wanted mending, which it did sadly. You will excuse
our going on with our work, neighbours, for you know it will not do to
lose time in this weather; but the little ones will get you all you want
if you will step within. Go, my little maids, and set out the bannocks
and the cheese, and I will bring the whisky.”
Duff could not stay, however, longer than to settle when to send his
pony and panniers for the offal.
“Surely that cannot be little Kenneth!” exclaimed Murdoch, when, guided
by the echo of hammering among the rocks, they came in sight of a fine
tall lad repairing a boat. “Yes, it is Kenneth, so like his father, and
just as handsome!”
Kenneth looked modestly happy when his uncle declared that he did not
want to purchase Murdoch’s boat, as he believed his own would be the
best of the two by the time Kenneth went back to Islay.
Murdoch wondered why his children gave nothing but trouble while they
were young, and did little but damage now that they were grown up, while
other people made a profit of theirs. He took a poor price, paid in
produce, from a cottager for his crazy boat, and went home wishing that
he had sent Rob to learn something at the station, as he could teach him
nothing at home.
----------------------------
CHAPTER II.
NEIGHBOURLY CHAT
At a late hour of this night, the young widow Cuthbert was still busy,
as she had been all day, at her employment of net-making. The song with
which she lulled her infant to sleep had long ceased, and she pursued
her work in perfect silence by the dim light of her solitary lamp; her
thoughts were alternately with the children who lay sleeping around her,
and with the husband whose place of long repose was beneath the waters.
As often as a little hand stirred above the coverlid, or a rosy cheek
was turned upon its pillow, the anxious mother gazed and watched, and as
often as the gust swept past, or a larger billow broke upon the shingle,
her heart throbbed as if she was still awaiting the return of him who
should never more return. She started, at length, on hearing a tap at
her door.
“It is only Ella,” said a voice from the outside; and the widow hastened
to open the door.
“Your husband, your husband!” she exclaimed; “no ill to him I trust. You
are not in fear for him, Ella?”
“He is safe home, thank Him who guides the storms!” replied Ella: “but
it is a gusty night.”
“Ye look cold and your plaid drips,” said the widow, setting down the
lamp, and applying more fuel to her smouldering fire. “What brings ye
here so late, Ella?”
“Only a message from Angus about the nets, which I should have left till
the morn, but that Kenneth and I saw a glimmer beneath your door, and I
knew I should find you at your occupation. We press you too close for
your work, Katie. It’s an ill thing for sad hearts to watch so late.
Better that we should do without our nets, than that you should look as
you do now.”
“’Tis for my bairns,” said Katie, “or I would not undergo it. O, Ella! I
have been jealous of you these two hours past, if, as I supposed, you
were on the rock looking out.”
“No wonder, Katie; and yet I could have found in my heart to be jealous
of Fergus’s wife, and all the wives that were serving their husbands by
the fireside, instead of breasting the wind, and mistaking every jet of
the surge for a sail, as I have been doing since the sun went down. But
I had Kenneth to while away the time with, and help to keep in the
light. He showed me how they hoist the lanterns at the station, and our
signals will be better managed from this night forward. O Katie, you
must see Kenneth, and I must tell you all that his uncle has done for
him.”
“But your husband,” interrupted the widow; “how long was he? and in what
style did his boat come ashore? and which of you first saw him? and——”
“Now, Katie, why will ye be ever asking such questions as you know it
wounds me to answer? I have told you he is home safe. He has brought
such a store of fish, that, busy as the curers have been on board, there
is as much left for the lassies and me to do to-morrow as we can finish
before the twenty-four hours are gone. And that reminds me of the nets:
Angus must have those he ordered within three days, he bids me tell you;
but let us look about for some one to help you, instead of your toiling
with your fingers, and harassing your spirits through the night.”
“We must toil while the season lasts,” replied Katie; “and as for the
wear of spirits,” she continued smiling, “that is all fancy, and must be
got over. I have nothing now to tremble for—no need to listen and look
out, and I must learn not to heed the storm further than to be thankful
that my bairns have about them all that makes a storm harmless. If this
was a time of hardship, Ella, like some that have been known here, how I
might have envied some who were kept watching, not by cold or hunger,
but only by having more employment than they could finish in the day!”
“It is a rich season, indeed,” said Ella. “The shoals are such as Angus
never saw before, for the multitude and the quality of the fish; and
what is more, the crops are coming up kindly, and farmer Duff says that
he reckons on the best harvest he has had since he took the farm.”
“Thank God!” exclaimed Katie. “This plenty may prevent the price from
rising, and nothing else could. It almost frightens me sometimes when I
see the numbers that are growing up, to think how we are to get oat and
barley meal for them all.”
“If you had been here all the sixteen years since I first came to this
bay,” said Ella, “you would wonder at the change, and be thankful to see
how improvements have risen as wants increased. Now trim your lamp, and
go on with your business; it will be some time yet before my husband and
Kenneth have finished with the boat and come for me.—Surely you make
your meshes more than an inch wide;—no, the exact measure.—Well, that is
one of the improvements I speak of.”
“It was folly, indeed,” replied Katie, “to use such nets as I used to
make—nets that caught the fry and let the full grown go free. That was
the quickest way to make every season worse than the last. Then there
are the boats, so much safer from having pumps, so much more favourable
to the fish from being cleaner, and so much better built, that our
fishers need not lose their time in short trips, but can push out into
the deep seas, and stay many days together. All these things help to
make fishing profitable.”
“Besides,” said Ella, “they help farming, which is of as much importance
to us as the fishing. Corn from abroad is so dear, that we should be
little better off than before, if farmer Duff did not grow more than
Murdoch once did.”
“The people in the other islands and in Lorn want all they can grow as
much as we,” replied Katie, “for their fishery grows with ours. Meat and
bannocks are as dear in all the countries round as they were here last
year.”
“Then we may thank farmer Duff for all the pains he has taken with the
soil of his fields and the stock of his pastures. He reaps just double
what he reaped fifteen years ago.”
“And so he had need, for there are more than double the number of mouths
to feed. Besides the strangers that have come to settle, look at the
families that have grown up. Where Mr. Callum used to spend a few days
now and then, there is Mary Duff’s husband and her five bairns; then
there are your nine, Ella—how your household is increased!”
“There lies one brother under the gray stone,” said Ella, “and Ronald
seeks his bannocks elsewhere; but there is Fergus’s tribe as well as my
own; and setting one against Murdoch’s son that died, and another
against his daughter that went off with the soldier, there is still more
than double the number by far.”
“Even supposing,” added Katie, “that Murdoch’s daughter does not come
back upon her father with her children, which I have heard is likely.
But, Ella, Duff’s farm ought to yield double and double for ever, if it
is to go on to feed us, for our children will marry and have their
little tribes as we have. If you and I live to be like many grandmothers
in these islands, we shall see our twenty or thirty grand-children, and
perhaps our eighty or ninety great-grand-children.”
“And then,” replied Ella, “may God keep us from the poverty that weighs
on such! May we never see our strong men wasting on shell-fish and
weeds, and our aged people dropping cold and hungry into their
deathbeds, and our young mothers tending their sickly infants, knowing
that food and warmth might save them, and unable to bring them either
the one or the other!”
“Do not let us think of it,” said Katie, looking round upon her domestic
comforts. “Providence has blessed us thus far, and let us not be too
keen to foresee the evil day that man’s power cannot remove.”
Ella was silent. Katie proceeded,—
“Surely man cannot remove that day, Ella, though you say nothing. Let
farmer Duff do all he can; let every foot of land be tilled that will
nourish an ear of barley, still the day may come; and what else can man
do?”
Ella made no direct reply. Presently she observed that Dan and his wife
seemed not to care for the evils of such a time, since they lived by
choice on the poorest food, and provided themselves with nothing that
they could lose in the worst of seasons.
“They are content, always content,” observed the widow; “and they say
they have all that is necessary; and they wonder that we can trouble
ourselves to obtain anything that is not necessary: but I tell them we
do not; I think a chimney, and a window, and bedding, and decent clothes
all necessary for the children.”
“Unless you would have them live like pigs in a sty,” observed Ella.
“When God gave us the charge of these little ones, he gave us no leave
that ever I heard of to expose them to sickness and hardship, and to
corrupt them by letting them live like brutes. By making them helpless
and quick in their feelings, he has shown as plainly as if he sent a
prophet to tell us, that we are to tend them as carefully and keep them
as innocent as ever our labour and forethought can help us to do.
Whenever I see a little one grovelling in dirt, or pining in want, or
given to vice such as it should not even have heard of, I always feel as
if God’s plain-spoken message had been at some time misunderstood;
either that the trust has been wrongly undertaken or wrongly managed.”
“I knew you thought so, Ella; and yet what can we say when parents see
and mourn all this, and cannot help themselves?”
“We can only say that if both father and mother have considered and
judged for the best, and worked hard, and denied themselves, no fault
rests with them. Where the fault lies in such a case is a thing that
Angus and I have talked over many a time. But such a case does not
concern those we were speaking of—those who are content with
destitution, when they might have comfort.”
The widow looked on her children and sighed.
“Nay,” said Ella, smiling, “there is no need for you to sigh. You might
carry your bairns to Inverary, and match them with the duke’s, and not a
stronger, or fairer, or more innocent would you find among them all.”
“May it please Providence to keep them so!”
“Why should you fear? You have comfort about you, and a prospect of
abundance. Keep your tears for a darker day, if there be such in the
years to come.”
“Every day is dark to me now,” thought the widow; but she kept down a
feeling that seemed ungrateful. Ella went on, anxious to cheer her.
“I watched your little Hugh this morning, as he and my younger ones were
playing on the sands, and I thought he looked as if he was made to carry
his own way through the world. You should have seen him managing the
dragging of the pool with the ragged net Angus gave the children. You
would have thought he had been to the station to take a lesson of the
superintendent, by his direction of the rest.”
“Aye, I am afraid he is overbearing,” replied the mother.
“Not at all; only spirited. If you keep him innocent with such a spirit
as he has, he may be anything; he may be like Ronald himself, who is so
fond of him. O, he is not overbearing. I saw him let go the net the
moment little Bessie was frightened at your dog that jumped upon her;
and he carried her through the water that was too deep for her to wade,
as soon as ever she began to cry for me. Now I think of it, Ronald did
take him to the station once, surely.”
“Yes; not very long ago, the last time he was here; and Hugh saw the
superintendent as you suppose, and has been full of imitation of all
that he saw ever since.”
“He may be superintendent himself some day or other, Katie. But does not
he love Ronald very much?”
“Very much; as he ought to do.”
“All my children do,” replied Ella. “It is always a happy time when
uncle Ronald comes. The same man that the officers respect above all who
are under them is as much beloved by the little ones as if he were a
soft-hearted girl.”
“You had the making of Ronald, and I give you joy of your work,” said
the widow.
“Ah, Katie, that is the way you always silence me about Ronald,” said
Ella, smiling.
“Well, then, tell me about Fergus: he is your work too.”
“You know all I can say about him,” said Ella, sighing. “You know my
pride in him, and that this very pride makes me the more grieved when I
see his temper harassed and soured by care, as I feel it must go on to
be, more and more. I am always in dread of a quarrel with one neighbour
or another; and more than ever now, in the high fishing season.”
“Surely he has less care now than at other times,” observed the widow.
“There is just now abundance for every body.”
“True; but this is the time for revenge. If Fergus has carried himself
high towards any neighbour, or given the sharp words that are never
forgotten, now is the time for his nets to be cut, or his boat set
adrift, or what he has fished in the day carried off in the night.”
“There are those in Garveloch, I know,” said Katie, “who can bring
themselves to do such things.”
“Let us mention no names, Katie; but thus it is that men shame their
race, and spurn the gifts they little deserve. To think that we cannot
enjoy a plentiful season in peace and thankfulness, but that some must
injure, and others complain! These are times when we should leave it to
the osprey to follow a prey, and to the summer storms to murmur. Hark!
there is Angus’s step outside; and time it is, for it cannot be far from
midnight.”
The widow invited Angus in to warm himself by her now bright fire; but
it was time for rest. Kenneth had gone home an hour before.
“He would find supper on the board,” said Ella; “and now, Angus, you
will be glad to do the same.”
Katie promised the nets within three days; and as soon as she had closed
the door behind her guests, sat down again for one other hour to help
the fulfilment of her promise, and then slept all the better for having
watched till the wind went down.
----------------------------
CHAPTER III.
KINDRED NOT KINDNESS
It was not very long before Ella’s fears on account of her brother
Fergus were in part realized, though the evil day was deferred by an
arrangement offered by Angus and eagerly accepted by his brother-in-law.
The herring fishery being peculiarly abundant this year, Angus wanted
more help on board his vessel; and as it was expected that the cod would
be plentiful in proportion, Angus might in his turn assist Fergus, when
the herring shoals were past, and the cod which follow to make prey of
them should become the chief object of the fishery. Fergus laboured from
July to October for a certain share of the herring produce; and Angus
was to go out with Fergus in all the intervals of his coasting trips
during the late autumn and winter. While Fergus was on board Angus’s
vessel, all went well; for Angus had no enemies. He might spread his
nets to dry on the beach, and his youngest child was guard enough to set
over them. He never left his fish on board all night, while he was at
home, thinking it wrong to put such a temptation to theft in the way of
any one; but if he had, no harm would have been done out of malice to
himself, as was too frequently the practice in this fishery.
Poor Fergus was not so secure, as he had found before, and was destined
to find again. Like most men of hasty tempers, who are besides subject
to care, he had enemies among those who did not know how to make
allowance for him, and were not disposed to forgive harsh expressions
which the offender was apt to forget that he had used. Dan, easy and
content as he seemed to be, had the selfishness common to lazy people;
and there is no more inveterate enemy to good-will than selfishness. Dan
was not, like many of his countrymen, ready with his oaths and his
cudgel at a moment’s warning, if anything went amiss; but Dan could
drawl out the most provoking things imaginable, and enjoy their effect
upon an irritable person, and show that he enjoyed it; and having thus
encouraged a quarrel, in which he did not give his adversary the
satisfaction of bearing his share heartily, he let it drop; but had no
objection to see it carried on by somebody else. He amused himself with
watching what befel Fergus, and with laughing at every little distress
which arose subsequent to a certain dispute which had once occurred
between them. He did no harm with his own hands, but people knew that he
did not object to seeing it done; and such sympathy affords great
advantage to the doers of mischief. Among these was Rob Murdoch, a doer
of mischief by nature as some said,—at all events by habit, and very
often by express will. Rob had never felt at ease with Ella or any of
the family since the day of his upsetting the boat; though there was
never a look or word from any of them which could have made him
uncomfortable, if his own consciousness had not. He was always ready to
suppose offence, and found no difficulty in creating it where he was not
liked, and only tolerated on account of long neighbourhood and distant
relationship. He kept out of Ella’s way, for he was mightily afraid of
her. He hated Angus, having been formerly taught by his father that
Angus was a traitor who intended to supplant him, and the impression
remained on his stupid mind long after the cause had been removed.
Ronald was out of his way entirely; and Fergus was therefore the only
one exposed to his poor spite, while he was the one least able to
disregard it. The time had been when Fergus would have scorned the idea
of being moved by anything Rob could say; but Fergus was more easily
moved than formerly, and it stung him to hear Rob predict, as he lounged
on the shore, that the wind would be contrary when Fergus wished it
fair; to be met on his return from an unsuccessful expedition with the
news that everybody else had caught a vast deal of fish; and, above all,
to see the enemy fretting the children into a passion, which was a
frequent pastime of Rob’s when he had nothing better to do. Out of these
provocations arose quarrels; and out of quarrels, Rob’s desire of
revenge; a desire which he could gratify only in a small way as long as
Fergus worked for his brother-in-law. Rob asked several times for the
loan of Fergus’s boat during the herring season; and as he made the
request in his father’s name, it was not refused; but when it was found
that the boat received some injury each time, Fergus very reasonably
desired Rob to repair the mischief as often as he caused it. Being too
lazy to do this, the loan was denied to him, and then he made bold to
use the boat without leave when he knew that Fergus was absent; and the
exclamations of the children having brought their mother out to see what
was the matter, the ill-will was not lessened by the addition of a
woman’s tongue. No terms were kept after the railing bout between Rob
and Janet on the sands: they regarded and acted towards each other as
enemies from that day forward.
Angus offered Fergus a benefit, as he called it, to finish off the
season with; that is, all the fish caught in the last trip were to be
Fergus’s; and to the winnings of this trip he looked for the means of
finally making up his rent, and of improving the clothing of the
children before the winter. The signs of the weather were anxiously
watched by himself and his family, the nets were carefully repaired, the
casks looked to, more salt brought in from the station, and every
preparation completed the evening before, when the nets and stores were
carried on board, and all made ready for starting at dawn. It was a
misty morning, such as would not have tempted either Janet or Ella
abroad if this had been any other trip than the last of the season: but
as it was, they attended their husbands down to the shore, with their
children flocking about them. As it was too foggy to let them see the
vessel at fifty yards distance from the beach they presently returned,
walking so slowly, that before they reached home the mists had partly
dispersed at the appearance of the rising sun, and opened a prospect
along the shore.
“There’s Rob turning the point,” cried one of the little ones.
“Rob at this time of the morning? Impossible!” said Ella. “They that
have no more to do than he are not stirring so early. It is he, however.
Look, Janet, how he peeps at us from behind the rock! I will go and
speak with him, for he has no quarrel with me, and I do not forget we
are cousins.”
It was not so easy, however, to catch him. When he saw Ella approaching,
he withdrew from sight; and when she turned the point, he was already
high up among the rocks, on a path which he could not have reached
without exercising more activity than was his wont.
“I believe the man thinks,” said Ella to herself, “as Mr. Callum used to
do, that I am a witch, for he flees me as a fowl flees the hawk. If I
could but win his ear for half an hour, there might be an end of this
ill-will between him and Fergus, which is a scandal to relations, and to
those who, living far from war, ought to live in peace.”
Where enmity once creeps in, it is difficult to preserve peace with any
of the parties concerned. After having missed Rob, Ella found that Janet
was offended at her having sought him; and it was with some difficulty
that she brought her sister-in-law to acknowledge that a quarrel has
done quite enough mischief when it separates two families, and that no
advantage can arise from its involving a third.
Before many hours had elapsed, the children came running to their
mother, crying—
“The boat! the boat! She is warping into the Bay. Father will be on
shore presently.”
“It cannot be our boat!” said Ella, turning pale, however, as she spoke.
“It must be one of the station boats.”
A glance showed her that it was indeed her husband’s vessel coming in
already, instead of three or four days hence, as she had expected. Her
only way of accounting for this quick return was by supposing that some
accident had happened on board. The wind was contrary, so that it must
be some time before the crew could land, and Ella was not disposed to
wait for tidings. She commanded her children not to go out and tell
Janet, who, being busy within doors, might not know of the return; and
then went down to the place where Murdoch’s old boat was lying, obtained
a hasty leave to use it and help to launch it, seized the oars and
pushed off, and was presently alongside her husband’s vessel. Fergus was
already half over the side, ready to jump down to his sister, and
impatient to gain the shore, while Angus in vain attempted to hold him
back.
“Push off, Ella!” cried Angus. “Do not come near till I bring him to
reason.”
Seeing that her husband and brother were both safe, Ella repressed her
anxiety to know what had happened, and by one vigorous pull shot off out
of Fergus’s reach. He threw himself back into the vessel, and trod the
little deck like one in a towering passion.
“My husband! my brother!” cried Ella, in a tone which reached the hearts
of both, “you have not quarrelled?”
“O no! nor ever shall,” said Angus, laying his hand on Fergus’s
shoulder, “and least of all this day.”
“Do you think I could fall out with Angus?” said Fergus. “No! I must be
sunk indeed before I could do that. It is he who has kept me from ruin
till now, and it is he who would make me think I am not ruined to-day.”
Ruined!—The truth was soon told. Fergus’s nets were destroyed. They had
been safe the night before. This morning, when he was preparing to throw
them, he found them cut almost to shreds. If he had had money to buy
more, they could not be provided in time. The season was over; his
benefit was lost; and with it went all hopes of making up his rent by
the day it would become due, and of supplying the additions he had
proposed to the comforts of his little ones.
Ella’s suspicions lighted upon Rob even before she heard Fergus declare
that it could be nobody else. A sudden thought having struck her, she
came alongside once more, and having communicated with her husband in a
tone which Fergus could not overhear, she again departed, shaping her
course for Murdoch’s dwelling.
Rob was lying on the beach asleep, as she expected; and beside him was
Dan, also asleep. If they had been awake, they would not have seen
Angus’s vessel which was now behind the point to their right. Ella
stepped on shore and wakened Rob, saying,
“I see you have no business of your own this bright noon, Rob; so come
and take an oar with me.”
Rob started up when he saw who was standing over him. He wished his tall
cousin far over seas, or anywhere but at his elbow.
“Ask Dan,” said he. “Dan! here’s my cousin Ella wants a trip. Take an
oar with her, will ye?”
“No,” replied Ella. “Let Dan finish his dream.”
“Meg is stouter than I at the oar,” pleaded Rob.
“It is you that I want, and that this moment,” said Ella, pointing his
way to the boat, towards which Rob shuffled unwillingly, like a
school-boy going in search of the rod with which he is to be whipped.
Instead of giving him an oar, Ella took both; and as he sat opposite her
with nothing to do, he felt very silly, and this feeling was a bad
preparation for what was to follow. When they were fairly beyond the
breakers, Ella rested on her oars, and, looking her companion full in
the face, asked him where he had passed the previous night. Rob looked
up to the sky, back to the shore, and around upon the waters, and then
scratching his head, asked,
“What was that ye said, cousin Ella?”
“You heard what I said.”
“Well; where should I have passed the night?”
“That is for you to answer. I ask again where you were when the moon set
last night?”
Rob shuffled in his talk as well as in his gait. He told how he
oftentimes spent his time on the rocks rather than bear the smell of
putrid fish under his father’s roof; and how Meg had foretold a bad
night, and it turned out fine; and many other things that had nothing to
do with Ella’s question. She let him go on till, by turning the point,
they came in sight of the Flora standing south-west. She directed his
attention to it, saying that the Flora was her object. Rob swore a deep
oath and demanded to be set on shore again, cursing himself for having
come without knowing whither he was to be taken. Ella’s steady eye was
still upon him when she asked the reason of this sudden horror of
meeting his cousins and boarding their boat: adding,
“I fancy it is not so very long since you were on board the Flora of
your own accord.”
Rob had sense enough to see that he only betrayed himself by showing
eagerness to get back, and therefore held his peace till they approached
the Flora, when he hailed Angus, requesting him to help Ella on board;
and then said to his companion,
“I’ll take the boat straight back with pleasure, cousin, with your
thanks, I suppose, to Duncan Hogg for the use of it.”
“Not yet,” said Ella; “I have more to say to you. Now, Rob, tell me
honestly whether you were at home all last night, and here the mischief
may end; but if you will not give an account to us, you must to the
magistrate at the station. If you are innocent you can have no objection
to clear yourself; if you are guilty, depend upon it you will meet with
more mercy from your cousins than from a stranger who comes to execute
justice?”
“As sure as ever anything happens, you always suspect me,” muttered Rob.
“What care I what happens to Fergus, or what he makes of his benefit?”
“O then, you know what has happened,” observed Ella, “and yet I have not
told you.”
Rob, finding that he only gave new occasion of suspicion by everything
he said, took refuge in sullen silence, got on board at Ella’s command,
and sat immovably looking at the sea as they steered for Islay, having
fastened the little boat to the stern of the Flora.
Rob’s courage or obstinacy failed him when the station became visible,
the white house of Mr. M’Kenzie, the magistrate, appearing at some
little distance above and behind the pier, the cooperage, the curing
house and the village. Ella, who watched an opportunity of saving the
culprit from a public exposure, was by his side the moment he showed an
inclination to speak.
“If ye will only just say ye are willing to make reparation, and will
never play such an unkind prank again,” said she, “I will intercede with
Fergus to forgive you.”
“What may be the cost of the nets?”
“More than you can make up without hard work; but it may be made up; and
I would fain set ye home, Rob, without having seen the magistrate’s
face.”
Rob muttered that he did not see why he should be brought to justice
more than others that did the same trick. It was but a prank; and when
they were boys and no magistrate within reach, nobody talked of
justice.—Ella reminded him that Mr. Callum had united all the offices of
law and justice in his own person when the island was inhabited by few
except themselves; but that circumstances had now changed, and relations
multiplied, and that property must be protected from the player of
pranks as well as from the thief.
Fergus, touched by the kindness of his brother and sister, controlled
his passion, and received Rob’s submission with more grace than it was
tendered with, agreeing to take compensation as the offender should be
able to give it, provided nets could be obtained at the station on
promise of future payment.
----------------------------
CHAPTER IV.
LOOKING BEFORE AND AFTER.
None of the party left the station without having seen the face of the
magistrate. He was in the store-house when Fergus went to make his
application for nets.
“What makes you want so many feet of netting at once?” asked Mr.
Mackenzie; “and in such a hurry too. I hope yours have not been
destroyed?”
“Indeed but they have, your honour; and another such loss would destroy
me.”
“The law must be put in force in its utmost rigour,” declared the
magistrate;—whereupon Rob hastily withdrew to the cooperage, where he
might be out of sight. “Scarcely a day passes,” continued Mr. Mackenzie,
“without information of some act of violence or another. How do you
suppose this happens, Mr. Angus?”
“Through jealousy, I believe, sir. We seldom hear of thefts——”
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Angus. I have had several complaints within a
few days of depredations on the fishing grounds in the lochs where the
cod are just showing themselves.”
“I rather think even these thefts must arise from revenge more than from
a desire of gain; for there is or ought to be no want at present through
the whole extent of the fishery. Some, like my brother Fergus, are
reduced to difficulty by the destruction of their implements; but in
such a season as this, there can be no absolute distress for any who are
willing to work.”
“I scarcely know which is the most painful,” replied the magistrate; “to
see men snatching bread out of one another’s mouths through jealousy and
spite, or under the impulse of pressing want. The worst of it is, the
last usually follows the first. This enemy of your brother’s, who has
been injuring him now without a pretence, may plead starvation in excuse
for some other act of violence hereafter.”
“I trust you are mistaken, sir,” replied Angus. “I trust the miseries of
poverty that I have seen elsewhere are far from our shores.”
“The first sign of their approach, Angus, is when men begin to fancy
their interests opposed to each other,—which the interests of men in
society can never be. Fair competition leads to the improvement of the
state of all; but the jealousy which tempts to injure any interest
whatever is the infallible token that distress is at hand. You have seen
enough of the world to know this to be a general truth, Angus. Why do
you dispute it in the present case?”
“Perhaps my own interest in the issue blinds me,” returned Angus. “I
have seen enough in other countries of what you describe to make me
melancholy when I witness men pulling one another’s fortunes to pieces
instead of building up the prosperity of the whole by labouring together
at that of every part. Whether I hear of different classes in a
commercial country petitioning for impediments to be thrown in one
another’s way, or see (as I saw in Canada) jealous neighbours levelling
one another’s fences in the dark, or laying siege to them in the
day-time, I feel sure that destruction is ready to step in and beggar
them all, whether it be in the shape of a prohibitory duty imposed by
government, or of wild cattle that come to trample down the corn on
which the quarrellers depend.”
“You once told us of some who united to make a road,” said Ella, who had
now joined her husband. “That was wiser than pulling down fences.”
“Where all helped to give each other the fair advantage of a road,”
replied her husband, “a flourishing settlement presently arose among the
fertile fields. Where the fences were levelled, there was soon no need
of fences. Some who had dwelt within them lay under the sod, hunger
having cut short their days, and others were gone in search of food,
leaving their fields to grow into a wilderness once more.”
“Theirs was indeed the lowest degree of folly that can be conceived.”
“Not quite,” observed Mr. Mackenzie. “I can fancy a lower, though I do
not ask you to receive it as fact. This letting in of wild cattle to
trample the corn took place when but few wanted to be fed, and those few
had immediate resources. If, instead of this act of folly, the
perpetrators had waited till hundreds and thousands were in expectation,
with an appetite which the most ample harvests could not satisfy, and
had set fire to the produce at the very season when it was most wanted,
under the idea of vexing the holders of the land, what would you say
then?”
“There is nothing to be said, sir, but that such would be an act of mere
madness,—too evidently madness to be committed by more than an
individual, and that individual an escaped maniac.”
“The school of ignorance is the innermost court of Bedlam,” replied Mr.
Mackenzie; “and while there are any patients remaining in it, it is
possible that corn-stacks may be burned by discontented people with the
notion of revenging the wrongs of the starving. But I put it only as a
possibility, you know.—Can it be, Angus, that you do not see the
tendency of the acts of violence that are disturbing this very district?
Do you not see distress and ruin in full prospect if they are not
checked, and if, moreover, the temper of the people be not directly
reversed?”
“Our resources are so improved that I would fain hope the best; and yet
our numbers increase in full proportion, so that we had not need waste
any of our capital.”
“I think not indeed. I have been visiting every station on the coast and
in the islands, and I find the same state of things everywhere,—a
prosperity so unusual in these districts, that the people think their
fortune secure for ever, while they are hastening, by every possible
means, the approach of distress.”
“I hope you find the farms and pastures improving with the fishery?”
observed Angus.—“Everything depends upon the food keeping pace with the
employment.”
“The farms are improving to the utmost that skill and labour can make
them improve. There is the powerful stimulus of an increasing demand,
while there are increasing facilities of production. There is more
manure, there are better implements, and more cattle; so that some farms
produce actually double what they did when the fishery began.”
Angus shook his head, observing that this was not enough.
“They have done their best already in the way of increase,” said he.
“They may be improved for some time to come, and to a great degree; but
each improvement yields a less return: so that they will be further and
further perpetually from again producing double in ten years; and all
this time the consumers are increasing at a much quicker rate.”
“Not double in ten years surely?” said Ella.
“Certainly not; but say twenty, thirty, fifty, a hundred, any number of
years you choose;—still, as the number of people doubles itself for
ever, while the produce of the land does not, the people must increase
faster than the produce. If corn produced corn without being wedded to
the soil, the rate of increase might be the same with that of the human
race. Then two sacks of barley might grow out of one, and two more again
out of each of those two—proceeding from one to two, four, eight,
sixteen, thirty-two, sixty-four, and so on.”
“If capital could be made to increase in this way, I see, Angus, that
there could never be too many people in the world, or in our little
world, Garveloch.”
“Or if, on the other hand, human production could be kept down to the
same rate with the production of our fields, we need have no fear of a
deficiency of food. If the number of producers increased only in
proportion to the increase of food, there would be no distress of the
kind our islands were formerly afflicted with, and may be afflicted with
again. But nobody thinks of establishing such a proportion; and in the
meanwhile, food is yielded, though in larger quantities, in less and
less proportions, while the eaters go on doubling and doubling their
numbers perpetually.”
“Then, to be sure, it is madness to destroy one another’s means of
living,” cried Ella. “It seems the first duty of everybody to increase
the production of food; and yet, here we are, cutting one another’s nets
to pieces, and driving the fish away on which we depend for our
subsistence!”
“You do not wonder now,” said Mr. Mackenzie, “at my grief for the
ignorance of the people, and my disgust at the quarrels that have such
consequences. I assure you the season is actually lost in some of the
northern lochs; for, not only are some fishers left without nets or
lines, but the fish have made no stay, being alarmed by tumult; and it
is but too probable that they will not return.”
“And all this time,” continued Angus, “these very quarrellers go on
marrying early, and raising large families—that is, they bring offspring
into the world while they are providing as fast as possible for their
future starvation.”
“There is no need to do here as the Romans did,” said Mr. Mackenzie,
“and as many other nations have done—no need to offer bounties for the
increase of population.”
“I think not indeed,” said Ella. “It seems a thing to be checked, rather
than encouraged.”
“All depends on time and circumstances, Ella. When Noah and his little
tribe stepped out of the ark into a desolated world, the great object
was to increase the number of beings, who might gather and enjoy the
fruits which the earth yielded, in an abundance overpowering to the few
who were there to consume. And the case is the same with every infant
nation which is not savage.”
“Savages do not value or subsist upon the fruits of the earth so much as
upon the beasts of the field,” said Ella;—“at least so Angus told me of
those who have retreated from before us in America.”
“Savages care for little beyond supplying the pressing wants of the
moment,” replied Angus. “They make no savings; they have no capital; and
their children die off as fast as poverty and disease can drive them out
of the world. There is no growth of either capital or population among
savages.”
“Those have indeed a poor chance for life and health,” said Mr.
Mackenzie, “whose parents feed at the best on raw roots and berries, who
sometimes keep themselves alive by swallowing grubs and worms, and at
other times fast for a week together. Shrunk, deformed, and weakly
themselves, their offspring are little likely to survive a scarcity,
even if it were possible to rear them under the most favourable
circumstances.”
“It is absurd,” said Angus, “to doubt the rate at which the human race
increases on account of the decrease of numbers among savages. The whole
question is concerning the proportion which capital and population bear
to each other; and it cannot therefore be tried where no capital
exists.”
“I suppose,” observed Ella, “that flocks and herds are the first capital
which a tribe possesses in any large quantity. How do numbers increase
among people who seek pasture but do not till the ground?”
“Such tribes are most numerous where pastures are fine, and weak where
the natural produce of the earth is scanty. But each continues a tribe,
and cannot become a nation while following a pastoral life. Their flocks
cannot multiply beyond a certain point unless the food of the flocks is
increased; and they who subsist upon the flocks cannot, in like manner,
multiply beyond a certain point, unless the flocks on which they feed
are multiplied.”
“But they not only do not increase,” observed Mr. Mackenzie, “they are
lessened perpetually by one or another of the unfortunate accidents to
which their condition subjects them. Pastoral tribes are particularly
prone to war. Instead of keeping possession of a certain territory on
which they always dwell, they rove about from one tract of country to
another, leaving undefended some which they call their own;—another
tribe takes possession; and then comes a struggle and a destructive war,
which reduces their numbers. Many of these tribes live in a state of
continual hostility, and therefore dwindle away.”
“But when they begin to settle and till the ground,” said Ella, “I
suppose their numbers increase again.”
“Yes; the Jews, after they were established in Canaan, became an
agricultural nation, and multiplied very rapidly. It was made, both by
their laws and customs, a point of duty to marry and to marry young; and
when the check of war was removed, their small territory became very
thickly peopled.”
“I suppose it was to repair the waste of war,” said Ella, “that the
bounty on population was offered among the Romans.”
“Not only from this cause,” replied Mr. Mackenzie, “but to repair the
breaches made in other ways. In the early days of Rome, the population
was too large for the capital in intervals of peace, as appears from the
law of their king Romulus, that no child should be exposed to die in the
desert before three years of age—a proof that it had been the previous
practice to expose children under that age. In after times—in the days
of Roman glory—the population was apt to decrease, even in times of
peace, from the faults in the distribution of property. The land had
fallen into the hands of a few great proprietors, and was not tilled by
free labour. Swarms of slaves were brought in from all conquered
countries, and they alone were employed where free labour should have
claimed a share of labour and reward; and there was therefore no
subsistence for a middling and lower class of free people. Their numbers
dwindled so as to alarm their rulers and give occasion to express laws
for the encouragement of population. If, instead of passing laws to
promote early marriages, and offering privileges to those who had a
certain number of children, the Roman emperors had allowed liberty to
the people they governed to labour and subsist, there would have been no
complaint of a deficiency of numbers, but rather an inquiry, as there is
among us, how all that are born are to be fed?”
“But do you mean, sir,” said Angus, “that there were not children born
to the lower classes of the Romans, or that they were born and died
through want?”
“Multitudes that were born died immediately, from being exposed; and
besides this, marriage was less practised during these ages of the Roman
empire than among the same number of people in any other country.”
“The laws were not of much use then.”
“And how can we wonder, when it was actually the custom to give away
corn gratis to thousands upon thousands who had no means of earning it!
What inducement has a man to marry, when he must either expose his
children, or see them die at home, or take his chance of a gratuitous
dole of food for them? The laws, if they acted at all, would not act
upon these large classes, but upon those of a higher rank, who would
marry if there were no law.”
“If in any country,” observed Ella, “there are no laws to encourage or
to check marriage, it seems as if that country ought to afford a fair
example of the natural increase of numbers.”
“Nay,” said her husband, “human laws have little influence in this case,
while the natural laws which regulate the production of life and of
capital are seldom suffered to act unchecked. Leave the people of any
country as free as you please to marry or not as they like, still, if
capital is controlled in any way, the population is controlled also.”
“Where then,” inquired Ella, “does capital act the most freely? Where in
the world may we see an example of the natural proportions in which men
and subsistence increase?”
“There has never been an age or country known,” replied Mr. Mackenzie,
“where at once the people have been so intelligent, their manners so
pure, and their resources so abundant, as to give the principle of
increase an unobstructed trial. Savage life will not do, because the
people are not intelligent. Colonies will not do, because they are not
free from vicious customs. An old empire will not do, because the means
of subsistence are restricted.”
“A new colony of free and intelligent people in a fertile country
affords the nearest approach to a fair trial,” observed Angus. “In some
of the best settlements I saw in America, the increase of capital and of
people went on at a rate that would scarcely be believed in an old
country.”
“And that of the people the fastest, I suppose?”
“Of course; but still capital was far a-head, though the population is
gaining upon it every year. When the people first went, they found
nothing but capital—all means of production and no consumers but
themselves. They raised corn in the same quantity from certain fields
every year. There was too much corn at first in one field for a hundred
mouths; but this hundred became two, four, eight, sixteen hundred, and
so on, till more and more land was tilled, the people still spreading
over it, and multiplying perpetually.”
“And when all is tilled and they still multiply,” said Ella, “they must
improve their land more and more.”
“And still,” said Angus, “the produce will fall behind more and more, as
every improvement, every outlay of capital yields a less return. Then
they will be in the condition of an old country like England, where many
are but half fed, where many prudent determine not to marry, and where
the imprudent must see their children pine in hunger, or waste under
disease till they are ready to be carried off by the first attack of
illness.”
“May this never be the case in Garveloch!” cried Ella.
“The more waste of capital there is,” said Mr. Mackenzie, “the sooner
will that day come.”
“But our islands are now in the state of a new colony, like that Angus
was speaking of,” said Ella. “Want must be far from us at present.”
“Except that we have not a fertile soil or a good climate,” replied her
husband. “It is true we do not depend entirely on corn;—we had not need
for our home supply can never be large. We have the resource of fish,
but it is so precarious a resource, that we ought to keep some means of
subsistence in reserve. If the herrings should desert us for a season or
two, and the harvest fail, some of us must starve, or all be
half-starved, unless we have a stock in reserve.”
“Poor Fergus!” exclaimed Ella. “No wonder he was grieved and angry this
morning! Five children and no capital stored up! He may well watch the
seasons and tremble at a storm.”
“I am sorry,” observed Mr. Mackenzie, “that he will not give up the name
of the offender who has injured him. It is necessary to the public
safety that this wanton destruction of property should be put an end to;
and I give it in charge to you, Angus, to see that full compensation is
made, or that the culprit is delivered into my hands to be made an
example of. If it had been generally known that I am here to administer
the law, I would not have yielded this much; but as I have only just
arrived, and am but beginning to make known the law, I do not insist on
an information being laid this time. Henceforward I always shall; for
connivance at an offence is itself an offence.”
----------------------------
CHAPTER V.
MORE HASTE THAN GOOD SPEED.
Fergus meanwhile was consulting Ronald as to the best mode in which
Rob’s labour could be applied towards repairing the damage he had
caused. He was too stupid and awkward to be entrusted with any
occupation in which he would not be overlooked by some more competent
person; and Ronald knew, though he did not say so, that there would be
perpetual danger of a quarrel if Rob became Fergus’s assistant in
fishing. Ronald, therefore, kindly offered to give Rob some inferior
employment about the cooperage, providing for his support out of his
wages, and paying the rest over to Fergus till the whole debt should be
cleared. Rob, to whom all labour was disagreeable alike, sulkily
consented, and swore at himself and everybody else when he saw the Flora
clear out from the little harbour, and leave him behind to repair by the
labour of weeks and months the mischief he had done in two short hours.
He had not only the cost of the nets to pay, but the amount which Fergus
would have cleared by the benefit he was now prevented from taking.
While he was involuntarily saving during this winter, his neighbours in
Garveloch were going on as variously as might be expected from the
difference in their knowledge, in their desires, and in their habits.
The Company was prosperous in a very high degree, and so, therefore,
might their labourers of every rank have been; but in this society, as
in all, some were wise and some were foolish; some provided for a time
of darkness, and some did not.
None were more provident than Angus and Ella, or provident in a wiser
manner. Seeing so clearly as they did the importance of an increase of
capital in a society which was adding to its numbers every day, they
reflected and consulted much on the modes and rates of increase of
capital differently applied, and saw that the interest of the Company,
and of every individual employed by it, was one and the same. Since
capital grows from savings only, there seemed no hope that that of the
Company should keep pace with the demands upon it; but something might
be done by increasing the value of the capital,—by making it secure, by
lessening the attendant expenses, by using every possible method of
making production easy and rapid. If all the corn that was raised in the
islands had been used for seed-corn, instead of nine-tenths of it being
eaten; if all the fish had been turned into its market-price on the
spot, without any expense of curing, packing, and conveying, this
capital would still have doubled itself much more slowly than the number
of people who were to subsist upon it; and when their subsistence and
all attendant expenses were subtracted, the process became much slower.
Yet it was a favourable time and a favourable set of circumstances for
capital to grow in. The property was secure, being under the protection
of law well administered, and under the management of an united body of
directors. The expenses were small, the position of the different
stations being advantageous, and the required apparatus very simple.
Production was at the same time easy; for the herrings came regularly,
and the seasons had thus far been favourable. Here, then, capital might
grow, if ever or anywhere; and it did grow; but the demands upon it grew
still faster; and therefore Angus and Ella guarded the capital of their
employers as if it had been their own, while they added to their private
store as fast as was consistent with a due enjoyment of the fruits of
their labour. Though they had nine children, they were at present in
more favourable circumstances for saving than some of their neighbours
who had few or none. Dan and his Noreen, for instance, saved nothing;
how should they, when their hut scarcely protected them from the rain
and snow, or their clothing from the chilling winds,—when there was not
even the slightest preparation made for the tender little one that was
soon to come into their charge? There can be no saving expected from
those whose commonest wants are not supplied. The Murdochs were in
nearly as poor a condition; and since they had never managed to avoid
sinking, even in their best days, it was scarcely likely that they
should now. Fergus toiled and toiled, and just continued to keep his
place in the little society, but he could do no more. The consumption of
his family just equalled the supply afforded by his labour, so that he
could not, with all his efforts, set apart anything to begin saving
upon. His nest-egg (whenever he thought he had one) had always
disappeared before the day was out. There was nothing for it, but hoping
that good seasons and full employment would last till his boys’ labour
should more than equal their consumption, and should not only release
him from the charge of their maintenance, but assist in the support of
the little ones, who must be nearly helpless for years to come.
If this society had been constituted like that of Rome, of which we have
spoken, there would have been little or no saving, and therefore no
provision for an increase in the number of its members. Where society is
composed of a few very rich people and a multitude very poor, the least
saving of all is made. The rich only _can_ save in such a case, and they
do not perceive a sufficient motive for doing so. They reckon on being
always rich, and do not see why they should not enjoy their wealth to
the utmost, year by year. Where society is composed of a few moderately
rich and many sufficiently supplied with necessaries, there is a much
better chance of an accumulation of capital, since the majority of the
people have then a hope of raising their children to the rank of the
moderately rich. They are free from the recklessness of the miserably
poor, and from the thoughtless extravagance of the possessors of
overgrown wealth. To this middling class belonged Angus, the widow
Cuthbert, Ronald and the Duffs; and they therefore made the largest
savings in proportion to their earnings. Mr. Mackenzie spent all his
income, having no children, and feeling himself provided for for life.
The naval superintendent, captain Forbes, a spirited young officer, was
so far from attempting to save, that he flung his money about during his
flying visits to the stations till he had none left, and barely escaped
debt. But Duff, who was not placed beyond the danger of bad seasons,
widow Cuthbert, and Angus, who had children dependent on them, and
Ronald, who regarded the families of Ella and Fergus with strong
affection, had motives to save, and did their full share towards making
the capital of the society grow.
One day the next spring, Ronald appeared before his sister’s door.
“Welcome, brother!” exclaimed Ella. “Is it a leisure day with you? and
are you come to spend it with us?”
“It is a leisure day, and the last I shall have for long; and I am come
to tell you why, and to consult with Angus about a little business of
his. This is the reason that I came myself instead of sending Kenneth.”
“I began to think you never meant to come, you have been so considerate
in sparing Kenneth. But sit ye down,—aye, outside the door if you like,
for it is a true spring day,—and Angus will be up from the boat
presently.”
Angus was soon seen hastening to meet Ronald, who then told his news.
Captain Forbes had arrived at the islay station in high spirits. A new
market for their produce was unexpectedly opened in the West Indies. It
was his belief that all the fish they could possibly prepare during the
season would be insufficient to meet the sudden demand; and he came to
see how many boats could be mustered, and how many labourers could be
withdrawn from other employments to aid in the fishery.
“Now is Fergus’s time,” said Ella, “for getting his two boys hired at
the station. They are young, to be sure; but as so many labourers are
wanted, their services will be received, I dare say.”
“Now is Rob’s time for clearing off his debt to Fergus,” observed Angus;
“for I suppose, Ronald, wages will rise at the cooperage. More barrels
will be wanted than you can easily prepare.”
“No doubt,” replied Ronald. “Now is your time, Angus, for building the
platform you were talking of last year; and I came to offer what help I
can. I will spare Kenneth for a week now to work with you; and I give
you notice that you must take him now or not at all. And if there should
be any difficulty about the little capital wanted for the work, I have a
few pounds which are much at your service.”
Angus thankfully accepted the offer of his boy’s help, but had no
occasion to borrow money. He should lose no time, he said, in erecting
his platform, if the tidings Ronald brought should prove correct. Much
time and labour in lading and unlading his vessel might be economized by
the employment of a crane; and he thought he could not invest his
savings better than in making such a provision at the commencement of a
busier season than had ever been known in Garveloch.
Ella’s apprehension was that the demand would be only temporary. On this
head Ronald could give her no satisfaction, as he did not know enough of
the circumstances to judge: but he thought that all who were called upon
to use only their labour, or a small capital which yields a quick
return, might rejoice in this sudden prosperity without any fear of
consequences; and even Angus’s investment of fixed capital would be
perfectly safe. If it was doubtful the year before whether the erection
of a platform and crane would not be worth while, it could scarcely fail
to answer now, when there was to be a large addition to the profits of
an ordinary season, even if that addition should be only temporary.
Angus proposed going to the spot to take measurements, and make an
estimate of the expense.
“If you will wait till noon is past,” said Ella, “I can go with you. I
must be taught your plan, Angus, that I may answer for you when you are
absent.”
Another object in this delay was to set her brother at liberty to go
where she knew his heart was all this time. While she was finishing her
household business, uncle Ronald went down with some of the little ones
to launch a tiny boat,—a present from Kenneth,—in one of the pools on
the beach. Their mother heard their shouts of glee, and thought within
herself that there were no festival days like those when her brother or
her boy came from the station.
In a few minutes the children were playing without their uncle’s
assistance. He had gone to the widow Cuthbert’s. Katie frankly held out
her hand as he entered, and bade him welcome to Garveloch. She was just
spreading the table for dinner, and invited him to sit down with herself
and the children: but when he declined, she made no ceremony, but called
the little ones from their play; and the meal went forward as if no
guest had been there, except that Katie conversed freely with her friend
Ronald.
“Hugh is much grown,” observed Ronald. “I did not know him at first when
he came to see me land.”
“I knew you though,” cried Hugh, “and I went to see whether you brought
me a tub like the one you gave Bessie. I want a tub for my fish when I
catch any.”
“I will make you a tub bigger than Bessie’s, and Kenneth shall bring
it.”
“I wish you would bring it,” cried Hugh. “You promised me a boat the
last time you came, a long, long while ago, and you never sent it.”
“Yes, indeed I did, Hugh, and I thought Kenneth had given it to you.”
Katie explained that it had been delivered safe, but had strangely
disappeared before Hugh had seen it; and that as he never asked about
it, she had not vexed him with explaining what had happened.
“Why did not you ask me for another?” said Ronald. “I do wish you would
be free with me as an old friend.”
“Indeed I always am,” replied Katie. “I would ask a favour of you as
easily as of Angus or Fergus.”
After a moment’s pause, Ronald told his tidings of the prospect of a
busy season, and offered to purchase hemp for the widow and send it by
Kenneth, before the price should rise, if she had not already a
sufficient stock for her net-making for the year. Katie thankfully
accepted his services, and looked so cheerfully round upon her children,
when she heard of the approaching prosperity, that Ronald was glad he
had taken courage to come and tell her.
When the meal was over, Katie took up her employment and seemed far from
wishing that Ronald should go; but she kept little Hugh beside her to
show Ronald how he was learning to help his mother in her work.
By the time several subjects of mutual interest had been talked over,
Ronald recollected that the hour was long past when he ought to have met
Angus on the beach, and he rose to go, offering to look in again in the
evening before his departure; to which Katie made no objection.
Dinner was over at Angus’s house, but Ella, who guessed where her
brother was, would not have him called.—She suspected the truth,—that he
came to observe whether there was any chance of his winning Katie at
last, and to consult his sister, in case of being unable to discover for
himself how Katie felt towards him. He was rather disheartened by the
interview. She was so frank and friendly in her manner that he could not
believe she felt any of the restraint he laboured under—anything more
than the regard which she testified to his sister and brother. Ella
could not contradict him. She was far from thinking the case a hopeless
one; but she believed that time and patience were still and would long
be necessary. She assured her brother that precipitation would probably
ruin all; and that his best chance was in quietly waiting till he should
have further opportunities of winning upon her. This determined Ronald
not to speak at present, as, in his impatience of suspense, he had
nearly resolved to do.
When the little party went down to the place where Angus proposed to
erect his new building, several loungers gathered round to watch what
was going to be done. Ronald was looked upon as so awfully learned a
man, especially when using his rule and frowning over his calculations,
that strangers,—such strangers as were in Garveloch,—did not venture to
speak to him. They made their inquiries of the children in preference.
First came Noreen lagging along the shore in the gray cloak which she
was supposed never to put off, as she had never been seen without it,
winter or summer. Wrapt in it, and hanging over her arm, head downwards,
was her baby, feebly crying, as usual, and as usual disregarded; for
nothing short of a shrill scream seemed to be thought by Noreen worthy
of attention. Her cap was nearly the same colour as her cloak, and her
hair did not tend to ornament her further than by helping to conceal a
black eye.
“Annie, darling, and how busy you all seem! And you nursing the babby as
if you’d had one in your arms all your days, my darling.”
“I dare not hold him as you hold your’s,” said Annie. “Look! the little
thing’s face is as black——O look!”
“As black as your eye,” cried Bessie.
“Is it my eye, darling? O, it’s a trifle that Dan gave me,—the
villain,—when the spirits were in him.”
“What! did Dan strike you?” cried Annie, who was old enough to know that
husbands and wives should not fall out like children.
“Strike me, darling! Yes, and the babby too. O, you should have heard
the babby bawl as loud as me.”
“Is not Dan very sorry?” asked Annie, coaxing the unfortunate infant.
“Is it sorry the ruffian would be? Not he; and why should he? ’Twas the
spirits that made him a villain for the time; but he is the mildest
husband of a noon-time that ever was seen. So, darling, don’t you go and
dream he isn’t a good enough man for me. Heaven’s blessing on him!—He
never bothers me as your father would, Annie. We’re just content,
without all the measuring and building, and salting and packing, that
you have to do at the father’s bidding, my darling. What’s all this
trouble about now?”
Annie was too anxious to defend her father to answer the question
immediately; so Noreen turned round to the little ones who were jumping
from the ledges of rock.
“And what’s all this trouble about, jewels?”
“The captain is coming! the captain is coming!” cried they.
“Is it the captain going to have a new house on Garveloch?” cried
Noreen. “O Dan, up to the gentleman as soon as he comes, and get the
money others got before you last time; and when ye get it, don’t be
making a beast of yourself or a martyr of the babby, but remember the
rent, jewel.”
Dan found it much easier to remember the rent than to pay it, and had
rather give his wife a black eye in private than be lectured by her in
public; and he therefore looked sulky and bade her run after the captain
if she chose, for that he would not bother himself for any reason in
life.—Ella, who had overheard all, explained that there was no reason,
as far as the captain was concerned; but that if Dan would bother
himself to go out fishing, the rent would be no longer a trouble.
With all their recklessness and indolence, these people had pride; and
when they heard that everybody was likely to prosper this summer, Noreen
began to talk of holding up her head, as she had a right to do, equal to
any of them that little thought what her relations were at Rathmullin.
Dan esteemed it mighty provoking that the bread was taken from within
his teeth by them that were born to nothing but what they got with their
dirty hands. If he had had a word with the captain as soon as others, he
might have coaxed him into letting him have a boat; but it was always
the way,—while he was content at home and just thinking of nothing at
all, some vagabond or another stept into his shoes.
Ronald refrained from calling Dan to account for his term of abuse,
knowing it to be in such frequent use in Ireland as to have lost much of
its offensiveness. He assured Dan that the captain had work for
everybody just now, and urged his making application to be hired without
delay.
Murdoch stared with astonishment when he found that Angus was actually
going to take down his curing-shed and remove it to the place where the
stage was to be erected. It seemed to him as well as to Dan vastly too
much trouble and expense; but Angus had taken into account the damage
the fish sustain by being much exposed and shifted about previous to
curing; and he believed that the expedition and security with which the
produce would be hauled up, prepared, and shipped again, would soon
repay him for what he was about to do.
The business of months seemed to be transacted in Garveloch this
afternoon, on the strength of the tidings which Ronald brought. All
doubtful matters (except the one which most nearly concerned Ronald)
were brought to a decision. Angus decided, as we have seen, on making a
large venture of fixed capital. Farmer Duff decided on hiring some more
labourers while there was any chance of his getting them. Fergus decided
on offering the labour of his two eldest boys at the station, believing
that there would be work for all, however young. More than a few parties
decided that their courtship should end in immediate marriage, and never
doubted the perfect propriety of making use of a season of prosperity
for the purpose. Dan decided on putting his hand to the oar at last. All
who wished to hire labour decided on looking abroad for labourers, and
betimes, if they wished to make good terms. All who had labour to let
began to consider how high they might venture to fix its price.
This was no deceitful promise of prosperity,—to those at least who did
not expect too much from it. The sanguine and the ignorant, who are ever
ready to take an ell where an inch is given, supposed that their island
was enriched for ever. They heard of wages rising higher and higher, and
never suspected they might fall. They saw that the only thing at present
wanted was a greater number of labourers, and imagined that when their
tribes of children were grown up, all would be right,—wages as high,
food as plentiful as now, and as great an increase of employment as
there would be of labour. It was well that all did not keep up their
expectations to this pitch,—that some were aware how precarious was the
present prosperity. A single bad season, the opening of a few more
fishing stations, a change in the diet of the West India slaves,—any one
of these, or many other circumstances, might reduce the Garveloch
fishery to what it had been; while the numbers of those who depended
upon it for subsistence were increasing with a greater and a greater
rapidity.
The least sanguine, however, could not resist the feeling of
exhilaration excited by what passed before their eyes: nor was there any
reason that they should. Prudence and foresight do not interfere with
the rational enjoyment of blessings; they rather add to it by imparting
a feeling of security. The youngest and giddiest could not relish more
than Angus and his wife the freedom from care they now enjoyed, the
sight of plenty around them, and the knowledge that none need be idle,
none need be poor; and if these, the young and the giddy, bestowed
little thought on the probable issue of their present state, and escaped
the anxiety with which they ought to have regarded the future, neither
did they share the satisfaction of making provision for a season of
storms.
The captain alighted in Garveloch, now and then, in his flight round the
station. He was always in a prodigious bustle, and he made every body he
met as fidgetty as himself about the impossibility of getting labourers
enough for the work to be done. Wherever he went, it was suggested to
him that people might be hired from some other place, from which other
place he had just heard that there was also a deficiency of labour.
Some people thought they might be satisfied with having as large a trade
as their numbers could manage; but the captain was not satisfied without
taking all that offered. Men and their families were brought from a
distance, all the boys that could handle an oar or help to draw a net
received wages; all the girls assisted their mothers to cure; so that,
at this time, the largest families were the richest. These circumstances
acted as an encouragement, and the captain’s sanguine expectation that
the demand would continue operated as a direct bounty on population;
and, in consequence, numbers increased in Garveloch as rapidly as in any
new colony of a fertile country.
The seasons which are favourable to the fishery,—in respect of
weather,—are favourable to the harvest also. Farmer Duff reaped abundant
crops the next two seasons, which unusual abundance just served to feed
his customers. What would have been done in case of an average or an
inferior crop having been yielded, few troubled themselves to determine.
They had enough, and that was all they cared for.
Kenneth could not often be spared during these two seasons; but he came
to attend the christening of a little brother and of two cousins. The
only troubles he had to relate were of the difficulty of supplying the
orders for barrels, and of the passion the captain was in when fish were
spoiled for sale by being packed in old casks. The magistrate had the
least to do of anybody. Hard times are the days of crime. There were
still occasional quarrels; complaints of oppression on one side and
sauciness on the other, and of a few acts of malice still perpetrated by
people as stupid and helpless as Rob; but the crimes to which men are
stimulated by want were not at present heard of. Were they over for
ever?
CHAPTER VI.
A DREARY PROSPECT.
A time of leisure, as grievous to the most reckless and indolent as to
the superior members of the society, came round ere long. First appeared
hardship in the shape of an average crop; for the people having
increased their consumption up to the amount of a remarkably abundant
harvest, were of course stinted when the soil yielded only the usual
return. No very disastrous consequences followed at first. There was
much complaint and a little dismay when it was found that supplies must
not be looked for from the neighbouring districts, since there also the
season had been only moderately favourable, and there were mouths enough
to feed in each place to leave no supplies over for Garveloch. The
Garveloch people therefore were obliged to eat some of their fish
instead of selling it, and to pay a very high price for their barley and
oatmeal. Those who were able to give this price were willing to do it,
seeing that the rise of price was a necessary consequence of the
comparative scarcity; that farmer Duff must pay himself for the outlay
on his land, whether its produce were ample or scanty; and that its
dearness alone could make the supply last till the next harvest came
round. Those who were too poor to buy abused the farmer, saying that his
crop was not scantier than it had been in many former years when he had
sold it much cheaper, and that he was making use of a dispensation of
Providence to fill his own pocket. They were slow to perceive that it
was themselves and not the farmer who had made the change; that they had
caused the increase of demand and the consequent rise of price.
It would have been well if nothing worse than the occurrence of an
average season had happened. The number of people brought by a sudden
demand for labour might have lessened. Some might have departed
elsewhere, and others have devised plans for a new introduction or
better economy of food; and after a short period of hardship, the demand
for food might have gradually accommodated itself to the supply; for
their society was not like the population of an overgrown district,
where there may be mistakes in ascribing effects to causes, and where
the blame of hardship may be laid in the wrong place. The people of
Garveloch might survey their little district at a glance, and calculate
the supply of provision grown, and count the numbers to be fed by it,
and by this means discern, in ordinary circumstances, how they might
best manage to proportion their resources of labour and food. But if any
had endeavoured to do this, their expectations would have been baffled
by the event, unless they had taken into the account the probability of
bad seasons—a probability which the truly wise will never overlook.
A few seasons after the period of prosperity of which we have spoken,
the dawn of a June morning broke as gloomily as if it had been November.
Scudding clouds, from which came gushes of hail, swept over the sky and
brushed the tallest points of rock as they passed. The wind came in
gusts as chill as the wintry blasts, and before it the vexed ocean
swelled and heaved, while its tumbling mass of waters seemed to forbid
man to approach, much more to trust the frail workmanship of his hands
to its overwhelming power. The night-light still glimmered from some of
the dwellings in Garveloch, the islands of the Sound were not yet
visible from the heights, and the peaks of Lorn were but beginning to
show themselves against the eastern sky, when Angus came out stealthily
from his dwelling, softly closed the door, drew his plaid about him, and
paced down to the beach. He was proceeding to get out his boat, when his
son Kenneth approached.
“Father,” said he, “you are not going to trust yourself at sea to-day?”
“Help must be had, Kenneth. I must cross at the risk of my own life, or
more will be lost. I have here the last of my savings; and since money
is worth no more than pebbles in Garveloch, I must carry it where it may
buy us food.”
“And my mother——”
“Your mother is in the inner room, where she has been up with Jamie all
night. I heard him very loud just now. His fever runs high, so that she
will not miss me perhaps for hours. She neither saw nor heard me come
out.—Now, Kenneth, say nothing about going instead of me. You know that
my experience of the sea is greater than yours, and the best skill is
little enough for such a voyage as mine is like to be.”
“But my mother must soon know,” urged Kenneth.
“Surely. Tell her that I hope to be back to-morrow night, with that
which may ease her nursing. Farewell, my boy.”
Kenneth was a brave, high-spirited youth. His heart was full when he saw
his father put off among the stormy breakers, and he therefore said
nothing. He helped to guide the boat to the last moment, wading as deep
and struggling with the waves as long as he possibly could, till his
father made a commanding sign that he should return. There was no use in
speaking amidst the thunder of the waters. Kenneth wrung out his plaid,
and climbing the rock, sat down, unheeding the wind, to watch his
father’s boat, scarcely visible in the grey light, as it won its weary
way among the billows. Bitter thoughts rose fast within him;—his father
in peril at sea; his mother worn with care and watching; his beloved
little Jamie, the youngest of the large family, and their darling,
sinking under the fever; all the others changing from what they had
been, some in health, some in spirits, some in temper, and he unable to
do anything to help them. Dismissed with others from the station because
his labour was not now worth the food he consumed, he had come home to
be, as he thought, a burden, but as his parents declared, a comfort, to
his family amidst their cares, and daily looked round, and ever in vain,
for some means of assisting them. As he now thought of the fruitlessness
of all his efforts, tears rose and blinded him so that he could no
longer discern any object at sea. As fast as he dashed them away they
rose again, till he no longer resisted them, but let them flow as they
had never flowed since childhood.
As he sat with his face hid in his plaid, he was roused by the pressure
of his mother’s hand upon his shoulder. She had spoken from a distance,
but the roaring of wind and waters and the screaming of sea-fowl were
more powerful than her voice, and her appearance took Kenneth by
surprise—a surprise at which she smiled.
“Mother!” he cried, as he started up, and a burning blush overspread his
face; “if I were a good son, it would be my part to smile when I found
you with sinking spirits.”
Ella smiled again as she answered—
“And when my spirits sink, I will look to you for cheer. Meantime, never
fancy that tears are unworthy a brave man, or always a sorrowful sight
to a mother. It is God’s will, Kenneth, that there is cause for tears;
and since there is cause, it is no pain to me to see them fall. If God
calls you and me hither to look out upon a second year’s storms, he
knows that it is as natural for the heart as for the cloud to drop its
rain; and never think, my boy, that I shall be a harder judge than he.”
“But what brought ye out, mother, so early, into the cold?”
“I came to seek the cooling wind. Jamie fell asleep, and Annie came to
take her turn beside him; and finding Angus gone, and my head hot and
weary, I thought I should find more rest on the rock than in my bed. I
see the boat, Kenneth. I know your father’s purpose, and I guess you
were praying just now for his safe return.”
“And, O mother! I had some distrustful thoughts in the midst of my
prayer. If he should not return, and even while he is gone, I can do
nothing. Here I am, eating my daily portion, which I never helped to
earn; being a burden when I thought—proud as I was—that I should be your
main joy and help. O mother! this humbles one sadly. I never thought to
be so humbled.”
“Who that is humbled ever sees the stroke before it comes, Kenneth? Look
round, and mark. Where many a smoke rose, only a short year since, from
those cottages below, the fires are quenched, and with them is quenched
the pride of those who revelled in plenty. Now, many are gone, and have
left but four bare walls for us to remember them by. Some are gone to
lie cold under yonder gray stones, and some few have found their way
back over the sea. Those that remain have lost their pride: it was blown
away with the cold ashes of their last fire; and it will not come back
while they sit hungry and shivering. Which of these thought any more
than you that they should be so humbled? When I gloried in my Jamie, as
the brightest and handsomest of my children, I did not expect that he
would be the first I should lay in the grave.”
“Must he die, mother?”
“I take such to be God’s will, Kenneth; but I once had a lesson, as you
know, against reading his pleasure too readily. They that I thought lost
came to dry land, and another lay under the water when I thought him
safe on the hard rock. Since that day, I have ever waited for the issue;
and so I will now. We will hope that Jamie may live, and we will be
ready to part with any who were but just now in life and strength.”
“It is but little we know, indeed,” replied Kenneth. “It seems but
yesterday that yon sea was almost as busy as a thronged city, with a
hundred vessels following the shoals, and then crowding homewards with a
full cargo; and now this year and last, not a boat has gone out, not a
gleam of sun, not a blink of moonlight has been upon the sea; and as to
the land, it is more changed still. Where the barley-fields were as
green as a rich pasture three years ago, there are only a few straggling
blades, just enough to tempt a man with thoughts of what a harvest is.
This is a change we little feared to see.”
“And yet,” said Ella, “many did foresee, and all might have foreseen.
When was there ever a time that the seasons did not change? Here we have
been too slow to learn God’s will. We knew that the same storms that
took away our occupation must cut off our harvest; we knew that such
stormy seasons come from time to time; and yet we acted as if we were
promised plenty for ever. Our children look up to us for food, because
we have given them no warning that it should cease; and they are right.
But if we look up to God in the same manner we are wrong; for the
warning was given long ago.”
“I have heard uncle Ronald speak of it,” replied Kenneth. “He has often
feared that scarcity would come; but he told me that father, and widow
Cuthbert, and the Duffs, would never be taken by surprise.”
“If it had not been for our savings,” replied Ella, “we should have had
worse things to undergo than may be in store for us. Instead of
trembling for Jamie, I might have been mourning the half of my children.
Instead of grieving to see you wasting, Kenneth—how thin ye are grown!—I
might have been——” She stopped.
“If I am thin, mother,” Kenneth replied, “it is with care; and my care
is that I can do nothing for bread for myself and you.”
“I will take you at your word,” replied his mother, with a smile. “We
will try whether you will grow stouter for your conscience being at
rest. But, mind, it shall be but a moderate trial, and I will share it
with you.”
Kenneth looked eagerly to his mother for an explanation of what was in
her mind. Ella told him that there was positively no more grain to be
bought before harvest. Farmer Duff had very wisely kept back enough for
seed-corn, in case of the crop failing utterly, and had very reasonably
laid up a sufficient store for his own household; and none was now left
over. Ella’s remaining store was not sufficient to afford even a stinted
allowance to the whole family for the three months still to come; and
she now, therefore, proposed that neither she nor her son should touch
barley or oatmeal, but give up their share to the younger and tenderer
members of the family.
Kenneth was grateful to his mother for her confidence. She had hitherto
concealed the fact of the supply being nearly exhausted, in the hope
that Kenneth, like the rest, would eat and think little of the future;
but she now saw that he would be made happier by being allowed to share
her sacrifices, and she therefore called upon him to do so.
Kenneth was not yet satisfied. It was not enough to be permitted to save
food; he must find out how to obtain it.
“Not enough!” exclaimed his mother, mournfully. “My boy, ye little know
what it is, and ye never can till the trial is made. Ye little know what
it is to lie down at night cold and aching, and to toss about unable to
sleep, when sleep seems the one thing that would give ye ease, since ye
cannot have food. Ye little think what sleep is when it comes,—how
horrible fancies are ever rising up to steal away the sweetness of
rest—how all that ye see and all that ye touch turns to food, and turns
back again before ye can get it to your mouth; or, worse still, to fancy
ye are driven by some evil power to strangle and devour whatever is most
precious to you. Ye little think what it is to wake with a parched mouth
and hands clenched, so that they are like an infant’s all the day after,
and the limbs trembling and the sight dim, as if fifty years had come
over ye in a night. Ye little know, Kenneth, what it will be to loathe
the food you and I shall have, and to see the thoughtless little ones
crumbling the bannocks and eating them as if they were to be had as
easily as the hailstones that have beat down the crops. Wait a while, my
boy, before you say all this is not enough.”
“You know too well, mother, what it is. Can it be that you have been
fasting alone already?”
“I learned all this,” said Ella, evading the question, “when I was
nearly as young as you. There was a scarcity then, and we had a sore
struggle. My father was never well after that season. There was no need,
thank God, to stint the lads as we stinted ourselves; and, as for me,
the only harm,” she continued, smiling, “was, that your father found me
less comely when he came back than I had been when he went away. There
is also this good,—that there is one among us who has gone through evil
times, and knows how to abide them.”
“Teach me, mother. How shall I get such food as we may live on?”
“There will be no positive want of food yet, my boy, though it will be
such as will not nourish us like that we have been used to. We must try
shell-fish, without bannocks or potatoes; merely shell-fish, day after
day; and the strongest soon grow weak on such diet.”
“I would rather give up my share, sometimes,” said Kenneth, “than gather
them at the cost of what I see. I have been glad you were at home when
the tide went down, and I would not let the little ones come and help,
lest they should learn to fight like the hungry people on the shore.
Dan, that ever kept his eyes half-shut at noon, now watches the first
falling of the water, and bullies every one, if it be Noreen herself,
that sees a shell before he snatches it.”
“Their potatoes have not come up,” observed Ella, “and they begin to be
pinched the very first, because they had nothing to give for meal.”
“And then,” continued Kenneth, “the Murdochs have got the ill-will of
all the neighbours, by their stripping every child they meet of whatever
he may be carrying home. The very babies are learning to curse Meg
Murdoch.”
“And so you took their part,” said Ella, smiling, “and let them strip
you in turn. You are right not to let your little brothers go down with
you to learn theft and covetousness; but you must not go on giving away
your own share, now that you will have no bread at home.”
“Then there are the fowl,” said Kenneth. “They are not food for the
delicate, to be sure, at this season; but we must try whether they will
not nourish us till better days come. The worst of it is that very few
are left, and those are the oldest and toughest.”
“The neighbours that are poorer than we have been everywhere before us,”
said Ella. “But they are welcome. Since they trusted to chance, the
first chances are their due. My eyes are dim with watching yon boat, and
I can see nothing: is it still there, or has the mist come over it?”
Ella had scarcely withdrawn her gaze for a moment from her husband’s
struggle with the winds and waves. Kenneth, who had not thus strained
his sight, could just discern the speck rising and falling on the dreary
waste of waters.
“I see her still winning her way, mother; but you will scarce make her
out again.”
“I will not try now, but go home.”
“And to bed,” said Kenneth. “You are weary and half-frozen, standing on
this point as if ye came to meet the storm. Promise me you will rest,
mother!”
“Perhaps I will if Jamie is still asleep. And do you hasten down,
Kenneth, and gather whatever the tide may have thrown up. Now, don’t
part with all you get for your own share. I have called upon you for
self-denial; and part of that self-denial must be not to give all the
help you have been accustomed to yield.”
“That is the worst part of it,” said Kenneth; “but I remember, mother,
that my first duty lies at home. O, if there were no hardship, how much
less greedy and quarrelsome should we be! It is not in men’s nature to
quarrel for shell-fish every time the tide goes down.”
“Remember,” said Ella, “that better things also arise out of hardship.
Do none learn patience? Do none practise self-denial?”
“But we have not known extreme hardship, mother.”
“True. May the day never come when I shall see my children looking with
jealousy upon one another! The jealousy of the starving is a fearful
sight.”
Kenneth’s first trial of his new resolution awaited him when he went
down to the shore to gather shell-fish. His appearance was usually a
signal for the children, who were driven away by some one of the tyrants
of the neighbourhood, to come down and put themselves under his
protection. They had learned to reckon on his share being divided among
them; for, while there was food at home, he could not find in his heart
to refuse the little half-starved creatures their piteous requests. One
found that some of her pickings were mere empty shells; another pleaded
that she had no breakfast on the mornings when it was her turn to look
for fish; and another declared that his father would beat him if he did
not carry home his bonnetful. One or all of these pleas usually emptied
Kenneth’s store. One set of claimants had never yet been refused,—his
cousins. Fergus’s two eldest boys, who had earned good wages, and hoped
to earn them again when the fishery should be resumed, were thrown back
on their own resources in the interval. It was melancholy to see them
wandering about the island in search of anything that might be rendered
eatable, and at times reduced to beg of their cousin Kenneth as many
shell-fish as he could spare. Kenneth felt that nothing but absolute
famine could drive him to deny them; and he was therefore glad to
perceive that they were not on the shore this morning. He gave notice to
the little ones, who now gathered about him, that he could henceforth
only help them by defending their right to whatever they could pick up.
He must share equally with them from this day, and he hoped they would
not ask that which he could no longer give. And now began the scenes
which he was henceforth daily to witness among the children, and in
time, upon a larger scale, among the parents. All the petty arts, all
the violence, all the recklessness, to which the needy are tempted,
began to show themselves first among those whose habits of self-control
were weakest; and afforded a specimen of what might be looked for when
the parents should be driven by want beyond the restraint of principles
and habits which had been powerful in the absence of overwhelming
temptation.
One of the little boys uplifted a vehement cry. “Willie has snatched my
bonnet! O, my bonnet, my bonnet! It was fuller to-day than it has ever
been yet.”
“That is the very reason,” cried Willie, a stout lad, who felt that he
could carry everything among the little ones by strength of arm. “You
never had enough before to make it worth while taking them. Now I have
got them, I will keep them.”
Kenneth, who was the representative of justice, struggled with Willie,
and got back the property; but the lad vowed vengeance for his drubbing,
especially against the complainant, who henceforth had no peace. All
parties being left discontented, it was plainly a great evil that there
had been temptation to recur to what Willie called the right of the
strongest.
One of the little girls was found hidden behind a rock, eating all that
had been collected for the family at home. Many cried “Shame!” and vowed
she should never again be trusted within reach of more than her own
share; to which she answered, that she should eat when she was hungry,
and that those who had enough might supply her brothers and sisters.
This child would have had a rate levied upon all the more provident, for
the relief of her fellow-paupers.
Two lads having quarrelled about the share due to one, the most hungry
threw the whole back into the sea, by way of revenge as he declared. One
would have thought he had heard Mr. Mackenzie speak of the possible,
though extreme, case of men burning stacks because there was not enough
corn.
Even this reckless boy was less provoking than one party, pre-eminent in
poverty and dirt, who could not be persuaded to give over their sport,
happen what might. They called together whatever animals could eat
shell-fish, and put this food down the mouths of dogs and ponys,—both of
which eat fish in the islands.
“How can you,” said Kenneth, “bring more eaters down to the shore when
we have too many already?”
“We must have our play,” answered they. “Ours is the age for play, as we
have heard our father say; and we are so cold and hungry almost all day,
that it is very hard if we may not amuse ourselves when we can.”
There was no use in pointing out to them that they were doing all they
could to increase their own hunger; they only answered that they would
have their sport as long as they could get it, and immediately whistled
for more dogs.
To judge by their acts, these children did not perceive that, though
they could not determine the quantity of fish which should be within
reach, it was their fault that the number of eaters was needlessly
increased. The half-starved multitudes of an over-peopled kingdom might
take a lesson from their folly.
“Can this be the place,” thought Kenneth, “can these be the children,
where and among whom there was so much cheerfulness but a few seasons
ago? How happy we all used to be picking up our fish! And now, some
still laugh louder than ever; but the mirth of the destitute is more
painful to witness than the grave looks of those who have something
left. O, for peace and plenty once more!”
----------------------------
CHAPTER VII.
THE DISCIPLINE OF THE TEACHABLE.
As Ella slowly took her way homewards, she caught a glimpse of two men
coming up the winding path she was descending. Forgetting the
impossibility that Angus should be already returned, and seeing that one
was Fergus, she supposed that her husband and brother were coming to
meet her. On her turning a point, they were in full view. It was Ronald
instead of Angus. Terror seized the anxious wife, who was weakened by
watching and care.
“O Angus, Angus!” she cried, in tones which made the rocks ring again.
“O, he is lost, and ye are come to tell me!”
Before her brothers could reach her, she had sunk down, unable to keep
her hold of the rock, while the earth seemed to swim round and quake
beneath her. She was lost in a fainting-fit before a word of comfort
could reach her ear.
“This must be fasting as well as care,” said Ronald, as he chafed her
hands, while Fergus sprinkled water over her face. “Never before was
Ella seen to sink, much less upon a false alarm. It must be sore
suffering that could bring her to this.”
Fergus’s tears were falling fast while he replied,—
“’Tis the parent’s heart that suffers, Ronald. ’Tis for her little Jamie
that she has watched and struggled till she faints, spirit and body
together.”
“She is coming round,” said Ronald. “There is colour in her lips. Now
see if her spirit does not rally as soon as her limbs, or sooner. She
will be more surprised at herself than we are.”
“Hush! she opened her eyes just now. Raise her a little more.”
“Why, Ella,” said Ronald, smiling, as he leaned over her, “ye never gave
me such a greeting before. Why are ye so sorry to see me to-day?”
“Is nothing the matter?” asked Ella steadily. “I dreamed there
was;—something about Angus.”
“It was only a dream, as far as I know. I have but just landed, and I
came to you for news of Angus and all of you.”
By this time Ella had started up, and refusing further assistance,
supported herself by leaning against the rock.
“I thought Fergus looked sad, I thought he looked wretched,” she
continued, gazing wistfully into her younger brother’s face.
“May be ye’re right, Ella; but it was not for you. A man has enough to
make him look grave in times like these. But I did not mean to frighten
you.”
“Times like these make us all selfish,” said Ella, “and that is the
worst of them. There was a time, Fergus, when I should have been
quicker-sighted to your sorrow than my own.—But come with me to shelter
before yon cloud bursts. I have been too long from my sick child
already. Come with me both of ye, and take the poor welcome I can give.
O, it is a comfort, Ronald, to see ye here!”
Her step was little less firm, as her brothers observed, than their own.
At her own door she charged them to make no one uneasy by speaking of
her fainting-fit. It was a strange fancy, she said, which would not come
over her again.
“Mother, how white you look!” exclaimed Annie, as they entered.
“I am cold, my lass. The wind is piercing on the heights; so put some
more peat to the fire, and see how you can make your uncles comfortable
while I go to Jamie.”
Jamie was still in his uneasy sleep. He lay on his back, his mouth open
and parched, as if not a drop of liquid had ever touched his tongue, his
breathing irregular, his bony fingers sometimes twitching, sometimes
drooped with an appearance of utter helplessness. While his mother
passed her hand over his temples, and watched his pulse and his
countenance, she did not perceive that any one had followed her into the
chamber. Presently she heard stifled sobs, and saw that Fergus was
kneeling at the foot of the child’s crib, hiding his face in his plaid.
“God help you! God comfort you!” she heard him say.
“You think he will die, Fergus; and you tremble for your own two sick
children. But hope—at least till you see them as ill as Jamie. I have
hoped till now.”
Fergus’s grief became more violent. His two infants had died in the
night. The fever had made quicker work where its victims were already
weakened by want. Fergus came to bid his brothers to the funeral.
Ella led him out of the chamber, and placed herself by him, but so that
she could see all that passed by her child’s bedside. She was more than
ever thankful that Ronald had come, when he succeeded in gaining
Fergus’s attention to what he had to say on the present state of
affairs.
He could give little comfort about the prospect of an early supply of
grain from the neighbouring islands, as there was a nearly equal degree
of distress throughout. The season that was unfavourable to one, was so
to all; and the same causes which stopped the fishery laid waste the
land. But though immediate relief was not to be looked for, it was hoped
that help was on the way. Memorials to government had been sent from the
different stations, and Captain Forbes was now making a circuit of the
islands in order to estimate the degrees of distress, and to judge how
best to apply the funds the Company proposed to set apart for the relief
of the inhabitants. He would soon be in Garveloch, and presently after
it was possible a vessel might arrive with pease, potatoes, or grain.
Ronald had no sooner heard of this prospect of relief than he made his
way over the stormy sea to cheer his sister and brother with the news.
There was doubtless another, Ella observed, whom he would wish to tell,
though she was thankful to say that widow Cuthbert suffered less from
the pressure of the times than any family in Garveloch, unless it was
the Duffs.
Ronald took no notice of this at present; he reserved what he had to say
about Katie till Fergus should be gone; and proceeded to explain that he
had endeavoured in vain to make a purchase of meal that he might bring
with him. There was none to be had for love or money. But as those who
could pay best were served first, he had received a promise that he
should purchase a portion of the first cargo that passed the station. He
desired that it might be equally divided between the families of his
sister, his brother, and the widow Cuthbert, and that some one should be
on the watch to secure the package addressed to Fergus, as soon as the
sloop should approach. Before he even thanked his brother, Fergus
anxiously inquired when the supply would come? There was no knowing. It
might be a fortnight; it might be two months. He did feel and express
himself grateful, however, and said something, to which Ronald would not
listen, about repaying, in happier days, that part of the debt which
could be repaid, and then rose to go and tell his wife that food was or
would be on the way. Ronald called him back as he was going out at the
door, to entreat that he would never revive the subject of payment.
“I have only myself to work and care for,” he said, “and whatever is
left over is the natural portion of my kindred. You would inherit it at
my death, you know, Fergus; and it is only putting it into your hands
when you really want it, instead of waiting till it might be less
acceptable to you and yours.”
Upon this ensued, as soon as Ronald and his sister were quite alone, a
conversation relating to the widow Cuthbert. It was long and earnest,
and interrupted only by the attentions necessary to the little patient.
The child, on waking, knew his uncle Ronald, and submitted to be soothed
and quieted by him while Ella sat spinning beside the crib.
They were thus engaged in the afternoon when Katie entered. She brought
a nourishing mess for little Jamie, as she had done more than once
before since his illness began. She was surprised to see Ronald, for
visitors were rare in such a season of storms. She declared herself
vexed at having entered without warning, when she saw him preparing for
immediate departure; but he said he must be at the station before night,
and had remained too long already; and as his sister did not press his
stay, Katie said no more about it, but took his offered hand, and
cheerfully confirmed what Ella had told him of the health and comfort of
her family. There was no need to ask after her own, for she looked,
perhaps from the force of contrast with every body else, more fresh in
health and easy in spirits than in many former days when less care
prevailed.
“Go, my dears,” said Ella to the children in the outer room, “and help
your uncle with his boat, and then ye can watch him away round the
point; and mind ye mark whether any other vessel is in sight. And yet
Angus said he should not be back this day.”
“And now,” said Katie, when she had done watching how her friend coaxed
little Jamie into swallowing the food she brought, “you must let me have
my own way entirely, Ella; for you know me for a wilful woman.”
“Let me hear your will before I promise, Katie.”
“My will is to change house and family with you to-night. You must put
my children to bed for me, and eat my supper, which you will find in the
cupboard, and then lie down in my bed, and sleep till the sun is high.
You can trust me to nurse Jamie, I know, from what you said when my Hugh
struggled through the measles; and you may quite depend on it, Kenneth
says, that your husband will not return to-night.”
Ella had no foolish scruples about accepting this neighbourly offer. She
had watched many nights, and was so nearly exhausted, that this was a
very seasonable help, she thought, to the better performance of her
duties the next day. She had been ever ready to give similar assistance
to her neighbours in like cases; and knowing the pleasure of doing
friendly acts, she would not refuse it to Katie. She therefore agreed at
once, adding,—
“I am sure you would not offer this if you had any fear of your children
taking the fever from me or you.”
“Certainly not, Ella. You know nobody was more careful than I when the
small-pox was in the island; and I offended several neighbours by not
letting my children so much as speak with theirs; but this kind of fever
is not given and taken, as I have good reason to be sure.”
In a little while, seeing that Ella was moving about as if to prepare
for her comfort during the evening and night, she called her to come and
sit down, and not trouble herself with any more cares this day.
“That which will do for you,” she said, “will do for me; and if I want
anything, there will be Annie to tell me where to find it.”
“I’m willing enough to sit down with ye,” said Ella, when she had fed
the fire, and resumed her spinning, “because——”
“Because you cannot stand; is not that it, Ella? You still look as white
as if you had seen a ghost. So you took Ronald for a ghost this
morning?”
“Fergus should not have told you that silly story. No; I am willing to
be alone with you, because I have much to say about Ronald. You need
never more look as you do now, Katie. I am going to lay a different plea
before you this day; and if ye will grant it, it will be my last.”
Katie bent over her work, and made no reply; so Ella proceeded.
“You know as well as I how long Ronald has loved you, and how sore a
struggle your marriage was to him, and that there have been times since
when he has hoped; but you have never known, as I have, how tossed in
mind he has been for more than three years past. He has come and gone,
and come again, Katie, watching your feelings, and waiting for what he
thought your pleasure, till he often lost all power of judging what he
should do, and how he should speak to you.”
“I am sure,” said Katie, “it was as far from my wish as from my
knowledge that his mind should be so tossed. I never willingly left any
one in uncertainty, and I have far too much respect for Ronald, far too
much——”
“Neither he nor I ever had such a thought, Katie, as that ye would
trifle with him or any man. If he had, ye would soon have seen an end of
his love. The uncertainty was no fault of yours, and it was only from
particular causes that it lasted so long. He has said many a time that
if you had been a young girl, he would have spoken out and known your
mind at once; but your husband was his friend, and there was no
measuring what your feelings might be now, and he feared above all
things wounding them; and so he lingered and lingered and never spoke,
till circumstances have decided the matter he could not decide for
himself. He wishes you to know, Katie, that you may lay aside all fear
of him. He gives you his word of honour he will never sue you; and if,
as he suspects, he has occasioned you uneasiness, he entreats your
pardon, and hopes you will dismiss it all from your mind.”
“Is this the plea you spoke of?” asked Katie.
“No; the plea I spoke of may be, perhaps, more easily granted. Let me
entreat for him that you will regard him freely as an old friend, as a
brother. He will think no more of marriage; and I know nothing would
make him so happy as being able to watch over and help us all equally.
Your children love him, Katie; and if you will only do as I do, give him
a welcome when he comes and a blessing when he departs, and ask him for
aid, and take what he offers, and let him keep watch upon your children
for their good, there may be an end of all difficulty, and my brother
may be happier than he has been for many a year. It will ever be painful
to be like strangers or common acquaintance; and you have his word of
honour,—and whose word is so sure?—that he will not seek to be more than
friend; the only way for his peace and your ease is to be really
friends,—as if ye were both the children of the same parents. Let Ronald
be your friend as he is mine.”
“I am not aware,” said Katie, “of either act or word which need make me
scruple to give and take friendship in the way you wish. But, Ella, you
must answer me one question plainly; is it anything in myself which made
Ronald change his views? I should not have asked this if you had not
said that he gave up marriage altogether; but since I know that his
thoughts are not turning upon any one else, I should like to be told
whether he has less esteem for me than before I married?”
“If he had, would he seek your friendship as he does? If he esteemed or
thought he ever should esteem you less, he would just keep away from
Garveloch, and tell nobody why, unless perhaps myself. No; he feels as
he ever did; and lest you should doubt me, I will tell you all I know of
his conscience and his judgment on this matter. It is the state of
society in the islands, Katie, that makes him and other thoughtful men
give up the intention of marrying.”
“And some that are not thoughtful too, Ella. I could tell you of more
than one that would fain have had me when there was prospect that my
boys would be a little fortune to me,—I mean when labour was
scarce,—that have now slunk away, and will never hold out a hand to me
again, I dare say, till my family promise to be a profit instead of a
burden.”
“You do not take Ronald to be one of these!” cried Ella indignantly.
“You cannot think that he is one to come forward and go back as your
fortune waxes and wanes, whether that fortune be your children or your
savings! It is not for himself only, but for you and your children, and
for us and for society, that he thinks and acts as he does.”
Katie did not doubt it.—Ronald was far from selfish.
“If all was bright with us again in a single month,” said Ella, “he
would keep in the same mind; for he sees that prosperity can never last
long among us, while we make no provision against the changes that must
ever befall, while seasons are sometimes stormy and our commerce liable
to variations. We have made an abundant season and a brisk demand into
curses, by acting as if they were always to last; and now we want many
such as he to soften our miseries, which he could not do if he were
burdened like us.”
“But it is hard,” observed Katie, “that he must deny himself because his
neighbours are imprudent.”
“Yet his lot is best, Katie. It is sweet to him to help us in our need;
and he is spared the sorrow of seeing his little ones pine for that
which he cannot give. Yet he cannot but feel that he bears more than his
share in giving up marriage altogether. If there were no O’Rorys to
marry at eighteen, and if most others had the prudence to wait some
years longer than they do, all who wish might marry and deserve no
blame.”
“But who thinks of praise or blame about the act of marrying?” said
Katie. “I own that they ought. When one looks round and sees how sin and
sorrow grow where hunger prevails, one cannot think any man guiltless
who overlooks the chance of his increasing the poverty of society. But
how few consider this! Those who think themselves conscientious, go no
farther than to consider whether they are marrying the right person.
They spend no thought on the time and the manner, or on their duty to
society.”
“It is so even here,” said Ella, “where we can trace the causes of
distress: and in great cities, where it is easy to lay the blame in the
wrong place, and where the people become the more reckless the poorer
they grow, the evil is much greater. There children are born whose
youthful parents have neither roofs to shelter, nor clothes to cover
them; and the more widely poverty spreads through the multitude of
labourers, the faster is that multitude doubled. You have seen enough of
cities, Katie, to know that this is true.”
“Yes; and all this is done in the name of Providence. I always expected
next to hear Providence blamed for not giving food enough for all this
multitude.”
“Such blame would have been as reasonable as the excuse,” said Ella.
“But how slow we are to learn the will of Providence in this case, when
it is the very same that we understand in other cases! Providence gave
us strength of limbs and of passions: yet these we restrain for the sake
of living in society. If a man used his hands to pull down his
neighbour’s house, or his passion of anger to disturb the society in
which he lives, we should think it no excuse that Providence had given
him his natural powers, or made him enjoy their exercise. How is it more
excusable for a man to bring children into the world, when there are so
many to be fed that every one that is born must help to starve one
already living?”
“Since Providence has not made food increase as men increase,” said
Katie, “it is plain that Providence wills restraint here as in the case
of other passions.”
“And awful are the tokens of its pleasure, Katie. The tears of mothers
over their dead children, that shrunk under poverty like blossoms
withering before the frosts, the fading of the weak, the wasting of the
strong, thefts in the streets, sickness in the houses, funerals by the
wayside—these are the tokens that unlimited increase is not God’s will.”
“These tell us where we are wrong, Ella. How shall we learn how we may
be right?”
“By doing as you have done through life, Katie; by using our judgment,
and such power as we have. We have not the power of increasing food as
fast as our numbers may increase; but we have the power of limiting our
numbers to agree with the supply of food. This is the gentle check which
is put into our own hands; and if we will not use it, we must not repine
if harsher checks follow. If the passionate man will not restrain his
anger, he must expect punishment at the hands of him whom he has
injured; and if he imprudently indulges his love, he must not complain
when poverty, disease, and death lay waste his family.”
“Do not you think, Ella, that there are more parties to a marriage than
is commonly supposed?”
“There is a party,” replied Ella, smiling, “that if it could be present,
would often forbid the banns; and it is this party that Ronald has now
consulted.”
“You mean society.”
“Yes. In savage life, marriage may be a contract between a man and woman
only, for their mutual pleasure; but if they lay claim to the protection
and advantages of society, they are responsible to society. They have no
right to provide for a diminution of its resources; and therefore, when
they marry, they form a tacit contract with society to bring no members
into it who shall not be provided for, by their own labour or that of
their parents. No man is a good citizen who runs the risk of throwing
the maintenance of his children on others.”
“Ah, Ella! did you consider this before your ten children were born?”
“Indeed, Katie, there seemed no doubt to my husband and me that our
children would be well provided for. There were then few labourers in
Garveloch, and a prospect of abundant provision; and even now we are not
in poverty. We have money, clothes, and furniture; and that we have not
food enough is owing to those who, having saved nothing, are now far
more distressed than we are. Let us hope that all will take warning. My
husband and I shall be careful to teach those of our children who are
spared to us how much easier it is to prevent want than to endure it.”
“You and I will do what we can, Ella, to make our children prudent in
marriage; and if all our neighbours would do the same, we might look
forward cheerfully. But so few take warning! And it is so discouraging
to the prudent to find themselves left almost alone!”
“Nay, Katie; it is not as if all must work together to do any good.
Every prudent man, like Ronald, not only prevents a large increase of
mischief, but, by increasing capital, does a positive good. Every such
act of restraint tells; every such wise resolution stops one drain on
the resources of society. Surely this knowledge affords grounds for a
conscientious man to act upon, without doubt and discouragement.”
“How differently is honour imputed in different times!” said Katie,
smiling. “The times have been when they who had brought the most
children into the world were thought the greatest benefactors of
society; and now we are honouring those most who have none. Yet both may
have been right in their time.”
“A change of place serves the same purpose as change of time,” replied
Ella. “If Ronald were in a new colony, where labour was more in request
than anything else, he would be honoured for having ten children, and
doubly honoured for having twenty. And reasonably too; for, in such a
case, children would be a gift, and not a burden to society.”
“It is a pity, Ella, that all should not go there who are too poor to
marry properly, and have no relish for the honour of a single life. Dan
and his wife would be a treasure to a new colony.”
“If they and their children would work, Katie; not otherwise. But the
poor little things would have a better chance of life there. If Noreen
stays here, she may be too like many a Highland mother;—she may tell of
her twenty children, and leave but one or two behind her.”
“My heart aches for those poor infants,” said Katie. “One would almost
as soon hear that they were put out of the way at their birth, as see
them dwindle away and drop into their little graves one after another,
before they are four years old. I have often heard that neither the very
rich nor the very poor leave such large families behind them as the
middling classes; and if the reason is known, it seems to me very like
murder not to prevent it.”
“The reasons are well known, Katie. Those who live in luxury and
dissipation have fewer children born to them than any class; but those
that are born are guarded from the wants and diseases which cut off the
families of the very poor. The middling classes are more prudent than
the lowest, and have therefore fewer children than they, though more
than the luxurious; and they rear a much larger proportion than either.”
“One might look far, Ella, among the lords and ladies in London, or
among the poor Paisley weavers, before one would find such a healthy,
hearty tribe——”
“As yours,” Katie would have said; but seeing Ella look upon her little
Jamie with a deep sigh, she stopped short, but presently went on—
“It seems to me that a lady of fashion, who gives up her natural rest
for feasting and playing cards all night long in a hot room, and lets
herself be driven about in a close carriage instead of taking the air on
her own limbs, can have no more wish to rear a large healthy family than
Noreen, who lets her babe dangle as if she meant to break its back, and
gives the poor thing nothing but potatoes, when it ought to be nourished
with the best of milk and wholesome bread. Both are little better than
the mothers in China. O Ella! did your husband ever tell you of the
children in China?”
“Yes, but I scarcely believed even his word for it. Who told you?”
“I have read it in more books than one; and I know that the same thing
is done in India; so I am afraid it is all too true. In India it is a
very common thing for female children to be destroyed as soon as born.”
“The temptation is strong, Katie, where the people are so poor that many
hundred thousand at a time die of famine. But child murder is yet more
common in China, where no punishment follows, and nothing can exceed the
distress for food. In great cities, new-born babes are nightly laid in
the streets to perish, and many more are thrown into the river, and
carried away before their parents’ eyes.”
“It is even said, Ella that there are persons whose regular business it
is to drown infants like puppies.”
“O horrible! And how far must people be corrupted before they would bear
children to meet such a fate!”
“There is nothing so corrupting as poverty, Ella; and there is no
poverty like that of the Chinese.”
“And yet China is called the richest country in the world.”
“And so it may be. It may produce more food in proportion to its
bounds—it may contain more wealth of every sort than any country in the
world, and may at the same time contain more paupers. We call
newly-settled countries poor countries because they contain
comparatively little capital; but the happiness of the people does not
depend on the total amount of wealth, but on its proportion to those who
are to enjoy it. What country was ever poorer than Garveloch twenty
years ago? Yet nobody was in want. What country is so rich as China at
this day? Yet there multitudes eat putrid dogs and cats, and live in
boats for want of a house, and follow the English ships, to pick up and
devour the most disgusting garbage that they throw overboard.”
“Suppose such should be the lot of our native kingdom,” said Ella,
shuddering. “Such is the natural course of things when a nation
multiplies its numbers without a corresponding increase of food. May it
be given to all to see this before we reach the pass of the Chinese!—and
even if we never reach it—if, as is more likely, the evil is palliated
by the caution of the prudent, by the emigration of the enterprising,
and by other means which may yet remain, may we learn to use them before
we are driven to it by famine and disease!”
“It is fearful enough, Ella, to witness what is daily before our eyes.
God forbid that the whole kingdom should be in the state that Garveloch
is in now!”
“In very many towns, Katie, there is always distress as great as our
neighbours’ now; and so there will be till they that hold the power in
their own hands—not the king, not the parliament, not the rich only, but
the body of the people, understand those natural laws by which and under
which they subsist.”
Many would be of Ella’s opinion, if they could, like her, see the
operation of the principle of increase within narrow bounds; for nothing
can be plainer, nothing more indisputable when fully understood. In
large societies, the mind of the observer is perplexed by the movements
around him. The comings and goings, the births, deaths, and accidents,
defy his calculations; and there are always persons at hand who help to
delude him by talking in a strain which would have suited the olden
time, but which is very inappropriate to the present state of things. In
every city, however crowded with a half-starved population, there are
many more who do their utmost to encourage population than can give a
sound reason for their doing so; and while their advice is ringing in
the ears, and their example is before the eyes, and there is no lack of
inaccurate explanations why our workhouses are overflowing, our
hospitals thronged, and our funeral bells for ever tolling, it is
difficult to ascertain the real state of the case. But when the
observation is exercised within a narrow range, the truth becomes
immediately apparent,—it becomes evident that since capital increases in
a slower ratio than population, there will be sooner or later a
deficiency of food, unless the more vigorous principle of increase be
controlled. If the welfare of a nation depended on the hare not reaching
the goal before the tortoise, there might be some who would insist till
the last moment that they moved at an equal pace, and ought, therefore,
to be let alone; but there would be some who, trusting to their own
eyes, would take precautionary measures: they might let the hare run
till she overtook the tortoise, but then they would put on a clog. If
any complain that this is not a fair race, the answer is that the hare
and the tortoise were not made to vie with each other in speed; and if
we set them to do it, we must manage the competition with a view to the
consequences.
Ella and Katie, sensible and unprejudiced, and rendered quick-sighted by
anxiety for their children, were peculiarly qualified for seeing the
truth when fairly placed before them. Their interest in Ronald, as well
as in their own offspring, gave them a view of both sides of the
question; and there remained not a doubt, after calculating numbers and
resources, that there must be some check to the increase of the people,
and that the prudential check is infinitely preferable to those of vice
and misery.
Of the griefs attending the latter, Ella could form some idea—though her
feelings were not embittered by self-reproach—when she looked in the
face of her sick child, who was now resting his aching head on her
bosom. She could not leave him, though it was growing late, till he
closed his heavy eyes, and let her lay him on his pillow. Then Annie
came to bear the widow company for an hour or two; and Ella went to pass
the night in her friend’s dwelling.
“We shall never have any reserves in our confidence henceforth, Ella,”
said Katie, smiling. “There has been but one subject on which I was not
always glad to hear you speak; and now that one is settled for ever.”
Ella was glad that Katie had thus spoken, for she had not been perfectly
sure of her friend’s state of feeling. She now gazed affectionately on
that youthful face, touched but not withered by early sorrow, and kissed
the forehead of the friend she loved like a younger sister, and whom she
could not have regarded as such more tenderly if they had been made
sisters by marriage.
----------------------------
CHAPTER VIII.
THE DISCIPLINE OF THE UNTEACHABLE.
Angus was restored safe to his home; but his return was melancholy
enough. He was blown over the Sound by a storm, and landed at the moment
that the funeral train who bore the bodies of Fergus’s two children were
winding up the rocks to the burial-place. The anxious father was
naturally possessed with the idea that this was the funeral of the child
he had left so ill; and he was confirmed in the supposition by seeing
none of his family on the beach to await his arrival. Kenneth and his
brothers were among the mourners, and Angus therefore found his wife and
the girls alone when, with a throbbing heart, he entered his own
dwelling. Ella met him with a calm but sad countenance, which, together
with the silent awe with which the children looked up to him, answered
but too plainly the question he would have asked. Little Jamie had died
a few hours before in his mother’s arms. The last words he spoke had
been to call for his father.
“O, why was I not here?” exclaimed the mourning parent, laying his cheek
to that of his boy, as if the cold body could be conscious of the
caress. “It must have been an evil spirit that decoyed me away.”
“Alas, then, your voyage has been in vain!” said Ella. “You have brought
no bread.”
Angus shook his head mournfully, and cast down the pouch of useless
money that came back as full as it went out. The scarcity extended
through all the neighbourhood, and no food was to be bought at any
price. Ella saw her husband’s look of despondency, and rallied. She
reminded him that they had a stock of meal, though a scanty one, and she
held out the hope, suggested by Ronald’s information, that a sloop would
soon arrive with food enough to afford a temporary supply to all the
inhabitants.
It had been agreed between Fergus and his sister that a constant watch
for this vessel should be kept from daybreak till dark by the elder
children of each family. Annie was now at the post in the absence of
Kenneth, and Ella tempted her husband out with her, to pronounce whether
the look-out was well chosen. She saw that his grief was too new to
allow him to receive the condolence of neighbours who might step in on
their return from the funeral. She was glad she had done so when she saw
Annie putting back the hair which the stormy wind blew over her face,
and evidently straining her sight to discern some object at sea. Angus
had his glass with him, and in the intervals of the driving mists, he
plainly perceived a sloop coming up from the south.
“Away with you, with me for your helper!” cried Ella. “We will be at sea
before any one knows what is coming; and then we shall escape
contention, and the sight of contention. And you, Annie, tell none but
your uncle and Kenneth where we are gone. If it should not be the right
sloop, it would be cruel to raise false hopes.”
“Besides, mother, the people would tear ye to pieces, or at least the
boat—they are grown so savage.”
“They would very likely fancy we were going to snatch their share,
instead of to receive a regular purchase. Farewell, my lass,” she
continued, as they reached the boat; “Kenneth will soon be with you, and
ye may give us a smile when we land, if yon be the vessel we take her
for.”
“But, O father, the squalls are so rough! I fear to let you go.”
“Never fear, Annie. The Flora knows the greeting of a summer squall. She
will win her way out hardly enough; but you will see her bounding back
as if she was racing with the gale.”
There were many loungers on the beach when Angus and Ella cleared out.
Some were invalids, who could not be kept within their cheerless homes
even by the chill and boisterous weather. Many were idlers; and all made
sport of what they thought the useless toil of going to sea at such a
time. Their jokes would have been painful and perhaps irritating to
Angus if he had not had reason to hope that relief was on the way to
himself and them.
“Did ye bring home such a cargo this morning that ye are tempted to try
your luck again?” cried one.
“Make haste!” exclaimed another, “or ye’ll scarcely find the shoal. It’s
a brave summer day for casting a net.”
“Or for angling,” observed a third. “Where are your lines, neighbour?
Nothing like a smooth sea for ladies’ fishing.”
“Ye must treat us each with a supper when you come back, Angus,” said a
fourth, “unless indeed the fishes should make a supper of you.”
“I trust there may be a supper for every one in Garveloch this night,”
observed Ella, as the final shout reached the rolling and pitching
vessel; and these cheering words were the last she spoke, as all her
husband’s attention and her own was required to direct their rough and
somewhat perilous course.
Never was such a commotion excited in Garveloch as upon the spread of
the tidings that a vessel had arrived at the quay with a certain
quantity of grain and an ample supply of pease. The eagle was startled
from her nest by the uproar. The more shrill grew the blast, the louder
rose the voices; the higher swelled the tide over the bar, the greater
was the eagerness to cross it as the shortest way to the quay. The men
sent their wives home for whatever little wealth they had to offer in
exchange, in case the food was to be purchased and not given, while they
themselves hastened to secure the point whence they might best bid or
entreat. Here a poor invalid, putting forth his utmost power to keep up
with his competitors, was jostled aside or thrown down by the passers
by. There a band of children were beginning a noisy rejoicing for they
scarcely knew what; some among them half-crying in the midst of their
shouting from hunger and pain, which would not be forgotten. The only
quiet people in the island were Angus’s family, and their ill-thriving
neighbours round the point.
When the Flora, dimly seen in the twilight, came bounding in as her
master had foretold, no one awaited her on the beach but those who had
watched the whole expedition, Fergus, Kenneth, and his sister. The
expected supply of meal was safe, and Fergus lost no time in conveying
it out of sight, and into a place of safety.
“I brought down the money, father,” said Kenneth, producing the pouch,
“that you might buy more at the quay, if you wish it, before it is all
gone.”
“No, my boy,” said Angus. “We have enough for the present, and I will
neither take what others want more than we, nor raise the price by
increasing the demand.”
The Murdochs and O’Rorys were the last to know what had happened, as
little was heard of the tumult beyond the point. They were extremely and
almost equally wretched, and were far from attempting to soften their
distresses by sympathy and neighbourly offices. Those who are most
heedless of adversity in prospect, do not usually bear it best when it
comes; and so it proved in the instance of both these families. Murdoch,
who, when he might have been prosperous, was too lazy to do more than
trust he should get through well enough, now cast all the blame of his
destitution on Dan’s assurances that it would be the easiest thing in
life to live, if he would only grow potatoes. Dan, who was content any
way when causes of discontent were only in prospect, forgot there was
such a thing as content when the natural consequences of his
recklessness came upon him. It had been a terrible day when the absolute
want of food had driven both to dig up their seed potatoes. Murdoch had
foresight enough to be appalled at the prospect of the long destitution
which this measure must cause. Dan laughed at him for supposing that
anything better could be done in a season so wet that every root would
rot in the ground instead of growing; but he did not the less grumble at
“the powers” for giving him nothing better to eat than half-rotten
roots, that afforded no more strength than his own puny infant had and
was losing day by day. Noreen often looked rueful with two black eyes,
and did not insist so vehemently as formerly on her Dan being “the
beautifullest husband in nature;” and as for the child, its best friends
could only hope it would follow Noreen’s former dangling “babbies,” and
be laid in peace under the sod.
The first news these neighbours had of the arrival of the vessel from
the station was from Kenneth, who goodnaturedly remembered to run and
give them the information in time to afford them a fair chance in the
scramble. Murdoch seized his staff and was off in an instant.
“Stay, neighbour,” cried Kenneth, who was not aware of the extent of
Murdoch’s poverty; “the buyers have the first chance you know. Better
not go empty-handed.”
Murdoch thought he was jeering, and shook his stick at him with a
gesture of passion, which Kenneth could not resent when he saw how the
old man’s limbs shook, and how vain were his attempts at unusual speed.
Dan jumped up at the news, snatched his baby, and gave it a toss which
was enough to shake its weak frame to pieces, seized upon Noreen for a
kiss in answer to the shriek with which she received the child, snatched
the pot in which the last batch of rotten potatoes was boiling, and
threw out its contents into the puddle beside the door, and ran off,
laughing at his wife’s lamentations for the only bit of food she had had
to put between her teeth this day. Kenneth now perceived that Dan could
bestir himself upon occasion; and indeed the Irishman’s glee was so
obstreperous, that it might have been supposed his mirth was owing to
his favourite “sperits,” if it had not been known that he had been long
without the means of procuring himself that indulgence.
Such a man’s mirth is easily turned to rage. On reaching the sloop,
which was fast emptying of its contents, Dan found that he stood a worse
chance of a supply than anybody in Garveloch, except Murdoch, who still
lagged behind. To come empty-handed and to come late was a double
disqualification; and to be kept at a distance by force put Dan into a
passion which was only equalled by his neighbour’s, when he also arrived
at the scene of action. It was the policy of the bystanders to turn
their rage upon each other. As soon as an opening appeared among the
group on the quay, through which the sloop might be approached, they
pushed the old man forward, and held Dan back, urging that a hearty
youth like him, and a stranger, would not surely force his way before an
old man, who had been born and bred in the place; but Dan kicked,
struggled, dealt his blows right and left, and at last sprang upon
Murdoch, snatched off his bonnet, and buffeted him about the face with
it.
“You graceless wretch!” exclaimed all who were at leisure to look on.
“Let him uncover gray hairs that helped to make them gray,” said
Murdoch, in a voice of forced calmness. “It was he that lured me to
poverty, and now let him glory in it.”
“It’s owing to your gray hairs I did not beat you blind this minute,”
cried Dan. “I’d have you keep a civil tongue in your head, if you’d have
your eyes stay there too.”
“I would peril my eyes to say it again,” cried the old man. “It was you
that lured me to poverty with saying that Ireland was the brightest and
merriest land under the sun, and the only country where a man may live
and be content without trouble.”
“By the holy poker, so it is, barring such reprobates as you are in it.”
“You told me that I spent my labour for nothing, and worse than nothing,
when I grew oats and barley. You told me that I might get three times as
much food out of the ground, by growing potatoes instead. You——”
“All true, by the saints, villain as you are to doubt my word! There’s
three times the victuals in an Irishman’s field, and three times the
childer in his cabin, and three times the people on the face of the
blessed land, that there is where the folks are so mighty high that they
must have bread.”
“And three times the number die,” said a voice near, “when a bad season
comes.”
“And what if they do?” cried Dan: “’tis a blessed land for all that,
with a golden sun to live under, and a green turf to lie under.”
“It’s a vile country,” cried Murdoch, emboldened by hope of support from
the bystanders. “Your children are as hungry as cannibals, and as naked
as savages. When the sun shines, you thank the powers and lie still in
your laziness——”
“There’s reason for that,” interrupted Dan. “There are so many to do the
work, we can’t settle who is to begin; and so we’re content to take no
trouble; and this is the most your Rob and Meg have learned of me.”
“And then when there comes a blank harvest, you fight over one another’s
graves.”
“Sure the powers forgive the sin,” cried Dan. “Craving stomachs drive to
blows, and then the priest is merciful.”
“More merciful than you are to one another when the fever comes, cruel
savages as you are! If your own mother took the fever, you would turn
her into a shed by the road side, and let her tend herself. You would go
quietly smoking your pipe past the very place where your own father lay
dying, and never speak a word or move a finger for him.”
“’Tis false as to not speaking a word. We pray for them in the fever day
and night; and many’s the mass I have vowed against I grow richer. The
fever is a judgment of Heaven, and where is the good of catching it if
we can help it? They that sent it will take care of them that have it,
and what is our care to theirs?”
“Shame! shame!” was the cry from all sides; and some who were on their
way home with a pan full of meal or a basket full of pease, stopped to
listen why.
“Shame! shame!” cried Dan, mimicking the shouters. “You just don’t know
what you’re talking about; for them that have the fever don’t cry
shame.”
“Not in their hearts?”
“Never a bit;—and don’t I know that had an uncle in the fever twice, and
moved him for fear we should fall down in it too? Didn’t he come
crawling out the first time when we were bringing a coffin and supposing
him dead, and did not he help the wail for himself before we saw him
among us? and would he have wailed in a joke, if he had cried ‘Shame!’
in his heart? and who such a judge as himself?”
“What happened the next time, Dan?”
“The next time ’twas his ghost in earnest that went to the burial; and a
pretty burial it was. O, there’s no place like old Ireland for care of
the dead! We beat you there entirely, you unnatural ruffians, that never
give so much as a howl to your nearest flesh and blood!”
The listeners thought it better and more natural to help the living than
to honour the dead. It did not seem to occur to either party that it was
possible to do both. The dispute now ran higher than ever, Murdoch
laying the blame on Dan of having made all his resources depend on a
favourable season, and Dan defending everything Irish, down to poverty,
famines, and pestilential fevers; the first a perpetual, and each of the
others a frequent evil. A fight was beginning, when order was restored
by an authority which might not be resisted. Mr. Mackenzie was on board,
having taken this opportunity of visiting several islands which were
under his charge as a magistrate. Seeing the uproar on the quay likely
to increase every moment, he stepped on shore, ordered two or three
stout men to part the combatants, and gave poor old Murdoch into the
care of Angus, who was standing by, desiring that his wants should be
supplied, and that he should be sent home out of the reach of
provocation from Dan. Angus looked kindly after the interests of his old
master, now so humbled as not to resist his help; and then sent a
neighbour with him to guard him from robbery on his way home. It might
have been thought that Rob would have been the fittest person to
undertake this natural duty; but Rob was nowhere to be seen. He had
appeared one of the first on the quay, and had bought a supply of food
with a little silver crucifix which he had contrived to steal from
Noreen, and which she had kept, through all her distresses, as a sort of
charm. Rob was now hidden in a snug corner, eating a portion of his
provision, and drinking the whiskey for which he had exchanged the rest.
Mr. Mackenzie accepted Angus’s invitation to spend the night under his
roof. He agreed all the more readily from perceiving that he could
gratify the feelings of the parents by taking part in the funeral of
their child the next day; by carrying his head to the grave, as the
expression is.
Mr. Mackenzie would know from Angus all that he could tell of Murdoch’s
history, and of what had happened to Dan since he settled in Garveloch.
The present state of the island was a subject which always made Angus
melancholy. The place was so changed, he said; there were many people
that you would scarcely believe to be the same as before their
distresses began.
“Such is always the case, Angus, where there are more people than can
live without jostling. People act upon opposite maxims according to
their circumstances. If there is abundance for every body, they are very
ready to cry, ‘The more the merrier;’ if the provision is scanty, they
mutter, ‘The fewer the better cheer,’ and each snatches what he can for
himself.”
Ella was at this moment distributing the evening meal. At these very
words she placed before her son Kenneth a barley-cake,—the first he had
tasted for some time,—with a smile which he well understood. He had
known something of the sufferings his mother had described as the
consequence of their mutual resolution not to touch the food on which
they usually subsisted; but, till this evening, he had supposed the
trial only begun, and felt almost ashamed to be released so soon. As he
broke his bread, a blush overspread his whole face; and when he next
looked up, he met Ella’s eyes filled with tears. Mr. Mackenzie observed,
but did not understand; and Angus himself would have found it difficult
to explain, though Kenneth’s altered looks caused a suspicion that he
had exercised more than his share of self-denial.
“I have seen so much of the snatching you speak of, and of defrauding
too,” said Angus, when all but himself and his guest had withdrawn, “as
to make me think we are now little better off than in cities, compared
with which I used to think our island a paradise. There has, I believe,
been crime enough committed within the circuit of a mile from this
place, to match with the alleys and cellars of a manufacturing city. The
malice of the people in their speech, the envy in their countenances,
the artifices in their management, the violence of their actions, are
new to this place and these people. I hoped to have kept my children out
of sight and hearing of these things for ever.”
“Never nourish such a hope, friend,” said Mr. Mackenzie, “unless you can
keep want out of sight and hearing too. Virtue and vice depend not on
place, but on circumstance. The rich do not steal in cities, any more
than the starving respect property in a retired island like this. If we
could increase our supply of necessaries and comforts in proportion to
the wants and reasonable desires of all, there would be little vice; and
if we did no more than rightly estimate and administer the resources we
already possess, we might destroy for ever the worst evils of which
society complains.”
“Surely, Sir, it might be done, if society were but animated with one
mind. It is in the power of few, I suppose, to increase the supply of
necessaries and comforts perpetually and very extensively; and no power
on earth can do it so as to keep pace with the constant demand for
them.”
“Certainly, if that demand be unchecked.”
“I was going to say, Sir, that it is in the power of every one to help
to equalize the demand. It seems to me, that whoever acts so as to
aggravate want, becomes answerable for the evils caused by want, whether
he injures his neighbour’s capital, or neglects to improve his own, or
increases a demand upon it which is already overwhelming.”
“You will be told, friend, if you preach your doctrine to unwilling
ears, that one set of vices would rage only the more fiercely for those
which result from want being moderated.”
“I know,” replied Angus, “that some are of opinion that there is always
a balance of vices in society; that, as some are extinguished, others
arise. This seems to me a fancy that nobody can prove or show to be
reasonable.”
“I am quite of your opinion, Angus; and if I were not, I am sure I
should find it difficult to assert that any set of vices could be more
to be dreaded than those which arise from extreme poverty. I would not
draw a comparison in favour of any acknowledged vice over any other; but
I can conceive of no more dreadful degradation of character, no more
abundant sources of misery, than arise out of the overpowering
temptations of want. You have seen instances, I doubt not, among the
lower, as I among the higher classes, of the regular process by which
honourable feelings are blunted, kindly affections embittered, piety
turned into blasphemy, and integrity into fraud and violence, as the
pressure of poverty becomes more and more galling.
“I have seen so much of this, Sir, as to make me believe that very few,
if any, pass through the trial of squalid and hopeless poverty with
healthy minds. Moreover, I believe such poverty to be the hot-bed of
_all_ vices. I shall never be convinced, unless I see it, that any vice
in existence will be aggravated by the comforts of life being extended
to all, or that there is any which is not encouraged by the feelings of
personal injury, of hatred towards their superiors, or recklessness
concerning their companions and themselves, which are excited among the
abject or ferocious poor.”
“Evil seems to be an admonition of Providence to men to change that part
of their conduct which brings on that evil,” observed Mr. Mackenzie;
“and happy are they who take the warning in time, or remember it for
their future guidance. Extensive fires warn men not to build houses of
wood; pestilence may teach cleanliness and ventilation; and having thus
given their lesson, these evils become rare, or cease. What, therefore,
may famine teach?”
“Care not to let eaters multiply beyond the ordinary supply of food. I
hope we people of Garveloch shall take the warning. I am sure it is
distinct enough.”
“Yes, Angus. You ate up the unusual supply of two abundant seasons. An
average one produced hardship. An unfavourable one has brought you to
the brink of a famine. This is Providence’s way of admonishing.”
----------------------------
CHAPTER IX.
TROUBLES NEVER COME ALONE.
The sufferings of the islanders were not yet over, as all foresaw who
were accustomed to watch the succession of events. The natural
consequence of a famine in former days was a plague; and it is still too
well known in Scotland and Ireland that sickness follows scarcity.
Garveloch went through the natural process. There never was such a
winter known there as that which succeeded the scarcity. Rheumatism
among the aged, consumption among the youthful, all the disorders of
infancy among the children, laid waste the habitations of many who
thought they had never known sorrow till now. Many a gray-haired matron,
who used to sit plying her distaff in the chimney-corner, and singing
old songs to the little ones playing about her, had been shaken by the
privations of the summer, and now lay groaning in the torments of the
disease which was soon to take her hence, although, with due care, so
vigorous a life might still have been preserved for a few years. Here, a
father who was anxious to be up and doing for his children, on the sea
or at the station, was in danger of coughing his life away if he faced
the wintry air, and fretted in idleness within his smoky cottage. There,
a mother who had hungered through many a day to feed her children, now
found that she had broken down her strength in the effort, and that she
must leave them to a care less tender than her own. In other cases, the
parent and her little ones seemed hastening together to another world,
and two or three of one family were buried in the same grave. The
mortality among the children was dreadful. The widow Cuthbert could
scarcely believe her own happiness when she saw all her little family
daily seated at the board in rosy health and gay spirits, when not a
neighbour had been exempt from loss. She would scarcely suffer her boys
out of her sight; and if accidentally parted from them, trembled lest
she should hear complaints or see traces of illness when she met them
again. There had been sickness in Ella’s family, but none died after
little Jamie. Ronald kept watch over them all. Many were the kind
presents, many the welcome indulgences he sent or carried to the sick
members of his sister’s and brother’s family this year. Katie needed no
such assistance. If she had, she would have freely accepted it; but
frequent inquiries and much friendly intercourse served quite as well to
show the regard these friends bore to each other.
The supplies of food were still so precarious as to make every body
anxious except those who could purchase a store. Now and then a boat
with provisions came from a distance, and the cod-fishing turned out
tolerably productive to those who had health and strength to pursue the
occupation. So much was wanted, however, for immediate consumption, that
business nearly stood still at the station. Kenneth had been recalled
thither when there seemed to be a prospect of employment for him; but he
had now made the last barrel that would be wanted before next season,
and began to be very melancholy. He sauntered along the pier, around
which there was no busy traffic; he lounged about the cooperage, taking
up first one tool and then another, and wondering when the hammer and
the saw would be heard there again. Many a time did he count the weeks
that must pass before he should be once more earning his maintenance,
and reckon how large was the debt to his uncle which he was incurring by
his present uselessness. Ronald could not succeed in making him cheerful
for a day together, or in inducing him to employ himself; and he began
to fear that either illness was creeping on the young man, or that his
fine spirit was broken by the anxiety he had undergone and the miseries
he had beheld. He would have sent him over to Ella, whose influence was
all-powerful with her son; but Ella had cares enough at home just now.
Having messages from Kenneth as frequently as usual, she was not more
than usually anxious concerning him.
Angus’s activity and cheerfulness never gave way. He ascribed their
power to his wife’s influence; while she found a never-failing support
to her energies when he was present. She owned to Katie how easily she
could give way to despondency when he was absent for days together, and
how she felt strong enough to do and bear anything when his boat came in
sight again. The fact was, they did owe to each other all they believed
they owed. There was a lofty spirit of trust in Ella, as animating to
her husband as his experience in life and devotion to his home were
supporting to her. Katie looked with a generous sympathy on the
enjoyment of a happiness of which she had been deprived, and wished no
more for herself than that she might be as secure from trials with her
children as she believed Angus and Ella to be. No sorrows could, she
told Ella, be inflicted by the children of such parents—by children so
brought up as theirs. Ella never admitted this assurance without
reservation; for she knew too much of human life to expect that any one
of its blessings should be enjoyed for ever without alloy.
It was during the absence of her husband on one of his trading
excursions that the children came crowding round the door, to ask Ella
to come and listen to the new music some gentlemen in fine clothes were
playing as they went up the pass. Katie was brought out by her little
people at the same moment. The children climbed the height to get
another view of the strangers, and their mothers followed. A recruiting
party was ascending between the rocks at the same moment that more
companies than one were leaving the burying-ground. The children clapped
their hands and began to dance to the booming drum and the shrill fife;
but Ella immediately stopped them.
“Don’t ye mark,” she said, “there’s Rob and Meg Murdoch coming down the
hill? Would ye like to see anybody dancing in your sight when you have
just laid your father’s head in the ground?”
“I saw Rob drunk this very morn, mother, and he danced as if his father
had been there looking on.”
“If Rob behaves as if he had no feeling, that is no reason why you
should seem to think he has none.”
“Look at Meg!” cried another child. “She is laughing as if it was a
bridal instead of a funeral.”
Ella was shocked, though not much surprised, to see Meg run forward to
meet the soldiers, as if they were old acquaintance, and linger behind
with them when her party, including her stupid brother, had cracked
their joke and passed on. It occurred to her that Meg’s brother-in-law
might be among the soldiers and she said so by way of excuse; but
immediately called the children down from the height, unwilling that
such an example of unfeeling levity should remain before their eyes.
They were naturally somewhat unwilling to lose sight of the scarlet
coats, having never beheld any before.
“Ye will see such often enough, now, my dears,” said their mother,
sighing. “These people know how to choose their time. The fife is ever
merriest when the heart’s music is hushed; and whenever people are at
their wit’s end with want and sorrow, the red-coats come and carry away
such as are glad to drown thought and seek change instead of waiting for
it.”
“Yes, indeed,” replied Katie: “a funeral at the top of the hill, and a
recruiting party going to meet it, is natural enough; and so it would
have been to see lads made to drink in the king’s name when their
stomachs were craving food. I wondered we had had no recruiting before;
for the worse the times, the more are ready to leave home behind them,
and go and serve the king.”
The children understood nothing of all this but that they should see the
soldiers again, which indeed was the point which most concerned them at
their age. They listened long for the drum—they took turns as scouts to
watch which way the soldiers went, and to give notice if they should
approach. Now they were traced up to Duff’s farm, heard to play before
the door, and seen to be invited in. After a while, they proceeded with
a few followers at their heels, by a roundabout way to the Murdochs’
cove. Meg was their guide, walking in front, arm-in-arm with a soldier—a
fashion of marching to which it was supposed she had been just drilled.
The music being heard approaching behind the rocks, the children
scampered off to meet it; and after a considerable time, during which
shouts arose which made the mothers wish their boys at home again, the
children appeared as the advanced guard of the procession, waving their
bonnets, and pretending to march like the grand folks behind them. It
was soon apparent that all present were not as happy as they. Meg indeed
laughed so as to be heard above the music, and one or two raw lads
looked full of pride and heroism, and took off their bonnets from time
to time to look at the gay ribbons with which they were ornamented; but
all the bustle and noise—nothing remarkable perhaps in an English city,
but very astonishing in Garveloch—could not call off attention from a
woman’s rage, or drown the screams of a woman’s scolding voice. The
vixen was Noreen; and if ever a vixen had an excuse for her violence, it
was she at this moment; for Dan, the husband for whom she had, as she
declared, left the beautifullest home of the beautifullest country in
the world—Dan, whom she had defended through thick and thin, for having
“kilt” her and “murthered” her “babbies,”—Dan, who had said so often
that a man needed nothing in life more than a cabin and a potato-ground,
and an “iligant” wife, had enlisted, and was going to leave her and her
last remaining child to starve. Had not he a cabin? she wanted to know;
and had not he a potato-ground, as good as any at Rathmullin? and had
not he called her his “iligant Noreen” before the fancy came across him
to break her heart?
Since it did not please Dan to answer her questions, no one else was
bound to do so. It was difficult to say whether he was drunk or not. He
kissed his wife in return for her cuffs, and behaved like a madman; but
such was his way when he was roused to mirth.
Shocked at the sight, Ella was about to withdraw, when Katie expressed
her wonder whether this scene was to be acted in all the islands. She
had connexions in more than one, and began to be anxious lest some of
them should be tempted to go abroad. Ella therefore accosted the
sergeant, a goodnatured-looking man, and asked if his recruiting was
likely to be prosperous among the islands? He found the people very
loyal, he replied, and many fine young men ready to serve their king and
country. He should visit every place in the district in turn, and had
already made a pretty wide circuit. He had this morning come from Islay.
“You would scarce enlist many there,” observed Ella. “A few months ago
would have been your best time for Islay; now the fishery begins to open
a prospect again.”
“I beg your pardon, madam; we have been particularly successful in
Islay.” And he pulled out a list of names, displayed it hastily, and was
about to put it up again, when Katie snatched it, and after the first
glance looked at her friend with such a gaze of anguish as at once told
Ella the truth.
“Is Kenneth’s name there?” she asked, in a low, hoarse voice.
“That young man,” said the sergeant, who had been speaking to one of his
people, and did not perceive Ella’s emotion, “that young man to whose
name you point—and a very fine youth he is, six feet and half an
inch—belongs to this place. He is to come over this afternoon to take
leave of his family, and proceeds with me in the morning.”
Ella retreated hastily towards her own door; she turned round on
reaching the threshold, and motioned to Katie not to follow her; but
Katie would not be repulsed. With streaming eyes she attempted to make
her way by gentle force. Ella recovered her power of speech.
“Leave me, Katie. I can speak to no one but Angus. O Angus! why are you
away? O! how shall I tell the news when he comes back?”
When Katie had led her friend into the inner room, she left her to her
grief, thinking that the best kindness was to keep watch that no one
intruded. The widow felt as if her own heart was bursting when audible
tokens once or twice reached her of the fearful conflict which rent the
mother’s heart. In the fervour of her love and compassion for Ella, she
was full of indignation against him who had caused all this misery; and
when this indignation had reached its highest pitch, the latch of the
door was uplifted, and Kenneth stood before her. His pale countenance,
with its expression of mournful determination, might have disarmed her
anger at a moment of less excitement; but Katie would not bestow on him
a second glance or a greeting.
“Where is my mother?” he inquired. “My father, I find, is absent.”
“Seek her yourself,” replied Katie, pointing to the chamber. “If you did
not fear to wring her heart, you will scarce shrink from seeing her
grief.”
“She knows then!” said Kenneth. “I would fain have told her myself——”
“You need not covet the task,” replied Katie, her features working
convulsively. “You would have cast yourself into the sea before now if
you had seen her take the tidings.” And the widow gave vent to what was
boiling in her mind.
Kenneth did not at first interrupt her; and when he attempted
explanation, was not allowed to proceed. Katie had never before been so
unreasonable as now on her friend’s behalf.
“Make way!” said Kenneth, at length, in strong emotion. “My mother will
hear me.”
Ella at this moment threw open the door of the chamber, and stood, still
trembling but erect, and spoke calmly.
“Katie!” she said, “I thought you had known Kenneth and me better. He
has ever been dutiful: why then condemn him unheard? I have told you my
confidence in him; and is it kind, then, to make a mockery of my trust?”
Katie’s anger was now all turned against herself. She cast an imploring
look at them both, and rushed out of the house before they could detain
her.
“Bless you, mother, for trusting me!” cried Kenneth.
“But O, my boy, what a sore trial to my trust! What has possessed ye,
Kenneth, that ye must leave us? When we have suffered together so long,
and were beginning to hope together again, what could make ye plunge us
into a new trouble?”
“It was hastily done, mother, but done for the best, and not from
discontent with home, or a love of wandering. I could not see so clearly
as you that times are about to mend. I could not endure to be a burden
to uncle Ronald, and my heart was sick with hoping and hoping, and
finding nothing to do after all. Then there are so many brothers growing
up to fill my place; and my going will make room for one of them at the
station. And then there was the bounty too. I thought I should have had
pleasure, mother, in giving you the first purse of money I ever had; but
nothing will give me any pleasure again if you think I have been
wilfully wrong.”
“Not wilfully wrong, Kenneth; I never thought you could be that—not even
in the first moment when——”
She could not proceed. Her son continued:
“I would fain hear ye say more, mother. O, can ye tell me that you think
me right?”
“Do not let it weigh with you, my son, whether I think you judged
rightly or not. You felt dutifully and kindly, and you have as much
right to judge of your duty as I. You shall never want my blessing nor
your father’s. It is to your wish to do your duty that we give our
blessing; and it will therefore follow you over the world.”
Kenneth had much to say on duty to one’s country, and on the question
who could best be spared to serve in her armies; in the pursuit of which
argument he brought the proof round to himself. His mother, feeling that
the deed could not be undone, encouraged his feelings of patriotism,
sanctioned his desire to fulfil a public duty, and contented herself
with the silence of dissent when she thought him mistaken.
“Mother,” cried Kenneth, at length, bursting into tears, “you make a
child of me by treating me like a man. I knew you would be patient, I
knew you would be indulgent, but I scarcely hoped that even you could so
soon, so very soon, give me the rights I have been so hasty to claim. If
you had blamed me, if you had spoken with authority, I could have
commanded myself better when it comes to the last.”
“We are all weak,” murmured Ella, melting also into tears. “God forbid
we should judge one another! We are least of all fit to do so when our
griefs are tossing so as to wreck our judgments. Authority, Kenneth! No;
this is not the time for me to use it. If it were merely whether ye
should cross to Islay to-day or to-morrow, I might have spoken unawares
with authority; but when the question is, what your duty in life is to
be, and when that question is already decided, all that a mother can do
is to give her blessing.”
The many dreary hours of this night were too few for what had to be said
and done by the elder members of this mourning family. Soon after
daybreak Angus returned; so that Kenneth had not the additional misery
of departing in uncertainty whether he should be followed by his
father’s blessing. Angus had in his young days been sent abroad by a
spirit of adventure; so that he was even better prepared than Ella to
sympathise in Kenneth’s feelings and convictions. He commanded himself
when the event was first told him; accompanied his son to a considerable
distance; and from the hour of his return spoke to none but Ella of the
blank the wanderer’s absence caused, or of the anxiety with which he
watched for tidings of the war.
----------------------------
CHAPTER X.
CONCLUSION.
A recruiting party was, as Ella had foretold, a frequent sight in
Garveloch as long as the distress lasted; and one of the present
consequences to her and her husband of the favourable season which
followed was, that the red-coats ceased to appear, and the hated sound
of the drum and fife to make them start. As soon as the fishery was
resumed, there was work enough for all who remained on the island, and
therefore little encouragement to serve the king out of his own
dominions. News of Kenneth came very rarely—about as often as rejoicings
for a victory. Some of Angus’s neighbours were wont to come and tell him
of such events as if they were certain of bringing welcome news,
provided he knew that his son was safe. Fergus’s lads, especially, who
regretted that they were too young to enlist at the same time with
Kenneth, seemed disposed to take the first opportunity of doing so that
might occur, and to have no doubt that the best service they could
render to their island was to leave it.
“How can you suppose,” said Angus to them one day, “that I can rejoice
in the slaughter you tell me of? How can you imagine it can give me
pleasure to look forward to our strong youths leaving our shores?”
“I thought, uncle,” said one—“I am sure I heard somebody say you
believed that we wanted thinning, and that war must therefore be a very
good thing.”
“I said so,” said Captain Forbes, who stood within hearing. “You think,
Angus, that there are too many people for the supply of food; and
therefore the more that die, the better cheer there is for those who
remain. Did you not tell Mr. Mackenzie so?”
“Better say at once, sir, that we ought to pray for a pestilence. Better
send for our enemies to slaughter us as fast as they can, sparing only a
proper number to enjoy what we leave behind.”
“But I am sure you used to complain of our numbers, Angus, and ascribe
our distress to them.”
“But it does not follow, sir, that I would have them removed by
violence. All I wish is, that society should be as happy as it can be
made; and it would be somewhat strange to inflict the extremest misery
with this view. I never had such a thought, I assure you, as of running
into a greater evil to avoid a lesser.”
“Many people, however, think occasional wars and plagues very good
things to keep down the population.”
“So I have heard, but I think very differently. The one circumstance
which, above all others, cheers me respecting the state of society, is
that population is, to a considerable extent, checked by better means
than formerly. There are fewer lives lost by war, plagues, and the
accidents of common life, while the increase of population is not in
proportion to the removal of these dreadful checks.”
“How do you account for this?”
“Marriage is less general, and takes place at a later age—at least among
the middling classes, whose example will, I trust, be soon followed by
their poorer neighbours. Whenever any one class gains a clear
understanding of the reasons why a thing has been, and why it should no
longer be, there is room for hope that other classes will in time enter
into their views, and act accordingly. There is hope that governments
will in time cease to make war and encourage population,—that is, to
call people into existence for the purpose of cutting one another’s
throat. There is hope that the poor will in time be more eager to
maintain than to multiply their families; and then, lads, there will be
no more drumming and fifing in Garveloch, and no need to wander abroad
in search of danger and death, in order to show patriotism.”
“When will that be, uncle?”
“I am no prophet; but I will venture to prophesy that it will happen
somewhere between the third and the thirty-thousandth generation from
the present—that is, that it will take place, but not yet.”
“You have said a great deal,” observed the captain, “about the reasons
why there should no longer be want; but you slipped quietly enough over
the reason why there has ever been want.”
“It was not my intention to do so,” said Angus, smiling, “for it appears
very clear to me. It was growing need which urged men towards all the
improvements which have ever taken place. The appropriation and security
of property, improvements in government, art, and sciences—in short, all
the institutions of society took their beginning from the growing wants
of men; and those growing wants were caused, of course, by increase of
numbers. This is quite enough to satisfy us that the principle of
increase is a good one; while, if we see that our institutions can now
be preserved and improved under other and higher kinds of stimulus, it
is time that we were controlling the principle within the bounds of
reason and happiness.”
“It is done for us when we do not look to it ourselves,” the captain
replied, sighing as he cast a glance around him. “How full is the
burying-ground,—how empty are the houses compared with what they were
but a few months ago! It reminds me of some of the places in the east,
where we were ordered to march in the rear of the plague. They will soon
be filled again, if the fishery does well. That is a comfort.”
“And it reminds me that I have no time to lose,” observed Angus. “Will
you be my passenger to the station, captain?”
Nobody had time to lose this season in the island, but those who were
willing to run the risk of future scarcity. Labour was in great request,
and, of course, well paid. Angus found ample employment for his crane,
and received very good interest for the capital laid out upon it. His
younger sons worked it with as much zeal as Kenneth had shown in its
construction; but their father, proud as he was of them, thought in his
inmost heart that no other of his flourishing tribe equalled the eldest,
or could make up for his loss; and the haunting dream of the night, the
favourite vision of the day, was of Kenneth’s return, to leave his
native land no more. This was Angus’s meditation while plying the oar,
and this his theme in his own chimney corner. It was much to hear of
Kenneth’s honour and welfare, but while no hope of peace came with the
tidings, they were not perfectly satisfying.
The only person to whom the improvement in the times brought any trouble
was the widow Cuthbert. Her former lovers—not Ronald, but those who had
broken off acquaintance with her when her young family seemed a dead
weight in the scale against her own charms—now returned, and were more
earnest than ever in their suit. Katie had discretion enough to be aware
that the only respect in which she had become a more desirable match
than before was in the growth of her boys, whose labour might soon be a
little fortune to her, if she chose so to employ it. She was therefore
far from being flattered at becoming so much in request, and honoured
and valued the disinterested friendship of Ronald more than ever.
The present time, even with the drawback of Kenneth’s absence, was the
happiest period of Ronald’s life. He made his little home at the station
sociable and comfortable, by gathering his nephews and nieces about him;
and his visits to Garveloch became more frequent and more welcome
continually when his prosperous business allowed him leisure for the
trip. Fergus, weighed down with care, had grown old before his time; and
to Ronald’s assistance it was owing that his family preserved their
respectability till the lads were able to take on themselves a part of
the charge which had been too heavy for their father.
Ella was the last of the family to show the marks of change. Her mind
and heart were as remarkable for their freshness in age as they had been
for their dignity in youth. Inured to early exertion and hardship, she
was equal to all calls upon her energies of body and spirit. She was
still seen, as occasion required, among the rocks, or on the sea, or
administering her affairs at home. She was never known to plead
infirmity, or to need forbearance, or to disappoint expectation. She had
all she wanted in her husband’s devotion to her and to his home, and she
distributed benefits untold from the rich treasury of her warm
affections. She had, from childhood, filled a station of authority, and
had never abused her power, but made it the means of living for others.
Her power increased with every year of her life, and with it grew her
scrupulous watchfulness over its exercise, till the same open heart,
penetrating eye, and ready hand, which had once made her the sufficient
dependence of her orphan brothers, gave her an extensive influence over
the weal and woe of Garveloch.
_Summary of Principles illustrated in this volume._
The increase of population is necessarily limited by the means of
subsistence.
Since successive portions of capital yield a less and less return, and
the human species produce at a constantly accelerated rate, there is a
perpetual tendency in population to press upon the means of subsistence.
The ultimate checks by which population is kept down to the level of the
means of subsistence are vice and misery.
Since the ends of life are virtue and happiness, these checks ought to
be superseded by the milder methods which exist within man’s reach.
These evils may be delayed by promoting the increase of capital, and
superseded by restraining the increase of population.
Towards the one object, a part of society may do a little; towards the
other, all may do much.
By rendering property secure, expenditure frugal, and production easy,
society may promote the growth of capital.
By bringing no more children into the world than there is a subsistence
provided for, society may preserve itself from the miseries of want. In
other words, the timely use of the mild preventive check may avert the
horrors of any positive check.
The preventive check becomes more, and the positive checks less
powerful, as society advances.
The positive checks, having performed their office in stimulating the
human faculties and originating social institutions, must be wholly
superseded by the preventive check before society can attain its
ultimate aim—the greatest happiness of the greatest number.
PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES, STAMFORD-STREET.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Transcriber’s Note
There are many instances of absent punctuation. Where there is obviously
room for the missing character in the printed text, we assume that it
was present when printed, and have restored it; likewise, at paragraphs’
end.
Demerara: Mr[.] | (28.20), respects[.] (71.33), time. (136.2)
Ella of Garveloch:
Weal and Woe in Garveloch: be[.] (70.26), woman. (90.2)
Other errors deemed most likely to be the printer’s have been corrected,
and are noted here. The references are to the page and line in the
original. Given the independent pagination of the original, these are
divided by volume.
Demerara
13.7 [‘/“]What odd, disagreeable people!” Replaced.
33.2 if you ge[t] your liberty.” Restored.
33.4 straight to the poin[t]. Restored.
40.32 [‘/“]What luxury!” he exclaimed, Replaced.
49.19 discontented with her con[d]ition Inserted.
53.33 when I say where they are.[”] Added.
90.27 but——[”] Added.
92.4 In such a ca[s]e, Restored.
95.33 they are so little valuable,[’/”] Replaced.
98.21 go through the transition?[’/”] Replaced.
140.5 was kept [i]n the housekeeper’s room Restored.
Ella of Garveloch
26.9 [“]To relieve Ella Removed.
28.30 rather than move.[”] Added.
42.27 I hinde[r] our having any words Restored.
85.1 [‘/“]Is nothing the matter?” Replaced.
135.5 I am to have a commis[s]ion Inserted.
Weal and Woe in Garveloch
13.20 the unglazed window.[”] Removed.
109.1 she [she ]spoke Repeated.
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