Chapter III: What Is to Be

The master of Willowmere, Dick Crawshay, was recognised throughout the county as a perfect specimen of the good old style of yeoman farmer. He was proud of the distinction, and proud of upholding all the traditions of his rapidly diminishing class. It was not so much owing to eccentricity or vanity, as to simple faith in what he believed to be due to his position, that his dress invariably combined the characteristics of the past and the present. His top-boots and breeches were like those worn by his father; his long waistcoat was after the pattern of his grandfather’s; whilst his short coat and billycock hat belonged in some degree to his own day.

Rough and ready, outspoken in friendship or enmity, quick-tempered, but never bearing malice, his whole creed was that a man should mean what he says and say what he means. He was huge in person, height and breadth, and many people had good reason to know that he was equally huge in kindliness of heart.

Legends of his feats of strength in wrestling, boxing, horse-training and riding, were often recounted by the old men of the district as worthy examples of skill and prowess for their grandchildren to emulate, or to amuse their cronies in the taproom of the _Cherry Tree_.

‘Ah, when I thinks on that day of the Hunt Cup Steeplechase, thirty year ago!’ old Jerry Mogridge used to mumble over his jug of foaming ale. ‘The young Maister—he were the young Maister Dick in them days—entered his ’oss against some o’ the best blood out o’ Yorkshire, not to mention what our own county turned out, and we had some rare uns. We don’t have no such riding nor no such ’osses, I do believe, nowadays.’

Then Jerry would pause to reflect over departed glories, press down the ashes of his long clay-pipe carefully with his third finger and draw a long breath.

‘You was there, Jerry,’ his neighbour observed.

‘There I was, for sure. And there was Maister Dick with his horse Goggles that he was ready to back agin anything on four legs. It were a sight, I tell you. Nine on ’em started, and Goggles took the lead right away’—here old Jerry, with the stem of his pipe serving as a pencil, began to trace on the table the imaginary lines of the course—‘he cleared the water-jump pretty, and maybe half a dozen came after. On the flat they was nigh equal, but—Lor’ bless you—Goggles was only laughin’ at ’em. _He_ knowed as he could get away as soon as the Maister pleased to give him head. They was a’most abreast when they came near the ugly fence down by Farmer Tubbs’s land. Then Goggles got his way. He were as brave as a lion—or a unicorn, for the matter o’ that—and he took the fence at the nighest but the worst part. We see him rise in the air as it might be, and dip again. Then—well, then, if he didn’t roll right over, and Maister Dick turned a somersault into the ditch.’

There Jerry would stop again in order that his listeners might realise the full horror of the position, emitting half-a-dozen deliberate puffs of smoke from his mouth, and proceed with the pride of a bearer of good news.

‘But the Maister was on his feet again afore you could count your fingers. So was Goggles. The Maister give him a pat on the neck and, says he: “If you can do it Goggles, I’m game.” With that he jumps into the saddle and went tearin’ after them as was proud to think that he was out o’ the chase, and he caught ’em up, and when they were about a quarter of a mile from home, Goggles put on an extra spurt and came in first by a neck. But that weren’t the end on it, for while everybody was a-crowdin’ round about him, Dr Mauldon says:

‘“What’s the matter with your right arm, Dick, that it’s hangin’ so limp-like at your side?”

‘“Dunno what it may be,” says Dick; “but it’s been no use to me since we tumbled over the fence.”

‘“Broken, sure-ly,” says the doctor angry-like, “and you went on riding the race—you’re a fool.”

‘“But I won it,” says Dick, “and I’m main proud on it, for there’s summat more nor the cup hanging on to Goggles this blessed day.”

‘Six months after that steeplechase, he married Hesba Loughton,’ the old man concluded with subdued but suggestive emphasis.

From that day the homestead of Willowmere had been a merry one, notwithstanding the dark shadows which had from time to time crossed it. Three children had been born, but one by one had passed away, leaving a blank in the lives of mother and father which nothing could fill. But it made them the more ready to welcome the child of Mrs Crawshay’s sister when misfortune fell upon her. Madge had been at once taken into their hearts as their own child, and had grown up with as much love and respect for them as she could have given to her parents proper.

On their part Mr and Mrs Crawshay were devoted to the girl, and allowed her from the first to be mistress of the whole house. She wanted books, they were at once obtained: she wanted a piano, and her wish was gratified. In her education, they spared neither care nor money, but Crawshay would never consent to her being banished to a boarding-school.

So she had grown up quite a home-bird, as her uncle used to say; being endowed with mental capacity, however, she had made the most of every opportunity for reading and learning. And through it all she took her share in the household work, and her guardians had reason to be proud of her.

Until the present occasion her uncle had never hinted that he expected to be consulted in her choice of a husband. Even now he only warned her that he would not approve of any of the Ringsford family. But the warning came late, and surprised her the more as no distinct reason was advanced for it. Although there had been no formal announcement that she and Philip had come to the conclusion that they had been born for each other and were dutifully ready to accept their fate, he had for some time been regarded as her chosen suitor.

Their wooing had been free from petty concealments, and there had not been much formal discussion on the subject between themselves. Unconsciously they realised the fact that man or woman can no more be in love and not know it than have the toothache and not feel it. They may coquette with fancy but not with love. They may in modesty try to hide it, but they know it is there. So there had been no ‘set scene’ of asking and granting. A flash of the eyes—a touch of the hand—a quick, joyful little cry—a kiss and all was known. They loved: they knew it; and were happy in their hope of the future that lay before them.

This sudden change of her uncle’s mind in regard to Philip—for of course he could refer only to him when he spoke of the Ringsford people—presented a problem with which she had never expected to be tried. Suppose her guardians should forbid her to marry Philip, would she be able to obey them? Ought she to obey them?

There was no present answer for the questions, and yet they could not be dismissed from the mind. She was glad to find that Philip was innocent of any conscious cause of offence, and pleased that he should go at once to seek an explanation.

* * * * *

The stables, the barn, with their red-tile roofs washed with varying shades of green, the cow-house and piggeries with a white row of labourers’ cottages, formed a cosy group of buildings by the side of the green lane which led from Willowmere to the main road between the village of Kingshope and the little town of Dunthorpe.

Crawshay was standing in the gateway with a tall gentleman whose features were almost entirely concealed by thick black beard, whiskers, and moustache. By way of contrast perhaps, he wore a white hat. His dark-blue frock-coat was buttoned tightly; in his claret-coloured scarf was a horseshoe pin studded with diamonds; his boots were covered by yellow gaiters. A smart man, evidently of some importance. He was discussing with Crawshay the merits of a horse which was being trotted up and down the lane for their inspection.

‘You won’t find anywhere a better bit of horse-flesh for your purpose,’ Crawshay was saying whilst he held the stem of an acorn-cup in the side of his mouth like a pipe.

‘When you say that, Crawshay, I am satisfied, and he would be a fool who was not. We’ll consider it a bargain.’

‘Give her another turn, Jerry.—There’s action for you!’ he added with enthusiasm as the animal was trotted up and down the lane again. ‘There’s form!—proper, ain’t it? Seems to me that I can’t part with her.’

‘You cannot help it now: we have struck the bargain,’ rejoined the purchaser, grinning. He was aware that the farmer’s exclamation was in no degree akin to any of the horse-dealer’s tricks to enhance the animal’s value.

‘Well, you are a neighbour, Mr Wrentham, and that is always a sort of comfort.’

‘I’ll be good to her, never fear. Now, I’m off.—Hullo, Hadleigh, how are you? I am just bolting to catch my train. Good-bye.’

Mr Wrentham walked smartly into the stable-yard, got into his gig and drove off, waving his hand to his two friends as he passed through the gateway.

Philip, who just then had entered the gateway, was glad to see him go: first, because he did not like the man, although frequently forced into contact with him; and, second, because he wanted to be alone with Crawshay.

The latter had not displayed any coldness and had given him the customary greeting. He was patting the mare he had just sold and passing his hand affectionately over her flanks whilst he repeated various expressions of admiration, the burden of them all being:

‘He’s got a rare bargain, but he’s a smart fellow and he’ll be good to you, old girl.’

‘I have been hunting for you everywhere,’ said Philip with his frank smile and without any fear of the explanation which was about to take place. ‘Are you going up to the house just now?’

‘No; I was meaning to go down to see how the lads are getting on with the wheat. Am I wanted at the house?’

‘Not particularly; but I want to have a chat with you.’

‘Come along then. There’ll be time enough for chatting as we cross the Merefield. What is it?’

‘That is exactly what I have got to ask you. What have I been doing that you have been upsetting Madge by telling her that she is to have nothing more to do with me?’

They were in the field—an extensive plain which had been once a morass. Drainage and cultivation had converted it into valuable meadow-land. The hedges which bounded it were studded with willows, and three trees of the same kind formed a group in the centre. These trees and the nature of the ground had doubtless suggested the name of the farm. In wet seasons the Merefield justified its title by presenting a sheet of water sometimes more than a foot deep, in spite of drains and embankment to keep the river out.

‘That’s right, Philip, lad—straight from the shoulder; and I’ll make answer likewise. I never told Madge that she was to have nought more ado with you.’

‘I was sure of it,’ exclaimed the lover in cheerful confidence; ‘and now I may call you Uncle Dick again. But you have given her a scare—you know how seriously she takes things, and you will have to tell her yourself that it was only your fun.’

Crawshay’s face had at first assumed an expression of internal chuckling at some joke which amused and yet did not altogether please him. Now, however, his brows contracted slightly, and he spoke gravely.

‘Ah, but it weren’t all fun neither.’

‘Then what in the name of goodness was it? I know that you had some disagreement with my guv’nor the other day; but you are not going to make us miserable on that score.’

‘I don’t want to put you out on any score: but your father may.’

‘My father!—nonsense. What could make you fancy that he would interfere with me in this matter?’

Crawshay halted, close by the three willows, clasped his hands behind him and looked straight at his young friend.

‘I am not going to tell you ought about what passed atween your father and me,’ he said resolutely. ‘You can ask him if you like; but if you’ll take a word of counsel from me, you won’t do it. You can understand this much, however; I am not going to stand in your way with Madge; but I am not going to let you stand in Madge’s way, neither.’

‘I do not see how that can be,’ answered Philip, perplexed by Crawshay’s words and manner, ‘since we two have only one way before us.’

‘That is to say you think so now’——

‘And shall always.’

‘Ay, ay; we understand all that,’ said the elder, nodding with the regretful scepticism of experience; ‘but there never was any harm done by making sure of every foothold when passing through a bog. See if we can’t clear things up a bit. When are you going away on this grand journey that’s to make your fortune?’

‘In about a fortnight.’

‘And you’ll be away how long?’

‘Perhaps a year.’

‘Maybe two—maybe three.’

‘O no; there is no probability of that.’

‘There’s no saying. But what I want to be at now—and mind you, I’m not doubting you, and I’m not like to doubt Madge—what I want to be at is that while you are away in foreign parts you may change your mind—hold hard a minute—Madge may change hers. Heaps of things may happen. So that all I meant by what I said to her the other night is that you should both be welcome to change if you think it best for yourselves. So there are to be no bindings and pledges atween you. If you come back and are of the same mind and she is content, I will not be against you. Is it a bargain? It is a fair one, though you mayn’t think it now; but you are not the lad I take you for if you don’t own it to be common-sense and agree to it.’

‘I cannot see anything in it to disturb us,’ said Philip, ‘since you leave us free to please ourselves.’

‘Ay, but you understand that when I say _free_, I mean it. If you are going back to the house, you can tell Madge everything I’ve said.’

‘We could not desire any other arrangement. I am content, and she will be. Whatever your tiff with my father may be about, it will not bother us.’

‘Ah, you had better wait till you hear what he has to say,’ observed the yeoman, with a droll shadow of a grin, as if he again recalled that joke which amused but did not please him.

A ROMANCE OF ALMANACS.

If any book deserves the name of ‘irrepressible,’ it is the almanac. Notwithstanding its great antiquity, it is still important; and though we grow old, it renews its youth every year, and greets us regularly with a kind of good-natured, ‘Here I am again!’ The oldest almanac in existence is an Egyptian one, and may be seen in the British Museum. Buried nearly three thousand years ago with some human contemporary of Rameses the Great, it has been brought to light again, and copied in fac-simile. Twenty-five columns are wholly or partially preserved. The fortunate days are marked in black ink, and the unfortunate in red—a curious instance of a superstition which European nations have reversed. It contains observations about religious ceremonies, cautions against unlucky times, and predictions as to the fate of children born on certain days. But apart from this immense antiquity, we find almanacs early occupying an important part in the Christian economics. Indeed, to churchmen and to church-goers, they soon became indispensable; the more so, as fast days, feast days, and saints’ days increased in number.

Written almanacs of later date have not been traced farther back than the second century; but from the eighth to the fifteenth there are many beautiful specimens in existence. For every Missal, Psalter, Breviary, &c., had a calendar in the beginning, pointing out to the faithful the Church’s fasts and feasts; and King Athelstan’s Psalter, 703 A.D., also exhibits lunar tables.

In Saxon almanacs, the signs of the zodiac do not appear; each month is typified by some domestic or agricultural symbol—thus, ploughing represents February; apple-gathering, September; the Christmas feast, December. The illustrations of French almanacs of the same period distinctly mark the nationality; while those of Flemish and Italian origin are remarkable for their delicate fancies and marvellous beauty of colouring. The French had also rhymes, preserving, in short, satirical remarks, national peculiarities and prejudices.

After the tenth century, the almanacs were the great repositories of astrology, medicine, proverbial wisdom, and popular superstitions. All of them had lists of the lucky and unlucky days; but as yet there were no predictions. Learned churchmen stealthily cultivated astrology and astronomy; but the vulgar were left in ignorance as to whether doleful Saturn was diffusing his baleful influence, or fiery Mars bringing war and bloodshed. Each month in the year had at least two unfortunate days, except April, which had only one; but that was the terrible Walpurgis Night, specially given up to demons and witches. However, as the English list differed from the French, and the French from the Italian, a man by having the whole three could cheat fate and defy misfortune. Friday has always been a black day; and there are even yet people who have a mysterious dislike to it, who never heard of the thirteen reasons duly set forth in these old almanacs, such as the killing of Abel, the slaughter of the Innocents, the beheading of John the Baptist, &c.

No part of these old almanacs is more positive and more unpleasant than the medical department. Bleeding and herb-teas are specifics for every malady. Each month had its particular herb, and nearly every month its libation of human blood. September had two—the ‘liver vein’ is said to be then ‘full of venom;’ and bleeding at the beginning and end of the month, ‘most needful and comforting.’

From the homely character of the information in these early almanacs, it is evident that they were intended for general use, and it is probable every burgher possessed one; for we are apt to underrate the extent of manuscript literature, and to overrate its price. That the number of copyists was very great, is evident from the complaints following the invention of printing, which, it was said, ‘deprived hundreds of bread.’ Of these manuscript almanacs, three famous ones remain—that in Lambeth Palace, bearing the date of 1460; that of John Somers, written in Oxford, five hundred years ago; and the Oxford almanac of 1386. The last was printed as a curiosity at the beginning of the present century; and it may be noted, that in early days, Oxford was the centre of almanac manufacture, astronomy and surgery being mixed with religion and history.

The first printed almanac was published in Buda-Pesth in 1475. Twenty years after it, the first printed English almanac appeared. It contained much miscellaneous information; but the compiler was consistently and gloriously mysterious. Others rapidly followed. Twenty-five years ago, an almanac of that period (1495) was found in an old chest in Edinburgh, and placed in the Bodleian Library, where it may now be seen. It has on its title-page, ‘Flete Strete, by Wynkin de Worde;’ and it consists of fifteen leaves, each leaf two inches square.

A French almanac which began to appear about this time, is still published. It is called _Le Grand Compost et Calendrier des Bergers_, and it claims to be four hundred years old. _A Prognostication of Righte Goode Effecte_, was set forth by Leonard Digges in London, 1553. It contains some queer astronomical and astrological observations. In it we are told that the moon is fifteen thousand seven hundred and fifty miles from the earth, and Mercury only twelve thousand eight hundred and twelve; that Saturn’s conjunction with the moon caused unlucky days; but the moon with Jupiter, fortunate ones. Venus gave luck to woo and marry, and make pleasant pastimes, and, strangely enough, ‘blood-letting’ is included among the latter. Mercury was good to buy and sell under, and to send children to school.

Dr Dee’s almanac followed in 1571. This is a regular almanac, having a list of days down one side of the page, and the other left blank for memoranda. In this almanac we find among the rhymes that useful one beginning, ‘Thirty days hath September,’ &c. Dr Dee’s almanac did not make any prophecies, except against the Turk and the Pope, the downfall of both of whom was constantly foretold. Before the end of Elizabeth’s reign, almanacs had become a popular necessity. Many of them had shrewd touches at the times—at the pride of the nobles, at the tricks of the lawyers; and Pond in 1611 includes all the three ‘learned professions’ in his evil list.

The importance of the almanac from a commercial point of view originally occurred to James I. He granted a monopoly of these publications to the Stationers’ Company and the two universities, and so filled his exchequer. We have a volume before us containing sixteen almanacs for the year 1615. One of the chief things to be noted in this collection is the list of historical events which at that date were thought worth remembering. They are—the invention of printing, the capture of Boulogne, the sweating sickness, the great plague, the great frost of 1564, a blazing star in 1572, a deep snow in 1581, the camp at Tilbury in 1588, the taking of Cadiz in 1596. Bretnor, a famous almanac-maker of James’s reign, has the good and evil days in tables, with warnings in such droll phrases, that they are worth a short quotation. Thus the month of January shows that

4, 8. All that you can. 1, 2, 7. Lost labour.
9. What you desire. 3, 5, 6. On the losing side.
13, 14. Both heart and hand. 10, 11, 12. All for your harm.
17, 18. A fast friend.
21, 22, 23. Well ventured. 15, 16. Nothing to your purpose.
28, 29. Through the briers. 19, 20. But hard hap.
30, 31. Past hope of recovery. 24, 25, 26, 27. Unfit for thy purpose.

Early in the reign of Charles I., the first commercial almanac was published. It may be called the first _Poor Richard_. It contained tables of interest, necessary tables of expenses, pithy proverbs inculcating frugality and industry, and the usual melange of astrology and medicine. About the same time the religious almanac appeared. A rigid Puritan called Ranger was its editor. It is a gloomy production.

In Cromwell’s time, the almanacs are of a religious character; all receipts and directions end ‘sermonwise.’ The famous William Lilly was at this time the prince of astrologists and almanac-makers. At first, he prophesied for the king. But he was shrewd enough to see, without casting any horoscope, whose star was in the ascendant; and very soon all the stars in their courses fought against Charles.

As a matter of statecraft, James did a wise thing when he legalised astrology. Almanacs have always had a great influence with the mass; and it was a subtle device to give the liberty of prophesying after that legitimate fashion which should gloss with superstition ‘the divine right of kings.’ But the universities finally grew ashamed of their connection with the almanac, and sold their rights to the Stationers’ Company. This Company was always on the side of the ruling power. It had prophesied for Charles, and it had prophesied for Cromwell. It sang Te Deum for the Restoration, as it had done for the Protectorate. It dated its little books from the year ‘of our deliverance by King William from popery and arbitrary government;’ and it invoked the blessing of the planets on the last of the Stuarts.

When Lilly died, the Company employed his pupil Gadbury; and when Gadbury died, his relative, Job Gadbury, prophesied through another generation of credulous dupes. Then came the infamous John Partridge, who was pilloried by Swift’s wicked wit in 1709. But at that time he had been prophesying for the Stationers’ Company forty years. After Swift’s attack, he refused to predict, and the Company, who did not like to be laughed out of the profits of his reputation, published an almanac which had Partridge’s name to it, but which Partridge never wrote. This almanac was still dragging on an existence in 1828, with the sins of a century and a half on its head. Francis Moore began his career of imposture in 1698, and _Poor Robin_, the ribald hoary jester of the Company, about the same time. A dozen years after the Restoration, it also published a _Yea and Nay Almanac for the People called by the men of the world, Quakers_. A more atrocious libel on their faith and morals it is impossible to imagine.

In 1775, an enterprising bookseller called Carnan became possessed with the idea that this corporation had no legal right to its monopoly in almanacs, and he published one of his own. The Company sent him to prison as regularly as he sold his annual commodities; but Carnan was not a man to be put down. It is said he always kept a clean shirt in his pocket, ready for a decent appearance before the magistrates; and at length the Common Pleas decided in his favour. Then the Stationers’ Company appealed to Lord North; and as that minister wanted prophecies to make the war against the American colonies popular, he brought in a bill to the House of Commons re-investing the Company with the monopoly which had been declared illegal. The two universities also—which had an annuity from the Company—used all their influence against the solitary bookseller. But he had a good cause, and he had Erskine to plead it; and he triumphed.

When the French Revolution came, Moore was more terrific in his prophecies and more awful in his hieroglyphics than ever. The people wondered and trembled, and the sale of this almanac reached a point without parallel in the annals of imposture. But the continent of Europe had a rival even to Moore in the famous almanac of Liége. A tradition ascribes it first to a canon who lived in 1590. Its early numbers are published ‘with the permission of the superior powers;’ the later ones are content with ‘the favour of His Highness.’ It is full of political predictions. In 1700, a French almanac called the _Almanach Royal_ started a new idea, the one which has since made the _Almanach de Gotha_ so famous—it gave the names and birthdays of all the princes and princesses in Europe, lists of clergy, bar, army, and diplomatic corps. The latter almanac has been brought to a high pitch of perfection, and contains a vast amount of valuable and well-assorted information.

Shortly after these French almanacs, there appeared a famous American one—the _Poor Richard_ of Dr Franklin. He did not care to put his name upon the title-page, and therefore it was duly credited to Richard Saunders. It was published from 1733 to 1757, and was a great financial success. It is now a rare book; a correspondent in _Notes and Queries_ mentions one sold in Philadelphia for fifty-two dollars.

In 1828, the Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge took the almanac in hand. Then the Stationers’ Company, perceiving that the day of ignorance was dying and that decency would pay, issued a really excellent one, called _The Englishman_. Yet superstition dies hard. Only sixty years ago, the popular feeling was tested by leaving out of Moore’s almanac that mysterious column showing the influence of the moon on the different parts of the body. But the editors, being prudent men, only issued one hundred thousand copies of this emendation, and the result showed their wisdom. The omission was at once detected and resented; nearly the whole issue was returned to the publishers, and they were compelled to reprint the column, in order to retain their popularity.

On the Repeal of the Stamp Act in 1834, almanacs started on their course unfettered. One of the few that now deal in prognostications of a political kind is Zadkiel’s. The comic almanac is a purely modern feature of the little book—the pleasant wrinkle added by the nineteenth century. Cruikshank, and those witty clever souls who were the original staff of _Punch_, began the laugh, which America in several publications of this kind has re-echoed. And it is hard to say where this pushing, progressive, irresistible little book will not go. The divine, the lawyer, the physician, the merchant, have all their special almanacs. There are nautical, military, and literary almanacs. We cannot buy a box of note-paper but we find one in it; our perfumer sends it to us scented; our newspaper gives us one illustrated. With such a cosmopolitan temper, and such a universal adaptability, it may yet become the year-book of all nations, and the annual balance-sheet of the world’s progress.

TWO DAYS IN A LIFETIME.

A STORY IN EIGHT CHAPTERS.