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Title: The Ground-Ash
Author: Mary Russell Mitford
Release Date: October 2, 2007 [EBook #22846]
Language: English
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THE GROUND-ASH
By Mary Russell Mitford
Amongst the many pleasant circumstances attendant on a love of
flowers--that sort of love which leads us into the woods for the
earliest primrose, or to the river side for the latest forget-me-not,
and carries us to the parching heath or the watery mere to procure for
the cultivated, or, if I may use the expression, the _tame_ beauties of
the parterre, the soil that they love; amongst the many gratifications
which such pursuits bring with them, such as seeing in the seasons in
which it shows best, the prettiest, coyest, most unhackneyed scenery,
and taking, with just motive enough for stimulus and for reward, drives
and walks which approach to fatigue, without being fatiguing; amongst
all the delights consequent on a love of flowers, I know none greater
than the half unconscious and wholly unintended manner in which such
expeditions make us acquainted with the peasant children of remote and
out-of-the-way regions, the inhabitants of the wild woodlands and still
wilder commons of the hilly part of the north of Hampshire, which forms
so strong a contrast with this sunny and populous county of Berks, whose
very fields are gay and neat as gardens, and whose roads are as level
and even as a gravel-walk.
Two of the most interesting of these flower-formed acquaintances, were
my little friends Harry and Bessy Leigh.
Every year I go to the Everley woods to gather wild lilies of the
valley. It is one of the delights that May--the charming, ay, and the
merry month of May, which I love as fondly as ever that bright and
joyous season was loved by our older poets--regularly brings in her
train; one of those rational pleasures in which (and it is the great
point of superiority over pleasures that are artificial and worldly)
there is no disappointment. About four years ago, I made such a visit.
The day was glorious, and we had driven through lanes perfumed by the
fresh green birch, with its bark silvery and many-tinted, and over
commons where the very air was loaded with the heavy fragrance of the
furze, an odour resembling in richness its golden blossoms, just as
the scent of the birch is cool, refreshing, and penetrating, like the
exquisite colour of its young leaves, until we reached the top of the
hill, where, on one side, the enclosed wood, where the lilies grow, sank
gradually, in an amphitheatre of natural terraces, to a piece of water
at the bottom; whilst on the other, the wild open heath formed a sort of
promontory overhanging a steep ravine, through which a slow and sluggish
stream crept along amongst stunted alders, until it was lost in the deep
recesses of Lidhurst Forest, over the tall trees of which we literally
looked down. We had come without a servant; and on arriving at the gate
of the wood with neither human figure nor human habitation in sight, and
a high-blooded and high-spirited horse in the phaeton, we began to feel
all the awkwardness of our situation. My companion, however, at length
espied a thin wreath of smoke issuing from a small clay-built hut
thatched with furze, built against the steepest part of the hill, of
which it seemed a mere excrescence, about half way down the declivity;
and, on calling aloud, two children, who had been picking up dry stumps
of heath and gorse, and collecting them in a heap for fuel at the door
of their hovel, first carefully deposited their little load, and then
came running to know what we wanted.
If we had wondered to see human beings living in a habitation, which,
both for space and appearance, would have been despised by a pig of any
pretension, as too small and too mean for his accommodation, so we were
again surprised at the strange union of poverty and content evinced
by the apparel and countenances of its young inmates. The children,
bareheaded and barefooted, and with little more clothing than one
shabby-looking garment, were yet as fine, sturdy, hardy, ruddy, sunburnt
urchins, as one should see on a summer day. They were clean, too: the
stunted bit of raiment was patched, but not ragged; and when the girl,
(for, although it was rather difficult to distinguish between the
brother and sister, the pair were of different sexes,) when the
bright-eyed, square-made, upright little damsel clasped her two brown
hands together, on the top of her head, pressed down her thick curls,
looking at us and listening to us with an air of the most intelligent
attention that returned our curiosity with interest; and when the boy,
in answer to our inquiry if he could hold a horse, clutched the reins
with his small fingers, and planted himself beside our high-mettled
steed with an air of firm determination, that seemed to say, "I'm
your master! Run away if you dare!" we both of us felt that they were
subjects for a picture, and that, though Sir Joshua might not have
painted them, Gainsborough and our own Collins would.
But besides their exceeding picturesqueness, the evident content, and
helpfulness, and industry of these little creatures, was delightful to
look at and to think of. In conversation they were at once very civil
and respectful (Bessy dropping her little curtsy, and Harry putting
his hand to the lock of hair where the hat should have been, at every
sentence they uttered) and perfectly frank and unfearing. In answer to
our questions, they told us that "Father was a broom-maker, from the
low country; that he had come to these parts and married mother, and
built their cottage, because houses were so scarce hereabouts, and
because of its convenience to the heath; that they had done very well
till the last winter, when poor father had had the fever for five
months, and they had had much ado to get on; but that father was brave
again now, and was building _another house_ (house!!) larger and finer,
upon Squire Benson's lands: the squire had promised them a garden from
the waste, and mother hoped to keep a pig. They were trying to get all
the money they could to buy the pig; and what his honour had promised
them for holding the horse, was all to be given to mother for that
purpose."
It was impossible not to be charmed with these children. We went again
and again to the Everley wood, partly to gather lilies, partly to
rejoice in the trees with their young leaves so beautiful in texture as
well as in colour, but chiefly to indulge ourselves in the pleasure of
talking to the children, of adding something to their scanty stock of
clothing, (Bessy ran as fast as her feet could carry her to the clear
pool at the bottom of the wood, to look at herself in her new bonnet,)
and of assisting in the accumulations of the Grand Pig Savings' Bank,
by engaging Harry to hold the horse, and Bessy to help fill the lily
basket.
This employment, by showing that the lilies had a money value, put a new
branch of traffic into the heads of these thoughtful children, already
accustomed to gather heath for their father's brooms, and to collect the
dead furze which served as fuel to the family. After gaining permission
of the farmer who rented the wood, and ascertaining that we had no
objection, they set about making nosegays of the flowers, and collecting
the roots for sale, and actually stood two Saturdays in Belford market
(the smallest merchants of a surety that ever appeared in that rural
Exchange) to dispose of their wares; having obtained a cast in a waggon
there and back, and carrying home faithfully every penny of their
gainings, to deposit in the common stock.
The next year we lost sight of them. No smoke issued from the small
chimney by the hill-side. The hut itself was half demolished by wind and
weather; its tenants had emigrated to the new house on Squire Benson's
land; and after two or three attempts to understand and to follow the
directions as to the spot given us by the good farmer at Everley, we
were forced to give up the search.
Accident, the great discoverer and recoverer of lost goods, at last
restored to us these good little children. It happened as follows:--
In new potting some large hydrangeas, we were seized with a desire to
give the blue tinge to the petals, which so greatly improves the beauty
of that fine bold flower, and which is so desirable when they are
placed, as these were destined to be, in the midst of red and pink
blossoms, fuchsias, salvias, and geraniums. Accordingly, we sallied
forth to a place called the Moss, a wild tract of moorland lying about
a mile to the right of the road to Everley, and famous for the red bog,
produced, I presume, by chalybeate springs, which, when mixed with the
fine Bagshot silver sand, is so effectual in changing the colour of
flowers.
It was a bleak gusty day in February, raining by fits, but not with
sufficient violence to deter me from an expedition to which I had taken
a fancy. Putting up, therefore, the head and apron of the phaeton, and
followed by one lad (the shrewd boy Dick) on horseback, and another
(John, the steady gardening youth) in a cart laden with tubs and sacks,
spades and watering-pots, to procure and contain the bog mould, (for we
were prudently determined to provide for all emergencies, and to carry
with us fit receptacles to receive our treasure, whether it presented
itself in the form of red earth or of red mud,) our little procession
set forth early in the afternoon, towards the wildest and most dreary
piece of scenery that I have ever met with in this part of the country.
Wild and dreary of a truth was the Moss, and the stormy sky, the moaning
wind, and the occasional gushes of driving rain, suited well with the
dark and cheerless region into which we had entered by a road, if a rude
cart-track may be so called, such as shall seldom be encountered in this
land of Macadamisation. And yet, partly perhaps from their novelty, the
wild day and the wild scenery had for me a strange and thrilling charm.
The ground, covered with the sea-green moss, whence it derived its name,
mingled in the higher parts with brown patches of heather, and dark
bushes of stunted furze, was broken with deep hollows full of stagnant
water; some almost black, others covered with the rusty scum which
denoted the presence of the powerful mineral, upon whose agency we
relied for performing that strange piece of natural magic which may
almost be called the transmutation of flowers.
Towards the ruddiest of these pools, situated in a deep glen, our active
coadjutors, leaving phaeton, cart, and horses, on the brow of the hill,
began rolling and tossing the several tubs, buckets, watering-pots,
sacks, and spades, which were destined for the removal and conveyance
of the much coveted-bog; we followed, amused and pleased, as, in
certain moods, physical and mental, people are pleased and amused at
self-imposed difficulties, down the abrupt and broken descent; and for
some time the process of digging among the mould at the edge of the bank
went steadily on.
In a few minutes, however, Dick, whose quick and restless eye was never
long bent on any single object, most of all when that object presented
itself in the form of work, exclaimed to his comrade, "Look at those
children wandering about amongst the firs, like the babes in the wood in
the old ballad. What can they be about?" And looking in the direction
to which he pointed, we saw, amidst the gloomy fir plantations, which
formed a dark and massive border nearly round the Moss, our old friends
Harry and Bessy Leigh, collecting, as it seemed, the fir cones with
which the ground was strewed, and depositing them carefully in a large
basket.
A manful shout from my companion soon brought the children to
our side--good, busy, cheerful, and healthy-looking as ever, and
marvellously improved in the matter of equipment. Harry had been promoted
to a cap, which added the grace of a flourish to his bow; Bessy had
added the luxury of a pinafore to her nondescript garments; and both
pairs of little feet were advanced to the certain dignity, although
somewhat equivocal comfort, of shoes and stockings.
The world had gone well with them, and with their parents. The house was
built. Upon remounting the hill, and advancing a little farther into the
centre of the Moss, we saw the comfortable low-browed cottage, full of
light and shadow, of juttings out, and corners and angles of every sort
and description, with a garden stretching along the side, backed and
sheltered by the tall impenetrable plantation, a wall of trees, against
whose dark masses a wreath of light smoke was curling, whose fragrance
seemed really to perfume the winter air. The pig had been bought,
fatted, and killed; but other pigs were inhabiting the sty, almost as
large as their former dwelling, which stood at the end of their garden;
and the children told with honest joy how all this prosperity had come
about. Their father, taking some brooms to my kind friend Lady Denys,
had seen some of the ornamental baskets used for flowers upon a lawn,
and had been struck with the fancy of trying to make some, decorated
with fir cones; and he had been so successful in this profitable
manufacture, that he had more orders than he could execute. Lady Denys
had also, with characteristic benevolence, put the children to her
Sunday-school. One misfortune had a little overshadowed the sunshine.
Squire Benson had died, and the consent to the erection of the cottage
being only verbal, the attorney who managed for the infant heir, a
ward in Chancery, had claimed the property. But the matter had been
compromised upon the payment of such a rent as the present prospects
of the family would fairly allow. Besides collecting fir cones for the
baskets, they picked up all they could in that pine forest, (for it was
little less,) and sold such as were discoloured, or otherwise unfit for
working up, to Lady Denys and other persons who liked the fine aromatic
odour of these the pleasantest of pastilles, in their dressing-room or
drawing-room fires. "Did I like the smell? We had a cart there--might
they bring us a hamper-ful?" And it was with great difficulty that a
trifling present (for we did not think of offering money _as payment_)
could be forced upon the grateful children. "We," they said, "had been
their first friends." For what very small assistance the poor are often
deeply, permanently thankful! Well says the great poet--
"I've heard of hearts unkind, good deeds
With ill deeds still returning;
Alas, the gratitude of man
Hath oftener left me mourning!"
Wordsworth.
Again for above a year we lost sight of our little favourites, for such
they were with both of us; though absence, indisposition, business,
company--engagements, in short, of many sorts--combined to keep us from
the Moss for upwards of a twelvemonth. Early in the succeeding April,
however, it happened that, discussing with some morning visiters the
course of a beautiful winding brook, (one of the tributaries to the
Loddon, which bright and brimming river has nearly as many sources as
the Nile,) one of them observed that the well-head was in Lanton Wood,
and that it was a bit of scenery more like the burns of the North
Countrie (my visiter was a Northumbrian) than anything he had seen in
the south. Surely I had seen it? I was half ashamed to confess that I
had not--(how often are we obliged to confess that we have not seen the
beauties which lie close to our doors, too near for observation!)--and
the next day proving fine, I determined to repair my omission.
It was a soft and balmy April morning, just at that point of the flowery
spring when violets and primroses are lingering under the northern
hedgerows, and cowslips and orchises peeping out upon the sunny banks.
My driver was the clever, shrewd, arch boy Dick; and the first part of
our way lay along the green winding lanes which lead to Everley; we then
turned to the left, and putting up our phaeton at a small farmhouse,
where my attendant (who found acquaintances everywhere) was intimate, we
proceeded to the wood; Dick accompanying me, carrying my flower-basket,
opening the gates, and taking care of my dog Dash, a very beautiful
thorough-bred Old English spaniel, who was a little apt, when he got
into a wood, to run after the game, and forget to come out again.
I have seldom seen anything in woodland scenery more picturesque and
attractive than the old coppice of Lanton, on that soft and balmy April
morning. The underwood was nearly cut, and bundles of long split poles
for hooping barrels were piled together against the tall oak trees,
bursting with their sap; whilst piles of faggots were built up in other
parts of the copse, and one or two saw-pits, with light open sheds
erected over them, whence issued the measured sound of the saw and the
occasional voices of the workmen, almost concealed by their subterranean
position, were placed in the hollows. At the far side of the coppice,
the operation of hewing down the underwood was still proceeding, and the
sharp strokes of the axe and the bill, softened by distance, came across
the monotonous jar of the never-ceasing saw. The surface of the ground
was prettily tumbled about, comprehending as pleasant a variety of hill
and dale as could well be comprised in some thirty acres. It declined,
however, generally speaking, towards the centre of the coppice, along
which a small, very small rivulet, scarcely more than a runlet, wound
its way in a thousand graceful meanders. Tracking upward the course of
the little stream, we soon arrived at that which had been the ostensible
object of our drive--the spot whence it sprung.
It was a steep irregular acclivity on the highest side of the wood,
a mound, I had almost said a rock, of earth, cloven in two about the
middle, but with so narrow a fissure that the brushwood which grew on
either side nearly filled up the opening, so that the source of the
spring still remained concealed, although the rapid gushing of the
water made a pleasant music in that pleasant place; and here and there
a sunbeam, striking upon the sparkling stream, shone with a bright and
glancing light amidst the dark ivies, and brambles, and mossy stumps of
trees, that grew around.
This mound had apparently been cut a year or two ago, so that it
presented an appearance of mingled wildness and gaiety, that contrasted
very agreeably with the rest of the coppice; whose trodden-down flowers
I had grieved over, even whilst admiring the picturesque effect of the
woodcutters and their several operations. Here, however, reigned the
flowery spring in all her glory. Violets, pansies, orchises, oxslips,
the elegant woodsorrel, the delicate wood anemone, and the enamelled
wild hyacinth, were sprinkled profusely amongst the mosses, and lichens,
and dead leaves, which formed so rich a carpet beneath our feet.
Primroses, above all, were there of almost every hue, from the rare and
pearly white, to the deepest pinkish purple, coloured by some diversity
of soil, the pretty freak of nature's gardening; whilst the common
yellow blossom--commonest and prettiest of all--peeped out from amongst
the boughs in the stump of an old willow, like (to borrow the simile
of a dear friend, now no more) a canary bird from its cage. The wild
geranium was already showing its pink stem and scarlet-edged leaves,
themselves almost gorgeous enough to pass for flowers; the periwinkle,
with its wreaths of shining foliage, was hanging in garlands over the
precipitous descent; and the lily of the valley, the fragrant woodroof,
and the silvery wild garlick, were just peeping from the earth in the
most sheltered nooks. Charmed to find myself surrounded by so much
beauty, I had scrambled, with much ado, to the top of the woody cliff,
(no other word can convey an idea of its precipitous abruptness,)
and was vainly attempting to trace by my eye the actual course of the
spring, which was, by the clearest evidence of sound, gushing from
the fount many feet below me; when a peculiar whistle of delight, (for
whistling was to Dick, although no ordinary proficient in our common
tongue, another language,) and a tremendous scrambling amongst the
bushes, gave token that my faithful attendant had met with something
as agreeable to his fancy, as the primroses and orchises had proved to
mine.
Guided by a repetition of the whistle, I soon saw my trusty adherent
spanning the chasm like a Colossus, one foot on one bank, the other on
the opposite--each of which appeared to me to be resting, so to say,
on nothing--tugging away at a long twig that grew on the brink of the
precipice, and exceedingly likely to resolve the inquiry as to the
source of the Loddon, by plumping souse into the fountain-head. I, of
course, called out to warn him; and he equally, of course, went on with
his labour, without paying the slightest attention to my caution. On the
contrary, having possessed himself of one straight slender twig, which,
to my great astonishment, he wound round his fingers, and deposited in
his pocket, as one should do by a bit of pack-thread, he apparently,
during the operation, caught sight of another. Testifying his delight by
a second whistle, which, having his knife in his mouth, one wonders how
he could accomplish; and scrambling with the fearless daring of a monkey
up the perpendicular bank, supported by strings of ivy, or ledges
of roots, and clinging by hand and foot to the frail bramble or the
slippery moss, leaping like a squirrel from bough to bough, and yet, by
happy boldness, escaping all danger, he attained his object as easily
as if he had been upon level ground. Three, four, five times was the
knowing, joyous, triumphant whistle sounded, and every time with a fresh
peril and a fresh escape. At last, the young gentleman, panting and
breathless, stood at my side, and I began to question him as to the
treasure he had been pursuing.
"It's the ground-ash, ma'am," responded master Dick, taking one of the
coils from his pocket; "the best riding-switch in the world. All the
whips that ever were made are nothing to it. Only see how strong it
is, how light, and how supple! You may twist it a thousand ways without
breaking. It won't break, do what you will. Each of these, now, is
worth half-a-crown or three shillings, for they are the scarcest things
possible. They grow up at a little distance from the root of an old
tree, like a sucker from a rose-bush. Great luck, indeed!" continued
Dick, putting up his treasure with another joyful whistle; "it was but
t'other day that Jack Barlow offered me half-a-guinea for four, if I
could but come by them. I shall certainly keep the best, though, for
myself--unless, ma'am, you would be pleased to accept it for the purpose
of whipping Dash." Whipping Dash!!! Well have I said that Dick was as
saucy as a lady's page or a king's jester. Talk of whipping Dash! Why,
the young gentleman knew perfectly well that I had rather be whipt
myself twenty times over. The very sound seemed a profanation. Whip my
Dash! Of course I read master Dick a lecture for this irreverent mention
of my pet, who, poor fellow, hearing his name called in question,
came up in all innocence to fondle me; to which grave remonstrance the
hopeful youth replied by another whistle, half of penitence, half of
amusement.
These discourses brought us to the bottom of the mound, and turning
round a clump of hawthorn and holly, we espied a little damsel with a
basket at her side, and a large knife in her hand, carefully digging
up a large root of white primroses, and immediately recognised my old
acquaintance, Bessy Leigh.
She was, as before, clean, and healthy, and tidy, and unaffectedly glad
to see me; but the joyousness and buoyancy which had made so much of her
original charm, were greatly diminished. It was clear that poor Bessy
had suffered worse griefs than those of cold and hunger; and upon
questioning her, so it turned out.
Her father had died, and her mother had been ill, and the long hard
winter had been hard to get through; and then the rent had come upon
her, and the steward (for the young gentleman himself was a minor) had
threatened to turn them out if it were not paid to a day--the very next
day after that on which we were speaking; and her mother had been
afraid they must go to the workhouse, which would have been a sad thing,
because now she had got so much washing to do, and Harry was so clever
at basket-making, that there was every chance, this rent once paid, of
their getting on comfortably. "And the rent will be paid now, ma'am,
thank Ood!" added Bessy, her sweet face brightening; "for we want only
a guinea of the whole sum, and Lady Denys has employed me to get scarce
wild-flowers for her wood, and has promised me half-a-guinea for what I
have carried her, and this last parcel, which I am to take to the lodge
to-night; and Mr. John Barlow, her groom, has offered Harry twelve and
sixpence for five ground-ashes that Harry has been so lucky as to find
by the spring, and Harry is gone to cut them: so that now we shall get
on bravely, and mother need not fret any longer. I hope no harm
will befal Harry in getting the ground-ash, though, for it's a noted
dangerous place. But he's a careful boy."
Just at this point of her little speech, poor Bessy was interrupted
by her brother, who ran down the declivity exclaiming, "They're gone,
Bessy!--they're gone! somebody has taken them! the ground-ashes are
gone!"
Dick put his hand irresolutely to his pocket, and then, uttering a
dismal whistle, pulled it resolutely out again, with a hardness, or
an affectation of hardness, common to all lads, from the prince to the
stable-boy.
I also put my hand into my pocket, and found, with the deep
disappointment which often punishes such carelessness, that I had left
my purse at home. All that I could do, therefore, was to bid the poor
children be comforted, and ascertain at what time Bessy intended to take
her roots, which in the midst of her distress she continued to dig up,
to my excellent friend Lady Denys. I then, exhorting them to hope the
best, made my way quickly out of the wood.
Arriving at the gate, I missed my attendant. Before, however, I had
reached the farm at which we had left our phaeton, I heard his gayest
and most triumphant whistle behind me. Thinking of the poor children, it
jarred upon my feelings. "Where have you been loitering, Sir?" I asked,
in a sterner voice than he had probably ever heard from me before.
"Where have I been?" replied he; "giving little Harry the ground-ashes,
to be sure: I felt just as if I had stolen them. And now, I do believe,"
continued he, with a prodigious burst of whistling, which seemed to
me as melodious as the song of the nightingale, "I do believe," quoth
Dick, "that I am happier than they are. I would not have kept those
ground-ashes, no, not for fifty pounds!"
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