Chapter I: Front Matter

“_Familiar in their Mouths as HOUSEHOLD WORDS._”—SHAKESPEARE.

HOUSEHOLD WORDS.
A WEEKLY JOURNAL.

CONDUCTED BY CHARLES DICKENS.

N^{o.} 11.] SATURDAY, JUNE 8, 1850. [PRICE 2_d._

FROM THE RAVEN IN THE HAPPY FAMILY.

Halloa!

You _won’t_ let me begin that Natural History of you, eh? You _will_ always be doing something or other, to take off my attention? Now, you have begun to argue with the Undertakers, have you? What next!

Ugh! you are a nice set of fellows to be discussing, at this time of day, whether you shall countenance that humbug any longer. “Performing” funerals, indeed! I have heard of performing dogs and cats, performing goats and monkeys, performing ponies, white-mice, and canary-birds; but, performing drunkards at so much a day, guzzling over your dead, and throwing half of you into debt for a twelvemonth, beats all I ever heard of. Ha, ha!

The other day there was a person “went and died” (as our Proprietor’s wife says) close to our establishment. Upon my beak I thought I should have fallen off my perch, you made me laugh so, at the funeral!

Oh my crop and feathers, what a scene it was! _I_ never saw the Owl so charmed. It was just the thing for him.

First of all, two dressed-up fellows came—trying to look sober, but they couldn’t do it—and stuck themselves outside the door. There they stood, for hours, with a couple of crutches covered over with drapery: cutting their jokes on the company as they went in, and breathing such strong rum and water into our establishment over the way, that the Guinea Pig (who has a poor little head) was drunk in ten minutes. You are so proud of your humanity. Ha, ha! As if a pair of respectable crows wouldn’t have done it much better?

By-and-bye, there came a hearse and four, and then two carriages and four; and on the tops of ’em, and on all the horses’ heads, were plumes of feathers, hired at so much per plume; and everything, horses and all, was covered over with black velvet, till you couldn’t see it. Because there were not feathers enough yet, there was a fellow in the procession carrying a board of ’em on his head, like Italian images; and there were about five-and-twenty or thirty other fellows (all hot and red in the face with eating and drinking) dressed up in scarves and hatbands, and carrying—shut-up fishing-rods, I believe—who went draggling through the mud, in a manner that I thought would be the death of me; while the “Black Jobmaster”—that’s what he calls himself—who had let the coaches and horses to a furnishing undertaker, who had let ’em to a haberdasher, who had let ’em to a carpenter, who had let ’em to the parish-clerk, who had let ’em to the sexton, who had let ’em to the plumber painter and glazier, who had got the funeral to do, looked out of the public-house window at the corner, with his pipe in his mouth, and said—for I heard him—“that was the sort of turn-out to do a gen-teel party credit.” That! As if any two-and-sixpenny masquerade, tumbled into a vat of blacking, wouldn’t be quite as solemn, and immeasurably cheaper!

Do you think I don’t know you? You’re mistaken if you think so. But perhaps you do. Well! Shall I tell you what I know? Can you bear it? Here it is then. The Black Jobmaster is right. The root of all this, is the gen-teel party.

You don’t mean to deny it, I hope? You don’t mean to tell me that this nonsensical mockery isn’t owing to your gentility. Don’t I know a Raven in a Cathedral Tower, who has often heard your service for the Dead? Don’t I know that you almost begin it with the words, “We brought nothing into this world, and it is certain that we can carry nothing out”? Don’t I know that in a monstrous satire on those words, you carry your hired velvets, and feathers, and scarves, and all the rest of it, to the edge of the grave, and get plundered (and serve you right!) in every article, because you WILL be gen-teel parties to the last?

Eh? Think a little! Here’s the plumber painter and glazier come to take the funeral order which he is going to give to the sexton, who is going to give it to the clerk, who is going to give it to the carpenter, who is going to give it to the haberdasher, who is going to give it to the furnishing undertaker, who is going to divide it with the Black Jobmaster. “Hearse and four, Sir?” says he. “No, a pair will be sufficient.” “I beg your pardon, Sir, but when we buried Mr. Grundy at number twenty, there was four on ’em, Sir; I think it right to mention it.” “Well, perhaps there had better be four.” “Thank you, Sir. Two coaches and four, Sir, shall we say?” “No. Coaches and pair.” “You’ll excuse my mentioning it, Sir, but pairs to the coaches, and four to the hearse, would have a singular appearance to the neighbours. When we put four to anything, we always carry four right through.” “Well! say four!” “Thank you, Sir. Feathers of course?” “No. No feathers. They’re absurd.” “Very good, Sir. _No_ feathers?” “No.” “_Very_ good, Sir. We _can_ do fours without feathers, Sir, but it’s what we never do. When we buried Mr. Grundy, there was feathers, and—I only throw it out, Sir—Mrs. Grundy might think it strange.” “Very well! Feathers!” “Thank you, Sir,”—and so on.

_Is_ it and so on, or not, through the whole black job of jobs, because of Mrs. Grundy and the gen-teel party?

I suppose you’ve thought about this? I suppose you’ve reflected on what you’re doing, and what you’ve done? When you read about those poisonings for the burial society money, you consider how it is that burial societies ever came to be, at all? You perfectly understand—you who are not the poor, and ought to set ’em an example—that, besides making the whole thing costly, you’ve confused their minds about this burying, and have taught ’em to confound expence and show, with respect and affection. You know all you’ve got to answer for, you gen-teel parties? I’m glad of it.

I believe it’s only the monkeys who are servile imitators, is it? You reflect! To be sure you do. So does Mrs. Grundy—and she casts reflections—don’t she?

What animals are those who scratch shallow holes in the ground in crowded places, scarcely hide their dead in ’em, and become unnaturally infected by their dead, and die by thousands? Vultures, I suppose. I think you call the Vulture an obscene bird? I don’t consider him agreeable, but I never caught him misconducting himself in that way.

My honourable friend, the dog—I call him my honourable friend in your Parliamentary sense, because I hate him—turns round three times before he goes to sleep. I ask him why? He says he don’t know; but he always does it. Do _you_ know how you ever came to have that board of feathers carried on a fellow’s head? Come. You’re a boastful race. Show yourselves superior to the dog, and tell me!

Now, I don’t love many people; but I do love the undertakers. I except them from the censure I pass upon you in general. They know you so well, that I look upon ’em as a sort of Ravens. They are so certain of your being gen-teel parties, that they stick at nothing. They are sure they’ve got the upper hand of you. Our proprietor was reading the paper, only last night, and there was an advertisement in it from a sensitive and libelled undertaker, to wit, that the allegation “that funerals were unnecessarily expensive, was an insult to his professional brethren.” Ha! ha! Why he knows he has you on the hip. It’s nothing to him that their being unnecessarily expensive is a fact within the experience of all of you as glaring as the sun when there’s not a cloud. He is certain that when you want a funeral “performed,” he has only to be down upon you with Mrs. Grundy, to do what he likes with you—and then he’ll go home, and laugh like a Hyæna.

I declare (supposing I wasn’t detained against my will by our proprietor) that, if I had any arms, I’d take the undertakers to ’em! There’s another, in the same paper, who says they’re libelled, in the accusation of having disgracefully disturbed the meeting in favour of what you call your General Interment Bill. Our establishment was in the Strand, that night. There was no crowd of undertakers’ men there, with circulars in their pockets, calling on ’em to come in coloured clothes to make an uproar; it wasn’t undertakers’ men who got in with forged orders to yell and screech; it wasn’t undertakers’ men who made a brutal charge at the platform, and overturned the ladies like a troop of horse. Of course not. _I_ know all about it.

But—and lay this well to heart, you Lords of the creation, as you call yourselves!—it _is_ these undertakers’ men to whom, in the last trying, bitter grief of life, you confide the loved and honoured forms of your sisters, mothers, daughters, wives. It _is_ to these delicate gentry, and to their solemn remarks, and decorous behaviour, that you entrust the sacred ashes of all that has been the purest to you, and the dearest to you, in this world. Don’t improve the breed! Don’t change the custom! Be true to my opinion of you, and to Mrs. Grundy!

I nail the black flag of the black Jobmaster to our cage—figuratively speaking—and I stand up for the gen-teel parties. So (but from different motives) does the Owl. You’ve got a chance, by means of that bill I’ve mentioned—by the bye, I call my own a General Interment Bill, for it buries everything it gets hold of—to alter the whole system; to avail yourselves of the results of all improved European experience; to separate death from life; to surround it with everything that is sacred and solemn, and to dissever it from everything that is shocking and sordid. You won’t read the bill? You won’t dream of helping it? You won’t think of looking at the evidence on which it’s founded—Will you? No. That’s right!

Gen-teel parties, step forward, if you please, to the rescue of the black Jobmaster! The rats are with you. I am informed that they have unanimously passed a resolution that the closing of the London churchyards will be an insult to their professional brethren, and will oblige ’em “to fight for it.” The Parrots are with you. The Owl is with you. The Raven is with you. No General Interments. Carrion for ever!

Ha, ha! Halloa!

HOW WE WENT FISHING IN CANADA.

There were three of us. Our purpose was fishing, in Canadian fashion, _under_ the ice, and our destination was the township of New Ireland, distant about seventy miles from our starting point, Quebec, and situated about midway between the St. Lawrence and the American line. Our conveyance was a stout, commodious, yet light, and not inelegant sleigh, with seats for four, and plentifully supplied with buffalo robes, which are dressed so as to be as soft as blankets—useful in a temperature of twenty degrees below Zero, and ornamental from their fringes, which were garnished with various devices, all of which had some reference to the wild denizens of the forest. Under each seat was a box, which we stowed with a goodly supply of creature comforts and a few books, thus prudently making provision against the contingencies of privation and _ennui_. Our locomotive power consisted of two small but very spirited horses, which were neatly harnessed, with a string of merry sleigh bells dangling from the girths of each.

In this comfortable condition we in due time arrived at “Richardson’s,” one of the most celebrated hostelries in the seignory of St. Giles.

Here we put up for the night, tempted to do so by the superiority of the accommodation, especially as we had but an easy day’s journey before us for the morrow. During the morning it was so intensely cold that our breath formed thick crusts of ice on the shawls which we had round our necks, whilst the bushy whiskers of our companion Perroque were pendant with tiny icicles. As our horses warmed, almost every hair on their backs formed the nucleus of a separate icicle, which, by-and-bye, made them all stand erect, and caused the animals to look more like porcupines than horses. About midday it began to moderate, and by nightfall the temperature had risen considerably. The wind had by this time set in, with a steady current from the east. This, with the change of temperature, made us somewhat uneasy as to the weather; but our hopes rose when we found that it was yet a brilliant starlight about 10 o’clock, when we retired to rest. But even then the coming tempest was not far off; and in about two hours afterwards the wind was howling fearfully about the house, which it shook to its very foundations, whilst the driving snow pattered against the windows as if clouds of steel filings had been driven against them. I was soon soothed to sleep by the wild lullaby of the winter night, and did not awake again until eight in the morning, when I was called by a servant, who entered my room with a lighted candle in her hand. I should otherwise have been in darkness, for the snow had, over night, completely blocked up my window. My room was on the ground-floor, and looked to the east. Against that side of the house, the snow had been piled by the wind in an enormous wreath, which partly encroached upon the windows of the floor above. Blungle, my other friend, who had recently arrived from the region of Russell Square, London, slept in a room contiguous to mine, but he refused to get up, declaring that although it was still the middle of the night, he was too wide awake to be humbugged. It was not until breakfast was sent in to him, and he found by the state of his appetite that it must have been several hours since he had supped, that he condescended to examine his window, which discovered to him the true state of the case.

The wind was still high, and although the snow had ceased to fall, the tempest abated nothing of its fury. The dry snow was driven like light sand before the blast, until the air was thick with it. Neither man nor beast was astir, every living thing taking shelter from the storm. By-and-bye, the heavy pall overhead began to rend, and a few faint gleams of sunshine would occasionally light up the wild turmoil and confusion that raged below. About ten o’clock, the clouds were rolled away, and the sun shone steadily out. For a full hour afterwards the wind maintained its strength, but by noon had so far abated, that the drift had almost ceased.

But, by this time, the roads had become utterly impracticable. They were, indeed, obliterated; the snow lying, in some places, lightly upon them; and in others, forming huge swelling wreaths, either across or along them. We were eager to go forward, but were dissuaded by our host from attempting it, till the afternoon, when the road might be at least practicable. On such occasions the law requires the owners of land to “break the roads” passing through or by their respective properties; and by two o’clock every sleigh in St. Giles’s was out for the purpose. As soon as a track was opened, we prepared to start. The road for the first quarter of a mile had been well sheltered; and as the evergreens were still standing, there was but little difficulty in keeping the old track, which afforded a firm footing for the horses. But beyond that the evergreens had been prostrated and buried in the snow; and it was evident that our pioneers had floundered in the midst of difficulties. Such was presently our own fate, our horses having plunged into the soft snow, where it was fully six feet deep, from which we had with no little difficulty and labour to dig them out. This quenched our enthusiasm, and we returned to the inn, where we remained for another night.

Next morning we were enabled to proceed, though but slowly, on our way. Leaving St. Giles’s, we entered St. Sylvestre, the last, on this road, of the belt of French seignories lying between the St. Lawrence and the “Townships.” It is almost exclusively inhabited by British settlers. In the townships, Frenchmen are as rare as negroes in Siberia. The first township we came to was that of Leeds; on entering which we found a great change in the whole aspect of the country. From being flat and monotonous it became suddenly varied and undulating, and appeared to consist of a succession of rather lofty ridges, with broad belts of fertile table land at their summit. On gaining the top of the first, we turned to enjoy the prospect which lay behind us. It was really magnificent. The air was so clear and crisp, that almost every object embraced within the distant horizon had a distinct form and outline. The level tract over which we had passed lay extended beneath our feet, stretching for about forty miles to the St. Lawrence. In appearance it was as variegated as a carpet,—the white patches of every shape and size with which it was interspersed indicating the clearances amongst the dark brown woods. The bold and precipitous banks of the St. Lawrence could be traced for miles, whilst here and there the stream itself was visible. The distant city, on its rocky promontory, came out in fine relief against the sky, its tin covered spires glistening in the sunshine like silver pinnacles. A little to the right, the outline of the chain of hills lying behind it, although they were fully sixty miles distant from us, was distinctly visible in the far-off heavens.

On quitting Leeds, our way led chiefly through the woods, the clearances being now the rare exception.

At length we reached the district, or “township,” of New Ireland, which having been settled by immigrants from Maine and New Hampshire, more than forty years ago, is now reckoned one of the wealthiest and most prosperous parts of the country. To one of its well-to-do farmers we had introductions, and took up our quarters. His large and spacious house was built upon a high bank, overlooking one of the smaller lakes, from which our sport was to be derived, because it afforded one of the best fishing grounds in the neighbourhood. Shortly after breakfast (the buck-wheat cakes and pumpkin pie were beyond praise), we prepared for a day’s sport. Our tackle would appear rather odd to English sportsmen: our lines consisted of strong hempen cords, of which we provided ourselves with about a dozen. To each were attached two very large hooks, dressed upon thin whip-cord. We had likewise three axes, and as many chisels of the largest size, attached to handles about six feet long. In addition to these we had a shovel and a broad hoe. They were all stowed into a large hand sleigh, which was dragged to the fishing ground by a servant.

The lake was about three miles long and half-a-mile wide. It lay in a beautiful valley, embossed in the deep and sombre pine woods, which covered the lower grounds. It was one of a series, some of which were smaller and others much larger than itself. For fully five months in the year the surface of each is frozen to the depth of several feet. We started off to skate to the upper end, which was two-and-a-half miles distant. My friend Blungle, not an accomplished skater, made so very false a start, that he was speedily noticed spinning round rapidly on the ice on a pivot, of which his heels and his head formed opposite angles—precisely like a rotatory letter V. Perroque, our French comforter and guide is a perfect Perrot in skates, and performed the most graceful evolutions around our prostrate friend, in a manner that produced a pretty and highly diverting tableau. At last, however, he managed to “feel his feet” better, and we all soon afterwards reached the fishing ground.

The spot selected was close to the head of the lake, where the stream flowing from that immediately above, fell into it. Here the fish are generally attracted by the greater quantity of food there deposited by the stream. In winter they have additional inducements, owing to the greater warmth of the water from the number of springs in the neighbourhood, and to the greater abundance of light which they enjoy through the ice which is here comparatively thin. Indeed, over some of the springs no ice forms during the coldest seasons. Our first care was to make at least half-a-dozen holes in the ice. This sportsman-like operation we commenced with our axes, making each hole about three feet in diameter. When we got down about a foot or so the axes became useless to us, and we had to resort to our chisels, with which we speedily progressed; clearing the holes of the broken ice with the shovel first and afterwards with the hoe. We were not long at work, before we found the utility of the long handles of both hoe and chisels, the ice which we had to perforate being fully three feet thick. There is a legend in the neighbourhood, of an Irishman, who, having forgotten his chisel, very wisely got into the hole which he was cutting, that he might use his axe with better effect; he, of course, kept going down as the hole got deeper and deeper, until, at last, he went down altogether, and, according to the report, made food for the fish he intended to capture.

Things being thus prepared, we baited our hooks with pieces of fat pork, and dropped them into the water—the lines being set in each hole—the other end of each line was attached to the middle of a stick, about six feet in length, so placed, that it could not be dragged into the hole. These we left lying upon the ice, some distance from the holes, so as to give us warning of a bite, and the fish an opportunity of running a little when hooked. The contemplative angler of the Waltonian School has no chance here, for he would be inevitably frozen to an icicle before he obtained so much as a bite. For amusement as well as for warmth, therefore, we skated in the immediate vicinity of our lines, of which we seldom lost sight. The fish, which is a species of pike, and attains a large size, sometimes weighing upwards of thirty pounds, are soon attracted to the spot by the columns of light descending through the apertures in the ice. It is seldom, therefore, that the angler has to remain long in suspense ere some token is afforded him that his labour is not likely to be in vain. A few minutes after the casting of the nets, I happened to approach the hole in which mine were set, and was looking inquisitively into its leaden depths, eager, if possible, to catch a glimpse of what was going on underneath, when suddenly the stick to which one of the lines was attached, was dragged towards the aperture with great velocity, and catching me by the heels, turned poor Blungle’s laugh completely against me; for it laid me at once upon my back, with my legs spanning the hole. I should certainly have gone with it, but that the stick, when the fish came to the end of his run, lay firmly across it, and kept me up. Having risen, I thought it my time, and began to pull at the line. From the power with which I had to contend, however, I found it necessary to have a better foundation than my skates afforded me; so getting upon my knees, I soon brought my captive to light, and deposited him upon the ice. He was a splendid fish, weighing upwards of twenty pounds, and floundered prodigiously for a few minutes. The frost, however, soon tranquilised him, and in about a quarter-of-an-hour he was as hard and brittle as an icicle.

We continued our sport for some time with tolerable success, having, by three o’clock, caught eleven fish, the smallest of which weighed eight pounds. But our pleasures were brought to an untimely period by Blungle, whose ill luck had now passed into a proverb amongst us. Hitherto no fish had favoured his line with so much as the passing compliment of a nibble. He had given up the attempt, and for nearly two hours had been amusing himself by skating up and down the lake. Practice had improved him, and like all beginners, he was proud of his prowess, and was particularly anxious to redeem his lost character for skating by one extraordinary achievement. He had been warned to give what a nautical friend of our host called a “wide berth” to the mouth of the stream which ran into the lake. Bold in the strength of his newly acquired skill, he neglected this advice, and about three o’clock shot rapidly past us in the direction of the stream. In less than a minute there was a loud agonising cry for help.

We looked round. Every vestige of Blungle was invisible, except his head, and that was seen just above the ice, his body being immersed in water. He had ventured too far, and the ice had given way with him. Mirth instantly was changed to the acutest apprehension. In that part, the ice was so weak, that he might have broken it by pressing his arms against it. But this he could not do; for although his toes touched ground, he happened to be standing on the tail of a small bank, off which the water rapidly deepened in one direction. For a moment or two we were perplexed what to do, when it occurred to us that we might turn the hand sleigh to account. Having tied the three chisels with their long handles, firmly together, we tied the long pole thus furnished, to the sleigh, and pushed it towards him; Perroque putting a large piece of pork upon the sleigh, that he might bite at it. He hesitated for some time to relinquish his secure foothold; but at length, seeing that it was his only chance, and being terrified by a great fish which came up and stared him hungrily in the face, he seized the sleigh, which we then pulled towards us, and got safely to land. It crushed and broke the weak ice, but rose upon that which was stronger, dragging Blungle with it.

For some time he lay where we landed him, and would soon have been as stiff as the fish, had we not raised him to his feet, when he immediately started for the house. We followed him as soon as we could, dragging our tackle, implements, and spoils along with us, and were not long in overtaking him; for before he had got half-way down the lake, his clothes had become quite stiff, and he looked like a man in a cracked glass case. On reaching the house, it was with difficulty we undressed him and put him to bed; when by dint of warmth without, and brandy administered within, we gradually thawed him. He did not afterwards join our fishing; but confined himself to improving his skill in skating in the centre of the lake.

We remained altogether four days, by which time we had caught as many fish as we had room for in our sleigh. We then bade adieu to our kind host and his family, and after a pleasant journey, arrived towards the evening of the second day, at Quebec. The fish, which were still frozen and in excellent condition, we distributed in presents to our friends.

A WISH.

Oh, that I were the Spirit of a Plant,
Rear’d in Imagination’s evergreen world,—
To lift my head above the meadow grass,
And strike my roots, far-spread and intervolved,
Deep as the Central Heart, wherefrom to taste
The springs of infinite being! From that source
What pregnant fermentations would arise;
What blossom, fruit, perfume, and influence;
To purify mankind’s destructive blood,—
So full of life and elevating powers—
So cloy’d and clogg’d for exercise of good.

THE BLACK DIAMONDS OF ENGLAND.