IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) // 'J/ ^0 fe^ W^ .0 I.I ''^ 1^ III 2.5 i3_2 lift 12.2 Mi 1^ '""^ m III 2.0 1.8 1 1.25 1.4 1.6 ^ 6" ► '•m <9 w /a /. VI e". c7. 'ew ^ M m ^^ O / Photographic Sciences Corpordtiori 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 (716) 872-4503 6^ CIHM/ICMH Microfiche Series. CIHM/ICMH Collection de microfiches. Canadian Institute for Historical Microreproductions Institut canadien de microreproductions historiques 1980 Technical and Bibliographic Notes/Notes techniques et bibliographiques The Institute has attempted to obtain the best original copy available for filming. Features of this copy which may be bibliographically unique, which may alter any of the images in the reproduction, or which may significantly c* inge the usual method of filming, are checked below. L'Institut a microfilm^ le meilleur exemplaire qu'il lui a dt6 possible de se procurer. 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Maps, plates, charts, etc., may be filmed at different reduction ratios. Those too large to be entirely included in one exposure are filmed beginning in the upper left hand corner, left to right and top to bottom, as many frames as required. The following diagrams illustrate the method: Les cartes, planches, tableaux, etc., peuvent etre filmds d des taux de reduction diff^rents. Lorsque le document est trop grand pour etre reproduit en un seul clich6, il est filmd d partir de Tangle supdrieur gauche, de gauche d droite, et de haut en bas, en prenant le nombre d'images n^cessaire. Les diagrammes suivants illustrent la mdthode. 1 2 3 1 2 3 4 5 6 m # THE VILLAGE OF MERKOW; ITS PAST AND PRESENT. By frank JOHNSON, Author of Lashed to the Mizzen, Giles and Janey, or the Kindly f Gentleman^ &c. " The gods are just, and of our pleasant ricea Make instruments to scourge us." KIKO Leab. . PRINTED BY LOVELL PRINTING AND PUBLISHING COMPANY. 1876. Entered according to Act of Parliament, In the year one tlioueand eight hundred and aroSTwr' ' '''^"'"''''- '" *'' '^"' °'*'* ""'"^^ of Agriculture and StattS DEDICATION TO WILLIAM CHAMBERS, Esq. Sir, — In inscribing to you the accompanying narrativo, I have been guided, mainly, by the high opinion which I have over entertained of your unremitting exertions in the diffusion of pro- fitable knowledge. I can recall the day when the earliest of your publications for the people made its appearance. 1 v^as then in my tvvonty-fiirst year, with Leith Walk and its surroundings as familiar, perhaps, to me as to yourself, which not a little enhanced the interest that I took in your adventure. From then to the present time, no observer can have failed to notice, and no candid mind but will acknowledge the giant share which it and its suc- cessors have had, not only in cultivating the taste of the public, but in awakening in those for whom they were more especially intended an ambition for still higher attainments. Although the English agricultural labourer, in whose behalf the following pages have been written, can hardly, in the comparative darkness that still begirts him, be said to have been more than reached by your endeavours, you have been instrumental, and more so than any one I could name, by quickening the sympathy of those better circumstanced, in furnishing him, and when most needed, with friends and upholders. It would, indeed, be dis- heartening to suppose that labours, so fruitful elsewhere, had in one direction been entirely barren. There is no name, moreover, it would seem, that cou|,d be here introduced with so much propriety as your own, from the circum- stance that it was an account in " Things as they are in America," of the hopeless prospect of a Scottish ploughman in his old age, that determined me to write some such work as " The Tillage op DEDICATION. Merrow." This .was many years ago. I was then living in a log house, on a farm embosomed in the woods of Lower Canada. Never wore words more in place than your own, that, doubtless, the writing of it had been to mo a source of pleasure on many a •wearisome day. In the trials inseparable from broken health, in a new and rugged country, it has indeed been so, and it is from your sympathy therein that I am emboldened to hope that my work, now completed and revised, will be found to atford you an additional pleasure in its perusal. In the meantime, I have the satisfaction to know that my work will, with j^ou, be under the eye of one too informed to misjudge me, and too generous not to know how to make allowance for failure in a field where so few have ventured to tread, and where very few, in so doing, would be found not to have stumbled. "With the hope that many years of health and happiness are yet in store for you, Believe me, Sir, With the utmost respect, Your obedient servant, \ FRANK JOHNSON. INTRODUCTION TO THE AMERICAN EDITION. In the hope of meeting with support, not only in the Dominion of Canada, but also in the United States, in the publication of " The Village of Merrow, its Past and Present," I have been en- couraged liy the belief that no rightly minded man can have re- garded with indirt'erence the degradation, in every way, of that exodus from Britain which, for so many years, has been inundating and polluting the shores of America. That, long ago, the American people, I am speaking of the States, were aware of the danger that threatened them, may be gleaned from u work, published some twenty years since, entitled "Emigration in its practical application to individuals and com- munities." " But while," writes Mr. Bui-ton, its author, " the "States can, as it is generally said, absorb them, while they are " in the meantime an advantage, in a pecuniary sense at least, to " the American people, transatlantic statesmen, who look into the "future, shake their heads, and fear that too large a stratum of "this coari-est clay of human life is imported from our country, "and deposited on theirs. They think that it comes in masses " too large to be sufficiently disintegrated and dispersed among "their own energetic people. The time may come when it is "no economic advantage to receive them, and here is one warning " to us in Britain to strain every nerve to save our own country " from a succeeding race of a similarly damaged population, a " warning that, disastrous as it must ever be to possess such a popu- " lation within our bosom, the wretched resource of draining it off " may be denied to us by the stopping of the exit." Now, no one familiar with the present condition of what in Britain are culled the lower orders, will, I am sure, venture to say that, at least in one great and important body of them, of whom thousands annually emigrate to America, there has been, since the above was written, any alteration for the better. Again and again was it enforced on me, some twelve years since, by the farmers of England, that in the present agricultural labourer I should hardly recognize the man whom, of old, it was my fortune to employ, so had he morally retrograded. A I 6 INTRODUCTION TO THE AMKUICAN EDITION. Wore the evil T am Hpcaking of to bo rated only by the number of tliOHO who, on hin INTRODUCTION TO THE AMERICAN EDITION. w\ It is England's pride that her people and her langna;:f3 are spreading themselves over the earth. It is so, and if what I have just said bo equally so, how great is her responsibility therein. Let her look to it. What a destiny might then be hers ! To bo sure, we are promised, in an extended education of her people, a less benighted immigrant, but shall we find in him a soberer and more honest one, if still reared upon wages which to us of the West appear simply disgraceful ? Will it advantage either him or us that he shall have been taught how to syllal)le honest}', if hunger and misery are still to forbid him its practice? I have too little faith in some things to believe so. " I, you must know, sir," once said to me a Dorset woman, " have brought up a family upon eight shillings a week." Yes, she had brought them up, but not to be honest; — two of them I know to be robbers. It is time that both the Dominion and the Siates protest against this wholesale exportation of what Mr. Burton has not inaptly called the coarsest clay of human life, — that Britain be told, and in a tone to bo heard, that she has no right to stand in the way of civilization by reducing her labourers to the level of brutes. In vain will America look for honest citizens, for upright legislators, foi' orderliness and decency in men, sprung, to so grc.'it an extent, from a class whose progenitors, for generations past, have been educated, or rather driven by want and misery to dishonesty and untruthfulness. To awaken, I repeat, in England, a sympathy for this unfortu- nate class of men, as a means of assisting them to a higher and happier position, and thereby to originate a higher standard of refinoment and morality here, has been my object in writing " The Village op Merrow;" and if, for very many years, both in the old country and in her colonies, to have rubbed shoulders with the English countryman, and to have tasted, and in no small degree, of the bitterness and misery [ have written of, whilst, with a 3'oung family and broken health, battling with the wilderness of Lower Canada, can bo regarded as qualifying me for the task, may I not venture to hope that my endeavours will be found to have not been entirely in vain. It may be thought by some that I have drawn upon my imagi- nation a little too severely in my delineation of the Rev. Horatius Slack. In reply I would say, that in the columns of one of the highest and discreetest journals of the day is still to be seen how much more indulgent I have been to him who sat to me for the INTRODUCTION TO THE AMERICAN EDITION. 13 picture than was he to any one so unfortunate as to stand within his reach. Having, long since, passed to his account, I might in charity, it would seem, have left him to his deserts. And so had it been, had I, on my way, since, met with fewer treading in the same path, mantled in all the unholiness that was his. By no pardon- able misconduct, rely on it, nor by any mere skin-deep conviction of the necessity for so doing, could an assembly, no other than our own Imperial parliament, have, on more than one occasion of late, been ])rovoked to an enquiry into the tyranny and injustice of Buch as was he. By too many of his class -'The Village op Merrow" will, I know, be little welcomed, and in its dappled pages venomously assailed. It is pleasant to know that their arrows will fall harmless upon the ocean between us. In return, I will make bold to say, if only as a warning to them, that I am far from being the only one, Vt ith at least the Atlantic for a lens, to whose vision the little cloud pointed to in my tale is daily becoming bigger and bigger ; and let them beware, lest, on its breaking, upon their heads descend its retributive bolt. FRANK JOHNSON. m' I fii ' THE VILLAGE OF MEEROW; ITS PAST AND PRESENT. Scene, England,— a county bordering on the mouth of the River Thames. Time,— towards the end of the first half of the present century. PART FIRST. CHAPTER I. Merrovo Churchyard by moonlight. Now Dian's orb was hung on high, And all so sunk in rest, A stranger to the world had deemed Its habitants were blest. Who, with the fjorcery around Of a night so calm, so clear, Could have borne to think that its least content Could have ever known a tear ? A night indeed ! — so hushed, serene, Scarce a dead leaflet stirr'd; If, in the far, a cry, a chime. Who would not such have heard. The snowy moon thai lives aloft Seemed all alone to bide. As if the only thing awake. And watching all beside. I could but think, if day's bright orb Were made alone for light, Man might have done without the sun, For the sake of such a night. Thus bewitched, — leaning against an old tomb, whose shade, in part, concealed mo, my attention was suddenly aroused by the tread of some one approaching. By the western gate, to the left of me, a countryman was entering the yard. On his right arm was a scythe. Breaking, a^ter a few steps, from the beaten track, I could see him, by the brightness everywhere, zigzagging amidst the tombs, till he had reached one in the part (at the back of the IG THE VILLAGE OF MEIIROW. •Ill church) (lovotod to tho poor. By this, after a while, I observed him to kneel ; — then, abruptly ri^^ing, — tho sleeve of his Htnock, for a moment, to bin eyes, and his scythe again on his arm. he, as in haste, made for the road. I could guess who it was: — It was John Hawthorne, a labourer of Merrow, a man of great strength of character, and of equal kindliness and honesty, one of thoso who occasionally make their appearance upon the troubled waters of life, as if for no other end than to help to make them the smoother. For some years a widower, and with two children, his way had, for awhile, been anything but an easy one. The early liandiness, however, of the elder, a girl, had, of late, bettered things a bit. Moreover, being of sound health, and of good prowess, liis established name enabled hitn, at times, to somewhat enlarge the miserable pittance which is still for men of his class called wiiges. and, to his honor bo it said, this was never, in the hour of their need, withheld from his mates. By many a half- starved comrade, to tho present day, might a bright tale be told of him, By one alotie was he regarded with a loss friendly fecliag. It was whispered that, in one direction, no little jealousy existed in respect of tho nutnbors that increasing'y mustered at what Hawthorne was in tho habit of calling " his little meetings like." The>e were held weekly at his cottage, on the Sunday: — but of this hereafter. And now for a little retrospection. — I was still but a young man when I tirst passed through the village of Merrow. — I am speaking, mind, of realities, — I was out botanizing. This was some years prior to when old remembrances induced me, as spoken of above, to loiter, on my way homeward, in its burial ground. I was bound, at the time for Shropton, a borough tovvn, between which and Lavent, whore 1 had taken up my abode, and equally distant by a mile or two from either, lay the village of Mer- row. I recall, and if any thing is ever engraven on tho heart, this, I should say, from its present vividness, must have been upon mine, I recall that, on reaching about the half-way house of tho few Btrairirlinu' cottaVV. 19 i m ClIArTEU II. On rctirin^^ for the ui^^lit, T wuh Iohs curly nf>lccp than My (lay'8 tramp would have warranted. Indejiendently of the excep- tional circumstance under whicli 1 tir.st observed him, Harry llobbs was about the last man to be seen, and readily fbr^'otten. If ever in a Briton'a face was the bull-do;,^, it was in his. This, in the days wdicn the heroes of Moseley Hurst were still remembered, commanded ibr him a certain consideration. At the time I am writing of, he was in his twent3'-sixth year, and, although in stature somewhat wanting, he was a man of remarkable prowess, and, as Ids looks showed, fearless, to a fault. His course had, it seems, so far, been an uphill one: His father was a Devon man, An ostler at an inn, With less in this life's lottery. Far less, to lose than win. And dying young, while Ilobbs was yet A jiarcnt's ])etted joy, Hobbs curly had to front the world, A rude unlettered boy. How grand it is that ]>arent's love. That jnother's guardian care. Have more than half suj)plied the ])luco Cf school, -when schools were rare. But for this boon, with Hobb's fierce hate, Jveen sense of wrong, and pride, His failings, sure, hud ruther leuned To vice than virtue's side. But, as it proved, in roughest hour, Ev'n hunger's rudest shock, A mother's angel voice would start Beneath the country smock. This kept him straight in virtue's way ; Her champilitics and particulars of the place. "Well," said lie, "this titheing us, as times stand, has done no good. You see, sir, among the labourers thei'o's a deal of discon- tent just now, and (possibly some of the scjuiros would not like to hear me say it) with good reason. Wiion I was a youngster, sir, and for some years, indeed, afterwards, things were altogether dii^'erent. I can mind me of thodtiy, when a man would off with his nmock, and up with his sleeves at halfof a word against his master. It's not so now, sir. We don't pull together at all. What with commons enclosure bills, and taking away tho bits of ground that were let with the cottages, tho indopondent feeling of the men has been quite broken down. They look to the parish, in tho winter, as a matter of course. You sec (help yourself, sir, that'll not hurt you) you see, sir, when a man has something to fall back upon, if only an acre or so, he feels that he is not, altogether, a mere cipher; — ho has, and ho knows U, a stake in tho place, — it makes him law-abiding. I am sorry to say it, but even hero, where the men are better behaved than in some parts, many a one is out in tho tields, at night, for what don't belong to him. A neighbour and I, tho other evening, counted up as many as ninety little holdings that at one time were within the circuit of a mile or 80. Not one of them, sir, is loft. Many of the proprietors have even pulled down their cottages, thinking, by driving tho poor fellows elsewhere, to lessen the rates. Now, I say, sir, this is not right, — not tho way to make a country either happy, or lastingly great. I have always thought, sir, (a noble father taught me to think so), that nothing in a nation that is unchristian goes unpunished more than in an individual. It is the duty, (don't spare it, sir, that'll not hurt you), it is the duty, 1 say, of a govern- THE VlLIiAUK OF MURUOW. 21 mcnt to make it more tho intorost of n nmn to keep the law than to break it. Picture, nir, no bread in the house, for days, and a field of potatoes handy I I may seem to he talkin^' boldly." "Not at all HO," I waid. "Rely on it, sir, that the day will be, when all thin will right itHelf." " 1 thou;:;lit, Mr. Manly," I ventured '• that on euoh pointH farmers were barely permitted the privilege of thinking, still lost of speaking." " Ah, there's the misfortune, sir. The yearly tenancy system is little better than serfdom. Fortunately for me, though ni}' farm is but a small one, the lease I hold of it is for throe lives, my own for one; — hut for that, sir, I should soon feel the bit in my mouth. You wei'O speaking of the new tithe claim. Well, you see, sir, it had lapsed, as they say, for so long, that it was not till after three years of lawing arid lussing about it that tho Vicar's claim was allowed. Of course, as a Vicar's it was a small tithe." "I understand you." " It has done him, sir, a deal of harm, as, being a wealthy man, quite in(le])endent of his living, it is thought that he, at leant, might have left things as they were. Such men .is (liles Raw- thorno and Harry lIobbs> kick at it fiercely, which I am sorry for, as Giles, for one, has a deal to contend with otherwise. You 8ee, sir, his bit of a freehold giving him a county vote, at the last contest, which was a close one, he voted for the liberal man. Many of us did so. lie was ottered almost anything for his vote by the other side." "And he refused it?" " Yes, sir, for he's a thorough man, every inch of him; but it has sadly crossed him in obtaining employment, even, which may Hcem strange, with the mere farmers ; — the fact is, more than hal/ of these are at the bidding of the landlords. The Squire's game- keeper, too, I am afraid, has anything but forgotten how a little blue-eyed damsel, not an age since, snubbed him at the Squire's- His brother John still, at times, works for me. He did, a deal so, till my own lads got to be big enough to help me." I was, indeed, sorry that an engagement at Shropton com- pelled me to somewhat abruptly conclude my interview with Mr. Manly. I had much, I was aware, yet to learn from him." "This will not " said he, as I rose to leave, " be, I trust, sir, the ^last that we shall see of you ?" 22 TIIK VILLAni-: OK MKUROVV. I ho wed. " If you'ro foiul of floworn, nir, iIhm'o'm my wife fuirly flower mud." " A tino olservo hi.s gni.-ious groctini^s. A nod to liim.— Ji nniilo (o hor,— A i^ofi wonl to another; — One would huvc thou,i,'ht that each had boon A histor or a brother. It costrt us nothing,— next to it, Such eon(U)Mconsiofi, — true; But, ah, how tow approcialo this, Ah I'arson i^hiek,— how lew 1 Stranijo, was it not, that one so froo From vuli^ar faults should, still, Raise enemies,— yet so it runs With some, do what thoy will. 'T was said, ho little learning' had. By learn in/^ let (res meant ; Some minds but HUi)erticial things. More Hurlat'O ahow content. Too trained was lio to task the brain With trite collegiate lore; Enough for him wore wisdom's ways, Even Heaven exacts no more. Again — " ho science sot aside," As leading mind astray; But facts are awkward things to face, Assert what malice may. What eye, as his, with faultless caro Would note the varying hours, Track in the sky,— the gathering cloud, The C(miing scjualls and showers I Who, 80 as he, could time the tides, — The changes of the moon ; Without an altitude could hit The cxactest nick of noon ! What pen, as his, could sot at nought The frivolous cavilling theories. How older earth than scripture shows, By twenty thousand years, is ! 28 24 THE VILLAGE OF MERROW. Nor science less his aid, no doubt, In his supreme regard For what, in every clime alike, Claims health for its reward. Scanning his home, within, what eye Could miss "the mathematics;" Such order, regularity ! From the parlor to the attics. "A whole is better than its part," Seemed ciphered everywhere ; Such a completeness ! not a thinff Needed, was wanting there to) Not that ambition, pride, or greed Had ought to do in this, The worthlessncss of this world's wealth A favourite theme of his. " Not for poor solf, — simply for friends, — And for ihee^ Arabella,"* Often he'd say " was this or that, Like many a foolish fellow." Indeed, so little value set he E'^en on recharhe things, As seldom to Concede a price That art, with excellence, brings. This willingness to sacrifice Self for another would, As in his pressure for small tithe, Sometimes belie his good. Few but regarded it unwise To rake up obsolete. Long lapsed assessments which the poor Are hardly prone to meet. Some would go further, even to say, Nay, press the point as sure. That often a loaf, a single loaf. Is something with the poor. Not all, it seems, are competent 'T appreciate the deep. The delicate sentiment that puts, With some, all else asleep. The Vicar's sister, resident at the vicarage. ''^^ THE VILLAGE OF MERROW. 25 Tithes wore with him as duties, things Held sacredly in trust; T' endanger them, in any way, More than he dare do, — ^just, " But once " he'd say " hut once permit The idea t' obtain, abroad, That tithes are other than Heaven's dues, Away, in fact — the Lord!" He'd done, thank heaven, his duty. He, who followed him would find How tenderly he'd ever borne His interest in mind. This delicate discernment may, Who knows, have had its weight In bis acceptance of the cares, When pressed, as magistrate. Even here, it seems malignity Could not withhold its fling; How different a song, mayhap, Had charity to sing. How may a word, a well-placed word, A more ex])ense of breath. Make even, at times, the difference 'Twixt liberty and death ! How has the Bench's gracious smile. The magistratic shake. Served as a bribe, ere now, with power. For trembling frailty's sake ! Yet so it runs, — however high Men's motives, some will see In such the mere appetence For power, place, or fee. 20 TTTK VILLAGK OF MERKOW. ill ^llliii CHAPTER V. A word 01' two now upon one who in doomed to play no second part in the present drama. It has already been noted that at some little distance from the south end of what is still called the Moor lane, a lane lending from the main road to Jierrow moor, lay the freehold cottage ol" Giles Hawthorne. Giles had inherited it from his father, he, the latter^ having obtained a grant of the land upon which it stood, in return for some especial service, from the father of the present Squire Squander, the same of whom mention has already been may a mile." Now was my chance, I saw, spying in the back ground four liungry looking urchins, with a fifth at the breast, — now was my chance. The woman was, evidently, gartulously incdined, and " maaster wer from home." Now was my chance for a peep, and more ])crhaps, at the doings of a district of which not a little, by no moans complimentary to it, had already reached moat Lavent. "All yours?" said I, pointing to the children. "iSarlain, sir, — and, as times be, 'nough on 'em too, sir." " Your husband is not without work, i hope ?" "Not at present, sir," she replied, "but what's nine shillin a week, sir! — With rent, and ccal, and ile, which, wi' thi'ce ounces o' soap, 'mounts to two an' a penny, it doan't a leave, sir, for wittles nothing whalsumdever scarce." " Just a shilling per week for each of you," I said. " A cojiper or so more, sir, — we caals us six, — we doan't a count, you Hce, sir, the beaby." " But should you not," I said, — " ought yoii not to consider youi'sclf a little more?" " I'd a ought to, perhaps," she replied. *' But how, my good womanj" I demanded, assisting myself to a stool, " how, in the name of goodness, with so small an incoming, do you ever contrive to make ends meet ?" "They never do meet, sir." " And with every forbearance and conrrivanco, no doubt, upon your ])art : — A mystery to me how you manage." " Well, sir," said she, obliging mo by seating lierself, " the main thing as hev got to bo considered wi' childern is as they requires a plenty, — it bo the plenty, sir, as is the main thing as us hev a ijjot to look to.' ' " The plenty 1" I said to myself,—" how, in the name of sense, is she going to bring that about!" " Now, sir, there's taturs ; — a bushel o' thaay como to jes two and four ; — taturs bean't bread, and never can't be no how ; but there be a summat in 'em, sir, to look at, and growiii' uns aal'ays 36 THE VILLAGE OP MERUOW. ikes, sir, a full platter, and wi' a 8j)niik]o o' nalt, by way o' relish T never knowod one on 'em aH a didn't a take to 'em kindly : — Yes, sir, tatur« bo a /^reat tldng wi' cbildern, — Then, a mornins, thaay gitB a little meal, wi' joh, mcbbe, a nup or bO o' milk ; and, a bod time, over and above the meal, (oatmeal, sir,) thany each on 'em bovs a wmaall ulico o' broad, (brown broad, sir.) 0' thaay four hix- ponnioH hov to carry wo through." " Groceries, and ho forth, I HuppoHo, out of the question ?" " Well, sir, — o* the like o' thauy us bev, ov course, to bo a sum- mat spearing. Half ov an ounce o' tea wi' a half pound o' sweetning bev to stand wo tho week." " A summat spearing, indeed !" thought I. ** Us tried, sir, a time back, to git along athout'n, but maaster said as I never could a do justice to tho boaby : — It bo a Bummat too, sir, for to look furrard to ov a evening — it do so cheer ono !" "But, my good woman," I said, "you don't mean to say that your liusband has to do a hard day's work upon such an allow- ance ?" " Oh no, sir, — there bo a pound o' baacon o' purpose for ho." " For the whole week ?" " Sartain — ho couldn't a do, sir, athout'n no how. Baacon be a grand thing, sir, for work, — there be sich a stay in it. " A stay in it 1" ** Jes, for a change, as mebbe, sir, us tried, for a week or more, in the stead o' it, horrins, and, agin, what thaay caals, sir, Dutch cheese; but maaster found as there waun't nothing like the stay in em; — yes, sir, baacon be a grand thing for to work on." Ye Exchequer chancellors, from a cottage such as was this what might ye not carry away, with advantage to yourselves and country ! " And is this," said I, " the sum, the full sum of your weekly ,fare?" " In or'nary times, sir, let alone on a busy day, mebbe, a sup o' cider or sich like. Cast'n aal up, sir, an' 'lowing thrippenco for backer, you'll find, sir, as there bean't room for nothing more no how : — A couple o' coppers be aal as is left, which us do our best, sir, for to put by agin what us caals a rainy day; — it doesn't a do, sir, not to bev nothing in a house. " God of heaven I" I said, silently, — *' But meet you with no .assistance ?" THE VILLAGE OP MERROW. .37 " Mr. Gooilwill, sir, tho curato, as I'd ft oujjht to ha' mentioned afore, now ajid agin drops wo a HJiiilin' whicli, the Loard bless'n, sir, bo aH much, uh knowH, as ho can afford. Ho daros'nt a do, sir, thany says, aal as ho'd a like to." « Ah ! — but how with tho rector ? ITo, I have heard, is wealthy. Moreover, if applied to, he would, of court*e, lay the po.sition of Buch aH yourHoIf, at once, before botli tho farmers and landlords." " Well, — Mr. Wrench, you see, sir, bo afeard o' boin' thaaght to be a mischief nieaker. lie known an tho squires and farmers 'd be aal agin Jin, and ho bo a terroble man, Hir, for the gontlofolks." " Oh !" " Uh tried for a bit, sir, to do with less ile; but when the chil- dern 'd be a ailin' a' nights, it wor so lonesome, sir, ho dreadful to hear 'cm a cryin' in the dark, — us couldn't a bear it, sir, no how." " Have done, for God's .sake," I said, rising spasmodically. Ilor last words had touched me to tho core, so fully did thoy seem to realize the terrible position of her class. " No offence, sir? " ** Not in tho least, my good woman ;" — thon, thrusting i.ito her hand the first that my fingers lighted on in my purse, I mai for the door. And now, ye, who profess to bo at home in the , ots of the heaj't or soul, toll mc, — was it in the consciousness of what little service I had already done, in tho mere earnest of the moment, or in tho thousand and one resolutions and intentions which in a few seconds had crowded themselves on me, that, on looking upward, as I loft this miserable cottage, it seemed that tho sun looked brighter and grander, and tho sky lovelier and nearer to mo than before I had entered it. It was dark when I reached Lavent. I don't remember to have ever so stumbled and missed my way as upon that after »ioon and evening. I; 'f msmmamm ■■■■■liailllMiiBMrdipA 38 THE VILLAGE OF MERROW. CHAPTER IX, What Giles had long dreaded he was at last driven to, — to apply to the workhouse at Shropton for assistance, — with what success we shall hear presently. He had stood it out till the Cv^mmence- ment of March, but not without frequent application to his bro- ther, I recall him, distinctly, at the time I am writing of; — on my way to Shropton, it fell to me often to meet him, — a mere skeleton. It was impossible to pass him without speaking to him. One might have laid one's fingers in the wrinkles of his face. Why have I, since, so often bethought me of this f On his way homeward Giles stopped at his brother's. There some of his mates. Pilch, Harry llobbs, Styles, and others, had already mustered; — Hobl s' tongue was again at work. — had it ever ceased ! At some new or old grievance was the bull dog still gnawing. He was far, however, from being always in the wrong, — 80, let us give him his bone. iiHI' EtiiilJlilll iir- " One's aal'ays lookin' round and round At what some richer holds, Sickened to see his well fenced fields, His cattle and his folds. They caals us rebels, wonders why Us kicks aginst the laaws ; Muore wonder. Pilch, as none does wub 'T bean't, sure, from what o' causa. Some as had hev us list, — " Better A so'dgor's life than yourn;" Let them, snys I, John, list as likes, — A so'dger's trade arn't ourn. Why, John, should us, let what wooll come, Tarn out, half frockod, half fed, Give up one's heart's least drop of blood For what denies one bread. How care can us for king or queen, What pride in country taake, What matters it to I who's up. With not a groat at staako. 2f ;o apply success niiience- hiH bro- of j — on -a mere g to him. liis face. lers. There had — had it -dog still B wrong, THE VILLAGE OP MERROW. 39 Toss one a little croft or two, — Loard, Pilch! if ever blest "Wer I with sich, I'd fight enough, For the like, for aal the rest. Half as is spent in butcherin' folks. Laid out in Christian ways, Woold muore'n that, Pilch,— zummun's lips Might then lack less of praise. Never to hold, lad, half a rood. Never, with hedge and dyke, To circle in a little whome, I feels— as soured like." Ilobbs' hammering coming to a stand, brought Pilch into the field, with " Well Giles, how at the wukkus T'— unions had not yet come into play. Very little, however, could be got from him, — Giles' pride was nettled,— " A letter from one to t'othei-*'— "more'n he could bide" — "sooner starve"— and " that Snarl ! "* was about the pith of what he did say. This, in turn, started Styles : "It bean't, I says, like Christians, Ilobbs, "To let un starve and die," — " Little care thaay for that, friend Styles, 'T be jist as thaay sarved L " That Parish, bless ye, han't a soul Bit bigger than a mouse ; It puzzles 1 he bean't ashamed To sit in the Loard's house." " Would that the fellow were," said John, " His shame might teach him bettor Than to suppose a hungry man Could live upon a letter." <( Zactly as I tell'd Missus, John, Come six months next July; Jist see, says I, what hearty fare Parish hev given I. * * * * *' Heerd o' my job, Pilch ?"— " Manly's wuts ?" " No, lad,- the ji-^won's wheat," — "Tight bargain waun't it? — none, I specks, Grudges thee, Hobbs, the treat." • Porter at the workhouse. Ml 40 THE VILLAGE OF MERKOW. i ; " Well, I wun't say, — I put'n low, — 'T wer my own affer like ; 'T waun't no good tryin' to git muore^ Too well 1 knaws the pike. " Enough to keep one jist alive, Body and soul together, The moast I ever counts on he, The hardest o' the weather. " Bean't nothing good in this world, Styles, The good be aal in f^other ; Wonder as some folks shaws sich love Toward a poorer brother. " But, lads, good night"—" Hold on," qnoth Styles, " Wooll foot it, Ilobbs, together ; Keep up your heart, Gilss, — fouler skies Than now hev braught fair weather." ' Which saying, Styles, with Hobbs and Pilch, Slop, and his neighbour Tom, Made for the road ; — a shoi-t half mile, And each was at his home. '' A blunt bold fellow, John" said Giles, " That Hobbs,— yet would that all Could say they had a heart their own As ready at a call." " Would, brother, that they could, for, sure, It makes one sick to see So little in the world of soul For the like of you and me." " 'T most makes one doubt of Providence," Said Giles, " to toil and strive The long, long year, and never reach ^ The wherewithal 1o live." '• Don't say so, Giles, — there's more, believe, Than we can comprehend ; Sorry should I be, lad, to doubt. At least of one true friend. " The proudest not the happiest, p'rhaps, Trust me, there never can Be anything about them, Giles, To make a happy man. •' No, I've never y-t mistrusted, lad, For the troul led and the tried, I couldn't bear to think that God Was never by their side." THE VILLAGE OF MERROW. 41 « 'Idunna doubt it, John," said Giles, " I know God means us good ; Still, hard, at times, to check the tongue That's crying out for food." 3fC *|€ JjC ?jC Jf* •P Oh, poverty ! — oh, poverty! — How hard art thou to bear. How little does the rich man know The bitternesses there. How little fit is he to frame The laws that bind the poor ; The crimes of poverty were few, If rich men's laws were fewer. , Could but, for one short hour, with thee, Gaunt hunger, power and pride Acquaintance make, would penury's plea Be then so oft denied. How, to the daintiest, best of earth's Though bred, reborn in thee, Has many a one in tliese wild woods, At thy bid, bent his knee. Ev'n I, p'rhaps, owe thee every thing, More than my pen can pay ; But for the teaching of thy trials, E'en to the passing day,* I had never in the pitiless world. The cold crowd streaming by, For any suffering, save its own, Without a thought, a sigh, I had never, mingling with iha few, Shared in their sympathies, Had never found, nor cared to find Where pure pleasure lies. I had never had aflHiction lay A hand across mine own, As now, with so a brother's warmth For the merest kindness done. Some taint of pride, some soil of self, Unwittingly betrayed, Had crushed the heart's responsive heave, And starved the proflered aid. Written in 1859. 42 THE VILLAGE OF MERROW. Still loss had T, as o'er those linos I ^lanco with watery eye, Caught, through the glistening tear, aloft, A glimmering in the sky. Partlon me, my readers, this digression. — It has forced itself upon me. I would have you to remember that much, very much of this my narrative, that by many of you will be read amongst the carpeted surroundings of matured civilization, has been writ- ten amidst the ruder appliances of a pioneer's home, and in mo- ments snatched from a winter's night in the far away wildernesse of Canada. AV^ith pen in hand, so situated, it is impossible always to suppress. It is here that to some things time has a habit of putting more than an iron handle. CHAPTEii X. It was about the time of Giles's application to Shropton work- house that, on rambling round by the Moor road which skirted to the north, as already stated, a tempting preserve of the Squire's, I was startled by the report of a gun, and, on looking round, I Baw two men emerging from n wood on my left. One was a tall man, with a thin pale face, and dark hair, — the other a shorter one, by some tive inches, with forward features, and reddish hair; both were farm labourers. The first was Pilch, — I never heard of him by his christian name, — the second Turnpike Tom, as he was invariably called, — his father, when Tom was a boy, having kept a gate on the Shropton road. On seeing me, they paused, — then one of them, advancing a few steps, picked up a hare, whilst the other, whis])ering his mate, and crossing a strip of grass between the wood and a st3de against which I was leaning, came right up to me, and touched his hat. "Dangerous work, my good sir, that — is it not so?" I said. " Well, sir, look at me ; am I to blame ? " I looked at him. What a wreck of bad usage, of bad laws, was standing before me ! poor fellow — poor fellow. " What is it that you wish of me," I said. '* On'y, sir, as you'd be kind enough to keep this dark." THE VILLAGE OF MERROW. 43 Could tho man. it was Pilch, have fathomed but a tithe of the detestation with which the young man before him had been taught to regard tho the,n revolt! ngly cruel and unju.st game laws, he would assuredly have dis])ensed with his request-,' for it was not till about a twelvemonth after this that the some- what more lenient laws were passed, which in their lenity restricted transportation to night poaching ! Tiring, on my return homeward by the same road, I dropped in, for a rest, at the cottage of Giles Hawthorne. He was out, but his wife and children were at home. The first thing that, on entering, caught my eye, was the identical gun which I had seen in Pilch's hands. 1 recognized it by the wire with which the lock was secured, for it was but a shaky affair. " Wi' a wo- man's wile " Jenny promptly disposed of a shawl on it, but it had not escaped me. By what trifles arc our destinies shaped. Had it not been my fortune to have crossed Pilch, it had not been his, from distrust of me, to have left his gun with Giles, — nor for Giles, — but let me not anticipate. It was by no means with Jenny's approval that tho gun had been left with them ; but Giles was at home when Pilch called, and he could hardly have refused him. Jenn^' seemed intuitively conscious of some impending danger. It was always with her eyes shut, and at arms length, that she handled it. Nothing tliat went wrong during the next few days but in one way or another she could connect with that gun. *' When will he take it away ? " was her incessant song. CHAPTER XI. SQUIRE SQUANDER AND HIS WIFE. There was a singularity About this special pair. Their close resemblance in some points, Complexion, aspect, air. A veritable living proof Of certain laws of nature, By which the disposition gives The face, and not the feature. (:■.•, 44 THE VILLAGE OF MEfeROW. Minds so alike, say moralists, Were scarcely meant for marriage ; , But rules, it seems, the best, at times, Are fated to miscarriage. Since, never more devotedly Attached to one another Were couple seen, — in love, as look, Like pets of the same mother. When tete-d-tete, who half so kind, Aftectionate and free; If sterner he in some points, none The less their harmony. More prettily two turtle doves Ne'er cooed in woodland shade, My love, my dear, — my dear, my love, Accompanied half tlicy said. Wherever Squander went she went, Whatever did, she'd do ; One scarcely thought, breathed, wished, or prayed. And not the other, too. With greater complacency would this reciprocity of feeling have been regarded, had not their resemblance in one respect been equally marked, — had they, with those whom fortune had less befriended, been less disposed to severity on the least interference with their predo?ninant passions. The Squire's God was his gun, — sport his necessity. Woe to any one who crossed him in his pursuit of it ; whilst ai the altar of her own charms, nor was she wanting therein, alone worshiped his lady. Woe equally to any one who disturbed her ladyship there. Though but a wild flower, the beauty of Jenny Hawthorne was a thorn in her pride, which roused in her, with no higher principle opposed to it, the bitterest vindictiveness. This was still further inflamed by the villagers, who, hating her heartily, never permitted an opportunity to escape them of flaunting in her face the superiority of their village belle, while Snipe, for his own ends, was equally alert in repeat- ing the merest whisper calculated to annoy her. He knew, well, too, by what means his master's hatred of the Hawthornes could be best reach ed. Thornley Hall, the property and residence of the Squire, was bosomed in an estate that a nobleman would not have slighted. THE VILLAGE OF MERKOW. 45 It was generally, however, understood to have descended to the present Squire heavily mortgaged, a stjite of things which the extravagance of his wife, it was thought, would tend but little to improve. Moreover, the Squire had contracted an acquaintance, which soon ripened into friendship, with one dangerous, in every respect, to know, — Baron Steinberg, of Orton. He was by birth an Austrian. Of showy exterior, ho had captivated an English heiress at Vienna, married her, and, in a few years afterwards, at her decease, became the lord of a very handsome domain in the Jidjoining parish of Orton. Of this man it will be sufficient to say, that as a companion he was agreeable, — as a sportsman choicely so, but utterly without principle, — a roue, — a gambler. The Squire had once been of essential service to the Baron in a poaching affair, assisting him materially in getting one -Dlggs out of the country. This had helped not a little to draw them to- gether. That his neighbours should see more than the Squire seemed willing to see, in this daily increasing intimac}', is nothing to be wondered at, — a tale that has been told again and again. At the Baron's was the best shooting in the country, and that was sufficient for the time. It was not, moreover, till some years in advance of this that there was anything in the Baron's attentions in one quarter that was particularly open to observation, not till it was well known that the Baron's purse had on an occasion been of essential service to the Squire. A shake of the head by Isaac Styles, the old hedger, might, at times, have been observed, when the Baron and Mrs. Squander would pass his cottage, but, what, at the moment, he, in addition, may have whispered to his wife, he was too guarded, at least upon that point, to let others hear. CHAPTER XII. ISAAC STYLES. Than Isaac Styles there was no one, as I have already said, in all Merrow more thoroughly respected. His sterling integrity and unpretending piety were at the bottom of it. His was not an unthumbed Bible. He was, moreover, a man of no little research. Guthrie's Grammar and The Pilgrim's Progress might both have been found on a small shelf within reach from ri ■J^ 46 THE VILLAGE OF MEKKOW. iU Ll/lili. his bed, the leaves of the latter worn to a ruvel, while his cogno- men of " Lawyer Styles " beHj)eak8 at once the variety as well as depth of his studies; and, as his acquirements were always at the service of another for simply thanks, his liberality still further raised him in the good oj)inion of his fellow villagers. It would seem froni what passed, about this time, between Ilobbs and Slop, in the cottage of the latter, that, with his mates at least, this ex- ceptional erudition was a matter of no little curiosity. * )it :ii Ht UK :l(i *• It puzzles I, Slop, aften, whcer The old man got it; — true, As Pilch says, half as his brain holds Woold split some heads in two." *' lie got it from his fearther, Hobbs, T lie old man used to slieoi' The liiawyers, and the hirnod like, When 'sizes lime wer here. Hight wondei'ful how cule he wer, And well he knowed it, too; Styles wer a man, llobbs. muore'n a match. By tens, for me nor you. Not one could touch'n, round about. In ticklish p'ints o' laaw ; Aften the wigs 'oold nod to 'n, Aye, sometimes, even muore. Many's a time I've heord it said The judge hisself 'oold ask Styles' concludin' on a case. While busy at his task. And muore'n once 't wer rumored round, He'd tarncd, and changed liis mind, 'Cardin' to Styles, who aal'ays left A deal o' laaw behind. I've knowed ten troubles at a time. It 'scapes I jist what for; But well I minds not one had been But for old Styles' laaw!" " I zee. Slop, 'zadtly, how it wer : Styles larnt it 'fore his prime, Braught up a lad 'mongst laavvyers like, Ho kind o' sarved his time." THE VILLAGE OF MERROW 47 "Sartninlly, Ilobbs, — and muoro'n that, ' Bo (lirt'cronce twixt folic; Stylos be a Hort o' ^omi.s like, Got ihc real gonua look." •' Woll, well, — us bean't aal born aliko, For sartain, Slop, or, |)'rliaj)s, TheoM boon Loai-d Chancellor, and I One o' the laiTiod chaps. "But, ^ood ni^ht, Slop,— 't bo gittin' late;" "'Member I, Flobbs, to Missus," " I wool I, my boy;— sure, never, Slop, Seo'd I a ni^ht like this Is." It was, indeed, a lovely nii^jit, The moon's fair silvered face Gleamed like an an^-cl's, tit to light Some happioi", holier place. Great mystery ! that on a world Of ever thi'oatoning woo Should so look heaven's orbs, as if They shared no griefs below. Mark, on the hut whci-e misery moans How softly sheds its light Yon mockiiifif mistress of the scene, Pale empress of night I ^ '■¥■ CEIAPTER XIII. * >fc * Giles and his wife scanning the faces of their children by moonlight ** lie is n't dead, Giles ! "—Jenny said, Stooping her face, to list, " No-o-o,— I can hoar,— but, ah, how cold The little lips I pressed I " I'll wake him, Giles ;— but, no, no, no,— He'll cry to me for food ! — Sleep on, my pretty one,— these tears Can do thee nothing good." I 48 THE VILLAGE OP MERROW. iii " Jenny,"—" What Giles ? "— " Jenny,"—" Dear Giles, What is it, — speak, — art ill ? " •' Fetch mo the ^Min, Jane, — heaven attest 'Tis done agin my will." Jane answered not, but pressed her face Close to her husband's breast, And in the saddest sobs and tears Ilor agony confessed. "I'll not be long, Jane, — fast the door, — See that the tiro keeps low ; " Then, gently Giles unlaced the arms All loath to let him go. ^ " The clouds are gathering I " — the wind , Had on a sudden veered ; Never, till then, had Giles or Jane The light of heaven feared. " Fast, Jano, the door," again said Giles, " And mind, be wakeful till " " Yes, yes, — oh yos, — but Giles, dear Giles, The night is so so still I " " Hush ! Jenny, hush ! "— " What Giles ? "— " Hii-s-h ! Some one, methought, this way 1 " — " You shall not go, Giles, — say you Von't, — Me — me the gun, — oh pray I " Now did that secret monitor. Kind counsellor of the heart. Keep for awhile good Giles in check. Still tempted to depart. Hard hunger conquered, — oh, forgive, Ye who have never neared Temptation's rock, — " Stay I " Jenny cried — But Giles had disappeared 1 Motionless sits Jenny, listening — an hour passes and she is still listening ; — when suddenly, ringing through the stillness, — a gun ! — With a start, clapping her hand to her bosom, Jane rushes out, — regardless of the door I — Fanned by the air, the smouldering fire Blazed up anew, on high ; Jane marked it not, — ah, fatal flame, It caught the keeper s eye I THE VILLAGE OF MERROW. 49 she is still tillness, — jom, Jane Poor Jenny, tho night was bitterly cold ; when is a March night not bo; yet there stood she, listening — listening I Presently, as a ghost, looming through tho mist, some one is approaching I It is Giles. Jane, as in I'oar of him, retreats to her cottage; — Giles shortly enters; '< No one been here ?— " No one."—" The fire! See see, girl ! — to the door." " You tremble, Giles !"-" The night fog, Jane, ' Is thick upon the moor." Giles i«, in turn, tho listener: — After a while, drawing from- beneath his smock a pheasant, he, in silence, hands it to his wife, — for some moments neither speaks. " Giles you look cold, dear ! " Jenny said, At length, tho starting tear. And trembling tone tolling, too well, Of something worse than fear. " To the fire, Giles, the hearth is warm ;" — Jane fanned the flame anew, — " Don't seem so wretched, dear, — oh speak, Speak to me, Giles, — do, — tlo." "Jane, I was only — thinking, Jane;" — " Yes — but that thinking, dear ! We mustn't think, — let's try and talk ;— There's a good Giles, draw near." Now, by the flickering faggot fire, Jane scans the beauteous bird ; The crime, the danger disappear. The penalty incurred. Be not in haste, reader, to judge^ Less prone to censure, still ; Jane but obej-ed that instinct, power, That something, — what you will, Empress o'er all in woman's breast, Alike beyond control In guilt or good, condoned, at least, By Him who framed the whole. For Thou, who hast made womankind All beautiful and good. To love the beautiful hast made Part of her womanhood. "^ ^r:- in 50 ' TflK VIM.AGK OK MEHKOW. " Giles, you don't iiotico Uicho bi-ijLclit »pots, ThJH goM-lipp'd minhowod ring; I'll wnko our pretty Hlccping onoM To wee tlie ])ii)ciou,s thing" I " No, — wako thoni not, tlio}' nmunna soo, Tlioy mtuinna ktiow it, Juno, It novor may he tauld to tlioni, [ Nor over dofie again. To 800 our littlo innoconts. First taught by nie you, IJotako to idlo, ovil way, Woold tear this heart in two. Conceal it, Jane, as best ye niay, "We'll look to it i' tho morning; The grief of heart I feel to-night, To mo at least, a warning I" " Believe me, (iiles, my own misgives, It fails me what to do;" — ^* Nay, Jenny, — I am lost to-night, Maun leave it all to you." So, Jenny took tho prec' 'is bird Into her sj)eeial c " ril ])ut it, Giles, bei the bod, Thcij'K never, Giles, look Ihere.'' ** Keepers have ferret noses, Jane, — But, still, we'll trust the grace Of (jiod will not be held, for once. From a jjoor strayor's place. Coom, Jane, to bod ; — this aching heart Needs aid from hoav}'" eyes ; Good-night, — I caunnasoe j'o, babes, But I can hear— your sighs." And noAv Giles is asleep, — not so, his wife. Giles' last look, as he rose from the fire, she had carried with her to her couch, — so haggard I — so worn I and why was he now so still, so cold ! — Slid- ing her hand into his bosom, she is alarmed. And, rising from her rushy bed. Crept to the fire's place, When, with :i lighted ])apor's blaze, ^he looked into his face ! TUE VILLAOE OK MEUKOW. 51 UiloH turned him at tlio suddun llaro, As with a coiiMcious ]>aiii, — Ho dooH not spoaU, — tho ii^ht is out, — Tho room is dark again ! More than enough, however, liad Jenny soon : Sadder and saddor, close bosido llcr loving lord she lay; And tardily the hours crept That brought tho break of day. Ah Jenny, had thy bosom dreainod That night might be the last With thy loved Giles, how fittingly The tarrying hours had pasHed I CHAPTER XIV. The daylight at last ; — Giles and his wife are both up,— Giles, in his shirt sleeves, seated on a stool, pondering, — Jenny busied with the children, — when, without a tap Snipe and a constable break in upon them. Snipe's dog makes immediately for tho bod, from beneath which, with a sportsman's cry, Snipe drags the bird. Poor Jenny blushed, — looked, lost, around ; When recollection came, "Twas J, — /put it there, — 'twas /,--» 1 only am to blame." "Mark the poor wing'd thing's fluttering, Fauuce, — Thanks, lady, for your tongue ; A single shot will sometimes miss, Two barrels seldom wrong." , *' Oh, mercy, mercy, man, — for once, In mercy, let him go ; How hunger edged us on to this Tho hungry only know." *' I've nothing, ma'am, to say to that, All that concerns tho Squire ; My acts are his, — I've but t'obey His orders for my hire." *' Keep silent, Jane, — what's he to do With huiigor, or with tears ! Mercy I — believe me, that's a thing He's left to God for years." 52 THE VILLAGE OF MERROW. i ::;i,':i ''Civility had served tlice best, Perhaps ; — come, — lience with us ; — Nay, woman, — not a word, — keep back, We want no woman's fuss." Giles crushed upon his nether lip What his wrought lieart would say ; Then, slowly ])utting on his smock, Turned as to go away. " I'm ready, sirs" — Giles moved a step, Jane drew him gently back, " Take comfort, Giles, — I yet have hope, ni straigiit to— 2)arsoii Sla"k." Giles shook his head, then pressed his lipa Upon her whitened cheek ; lie tried some parting word to isay, But nature would not speak. Then, fondly clasping to his breast His children, one by one. The heaviest sigh heart ever gave Told wdiat that night had done. "Less proudly with them," whispered Jane, " P'rhaps, Giles, they'll listen then ; Try them, dear, do; " Giles answered not, Too well he knew the men. A long, hard, lingering look around His desolated home, When a tear started at the thought Of what miijht be its doom. " " Move on, " said Giles,. " Come sir, — our time Not loath to close the Hcene; When forth they went, — in tile, with Giles As prisoner, between, *' John will be here, Jane, — wait till then,— I pray you follow not," Were his last words, as Giles looked back, Towards his hungry cot. Jane watched him from the open door, A spectacle of fears. And now, that he had passed the moor, Broke into sobs and tears : ;- > THE VILLAGE OF MERKOW. 53 ^' Thoy shall not have him, shall not have him, My good, my noble Giles, — | They dare not hurt him,— God will aid, 1 And turn thcHO tears to smiles. ! I'll off, at once, to parson Slack, — I'll on my knees to Squander ; What will I not," — hero Jenny's <'-irl Flung her lean arms around her ; " Mother, I'm hungry,— mother, bread ; — " " I've none to give thee, child ; — Oh, peace, my little angel, peace, Or mother will go wild. " " You'll let me, then, to uncle John, Mother, he'll tind me some ;" "Well, well, my child,— and bid him hence, Tell him at once to come. Now, not a moment must 1 lose, I'll seek the Vicar, straight, Ue'H blame us, else, we didn't think Of him till when too late. I'll try to catch him all alone, — Oh, ifl could but balk The keeper's spite,— but, come, come, come, I mustn't stop to talk. M If only quick, I'll cross him, p'rhaps, Somewhere about his grounds ; I know, he always, after prayers. Goes on his little rounds. What will ho think of mo— of this— This so unseasoned dress ! Scarce decent, scarce enough to hide What else might pain the less. Oh, oh, oh, oh ! this is to live. To taste life's bitterest cup ; My truthful glass ! what tales it tells Of joys all broken up 1 Ah, hunger, hunger, little thou Hast left for time with mo ! This wasted cheek, these hollow eyes. Are witnesses of thee ! 54 THE VILLAGE OF MERKOW. But oh ! John ? 3'es, — and with him Jane ! — So sad and down he secm.s ! — Something has reached him ! Jane, perhaps,- Or elKC lie little dreams. What shall I say to him ? and have We made him wretched, too ! How can he over look on us A8 was his wont to do. 't* 'T^ 'l^ *T^ '(^ 'r* 'r* 'T' 'T* *^ 'I^ John, John, forgive us, — ^judge not hard, By all that's good, I swear, Sheer misery led us thus astra}', We couldn't, couldn't bear To see our little ones, — oh, look. Look at their haggard faces!" ** I know it all, n;ood Jane," said John, '* And where, too, the disgrace is." " Giles, then has seen you ? Said he aught ? John, hold it not from me ; " — " Only he hade me hasten, Jane, Knowinii- how things would be." you wont, then — keep from its ? " — Jane, fail me if 1 do ; A pity, Giles but well I know All that is known to you." May Heaven, " Oh, had he, John, but listened once, Once when I bade him wait," — "Poor fellow," murmured John, " I've feared, Strongly, some ill of late. But why, good Jane, thus bonneted, Whither so early j)ressed ? " — ♦' I thought I'd call on parson Slack, I'd try and do my best." John wiped his eyes,— "Go Jane," he stud, " If there be aught in heaven To plead, at times, on misery's lips, To thee it Avill be given." As starts the antelope Avhen struck By some swift Arrow's head, So Jenny, o'er the dewy fields, In fear and anguish fled.. THE VILLAGE OP SIERROW. 55 It happened, — strange how things will hap, I've marked it oft of late, As if some hidden hand, not ours, Was fashioning our fate ! It happened, just as Jenny nearod The Squire's, that " Lady S,"* Advised how morn's salubrious breath In roseate bloom could dress, In careless, quiet negligee, Her pet of pets in hand, Stood, fondling, by the outer gate, As happening had planned. Jane, who was bent that parson Slack Should first address the Squire, Paused, — not a little puzzled how, Unchallenged, to slip by her. " She'll only say some unkind thing ; She bears me no good will, I hear, but yet, — to pass her by, Perhaps, she'll take it ill ! Besides, she hasn't crossed me close, Of late, — mayhap she'll find. In these changed looks, less room for hate, Less cause to prove unkind." Then nature, prompting nature urged Who, as a wife, should know The yearning of a Avoman's breast In her particular woe. Ah Jenny, thou hadst judged aright, Had her heart, like thine own. Been schooled in nature's simpler ways, And not by art undone. Still hesitating, Jenny mused, — " If she would hear me through, — Perhaps I wrong her, — should she speak ! What had 1 better do? " Jane had not counted on a chance Like this with " l.ady S." A moment more, — on bended knees, She grasped her by her dress. * As Mrs Squander was styled by the village folks of Morrow. 1 56 THE VILLAGE OF MERROW. " Lady, — dear lady, — lady, hoar ! Oh, turn not deaf away, Oh, hear a breakiiifi^ bosom's prayer, Lady, — dear lady, stay !" " Oh mercy. Heaven ! — release me — help ! A creature ! — leave me, — oh ! My dress !" — a scream, — a second scream. And Jenny's hand let go. " Lady, dear lady," Jenny still ** Cried in i mploring tone. Till the dear Lady's vanished self Left her to plead alone. " Oh, woman, so, in face andTorm, An angel's counterpart, That thou should'st ever lack, within. The angel of the heart ! " I frightened her, I fear," said Jane, " yhe didn't-undcrstand, — What have I done ! — made matters worse, Unsettled all I planned ! So sure, too, as I might have been. With parson Slack's good aid ; — I ought to have minded, — gentlefolks Are not like others made. Her dog, too, bit me ! — well, — I'll go. But waste of words to stay ; — The Vicar won't so treat me, he. At least, won't turn away ; " At least — "-but here let Jenny wend Her way to i)arson Slack, While we, as in politeness bound. The frighted lady track. Again it happened, just as Jane Had loosed her trembling hold. The Squire (his eye had fondly sought How far his pet had stroU'd) Peeped from the porch, — when lo ! a shriek Sharp on his ear a shriek ! — Pictui'e ! — no, fancy cannot paint Some things, and words are weak. Aw THE VILLAGE OF MEUROW. 67 Nc'or mother to her danijcred child vSprang, an the startled nqiiire, When on his ear again a shriek, Again, and from Sophia ! Quick in his arms his tottering spouse He toolc, and, trembling, ran To where a sofa's ease consoled, As only sofas can : '' Not one at hand ! — not one ! — and, ah !" — The lady paled and shook, — '* Where can they be ! — Jeannctte ! Maria !- My love, my life — one look ! Speak, spealc, Sophia! — Sophia, speak! She didn't surely dare ! Say are you hurt, ! — So])hia, the doubt — Is more than heart can bear. I ought to have cautioned her, I ought, To have known the dangerous set ; — But soft, — slie stirs ! — she, — things, perhaps, Ai-e not so serious yet. Sophia ! — Sophia ! — say, are you hurt? — "Not hurl, — exactly, — dear; But oh, the shock I the cruel shock! The pit, the pit, pat, here ! She raised her voice !-she wrung her hands ! Such " Lady dears "!-ah me, My poor dress l-a miracle 1 ever, Charles, got free ! I never shall get over it, I scarcely, dear, can speak, — I shan't bo quite myself again, 1 know, for a full week. '* Trust me, that fellow Gilessliall pay Full dearly for this fright," Said hurriedly the Squire, pulling The bell with all his might. *' Quick, quick, Maria-for Doctor D., As quick, now, as you can, — But 8top,-8ee, see — your mistress' head, Give me, my love, your fan." 58 THE VILLAGE OP MERROW. Fans are to ladies more than physic, IfladicH' lips are true — " You needn't letch — the Doctor, — dear, — I feel — I'm coming — to." " Quite sure, my love, quite sure" ? replied The Squire, with coaxing care, " Had we not bettei', still Maria, Attend, — her head, — there, there." '• Such kindness, Squander ! — always so, Ever since tirst we met, — Don't tremble, dear— you haven't lost Your little Sophy yet." Thus reassured, the shaken Squire, He quick, with generous hand, Proffered a thousand little aids, At qualitj^'s command. Kindness will seldom miss its aim From hearts and hands we love, "Squander, f feel so-o-o tranquilized," " She do-e-s, adc-a-r, a dove." While this sad scene was passing, Jane Had reached the Vicar's gate ;- There, on his lawn but thither haste, Not yet, perhaps, too late. ml 'illr,, CHAPTER XV* The Vicar, on Jenny's arrival, was airing himself on his lawn, — she sees her opportunity ; — with her hands clasped, and pressed to her bosom she is speaking. sjj * 5i« >{« ^ * " He never. Sir, need fear that Giles Will trouble him again, — But half a da}', — and, oh, an ago, An agony of pain ! My poor fellow, sir ! — oh, think, How hard ! — what it must be ! Put with all sorts of , and denied All comforting from me ! THE VILLAGE OP MERROW. 59 As to the bird, nir, — toll him, tell him. By (iaylight and by dark, All that those hands can do, I'll givo ; Tell him, I'll work, I'll work. And say, sir, if ho will but hear mo, To my last breath I'll pray For Heaven to shield him from all griefs, And bless him every way. So kind, sir, he has over been, 'T would break my heart to lose him j Indeed, sir, if you knew our wants, Indeed, sir, you'd excuse him." " No doubt, no doubt, — well,well, we'll see, He'll not bo tried before The turn of Easter, — and — why — then — We'll see, we'll see, — p'rhaps more." " Oh, thank you, sir !" — " No thanks, good damo My duty to be ready,'' At every sacrifice, to assist Th' afflicted and the needy." " So kind, sir !"— " Not at all,— but now, ' T were best, methinks, look homo j Your friends will be expecting you, Nay, anxious till you come." " Ho never liked to trouble you, sir ; When I have asked him why, He couldn't boar, he'd say, to call, — He'd sooner starve and die." " He had, no doubt, a proper pride. Becoming in a man ; Ho knew besides, — the calls, — he saw. Precisely, how things ran." " He'd heard your sister say, sir, once. That had you only given A trifle to a tenth that called. They'd scarcely left you Heaven." " Well, well — well, well, — not quite so bad. Though truly some discretion Should hold in charity, as well In practice, as profession. <50 THE VILLAGE OB^ MEUKOW. Hi I'pl *!i' You need n't, mind, distress yourself With furtlior call,— I'll not, Rely on it, forgot — some things Not readily forgot." " Don't trouble, sir, I'll close the gate," Said Jane, now turned away, " Lucky I called, — what will dear Giles, When I have told him, say ! Such Christianity!— no pride ; — So different to the other : Thej^, who have known what trouble is, Can feel it in another. Good John, too, will bo glad to hoar How kindly he has spoken ; A word of kindness is like food To the poor heart that's broken." With this reflection, Jenny reached The threshold of her door, And crossed it with a lighter heart, At least, than just before. End op Part First. THE VILLAGE OF MERROW. 61 PART SECOND. CHAPTER I. Scene, the Vicar's drawing room, — present, the Vicar, Squiro Squander and his lady. — To restore the dilapidated conciition of " Lady S.'s" nerves, the Squire had driven his lady to the Vicarage. The Vicar is endeavoring to reconcile her ladyship to the trials to which a more delicate nervous sensibility exposes the otherwise loss afflicted children of fortune. " A penalty, indeed we pay For feelings more retined, A sensibility, — a taste Above the commoner kind. Still, p'rhaps, the pleasures we enjoy Wo taste with greater zest, So, that, in one respect, at least, Our lot goes not unblest," " So to the point ! — Vicar, our thanks — A poor return, I fear; Such sympathy has quite subdued The racketing, rioting here^ " Don't mention it, dear Madam, blest Am I, at any hour, To have my fellow-croatures put Their happiness in my power." " This nuisance, Vicar, called on you. Did he not, some time back ?" — " None in that name, I think " — " Indeed ! — Ex-cuse me, Mr. Slack." " 0-h, yes, — I mind, — for charity Our bell so often rings, — I had forgot, — I— don't recall. Always, these little things." " So like yourself, — so christian-like, Not to note what one does ; You don't, I see, as some, restrict The christian to Sundays." G2 THE VILLAGE OF MKKHOW. Tho Vicar bowed, — tho lady Hinilod, — The Squiro, in iiini, tho samo, — Then rose, — tho boll, — u pause, — and now Tho liveried summons came. " You'll not for^^et us at tho I Tall ; Vicar, your word for bail ;" — " When ])leasuro is with duty joined, Wo seldom, Madam, fail." CH AFTER II. On the day of Giles' arrest I had an engagement at Shropton, and it was on my way thithei' that I first heard of his misfortune. All Merrow was in arms, llobbs, spying me at a distance, was in tho road waiting for nie, and, like a certain mastiff that I liad just past, ho was even more rampant than ever. " lleerd, sir, o' what's up now ? Muoro'n one, Hir,'fi at tho bottom on't ; but thaay as hov done it, sir, 'II come to no good, bartain, — That Snipe ! — wait till I crasses'n, — till I gits within a rod ov'n."' Stylos, whom 1 mot rounding the lane that led from the main road to Giles' cottage, — he liad just come from it, — seemed quite crushed, — " They wants, sir," said he, " to break tho hearts ov us, — I've knowd 'n, sir, since ho wcr that high." If ever a certain lump in the throat, of which Her Majesty has spoken in her joiu'nal, was disposed to make free with mine, it was then. How often, since, have I recalled him, — his sloevo to his eyes. — Oh God ! can I look aero.ss to old England, remembering such things I On my return passage, I was about to say, it was clear, from the numbers that I met in Morrow, most of whom turned down to Giles,' that something of more than ordinary consequence was at issue there. It had boon agreed, I learned, that the villagers, Giles' immediate mates at least, should assemble in the evening at his cottage, to determine upon what a Scotsman would have called the state of affairs. So, one by one, as the evening advanced might many a hungry-looking fellow have been counted, wending his way in the direction of the lane, and, in less than an hour after dark, Jenny's cottage was fuller than it had ever been before, and still some were arriving ; — now it was Pilch, — now 'T THE VILLAGE OK MF:RK0W. C3 Harry, — now Slop, — more tlinn one was from Lavont. I hnvo never been ublo to recall that any women were present. Their j)reseneo, I suppose, was at that hour iiulisjiensablo elsewhere. John after a tlying visit to his brother at Shroj)ton, had rejoined his sister-in-law and was still with her: Nor welcomed least, came honest Styles, His countenance full of ])ain, With " summat for the childern, John, And Missus' love to Jane." ; ^' Kind o' thee. Styles, — sit down ; — see, Jane, Good Styles hath not for«^n)t us; — " ■"Less sad, my wench ;" said Styles, ** vvooll bear What Heaven may will to lot us." By few unmarked in some curt way The old man's timely aid, While Hobbs' more than humbled look Some keener sense betrayed. *' Pilch," said he, '* Pilch, I never felt Till now, though nothini,' new, llow hard is poverty, — and dang'd If 1 daan't tell'n, too." Which saying, llobbs, with feverish haste, Strode to where Hawthorne stood, None noting him, his mates, the while, Battling for Giles' good. " Us didn't, John, forgit our friend," Said he, " nor Pilch, nor 1 Ilev knowed, (rod's truth, what food is, John, Some ten hours by the fcky." " I know it Hobbs, — I see it, Hobbs," — — John took his j)Oor friend's hand, " We who crop close, lad, only need The eye to understand." Hobbs grasped with a convulsive grip The hand that clenched his own, *' Loard help us, John, — I feels, to-night, Sunihow, a beaten down." Hobbs was of such as seldom yield, Nature might prompt within. Still, rarely on his roughened cheek The telltale drop was seen. G4 THE viMiAUK OF mp:krow. yot such UH ri;>litly jiuigo tho oyo An index of tlie heart Had Ibiuul it ouHy to doHcry, SoinotimeH, its couiitorpjirt. John, who know well tho sterlin/,' prido That gi'acod his huinhlo friend, WaH touehod, ovon to tondernesH, To see him brought to bond. " Come, come," baid ho, " wo mustn't, Ilobbn, Permit ourRelvos to yield ; TimoH have, perhaps, been full as hard With bome whose pride concealed." This called forth all the niatdinoHS That Htill lined Ilobbs' breast, " John, but lor (files, doan't thirds that Hobbs,- Long hcv ho boi-nc tho rest." " Well H])oken, lad, — enough, enough ; — Wo can, my friend, but do " What our best means jjermit, — that done Amply pays pity's duo." While Hohbs and Jolin were busied thus Pilch had rejoined tho rest. Who now, with clamorous comforting. Round Styles and Jenny pressed. " Hear wie," said one, — " hear 7," another, — All would be heard together, " They ca-an't I tell thee, Jane," a third, — A iburth, " no matter whether." — Not one, the least loud of them all, But shai-ed the genial view, That not a jot had Jane to fear, , Lot spite its utmost do. Jane turned tho kindlio^it face ' h Then glanced, wH' v; ' To note how far, in Her bob'om dai ^ . " Olio at a time, — no\ let I p oak,' Cried Slop, — " mid sich onfusion^ There aiirt no comin' no snmhow, To no kind o' conclusion." TIIK VILLAOE OF MKRROW, *' FiiHt honr what StyloH hov ^ot to nny," Quoth Ilol)l)H, " hoaii't no one bettor 'S can toll tlio liiuw than yo can, Stylos,— Yv knaw it to a letter I" " I can clench that," naid Turnpike Tom, *' Styles wor the on'y one Ah seo'd, when ScaloH rar^o THE VILLAGE OF MERROW. 67 *' And I hove i^ottcn one, at home, 'S can tell a pretty tale," Said Turnpike Tom, "about so7ne one, And dang me, too, ahe sha-all." Thus each expressed, in different way, The earnest of his lieart, Save sober John, who, silent, sat, All sorrowful, apart. Too well he knew the law's stern strength, Too well the haughty feelings With which the powerful approach The weak in all their dealings. And, more, — ho knew his brother's proud And upright mind had bred A jealousy in one wlio most In morals should have led. Of justice he had little hope. The Judge was called severe ; Judge Dooill was the man to sit In judgment for the year. The Squire he knew when quite a boy, Scarce fifteen summers span, And marked that, as he grew in years. He little irrew the man. CHAPTER ill. It was not without some little difficulty that John had obtained access to his brother, now, alas ! in Shropton jail ; for Giles, after having been taken before some local magistrates, one of them a I'cctor, was committed for trial at the approaching assizes. Snipe swore, and falsely, that on several previous occasions Giles had been a trespasser on the Squire's grounds. — Nothing could exceed the ecstacy of this magnanimous gentleman at Giles' incarcera- tion. — "At last, my boy ! " was his parting fling at him. Improvements, as at present, were by no means general, at that time, in the discipline of jails. The sunshine of Howard's l)hilanthropy still played but feebly within the walls of too many of them. Giles found himself among the vilest of the vile, — with burglars, murderers, and prostitutes. lie positively forbade the admission of his wife. But now I have something to speak of, 68 THE VILLAGE OF MEKROW. upon the which 1 fool it impossible to be silent, so much had it, I believe, to do with the future of Giles. — The assizes were at hand. Sir James Dooill, the judge, had already arrived, as had also many of the barristers and lawyers attendant on his circuit. Pri- vate apartments had been taken by them all. It was upon such notables, at their rooms, that the father of Styles had been in the habit of plying his trade as a barber. Now, early on the day before the commencement of business, it had not escaped the vigilance of Snipe that the carriage of Sir James Dooill was at the Vicar's gate. "With the subtlety of a snake, this was immediately communicated to " Lady S," who, in less than a minute, was off to the Vicar's. — "Never was any thing so fortunate ! " He)' ladyship, on foot, was, indeed, a surprise ! Miss Arabella Slack was evidently not displeased at her arrival. A smile less wintcry than usual lighted her angular features : while the skilled in face reading might have detected a tinge of uneasiness in that of her brother. " Your shawl, Mrs. S.— I'll " "I'm away, J^ella, in a moment." " Not before I've introduced you to Sir James ? " "Oh no, — certainly not." Never had Sir James been scrutinized more closely by trem- bling ofll'ender than by the keen and inquiring glance of Mrs. Squander, — "You'll find Shropton, I'm afraid, but a dull place. Sir Jumcs." So said her lips, — not so her eyes — " Can we rely on him ?"— " 18 he one of us ? " — so said they. " I was not aware. Sir James," said the Vicar, resuming the broken thread of their discourse, that the destruction of game by an unlicensed party was, at one time, a capital oli'ence." Mrs. S. was all attention. " Under the ancient forest laws," replied Sir James, " the killing of the king's game was equally penal with murdering one of his subjects." "And what, pray,'Sir James," said Mrs. Squander, "induced them to cluinge the law ? " " Well, — it was considered by sojne to press a little too Bevel ely on the subject; — though, really, there are moments, so troublesome are, at times, these lellows, when I am more than dis- posed to think (Mrs. Squander's eye brightened) that the altera- tion was, perhaps, after all, somewhat premature." A November smile passed over the face of Miss Slack. THE VILLAGE OF MERROW. 69 " There can be very little doubt, I think, Sir James," said the Vicar, " that the audacity of poachers, of late, is traceable, in a threat measure, to the mistaken lenity of the law. The " " And yet, brother " '* Pardon me. my dear ; — I was about, Sir James, to observe that the unquestionable increase of crime of late most demonstratively shows that the assumptive philanthropy of the day is entirely a mistake, — simply an impediment in the way of justice. — A dis- eased love of notoriety is, in most cases, I su.spoct, at the bottom of it. I have a cousin, now, — a man in good position, and of considerable talent, who for the mere repute of reformer, would scarcely, 1 believe, hesitate at getting rid of the game laws altogether ! " '• "What, no game laws at all ! " said Mrs. Squander. '•Just so. Madam." "lam entirely of your opinion, Mr. Shick," added Sir James. •' In my own profession, I might point to more than one who, for the sake of a mere paper pojnilarity, are ready, at any moment, with the wildest, remotest utterances. Even Blackstone, the great Sir William Blackstone, was not, at all times, able to with- stand 1 he temptation." " Indeed ! " said the Vicar. '• One would have thought, certainly," resumed the Judge, " that boasting, as could he, of a North for a protector, he, at least, would hardly have so forgotten himself" '• More especially, when I recall," said the Vicar, " that it was Sir William who, on an occasion, pleaded against the right of copyholders to a vote.", " You have not, I see, Mr. Slack, been upon the bench for nothing." The Vicar bowed. "Yes," continued Sir James, " Sir William's Nimrod in every Manor, in the stead of the one mighty hunter in the land, is, too frequently, I am sorry to say it, upon the lips of some people." " You have heard. Sir James," ventured " Lady S.," now some- what emboldened, " of the desperado that you will have shortly to deal with ? " "We never. Madam," replied the Judge, but in a tone by no means disheartening, "permit ourselves, howsoever invited — we hold it, indeed, a duty — " " You have, I can easily imagine," interrupted Mrs. Squander, r '■\\ 70 TIIK VILLAGE OF MEKROW. " quite enough of Kuch follows by the time you have done with them." " To that," said Mr. Slack, " Sir James will find no difficulty in assenting." — '' If such men," continued the Vicar, "could only, Sir .James, be persuaded to look a little more to the future, — to culti- vate a reasonable economy — could only, as my good sister is con- stantly suggesting to them, be induced to lay by a bit — if never so little, it would still bo something in the moment of temptation, to assist in keeping them from trouble." " Instead," said Miss Slack, addressing herself to the Judge, " they live up to their last farthiny." " What, pray, may be the wages, with you, Mr. Slack, of such men at present ? " " Nine and sixpence, — and, in some cases, as high as ten shil- lings per week." '' Of course, with such wages, the men provide for themselves ? " " Of course." " And lost time deducted ? " " Certainly ; — and yet we hear of nothing but povcrt^^ — pov- erty ! " " As with us in Dorsetshire, Mr. Slack : — I have sometimes, indeed, been inclined to think that without hunger the people of our part would be really at a loss for something to talk about." " Well," said Mrs. Squander, rising, upon this, with an air of jubilation that told its tale, " I must be going— Charles will be ex- pecting me. — You'll not forget before leaving, Sir James, that there's such a place as the Ilall." "Certainly not." ■ IV)or Giles ! — CHAPTER IV. The day had now arrived for the commencement of Shro])ton assizes. According to the county Herald the calendar was an unusually heavy one, including, amidst every variety of delin- quency, for these were the days of " chopstick" riots, a case of desperate poaching, by one Hawthorne, on the property of Charles Squander, Esq., of Merrow. This was accompanied by some appo- site remarks upon the general increase of poaching, followed by a hint that it was only by a commensurate severity of punishment THE VILLAGE OF MEKIiOW. 71 that such could bo kept down. An example had to bo made, and the sooner the better. This may help to accoiiiit for the ^reat crowd in attendance ; for poachini;' attiiirs, even ordinary ones, arc always attractive v boroughs. Trusting to a statement, by no less a jicrson tiian the Vicar, that Giles' cjise would be one of the earliest presented, the country people of Merrow were all upon the road, betimes, on the open- ing day of the court. An opinion seemed to prevail that tho Vicar was favourably disposed to Giles. This had put heart into more than one. He had assured Styles, as also Slop, that it was indeed a sad atluir, a very sad affair, that '' we must all, ever if one of us, SCO what could be done." Ilis ])resence, too, in court was still more encouraging, and brought from Hobbs the remark that " if tho chap 'oold only say a word or two for Giles, he might keep his speadv and welcome lo it."' We were all, however, it seems upon a wrong scent. Giles' case was not brought forward on tho tlrstday. Indeed it reached me, afterwards, that more than one was well informed that such was a settled arrangement beforehand. Still, with ^Ir. Slack upon Giles' side, hope held u]) her head, and Styles further came to the su])port of some of us with the assur- ance that " thaay passons coold do a'most anything." Being mounted, although I had lingered in Shi-opton till after the court had closed, it Avas before reaching Merrow that I slackened my pace, on observing ahead of me the brother of Giles. John also had been lingering in the tOAvn at the jail with his brother. "Good evening, Mr. Ilaicthome," I stud, on ncaring him, for not tlie heir apparent to a crown would have ventured to address that man with an assumptive familiarity. — " I was glad to see Mr. Slack in court," I added. "Yes. sir," he replied, " Mr. Slack was in court," but with so much of the calmness of utter hopelessness that I was both hurt and disappointed. It occurred to me, also, that perhaps my remark was not altogether in place ; so, with heel to my horse, "Good night, Mr. Hawthorne," I said ; but in a tone as kindly and con- siderate as I could muster. " Good night, sir," ho replied with tho same calmness, — the same hopelessness. With the beautiful faith that youth so invariably has, some- times fatally to our after happiness, in the sincerity of others, I was still of those who believed in the truthfulness of the Vicar's expressed sympathy for Giles, and it was with a manner more 72 THE VILLAGE OF MERROW. if benignant tlian usual that, on passing his gate, I bade a good night to the guardian angel of his grounds. There was no mistake, however, upon the second day. Giles' was the first case called for. As my reader, recalling the language of the Herald, will readily suppose, the excitement, on Giles' appear- ance, was extreme. The court, as on the jwevious day, was crammed. Every reserved seat was already occupied, situations commanding a good view of the villain being evidently the choice ones, while Hobbs, Pilch, and others of liis comrades had posted themselves conveniently for an encouragement to Giles, as he passed them, that "things," as Styles had assured them, "were not going, for once, to be Jist the judge's way." A little incident now occurred upon the which a word or two may not be out of place. When Giles was brought into court, a constable on each side of him. Snipe took it into his conceit to be a fourth, and on Giles pausing for a moment to disengage his hand from Ilobbs, the batllcd Lothario, giving him a thrust in the back, ordered him to — " on." It had been safer to have touched a torpedo. In an instant, spinning round on his heel, and staggering to the ground, was Snipe to be seen, from a smasher on the jaw from Giles. A broad red mark, where Giles' barky knuckles had bared his flesh, spoke for the severity of the blow. Giles, however, was not free from his share of punishment. Venturing at Snipe a second compliment, he missed him, and bringing up against a sup- port to a side gallery, both cut and bruised his right hand fearfully, while in a rush made at him by a host of officers, who, in their alacrity, seemed to be well posted, he received from the staff of one of them, upon his left temple, a return compliment of no trifling severity. An officer tied round it his handkerchief With the blood dripping from his now shackled hands, and ever and anon a drop stealing from beneath the tiara on his temples, Giles' appearance, J confess, was anything but improved, howso- ever imnressive, I observed that a barrister, who sat in front of him and below him, on looking round, removed to a greater dis- tance. I was surprised at this, as professional men, in general, are not cowards. The excitement, upon this, with Giles' immediate supporters, was intense. Hobbs w^as, as usual, uppermost. — "Look at 'n," said he, — "jist look at 'n,-if the very roof doan't tumble in on 'em, then I says, Tom, there ain't no God." " Doan't talk so, Harry, — doan't say so, lad," said Styles. THE VILLAGE OF MERROW. 73 It was noticed thai Giles seldom looked directly to one side of the court, — his wife and children wore there ; for not only had Jenny bei^^ed to be allowed to be present, but it was the opinion of all the Missuses of Merrow that her })resenco, whilst it might do some good, "couldn't do no harm no how; " and Styles, on being consulted, had distinctly stated that " u/" 'sizes, one word fi-om a wench wer worth more'n a underd from even a laawyer " — " He'd hecrd, too, of a whole court as wer downright drownded, judge and aal, by jist a few tears from jist sich as she." On this arraignment, Gi les pleaded (jf/aV^/ to havingshot upon one night, a pheasant on the grounds of Squire S(|uander ; but not guihy to other charges trumped up against him by Snipe, who, with his scarred and swollen jaw, cut a somewhat conspicuously contempt- ible figure. More than once had the country folks to be called to order for laughing, or affecting to laugh, at the mumbling way in which he gave his evidence. Nothing in this, however, be sure had his eye lost of its malice, — his pride of its vindictiveness- He was ready to swear to any thing, as were, also, the hirelings under him. Tins partial admission of guilt by Giles was not, altogether, what Avas wanted by more than one in court ; so, after some delay, with a deal of whis])ering, neither of which were intelligible, or satisfactory to Hobbs, and utterly condemned l)y Styles, as " agin aal statue laaw," it was resolved to "give the fellow a chance," by putting him upon trial on the wholesale charge, selecting to com- mence on what he had, indeed, never repudiated. Such a trial was, of course, both a mockery and contradiction : — The evidence against him was, of necessity, overwhelming, blended, as it was, in every way, with falsehood that art could suggest to prejudice a jury. But wdiere was Mr. Slack ! — In vain had I sought for him in every nook and corner of the court. Had I been older, better ex. perienced, I might have spared myself much trouble. A clerical magistrate, if present, would have been reo.Jihj discoverable. The evidence against him completed, Giles had expressed a wish to say a few words prior to the retirement of the jury, when Jenny, who was now utterly beside herself, clutching by his gown a bar- rister passing, begged of him and in a tone so beseeching as to set refusal at defiance, to inquire for Mr. Slack, — " He promised mo so to be here." Eetracing his steps, the sergeant, for such he was, in an under ton<^ I'iii; ' 74 THE VILLAGK OF MEliHoW. i1'! Haiti Homcthing to the jiul^c. Tho reply wan manifestly any thing but natisfactory. Tho sergeant (to the credit of tho bar I say it) rouged, and looked nettled. Persevering, however, in his suit, a few words were passed to tho crier, who, after a stern injunction to "Silence," in the same impressive tone, inquired for — "The Rev. Jloratius Slack ?"— No answer !— " The Jlov. lloratius Slack ?" — Again — no answer !— A pin, as the saying runs, might now have been heard to fall. A silent anxious expectancy possessed every one. Ap|)rehension seemed ujtpcrmost with Jenny. " What," said the poor thing, looking into tho angel hauni.^ of her own bosom, " what can have hap])ened to him ! " The attention of all was now diverted to Giles ; — ho was evi- dently about to address the judge. Giles had been but a few weeks in jail, but in apjtcarance ho was much altered. Thinner he could hardly well bo, but there was a pale leaden tint both in his face and hands, and the peculiar ringing tone of a cough, which he certainly had not before his arrest, I have, since, often, and painfully recalled. His smock (I doubt that tho i)Oor follow had a shirt), patched and worn before he was in trouble, was now sadly, indeed, out of sorts, whilst his bandaged temples and gore-clotted hands impressed, I should say, every one present alike. Thus stood tho English country-man, Once England's honest jtride. When not another man, on eai-*'i, To fellow l»y his side. There, clothed in rags and wretchedness, AVith outstretched arms he stood, And thus his guileless tale began To one more ^/T(7/' than good : • " I doan't deny what I ha' done ; 1 know it wunna right; But I wor sorely put to it Upon that cruel night. I couldn't bear, — God's truth, my loard, To sec my babbies want, I shouldn't ha' had tho heart o' man To ha' longer looked upon't. Not all as us, for months, my loard, Could reckon as our own Stood us, at best, a crust apiece, To leave still worse alone. THE VILLAGE OF MEKROW. Split up, my loard, two crowns yor.self, And, counting f'ollvH as five, See if it muoro'n give.s enough Than to jist keep flesh alive. The day Avas, — many as 'members it, — When a man had something more To help him through than his wages wortl), WJion he didn't led like poi>r. AVhat has a labourer now to show, What to fall back on left, Of his little croft, of his commons' riglit, Of his every chance bereft ! Surely, temptation, niglit and day, Kightat his cottage dot)r, Mjght have been s])ared with one so spoilt, So trotlden down, so poor. Do unto others as ye'd hcv As they shouUl do b}' you, Is the law, at least in heaven, and might Be sometimes elsewhere, too. One that as well had been, p'rhaps, here, Mo need to blab his 7iati'e, As witness might have stood to that. And less, too, to his shame. My loard, my loard, I woo'don beg, My blood wer yet too proud, But oh ! — my wife ! — my little babes ! — See — crying in the crowd ! Oi- them, my loard, and not on him Who only is to blame; The judgment of the court wooll be, In all but christ'n name." 76 Many, when Giles had got thus far, Silently shed a tear ; Not so the haughty one, whose smile Wore its accustomed sneer. Giles missed it not, and judged, aright. All vain the hope to reach The heart that misery's saddest tale So little seemed to teach. r 76 TIIK VILLAGE OF MERROW. "Thy Hmilo full well I coinprohond; — I dimna know to ploftd ; — Wor thou, my lounl, the Jud^o of all, Porhaps. I liad'on noed." Thi«Baid, — his hands, still locked, in front, With a half dotiant air, Looked Giles away, his j)roud fine face Th' observed of all eyes there. Many a brow was, by this time, shaded with a moistened hand, — Styles, leaning on Ilobbs' shoulder, was sobbing like a child. All was elsewhere silence, and in its midst tlie judge rose. Never was a Kemblc more studied, never a more imitator more artificial and formal than Sir James in his manner and utterance. Yet was thoro II method \n both, — the method of malice and tyranny, llis formality and statelinoss, ho knew, would work upon the weak, — and where are the strong ? — at least in juries. With his eyes search- ingly on the jury, after pausing for a few seconds, till his hauteur had softened into something of blandness, ho commenced : (rontlemon of the jiuy. — having heard The evidence adduced Against tlie prisoner, you'll now Take in your hands the accused. You'll'make it 3'our especial aim, Sole care, to set aside All prejudice, — all partial views, — The law alone your guide. In simple cases, — such as this. Seldom we stand in need Of hint, or aid, — still, a few words As well ere we proceed. Now, gentlemen, — the prisoner, To jiut the matter right, Did, or did not a pheasant kill. Upon a certain night. Your duty, gentlemen, will be Simply to fix the fact ; The prisoner did or did ?iot do A certain criminal act. If satisfied that so he did, Why — then — your course is plain,— But if — in any doubt, — therein The prisoner must gain. THE VILLA(JE OF MEKKOW. 77 It BomotimcH happens tluit wo have A j>uin('iil tiiHk to do, Justice turl)ids wluit pity, cIho, Would hold f'rotu very low. Ah to the })lea of poverty. Why — Ihtit'y the coiiunon plou Of every crimiiuil, uiid will have No wcif^ht with you or mo. Nor must we, gentlemen, permit Ourselves t'esehew the laws ; A seeminij harshness often has A wisely rooted cause. BosldoH it is for Parliament To move when statutes err; We don't sit here to make the laws, But — to administer. With tliis — you'll, gentlemen, —retire. To (tgrcc upon the case; A very sini]>le one. the facts Indeed uj)on the face." Such as wished well to Giles ohserved, With trenu>r-, that the jury Ke2)t notlding lo the Judge's words, As in judicial hurry. And few were taUcn hy surprise To hear the foreman say " Guilty, my lord,"' for what could hope Promise the other wa}-. " Weil, if that ain't a sheame," cried Slop, "Didn't thee mind the old un ; They jist waalk'd out, and then jist 'gree 'd Jist as the Judiie had lowld'n." " 'Bout time, methi^ks, the Styleses, Slop, Took on agin Avith Inaw; Never heerd 1 a judge address A jury so, afore." " They Avaun't a jury tit to try A case like his'n, — not one, I knows 'em Styles, in aal his life Hev ever tired a gun." 11 ' . i 78 THE VILLAOE OK MKIIUOW. " CuuHo, Slop, they (•l!ij)|)0(l,"H:vid TurnpiUo Tom, *' No one l)iit town 1'oIUh tlicM'O ; I HCOH it aal, — there wuuii't u bit About the (rial fair." •* I'd hev, had I w// mind," Haid Ilobbs, " That Hinoothfaeo pretty quick Brau^jjht to his boarini^s, — 'nou^h to uiako A pafsson'H donkey sick. Not aal tlie thin<^M (JiloH over done Ai^in the will o' (lod, Pitted '^'irmt, one day'H woi'k of his 'n 'Oold more noi* hall" the load. But look out, SIoj), I aal'ays mindn, Whcniver niiHehiet'H brewin', Wooldthitd< their hearts ni^h breakin' like At what theirHelvea bo doin'." I 1] It! Thejudjrc had risen ! — silently His eye surveyed his man — " Mercy, my loard I " cried Stylos ; — the judtjo Chocked liim, then thus began : " Prisoner at tho bar, — it griovos me, Beyond my ])ower to say, To see a man, — decent, — like you. Fling himself thus away. You have been tried, and guilty found, By an impartial jury. Of what tho law counts no light crime. And justly, I assure you. I don't SCO, from tho evidence, How they could rightly come To any finding, but that tho facts Bring the guilt clearly home. As to your own admission, that. Believe, had little weight; The facts alone more than enough To justi ty your fate. It only now remains for me, Biassed by no report, To pass on you, — a painful task, — The sentence of the court. rmc VILLAdK OF MKRROW. 79 WorhO had it fiirod with you orowhile, IikIim'iI, thoro irioni timo, Sovw still i/cft'inl, yonv lili' had hoon The t'ort'oit of your <'riiiu). But, hy tho more coiisidorato, More inoi'cil'ul dotroo Of niodorn hiw, n duty loss Sovoi'o dovolvoH oil mo. Tho hiw, thus miti<,'atc(l. rules, With power, in hand still ouph, That simj)le banishnicnt subserve In eases sueh as yours; But seven years |)enal sorvitudo Beyond tho seas, — no more ; — May heaven so shape you as t'a{'(]uit The merey of the law. Hero n distinct, unniistakeable, heavy sigh caused every ono present to look round. It was from old Styles — Tho law both of his head and heart was, at last, at a dead stand. " You-dang'd old villain ! " burst out Ilobbs, " Christ! — if L woo'don tear Yer very heart out, had ye one, This ye caall playing fair T "Silence, sir, there ; — remove him — quick," Shouted the nettled jud^e — " Gently, my friends, gently, my lads, Ordang'd an inch I budge." " No gonti}' with him, constables, Away with him at once ; A court of justice, sir, you'll find No place for your bravo bounce." *' Hark ye, old chap ; — for twenty worlds, And twenty on to that, T woo'don do as you hev dor\e The six hours you ha' sat. Look at the wench ! — ►'V\'a)| ! if it arn't A real downright disgrace ; Gently, my chum, or, by my soul, I'll sheamo yer pretty foace." " For heav'n's sake, Ilobbs, go quietly," Said Styles, — " 't wooll only make Things worse for Giles, — for this once, lad, *. A friend's best counsel take." TIIK Vir.LAGK OF MEKUOW. Ilobl)8 felt the ibi'ce of Styles' wonln, So, without more ado, Ho let the liircliiii^^s of the hivv Their luicknejed course pursue. ^ * * >is The trial o'er, — tho court adjourned, — Hope slowly sighed I'urewell, As Giles' mutes their homes regained, And he — his silent cell. lilBlil • r -' 1 ClIAPTER V. Never, so sorrowfully, had I wended ray way homeward as on the evening after Giles' condemnation. Never had I felt so disposed to doubt of a presiiling Providence: — "Can such things be, and a God be over us ! " But it was in my weakness, my blind- ness, that I said so, and, with a gushing heart, T usk for forgiveness. On reaching the lane Avhich, at the threshold of Merrow, led do\vn to Giles' cottage, I found it almost impossible to proceed for the reflections that crowded, and how painfuiiy, on me. " So kindly, so sim])le, so unsuspicious ! " I was thinking of his wni'o. Indeed, on my reaching home, o)ie, for whom friendship might have readily decjiened into a tenderer feeling, observed, on my entrance, that she was fure I had been either crying or laugh- ing; "Let me see," said she, ri>hrased by Hobbs, that " howsumivcr iblks might hum- bug theirsdvcs, there waun't no humbugging he, no how." It will have been supposed, and, possiblj^ with surprise, that at Giles' trial, farmer Manly was also an absent one. Such, how- THE VILLAGE OF MERROW. SI vard as folt HO things y blind- ivcncss. row, led proceed e. " So lis wife. ) might. , on my r Lnugh- s on my led, and was in- blv tern- d intcr- !\v,'' said i numerous, and a suit in chancery has, for some years, pressed heaviiv on mo ; but 1 do what I can." It was whilst at this worthy man's house, on the second day after Giles' trial, and whilst discussing- with him, amongst other things, what the tine old fellow still assured me would " hurt no- body," that I espied from an open window no less a carriage than that of Sir James Dooill wending-its way in the direction of La- vent. It was not, however, for Lavent that it was destined — " For the Vieai''s, I suspect," said Mr. Manly, " This familiarity with the Slacks," he continued, *' since Sir James" arrival amongst us, 1 am sorry, vei-y sorry to observe. Giles has not a greater enemy, sir, than the Vicar, letting alone, perhaps, his sister. There is, I have heard, some little distant relationship between them, ^toreover, men in jower and ])osition, as Sir James, are but too inclined to remember with gratitude the assistance never denied to them by the Establishment." " But in what way," I inquired, "is this likely to have allected the Hawthornes." " AVell — you see, sir, — there is nothing that, in general, men tind it so ditiieult to forgive in another as a superiority that reflects upon their own shortcomings. Now, the brotiier of this Giles» John Hawthorne — I have spoken of him to yon, 1 believe, before — is no ordinary man. With a higher education, and better oppor- tunity, he might have been anything. In America he would, pro- bably, have been President, — a congress man, at all events — He is a Methodist^ — and there, sir, lies the sting with the Vicar. Jfdlf of the villaije folks are up at his cottage on the Sunday. It has often, sir, occurred to me, observing the remarkable influ- ence which this man has with lu- fellows that, should it ever please S2 THE VILLAOE OF MHHK'OW. tho groat God above u^, hy Inunan agency, to inlorfero with tlie present iiiijii.st ^iuia of things with the hibourcrs it would be u])on such a one that ho would have Ilis eye; to such a one that lie would beckon. The labourers liave, long since, lost all contidenco in those whom they are still in the habit of calling their betters. They distrust them, to a man. But their ears and hearts might both, I think, be yet reached by such as, like themselves, had tasted of the bitterer side of things, — who had toiled with them — hungered with them. Such, /br good at least, could alone influence them ; — T am now pretty old, sir, but you may, perhajis, live to recall what wo have been talking of." — I have indeed recalled it. " It is so, (help yourself, sir,) precisely so, with the Rev. Mr. Goodwill, curate of Orton. — Are you ac(piainted with him ? " " On the eve of becoming so." " You will find him to be one of the finest fellows living. By some, to be sure, he is objected to, and for an odd reason, — that he is not like a parson. His neck, for such objectors, is, perhaps, a little too pliant, — his hand less patronizingly extended to the poor, — while his coat may, at timeri, seem tp have surrendered to the wind and weather a little too much of its nap; but if to be thus, sir, is to be more like a christian, in times when one out of every ten we meet has, in some shape, a claim upon one's charity, then, sir, I say, that the worthy gontloman may forgive his glass for its unsparing reflec- tion of the grounds u})on which a silly world is too apt to build its estimates. An old coat will be no drawback, sir, sojne day. Coachos- and-sixes will tind a pretty' heavj' toll at one gate." Ilo'c the old gentleman emptied his tumbler. '• Ah. sii'. if we were all like Parson Goodwill we might get along without parsons." f " But in what respect, Mr. Manly," I inquired, ''is Hawthorne's position suggestive of Mr. (lOodwill's." '• Well, in this. sir. The indel'atigable zeal of Mr. Goodwill is a reflection upon the rector." " You mean upon the Eev. Mr. Wrench ? " "Certainly. — Till the presence of Mr. Goodwill in Orton e\ery thing there was out of sorts: — schools were neglected, — the ail- ing uncared for, — charity unencouraged — indeed, nothing was as it should be. Service, at least in the afternoon, was, most cer- tainly, more honoured, as the poet has it, in tlie breach than in the observance. Tlie bench seemed, and seems still, to be an object of far higher consideration with his reverence than the church. THE VILLAGE OK MERROW. 83 I don't know that I can recall haviii\' seen Mr. Wrench emerging from the cottage of a labourer ; but he is ever to be found at a gathering of magiBtrates, and any thing but remarked for the lenity of his suggestions. Now, it is well knoM'n to the rector that Mr. Goodwill is in principle, however guarded in declaring him- self, opposed to all this; — hence a feeling of hostility on the rec- tor's part. Mr. Goodwill, I am afraid, has a hard time of it, sir, — u very hard time of it." " He is not wealthy, I have heard ? " "Very far from it, sir. His stipend from the rector is, as usual, painfully small. Report puts it at barely seventy ])ound8 per annum, not the wages of a mechanic. An allowance from a well- to-do uncle may foot up his means to something like a couple of hundred ])er annum, still, little enough you will .illow, for the man's heart is too large to look upon want, and very often to keep his hand from his pocket. He is, indeed, sir, a most excellent man. Not a cottager in Orton but has a kindly word for him." '' At what figure, Mr. Manly," 1 a.sked, "do you put the rector's means? " " At eight hundred per annum, and the parsonage, independent- ly of a rich inheritance." "Of which the allowance to Mr. Goodwill is something less than the tithe ? " " A trifle less." " Elem ! — but is not the income of such men supplemented to some extent by fees customary at" marriages, christenings, burials, and so forth?" *' Very little, sir, I assure you. A marriage of oven a well-to-do farmer is always a rector's affair, — of com'se, out of respect ; and such as Mr. Goodwill have little relish for the poor man's penny. His greatest offence, I apprehend, is in his 83'mpathy, which he has not always found it possible to conceal, with the ftirm labourers in their presetit degraded position. Ho has even been rash enough, as many have regarded it, to hint at the positive necessity for higher wages with them ; and it is no secret that he has lately signed a petition for the repeal of the;',orn lav/s. Upon this last point, I had it from Mr. (loodwill himself, the rector and lie were very nearly coming to a rupture. The rector wrote to him, pointing out to him the propriety of confining his attention to the religious requirements of the parish. To this Mr. Goodwill responded, that it seemed to him that he could i.i no way better 1":^ S4 THE VILLAGE OF MEKBOW proinotG the ends of religion than in endeavouring to provide for liis parishioners a Bufficicncy io he honest on. This brought from Mr. Wrench a further remonstrance with an iiijunction Io remember that it was not as an insjicctor, nor as an overseer, that he had engaged him ; — hard hmguagc, sir, I thought. The worthy gentleman, I know, smarted under it. — I can only add, sir, that if Mr. Goodwill has since felt but a titlie of the pleasure it has been to wie to know that I did not — for I signed the petition mysolf — that I did not, I say, ])ermit my greed as a farmer, to override a sense of what is right and christian, lie has been amply ic])aid for any ill-will that ])is signature may have brought on him. That God and 1 were about to do something together I was never more e.itisried tlian Avhen on that occasion I took up my pen, and 1 have not been denied, since, the comfortirKj qssurance that it was so. — I am sadly afraid that the upshot Avill be that ]Mr. Goodwill will bo driven to resign, an irreparable loss, not only to every one in Orton, but to some at least out of it. 1 confess for one to feeling much more at home in h'S church than in Mr. Slack's. Indeed, till Mr. Goodwill's arrival amongst us, 1 was quite at a loss for any thing of that consolation which, at times, ])erhaps, is nowhere to be less found than in one's own- circle. — A man qualified both by nature and train.ing for his position, as is Mr. (ioodwill, is a treasure, sir, a blessing to a parish — nay, sir, a necessity, at least to such as have ever known what it is in the hour of trouble to have such a one to lean on. — You will understand this, sir, better, perhaps, bye- and- bye." My noble friend, liow tenderly, just now, arc your utterances renewed ! CHAPTER VI. Oil my Avay homeward, my attention was attractcil by two- cnrriagos, Sir James' and the Squii-e's. Both (the horses had been loosened) w-ere standing in the yard at the back of the Vicar's. This was suggestive of something more than a mere exchange of formalities. Sir James \vas there in redemption of his promise of a day and a night at the vicarage, while the Squanders had been purposely invited to meet him. Mr. Manly, it seems, was in the right ; — and now as the cvening^ THE VILLAGE OF MEllROW. 85 jidvancocl — an early tea putting every one at home — the style in which Miss Arrabclla's tongue dealt with the scandals of the village left but scant room to doubt that Mr. Manly, in another of his suspicions, v/as as little at fault. — A-tiptoe, let us approach. " I trust, llorutius " (the Vicar's sister is speaking), " that this v'ill, at least, serve as a caution. Such excessive zeal is alto- gether a mistake. I assure you. Sir James, tliat had I not, so i)ifatuated was my brother with this Giles, positively insisted on liis remaining at homo, it would be diflticult to divine what turn his indisposiiion might have taken." "Something constitutional, Mr. Slack ? "' iniiuired Sir James. " Far from it," responded his sister, " I don't recall the having ever seen him so till then. There was nothing, perhaps, in his look, immediately indicative of suffering, — of positive pain ; — but his silence! — his manner so strange! — so unusual I— so unlike anything that I had previously known in liim !" " Billious, perhaps ? " said Mrs. Squander. Nothing of that kind, my dear." " Any cloudiness, heaviness in his eye V ' '' Not in the least, Sir James — It was in his appetite that he seemed so to suffer. At breakfast, a mere round of toast, and, at ;ulation of wages and working hours, there has been a growing tendency in the masses to meddle with old established customs and usages, — to take care of themselves, rather, than to allow themselves, as heretofore, to be taken care of by others, far better, I susj)ecl, acquainted with their real wants and position." " There is the miscliief," said the Vicnr. Miss Arabella laid her hand on the back of her brother's. " Eecall, Mr. Slack, the dangerous meeting on the 28th day of Juno last, at Manchester, of delegates from l)ranchos of the general trade associations. The objects of that meeting, I should liope, sut^lciently evince the danger, the positive folly of anything like an extension of political power in the masses. Fortunately the scattered location of men employed in agriculture, and their iimitetl oppoi'tunity of acquiring information, have, as ijct at least, preserved them from similar comhinations." "Picture, Charles, a meeting of Slops and Pilches, with Harry Hobbs, as they call him, in the chair! " " It would, "certainly," resumed Sir James, " bo an odtlity ; but let us not be too confident, too sanguijie, too unobservant. Let us read as we go; — let us take care, in all proposed measures of re- form, to do nothing to still further disturb existing relations be- tween employers and employed. — I can assure you — but perhaps I am assuming — " " Not at all, Sir James, not at all," simultaneously exclaimed the Squire and Mr. Slack ; " we aiH) but too proud of the opportunity presented." With an acknowledgment, Sir James proceeded. " ^ly position enables me, pretty clearly, to judge upon some matters. I can assure you that it is no longer with the hackney coach age that is past, with even its Burdctts and Colonel Joneses, that we have now to deal. A class of men are springing up whoso lowliest aspirations are in advance of the boldest of such celebrities. I have in my ej'O, now, a young friend, comparatively so, at least. i Tllli VIIJ.AOK OF MKllUOW. S9 •a lair, by no mojins an oKng^^OiVixiod reprcsontativo of such men. I call him frioiid, for in sj)ito of his rocklos.s enthusiasm, thoro is a sincerity, an earnestness in him that, were I a youni; man, mi<:;ht })0ssiijly more than, as at present, sim[)ly divert me. Ah to the j)ropose(l reform bill you were inquii-in^- ol'(here Sir James turned to Mr. Slack), he confesses, for there is no concealment about the follow, that it is a niere ste])ping-stono, a.s he calls it." ''And to what, i)ray, Sir James?" saiosed t''^ ''.is political eccentri- cities, as you have not ina[>tly called them, congratulate them- selves. Jle would not only, continued Sir James, not oidy dis- sociate tlie church and state, but he admonishes that Government, by Act of Parliament, a favourite power of his, by the bye, appro- priate all church proi)erty, with a view to a redistribution, in a way more consistent icithjiisf ice and religion !" "Why, Charles, that man can never, surely, be in his right senses! " " I am not quite so certain of that, my dear." " A little vague, in Ids expression, your friend," said Mr. Slack ; "one can hardly conceive, Sir James, of religion Avithout Justice." '* Hardly ; — but such men, you are aware, seldom, Mr. Slack, advance above a stop or two without a stumble. In his reconstruc- tive notions this is constantly apparent. Tliey are certainly, how- ever, original ! " " Such men, Sir James," added the Squire, " have, generally, an ,%./^ .n%. IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) // .// %i % V £ :^. w- (/J {/. 1.0 I.I ■■ 132 2.2 15 12.0 1.25 III 1.4 1.8 1.6 V} <9 // m c^. c^. A ^ /^ '^¥ o 7 Photographic Sciences Corporation L ^ iV ^\^ \ \ ^9> V ^1? ^ 6^ PC 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, NY 14580 ( 716) 872-4503 ^ ^ * %^ L^ Q- w. 'imptviiaitaiiMiiiw, ^2 THE VILLAGE OF MERROW. liiMv ulterior, a disguised object in view. Once deprive the landed in- terest of the support of a rich and powerful church, and the crafty scoundrel knows well what would be then at his mercy." " Of that, indeed, he makes no secret, Mr. Squander; and to that end he throws upon the church, however unjustly, the entire responsibility for, what he is eternally harping on, the present de- graded position of the farm labourer. The church, that is, thereat church, he contends, has never stood forward as his friend. Hand and glove with the aristocracy, its inte .'ests and sympathies accord- ing to him, have ever been, and are still, entirely, with them.'" " Most churchmen, I imagine, Sir James, have quite enough upon their hands already. The horsepond, I suspect, would not be amiss with some of these gentlemen. — What say you, Mr. Slack?" " We-1-1, — from my own experiences, I must say, Mr. Squander, that I should be sorry to see the day, very soriy to see it, when ministers of the Establishment consider, — that is to say, make it, in any way, a part of their business to troul>Ie themselves with matters inconsisttnt with their duties as shepherds of One who looked, and would have us all look, to something widely remote from any thing that this sublunary world can afford us. I am aware, perfectly aware that many things are far, very far from being with the agricultural labourers as they should be, and it grieves r.xc, truly grieves me that it is so. Living in their midst no one has so complete an opportunity of becoming acquainted with their wants and necessities as ourselves, and our sympathies are, naturall}', proportionately enlisted. I have often, indeed, very often regretted that the more immediate calls of duty should .at times necessitate upon our part a silence which illiberality is too astute to forego the opportunity of representing as a neglect." "It has reached me, — with what amount of truth, Mr. Slack, f am not aware, — that there is a more widely diffused, an increasing indifference with the Airm labourers to religious truths?" " W-e-1-1 — I am sorry, very sorry, Sir James, that a familiarity with them obliges me to confess that such is but too truly the case Indeed, the greater part of them can hardly be said to have any religion at all, — a sad, a very sad thing to reflect on ; as in the trials and troubles of life, from which how low are exempt, (how few I said Miss Slack) they are without, entirely without those consolatory influences which, when all others fail, might at least assist in reconciling them to that position in which it lias pleased THE VILLAGE OF MERKOW. m ed in- crafty and to entire ent de- he real Hand iccord- ;nougli lid not »(/, Mr. Lumdor, , when , make es with ne who remote I am ir from , and it ir midst iiuiintcd pathies indeed, y should rality is leglect." Slack, I creasing niliarity the case. have any s in the ipt, (how >ut those ; at least s pleased Providence to place them. I am aware also, and it grieves me, more than grieves mo to say it, — that many, too many, I am afraid, have of late, from an excess of zeal, put the church in a position Avhich it must be painful, very painful for any prospective, appreciative mind to contemplate." " But, my good brother," interrupted Miss Slack, " this is not " " My dear ! " " Your friend, must indeed, Sir James," interposed Mr. Squan- der, " be an original." "Not the least amusing of his originalities is his charitable- consideration for those with whose pockets he lias just been making so free. All ministers, — my poor friend ! of every de- nomination are to be alike endowed with a ' reasonable and gen- tlemanly independence.' " " Oh, we are still to be gentlemen," said Mr. Slack, '•' a con- sideration that with some parties will not be the least likely to advance his views." "Christianity, too, Horatius, is stillto be permitted to exist! " "Not very clear, Sir James," said Mr. Slack, "in what way your reformer's views admit of a separation of the Church from the State ; yet, such a disseverment, if I understand you, he proposes ?' ' " Only of the connection as it at present stands." "The crafty scoundrel ! " interrupted the Squire. " He considers," resumed Sir James, " that a church, with a broad sgnilicance, to be sure, in the word, such as, according to- his talismanic notions, it might be made to be, would, to a great extent, supersede the necessity for a police, and, that, therefore, it would become, not only a duty, but a positive economy for the State to uphold it. No improvement upon the present system, he contends, could possibly result, with ministers dependent, in the remotest degree, on the patronage of their flocks." " I am glad to be able to agree with him, for once," said Mr» Slack. He considers, nevertheless, that to attach temporal advantages to a profession of particular opinions is unfavourable to the progress of inquiry and truth, and has a tendency to encourage simulation in ministers, while, at the same time, it leads to poli- tical subserviency, and fosters in them a world liness of spirit. You will see, Mr. Slack, pretty clearly his drift." ," • f 94 THE VILLAGE OF MERKOW. (( There is, certainly, as you observed, no concealment about him." " Without, however," resumed Sir James, " a House of Com- mons — widely different from what even the projoosed reform bill promises us — he would object to the least interference with the Church as at present. Such interference would only, he thinks, postpone what he is fond of calling the desired end, — that the choice of ministers lie with their congregations." " Their salaries, however," interrupted Mr. Slack, " to be, in no ■degree, dependent on them, I understand you. Eut M'hat — what pray, Sir James, would he propose for our higher clergy ? They liave, of course, not been overlooked. Are we to have no St. Petej'S in our midst? " "You will judge of his boldness, Mr. Slack, of his insane reck- lessness, when I toll you, that, with a dash of his pen, he would annihilate the whole of them." " The entire of our bishops and archbishops! " " The whole of them! " " Does that man, Sir James, ever say his prayers?" said Miss Slack. " We will hope so." " He can never. Sir James, have seen, at all events have heard, n bishop." <•' It would seem so." " I would advise," interposed Mrs. Squander, " that the riot act he read, at the least, twice a day wherever that young gentle- man resides." " Not a bad suggestion, Mrs. Squander." " He can never, surely, suppose that any but the choicest rif-raf would frequent his churches. Why, his vulgar fellows would be singling out any one they pleased for a lecture. It would be posi- tively unsafe, Charles, for some people to go near them." " There is very little room for uneasiness, my dear." " It is, I imagine, from the same restrictive tendency," re- marked the Judge, " that we may deduce his persistency that no clergyman, of any denomination, be 'permitted to he a magistrate.'" " To that," said Mr. Slack, his countenance betrayingoi,till then, perhaps, concealed languor, " not a few of us would, I suspect, but too readily submit " '< Well, well, into what contradictions, Sir James, will not enthu- siasm betray us? To whom so indebted as to yourself, Horatius, 11 ^f,-w: THE VILLAGE OF MERKOW. 96 the unfortunate croaturo for whom, you will recall, was so much mistaken sympathy expressed." / " I don't, — my dear — " " P'or<>'otten, Horatius, your infatuation for Diggs ! " " BigjL^s, -Diggs," interjected Sir James, — " not altogether new to me the name. Was it not Mr. Justice Grindwell before whom — " "Just so. Sir James, — tlie affair, you have recalled it, was pure- ly this: — One Diggs of an adjoining parish had been tried, that is to saj' convicted, of poaching, on an occasion." "On several occasions, Horatius f" "Possibly, my dear, — on the grounds of our good neighbour. Baron Steinberg. He was sentenced, if I remember, — Mr, Squan- dei- can correct me, to transportation for fourteen years." The Squire, with a blush, assented. Apprised that the man had, at times, been without work, and that, for weeks prior to his committal, he had been distressingly put to it with an ailing wife, it seemed that the merits of the case might be met, and with no very great sacrifice of justice, by a soinevvhat modified jienalty. I, therefore, in conjunction with others, made it my business, I might have said my duty, to appeal in his behalf. A commuted sentence of ten years was the result. "And what of the thanks, Horatius ? " " We-1-1 — we don't on all occasions, my dear, take that into our •consideration. There are times when it is sufficient, more than sufficient, to know that we have been doing, that is to say, have done our dut3^ — By-the-bye, I have heard, and, I am sure. Sir James, that you will believe me, with the sincerest pleasure, that lliu man's behaviour has obtained for him a remission of the two 3'ears still unexpired of his term. He proposes, I have further heard, to retr.rn to his old quarters. His wife and mother, I suspect, are the magnets ; — but, for some years now both have been dead !" This was followed by a silence. " His wife had been troubled, had she not, Horatius, for the last year or two, with heart disease ? " No one replied, — and poorly detective the eye that had read nothing in the countenance of the Squire. It was evidently with a view of breaking ground that he inquired of Sir James what opening, if any, his abolitionist proposed for young men of spirit iiiid position, in lieu of the one he would deprive them of: " An increased army estimate would find but few friends just now, I opine, Sir James? " . ! 96 THE VILLAGE OF MEUROW. ii I '!,i " Have you forgotten, Charles," volunteered Mrs. S., "how somo Olio was always rallying a certain young gentleman on his belong- ing to neither tiie army nor the church ?" "Well, — in my poor friend's Utopia no army, Mr. Squander, would, of course, he required." " I would have that man," ejaculated the Squire, " and the sooner the better, sent u])on his travels; — what say you, Mr. Slack ?" " Such a man is certainly, Mr. Squander, there can be no doubt of it,' a dnngerous, a most dangerous man, — still, perhajxs, one less to be dreaded than to be pitied." " To be tarred and feathered," frothed the Squire. " You just took, Charles, the words from my lips." Here a summons by Mercy, the ])arlor-maid, to supper was a relief, I suspect, to at least one present. — The Vicar gave his arm to Mrs. Squander, as did Sir James to " Arabella." The combined comfort, taste, and liberality that in every thing, presented itself, Avhilst flattering, and justly so, to the pride of both Mr. Slack and his sister, was a comjiliment to Sir James which, to judge by his heartiness and conversational brilliancy, he appeared to fully appreciate. — On i-oturning to the drawing-room all were delighted with his eloquence and urbanitj', and it was not without a sigh of regret, and a re-])romise, on the jtart of Sir James, of a day or two at Tliornley Hall, that Mrs. Squander, in company with the Squire, for that night at least, bade him an adieu. 'A delightful creature! Mr. Slack," said the Judge, — a most charming, a most entertaining woman I " "She is indeed so!" replied the Vicar. " And always the same! " added Miss Slack, — "we have known her now for joars — and to see her once is to see her always. You are not acquainted, it seems, witliThoriiley Hall, Sir James ? " " A pleasure, however, that I have promised myself" " You will be much struck with it. — Mrs. S. is everywhere — she has not been in Italy for nothing you will say. — Such an eye ! —It is at her suggestion that wo propose pulling down a number of beggarly cottages so anno^'ingly in sight from my brother's " " Sir James," interposed the Vicar, " whenever — you ma}' feel disposed — to — retire — ; with such onerous duties in prospective I imagine." With a bow from Sir James that was as good as to say " Thank you, Mr. Slack, thank you," the Vicar paused. And now an ominous, a somewhat prolonged silence, which, THE VILLAGE OF MERROW. 97 more than words could have done, proclaimed that another even- ing's pleasures and excitements had come to an end. " You have no objection, Sir James," said Mr. Slack, advancing from a side table, with a hook in his hand "to join — with us — in — m—prayer ? " — Thou of Bethlehem, — bear with us, — bear with us ! CHAPTER VIT. We will hardlyj pause to remark upon Mrs. Squander's ex- clamatory sui'prise at the ridiculously lavish parochial provision for Jenny, so out of proportion to the woman's desserts and necessities ; or upon Mr. Slack's repeatedly expressed satisfaction that the poor creature, in the hour of ajffiiction, had been found not to be altogether destitute of friends. It will be sufficient to observe that, but for the few pence contributed by the broken-hearted comrades that Giles was shortly to leave so far behind him, it would, indeed, have gone hard with his wife. — The relieving officer, Mr. Paul Parish, was more than something of an economist, and Jenny's good friend, Mrs. Parish, his wife, who had so cared for her in her girlhood, had already been dead some years, — to Jenny an irreparable loss. It is but just that I record that, from the time of Giles' arrest until now, little sums, varying, in amount, from a shilling to one- and-sixpence, had been repeatedly forwarded to her, through Hawthorne, by the Rev. Mr. Goodwill, of Orton, and always with an injunction to silence. — I am not able to say that nothing was ever sent to her by Mr. Slack, but I am equally unable to say to the contrary. Had it been so, I could hardly, I think, not have heard of it. But now I have a sad, a dull office to perform. The hour had arrived when Jenny was to look perhaps her last upon one dearer to her than all besides. Giles, on the morrow, was to be trans- ferred to the Dove transport, lying in readiness at Woolwich. In a retired angle of the jail yard at Shropton have they already met. — Let us observe them, — yonder, — the two, with their little ones, apart from the rest, standing together, — a high spiked wall to the left of them. Jenny upon the bosom of her husband is letting fall the bitterest tears that ever, perhaps, stole from the lids of woman. An infliction, nothing less would it be, to repeat but a f 98 THE VILLAGE OP MERKOW. tithe of hor tender broken-hearted utterances. " What of joy or of peace had Hhe now to look for ; — even the poor pleasure of con- cealed vn-etchedness would be no longer hers;— who, with a smile still a smile, would there be, in his tirod arms, to take up hor little ones, and joy at them ; — for whom was she hence to save, to conceal, to contrive ; — who to welcome, or be welcomed by ; — to advise with, to plan with ; — h«d she still to struggle, to endure, to sacrifice, and no one to love, to bless her for it j — how was she to bear itl" — Gil ^ could hold no longer. » " My Jane, — my Jane, — thee dunna speak, It wunna be for long. For though thy Giles be moartal weak, Yet God is heavenly strong. Whether upon the foamy sea. Or on my prison bed, ^ He wunna, Jane, keep far from me. If I ha' rightly read. For though it waun't, I know, aright To break my country's laws, God knows as what wer done that night Waun't, Jane, athout a cause. . Nay, He whose eye is looking down. And sees this parting tear, I couldn't for my Maker own. If I had cause to fear. Oh, dunna weep, — thou'lt break my heart ; — Why should I thee deceive, Thee only hast with me to part. But I ha' all to leave." " Oh, say not so, my bosom's pride, Thou'rt more than all to me, I cannot in the world abide, , When I am lost to thee." " Nay, Jenny, coom, — thee maunna say Sich cruel parting words ; If from the nest should'st thou away, Oh, who shall guard the birds ? These little birds, whose searching eyes Are on my fretted face. Like heaven's lights from out the skies Upon a darker place. to THE VILLAGE OF MERROW. 99 Ah, who shall tend thorn, night and day. As we were proud to do. Still teach them how to love and pray. If, — Jenny, — not with you ? So, for our hearts best treasure's sake, Thoo maunna spurn at life ; — My breaki.ij[^ bosom's blossinj;; take, My poor, — ray poor wife. I've nothing more, — must leave thoo, Jane, To God's enduring love; — Good bye, — ^good bye, — wo meet again, At least, we'll truat, above." Hero, with the kindliest consideration, stepped forward John Hawthorne, from whore Hobbs and he, the only ones admitted with Jenny, had been standing, watching them. Loosening Jenny from her husband's neck, and giving her to Hobbs, John drew him convulsively towards him, and, with a hug in which was his whole soul, a kiss upon both of his cheeks, and a word or two of never-failing care for his wife, tore himself from him, and, taking Jenny in his arms, carried her out of the yard. Her little ones, led by the oldest, a girl, followed. It was with a bitterness barring expression that Giles had lifted them, for the last time, perhaps, one by one, to his lips. Giles was, by this, left alone with Harry, his tried, his brave, affectionate friend. — Hobbs stopped up to him, — looked him for a moment in the face, and then took him by the hand. — Even tte breast of Harry rose and fell. *' Giles, there be one wooll taake thy part, Let Heaven but spare poor Hobbs ; 'Shall never bo forgotten, Giles, While this heart beats and throbs. 'Hast never knawed me womanish. So, the tears I woo'den stay Thee'U taake, Giles, in the stead of aal A friend's full heart woold say." Giles pressed the hand his earnest friend Clasped closely to his own, When lo ! — the jailer's voice is heard, ^ And Giles once more — alone I I i. ' ¥\ 100 TIIE VILLAGE OF MERROW. CHAPTER VIII. Thero can be littlo doubt that it had been purposely arranged that the van for the conveyance of Giles and others to Woolwich should not leave till the ni^ht had, at least, somewhat advanced. It had been whispered that Merrow contained in it some danger- ous stuff. It was known, however, to Hawthorne who, in confi- dence, revealed it to Stylos, that a batch of prisoners would leave Shropton on that night between the hours of eight and nine. Of these Giles was to be one. Along with him would be about a dozen others, including a reprieved murderer, — three burglars, — as many poachers, — and a few rioters, (chopsticks), among whom, by the bye, was one quite a boy. John had not the courage, and ho knew his brother too well, to be present on his leaving the jail. Not a word of his intended departure had been breathed by John to any one but Styles. Even Jenny had been kept in the dark. But, at about nine o'clock, concealed in the best way possible, might have been found two men in their respective garden patches, with brows sadder than usual, anxiously, restlessly listening. Who that has ever looked upon a prison van, with its wild beast suggestions, will find it difficult to realize the repulsiveness with which Hawthorne regarded the one that now, at a moderate pace, was advancing upon his cottage. With a lightning step, ho made for the road. — His first impulse was to stop the horses, — his next to call out; — but what would either have availed him; Johi/s soberer sense restrained him. Nevertheless, strong, remarkably so, as were the nerves of this man, he was at last brought to know what it was even to tremble. Ho was shaking with agitation. — " Caged as a wild beast, — with burglars and murderers 1 " — It tore him to pieces. — "And for shooting a pheasant I — a miserable pheasant ! " — " Will there be no judgment on the doer of this I " — " Heaven keep me from him in a thunderstorm I " Styles was standing at his gate, close by the road, as the van passed him. Not a muscle in him moved. A living statue, he stood, gazing after it as it disappeared in the distance, and not till it had entirely done so escaped from him a syllable, when, with a heavy sigh, — " He be gone 1 " he said, *' He be gone ! " Gone was he indeed ! as Merrow in its Sunday-like quietness, -for days afterwards, touchingly told. In scarcely above a whis- vm THE VILLAGE OF MEBBOW. 101 per was tho past spoken of. In groups wore the villagers to be seen standing for hours, as if tho society of each had become a necessity to tho rest. A crime, a groat crime hjul boon committed. The feelings of every warm-heartod rough diamond in the place had been cruelly outraged, and all wore agreed that, sooner or later, tho groat Looker on upon every thing would take it into His wisdom to step forth in their behalf. — '• It boan't our'n," Huid Stylos, '* to sarcumstand ual'ays tho way as God goes about things ; but, sartain, Slop, as Hobbs hev a said, * thaay as hev done it HI come to no good leastivays.* " It was now the sixth day since Gilos' removal to the Dove ; when a little tempest was suddenly raised in a bosom that, in its sorrow, had become dangerously silent. — Sally Uobbs, tho wife of Harry, (and well matched to a T) rushed into Jenny's cottage, with the news that tho Dove, with a host of others, had I'or days, with a contrary wind, been detained at the Noi:e. Uobbs had been working at Manly' s. — Gilos, then, was still within the possi- bility of reach I This again started Jenny to her feet — " Oh, could she see him but once more ! " — "Could she only speak to the cap- tain! — perhaps he might lot him off I " — " He could never refuse her!" " But how could her git there, Jane ? " said Sally. " It bo a good thirty mile, and I doan't a think as the captain could a do it; but I could a ask Styles." " Oh, 1 am sure, Sally, that he would, if I could only speak to him." "But how could her git along, Jane? athout wittlos, and so poorly as her be." " I want for nothing, Sally, — only to see him." " Her hovn't a got, Jane, nothing as I could a tarn to account at Shropton ? " Here Jenny glanced at a mere ghost of a dress that was hang- ing on tho wall, and then, with a long n-o-o, shaded her eyes with her hand. " I tell 00 what, Jane, as I could a do. I'll off to Shropton, where I bo a owed a summat for a day's wash, and Harry, I knaws, wun't a mind as I, for once, should a do, as I likes vvi' it. — Doan't her cry, a dear, — I knaws as you'd ha' done as much for we, Jane." Jenny squeezed tho hand that had kindly taken hers. " Did thee ever see a ship, Jane ? " " Only in the pictures, Sally." 1 ' W 1 .; i: ; 'r 1 . y: 102 THE VILLAGE OP MERROW. "How could hor toll which wer Giles' ? " "It has no white Htreak oa it, they say, — black all over'^ " Hor doan't a say «o I " " Thoy can't prevent me, Sally, can they, from seeing it? " " I doan't a think, Jane, as thoy can; — Stylos, p'rhaps, knaws." It was finally settled that Sally Ilobbs should away for Shrop- ton, and that, on hor return, she would see, during Jenny's absence, to her hildron, and make it all right with John, of whose displeasure Jon y was chiefly apprehensive. Sally, in her zeal for her friend, was certainly in fault. But here wore two women, one with the heart of a lioness, and as warm as the tropics, and the other, with a thousand dangers and diflficulties as but straws between her and her adored. Can we wonder at the result. In little more than an hour Sally was back, and with what seemed to Jenny quite a little fortune. Ten hard earned pennies were put into hor hand, and with them, as it was still early in the day, Jenny, who had in the meantime dressed herself in the best way she was able, was prepared for a start. A cousin of Sally's was living at about ton miles from the Nore ; and with her it was arranged that Jenny was to stop for the night; — And now it was " Good bye, Sally; " — " Good byo — ^her'll mind now, Jane, to taake it easy." " Oh yes," said Jenny, making off like a frighted hare. "I be afoard," said Sally, looking after her, "as John and Harry '11 both bo a giving it I for this." Now, upon the high road sped Jenny on her way, — now, as a nearer cut, across commons and heaths, — now over the fields, scram- bling through the holly and the hawthorn ; but who will bring himself to boiieve that Jenny heeded them a jot, or that any one could resist her aj^peal for a lift on the road, which on more than one occasion, fortunately, fell to her. In the best way that wages as high, according to Mr. Slack, as ten shillings per week would permit, was Jenny both sheltered and fed by the cottaged cousin of Sally ; and by noon on the following day, from a bluff overhanging the water, might she have been seen scanning it with maddened earnestness for the ship that was black all over. This it was not so difficult to detect, though quite a fleet was at anchor, it being amongst those nearest to the Essex side. " If he only knew that I was here ! " — Ah, Jenny, are you sure that would have comforted him. — But on what is it that Jonny is THE VILLAGE OP MERROW. 103 now HO Intent? A boat is loaving the Dove, with three handi^ iu it 1 — " It can't be Giles ? " — poor Jenny I Nearer and nearer it comes, watched by Jenny as was never, perhaps, boat watched before, until, now, upon the oozy sand below her it beaches; when the three men, one of thom an officer, a little in advance of the others, by a windinpj path ascended to where Jenny was standing. Her heart failing, the first wj.s allowed to pass unchallenged, and the two behind were already abreast of her — It was now or never. — " Please, sir," said she, making up to onb of them, " is that the Dove ? " " Yes, my good lass, — the Dove." " You couldn't, sir, take me on board ? " " Why, my good girl, you're crazy! " " No, sir, I'm not. — I want to see the captain ; — Giles is on board : — if I could only speak to him ! " " And who's Giles ? " said one of the men. " My husband, sir." " Oh, I see, — going a pleasuring." " I don't understand, sir." " A vast heaving, my good girl," said the same man, " we're only fore'ard ha^ds, and it don't lie with the like of us to interfere in anything ; — all we can do is to pass the word for you, and if Giles, ' as you call him, likes to speak to the Surgeon Superintendent — " Here a hoarse hail from the officer, with a true British blessing, left unfinished what the sailor lad was saying. " A tight little craft, Bill," said one of them, hurrying away. In about an hour the three returned ; but Jenny had not the courage to again address them. There was something discour- aging in the officer. ** What in the name of Neptune can she be cruising about here fori" said he. Hour after hour, however, passed, and Jenny was still upon the bluff'. A revenue officer, v/ho had been watching her, had more than once begged of her to leave ; but there was the ship ! ! « And now it was night ! — A light at the main top, however, still kept the Dove in sight : — It waa cold, — as the morning neared. -t; 104 THE VILLAGE OP MERBOW. piercingly so. — But hark ! — a noise ! strange, at least to Jenny — the windlass! The breeze in the night had shifted, — the Dove's anchor was on the lift! — the light is moving! — Jane realizes the situation^ with aching brain, watching it as it advances till dim- ming in the distance, amidst the haze of the horizon, it is gone I And when the morning broke, before The sky had seen the sun, The ship had tided out of sight. And the wicked deed was done I And now upon the scene appeared one who may not have been unexpected, stalwart and tanned, and with the look of a man. Making up at once to Jenny, and laying both hands upon her shoulders, " My poor, my poor girl 1 " he said, a burning drop starting to his eyes. " Oh God I " It was Ilawthorne. — As a hound upon a hare had he followed her. *' There !" said Jenny, pointing to the spot where the Dove had been riding, — *' there ! " John understood her, and looked at her anxiously ; — the bow had been over bent; — what should he do, what say to her? — " Oh, .my poor sister, for his sake you must try to bear it ; indeed, indeed, you must." *' I do try — I do bear it ; — John, this is you ? " " Yes, Jenny, I am come to take care of you, — to take you home, Jenny." " Home 1 John, home 1 " " Yes, Jenny, to where your children are, your little children — all crying for you ! " " What ! — what ! — crying for me t — did you say crying for me ?" — Oh take, take, take me, John, — I'll go, I'll go." " A good girl, Jenny, — a good girl." " Oh, couM I have seen him, John, but once, only once more, just to have assured him how truly I have ever loved him, how dearer and dearer still he is to me now." " My poor girl," said John, "not an hour of the past but will too tenderly, perhaps, assure him of that." " Oh yes, — he knew, John, all my heart, Before this cruel blow ; But oh, the love it bears him now, He'll never, never know." mmn THE VILLAGE OF MERKOW. 105 Why did I not go beg, — pray, — steal, — Why leaned I to despair, — All might have yet been well — he still — But oh, look there 1 look there ! " {Pointing to where the Dove had been riding.) v " Jane, have a care, — this racking grief But breaks thee more and more ; Have pity on poor self, for once, Jane, I entreat, implore." '* I cannot, cann(it,— no, no more Together, — not together ! — From him av/ay, where shall I go. Oh, whither, whither, whither I " You will not leave me ? will not leave me ?" {clutching Hawthorne by the breast,) " Jane, my good wench, be calm j — " " I am, — but say you will not leave me, Why Avill you wish me harm ? " " What mean yo, Jane ? " — " Oh, do not ask, My brain is brok'n in two, I dread to think, oh God ! oh God ! What I may dare to do !" John is again driven to recall to her her children. This alone has weight with her. The spot whence she had last looked upon the ship how could she abandon ! " You'll promise, then, to come here again with me, you'll pro- mise me that, John ? " John assured her that he would : — so another hard long look at the water, and Jenny allowed herself to be led from the bluff. On the third day they reached Merrow ; — And now Jenny is again in her own home, — and alone with hor noble friend, the bare contemplation of whom has been, since, with me in how much of bitterness a relief. In every way imaginable is he trying to paint to her the future in less gloomy colours. A never-failing care for her is promised. ' *%^ ^Mm ^0 ^^ *p w^ #^ ^^ « 'Tis little that I hold just now. The timo is hard and poor. But, trust me, thou shalt share it, Jane, Or Heaven deny me more." Thus this true man, on whose tried breast The Lamb of God had laid His head, as on a resting place, And never was betrayed. f. I BOB I*' L* PART THIRD. CHAPTEE I. It was now the third day after Jenny's return. The last seen of the Dove was off Portland Race, crowding all sail for the west- ward and southward. This was not a little satisfactory to the Squanders, and possibly to some others. A lovely morning ! Nature arrayed in her spring freshness was resistless. The Squire and his lady were, betimes, on the road. No wonder that Mrs. S. was in brilliant spirits. She waa triumphant. Power and property had vindicated their privileges, and, moreover, she had crushed, quite crushed a little wild flower that God had deigned to deck with graces sweeter, purer than her own. Far beyond Shropton extended their drive, and, to still lengthen the way, at the suggestion of Mrs. S., their return was by the moor road, which would, eventually, bring them by some- body's cottage. Of this they are now within but a short distance, and Mrs. S. is congratulating herself and husband on having got rid of one pest. " I often wonder why, my love, Such creatures are created ; We, surely, should be happier Without them, and less hated." " As to their hate," replied the Squire, <' We well might do without it; But as to something else, Sophia, Mafoi, it may be doubted. Sophia, if every Lady Fair Had on herself to wait ? " — " Well, Squander, now, I — really — really — I never thought of that. I never could bear politics ; But tell me, Squander, dear. What means all this materiel, This preparation here." The Squire had proposed to himself the pleasure of a surprise in the shape of a wire enclosure for his deer. Ho would impose upon them a restraint as light and as veiled as with his own pet dear. THE VILLAGE OF MERKOW. His own pet dear, — so Charles himself I — Never so pleased as when Planning some little thing, to show How thoughtful are the men. " But Charles, dear, see — how beautiful The sky ! — so prettily In softened colours dressed, it quite Recalls dear Italy." Thus, tHe-d-Ute, anon the}'' neared The now all desolate cot ^ Where Jenny's swollen cheeks betrayed Her worse than widowed lot. Jane had stept out, expecting John ; Her face was to the lane, Whence a familiar bark, that ne'er Had promised her in vain. Jane turned on their approach, nor missed The lady's vaunting air, Pride struggling to uphold her heart, To mask the misery there. Squander looked hard at her, — poor Jane, Her tears but fell the foster ; — The Squire took note, — whispered his wife, Then rapidly drove past her. " I'm sorry for the wench, " said he, " Strange how we hate to part ; No judge, perhaps, — or, by her looks, Jane takes things sad to heart." " I didn't care to notice, dear, My thoughts were else astray ; Quite possible, poor thing, just now She feels it in her way. But la ! such creatures soon forget ; Love is with them, a mere Animal instinct, — they don't feel Ab you or I do, dear." The Squire was silent, — on his face Was fixed John Hawthorne's eye, Who, on his way to Jenny's hut, Paused, as they cantered by. 107 111 1:*' 108 THE VILL/IGE OF MERKOW. " The fellow never touched his hat, My dear," said " Lady S." > " I noticed it, my love; the cause Not difficult to guess." " Couldn't we have him punished, Charles, There must be surely, some Convenient statute, or to what — What are we next to come 1" f " Not, p'rhaps, so well, m^'- love, to make All enemies at once, Or, else, 'twere easy, by some means. To rid us of the dunce." " We mustn't call him dunce, my dear, The country ])eople say They'd rather than the Vicar hear This bumpkin preach or pray. There's no accounting, sure, for tastes, Though some seem passing strange ; Fancy him, in the Vicar's place, Some Sunday, Charles, for change, But oh, — the pest ! — that monster Hobbs ! — T never meet the man Without^ — keep clear of him, Charles pray, — Do, do, dear, if you can." " Not so, Sophia, — I've a bone To pick with this same cur ; — " Well met, sir brave — a word or two, And seasonably, sir. As saucy as you please, — but hark ; — Let mo again but catch you On my domain, — on any part — And, once for all, I'll match you. You have been seen, of lato, by Snipe, With gun too in your hand."— " Wheer, sir ? " — " No matter that — enough, I catch you on the land." " 'Be false, — and well ye knaw it, too, — I never yet done sich ; The way I taakes is free for aal. For poor as well as rich." ipwiw THE VILLAGE OF MERKOW, 109 " 'Tis free to no one, sir, — the right /claim, and I alono; — Mark me, bold fellow, you f^hall rue This braggart insolent tone." " This hins'lc.it tone ! — ay, :iy, — a breath, In battle for one's right, Is aal'ays hinsellcnce, when power And poor folks jines in fight." *'Now hark you, sirrah, — I have brooked This saucinesB full long ; To-morrow shall not pass ere I Teach you a bridled tongue. " " Do-ant fancy now to frighten I, 'Bean't quite so easy frought, Hobbs never yet feared no man, — dang'd If I daan't see it out. Ye bean't a bit the gentleman. Ye dunna knaw yer pleace, Whatever 7 thinks of a man I tells 'n to his feace. Better at home, and at yer preayers, Ye well knaws what I mean, More decenter, — a sin to let Yer sheameless feace be seen. So hard beset ! — so beaten down ! — With sich a goodly noame I — A man as woo'den harm a worm ! — For sheame, for sheame, for sheame 1 I no great scholard, — but I minds What wiser folks hev read, An', 'cordin' that, there bean't no God, li some one die \u a bed." It I " Squander, my dear, you look quite ill ! I never saw you so. As pale, — don't answer him, Charles, pray, Let the rude creature go. Not in a bed ! — more likely far To be his highness' lot ; A decent bed is, probably, More than the lout has got." 110 THE VILLAGE OP MERKOW. " Mine bean't like yourn, mebbe, proud dame, A bed o' hayder down, But, for a quiet sleep a nights, I woo'den swop my own. But go yer ways, — 'shall mind of I, I stands by what I zaid, There bean't no God in that good sky, If some folks dies in a bed." ' ' in m " A saucy hound ! — Squander, the reins, — The reins, Charles ! " — " A-y — the reins r" — " Better, another time, my dear, , Avoid these horrid lanes. This comes, Charles, of that Hawthorne's prate ; The silly coxcomb fancies, By preaching, praying, and so forth, To fashion us as France is. This upstart has been carrying on, Of late with a high hard ; The villagers, on Sunday, Charles, Are half at his command. That Manly must be spoken to, — The Vicar is the one Should see to it, — the time, at lengthy That something must be done. Such creatures, if not checked, will next Carry themselves as good As you or 1, Charles, and assert A general brotherhood. This sweet disciple, I opine. Thinks to 've done great things, To 've nettled us, — such gnats mistake, Always, their nips for stings. Wasn't it rich when, Charles, I flung His own bed in his face ; How cut he looked, — how quick it brought The upstart to his place." i " Sophia, pray, what — what were his words, When speaking of the bed ? His words, Sophia, I mean, — his words, — The exact words he said." THE VILLAGE OP MERKOW. " Some nonsense, dear, — that you and I, Was ever thing so rich, Would come, just fia,ncy, Charles, to find A deathbed in a ditch ! " " His very words ? "— " Not so,— but thus The fellow's thoughts were bent. Ditches, and dogs, and deathbeds, dear, A common compliment." " I've sometimes wished, Sophia, of late, We'd let that Hawthorne go ; — I never — told you — of a dream — That, — somehow,— haunts me so." " I never pay attention, dear. To any dreams, unless The very lucky ones, — and then, There may be, — I confess. But, Squander, dear, you don't observe The beauty of the scone, — The lovely sky, — the charmants trees. The church steeple between." " Sophia, when speaking of the bed. Kept he his eye on wie ? " " Till /, Charles, took the fellow up. And then it ran that we — " " I — know, Sophia, — myself to blame, In speaking to the hound ; Let him Deware ! — if Snipe or I But catch him on the ground ! " " He surely, cannot know us, Charles; — Such nonsense, I declare, — Not in a bed ! — with more, my dear, Than twenty beds to spare I But who, pray, now, Charles, — just in view. Coming straight down the lane ? If any of that Hawthorne's set, Some insolence again." " The further one bids well for Pilch, The nearer Turnpike Tom ; Seem not to notice them, Sophia, Be absent as they come." • 111 !rt 1 1 lis THE VILLAGE OP MERROW. Ill I mm ' t.,li.,itM " Just 80, — the more indiflferent, The less " " Hush, hush, my dear, Mark what a look that Pilch puts on, Ab the rude hind draws near." *' Nothing but what I looked for, Charles, To see them turn like Tartars ; I never count on gratitude, Make up our minds for martyrs. What bird is that, my love, I see, Far in the sky away ? " " Yonder, Sophia ? — a hawk prepared To pounce upon his prey." *' So cruel, Charles, such creatures seem, Bent always on oppression ; Indeed th' inferior animals Seem all of one profession. I thought I should have laughed, Charles ; did One ever see such creatures 1 Two of John Hawthorne's Christians, Charles, Sweet Christians, by their featui'cs ! The shepherd must be verj'^ proud If all his flock ai<^ thus, — " " Sophia, I see the Vicar, — yes, — bonder, awaiting us." " Indeed, Charles, — where?" — "By Manly's gate, Standing his face this way ; " — " Don't loiter, love, — a t6te-a-t6te Quite a relief to-day. After such creatures, really now. To pop on one of taste 1 Like stumbling on a flower, Charles, In some neglected waste." '' Do I look pale, dear ? " * * * But five little words, — and yet how much have they revealed ! Never, perhaps, was the Vicar's hand more acceptable to Mrs. Squander than now, — never was his presence so restorative. Mrs. S. was even more than herself. Enough had the Vicar to do to defend himself from her sallies, " Such reports as reached us, — such absurdities, — nothing that you had not done for the fellow, or was not about to do 1 " THE VILLAGE OP MERROW. 113 " Had oven written to the judge, The day before he sat I "We knew you, Vicar, both, too well For any fear of that." " Eumor is ever, Madam, rife With some fresh faahionod tale; The fancy dearly lo- os to paint "When facte are found to fail." " Just so with us, — now this, — now that, — Could wo but, Vicar, soo. Our own poor selves with some folks' eyes, What beauties we should be ! Hero, Charles quite takes the thing to heart. As ^ns^e and dumb forsooth — " "Come, como, Sophia," — " Vicar, believe, I barely speak the truth." The lady was evidently in better spirits than her lord, nor was this disparity removed though now drawing upon home. " The gate, my dear I— Squander, the gate ! Why, chuck, you would have passed, — Quite a campaign, Charles, — heaven be praised. The d-e-a-r Hall at last." ealed ! Mrs. Mrs. do to us, — fellow. CHAPTER II. As a thunderclap upon the go >d folks of Merrow came the news of Hobbs' rencounter with the Squire. On the Sunday following not a cottager in the village but, in company with him, paid a visit to the scene of action, and such consolation as Ilarry's bravado could afford them was gratefully acknowledged by them; all. That, in their greediness for revenge, Hobbs should be regarded as nothing less than a hero will no one be surprised, nor that a widespread and more than whispered disapproval of the- Squire's severity should exasperate still further both the Squanders and their tool, Snipe. To an extent, indeed, was this exhibited as pitiful as dangerous. Every precaution had to be taken against the keeper and his snares. Now it was winded that for a few days his presence was required elsewhere, — now, that by sickness he was restricted to his chamber. A friend at court, in the shape 114 THE VILLAGE OF MERKOW. |.*.,{ if of a Merrow-brod parlour maid had, possibly, kept more than one from following in the wake of Giles. It was not long, my reader may bo nuro, before I was again in Merrow ; nor had mere curiosity directed me thither. The game that was there being played had daily tightened itH hold of me. Moreover, already a transatlantic traveller, mya(!quaintance with the position of the English labourer abroad had awakened in mo an interest in him at homo. As a promoter of emigration, I was often in Shropton, and it was on my return homeward from thence that I again found myself a loiterer in Morrow. With the villagers, as usual, I had had more than a word or two, and as it was still short by an hour, of noon, and a return to Jiavont, with- out the same with my friend Manly having of late become all but an impossibility, behold mo again within a rod or two of his gate. "You will find him, sir," said one of his labourers, " alone, in the kitchen," — just where I delighted to meet him. " Don't rise," I said, as on entering by a back door, T espied him in the act of laying down his p'po, " I will make myself quite at home." " I am indeed glad to see you, and I will tell you why," he replied ; " some one will be here presently whose acquaintance, I know, you are desirous of improving. I am expecting Haw- thorne — John Hawthorne." " You could hardly have promised me a greater pleasure." "Moreover," said he, resuming his seat and pipe, " I have been speculating ever since our last interview upon what passed be- '.tween us in respect of our agricultural labourers. I have not alwaj's m«6t with the same sympathy upon that question as in yourself. It has emboldened me to think that the day may yet be when, with many now living, their present degradation will •have become a thing of the past. There is a cloud, sir, gathering which it is not every one, it seems, can see ; but thei-e it is, sir, and it will spread and darken till it breaks, when a brighter day may follow. Much, I know," he continued, " will, in the mean- time, have to be endured, — a bitter fight it will be. There are too many of us, as matters rule, already. How it will be with us Bome twenty years hence is a puzzle." " By that time with emigration, as at present," I said, " may we .-not rather look for an improvement? " " With that in view, if I rightly understood you, you regard . America as a field for only the hardy and self-reliant ?" THE VILLAGE OF MERROW. 115 he " For Huch only," I replied, " at least, m its remoter, unreclaimed parts. — It is not every one, sir, who is made for a pioneer." "I should say not." ** It is sim])ly a cruelt}' to make no such distinction. Of what possible UNO to himself or to any one could a Shropton skittle player be in the back settlements of Canada! It would seem that the consideration at present, in sending out some parties, is loss their advancement elsewhere than their removal from where they are an acknowledged nuisance." " It was not, however," inquired my friend, ** of such incapabloB that the host who accompanied you, on your return, consisted ?' '* By no means," I replied, " such are utterly powerless to return. The greater part of them were men broken in health by the climate of the West and South. Some, the more healthy looking, were from Canada. Of these, many were on business demanding their presence in England, while a few, so I was informed, were on a more delicate mission, to be settled between themselves and some still unforgotten Janey or Sally of the haytleld. A few also, of more advanced years, were for another last look at the haunts of their boyhood, — at what they are still in the habit of calling home." "Oh, they still," said Mr. Manly, bringing his chair nearer to mine, " they still called it home ? " " Yes, to a man ; — and the humbler, the less desirable it appeared to have been, the more lovingly, the more holily, I may say, did they seem to look forward to it." " Ah 1 " " Not so, however, to their country," I continued. " The wrong which at its hands they consider themselves to have suftei'ed, that drove them from its shores, is never forgotten. ' Tliaay risturerats ' is on the lips of too many of them," " I am sorry to hear it," said Mr. Manly, " not that it surprises me. It confirms much that I have both heard and read. — Would any of them, think you, be for returning, with a prospect of doing better than of old ? " " Very few, — at least of those who have long been out. Habi- tuated to the ways and climate of the country, and above not only want but the fear of it, it would take much to induce them to do so. Those who return for a last look at the old lanes are mostly men who left England at an age when its prettiness had taken an enduring hold of them, — who, too often for their comfort, have 116 THE VILLAGE OF MERROW. M li I ■' I ' )i bcon in the habit of lookinj^ back, to momontH at lenst, of what tboy have in vain sought for elsewhere; aH, not only from what I was a witness of, but from what it foil to mo to hoar from very many, pronpority, I should say, is more frequently to be mot with in America than huppinoss. I am speaking, of course, of those whose maturer years, on emigrating, had formed tastes, habits and affections not readily to be surrondorod. Such men complain of being alone even with their children, — that tlioir associations are all ditfcrent, while ago pines for what it recalls is loss rarely denied to it at home. It is not, however, sir, till a man again finds himself in England that ho discovers to what an extent a protracted residence in the woods has disqualified him for thoohl world. He has become much more of an Indian than he was aware of. Its contrasted oxclusivenosH is intolerable to him. A hard hand lias ceased to bo a letter of introduction. As in his woods or prairie he sighed for the hawthorn of his boyhood, so, on a return to it, is he sensible, still more, of a something wanting, and, with a sense of humiliation, ho looks wistfully back at the independence ho has abandoned. ** Why, I quarrelled, sir," said one to me, '* with my own brother!" — while, said another, " I can never, sir, but in memory, live there again." " How much bettor," interrupted my friend, " would it not be, both for their country and themselves, wore such men at least less necessitated to leave it. As Scotch Kamos, sir, of the past cen- tury, observed : ' A small share of the money and attention be- stowed on raising colonies in America would have done wonders at home.' When that, sir, was written an increasing population was regarded as the touchstone of national prosperity, and such would it still be accounted, if some folks could be brought to understand better than they seem to do their true interest. — Now, sir, I con- tend, that if only a sixth part of our enclosed land were devoted to farms of from five to ten or twenty acres each, with suitable buildings on them, the higher rent which, I know, the labourers would cheerfully submit to, would throw into the pockets of the landowners an additional sura so great that they can never, surely, have taken it into their consideration, while a million, at least, of able men and their families would be nobly provided for. I know that, in their selfishness no less than in their ignorance, there are many who contend that in a labourer there would be no security against his insolvency. To me, sir, it seems that the temptation for the landlord to repossess himself of improved properties would Tr THE VILLAGE OF MERROW. 117 nocoHHitato tho most ouutiouH and wtringont moasures for tho pro ioctioii of the tenant. — With our millions of acrcH of wanto lands only a govornmont, perhaps, is qualiHod to deal, for a while at least ; but, eventually, on a good breadth of them might tons upon tens of thousands of additional settlors bo located. And would such occupants," continued my friend, warming as ho advanced, " be of no value to their country, sharers in a conservative spirit as inseparable from the soil as its weeds f When wanted by the common- wealth, would no willing as well as able hands be to be found in their midst ? For the homos that they were happy in would such men be the likeliest to begrudge a sacritico? Rely on it, sir, that, with an extended representation, we shall be any thing but safe with such, comparatively, a mere handful of men having a stake in the soil. The tendency of things, at present, is to multiply a class whom revolution could scarcely injure. An antagonistic, an indemnifying class is demanded. With an extended suffrage this will hourly become more apparent. What a weakness, then, not at once to create it, not at once to engraft it on the soil, when such could be done with even a profit to the engrafter. Certain is it, sir, that the inevitable increase in our numbers, must, sooner or later, necessitate some such action. The selfishness which now obstructs it may, by then, be its readiest prompter ; for I have no faith, sir, that a population, such as before the expiration of the passing century ma}' bo looked for, will passively submit to any- thing like the existing exclusive state of things. Of every ten of us now born, nine, at the least, have a fight, and a hard one, for sheer existence. How, then, will it be with us hereafter I Surry will be many by then, sir, that neither they nor their fathers had assisted to multiply a class whose interest it would have been to uphold order and obedience." " But, in our extending commerce and manufactures," I observed " may not employment for some years to come be reasonably reckoned on, even for a vastly-increased population ? " " Certainly ; — but this, you will allow, must have its limits. It cannot be supposed that we are for ever, as at present, to ride it over other nations, and it is sorrowful to reflect that this prospec- tive increase in our numbers will bo little calculated, from the nature, to so great an extent, of its employment, to conduce to the moral betterment of society. The humanizing influences of agri- culture will be entirely denied to it. Nor can an outlet for the uneasy class, as they have been called, be reckoned on for a very 118 THE VILLAGE OF MERROW. ■ « lengthened period. The land, now open to all, will, eventually, be required, and, possibly, reserved for those born under its own skies. It is easy, sir, to foresee that such will be the case, when- ever actual corapetitiort for its possession exists. A "very large portion, moreover, of the boasted West of America is, I have been given to understand, simply valueless." " In the millions of sturdy yeomen and occupiers whom you would engraft on the soil, you would look for a bulwark against what, in the States, would be called the rowdyism of crowded com- munities? " " Just so, — by making ever}'^ man possessed of land in fee, or for a term of years, liable to militia duty. It was so, if I mistake not, in the olden Saxon times. With a militia such as we might have we should have little to apprehend from home troubles, and our wooden walls ought to be sufficient for all others." " I should say so." " England had never greater need, sir, than just now, to guard against herself." "I understand you." " In the sons, too, sir, of such men, seldom in their teens out of their sires' sight, what soldiers would be found, and who, with an eye to the future, would be more likely to tender their services, let their country but show that it knows how to set a proper value by them. We are not a little Switzerland, with no opening for them but at the beck of the foreigner. The rif-raf at present either trapped or driven to enlistment would, I believe, almost entirely disappear. We should hear very little of the lash then, sir, and as little of conscription. I am not alone, and it emboldens mo to know it, in my conviction of the immediate danger to us in this continued indifference on the part of our very highest to the interests of the labourers. Even with the latter the sentiment is any thing but uncommon. My neighbour opposite, Isaac styles, — you are acquainted with him, no doubt, has often expressed himself accordingly, and, although but a man in humble position, his opinions on some matters are not to be slighted," " There is no one in Mei-row," I observed, " for whom I have a greuter respect." " That is the feeling, sir, with every one who has the good fortune to know him. — He is at times, too, very entertaining, and seldom fails, after a fashion of his own, to leave his mark behind him." THE VILLAGE OF MEREOW. 119 This was scarcely uttered when, by one of those chances which cannot but sometimes occur, who should present himself at the door but the very veteran in hand, with a request for the loan of a hay knife. Mr. Manly immediately rose, and, pointing to a seat, touched the bell, when, in a few minutes, after an inquiry as to my health, the old man encouraged, doubtless, by a mug of generous proportions, which he now steadied on his knee, was in full swing upon what, it was easy to see, had been purposely introduced by Mr. Manly. " Yes, sir," said he, in response to my friend, " it hev aften puzzled I how thaay as be at the tip-top do'ant a come furrard, if on'y for theirselves like, to s+raighten things a bit. If thaay on'y knowed, sir, how thaay really stands, or woold stand, if things went the least askew wi'em, thaay'd be afeard to let some folks hev it aal their own way as thaay now hev. My owld fearther, sir, used to tell but I minds, Mr. Manly, as you've a heerd av of it afore." "Pray, Mr. Styles," said my friend, "proceed; — this gentleman I am sure, will be but too pleased to hear you." " Well, sir, as I wer about to say, my owld fearther used to tell* — many as is living hev a heerd un, — o' two kings as lived nighst one another, — I forgits the wheerabouts — and as Avent, arter awhile, as folks wooll do, to loggerheads. Now, one o* thaay kings, sir, when he wer o'ny a prince, as thaay caals em, wer, in some specks, a likely sort ov a man. So, thaay as had to do with the workin' o' the land, and as could'nt a git scarcely no wages at aal, pooty much as now-a-days, sir, got suramun to write to un, axin un to be good enough to jist say a word or two for em to the measters — the squires and varmers like. Well, sir, the prince he giv em for answer, that it waun't for the like o' he, as wer to be king, p'rhaps, some day, to interfere twixt measter and man no how ; — ^you see that, sir ! — Now, sir, as I've a towld ee, the prince, when he come to be king, got into trouble like wi's neighbour, and wer a gittin', by a good deal, the wust on't; so he bethought un o' raisin,' straight away, some muore sodgcrs, and he sends to the labourorK, axin em to list ; when thaay sends sir, to he (how my owld fearther used to laugh when hewer atellin' it) the very same man as thaay sent to un afore, when he wer on'y a prince, to tell unas how that it waun't for the like o' thaay, as wer o'ny labourers, to interfere 120 THE VILLAGE OP MERROW. twixt gentlefolks no how. How it used to meake the owld man laugh." " And how did it end with him ?" I enquired. ** Well, sir, as he could'nt a git no muore sodgers nohow, he wer a tarnod clean out o' the pleace, and there waun't nothing but murdorin' and mischief in it for a good fifty year arterwards. Now, sir, if, when he wer a prince he'd a o'ny said a kindly word or two for the labourers, be "t likely, sir, as thaay'd've been the men to forgit un, when thaay see'd as their friend wer in trouble. Not, sir, if one can trust in summat"— here the old man touched his breast — "as bean't in the habit o' foolin' us. — Upon this, Mr. Styles rose, and after an inquiry of the " whoerabouts " of the hay knife, left us. " His story," said Mr. Manly, " is no idle fable. As time marches on, rely on it, sir, if nothing be done, in the way I have said, to promote loyalty and patriotism, it will realize itself, to the full. The rowdy element is in our wake, and gains upon us hourly. It is encouraging to know that, on a trial, it would be found that there is nothing in what I have proposed antagonistic to the inter- est of the landowner.— Why, sir, were I in a position so to do, and consulted simply my pocket, I could cut up into lots the farm we are now on, re-let it, and, with thanks and blessings into the bar- gain, half live upon my profits ; and, surely, sir, the way is open to others. It can only be selfishness and ignorance combined that prevent thousands from seeing this, a selfishness and ignorance, however, which, it is consolatory to know, will, in their turn, have to yield to the imperatives of the future. In the meantime, where to look for a patron the labourer is, indeed, at a loss. The Church you see, sir, is not with him. The poor fellow has no favours to bestow. Would the Church but do its duty, but speak out as a shepherd of Christ should speak, I am satisfied that the landlords, with the best grace possible, would be forced to submit ; but, with that silent, what can be expected. — Rely, on it, sir, (here Mr. Manly again brought his chair nearer to mine), that this cen- tury will not see itself out, without a visitation upon what for so many years has been looking on, in silence and indifference, at the hunger and degradation of the very providers of its own food and wealth ; a visitation that shall point, as never finger has pointed yet, to a Providence above us of justice and retribution. — Eecall- ing the words of my noble friend, and looking out from the woods that surround me at what is looming in the land of their utterance, » 'w; f-r Tf THE VILLAGE OP MERROW. 121 man I am fain to believe, as I lift my pen from my page, that an em- bodied Providence, and with no indifferent eye, is regarding me as I write. But, to return, " Bundled abroad !" contim >d my friend, and in a tone that told what was still so sorely uppermost with him, " a broken and degraded man ! — and for what ! " Mr. Manly paused, and looked at me. " His wife," said T, "takes it sadly to heart, I hear." " She will never survive it, sir." Hero Mr. Manly again paused, — he was evidently moved. He might have spared himself an eff(>rt to hide it. " You were in Boston or New York, on your return route ? " said he, at length. " In the lattei'," I replied. *' You must have there seen, sir, many things that were new to you, much that interested you? " " Some things, too, that not a little humiliated me," I answered, " One scene in particular, I have never recalled without a sense of shame. It fell to me to be present at the landing of a batch of emigrants from our own Plymouth. — An American, so it chanced, was near me, — a Philadclphian." " Ah ! made he any remark ? " " It would be difficult," I said, "to find an American who would not have done so ; and but for the mortification, which I found it hard to conceal, at the pinched appearance of my own countrymen, his Americanisms might, possibly, have amused me." " Can you recall what was said ? " " I have repeated it too often since," I replied, "to have forgot- ten it." Here Mr. Manly, replenishing his pipe, and putting himself at his ease, inquired of me the stranger's age. " Well,— by his hair, he might have been forty." " Your meeting was accidental ?" " Quite so ; — we had both, for some minutes, been engaged up- on what was passing, when, turning suddenly round, and looking at me as only can an American, ' Some of yourn, sir, I reckon,' said ho." " I found it convenient, you may be sure, to be silent. Confident, however, in his position, and pointing with his cigar to the crowd of men, women, and children, in advance, 'rather a small pocket, sir, I calkilate, would hold the hard cash of that lot,' he added — * Churches pooty scarce, I guess, where they come from? ' " 122 THE VILLAGE OF MERKOW. I wr.s conscious, I confess, of something on my cheeks. " Now ain't it kinder strange, sir," he continued, " how little you Britishers know the value of some things. Now, in my country, sir, we reckon that it takes something like a thousand dollars to raise a man, and even at that, sir, we don't account it a bad trade. But then, sir, as soon as a young un with us can cram, we handle him as we doour hosses, — we put him to good grass, and stutf him with plenty of corn, so as it ain't long, after shedding his colt's teeth, 'fore we can get something out of him. A pooty starved bite fell to that lot, I guess ! Well, well — Look ye, now, friend, at that four-ycai-older, yunder. Now, just stuff that little crittur out with Johnny cake and slapjacks, as we do in my noble country, and in six weeks, sir, his owr mother wouldn't know 'him, — that's so. — If some of our grout men, sir, were over among you Britishers, they'd kinder fire up, I reckon — Well, well, if they ain't a lot ! — That ain't the way, sir, we treat our slaves." " Slaves ! " said I, " they were never slaves." "■ No," said he, shaking the ashes from his cigar, " I rather calkilate they waun't. They'd show a little more like humans if they wcr, — that's so; — "We don't raise cattle the like o' them, sir, down South, — no, we doan't." '* I had now, you may be sure, both seen and heard more than enough." " And was it so," said Mr. Manly, " that our poor fellows were spoken of ? " " I have but given you the truth, I rejDlied." " Would, sir, — " Here Mr. Manly paused, and, rising, stepped to the window — " Some one I have been looking for, I think," said he — "yes, he will be with us immediately." The old gentleman had scarcely reseated himself when, in re- sponse to a kindly intoned " come in," the door opened, and before us stood John Hawthorne. I had not seen him since his brother's departure. With the instinct of his class, Hawthorne was about to retire : " — " I'll see you by-and-bye, sir," said he. " Not so, John," responded Mr. Manly, — " this gentleman and you can hardly be unacquainted ; — be seated." ' With a half blush, on a chair somewhat nearer to the window than to the table, Hawthorne seated himself. " We have been talking, John," said Mr. Manly, stretching to- wards him a glass which he had just filled, " upon what no one, I have reason to know, has more at heart than yourself." THE VILLAGE OF MERROW. 123 Hawthorne put down his glass, and, with a slightly flushed face, returned to his seat. " We have been indulging, John, in the hope of better times for some of us. My friend, as you are aware, has been no idle spectator in our midst." — Here Mr. Manly, with a view of bringing Hawthorne to the front, entered, at once, upon what had been passing between him and myself. Hawthorne's countenance, as the old gentleman proceeded, was a study. Expressive solely, on his entrance, of a resignation he was so capable of, muscle after muscle, as my friend advanced, was again brought into play, and, by the time ho had concluded, a countenance more intensely and sincerely sympathetic it would be difficult to imagine. " Upon one point, Mr. Manly, if you will allow me — " said he. " Speak out, John," " I was about, sir, to say that, however well it might be for the higher folks to take in hand for a while the waste lands, as they call them, I am much behind-hand, sir, if most of us in Morrow, and, doubtless, elsewhere, give us but the chance, wouldn't very soon entitle them to a better name. What a man, sir, bred to labour, can do with a bit of land, when working for himself, may be seen, I think, pretty plainly in our garden patches. A family, sir, and none the smallest, on an acre or two, with the like hand- ling, would be as well off in a few years as they'd need to be. We can't all of us be squires and gentle-folks, I know sir. It was never meant, nor would it be for the happiness of any one that we should be. As with other things, some will always be getting the start of the rest, and keeping it, too; but a chance, an opportu- nity might be, surely, given to every one. A man's industry and prudence would then be the measure of him, and to something better might a labourer look forward for his old age than a poor- house and a pauper's , no need, sir, to say more." I have not forgotten the manner and tone in which this last was said. "We wouldn't be too nice, sir;" he continued, looking, as he spoke, towards me, " give us, as I've often said to Mr. Manly, but a space, a mere space for a heme, and, with the wills that most of us, I know, have, we would soon show a good account of it. A home would be soon seen to start on it, and none the worse, in the long run, perhaps, if a little slow, at the first, in rooting. Very few would be then looking Westward ; — you know what I mean, sir." 124 THE VILLAGE OP MERROW. " You have never, John, I believe, been a favourer of emi- gration ? " " I have never liked, Mr. Manly, the being driven to it, nor the charity style of it. One's country, too, sir, has a hold upon some of us very different from what it has upon others. Emigration to some men would bo little better than tearing them in two. For such, now, as Isaac Styles, sir, never again to look upon where his mother lies ! — Many, sir, have found thiti out, and made their way back again. — It has reached me, as well, Mr. Manly; that, in America at least, it is rarely that the old folks are treated with the same respect as with us, — that they are less regarded as still the heads of their families, that their position, indeed, is frequently quite a subordinate one. Now, for myself, sir, I would rather live it out, to my last hour, upon bread and water, than surrender, for whatev^er increase of means, a single tithe of what, in England, you know, we all so look forward to, and without the which some of us, when old, would, indeed, be poor. I must bo better informed, Mr. Manly, upon that point before I would throw in my lot with that of the many as an emigrant." Mr. Manly's eyes were upon mine. I had no need to inquire why. " You have not, Mr. Hawthorne," I observed, " been entirely misinformed upon that point. There is an impatience of control universal in America, that originates many a pang where such should least be. The comparative worthlessness of a slave in his old age is, I confess, too apt, in America, to be the standard by which a man cf years is gaged. But to what, Mr. Hawthorne, ha; a labourer in Merrow to look forward , to what but, as you have yourself said, — a workhouse ! " " There is no denying it, sir." " John," said Mr. Manly, pointing to his glass, " make yourself at home." " Thank you, sir ; — quite possible, sir," he continued, address- ing himself to me, " that the fault is not entirely upon one side. The temptation for the " old man," as he is called, I under- stand, in America, to make the most of every one, as well as of himself, may, at times, be too strong. I am, perhaps, a little nice upon some points, when speaking of emigration. Many very many have, no doubt, bettered their condition by it. The thousands of farms, and good ones, I am told, now scattered over even the remoter parts of America are an unanswerable THE VILLAGE OP MERROW. 126 of emi- nor the )n some ation to ^o. For here his leir way that, in ;ed with 1 as still squently 1 rather rrender, i^ngland, ich some 1 formed, lot with inquire entirely f control lere such ve in his 3y which ha,-, a p^ou have yourself address- pon one I under- ell as of a little Many it. The scattered iwerable proof of that. They have not been the growth of ages. What I would wish, Mr. Manly, to be understood to say is, that it is hard, sir, to be put in a position that leaves no choice between it and starvation. Certainly, an emigrant must escape much in the shape of short commons hardly, one would think, to be found elsewhere, and many temptations, too, which it is not every one — Here Hawthorne paused, — still paused, — when Mr. Manly, with a tact that a good heart needs nothing but itself to suggest, made an effort to " bout ship ;" but Hawthorne was already aground. His glass, with its contents, had slipped from his hand, and, as he stopped to pick up its bits, a dimmed eye that mine had not missed told plainly' enough its tale. "Tm foolish," he said, rising from his seat. " Not at all, John," said Mr. Manly, " misfortunes will happen." " I'll see you again, sir, in the afternoon," said Hawthorne, crimsoning. " At any time, John ; — I am at home for the day." Upon this, bowing respectfully both to Mr. Manly and myself, with the shattered tumbler in hand, Hawthorne left. " Poor fellow," said Mr. Manly, " he was on the rocks before he was aware. I thought it as well not to press him to stop. — His main objection to emigration, I believe to be in the interest which he so sincerely, and for so many years, has taken in the welfare of his mates. " They'd be half of them on the other side of the water in less than a month," he once said to me, " were I to desert them ;" and I verily believe, sir, that such would be the case. It is im- possible, you see, sir, to get it into the head of a starved labourer, all enactments notwithstanding, that there can be any crime in meddling with what they see gets its living anywhere, and every where ; and, so long as the rich man only is a loser by him, his conscience is very easily persuaded to cry quits. Much has to be said for the poor fellows, for even the dangerous ones among them. They have, by bad laws, sir, been made what they are, — year after year hardened into it. It has not been the work of a day. — There's Pilch, now, — you know him ?" "I do." " Well, sir, either in Merrow or Orton, like too many others, he 18 out almost nightly ; yet I can remember him to have been one of the likeliest lads in the place. His first lesson in poaching was from his own father, who, I have reason to know, was, like poor Giles, driven to it by want. It coat him, in the run, his life. He WMh I 126 THE VILLAGE OP MEBROW. was killed in a fray with the watchers on Baron Steinberg's of Orton. One Diggs, of whom you may have heard, was in the mess, and got ton years for it. There is a rumour that the residue of his term has been remitted, and that, shortly, he will be back again. — Now, sir, if one such as was Pilch's father had had the better fortune to have held u few acres that would have put the comforts of himself and family in his own power, that would have made them dependant solely on his own will and industry, is it likely, lot any reasonable mind, sir, ask itself, that he would have been weak enough to jeopardize his very freedom for the sake of a paltry hare or two. Let no man, sir, fancy so. I would by no means say that a chance puss, intruding on his domain, would have always been allowed to go scot-free; but a widely different thing, sir, would that be to turning out at night as a thief, with the chance of finding one's self, by the morning, a murderer. Let the labourer, I say, sir, be more generously, more honestly dealt by, and very few would need to trouble themselves about game laws. Give him but land, and, from that moment, he would feel as much interested in the preservation of game as the richest squire. — It has often, sir, surprised me, recalling the fearful crimes consequent on our present game laws, that a certain Establishment can reconcile itself to so continued a silence thereon." " As you remarked," said I, " the labourer's inability in the shape of patronage may have something to do with it." " Not a little, I suspect ; — but so it is, sir, — go where you may, in vain will you seek in the Church for a champion of the coun- tryman. No wonder that so many are seceders. Its free sittings, in some cases, arc well named, for free enough they will soon be with us, sir. Half of those who might occupy them are already, on the Sunday, at Hawthorne's. — I have, at times, been almost inclined to think that there is something more at the bottom of this neglect of her labourers than England, in the main, is aware of. 'Where, sir,' said one to me, not an age since, who, of all men, should have been the last to say so, ' where, with a peasantry petted as you propose, would you look for a recruit. Conscrip- tion, sir, would be necessitated. The very Constitution, sir, would bo endangered I' How narrow-minded, my friend, is always selfishness, or it might have occurred to the reverend speaker that, should trouble ever arise where it is least to be desired, such men might be tempted to a retrospection much more suggestive THE VILLAGE OP MERROW. 127 srg's of in the residue 36 back lad the [)ut the Id have pv, is it Id have ike of a I by no , would ifferent ef, with sr. Let ly dealt it game )uld feel richest fearful certain silence le shape )u may, le coun- sittings, 11 soon :il ready, almost »ttom of aware of all asantry jnscrip- would always speaker d, such gestive of the poor man and hin cottage than of the richer and his castle. Had I, at the moment, been severely inclined, I might have reminded his reverence that had some folks but done their duty with a third of the zeal that one I could have named did his, the necessity for recruiting would have long since ceased. But before that, sir, will be, before such men will bo brought to a conscien- tious senpo of their duties, some things will have to bo put on a widely different footing with them. The temptation to fawn and bend, as a bait for advancement, will have to bo removed. It is not what a minister ought to say in his pulpit, but what he dares to say, that is the rule at present. This, sir, should bo entirely changed. Churchmen will have to bo put, one with another, so upon a level, that when necessary that the truth, howsoever in any quarter unacceptable, be spoken, no apprehension of after consequences to the speaker of it shall stand in the way of its utterance. Christianity would then, sir, put forth in earnest its fruits. A fuller justice between man and man would result, — selfishness would be blushed into it. We might then hope to again Bee the smocked labourer in his church, and his pastor spared tho pain, as at present, of knowing that tho necessaries and comforts daily upon hu table have, in a great measure, been put there by men with but ten shillings per week, as wages, to comfort theirs with. Here Mr. Manly rose and touched the bell. — I had no wish to interrupt him. '* The main difficulty," said he, on resuming his seat, " in the way of bettering the condition of the peasantry seems to me, sirj, to lie, not so much in their extreme poverty, as in their morally damaged condition. This, sir, was made painfully apparent in an effort recently by the Hawthornes, and a few others of the village, for a higher rate of wages. Their places were im- mediately taken, and at the old rate, by labourers from Orton, and so, sir, it would be with them again and again, in their pre- sent uninformed condition. They would never be found to hold true to one another. It would be a groat help to them if the farmers could be brought to a clearer understanding of their posi- tion, so that the labourers and they might make a strong pull togethei-. To that it will come, eventually, but, at present, upon many points vitally affecting them, the latter are as little inform- ed as their labourers. Some able missionaries are woefully needed amongst them. Hawthorne, as I have heard him say, has some hope from the new Reform bill. He will find himself, I am afraid, 128 THE VILLAGE OF MERROW. sadly disappointed. The labourer has been totally overlooked in it." "lean easily understand," I said, "how it is that the Haw- thornos are with some parties in so little favour. Have you seen, pray, since his departure, the wife of the poor fellow that was recently sent off? " " I have not, but from no disinclination ; I am truly uneasy about her. If half of what I have heard be true, it will go hard with her. You have heard, by-the-bye, of a bonfire, how one thing recalls another, in which a certain Squire and his lady figured somewhat prominently, on the heath betwixt this and your place ? " I had heard of it. " It was high sport, I am told, for some follcs ; still, I am sorry for it, sir , — it will only exasperate the Squanders and their clique the more, and the less excitement just now the better for the poor creature you were inquiring about. She is about, I have heard, to become a mother again." This again sent Mr. Manly into a brown study. I was on my guard not to disturb him; — " Yes, sir," said he at length, laying down hia pipe, " the bulk of us have, upon such matters, to be far better informed. A higher civilization and happiness would be then easily attainable. There are few men, sir, I should hope, selfish enough, as the world now stands, to be thoroughly happy." " Very few, I should say." " Not that it needs to be turned topsy turvey. I would not, my friend, be misunderstood. There is no one, believe me, more deeply impressed than myself with the necessity for true civiliza- tion of a class, and that by no means a limited one, with leisure for cultivating, to the full, their tastes and intellect. It is a pain- ful truth, but truths, sir,, have to be looked in the face, that certain pursuits have a greater tendency than others to stultify and bru- talize. It is only in the refinement which a high cultivation develops that civilization is preserved. It is not needed that parks be ploughed up, or pleasure grounds destroyed. It would be a dark day for us all should such vandalism prevail. What is wanted is simply justice—that a chance, an opportunity, as Hawthorne observed, be given to every one. It is noi right, I repeat, that the tiller of the soil, the producer of the world's food, be without a sufficiency for himself; and sadly shortsighted, sir, must he be who is blind to the necessity of at once creating a far m m THE VILLAGE OF BIERROW. 129 ^greater number of those who, in their freeholds and leaseholds, ■would bo sharers, as I have before said, in a conservative spirit as inseparable from the soil as its weeds. It will be a great day for England, sir, when she understands this. We are hourly drifting into disorder ; but withjustice, impartial justice, civilization might yet bo saved to us. With that in our midst, wo might be almost any thing, a bright little spot that the world might take for l( model." I have dwolt thus at length upon what passed during thii interview with ray friend, not only from a wish that my reader may share in the pleasure which his utterances were to me, but for a reason which, as I proceed, will, 1 doubt not, be fully under- stood by him. CHAPTER III. yie will draw a veil over the more than melancholy time that, for some months after the departure of her husband, it was poor Jenny Hawthorne's to know. By the middle of October she was again a mother. The child was a boy, and, in due time, it was named, after her benefactor, John. The attention that the little thing necessitated assisted, in some degree, to withdraw her thoughts from what they had, of late, been too exclusively bent on ; and, as time worked on, and a new year set in, Jane found it difBcult to deny herself a share of the comfort in which not a few of the villagers indulged, that a goodly portion at least of Giles' degradation was already at an end. Many, too, were emboldened by the hope that, before long, philanthropy would intercede in his behalf. It had reached Mr. Manly that the Surgeon Superintendent had said that it seemed to him that there was one man on board who had no business there. That this was owing to a straightforwardness in Giles that would win for him friends in abundance abroad doubted no one to whom it was told, and already had hope, drawing upon her fairy land of futures, carried him in triumph through the vil- lage, and, with a cheer at the gates of Thornley Hall, escorted him to his old home. But, alas ! whilst poor broken-down nature was thus doing its best for a rally, an event occurred, which not only cast a gloom upon all Merrow, but which most seriously affected the position of I 130 THE VILLAGE OF MERKOW. the Hawthomofl. By the death of Mr. Manly, an occurrence by no means looked for, were they robbed of their sincerost and m08t substantial friend. It is not my business hero to record my own disappointments, or to this might a deal bo added. I will content myself with saying that I was one who followed him to his resting place, and I doubt that a sincorer tear than mine paid, upon that occasion, its tribute of respect. He was buried in the pretty churchyard of Merrow, and, with a tolerance complimen- tary to Mr. Slack, the service, in compliance with Mr. Manly '9 wish, was read by the Rev. Mr. Goodwill of Orton. CHAPTER IV. * Dr. Hearse. Shropton had, of course, its workhouse ; civilization necessitated it ; and to that workhouse was attached, as a further matter of course, a doctor, — Dr. Anthony Hearse, of Shropton. He was not a man of transcendent parts, nor had he, by industry and appli- cation, made, perhaps, the most of himself. lie was, moreover, eccentric, — in some of his views decidedly so. In one of them, however, I have reason to know that he was at least not alone : For hours o'er the rich man's ails His puzzled brain would brood ; — Poor people had but one complaint, And that was want of food. His treatment of the latter, old or young, parent or child, was, as a consequence, unique and simple. Not to disturb nature in her blow and silent operations, as he was fond of calling them, was, indeed, a cardinal point with him at all times. Possibly, the contents of a certain jar, posted in his laboratory with an eye to convenience, were concocted with that in view : — Of it anon. But for the death of Mr. Manly one party would probably have less early become acquainted, practically at least, with any of Dr. Hearse's particularities; for not only was the son, into whose hands Mr. Manly's farm had fallen, a man of less generosity than his father, but a jealousy of Hawthorne, which he had not always been able to conceal, was by no means diminished by an annuity, a email one, and dependent otx the result of his suit, THE VILLAGE OF MERROW. 131 bequeathed to him by Mr. Manly. This, coupled with a dislike, shared in by every villager in Merrow, to subject himself to either the churlishness of Snarl (porter at the workhouse) or to the repulsive meanness of Mr. Parish, made it a harder and harder task for Hawthorne to provide, not only for himself and his, but for one whom by all that was sacred he held himself bound to protect. By the fall of the year succeeding that of Giles' departure it had become a close bito with them, and both Haw- thorne and his sister wore alarmodly anxious respecting the little one at her breast. Hawthorne had observed that for some weeks it had been slowly but surely failing, and his mind was fully set- tled in regard to it, which made him the more determined to shift from himself further responsibility. So, on a likely looking morning, towards the middle of September, Jane was persuaded to accompany him to Shropton, that Dr. Hearse's opinion might be taken. The doctor was busy enough on their arrival. The measles were about, and several cases of scarlatina had showed themselves in Orton. What particularl / struck Hawthorne was, that, what- ever the complaint, howsoevtv )ntra8ted the symptoms brought to the doctor's notice, a certai ir was invariably consulted, one particular jar. Again and again was this the case, for very many, as it happened, were on that day the applicants for help ; so that Jenny had full time for a rest, which was as well, before, nudging his sister, Hawthorne gave her to understand that it was now her turn, that " the gentleman was at liberty." — "With a timidity as natural to her as life, Jenny blushingly advanced ; — but a word or two, first, as promised, of the jar. m There was a jar, an earthen jar. Upon a lower shelf, A miserable looking thing, In a corner by itself. White once had been its earthenware, With golden lettered name, But, long begrimed with dirt and drugi, What eye could trace the same. Lidless it stood, as unabashed T 'unmask its inmost soul ; All other pots cured one complaint, This claimed to cure the whole I ■:.:i 132 THE VILLAGE OF MERROW. Mysterious this magic power, Though rumour, once, arose, The shop-boy could the mystery solve, K but the master chose. Certain that, every day, an hour Before the doctor came. The urchin was observed to be Busy about the same. Pounding, and pelting, stirring, scraping, As if to bring to pass A combination of strange things In one concreted mass. Whether the doctor held a view Peculiar in his art. That every drag in each disease Should play its special part ; Or whether he conceived it safer By opposites to correct The tendency of any one, And so shape its effect, I cannot say, — ho may have been Economist in time ; The jar's choice s'^-lf is all that I Can vouch foj i'^ this rhyme. It was now for Jenny to make acquaintance with the same. She has already advanced : " I've brought my little infant, sir ;" Ere Jane had got thus far The doctor had already turned Towards his mystic jar. " Had you not better, sir," said she. Examine my poor child ? " — "As well, perhaps; — ah, ah, — I see, — Ratling,— a little wild ! " Which said, again the doctor's steps Were t'wards his potent pot ; Jane, as his fingers went to work, Eyeing the wondrous what I " He never can have noticed, sure, How young the baby, John,"- ^' Hush, Jane, observe ;" — Hawthorne had marked The doctor's task was done. THE VILLAGE OF MERKOW. 133 same. "You'll take these J9i7/s/' — Jane courtesied,- " Possibly one will do, — But should the child seem not so well, "Why then — why then — say tico.'^ " My child, sir, may refuse it, p'rhaps, — How am I then to act ? " " Oh, well, — we don't — we can't, — you see. Rule matters so exact." " What diet, sir " ;— " Diet !— oh, that's A thing for others' care ; — Snarl, at the gate, as you pass out, Inquire, will show you where." When shall I come again, sir, pray?" — " Oh, well,- -you'll see, — you'll see. While the pills last, with Snarl's good aid. You'll hardly trouble me." This said, the doctor's steps, once more, Were t' wards his potent jar; Some other ailing child of want Eequired his Christian care. " He's very shrewd, didst mark, John, how He made no alteration Betwixt his first glimpse of the child And his examination ! " " God grant there needed none," said John, " We've done at least our best ; — Let us, Jane, homeward, both of you Are, I know, in need of rest." Rightly they judged, in one so young. Nature invoked no aid Such as parochial charity Administers in need. The breast, and it alone could help, That marvellous fount of food, Wrought, in dame nature's subtlest way, Of every thing that's good. Well John knew this, and grieved at heart To note how Jenny's strength Daily declined, — parent and child Tottered alike, at length. m 134 THE VILLAGE OF MERROW. " Jane, we must strive in every way," Said he, " within our power To prop up the poor stem that holds This delicate, drooping flower. Come, come, take heart— I'll straight away Even to parson Slack, If all else fail ; — I'll not, believe. Gome empty handed back. Better you strike across the fields, 'Tis nigher, — and oh, pray, When you fetch home, for his poor sake. Put all sad thoughts away. I'll by the road, as I pass mine. To just right things within ; My good girl might be wondering Why none of us had been. Some faggots will be wanting, too, The morn breaks chill again, And best I sit up the night through. Perhaps, ye'U need me, Jane." Jane looked at John, — ah, there are looks That let the bosom speak. When, but for their joint utterance, Words would be, oh, how weak ! " Good John, ye'U not be long away," Said Jane, in timid tone, " When you are absent, John, I feel So utterly alone." With promise of rejoining her Ere the sun sank to rest, John hastened on his way, resolved, Indeed, upon his best. " God will be with him," murmured Jane, " And when poor I am laid In my last home, then will he find These mercies not unpaid." THE VILLAGE OF MERROW. 135 CHAPTER V. To a letter, did Hawthorne fulfil his promise. Jenny's imme- diate wants were amply relieved by the evening. His apprehen- sion, however, in regard to her infant was but too well grounded, unless Dr. Hearse's pills are to be credited with a potency dan- gerously greater upon that night than usual. According to Hobbs, whose wife, in company with Hawthorne, was with Jenny through the night, scarcely had an hour elapsed since the inflection of pill number one, " afore he wer a took wi' a kind o' quiverin' like, aal over un, and his knees wer a draawed up to's chest; and when, 'cordiui' as the doctor had a ordered, thaay giv he a second un, he were agin seized wi' a quiverin' like, and never stirred arterwards : — that second un did the business." Harry had to be careful of the when and where this was said, as his wife had, again and again, observed that " the pills wuz wonderful, that if any thing, dead or alive, could ha saved un, it wer as plain as a charch steeple as thaay'd ha done it ; but he wer a past, no doubt, aal as Dr. Hearse could a do for'n." — John was silent ; — when he did speak, it was to console his sister. By the end of the week the child was interred at the back of Merrow church, in a part of the ground set aside, as before stated, for the poor. Prayers, were, of course, read on the occasion by Mr. Slack, who considerately ordered his sexton to see that the body was decently covered. It had not been considered necessary that it should be taken into the church. " It be the fust blood as is spilt," said Styles, as he and Hobbs sauntered homeward together, "but it wun't be the last; mind, as I. says, Harry, it wun't be the last ! " " What did the old man mean, John ? " inquired Hobbs on the following day. " It wouldn't be the last," he said, " eh ? " " Jist so." " What the old man, Harry, likely enough meant, was, what no one more sincerely believes than himself, that nothing that we do that in any way is wrong goes unremembered." John's finger, as he finished, was pointed upwards. " 'T be sartain : — By-the-bye, John, bean't it sing'lar as Giles hev never a writ but once ? " Had Hobbs, when he put this question, looked closely at his " friend he could hardly have missed the pain that it gave him. ■I ■ 136 THE VILLAGE OF MERKOW. • I is i m. Why was this so ? It had been obberved, for some weeks, that Hawthorue was anything but himself. His self possession seem- ed shaken. He was less communicative, and Isaac Styles and he, it was noticed, were more frequently than was usual with Ihem in converse alone. Unwillingly my pen advances, but the truth has to bo told. In less than a twelvemonth after the departure of the Dove, Hawthorne had heard from his brother, for Giles couM write, though but indifferently, giving an account of the passage and of his position at the time of his writing. His health during the passage, a somewhat tedious one, had, as far as John could under- stand him, not been satisfactory, mxt from the Superintendent on board he had received many little favours and kindnesses, and in one material point he had derived the greatest comfort from his assurances. On his arrival at Sydney he had had the good for- tune to be employed on what is there to this day called the Government Domain. He was by this in a position less humili- ating, and less harassing than might otherwise have fallen to him. He bade his brother to daily call upon his wife, and never to cease assuring her that from what he had learnt from the Super- intendent, and from others on shore, he had every reason to believe . that their separation would, eventually, be much shortened. In a postscript, he mentioned that Diggs was in Sydney, working on his own account, that he had been a ticket of leave man for some time, and that a petition recently forwarded to the Home Secre- tary in his behalf, had been successful, and, further, that from him they would be able to learn all particulars respecting himself, as Diggs had told him of his intention of returning, before long, ta his old quarters in England; — Diggs, he said, had been much hurt at neither his mother nor his wife having, for some time, answered his letters : " He did'nt a think as thaay'dhev tarned agin him ! " He concluded with a promise of writing once in every three months. Now, John knew that his brother was a man of his word- What then was he to think of the time having twice passed for the fulfilment of his promise, and no letter ! What construction but one did it admit of! John had never been quite satisfied with the tone of his brother's letter, and now, as again and again he read it, did he wonder the more that from the first he had not better understood it. Giles, indeed, had landed at Sydney but the shadow of a man than whom an abler had never cut a rush upon V"r^ rr THE VILLAGE OP MERROW. 137 Merrow's moor. The pestiferous atmosphere of Shropton jail, want, and wounded pride had, even before ho set foot upon the Dove, diseased his lungs, and in the crowded 'tween decks of a convict ship where was his chance ! His conscious degradation alone tore him to pieces : — to be a marked man for life ! That ho had not jumped overboard only showed the strength of his attachments. He did his utmost, on landing, to reconcile himself to his position, and he was sincere in all that he had written to his brother ; but the struggle was too great for him. It was in Australia's spring time that he arrived, everything abroad was fresh and beautiful : Not a joy had nature still for him Nothing to cheer, to bless, What else had been society, But mocked his loneliness. I He went among the dark leaved trees, And flowers fair, and strange, But these were not the blue harebell, The heather's wholesome range. He sat upon the shelly rocks, By the side of the foamy sea, But there was not the western breeze^ Nor the air of liberty. He listened to the tuneful notes Of many a songster gay, But one sad voice, as sweet as sad, Was ever far away. Thus, hour by hour, the days crept on,. Till moon on moon went by, Care sapping every source of joy. Save one half hope on high. When as a flower of foreign clime. Its own good skies denied, For while the brave man struggled on, Then sickened — drooped — and died ! •I 138 THE VILLAGE OF MERROW. CHAPTER VI. Oh Albion, my native land, My white cliflTd pretty isle, That I, so thy adorer, still, Must blush for thee, the while ! Well, indeed, had month after month passed, and no letter. A second and a third year went and still, — no letter ! Curiosity was everywhere on the inquire. The Vicar, notwithstanding the assurance of his sister, that " the man was, no doubt, alive, and -happy enough," was particularly anxious. He often of the neighbours asked, And always when he met her, Inquired, in the kindliest way, If time had brought a letter. But neither word nor letter came. Though many a moon went round ; The postage, that it might not fail, Jane put into the ground. m But whose, upon a dull eyed morn. The lids so swollen and red ! Strange how, at times, can some, asleep, Communion with the dead ! For lo ! upon that very day A tapper at the door ! A tapper, with a doubtful face, Jane had not seen before. I've brought thee, Ma'am,"- The stranger paused, and sighed, — *' Giles begged as I'oold bring it thee The day as afore he — died /" When Jenny heard the dreaded news She gave nor start nor scream. But, as drooped her head upon her breast. Bethought her of her dream. Then to the stranger, silent, went, And leaned upon his shoulder; — The poor man truly seemed to be " A sorry he ha towld her." "iplp THE VILLAGE OF MERKOW. 139 Ht m Mfi Hfi ^ " Oh, leave me, leave me," Jenny said. At length, — " alone, — alone, — Take it not, pray, unkindly that I crave you to be gone." " Well — if thee wishes it so, Ma'am, And no offence, — I'll go, — Try, Ma'am, to bear with it, — 'be muore Nor you with griefs below. Yes, Ma'am,' be muore nor j'ou," — which said, The stranger turned, and left, Jane gazing after him, as one Of sentse, s.oul, all bereft. But hark ! — a cry ! oh heavens, a cry ! Mounting the frighted air, Higher and higher, as heavenward bound. To crave an entrance there ! (Jenny had opened the packet.) " God ! God ! God ! God !— oh, look, look, look ! All dead! all bleached with care! — So raven black ! — so snowy white ! • And I not there, not there ! Oh, take me, God — take, take me, God, I cannot bear it more ; Ere madness make me all forget. Oh, take mc, I implore." It was well for Jennj^ that in this extreme moment her children were with her. The pitiful, desolated aspect of one of them, as it caught her eye, was the turning point with her. In the clasp with which she folded her to her bosom had she again bound her- self to the world and its rackins^s. — God! God ! I CHAPTER YII. It is hardly necessary to state that the tapper with his so disas- trous news was no other than James Diggs, newly returned from what was in Merrow still called Bot'ny Bay. lie may well have told Jenny " that muore nor her had griefs below." He had just heard from Isaac Stjdes of the deaths of his mother and wife. This had, seemingly, confused him in the carrjnng out his mission, as, on finding Hawthorne from home, a letter, which he had brought from Giles for his brother, he had handed to his ■ ■ii 140 THE VILLAGE OP MERKOW. daughter, forgetting that the package which he afterwards de- livered to Jenny was also to have been given to Hawthorne, that its stunning contents might be broken to her as gently as possible. The mistake was a dangerous one, but who will not already have forgiven him for it. By an hour later, John was at home, and opened his brother's letter, ignorant of the greater blow that his sister had just received. It needed no expert to declare at what moment, under what circumstances Giles' letter had been written. A line or two, only, of it were intelligible ; — thus will we put it: " All as I've, John, to ask thee nojv, ^^ ^^ ^^ ^^ ^^ ^^ ^» ^S ^^ r^ *|s I hear thee, say — thou woolt. Oh, John, — I caunna lay my hand Upon thine own to thank thee," ***** *^ *i^ *^ *^ ^* *^ ^* ^^ 'I^ w^ Hawthorne had bnried a young and beloved wife, and for some years, father and mother had been words less frequent on his lips ; but of no harder blow than this was he conscious. It would seem that he had deserved better of fortune. — He must weep it out ; " And is this, Giles, all that I shall ever Know of thy last request 1 — "Well hast thou written — thou woolt, if One Interprets me the rest. Alas ! alas ! — support me Heaven ! — How shall I tell it Jane ! 'Twill break her heart, — she'll never, never Hold up her head again I Oh, bitterness ! — oh, bitterness ! — That I should live to see A day so dark as death has made This bitter one to me ! : So young, so noble, so upright I — Why not have flung a dart. Hard dealing death, at one less good, And spared a broken heart." Poor fellow, — it is hard to bear with such trials. TTH THE VILLAGE OF MERROW. 141 It was a disappointment to many as well as to Ilawthornc, that Diggs had delayed but an hour or two in the village. The man was far from wanting in sympathy, I ut the news of his mother's and wife's deaths had fairly bewildered him. He had, it seems, now, but one relative left, a sister. She was married, and resided with her husband (one Crouch) in a county further north. Diggs was not without some little means, llis stay for awhile in Sydney, after Giles' death, had been any thing but profitless. So, on hear- ing from Styles of his bereavement, he bethought him, at once, of making his homo where lie had good reasons for believing he would be welcome. " I can caal, Styles," he said, the tears swimming into his eyes, " somewheer, as I goes along. — No, doan't a say nothing. Styles, — I got to bear it, — but, doan't, — doan't a say nothing." That Styles was the only V)ne in Merrow to whom Diggs was particularly known, was owing to his having formerly resided in Orton, which was Diggs' parish, — "Good-bye, Styles," were his words on leaving, — " shall see I agin when ye least, p'rhaps, specks." Some years afterwards, one by one. Styles repeated his words. PART FOURTH. CHAPTER I. Let us lay the turf of at least a few months upon what has just passed. Dull would the heart or brain be that required to bo assured of either Jenny's unspoakablo anguish, or Hawthorne's untiring efforts to reduce it. Moreover, there are troubles ahead yet to be spoken of before it becomes ray more particular task to introduce in their midst One who, as it proved, had, from the first been no inattentive observer. In the meanwhile it may not be uninteresting, nor altogether out of j)lace, as helping us the better to detect and understand, both now and hereafter, that One, if, in colours as faithful as I am master of, I introduce upon my page a few scenes which, at the time of their occurrence, were of no little interest in the neighbourhood. It had always been with the country folks of Merrow a standing wonder that Jenny Hawthorne could never be brought to confess, as the rest of them had long since done, to a distrust of Mr. Slack's sincerity. Some even unkindly things had, at times, been said of her in respect of it. Jenny had been so indoctrinated by Mrs. Parish into a belief that, as representative of Him above all re- proach, it was impossible for any one in Mr. Slack's position to be very deserving of it, that she had almost laid herself open to an imputation of bigotry in her determined endeavours to think well of him. She was anxious, moreover, that her children should any thing but resemble some who, she was aware, were little in the habit of frequenting his church. Jane was, besides, neither a philosopher nor a politician. She had not questioned herself as to the cause of their absence, and she was somewhat confused on observing how many of them had, of late, been finding their way to her brother-in-law's " Little meetings like." It fell to her, however, at last, to have tUe scales removed, though not, it will be allowed, without a farewell effort to reinstate the Vicar in her good opinion. It was always a custom with Mr. Slack, whenever either busi- ness or pleasure attracted him to Shropton, to turn down by the Moor lane, and proceed by the more circuitous, but more agree- able route skirted, for a goodly distance, by the moor upon one THE VILLAGE OF MERROW. 143 ftido, and by the Squire's preserves on the other. This would, of course, take him by what we may no more call Giles' cottage. He could hardly, therefore, fail of oceusionally meeting with Jenny, in her almost daily pilgrimage to John's. It was upon one such occasion, about eight months after the news of her husband's death, that, by a half way gate in the lane, he, in the blandest and politest way, accosted her with inquiries of both her own and her children's health. Jenny, at the time, having the three with her, was not a little disconcerted at meet- ing him, and for a reason very natural in a woman. By a sub- scription, headed by Styles, a merino of scanty proportions had been raised for Jenny, while the little ones had to be contented with simply an edging, or bordering of black, extemporized from an undergarment of Jenny's which had boon surrendered for the occasion. Smile not ye who have never tasted but of the favours of fortune. In her secretest of temples nature admits of no mon- opolies. This make shift, as I have said, was more than an annoy- ance to Jenny. — " It looks so !" she thought, " as if I had never cared for him !" Parson Slack, however, she had the pleasure to find, was far from supposing so. Ho bade her to remember that it was not with this world's opinions that some things rest. — that the Great One, in all such matters,take3 the will for the deed, and that none of us are expected to do more than our means permit. He also inquired of the names of her children, noting them down as she named them ; — and, on leaving, ho bade hor to bo of good heart, — to remember that she was not alone — that we all, every one of us, indeed, had our troubles, the best of us. " No one, I am sure," said Jenny, " could have spoken kinder ^ if John could only have heard him !'' ' Hawthorne, nevertheless, found it difficult to suppress a smile as Jenny descanted or Mr. Slack's urbanity, whilst Jenny's curi- osity worked itself up lo quite an excitement, on recalling his con. descension with her children : " He seemed, John, so particularly anxious to have their names quite right ! Not Hannah," he said, ''but Anna?" Before the day was over, hope, with her bricks and mortar, wo may be sure, was at work, and, in her sleep, many a little castle had Jenny built by the morning. y 144 THE TILLAGE OF MERROW. CnAPTER II. It was otivly in the forenoon of tho following daj', wliilwt Jenny was leaning at her door, (she haii boon expecting her brother), that she observed some one, rounding the corner of the lane, wliom f^hc, at once, HUHpoctod to be Mercy, Mr. Slack's parlour maid. In another minute she was sure of it, "You'll step in, Mercy?" said Jenny, who had waited hor coming. " Don't ask mo to, Jane, — the Vicar is expecting me." — Here tho gr>r>'\ hearted girl hnnded to Jenny three tracts, very neatly envoi , with the chiMren's names on them, and with tho kindly addition of "Not to bo returned ; " — " and here, Jenny," said she, " is something for you all." This was a handkerchief full of what wore, certainly, broken victuals, and which, as certainlj', had the appearance of having boon very recently broken. Jenny handed them to hor eldest girl who was just within doors. "But mind," said Mercy, looking soarchingly at Jenny, " you tire not to say a word about it to any one, for tho Vicar is that man he never likes as his left hand should know what his right does. Nothing he detests more than to be thanked for any thing. More than once, Jano, on his charities being known, has every ee^'var^ been discharged ! " N( '^enny, simple as she was, was not quite such a simpleton as to thus easily imposed upon, and serious mi^ 'iving came over her as to tho propriety of accepting the present. 'lawthorne had been constantly putting her on her guard against ^ iving the .Si|iiandors, or any of their adherents the shadow of a hold on them, and Jenny, remembering this, was about to tell Mercy that she must decline the bundle, when, glancing at her room, the sight of lier half famished children fairly fighting for its contents, carried the day, and turning towards her brave benefactor, and drawing her aft'ectionately towards hor, Jenny surrendered all idea of refusal. " You'll not, now, Jenny, forget," said Mercy, again, on leav- ing her, (Jane assured her that she would not), " for he's that man.' " Good girl I " said Jano, " and so for me She'd risk the Vicar's wrath, Be called a thief, — a trustless thing, All that contempt calls forth. T THE VILLAflE OF MEREOW. 145 This iraist not bo — I'll straight away, And lot tho Vicni' learn Just how things stand, — this putting off But wrongs us both, in turn. When he shall hoar how, silently, We've striven, we've starved for years, How hoped, still hoped, still hungered on, 'T will turn him all to tours ; Quito break his heart ; — best not let John Know how my planning lies; I'll see the Vicar tirst, and, so, Take him like by surprise. The noble fellow ! oh, my heart, The joy to let him know He needn't, hence, work after hours, Keeping toiling, slaving so. When, too, the Yicar comes to hear What trouble ho has taken On Sundays with his mates, how all The brother 't will awaken 1" How singularly blended, at times, are dullness and subtlety of apprehension in woman. Could Jenny really have believed that there was a pathway to the Vicar's heart in her brother-in-law's fidelity to his fellows ? I cannot say ; but, certainl}^ it would have been difficult for her to think that none of *' His Ways " (as one of the Tracts was named) were to bo found where, of all places, just then, she had so much reason to wish they should be. So, after a lapse of a few days, which, for look's sake, Jenny had thought it as well to submit to, behold her, on a dull afternoon, attired in her best, wending her way in the direction of the Vicar's, to lay before him a statement, in full, of all that she had of late been subjected to, and was then enduring. "He'll be blaming me, I know," she said, " for keeping him ea long in ignorance. I must tell him how I knew of the numbers that were always so teazing him." This was certainly a somewhat indulgent dilution of Sally's injunction " to let him have a bit of her mind," — " to giv it him right and left." "Good Sally," said Jane, on recalling it, "sh© meant no harm, and, of course, I must mind to keep nothing from him, to tell him every thing. Where, if I don't, the u.se of calling- on him." f- 146 THE VILLAGE OF MERROW. ■ '.' tm.l® ^r4' V I have said that it was a dull afternoon, and so it was, when Jenny started, which it was thought would rather improve her chance of finding the Vicar both at home and alone. So, although, before reaching the manse, the rain was descending in no passing shower, Jenny persevered on her way, and that the chance might be the greater of being unheard by any but themselves, she made, at once, for the front gate, and, to appearance, was fortunate, on closing it, in attracting the Vicar's notice from his parlour window. Now, the Vicar had a private study, a sort of Sanctum sancto- rum, which was entered from a landing reached by a few stairs to the left of the hall. With a consideration in keeping with him, Mr. Slack himself opened the door, and as Jenny, with a femin- ality of eloquence by no means unusual with her, burst immediately into tears, the good man was so touched that he at once conducted her to his study, and, leading her to a chair, bade her to be com- forted. " I am not at all surprised, " said he, " at seeing you. It was too apparent, from what passed in the lane, that you were in lack of a consolation to be had only from such as have had an opportu- nity of becoming acquainted with the bitters and struggles of life." Jenny now was sobbing fearfully. *' Dear me !" said the Vicar, silently, an apprehension stealing over him that his sister Arabella might not be the only one of her sex whose griefs invariably ended in hysterics, " dear me, what is to be done ! " — With a most persuasive kindliness of manner he represented to her the necessity, the duty, indeed, of regarding all trials as but visitations for our future good. — Our griefs, he observed, were but so many recommendations to Heaven, — our tears but us glasses by the which the more clearly to discern our way. He had ti-avelled much, it appears, this wearying world, and his experiences had led him to the conclusion that few, very few of vs are exempt from at least a share of its sorrows and troubles. " God knows," said Jenny to herself, " that's true enough." " To look back upon a lost husband, or to know that one's children have not always, perhaps, every thing that one could desire, are troubles, indeed, sufficiently distressing ; but, if satisfied that such is His will, how can we consistently complain." Every grief, every fresh trial, he assured her, if rightly regarded, Avas but another mount on a ladder upon whose rounds who need be afraid to tread. THE VILLAGE OF MERROW. 147 "With a deal of the like, uttered with a blandness of manner worthy of a sincerer heart, Jerny was 80 perfectly taken aback, so completely mesmerised, that, as a speechless statue, she sat, oblivious utterly of every thing in the shape of her reiolve to leave nothing unsaid, to lay every thing, to her least trouble, this time, before him. *' I see," said the Vicar, apprehensive, possibly, of an awaken- ing on Jenny's part that he had studied to avoid. '' I see advice is comforting, — Some day ye may lack more. When, if ye foar to face the front, Why, — come to the back door." W^ith this suave hint the Vicar rose, And touched more than the bell ; What brought the tears to Jenny's eyes It needs not here to tell. " Show, Mercy, this poor creature down, And mind, before she goes. She stays by the hall stove awhile, To dry her drenched clothes. Just Heaven forbid that any one, On such a sad, sad night, Should ever leave a door of mine Without the thing that's right." Tn duty bound, so Jenny deemed, (The servant led the way) She halted at the proffered stove, Yet fain had turned away. There, shivering with wet and cold, And weak from want of food, Jane pondered, in a Avoman's way, On how her troubles stood. " And could he not a single word Of positive comfort find ! To all these famished looks revealed, To all my misery blind ! Ah, had he sat in my sad stead, With half my troubles pressed, Heart had not needed tongue to tell What every look confessed. SSQBSiBE^S BH 148 THE VILLAGE OF MERROW. Why did I not speak out, — I then Had left him no excuse; To 80 keep silent ! as if tongues Were nothing made for use. 0-' Why am I ever thus with him, When he, of all, should be, As God's good shepherd, one that should Hearten poor things like me. I don't find words so fail me when Before One higher still, I then feel, somehow, so at home. The words like come at will. Nor used I, when, at Sunday school. The proudest, richest dressed * Would honour us, on passing them, Not courtesy like the rest. We're different, it seems, at times, The day, mayhap, will come, The Yicar will be found at fault. And I, in turn, at home. To bear all silently! — to hear One's pretty lambkins cry From sheer craving, and not breathe A passing j)laint on high ! This cannot, sure, religion be, This cruel, cold advice. This affectation of concern. While all within is ice ! This beckoning to back doors 1 as if Distress and they were one ; Well might he rise to reach the bell, To hide what shame had done. No, piety, thou art not thus, All lowly in thy call. Thou beckonest to no back door, Thy front is free to all. Oh, Giles, if thou art looking down, And know'st thy Jenny dear, Thou wilt forgive me, now I own The wrong I did thee here. THE VILLAGE OF MERROW. Now do I know the bitter draught This must have been to thee, The angel of whose heart it was That hushed it so to me." Thus Jenny, with herself communed, Treading on dangerous years, When, with her face hid in her hands, She gave herself to tears. " Poor creature !" said a Christian's voice, Mercy had heard her sobs, " Here, Jane, — a loaf! — for God's sake take, — What He gives no one robs. But, oh, good heavens ! — the Vicar's voice ! Conceal it, or he'll drive me, — I know not where, — he's so upright, He never will forgive me I Go, go, at once !" — so what could Jane But hurry to the door, And, taking to the fields and lanes. Make homeward for the moor. Where, on her knees, now safe she dropped. But did not speak, nor dare Look from the ground, — the loaf! — the loaf I— Still Heaven put down a prayer. The scales were from her eyes ! 149 m CHAPTEE III. Yes, from her eyes were the scales, at last. Never was she, afterwards, heard in the way of apology for the Vicar, and never, afterwards, did this simple, but tender-hearted woman set foot within his church. She had seldom been an absentee from John's " little meetings like," and now was she one of his most faithful attendants ; while, more and more, was it observed, did John seem to rise in !her esteem and respect. It could hardly have been otherwise ; for now that Hawthorne saw that every chance of outside assistance grew less and less, did he redouble his exer- tions in her behalf. The more necessary had he considered it so to do from another of those overwhelming afflictions which seem so often to delight in not coming alone. Jenny's third child, a girl, named, after her brother's deceased wife, Anna, had gone the road of her last. I would fain not have troubled my reader Wi' 150 THE VILLAGE OF MERKOW. with this, — but so it was. Nor was this Jenny's only new trouble. Comforting as was Hawthorne's so ceaseless care for her, it was a source, nevertheless,! to her of the acutest anguish to be compelled to observe how, in every way, this redoubled exertion was telling on him. She was, also, not a little out of heart at what had but newly reached her from Ilobbs' wife, who at times was, perhaps, somewhat too ready with her news, that Snipe had been heard to boast that some one's pretty game would soon bo up, — that Mer- row would learn soon not only who ivas who, but what was what t Jenny was far from fathoming the.depth of the villain's meaning, but she knew that the some one could point to none but Haw- thorne, upon whom all his former hatred of her husband seemed now to ^have centred itself. The upstart, it was whispered, had had the vanity to think that, but for John, he might have yet found a way of rendering himself agreeable to the still pretty widow of the man he had so wronged. Be this as it may, a more malignant hatred never was in another's breast than in Snipe's for Hawthorne. It was well, as it helped in part to foil him, that Hawthorne was aware of it. And now for a revenge in full, as Snipe flattered himself at last. John, in obedience to his brother's wish, seldom let a day pass without a minute or two at Jane's, There was always some little thing to be said or done that helped to reconcile her to the world. It was on one of these occasions that Jenny could no longer con- ceal her uneasiness at what was too plainly to be read in Haw- thorne's face. — "We will give the scene as it showed — in its own. colours. *t^ %J^ «1« ^u ^ ^u ^u ^n ^* ^^ ^p ^^ 'f* • '^ " You do not know, John, — oh, my heart, How changed in one short year ; Words do not hide these whitening locks, Nor smoothe one wrinkle here." " Be comforted, good girl, 'tis but The giving up, on earth, A little of life's wear to win A thousand times its worth. Jane, not a wrinkle here, but trust," John pointed to the sk}', ""Will be found and, p'rhaps, when needed most, Upon some spare page on high." THE VILLAGE OF MERROW. 151 * Touched by this generous trait of love, Still wretched in her fears, Burying her face in Hawthorne's breast, Jane gave herself to tears. There had she wept her bosom dry, When, — but without a start, " A snake ! a snake ! " said John, the'words Nestling in Jenny's heart. Snipe, ever on the peep and pry Eound Jenny's honest cot, Had followed in John's wake, guarded That John observe him not. Barely, as said, had Jenny laid Her head upon his breast, Than John espied him, crouched, his face Close to the window pressed. As eyes the tracker his long trailed, And now assured, game, So Snipe, what his base ! 3art believed, His prize in Jenny's shame. " Snipe at the window !" whispered John, " Move guardedly, — don't seem T' observe him, Jenny, — possibly I'll spoil his pretty dream." John on the move, Snipe drew aside,— " He's gone, I think," said Jane; " No, — I can hear, — he's there, John, yet, — Yes, yes, John, — there again !" A tiptoe Hawthorne neared the latch, But, as at woodman's tread. The guarded adder, so, on watch, The cautioned villain fled. M Jane saw in his retreating smile What, to her artless mind, Meant only present insult, so, It left no sting behind. " What can the scoundrel mean ?" said John ; "' More, John, that I can say; — He's often so, — I'll ask of him His reason for't, some day." 152 THE VILLAGE OF MERROW. " I'll save ye, Jane, that trouble, I'll, Ere the fox fetches home, Know something of his hankerings ; He don't for nothing come." " Don't think, John, that I care," said Jane, As Hawthorne closed the door, " There's nothing he can cany hence. They all know I am poor." Whether Snipe half believed that John Would barely face him, or, Trusting in Hawthorne's calmness, thought He still might venture more. I cannot say, — 'tis hard to tell. At times, what secret spring Puts men at variance with themselves. When hard upon the wing ; But, as he hastened, John observed, Having him well in view, A loitering on Snipe's part, as if Bent on encounter, too. Now and again he'd turn, casting A measuring look behind ; — " What new conceit, what dodge," thought John, " Now in the fellow's mind ? Not fool enough, the brag, to dream Of venturing his say ! I'll not, Snipe, disappoint ye, if Your loitering lean that wa}'." Just where the Moor lane joins the road, Snipe came to a stand still ; — ^'He means to speak me, then, the rogue, — Well, well, I trust he will." John was not wrong, — the chuckling knave, {]jp Shifting has gun in hand, As Hawthorne neared, crossed to a gate. And 'gainst it took his stand. John was by this time fully bent T' assail the scoundrel first; But Snipe, towering in confidence. Ventured, at once, his worst. THE VILLAGE OF MERROW. *' Good day, Sir Romeo, — pleasant sport," — " I don't, man, comprohend " ; — " Oh, no, you don't, — others, no doubt, "Will be as dull, my friend. Huggings, and sighs, and so on, eh. Not easily understood ! — Plague on the law, John, eh, that so Balks us in what wo would." * Scenting his moaning, Hawthorne roused, " I guess your game, " said he, ^' I know ye for a villain. Snipe, This no way startles me. Nothing in reach has 'scaped your eye, Nothing you wouldn't dare, For spite on one a very liend, For pity's sake, might spare. Now, hark ye, — from your viper lips One word 'gin Jenny's fame, And, by the God ye never loved, I'll whip ye into shame." There is a kind of quiet man, More dangerous by far, When roused, than any on whose tongue The noisier notes of war. Snij)e had not reckoned upon this, John took him by surprise; — "Mark you yon house, my brag, — the Squire's, That way your safety lies." Abler than Snipe just then had quailed At Hawthorne's resolute air, " Come, sir, no tarrying, — a word ; A half word, if ye dare !" As skulks a cur Avhen caught at fault, Content t'escape at all, So Snipe, no way particular, Slunk to his master's Hall. 153 " A pretty piece of valiant goods ! " Said John ; — " strange whim to take Such care of a mere carcase, and No heed for its soul's sake! " * Saipe mu3t have here alluded to the law forbidding marriage with a deceased brother's wife. 154 THE VILLAGE OF MERROW. CHAPTER IV. John, the scotched adder yet can sting ; Ere night had couched the day, All that a venomed tongue could do, Did Snipe's in slander's way. Thee and thy Jane, time upon time, The villain blazed he'd seen Fondling, as shame forbids to say, While pity steps between. From lip to lip, once fired, flew The scandal, " Lady " S. Fanning the flame, at every lull. With heartless earnestness. That very evening at the manse Was she, that one might learn, From her lips first, how " caught at last, Affairs had taken a turn ! " Nothing was left untold, the worst That villainy had famed, 3Ialice improved on her tart tongue, Till womanhood was shamed. " You fully," at the close said she, " Vicar, I trust, discern What only could have weighed with mc That you at once should learn." " You naturally. Madam, felt That I could not but take Some kind of interest in the man For his religion's sake." "Snipe's known it for some time, it seems, Eeing often by the moor ; But never till to day , you see, Vicar, the man was poor. Snipe's not bad hearted, — I'm convinced, When first turned up the bird. Had Giles but gone upon his knees, There'd ne-ver have been a word. Or had the silly thing bat called Herself upon the man ; Women, you know, can wonders work. At least, some women can. f 1 THE VILLAGE OF MERROW. 156- Vicar, you'll have to see to it, And probcntly ; — such shame, If suffered to proceed, will give The neighbourhood quite a name." " I'm sorry for the man, indeed," Said Mr. Slack, " although I'm not surprised, — it takes some time His kind of man to know. But, still, — we'll hope, — we'll trust, — porhaj)8, Yet hard to think that Snipe Should deem it requisite , the man So clearly in his gripe." " Now, really, Mr. Slack, that you Can champion for the fellow I The cloth, I see, the cloth ! — what says Silent Miss Arabella ? " I did think, Mrs. S., the man, Perhaps, had something in him ; But as to her, no doubt she used Her every art to win him." " Precisely, dear, my view of her ; There's no one can assume A way more winning than she can, Let the sly puss have room." " "Well — as to that, /never could • See in her manner more Than just the simple thing one meets At every cottage door." " Quite so, — you misconceive me, — what. What, dear, I meant was this " " You'll never, Mrs. S., make me, You'll never, MrB. S. " " What then, says Bella, " to the talk That Jane, though not so tall. Is counted by the cottage folks The queen dame of us all." *' Is't possible I — well, well, I never ! " — "Come, come," said Mr. Slack, " Wild flowers may, ladies, still have charms, Candor compels you back." " So like you, brother; — Mrs S., Not the most shameless sinner That ever yet disgraced the sex, But he sees something in her. 156 THE VILLAGE OF MERROW. Not the most heartless reprobate, Not the most saucy slut Can I do justice to, but up Comes brother with his — " but ! " " Dear Madam, it has been, you see, The study of a life. With me, betwixt th' extremes of things, T'avoid all cause for strife. Where sympathy is so at fault An enemy might spare A word or two, in charity. And yet risk nothing there." '' One consolation, her career. Vicar, can not last long, Her health I hear, — her health, you know, Was never very strong." ** Bella, my dear," said Mr. Slack, Shifting a bit his chair, *' Could nothing, do you think, bo done In the way of counsel here?" " Me, brother, me ! — Horatius, me ! A place that can't be named ! — A comij^on ! really, I did think — Brother, I'm quite ashamed ! " " Let him that is without a sin," Said One, " cast the first stone;" — " Now, brother, pray give over, do. Such texts best left alone. There's many a worthless creature, I'm Convinced, had never strayed But for this kind of sympathy So thoughtlessly displayed." How long thus Christianly these three Had bandied, hard to say, But for a carriage from the Squire's That whispered one away. " You'll not forget us, Mrs. S., Should any — thing — that's new;"— " Certainly not — though really, really, Bella, twixt me and you !" — THE VILLAGE OF MERKOW. 167 CHAPTER V. It would be diflScult to exaggerate the excitement which tho report of Snipe's inventions, garnished by Mrs. Squander's artistic tongue, created, not merely amongst the villagers, but in a class whom those accustomed exclusively to largo towns would bo dis- posed to exempt from a curiosity by themselves unshared in. Belief in it, however, was far from being general. An honest outcry was raised against it, from the first. There was one, too, than whom none could better appreciate its merits, in whose breast was aroused a very volcanic fury of indignation. Ilis broad chest literally arched, and as he clenched, with an assuring pride, his heavy and hard hands, " I towld 'n," said he, " as I'd a taake his part, — I giv'n my word for't. — It bean't agin Giles ae the villain's a lyin', — thaay caan't a hurt ho now, but it's 'gin his wife, and that be aal one wi' I." This was addressed to Pilch whom Ilobbs had overtaken in his tramp homeward from a job at Lavent, and who we may bo sure lost no time in disburdening himself of his indignation to Harrv. Barely had Ilobbs relieved himself, as above, when who should they see coming leisurely along the road, at about a half mile from Merrow, but the identical object of their combined hate. " I'm dang'd, Pilch, if us doan't a speak un," said Hobbs, — " what say thee. Pilch ? " Jist as thee likes, Harry, — but doan't hurt un." " I tell ec what, Pilch, — sooner'n let that coxcomb craw it over one o us a day longer', I'd be swung up at Shropton to-morrow." And now that Snipe was within a rod or two of them, at Hobbs' bidding, they stopped, when Harry stepping forward, and with hi.s arms spread, "A half word, Measter Snipe," said he, "thee been a tellin' a pack o'lies 'bout Jane Hawthorne, as I've a hcerd, and bo you the man as '11 stand to em now ?" "If some people," replied the more polished keeper, "would mind their own business. Master Hobbs, it would be as well, — would it not ?" " That bean't as I says," said Hobbs, stepping closer to his man. Snipe, suspecting that Harry was about to strike him, with a half blow or thrust, (hardly conscious, In his fear of so doing)pushed him from him. This was enough. With a smasher on his right eye more than sufficient to have buret it, followed by a second on 168 THE VILLAGE OF MERUOW. his teeth, down went the scouiulrol, stalwart as ho was, and jump- ing up, Pilch, to prevent miHchiof, havinic grasped llobb.s hy tlie waist, away through the hedge by the road.sido bolted the cur, howling as in agony, — his hand to his right eye. " That bo tho fust as he'vo tasted of Hurry llobbs, but I wun't say, Pilch, as it'll bo tho last," said Hariy, as he stopped to the roadside to rinse his hands — " no, nor the last by a long way, mobbe." On reaching his home (Ilobbs') Slop, who chanced to bo there, was taken at tirst quite aback at Harry's excitement, but his joy knew no bounds on hearing of Snipe's discomfiture, a joy by no means, it sooms, unshared in by Pilch. "T'wer worth a 'lection dinner, Slop, To see Ilobbs how he mill'd 'n." — "Lucky yotook I aff'n, Pilch. I knaws I should ha kilt'n. It was the noon, now, of tho day following on Snipe's imagined discoveries; still, entirely ignorant was Hawthorne respecting them. By daybreak ho had left homo on business at Shropton, where the same had detained him. Pilch was aware of this ; so, at Hobbs' suggestion, it was decided that Pilch should step over, between then and the evening, to John's, and acquaint him not only with the full of Snipe's villainy, but " tickarlarly," as Hobbs put it, with the pounding he had had. " But mind, — thee doan't, Pilch, tell'n how Hobbs crawed, and flapped his wings ; — Thee' 11 mind, now, Pilch, for John, I knaws, Bo 'ticklar 'bout sich things." Pilch assured him of his fidelity, — that John should be told of every tear that ho had shed. Pilch was on his guard to be clear of the house on saying this, as even Harry's play was not at all times desirable. In Ilobbs' apprcdiension, how much by many esteeming them- P' ' '■ tters might bo taken homo, to their advantage. It atred brow that Harry had his eye at tho time, may be sure, was not a littlo flattered with his mission. S( .^ oii , however, had already, unobserved, slipped from the house. No sooner had Sally Hobbs hoard of her husband's heroism, ihan, aware that "^onny was equally with John unacquainted with matters, the mptation to bo off, and "out wi' it aaltoher," was perfectly r- oss. THE VILLAGE OF MERKOW. 159 Jenny was ill, and abed, at the time of Sally's arrival. This was unfortunate, as Sally was by no moans guarded in her statemcntM, nor in her way of oxpresning thorn. Novor was exhibited in holier colours the simplicity of Jenny's imsuspicious innocence than in her reply to Mr.s. Hobbs' obtrusive, howsoever well intonlioned, eloquence. (( IIo must have been mistaken, Sal, Lot us not judge too hard ; • I don't know what the world expects, P'rhaps, I've been otf my guard. But, then, he must have known that John Would never, never lend A hand to any thing that had Dishonour for its end." Here Jenny ceased, — the bare idea Of guilt, of .shame so great Was more than mind could grapple with, In one so broken, of lato. This silence not a little rai.sod Good Mrs. Ilobbs' surprise, " I couldn* taake it so, not I, I'd hev the villain's eyes. A meddling mischief box ! as if, Lowing the thing as true, Long as folks doan't harm other folks Folks hev n't a right to do !— " " 'T were better, my good friend," said Jane, '' Not to repeat the tale ; " — " Loard bless thee, love, 't be blowed about Jes like a summer's gale." '* Don't take it in me, Sal, unkind, I beg, but — leave me now; — Talking distresses me, — your hand. Your hand, Sal, on m}' brow." " La sure it do !— Well Til straight aff, And let John Hawthorne know; " — "For heaven's sake don't; — Sally indeed. Indeed, you must n't so I " " Well, as her likes, a dear, — but, la, Of aal folks, I'd ha thought. As should ha' knowed, John wer the one, The very one as ought." 160 THE VILLAGE OF MERROW. "He shall know, Mrs. Hobbs, — he ought, And shall know, but I must, He'll think it's killing me, just say Something t'assuro him, just— — " *' Doan't trouble about that, a dear, If I lets Hawthorne know, — But, hark I — a dog I — yes, sure, — perhaps, Thee'd raither, Jane, I'd go? " This said, with barely a good-bye. Reddening, rushed Sally out : Jane guessed at once, but helpless all. What she was bent about. Soon a sharp voice, with Harry's name And Snipe's entwined, revealed The secret of her eagerness. Nothing was kept concealed. "I'd this— I'd that, wer I," the wind Wafted to Jenny's ear; Snipe had not long been*' kenneling, Had the sly fox been near. " Ah, Sally," to herself said Jane, " Had'st thou but half as good tV head as heart, few would surpass Thee in true womanhood." * * * Now the noise ceased ! — Sally had left. Leaving Jane sadly out; — Where, too, was John ! — John had held back,- '* What could he be about !" •' See, Jenny, what your uncle John," Said she, " is doing now ;" — " Standing quite still, mother, his hand," Like so^ upon his brow." " He isn't crying, surely, dear? — " '* Mother, he never cries : Thinking, perhaps, — both his hands, now, Are so upon his eyes." " Father of mercy," Jenny said, *' Oh, on his aching heart Lay Thy hush hand, and teach these lips This once to play their part." i THE VILLAGE OF MERROW. ■'' Wasn't that, mother, a low tap '?" — " I think not, darling, — no; — Peej) from the window," — " Yes ! — mother, What made him tap so low ?" John, as he entered, strujjgled hard To seem the self same one ; His calmness, more than common, s^joke Of an actor's part o'erdone. " I'm glad you're come, John," Jenny said, ^^ So glad, John, you are come ; — A stool, Jane, — no, child, — nearer. — there, — Try to feel, John, at home." '*'Am I not always so, then. Jane?" Said he, taking her hand, " Y-e-s, — but — you don't.— " -'yes, yes, I do. Too well, Jane, understand. Girl, this has hurtj^ou. — you look flushed, — " '• John, I can't bear tliat you Should so be — troubled, — some, perhaps. Think what he says is true !" Let the mean villain vent his worst, — Trust me, there's not a man Or woman will believe him, Jane, For all his villainy can," Jane looked into John's earnest face, And read assurance tliere ; Who could mistrust that guileless brow. That upright, artless air. '' Did Sally tell you about Hobbs," Said Jane, in steadier tone, " What would he not for ?/.s, poor lad, Don't leave him, long, alone !" "Well reckoned, Jane,"— which uttered, John, Wringing his sister's hand, Made for the door, — a wish in her, With liim was a command. Barely a hundred paces, now, Was Hawthorne on his way, When Pilch encountered him, with full Particulars of the fray. 161 162 THE VILLAGE OP MERROW. *' Hobbs hasn4 hurt him much, I trust/* Said John, *' twere hard to see My good friend get in trouble, Pilch, In standing up for me ?" " "Well, I wun't say, aal as I knaws. Not for a underd pound, I'd stood afore 'n in Snipe's shoes, Not for a single round. To see'n run, John ! — never hare Started clean atf away As Snipe, when I like stepped atwixt, Afeard to let em play." " "Well, well," said John, " we will but hope, If no great harm be done, Some good may come of it. such haps Hit home with every one." " 'T '11 teach'n John, to peep and pry, To slander honest folks; My Missus caals 'n " peeping Tom," No end, John to the jokes. But now I minds, he'll 'member Ilobbs Long as the villain lies ; Tom heerd jist now as he's like to lose The use o' one o' his eyes." " I'm sorry to hear that much. Pilch ; When next Hobbs crosses you, just say, There'll be a little meeting like, As usual, up my way." " Sartaintly, John, — Hobbs longs, I knaws. To tell ye ' bout the fight ;— Wun't scold'n, mind; — Snipe pushed'n fust, And that, you know, waun't right." He * * * * " How time remembers us 1" said John, As, homeward bent, he cast His eye across a field or two, Pondering on what had passed. THE VILLAGE OF MERROW. 16$ CHAPTEE VI. How time remembers us ! — Hawthorne was far from being the only one in Merrow who had been brought to an understanding of this. By an older, and as worthy a one had he been long since taught it, one to whom the writer of this is, also, not without his indebtedness. Indeed, it is impossible for him to look back to- the days he is speaking of without this man coming to the front, without something calculated to better and ennoble one again renewing itself on his lips. I have hardly, I am afraid, done him justice with my reader. With what vividness still recurs to mo a scene that I cannot say how often I have recalled. It will not be regarded, I trust, as an intrusion, if here introduced. Indeed^. I don't know that its introduction is not necessary to a thorough understanding of much that has to follow. It was within a day or two after Snipe's castigation, whilst lolling under an old elm, by a pathway leading from Merrow to Orton, that I was startled from my drowse by the tramp of some one approaching, and on looking up, who should I see, within fifty paces of me, but Isaac Styles. I looked hard at him. Time had handled him lightly. He was still beautiful. " Good day, sir," said he, on nearing me, — " pleasant goin', sir." "Very so." " You ha'n't a see'd, sir, you knows'n, I b'lieve, Harry Hobbs,. go by?" " I have not," I replied. '' Some fresh scoundrel for him to thrash ? " " I leaves that, sir, to One as knows better nor I ; — you've a heerd ov it then, sir?" " I have, " I said. " Ho be the first on em, sir, as hev got his dezarts, but he wun't be- the last, by a long way, or Isaac Styles doan't a see, sir, what, he've aal'ays a see'd. " What is that, pray ? " Why, sir, as God, sooner or later, brings every thing as us- do wrong home to we, though in a way aften as it bean't for tho^ like o' we to sarcumstand." " Eoom here for more than one, Mr. Styles," I said, pointing to* a dry spot. ilEI 164 THE VILLAGE OF MERROW. m h With as much as to say " that's kindly," the old man, on a root, .'a little removed, seated himself. " Yes, sir, there be some as doan't see it, and some as wun't see 'it, but I, sir, I aal'ays sees it. I be as sartain, sir, as God be in .yundc sky, that there wun't be a soul on em as hev had to do wi' a scndin' o' Giles Hawthorne to Bot'ny Bay but in the iipshot '11 ;git his dezarts. It waun't no boy's play, sir, with measter Snipe. Dr, Hearse hev a said as how he'll a lose the sight o' his right eye, i sartain 5 and, you see, sir, he wun't be a rush light's worth to the iSquire arterwards. — You see that, sir !" I confess that what the old man said went home to me. **' I've aal'ays a noticed, sir, that when down be a comin' God on ns, us fancies oursels so secure like. You see, sir, how the Squire and his lady be a lifted up ; — thaay thinks as how thaay can a do a' moast as thaay likes wi' folks. Thaay be fairly 'toxicated, sir." " You are looking, then, for their deserts, if I understand you ?" " I bean't a looking, sir, for nothing I on'y says as it wer jes 80 wi' Snipe. It be the nafral way, sir, as things rights theirselves." That Styles, in his hard and instructive experience, had picked aip, or rather, had had forced on him a pretty clear comprehen- sion of that moral chemistry, which not a page of the past, nor of 'what is passing but upholds, it was plain enough to any one. Would that, looking to the ocean, I could say that there were none beyond it who seem less to see, and less to understand it than did this poor, but clear headed, noble hearted man. Not, as now, should %ve then sliear of a mere half and half, procrastinated sympathy for such as Isaac Styles being, ever and anon, lauded through the land as a vthing, on the part of some folks, miraculously Christian. Nor, as mow, would be found even the very highest in the realm, when- • ever humanity or justice has a word to say in behalf of its poorest ;and least privileged sons, pandering, for the sake of a laugh's ■compliment, to the weakness and selfishness of a party whom their better natures might have long since taught them to despise. Far nobler in them would it be to remember, and with respect, what a great departed one has said of " unseasonable pleasantry in the venerable presence of misery." To return, " By-the-bye Mr. Styles," I said, (I was curious on the point) " has the man Diggs •ever again turned up in the neighbourhood, the man, who, a few y^ars back (for time had been running on) returned from .%dney?" *' He hev never been here since, sir," he replied," but he towld THE VILLAGE OF MERKOW. 165- a root, un't seo d be in ) do wi' ishot 'II ' Snipe. 1 to the God on ! Squire !an a do ed, sir." lyou?" wer jes rselves." I picked prehen- t, nor of Would beyond lis poor, we then such as nd as a Nor, as ,, when- poorest laugh's whom despise, respect, intry in )ye Mr. n Biggs 0, a few id from le towld I, when I see'd 'n last, as he'd be over, a some day, when us least 'spected un." " It was not on the Squire's ground," I further inquired, *' that the affair occurred in which Diggs was concerned ?" "No, sir, on the Baron's;— but the Squire, thaay says, had. muore to do in gittin' un sent away than the Baron." " That was before the Squire's marriage?" " Sartain. And us aal thinks as hc'vo a been a harder man from' ' the day as his lady fust come among us, though I aal'ays saya there be one in Merrow as is wus nor she. I means, sir, the passon's sister, — Miss Bella, as us caals her." " 1 thought," said I, " that by some one she was regarded quite; as a patroness ?" " I never been nighst her o' late, sir, and, muore'n that, I never/ means to." "How is that?" I inquired. " "Well, sir, if it waun't for the troublin' o' you, I shoulfl- has liked to hev let you, sir, know 'zactly how it wer." " Pray, let us have it, Mr. Styles," I said. " Well, sir," — Here the old man paused, taking off his hat, and! with his handkerchief wiping his head; — "gittin* warmish, sir.'" " Take your time, Mr. Styles." "Well, sir, I needn't a tell you as some folks in Merrow heve; pooty often a tough job of it to meake both ends meet." " Just so." " Specially, the owld uns. Now, sir, in sich like times, by way o^' meakin' up for a short week, I goes about 'mong the varmors, — you, mebbe, hev a see'd I, sir, — and, I gits hold ov a few vowls^, which, when missus and I hev a dressed cm, I peddles 'mong the^ gentry. I goes as ftir as Shropton wi' em. The moast as us moakes. on em be three pennies a head, lettin' alone the feathers ; and,, in season like, I, at times, taakes round wi' em a few^croesses — waater creesses. Now, one evening, sir, I wer over at the passon's wi' a couple o' vowls, — a pootty couple thaay wer, sir, — I got em at Measter Swain's, — you knows 'n, sir — over agin the mill stream. — Well, sir, as I says, I wer over attho passon's, it wer a Monday, wi' a couple o' vowls, and I wer a waitin' in the back kitchen till the owld crust braught I the money, jist four and six. As soon as her come in, " Measter Stylos," says she, " I thinks as you charges pooty high for your vowls." mmmm 166 THE VILLAGE OF MERROW. i " Doan'tl, ma'am," says I, " aal'ays bring you very nice vowls ?" " I caan't a say as you d&an't," says she. " Aal as us meakes on em, ma'am, " says I, " be sixpence a couple, which I thinks, ma'am, says I, be little enough. — I'd a •ought to ha towld her o' the feathers." •' Well, sir, her didn't,arter that, say nothing muore o' the vowls ; but her taakes a chair, and clappin' herself down right by the iside o' I, " you be a gittin," says she, " pooty owld, Measter Styles." " No fault o' mine, ma'am," says I. " I (loan't a say as it be," says she, "but as years increases, do you, IM caster Styles, if so be I may meake so bold, ever think o' 3' our hitter end?" " Now, sir, a' times, as you, mebbe, hev a noticed, I be a little deef, specially wi' a wind from the East, and it bean't aal'ays, when along wi' i )lks as taalks as she do, as I sarcumstands em 'tirely, — tickalarly, sir, when thaay taalks pious. Aal as I could a catch ;for sartain wer asummat like creesses, (increases) so, I says to iher, says I, " Did you say, ma'am, as you wanted some waater •creesses ?" " I 'm not a taalkin, " says she, " Measter Styles, 'bout waater ♦creesses, but about your latter end. Do you, I say, as years -increases, ever think of your latter end ?" *' As soon as I see'd what her wer a drivin' at, I jist picks up ;my beasket, and, athout a word, I waalks clean out o' the pleace, ;and I never been nighst the owld crust since. It waun't, I says, sir, for the like o' she to taalk to I in that fashion. I doan't a see, sir, as her hev to do wi' my latter end a bit muore'n I wi' hern. That be a thing, sir, I says, as lies 'twixt I and somebody else. — She be a staale owld crust, sir." I was, certainly, any thing but inclined, from what I had heard of the lady, to dispute it; and, to this day, I have considered my- .eelf as Mr. Styles' debtor in the still greater zest with which I ;have since partaken of what I have always been more than par- tial to. Water-cresses, indeed, have never been, since, upon my ta- ble, but, seated at the same, with his finely chiseled face and kindly looks, has been Isaac Styles. What would I not of this 'world's surrender to again hear the same story, from the same lips, •under the same tree. The old elm, I am told, is still there, — still in leaf, — still green. Alas, for the yellow leaves that can never 4be green any more ! THE VILLAGE OF MERROW. 167 CHAPTER YII. Hawthorne was never further from being in the wrong than when he said to Jenny, "Girl, this has hurt you." — Hurt her had it, indeed ; and wounded to the core was he to be compelled to observe it. Jennj'- was often puzzled to explain to herself why «he would so start at his accustomed tap, and dull the eye, that, at times, could not have detected on her cheek a shade of crim- son, as he entered. Every one was in arms against Sally for hav- ing said to her a word. Styles, in i)articular, fretted at it. " Pity," «aid he to Hobbs, on the third day afterwards, in Pilch's cottage, " Pity Sal hadn't a spoke to I, I'd a towld her as't woo'd'en do ; 'T waun't for herself as Jonn}- cared, 'T wer John as touched her so." *'Sure, Sal wer wrong, — her didn't heed How Jane oold laake it on ; Wooll say no more, for, sartain, Styles, 'T weraal in kindness done. " This it was impossible to deny, so. it was not an age before Sally was again able to show her face, though Styles was, at times, still lieard to say that '• a wus thing for the poor wench could ha hardly been. " I was at the time quite of the same opinion, but I iiave looked at it differently since. CHAPTER Yin. Not idly, it seems, had Styles declaimed under the old elm. His triumph was at hand. In the spring of the year following upon that in the lull of which he and I had by chance, if so it was, found ourselves to- gether, prospecting under the same tree, I had been invited by a neighbour in Lavent, a young farmer, to make one of two in an •afternoon drive to Shropton. An early luncheon had stood us in the stead of dinner, so that the sun was barely at its highest as we drew upon Merrow. More than usually vociferous, as heard at a distance, was the Vicar's custodian. As we neared the manse, this was explained. Two men, one of them was Pilch, running their hardest, with their hats off, encountered us on this side of it. Their excitement was 108 THE VILLAGE OF MERKOW. I m such that our nag shied at them, and, within a hundred yards of the Vicars gate, two more men passed us, paying, in their haste, no attention to an effort by one of us to speali with them. *• What can be up ?" I said. "Nothing at all," replied my companion; " these simple clouta take a scare at any thing." The tone in which this was said put me on my guard. Nothing further, however, that was unusual presented itself as we passed through Merrow. The aspect of comfort and refine- ment which the vicarage wore, contrasting so exceptionally, I thought, with the meanness and poverty of the cottages about it, was neither new in itself, nor in the reflections which it again forced on me. I observed, however, when abreast of Styles' cot- tage, that the old man, as in haste, made his appearance, when, if ever eye imaged a wish for a word or two, did his on encountering mine. We were stepping it out, at the time, my companion's business being urgent, so I decided to pass on ; but, on reaching Shropton, it was clear that something unusual was afloat. Tho chief constable, with a subaltern, was leaving the town, by the- Merrow road, at a [pace absolutely dangerous, and into a gig, standing at his gate, with quite a precipitancy, jumped tho coroner and his servant, driving oft in the same direction. Then, in full swing, rounding the corner of a street, came Dr. Hearse, mounted, while, on foot, numbers of both sexes were wending their way, evidpi^tly for Merrow, as fust as they wore able ; and on return- ing, I observed, before reaching it, that about Hawthorne's cottage quite a crowd, in the wildest excitement, had gathered. This was more than curiosity could stand. I should immediately have requested my companion to put me down, had I not, in the dis- tance, as if the old man had been watching for me, espied Isaac Styles in the little garden patch in front of his cottage. We were soon up with it, when bidding my friend not to wait for me, and springing from the gig to the road, in a second more, Styles and I were in his garden together. '* Heerd, sir! — hev ee heerd, sir?" said he, with an excitement quite extraordinary. " I have heard nothing, Mr. Styles," I said, begging him to bo less excited. "Oh, sir, come in,^-come in ; — I towld ee, sir, how it'd a bel" Here the old man burst into tears. " Matty, a stool for the gen'loman." THE VILLAGE OF MERROW. le^* I -was not, however, in a mood for sitting, nor, seemingly, was my friend. " lie Haid, sir, as he'd be over, a some day, when us least 'spected un. You mind, sir, as Styles towld ee so, when us were alone unner the tree ; but who'd a ever a thaught, sir, how it wer to tarn out!" Here the old man again took to weeping. " You mind, sir, it wer in the very path as he stopped Harry in ! — You see that, sir !" To this hour, are his wiry fingers on m}'- shoulder. "Who stopped him," I said, "and what was in the path? — you forget, my good sir, that I have heard nothing. — Explain a little." " Thee hev n't a heerd, sir, as how Biggs be a found, wi' 's brains shot out o' s head, in the path as the S(xuirc for years hev been a try in' to stop up!" The stool that Matty had brought mo was now of real service. " Shot dead, do you say ?" " Sartain ! — the Squire'll never no more witness agin un, sir."^ " Why, who could have done it?" I said. "That be jist it, sir; — it waun't hisself ! " " Is any one, more than another, suspected?" " I hev n't a heerd none say, sir, — but folks caant a help their thoughts. — Ho wer a commin' a purpose to see Matty and I, sir. A summat for she wer a found on un, a tucked in his breast !" Here the old man again burst into tears. " You see'd, sir, a crowd, as you come by, at John's ; — thaay've- a carried un in there, and the crowner hev been sent for to hold a 'quest on un. Thaay wanted as I should be one on em, but Isaac Styles, sir, I says, hev little enough o' life left in him as it be ; — no call, sir, for muore'n one crowner's 'quest in a day ; — I hev n't a looked at un, and I doan't a mean to. At the time o' his trial sir, the Squire tried his wust agin un; it didn't 'cur to'n then, as how, some day, Diggs'd be a found, wi' his brains a blowed out, on his own grounds. — You see that, sir! (His hand again on my shoulder.) And it didn't 'cur to un neither, sir, as, when the body 'd be a found, the same Judge as handled Giles 'd be a taakin' hi» tarn agin at Shropton ! It do, I says, sir, seem odd, spoasin' the Squire done it, — I on'y says, mind, sir, spoasin', as the very samo Judge what tried Giles should a tarn out to be the very un as wer to try he /" I I itii 170 THE VILLAGE OF MERROW. "But, my good sir," I said, "your talk would seom to show that you suspected the Squire. Are you justified, at present, in doing so ?" "I doan't a say, sir, as nobody done it. Aal as I says, sir, be, ns the body be a found in the very path as the Squire, for years, liev been a tryin' to stop up. Whatsunidever I thinks furder I keeps to myself." " Not altogether so," I thought. Here a constable, (and as well, perhaps,) in haste, broke in upon us, putting a folded paper into Styles' hand. Styles paled a little, and his hand, as might well be, shook as ho took it. After a rigid scrutiny of it, " 'T be aal right, sir," he said, " thaay 've a 'rested I to 'donterfy to the copse. — Spoase, sir, as us '11 hev to go ; — didn't a want to ha' see'd un, but crowner's Vjuest laaw be the strictest a goin'. — Thee'U be gwine, too, sir?" Thinking that ray presence could at least do no harm, I assented. It took but a moment or two for Styles to prei)are himself, when a few moments more brought us to the crowd about Hawthorne's. ** Stand back there, " said a strong voice, easily recognizable as Hobbs', "how be thoowld man to git along — keep back I tell ee. " With such like injunctions, enforced with accompaniments by no means uncommon with Harry, it was not long before Styles, notwithstanding the crowd, was jostled into the prpsence of the coroner, Mr. William Worm ley. The coroner regarded him respectfully. He could hardly have done otherwise. There was quite a stir in the room on his entry, "Now," seemed upon every face, " aal '11 go right." Being duly sworn, Stylos deposed that ho could, " 'denterfy to the copse " as that of James T)iggs, formerly of Orton. " On what, my good man, " said Mr. Wormley, "do you mainly j-ely?" " I doant, sir, rely on nothing, I on'y 'dentcrfies to the copse." " But you must, surely, have some reason, or reasons for so do- ing, some particular" — " 'Xcuse I, sir, but, cordin' to the statue, us beant a bounden to nothing whatsumdover but to 'denterfy to the copse." Here, Styles, ?that he might, as it seemed, show that he had no wish to shirk any part of his bounden duty, and that the law, as he had always held it, and his father before him had held it, might be carried out in its entirety, and with a solemnity becoming the occasion, stepped up to the body, and laying his right hand on its left shoulder, looking THE VILLAGE OF MERROW. 171 lound liim. at tho same time, with an eye inviting attention, in as clear and steady a voice as he could command, said : " In tho name o' tho king I 'dentorties to the copne." — A pin might have been heard to fall ! The coroner yielded, and, as* I thought, wisely ; for nothing more, rely on it, was, on that occasion, to l»u had of Isaac Styles. I staid, as did Stylos, till tho inquest was over. It was fully fthown hy numbers from Ortoii that tiie body before them was that of JamoH Diggs ; and '' Wilful murder by some poison or per- sons unknown " was tho unanimous verdict. Ap])onded to it was an expressed hope that Government would be notiiing l>ackvvard in ottering a reward in furtherance of the ends of justice. Mr. Wormley asnured them that he fully aj^proved of the re- commendation and that he would do his best in forwarding it accordingly. " Thee'U not forgit, sir," said Stj-los, on parting, but in a tone sadly sobered, " what I minded ee ov as to wheer the body wer a found." I promised him that I would give it my fullest consideration, and never more faithfully did I keep my word. How many times I stopped on my tramp homeward, — whether I Avalked, or ran, — who I met, or didn't meet, would all be questions difiicult to answer, so completely possessed was I by what I had just heard and seen. That the Squire was one of the least likely to have done such a deed it could hardly be denied. What had he to gain by it. It was not for poaching upon lus grounds that Diggs had been trans- ported, and, if otherwise, surely, his punishment had been ample, more than sufficient, in its consequences so terrible to him, to leave no room for further vindictiveness. Kapidly, however, upon this suggested itself something that interfered not a little with such a conclusion. Styles, and Hobbs had, on so many occasions, and in terms so unguarded, prognosticated" that no good would eventually befall the Squire for his doings to Giles, that it had reached the ears of Snipe, who. forthwith, reported it to his master. Now, it was whisj)ered that the Squire, apprehen- sive of mischief, had, from that day, been in the habit, at least when alone, of carrying ai-ms. Could a quarrel have arisen between Diggs and the Squire, and the latter, partly in anger, and partly i n fear ! Diggs had clearly been on the disputed pathway, and the pride 172 THE VILLAGE OF MEIiROW. of the Squire was said to bo in advance of his coui-ago. But couTd a miui, in his sane senses, with, a])paroiitly, everything upon eartli to make haj>py such as was ho, bo rash enough, foolish enough to jeopardize his very life, in a heated moment, on a mere question of trespass ? — lmiK)ssible. — Some one, knowing Biggs to be not without means, and suspecting that he carried it about with him, had wayhiid him. But then started the confounding fact that robbery had not boon added to murder. His purse, and watch had both been found on Inru. Robbery, then, had not been con- templated, unless I was to suppose that the assassin had been dis- turbed at his work. The Squire had been seen to leave his gate at about an hour before a report of tiro arms was heard in the direction of the murder. This M'as early in the morning, before breakfast. The Squire, as a spurt,>nKui, was an early riser. It was further rumoured that none of his servants had observed him to reenter the Hall. All this, however, might have easily happened at any time, as might, also, his breakfasting, upon that morning, some- what later than usual. Dr. Hearf^^e had stated, at the inquest, that the murderer must have been close to his victim, on firing. This, I thought, looked like a quarrel, ijariicularly as the shot had been delivered in front. What, however, most forcibly struck me was, that the Squire, a» I was informed by jMrs. Manly, had in no way, concerned himself respecting the atlair. Indeed, since the morning, he had been seen by no one, saving his domestics. This I thought, was de- cidedly against him. As to the remark by his wife (a mere rumour one would hope) that "Providence had evidently - taken the fellow in hand," it was too shocking to be of much account. The Yicar, too, as it reached me from the same quarter, was particularly taciturn, and his sister had contented herself with saying that " some people seemed to be born to be always in trouble." To Turnpike Tom, as it transpired at the inquest, had fallen the distinction of having first met with the body. Tom was, constitu- tionally, none of the bravest, so, no one will be surprised to hear that, even on my leaving Morrow at a late hour, his complexion in no way belied Mrs. Hobbs' reiterated statement, that " when us fust a see'd un he wer jes for aal the world like a sheet !" THE VILLAOE OF MKRROW. 173 in it was Of Master Snipo I liavo Raid notlujig. as this gontlomnn had, of ?luto, maecution of him. The Squire threatened him, — Diggs dared him, — then a blow from the Squire, — a return one from Diggs, — a scuffle, — and then — a shot from the Squire! The Squire was open enough, and off his guard enough to con- fess that he had threatened Diggs, on his refusal to retui-n. This, in the opinion of every one, was a dark point against him, and showed, as particularly dwelt on by Mr. Stretch, a leading attorney in Shropton, the folly of the Squire's persistence in declining professional aid. The Vicar, too, it was rumoured, had said that his confession, to say the least of it, was precipitate, which was supplemented by his sister with an emphatic doubt of " the man's sanity." How contrastingly had Christianity spoken, — " The poor fellow, " said Hawthorne, in the presence of Styles and others, " has lost, I am afraid, all wish to live." On this from John, Styles, according to Harry, stepped up to him, and drawing him affectionately towards him, kissed him upon both cheeks. The Squire, by no means wanting in shrewdness, was not with- out good reason both for the admission he had made, and his abstinence from, legal advice. He was aware that the evidence against him would be overwhelming, and that his only chance lay in the possibility of a recommendation to mercy. His con- cealment of nothing, he calculated, would tell in his favour, more particularly wi th a Judge who, he flattered himself, would at least not be biassed against him. Nothing added so much to the excitement, more especially in the neighbourhood where all particulars respecting Giles Haw- thorne were so well remembered, as that not only was the trial ■of the Squire immediately at hand, but, as it then ruled in the THE VILLAGE OF MERROW. ) hours fd. " I ' This le oven- , he ex- itleman , -where, atred of >xamplo bis own is steps, ition of -then a cufde, — 1 to con- i. This, im, and attorney leclining laid that ich was lO man's -" The les and lis from [drawing seks. ot with- and his ividonce chance is con- ir, more at least jially in js Haw- the trial in the 181 disposition of the judges, that the same Justice Dooill who had tried and condemned Giles was, in his rightful turn, again to sit in judgment at Shropton, and on the man who, if not in the law's eye, had at least in God's, committed a crime, in his persecution of the Hawthornes, greater by far than the one for which he was now about to be tried. There were few in the neighbourhood with whom this had no weight. Styles' tongue seemed never to tire on it. " Y^u see, sir," said he, (we were standing at the time by his garden gate) " it be jist for aal the world as it wer wi' a people as thaay caals the Rumuns, as lived afore and arter Christ's com- ing, — you may a heerd on em, sir, — moartal cruel folks, — used to meake them as thaay 'd a upperhanded fight, for mere pleasurin', not on'y wi' theirselves, but with wild beasties, — lions and them like. Now, you mind, sir, how thaay sandwiches, as the Rumuns caaled em, come down on em, at last, like the locusts in Scriptur, and arter killin' every blessed soul on em, tooked away wi' em in big sacks aal as thaay could a lay hands on ; and thaay says, sir, them as knows the ticklars, that, for a good seven underd year f. terwards, there waun't nothing whatsumdever to be see'd but tumbled down houses, and wild beasties. You see, sir, it come^ home to em, and so, I says, sir, it hev come home to the Squire,, and there bo a sight muore on em, sir, you knows who I mean,, as it'll come home to some day. It wun't be with wild beasties,, mebbe, as thaay '11 hev to fight, but I wun't say as to theirselves,, — no, I wun't say, sir, a bit about that.'' I have been more disposed to believe in the gift of prophecy,, from my remembrance of many things said to me, at a time- when it was less safe to say them, by this fine old fellow than from^ all that I have since either read or heard from the ablest divines- It was, also, a point prolific of observation that the Vicar was,, still, superlatively taciturn, and that not the merest allusion to so- dominant an event could be surmised from either of his texts on the ensuing Sunday. It was still further noticed, and not a little commented on, that the Judge seemed to make it a point, as some were bold enough to say, to leave no room for an interview with any one in Merrow previous to the trial. He was, of course, through the press, fully cognizant of what was in store for him, and it would be difficult to suppose that he regarded it with indif- ference. Whether this avoidance of him by the Judge was agree- able, or otherwise, to the Vicar it would be hard to say. His de- meanour, however, since the Squire's confession, was bo subdued ,1 182 THE VILLAGE OF MERKOW. and reserved, that, according to Slop, "One liad a tlmught, as didn't a know the rights on't, as hisself wer to be tried, too." His sister, it was also remarked, was seldom abroad, and had never, since the Squire's arrest, ventured through the village. One of her latest utterances, according to her waiting maid, Mercy, was, that " there was really, Horatius, now-a-days, no trusting the best.'' In Mrs. S 's stampede she had, at least, met with something nay, though it was not for her ladyship, it seems, to h& the bearer of it. PART FIFTH. CHAPTER I. Tho day had now all but arrived, twenty-four hours alone inter- vened, when from out the same walls within which was once in- cwcerated his still too well remembered victim, would be brought, and exposed to the world's gaze, the, till lately, proudest squire of the district;— ".0 not a moment have we to lose in bringing to the front whatsoever of significance remains to be spoken of. It is hardly necessary to say that in Merrow and its vicinity, no one, with the exception of the Slacks and Squanders, believed in a particle of Snipe's slanderous utterances respect- ing Jenny Hawthorne and her protector. It had however reached Jenny, through Sally Hobbs' often unguarded tongue, that such was far from being the case in localities more remote, whore her acknowledged innocence and integrity were not at hand to at once stamp out a lie. This had told terribly on her, she was i?ecretly withering under it. Not a word, however, had she whis- pered of it to Hawthorne, and she strictly forbade Sally to do so. Mrs. Squander galled by the reflections which, in spite of her husband's position and influence, the death of Giles had every- where brought on them, lost no opportunity of adding fuel to the fire, and although this was borne, for a while, by Jenny with any thing but a vindictive feeling, the case was not a little altered under the continued revelation of Sally Hobbs' incautious repeater. Of this Sally was determined to take advantage. — It was a promi- nent feature in Mrs Hobbs' philosophy that there was nothing like ^' speaking one's mind," — that Jenny " 'd be twice the 'ooman if her 'd on'y pluck up her sperrit, and hev it out wi' em," and with an eye to this, she had concocted a plan, to tho which, on the day previous to the Squire's trial, Jenny reluctantly gave her consent. It was, that Jenny should present herself in court, and denounce the murderer of her husband, and the traducer of herself and benefactor, for Sally had artfully entwined any chance utterance of the Squire's with the worst of her ladyship's. Jenny for a while had firmly refused ; John, she know, would be opposed to it, but, as the idea became more familiar, Sally, again and again, 184 THE VILLAGE OF MERROW. pressing- her, her reluctance grew less, till, at length, not to bo- tiring, Sally Hobbs carried the day. " But how am I to get there, Sally, without his knowledge ? — and doesn't it look like deceiving him I" " Doan't her trouble about that, a dear ; John Ml be over at th© court betimes, so as I, Jane, can easily, unbeknown, step over for my biggest, as can stay wi' thee, whiles I run over to Shropton to* jes see how things be a goin'. Many's a time, Jane, hev Sal been there and back in loss 'n an hour; and then, Jane, thee can away, jes so as to feace un as he'll be a beggin' like to be a let aflf; — thee'U mind, Jane, to get close to un and doan't a spearo un, Jane ; — A vagabones ! — for the last eight year hev he and that sarpent Snipe been a schemin' to git my Harry into trouble I" John would, indeed, have objected to so womanly a scheme. How Jenny, with legs scarcely able to carry her as far as Haw- thorne's, was to reach Shropton, had never entered into Sally's calculation, and, had it done so, she would have been sure to have- fallen back upon the sperrit of her sex^ which she, at least, had never found to be wanting, whatever the emergency. CHAPTER II. The spring was already in advance, and the sun had again risen. It was not a morning of promise, not such a one as May had rea- son to be proud of. The day previous had been, for the season, close and sultry. Less the wonder that a sky darkened and threatening was now showing to the East. Thousands were watching it anxiously, none more so than Sally and her friend. Still, it is no exaggeration to say, that, on that day, both in Mor- row and Orton, all work was at a stand, and, long before the accus- tomed hours of business, the entire neighbourhood of Shropton was, by my own sex at least, all but deserted. Precisely as the old court house clock was chiming ten, in & court crowded to suffocation, took the learned judge his seat. The Squire's was not, as expected, the first case called for. It was rumoured that the alteration had been made by the Judge, after his arrival on the previous evening. It was also upon every lip, that the Squire intended to plead guilty, a disappointment, seemingly, to no few. THE VILLAGE OF MERKOW. 186 And now, the first case, one of minor importance, having been disposed of, behold, in a few minutes more, standing at the same bar where, but six years back, had stood Giles Hawthorne, with his shackled wrists, and bandaged temples, his once proud persecutor, the Squire of Thornley Hall. — What a sight I — What a revelation ! The judge was evidently moved, and when, to the solemn question of, ** guilty or not guilty ?" the Squire, in a dis- tinct, though subdued tone, responded " Guilty, my lord," h© looked more than astounded. He begged of him to reconsider hia plea, inquiring, at the same time, if he was aware of the position in which it placed him. *• Perfectly, my lord." " Have you no counsel, — no one to ?" " None, my lord, nor do I desire any. This was said without the least show of either indifference or boldness. It was apparent to all that the Squire fearfully felt his position, and an attentive observer might have detected some- thing more than was said in his words, as the eye of the speaker singled out the Judge's on their utterance ; nor were there want- ing, among those present, some who found it impossible to doubt that the Judge's reflections, on recalling, as he certainly at that moment must have done, the agreeable hours which he had more than once spent with the Squire and his lady, could have been 'icixher the pleasantest, nor the least reproachful. It was finally agreed that a barrister present, one acquainted with the leading features of the case, be allowed to address the jury, in behalf of the accused. It was observed by those nearest to him that the Squire, on his apologist urging that the return blow by Diggs be regarded as an extenuating circumstance, covered his face with his hands, and leaned forward in the dock. The Judge seemed stung. " Muore'n he can feace, Harry," said Styles. All that the ablest counsel in court could suggest was urged in defence, but the jury stolidly observed how, from the first, the as- tute pleader cautiously avoided the least allusion to the threat con- fessed to by the Squire. This arrangement in the culprit's behalf was a fortunate on© for Sally. Her scheme would have, otherwise, been completely balked. She found, on her arrival at the court house, that not a half moment was to be lost, and quicker, perhaps, than she had M I ; If \m !!) ill IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) WJ.> o !.0 I.I ^ 11 = IIIIIM III 2.2 II 2.0 1.6 V] % ^. ^? ^-^ /^ :'-o^ Photographic Sciences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 (716) 872-4503 fi'x W^ ^. 6^ 186 THE VILLAGE OF MERROW. / «ver before done the distance, made she her way back, scamper- ing over hedges and ditches, partly with a view to escape recog- nition. " Jane I Jaae !" it was now, " quick, quick ! — thee hev' nt a mo- ment to lose. Thee'll keep to the fields, mind — and doan't her be afeard." Here Sally drew from her pocket a something with the which Jenny was persuaded to wet her lips. We will withhold its name, lest some, who may have done fewer hard days' works than had Sally, may be tempted to reflect on her. Thus fortified, started Jenny, trembling more from an appre- hension of being too late than from aught else, for Jenny had, in the meantime, nursed herself to a resolution that surprised even her redoubtable friend. Sally's injunction to keep to the fields was in good part. By the road she would have encountered Haw- thorne, whose anxiety respecting his sister had mastered his curi- osity to see the trial out. He had kept to the highroad that he might drop in at his home on the way to Jenny's, The morn, as I have already said, was not one of promise, nor did the day's aspect improve as it advanced. Over the old court- house, on A rise in the distance, hung a drapery of doubtful im- port. Jenny kept her eye on it as a guide, hastening her utter- most, as worse and worse promised the day ; Yea, the long pent-up, darkened sky. As the day crept on, began To augur of a coming strife. Unfit for beast or man. The vind, let loose, with fearful blasts Swept by the aged pile ; — The big elms bent, — the tower bell toll- ing drearily the while. But for the threatening sky, which had quickened Jenny, she would have been too late for her object. Styles, be assured, had something to say on it. — She t. as hardly at the court house when the Squire was pleading his utmost for mercy, the jury, notwith- standing all that the Squire's counsel had urged in his behalf, to 8ay*nothing of the Judge's leaning towards him in his address to them, agreeing upon a verdict of— guilty,— and with no recom- mendation to mercy. The Squire's cry for it, as the Judge rose, floated above the hum of the crowd, which, in its closeness at the court's entrance, seemed to bar all further ingress. Jane could THE VILLAGE OF MERROW. 187 distinctly hear him. "What was she to do I She had all but ac- complished her purpose, — and still to be baffled I " Oh, let me pass, — I must, — I will, — For heaven's sake let me pass ; — Hark! hark I — for ^^ mercy T — there, again ! — And there ! — alas I alas !" *' A maniac ! — mad woman !" ran, Like wild fire, through the crowd ; All was excitement, — " Silence, — Order," Called out the clerk aloud. Struck with amaze, the crowd fell back, Jane wildly pressing through, Squander still crying " Mercy, my lord, — My lord,, have mercy, do." Who could the mad intruder be ! — All eyes were on the strain, — When Hobbs themyst'ry solved, at once. With " Dang'd if there bean't Jane !" " Let the wench pass, — let the wench pass," A hundred voices cried, And many a stout arm lent its aid Upon the weaker side. "Loard help her. Styles," said Hobbs, — " Sally Towld 1, as 'twer to day. Her 'd hardly left her strength enough, Poor thing, to kneel, and pray." il J* Jane had now reached where from the dock Squander could mark her plain ; — With close-clasped hands, his arms outstretched, " Mercy " was still his strain. " Mercy ! — for mercy /—merciless. No mercy shalt thou have, God's hand shall be against thee, man. In all thou darst to crave. Look on these hairs thus early greyed. Look at my famished face. This care-streaked brow where quiet sat Till anguish filled its place ! Look in my heart thou never canst, Nor lift an eye to heaven, Unless to meet, — " " Oh, no, no, no, Still say, still b&j— forgiven. " R r 188 THE VILLAGE OP MERROW. " Silence, — we can't allow this scene, " Uprose the Judge in ire, " I must commit you, if you don't Immediately retire." Waste words — a lialf one more, and Jane Had been for aye committed. Her heart's frail cage have oped its door, And its angel bird hare flitted I Her last words uttered, broken quite, Jane trembled to the ground. And, grasping at some aid at hand, Looked piteously around. "When, as if Heaven, till then content T' have played a silent part. Now would be heard, a thundercrash That shrunk at least one heart, Burst overhead, — ablaze, the sky Peal upon peal sent forth ; Th' entire artillery of heaven Seemed bent upon the earth. Needed no call to order, now, None but therein could hear The one great chartered One whose voice Claims audience everywhere. Flash upon flash, the lightning leaped Across the serried hall ; Th© big old building shook, as if Still further to appal. The jury were aghast, — strange looks Cast they at one another ! The sons of the sly craft surveyed. In silence, each the other. That at the very moment when The Squire, with piteous prayer, Pleaded for mercy, that just then Something should bring Jane there ! That then, just then th' imperial voice Of Heaven, in thunder's tone, Should break upon the scene, as if Heaven sanctioned what was done I THE VILLAGE OF MERKOW. Hobbs but expressed, in rougher way, What seemed all hearts to enter, ' That no mere chance had brought Jane there That " God hisself hev sent her I" ' Not the high Judge held out,— for once An all resistless hand ' Had grappled with his haughtiness, And brought him to a stand. " Hold constable," he cried, " quick, quick- Look to the woman, — pray, Will no one tell the woman there I don't mean what I say !" * " Tell her he bean't in arnest. Styles," Said Hobbs, "or, else, I wooll,"— " Us daresn't, Hobbs,— the laaw be strict Plump plain agin the rule." ' " Well^ thee knaws best,— but Loard ! poor thine What could ha' braught her here, Her '11 hardly, sure, fetch home agin—" " Jist what, my friend, I fear. But hark, the coonstable !"— " My lord Had we but freer air — " ' "Help me to rise," said Jane,— "I'll then— I'm willing — anywhere." '*Deal gently with her, officer, (Still kindlier in tone) And see she doesn't leave the court. At any cost, alone. Come hither, constable,— I've crossed Somewhere, methinks, before. This maniac woman, — question her, Somewhere, I'm pretty sure." Scarcely this said, when one at hand No stranger to the place, Thrust a loose paper on the Judge, All eagerness in face. Lo ! as the lightning, in his looks. Some startling intimation, " The wife,— Azs wife !"— at once he rose, Trembling with expectation. 189 9" * This will remind at least some of my readers of an erriamot.-^., k„ *u ■me*n to hang her." ^ 7ou,~WiU nobodj tell her tUt I doa't 190 THE VILLAGE OF MERROW. . " Stay, woman, stay," — Jane turned her eyes Full on the Judge's gaze ; — Thestripof paper, fluttering fell, — " 'Tis she !— oh, God—thy ways /" By all but One this was unheard, Not so the whitened cheek, The quivering lip, the shrinking eye, The tongue that could not speak. These were all heard, and in a voice Tone tempered from on high ; Conscience will out, pale lips will speak, In spite of the tongue's tie. Now, as the deepening drama worked, Mazed and more mazed were all ; So stilled, subdued the scene, a tear Had startled in its fall. When lo ! the heavens again broke forth, Again the blinding flash, And down the drifting deluge came, Amid the thunder's crash ! " The Loard preserve us I" whispered Tom, " I wishes I waun't here, — Be summat, Styles, a goin' on Muore'n us knows, I fear." " Keep up yer heart, lad, nothing heed, — My word for't, Tom, to day; 'T waun't sich as you and I as sent Poor Giles to Bot'ny Bay." Straightway a muttering murmur ran Round and about the hall. What could the mystic paper mean, Why should it so appal I Then to the Judge all eyes returned, Silent, and fixed he sate, Lost in the consciousness of what, He knew, had sealed his fate. Jane eyed him with forgiving grace ; Too well he understood. And felt the withering reproof. In on© so crushed, so good. THE VILLAGE OP MERKOW. The Squire looked up and round,— some chance, Perhaps, had oped for him, — His eye a moment brighter gleamed, And then again grew dim I Many, from apprehension, now Fain for the door had fought ; Nothing seemed next impossible, Jane was not there ibr nought I All were astounded at a scene No mimic actors played ; The gown-men, ever on their guard, Were equally betrayed. Nor least the country people marked His lordship's shattered mien, ' And many a homethrust thing escaped Upon the passing scene. " I bean't no scholard. Styles," said Hobbs, " But I be sad mistaken, If zummat aan't on that man's mind, He do look moartal shaken." " Did'st mark the strip o' paper, lad. What slipped the Judge's hand ? " " I did, my friend,— 't be, jist, Styles, what I doan't quite sarcumstand." " Bad news from home, mebbe, or p'rhaps A sort o' ShirrifTs writ, A kind o' order from the king, * At 'sizes time, to quit." " Well, I wun't say," quoth Turnpike Tom, " I wer a watchin' sly, And never see'd I sich a shrink As when he eaaght Jane's eye." " He could feace her, Tom, you think, He knowed the wench, mebbe. Though Jane ha sadly altered, sure, Since Giles went out to sea. But hark ! the old fellow's found his tongue, And got the cap on, sure,! — Loard ! if the Squire bean't quiverin' like A flag leaf in the moor I 191 ill Mi i^ 192 THE VILLAGE OF MERROW. 'T bo awful solemn, bean'tit, Hobbs, It touches I to see ; I feels I should ha' cried outright, Been any man but he. I never, Hobbs, ha' doubted God, And trust I never may, Us seen enough, Loard knows, in proof 0' Providence, to-day. • And, sure, us maunt complain, for spite Of aal the laawyer's brags, There bean't one man in ruffles hung For fifty odd in rags." " Silence !" " Holloa — the coonstables Be cooming round this way ; Best keep our tongues in check strings, Tom, " Be aal in Judge(*8 pay." The Judge had already risen, and, for some time, had, in silence, been regarding the Squire, before demanding of him if he had any thing to say why the extreme sentence of the law should not be passed on him. The Squire's subdued look would have disarmed his greatest enemy. " Nothing, my lord," was all that escaped him and in a tone scarcely audible. He had, indeed, to be assisted by an officer, and it was some time before he was sufficiently himself to be able to leave the dock. It is but just that I record that the Vicar, who was present from the first, was visibly affected, as the trial advanced. His trimly bordered hatidkerchief, on more than one occasion, did him real service. While this was passing John apprised, At his home, that Jane had fled, Gueesing her route, o'er hedge and ditch, • Like one bewildered, sped. Once at the court, with desperate will. Struggling he wins his way. To near where Jane, still helpless, leaned. Watching the too true play. • Hobbs was the first t'espy him, straight Nudging his aged friend ; Both were well pleased, — " Thank Heaven, " said Hobbs, " Her '11 now some chance to mend. THE VILLAGE OF MERROW. Loard, mark his look ! as if, good soul, His heart wer nigh to bust !— So like un, Styles, in troubled times Aal'ays at hand the fust. I've afton thaught, Styles, eyeing John, Consarned as he be now, The folks as follerod poor Christ Had jist his arnest brow." " The score of Heaven, Hobbs,— not one But, in a kind o' way, Carries his shej^herd's mark, that Ho May know his own, some day. It saddens I to note how old, And worn John looks, of late ; The double load of Jenny's wants Is muore nor honest weight." '* A countless loss to lose un, Stylos I Like aal true Christians, poor. But how one 8i)ends one's little shaws What one woold do wi' muore." " Muore, p'rhaps, had made 'n prouder, Hobbs "- " Well, I wun't say for that, ' 'T be sumhow in the grain on us. But hark I— what's Dooill at I " 193 * * nt "I give her now into your charge. See, till her friends be found, * She needs for nothing, Faunce, with care We yet may bring her round." " Hear that ?— in charge !— given in charge ! If that be it I'm dang'd,— Stand ye hear. Styles,— by heaven, I'll see the harpies hanged, , Shan't harm a hair,— Good Styles, keep aflf Wooltgit-thyself, now, hurt; ' Bean't no use holding I,— so, aff, And now, lads, your dezart." Quick, free'd from Styles, Hobbs' brawny limbs Burst through the crowd ' ' - — Q —^ w* V >v ^^ Ji.41.0 1 Jane and I 'gin ye aal," he cried, " Ye'll jist, John, see fair play. way, N 194 THE VILLAGE OF MERROW. " Why, Hobbs, what ailoth thee ! — hush, hush^ For Jane's sake, if yo can ; Don't fling thyself away so, lad, Bo calm, be calm, my man." " 'I wooll, — but, John, to look and zee The poor thing put about As she wer now, I waun't a man, To stand, and zee it out. Loard God of heaven I if Giles could but Look down ! "--" There, there, Hobbs, hush ! "— " I zee, John, — I forgits — my blood Be aal upon the rush. There, coonstable, I've done, — tarn to, — Be nothing frought, meako free ; — I bears yo no ill will, not I, But, mind ye, — hands aff she." Hobbs' burst at his imagined committal of Jenny having blazed itself out, and it being allowed, on a whisper from the Judge, to pass without further notice, Hawthorne was permitted to advance to where his sister was still leaning, a constable, wha knew him, directing him to a private way of leaving the court with her. As ho advanced, the Squire, in charge of an oflScer, crossed him. Their eyes met; — they had once met in the moor lane, when Hawthorne had been brute enough, in Mrs. Squander's estimation, to withhold his hand from his hat. V^as this, just then, remembered by only one of them ! Hawthorne's pulse was at its highest, when, after a few steps, he was again with his sister, " What could have made thee Jane, leave homo. With such a threat'ning night, In this sad shift, — so ill, — enough To kill thee, girl, outright." " For " — give me John, — Jane would have said, As she fell upon his breast; Her quivering frame, her silent tears Bitterly spoke the rest. Nature had done, the last faint spark Of earthly hope had flown, " Ye' 11 take me hence ? " she murmured low, " I am here, John, alone." THE VILLAGE OP MERROW. " Poor ranteless bird ! Heaven help thee now ;— Art able, think ye, Jane, Far as the door ? — come, come, — on me, There, there, — again, again." Now at the door, John glanced around, All eagerness, to stay Some friendly wain that, homeward bound, Might help them on the way. But few were for the moor, of these Some lingered in the town, Others had not j ct left the court, Still waiting on the crown. Thus at a loss, with Jenny quite Unable to proceed, A well known pair came dashing up, The Vicar's, at full speed. " The Vicar homeward, James ? " said John, In eager, anxious tone ; — " Ain't sartain, John, but specks he wooll. Soon as the trial done." " Thank heaven ! " said John, » he cannot, sui-e, Deny us, Jane, this aid ; Folks may be proud, still not so proud, We'll trust, as some have said." " Back there a leetle, John,— Measter, I see, be cooming now; " — John raised his hat, — a gracious smile Sunn'd the good Vicar's brow. " Your sister, John, still ailing, eh ? Be careful of her, — mind The cruel damp, these heavy rains Leave a chill air behind." John glanced at Jane,— her shatter'd look ! Her fevered, filmed eye ! — Her trembling hold ! how little fit To face the threat'ning sky I Fearing the worst, John cast a look, Imploringly, at Slack, " You couldn't, sir, for love of Heaven, Help the poor creature back ? " 195 196 THE VILLAGE OF MERBOW. " I 800 — I fioo — thou'rt seeking, fViend, Some fitting portngo homo," " But nono, Hir, can I find, at least, For houi'H yet to como." " We'll truht not so, — there, — there's a cart,- And tiiero, — come, try again ; " — '' Indeed, sir, I have tried them all, And found the trial vain." "All will not surely be so hard, All have not iron hearts, Thou 'It, surely, find some friendly one Among so many carts." '* Thou art tho only one," said John, " That goeth by tho lano That leads, as well your revorenco knows, Down by the home of Jane." "I am, indeed, unfortunate I That I should have to be, Within an hour at the most, To plead for charity / " " For charity !— for charity! "—John's blood, For once, was at its height, " Take heed, lost this same charity Leave mercy out of sight j And take thou heed, — ijo distant day May a trial far different be, When some may wish, too late, to share This poor thing's company I " " I see thou art excited, man, And know'st not what thou sayest, And even in thine anger too Some goodness thou betrayest ; So, I forgive thee, — and I trust Kind Heaven will do the same ; " — The sky grew darker now, and down The pelting torrent came. So, without answering, John slipped off His smock of many storms, ^ And wrapping it about her close, Took Jenny in his arms. THE VILLAGE OP MERROW. Full manftilly ho boro her on, Sure, Heaven holpocl, in part; Poor Jenny, as she hiy, could hear The puLsing of h'm heart. The Vicar passed them at the lane, We'll trust 't was his to see A lesson that he well might quote, Some day, on Charity. 197 CHAPTER III. jenny's cottage. " Ye'll promise me. — no stranger, John, I cannot, cannot bear ," Jane glanced around her naked room At the little that was there ! This was said from an apprehension of an intruder. Jenny, at the moment, was resting with her head on her brother'.:! shoulder. He was sitting by her side, supporting her. Hawthorne, however, had little faith in the only one it would have been in his power to- send for. To get her to bed seemed to him to be the first thing to- be done, and, by quiet and attention, give nature an opportunity to rally. With a view to this, Sally Hobbs was already doing hor- beat. ****** Ah poesy, and art thou put , To such poor shift at last. Thou dars't not trust upon thy lips A picture as it passed ! To how much had Hawthorne to shut his eyes ? How many- a shift and want had Jenny concealed from him. It was not long, as Sally was now fearfully apprehensive of the- consequences of her imprudence, before Hawthorne was called upon to surrender his charge, when, in a curtained corner of the room, all that a warm heart, and forward will could do, to make her comfortable for the night, was done. It was now settled, after Jenny had been persuaded to a cup of tea, that Sally with her "biggest" should away for home to prepare for her husband, who, with Styles and others, had lingered in Shropton for a poaching case, and that Mrs. Pilch should be i' 198 THE VILLAGE OF MEBROW. asked to take charge at John's, so that he and Sally, on her return, mifj:ht sit up by Jenny for the night. " Her'd be a wakin' a' moast every second, John, if her knawed as thee waun't by." " Sally," said Jenny, as her friend was passing to the door, ^' come here." — Sally went to her, when Jenny, taking her by the hand, with all the warmth she was capable of pressed it to her lips. Th3 poor woman burst into tears. " Thaay '11 be aal agin 7, Jane, i Imaws." " No, no, Sally," said Hawthorne, " not in the least." "I knawsye wooll though," said she, sobbing, as she left. " I was more to blame than was Sally, John," said Jane. " All was meant for the bofct, Jenny." In less than an hour Sally was back, when Hawthorne bethought him of leaving, for a while, the two women together. Sally had, doubtless, a word or two for her friend, who w ould sleep, perhaps, the sounder afterwards. He, in the meantime, would step to his home; some firing would be wanted, — the nights were still cold, and his drenched garments called for a shift. On his return, Hawthorne was well pleased that a "H-u-s-h ! " from Sally should be the first that greeted him, for in what nature might medicine to her in repose had he alone any hope. ''Her do look happy, doan'ther!" said Sally, as they stood together, observing her. John sighed, and returned to his seat, where, in the darkness, relieved only by an occasional gleam from the hearth, he sat, silently listening. Mrs. Hobbs had, at his suggestion, betaken .herself to sleep. In an unbroken silence hour after hour had now passed, when, uneasy rt the more than stillness which seemed to ])ossess every thing, John, with a lighted faggot stick, shaded by his hand, advanced ^to where Jenny was lying. Whilst comforting himself with her apparent tranquillity, a whispered "J-o-h-n," from a •window that had been slov.'ly opened, reached him. Some one was outside. It was Harry who, with Styles, had been no longer able to abide in ignorance of " how things wer agoin'." John, a tiptoe, stepped to the window, and did his best to assure them, but, after a few words, it was considered as well that they should return. *'And better," said Hobbs, "as I, Styles, caal upon Slop, and stopun a comin'. Slop wooll taalk, Styles ; and that wun't do as ■ / THE VILLAGE OF MERROW. 199 things stand now wi' her." It had never, of course, occurred to Harry that there was any one else in Merrow that, at times, woold talk. " It 'd be hard, Styles," said Hobbs, as they rounded the corner of the lane, " for thaay as, a some day, us '11 aal hev to feaco, to tarn agin sich as wer on'y to look as Jane did, when John wer a watchin' her." Styles, seemingly, was less in a humour for talking than was usual with him, — he made no answer, and, Hobbs tailing the hint, without further word the two reached Harry'r cottage. " Thee'll step in, Styles," said Hobbs, but Stj^les wished, as he said, " to be alone a bit, Harry ; " and who that, upon that night, had peeped in at him, as he knelt in his quiet chamber, could have helped thinking that he needed much less to b(> reminded of his latter end than the stalest of old crusita, as Styles was in the liabit of calling them, that ever infected a neighbourhood. The night had by now passed its keystone, when, again, a puls- ing light ever and anon lit up the darkened chambers of Merrow, and, now and again, a distant murmuring, drawing nearer and nearer, told that the startling weather of yesterday had anything but come to an end. Sally was now awake, and looking at Hawthorne, through the gleams from the hearth, with feverish apprehension. " I be afeard, John," said she, " as it '11 a wake Jane ! " and well she might be, for, by another hour the scene, both within and without, was fearful. So severe a night storm had not been in Merrow for years. — " The Loard protect us ! " had never been oftener upon Sally's lips than now ; yet on slept Jenny through the whole of it, with the same quiet, beautiful asj>ect ; and now that the storm, as the daybreak advanced, had, in a measure abkted, she was still sleeping, beautifully sleeping. — John began to hope. It had been arranged, before the day was fairly on the peep, that Sally should step up, and do her best with the children who, fortunately, in an upper chamber, a sort of loft, had slept out the storm, and that, then, she should off with the good news of Jenny's lengthened sleep, and see to her husband's and children's breakfast j — her lengthened sleep! John had not laid his finger on her wrist. And now, with the two children, Giles and Jenny, and their still slumbering mother, Hawthorne was alone. They were standing, or, rather, leaning by the side of him. It was more than day- i 200 THE VILLAGE OF MERKOW. light. The sun had risen, and was breaking lovelily through- some clouds which were still loitering to the east, when, suddenly, Jenny opened her eyes, and looked languidly around her; — Haw- thorne eyed her anxiously. — She regarded him for a moment, — and then her lido slowly fell. John was alarmed, and, on her again raising them, he, with her two children, advanced to her side. She looked, first at the children, and then at him, her coun- tenance momentarily changing ; — John made an effort to rally her : " Come, cheer thee, Jane,— one pretty smile, — Thy little boy and girl,— We shall all see better days yet, Indeed, indeed, we shall. See. Jane, how beautifully bright The sun shows, breaking through Yon settling clouds, as if its light Were all for mo and you." Jane motioned with her eye, — it seemed She something had to tell, — " What is't that thou would'st whisper me, Art not, poor girl, so well ? " " Dear, dear John," — Jane moved her hand Towards her ebbing heart, *' A sinking — something — tells me here The hour is come to part. Oh, but for these I leave behind, How quietly away Could I steal me from the world's wear, To comfort in the clay. It may be there are many things I ought not to have done, But God — will be good and merciful ' '. To a poor stricken one. * * * Oh, John, in every way, of late, I have pressed hard on thee, — And nothing now but these bare thanks For all thy pains for me ! *: Thou'lt be unto my little boy, I know, and to my Jane, All thou hast ever been to me, .Though never, John, again ? THE VILLAGE OF MEKROW. And I'll carry to my grave, John, In this poor heart a prayer, And if ever, some one at Heaven's gates, She'll not Ibrget it there. ^M «|A ^^ ^> ^jj 0^ 0^ ^% •^ »^ Ye'll put me in the little grave Where John and Anna lie, — Don't fret, my pretty ones, —ye'll both Be with me by-and-hye. 201 * And, John, this mind, — as mine in yours, Take ye poor Harry's hand, And tell him — that — with this — last tear, — Tell him, — he'll understand. Now, all be near me, — cover me, — I shall be less alone. Ye can leave roe when the night comes, — And o-h-h I — my heart, — my own ! " " Dear Jane, do'st mind of anything That I can do, undone ? Speak, Jenny dear, ah ! getting cold ! Still colder ! she is gone ! " Yes, she was gone, — John closed her eyes, — it was all over f CHAPTER IV. That a morning as lovely as May in its loveliest could have- ever known should be the usherer in of such pain to so many a hard handed toiler in its midst ! Yet so it was. By an hour later quite a gathering of sorrowing hearts were, with moistened eyes, turned to where Jenny, with all of this world's cares now at an end, was lying. It was, indeed, a trial, and for none more so than for Hawthorne, though ho bore up against it with a fortitude surprising. This could not be said of all present. Poor Sally was quitp! beside herself. It was pitiful to observe her. " Her wtr so good, Harry," she would say, as again and again she took up her-friend's wasted hand, — " It be poor Sally, Jane, — her'U never no more to Shropton for thee, — I knaws what you'll aal be a sayin' — but her couldn't a lived no how." " It bean't o' no use. Sail}', a goin' on so," said Hobbs, advan- cing, and leading her away, " her be gone to a better place 'n here."^ 202 THE VILLAGE OF MERROW. Harry's eye, as he said this, glanced at Styles, who immediately took up his words. " Sartain, Hobbs, wheer her '11 never hev no muore griefs and troubles, — never no more. Thaay as is left, and knows how good she wer, hev moast " here the old man's voice tottered, and Hawthorne, who till now had striven his best, could no longer withhold a witness, that, stealing to his cheek, dropped upon the hand of one who had taken his, as she stood by his side. It was Jenny's eldest. All noticed it, and looked at one another, — but no one spoke, — and there was something funereal in the silence in which, on a whisper from Styles to leave him alone with the women, each took him by the hand, on j)arting. " His heart," said Styles, as they drew upon Hobbs' cottage, *'be a broke at last!" Harry made no reply, but, with his sleeve to his eyes, open- ed his door. CHAPTEE V. My tale is nearing its end. Some little, however, has yet to be told. It will be a surprise to no one familiar with the more indulgent discipline too common with criminals of a higher grade to hear that, before Hawthorne and his mates had separated, it was already abroad that the Squire had been found, at daybreak, in his cell — dead. He was lying, when first seen, upon his face, and by the side of him, on the ground, penciled on a strip of paper, were a feAv words of forgiveness for his wife. He had poisoned himself. It would be interesting to know if the deed had been delayed till the night had quieted ; — I should say it was so. — His affairs were found to be in a sad state. Nothing was left after his creditors were satisfied. His indebtedness to the Baron was much remarked on. It was very generally supposed that it was from him that the ■Squire, immediately on his arrest, had procured the means made use of. The Baron, it was known, had been more than once in communication with him prior to his elopement with Mrs. Squan- der, and the Vicar, it was observed, was silent on being question- ■ed on the p'^int. And now of Snipe, as, also, of a few others, a word or two. They had not yet reaped the full fruits of their iniquities. THE VILLAGE OF MEIIROW. 203 It lei I to me, in my checkered career, to find myself (a yaar or two tiom now) on a bright morning in October, on my way to the Bathursit Plains in Australia. I had gone as far as Paramatta, ■within twenty miles of Sydney, by stage, when in order the better to see the country, I proceeded on foot for the ten miles between it and the half-way house to Penrith. I had, for my companions, I might have said my protectors, two transported thieves, as^gned to a sheep station far up the country. One of them was only in his seventeenth year. It would hardl}' have been prudent in those days to have gone, at least for any one of means, more especially of what was then called the strrh'ng class, upon that road alone. Bushrangers are awkward customers. Government grey jackets were considered a protection. On reaching the half-way house, I had hardly refreshed myself, when a man, who certainly knew how to sit on a horse, at a brisk pace rode up to the inn, and inquired of the landlord if any one was there for him. I was outside at the time. I observed that the man for a moment looked inquiringly at me, and I was not a little surprised at his declining an invitation by the landlord (a ticket of leave man) to dismount. The two lads, as bidden, immediately stepped out, and, one of them mounting a led horse which the stranger had brought with him, the three at a (;[uick walk started. *' In a hurry, seemingly," I said. " Who is he, — do you know him ? " " Know him I " said the landlord, " I should like to know who doesn't. He's the meanest fellow that was ever lagged. He gets, about once a month, what we call here (you're a stranger, I see, sir,) a native's hiding. I don't think, sir, that ho ever opens his mouth without a lie. He's a fourteen year man, and it'll go well with him, if, in eight years from now, he gets his ticket. He was once, he says, that is before his lagging, a gamckoopor to some great English Squire; but Lord, sir, there's no believing a syllable he says. He has to thank, if one can trust him, a cricket ball for the loss of his right peeper." " What does ho call himself, pray? " " Snipe or Snip, or some such like." All was explained, — his hat slouched upon one side, — his reserve, — his declining to dismount, and his eagerness to be off. He had recognized me. What a glorious piece of news for Harry ! Providence had, surely, at last, as Mrs. Squander phrased it, taken him in hand. On my return to England, I inquired respecting him, when I ' M 204 THE VILLAGE OF MERROW. learned, that, on the break up at Thornley Hall, ho had, as a States man would my, skedaddled, and tha<^ from lack of employment, and laziness, he betook himself, after awhile, to poaching, and that, in a night attack, in company with about a dozen braves, upon two keepers, he was taken and put on his trial at the Kingston assizes j and that, it being regarded as an aggravation of his oflPence that he had once been a keeper, his term of punishment was extended to fourteen years. , And, now, of Mrs. Squander and her paramour. — Not a month had elapsed since her disappearance from Orton,when the former found herself alone, in a Belgian gambling town, with barely a handful of coin to fall back on. The Baron had been shot in a duel consequent on a gaming quarrel. She afterwards fell into still worse hands, by whom she was finally deserted in France. I have ever been theatrically inclined. So, on again reaching my birth place, it was not long before I was once more on the Catherine street steps of old Drury. I had just taken my check, and was on the point of mounting to the second tier of boxes, whon^ on looking round, my attention was arrested by a face which I was all but certain of having seen elsewhere. But who had I ever known with so passionless an eye, — so faded a cheek, — so forced a smile ! As I approached her, however, all doubt was at an end. " You will know me when you next see me," said she, annoyed, seemingly, at my persevering gaze. " You are not then already known to me ? " I said. " I should say not," she replied, but less pertly. " Could by no possibility sowie ojie have dismounted at Thornley Hall ? " With a convulsive " Oh ! " and striking me, unconsciously per- haps, with her half closed hand on my breast, she rushed up the stairs, and disappeared. " What a wreck ! " I said. I had no wish to follow her, but on leering round the boxes with some curiosity to observe her, unnoticed in return, I again caught her eye. As a started stag, she vanished from the door she was leaning against, and it has never been my fortune to see,. or hear of her since. It was too fine a night, with the Foundling Hospital bounding my journey, to dream, on my return, of a cab. How, as I tramped on through the now all but deserted streets between old Drury and quiet Bloomsbury, did what had just past repeat and repeat THE VILLAGE OP MERROW. 205 itself; — how, again and again, returned tome Isaac Stylos' words, ^' Perhaps, Harry, her wor allowed to live for her punishment ! " It was not till after a lapse of something like a dozen years from now, including a five years experience as a farmer in Pom- brokeshiro, and many more as a pioneer in Now Zealand, that I again visited Morrow and its neighbourhood, breaking my journey to do so, on ray return from elsewhere. My old home at Lavent had long since been broken up by death or departure. It was when on my way to Shropton for the night, old associations having detained me in Lavent till it was late, that I again found myself, as spoken of in my first page, lingering in the pretty moonlit burial ground of Morrow. It had received many additions since I was last in it. Isaac Stylos, with his old Matty, as also Slop, had been laid at the hack of tho church, "VN'^hore, lot us trust, they will rest none the loss peacefully for the Ij'ing there. Tho turf of Styles' grave edges on to that of Jenny's. His is tho only one thereabouts, it least it was so then, ■with a stone to it. A very lowly one, at its liead, records his ■name and age, with, beneath, howsoever rudely chiseled, what an •emperor might read and envy, Wer a good man. It was pleasant, too, to observe that the spot where my old friend, Mr. Manly, lay was still, as the grass about it showed, no '•unfrequented one. Many a village youngster, I was told, had more than half learnt his letters there. Here also, within a rod or two of my friend, lay the Eev. Horatius Slack. Ho had survived the Squire barely a twelve month, which, at the time, was somewhat commented on. A liandsome monument, erected by his grave to tho right of the •chui'ch, does honour to his memory. It is surmounted by an urn richly wreathed, with, on each side of it, a draped Lachrymal sorrowing for the departed. On its plinth below. Charity and Love had lettered as follows, Mourn ye of genial nature, drop The sympathetic tear ; The modest, temperate, pious, meek. The chaste lies buried here. By hearts that knew, and loved him best This rightful meed is given ; The seeds of life he strewed on earth, — His harvest home in Heaven. 206 THE VILLAGE OF MERROW. Ilis sister Arabella has been credited with the last couplet, which somewhat surprised me. What, in our ignorance, wo at times lose. Was it not singular that, notwithstanding so flatter- ing a memorial, so few, not one of the villagers, attended at his burial. His old and most intimate friend, the Rev. Mr. Wrench, of Orton, olficiated on the occasion, and did ample justice to the memory of the deceased : " The world has in Aim," said he^ " lost one of its lights." His sister's charities, it seems, had not, in their publicity, either flattered or consoled her. She had removed to Shropton, whore she was living in hired apartments, in preference to tho fatigue and annoyance of a parcel of ungrateful servants. It could have been no trifling item in these annoyances that her parlour maid, Mercy, (of whom a word or two is due) refused to remain with her, for even a few days, after the Vicar's removal. She had contrived to get along somehow while he was living, — there was something, she said, droll in him, — he amused her — but at his decease the house became intolerable ; — coals seemed to be of no use in it; — even the cat, a pot with the Vicar, took up its quarters, at once, in tho kitchen. So, the poor girl forth- with removed herself (sacrificing a month's wages in doing so) to one farmer Swain, where, it will be remembered, Isaac Styles was in tho habit of purchasing his voivls. It is pleasant to have to state that Mr. Swain's eldest son had the good taste to so far appreciate, not only the blooming cheeks, but the simple honest nature of this good girl, as to make her his wife within a twelve- month of her residence with his parents, and with the full sanction of both of tliom. She is still living, and, at times, still indulges in recollections of "His Ways," — of a certain parcel of broken victuals, and jf tho loaf that "no one robs." The cat followed her to the SAViin's, where, after an effort or two, in vain, to induce it to return to the Vicarage, it was allowed to remain. It will be thought, I am sure, not unworthy of mention, that, from the date of Mercy's residence at tho Swain's, neither Harry nor Hawthorne were often without a job, which, notwithstanding the lowness of wages everywhere, kept them at least from the parish, and enabled Harry now and again to slip a copper into tho hands of some there can be no need to name. I missed an opportunity, which I remember with regret, of again communicating with John Hawthorne. The lateness of the hour led mo to postpone calling on him till the next day, when circum- THE VILLAGE OP MERROW. 207 [hat, \rry ling the the jain lour im- stances unforoHcen prevented my doing so. I heard, however, that, for the last few years, he had been in receipt of the annuity (£12) bequeathed to him by Mr. Manly, and that Jenny's children, now grown up, were still with him, Jenny's oldest keeping his house, hib own daughter having married. Pilch, with his hundred pounds reward, emigrated, after -i while, to Canada, generously taking with him, in addition to his own family. Turnpike Tom and his wife. Of his last letter to Hobbs I obtained a copy. It shows what may bo done by a man of health and determination, with no monopolizing selfish laws in his way. Mr. Slack had been succeeded by a Mr. Philip Sharploy. He was not spoken very well of. The same loaning to wealth and power, the same soulless aping of humility were the observed of every one. Hawthorne's ** little meetings like " wore as crowded as ever. Indeed, I remarked but little improvomont in tho aspect of things anywhere. To be sure, tho " beggarly cottages, so an- noyiDgly in sight frommy brother's "hud been removed, but with such exceptions, there was tho same contrasted woaltii and penury, — the same mocking roses round tho doorways of tlio lat- ter, — the same patched smocks and patient endurances, — tho same blending of bloom with wrinkles, — the same shameless uncon- sciousness somewhere; — what, indeed, was not there the same that religion and justice must have long since sighed and blushed at. Will it always be thus ? It would bo a denial of God to supposes©, I heard, also, that Mr. Goodwill, of Orton, finding it impossible to endure the ungenerous treatment of 3Ir. Wronch, had rosignc I his curacy, and removed to Tulse Hill, near Brixton, where he had opened a school, and with groat success, two of Mr. Wrench's pupils helping to swell the number of his scholars. Dr. Hearse had been dead some years. His death was by many attributed to too free an indulgence in his especial jar; but this could hardly have been the case, as on his own account ho had never by those about him been known to visit it. The secret of its singular merits passed into the hands of his brother, a naval surgeon, whence, I have since thought, may have originated tho all but universal use of pills, as a specific at sea, especially in emigrant ships. If so, is it yet too late to do justice to his mem- ory? Of those who had to do with tho persecution of the Haw- thorne's I have still one to speak of, and I do so with some hesita- 208 THE VILLAGE OF MERROW. tion. I allude to Sir James Dooill. That Sir James died very short- ly after the Squire's trial, and subsequently to the death of an only, and much cherished son, is quite a matter of history ; but, in a report, and one not lightly bruited, that, on the day previous to his death, he had all but acknowledged in that of his son a right- ful judgment on himself, and that with his last words was blended a name familiar to -the reader of this record, I say, may there not be room to suppose that, in such a report, imaginations too ready to suggest it had found no difficulty in meeting with ears equally willing to accept it, and lips as ready to repeat it. • For twenty years after this, my latest presence in Merrow, I have been, saving for one short interval in England, a chopper in the ■woods of Lower Canada, with leisure, from broken health, ample for much more than this too truthful record of my experiences. It has fallen to me, however, occasionally to hear from my old haunts. Hobbs and Hawthorne are both living, and still in Mer- row, as is also honest Sally, and her biggest. No generosity xipon Pilch's part has been able to persuade Harry to aban- don a mate dearer to him than ever, which says much for him, as Harry was just the fellow for the woods. Every thing else seems to be about the same. The mocking roses, and patient endurances are still there, and, with the hopes so of late but indifferently realized, will the latter, I fear, need to be retained. It is quite a possibility that I again see Lavent and Merrow, Avhen, rely on it, I shall not be slow in calling upon old remem- brances. There will be more than one door, I know, that, some- how, will be sure to be upon the jar just as I am nearing it, while the goodly elm under which I, of old, sat, and with Isaac Styles chatted so guilelessly, one would hardly like to r icall with nothing in the shape of a welcome left to it. It has often, I am told, been said by Hobbs, on the sheep of Merrow being admitted to a bite in its burial round, that in no part of it is it ever so closely cropped as in that .where Jenny and his old favourite lie. This will, of course, not be the last thing that I shall make it my business to see to. THE END.