Chapter VIII

The gipsies came no more. The fogs came no more. The fever came no more; at least, in such a form as to threaten the general safety. Where it still lingered, it was about those only who deserved it,—in any small farm-house, where the dung-yard was too near the house; and in some cottage where the slatternly inmates did not mind a green puddle or choked ditch within reach of their noses. More dwellings arose, as the fertility of the land increased, and invited a higher kind of tillage; and among the prettiest of them was one which stood in the corner,—the most sunny corner,—of Woodruffe’s paddock. Harry Hardiman and his wife and child lived there, and the cottage was Woodruffe’s property.

Yet Woodruffe’s rent had been raised; and pretty rapidly. He was now paying eight pounds per acre for his garden-ground, and half that for what was out of the limits of the garden. He did not complain of it; for he was making money fast. His skill and industry deserved this; but skill and industry could not have availed without opportunity. His ground once allowed to show what it was worth, he treated it well; and it answered well to the treatment. By the railway, he obtained what manure he wanted from the town; and he sent it back by the railway to town in the form of crisp celery and salads, wholesome potatoes and greens, luscious strawberries, and sweet and early peas. He knew that a Surrey gardener had made his ground yield a profit of two hundred and twenty pounds per acre. He thought that, with his inferior market, he should do well to make his yield one hundred and fifty pounds per acre; and this, by close perseverance, he attained. He could have done it more easily if he had enjoyed good health; but he never enjoyed good health again. His rheumatism had fixed itself too firmly to be entirely removed; and, for many days in the year, he was compelled to remain within doors, or to saunter about in the sun, seeing his boys and Harry at work, but unable to help them.

From the time that Allan’s work became worth wages, in addition to his subsistence, his father let him rent half a rood of the garden-ground for three years, saying—

“I limit it to three years, my boy, because that term is long enough for you to show what you can do. After three years, I shall not be able to spare the ground, at any rent. If you fail, you have no business to rent ground. If you succeed, you will have money in your pocket wherewith to hire land elsewhere. Now you have to show us what you can do.”

“Yes, father,” was Allan’s short but sufficient reply.

It was observed by the family that, from this time forward, Allan’s eye was on every plot of ground in the neighbourhood which could, by possibility, ever be offered for hire: yet did his attention never wander from that which was already under his hand. And that which was so great an object to him became a sort of pursuit to the whole family. Moss guarded Allan’s frames, and made more and more prodigious scarecrows. Their father gave his very best advice. Becky, who was no longer allowed, as a regular thing, to work in the garden, found many a spare half-hour for hoeing and weeding, and trimming and tying up, in Allan’s beds; and Abby found, as she sat in her little school, that she could make nets for his fruit trees. It was thus no wonder that, when a certain July day in the second year arrived, the whole household was in a state of excitement, because it was a sort of crisis in Allan’s affairs.

Though breakfast was early that morning, Becky and Allan and Moss were spruce in their best clothes. A hamper stood at the door, and Allan was packing in another, which had no lid, two or three flower-pots, which presented a glorious show of blossom. Abby was putting a new ribbon on her sister’s straw bonnet; and Harry was in waiting to carry up the hampers to the station. It was the day of the Horticultural Show at the town. Woodruffe had been too unwell to think of going till this morning; but now the sight of the preparations, and the prospect of a warm day, inspired him, and he thought he would go. At last he went, and they were gone. Abby never went up to the station: nobody ever asked her to go there; not even her own child, who perhaps had not thought of the possibility of it. But when the train was starting, she stood at the upper window with her child, and held him so that he might lean out, and see the last carriage disappear, as it swept round the curve. After that the day seemed long, though Harry came up at his dinner-hour to say what he thought of the great gooseberry in particular, and of everything else that Allan had carried with him. It was holiday time, and there was no school to fill up the day. Before the evening, the child became restless, and Abby fell into low spirits, as she was apt to do when left long alone; so that Harry stopped suddenly at the door when he was rushing in to announce that the train was within sight.

“Shall I take the child, Miss?” said Harry. (He always called her “Miss.”) “I will carry him——But, sure, here they come! Here comes Moss,—ready to roll down the steps! My opinion is that there’s a prize.”

Moss was called back by a voice which everybody obeyed. Allan should himself tell his sister the fortune of the day, their father said.

There were two prizes, one of which was for the wonderful plate of gooseberries; and at this news Harry nodded, and declared himself anything but surprised. If that gooseberry had not carried the day, there would have been partiality in the judges, that was all; and nobody could suppose such a thing as that. Yet Harry could have told, if put upon his honour, that he was rather disappointed that everything that Allan carried had not gained a prize. When he mentioned one or two, his master told him he was unreasonable; and he supposed he was.

Allan laid down on the table, for his sister’s full assurance, his sovereign, and his half-sovereign, and his tickets. She turned away rather abruptly, and seemed to be looking whether the kettle was near boiling for tea. Her father went up to her; and on his first whispered words, the sob broke forth which made all look round.

“I was thinking of one, too, my dear, that I wish was here at this moment. I can feel for you, my dear.”

“But you don’t know—you don’t know—you never knew——.” She could not go on.

“What don’t I know, my dear?”

“That he constantly blamed himself for saying anything to bring you here. He said you had never prospered from the hour you came, and now——”

And now Woodruffe could not speak, as the past came fresh upon him. In a few moments, however, he rallied, saying,

“But we must consider Allan. He must not think that his success makes us sad.”

Allan declared that it was not about gaining the prizes that he was chiefly glad. It was because it was now proved what a fair field he had before him. There was nothing that might not be done with such a soil as they had to deal with now.

Harry was quite of this opinion. There were more and more people set to work upon the soil all about them; and the more it was worked the more it yielded. He never saw a place of so much promise. And if it had a bad name in regard to healthiness, he was sure that was unfair,—or no longer fair. He and his were full of health and happiness, as they hoped to see everybody else in time; and, for his part, if he had all England before him, or the whole world, to choose a place to live in, he would choose the very place he was in, and the very cottage; and the very ground to work on that had produced such a gooseberry and such strawberries as he had seen that day.

THE SINGER.

Unto the loud acclaim that rose
To greet her as she came,
She bent with lowly grace that seemed
Such tribute to disclaim;
With arms meek folded on her breast
And drooping head, she stood;
Then raised a glance that seemed to plead
For youth and womanhood;
A soft, beseeching smile, a look,
As if all silently
The kindness to her heart she took,
And put the homage by.

She stood dejected then, methought,
A Captive, though a Queen,
Before the throng, when sudden passed
A change across her mien.
Unto her full, dilating eye,
Unto her slender hand,
There came a light of sovereignty,
A gesture of command:
And, to her lip, an eager flow
Of song, that seemed to bear
Her soul away on rushing wings
Unto its native air;
Her eye was fixed; her cheek flushed bright
With power; she seemed to call
On spirits that around her flocked,
The radiant Queen of all;
There was no pride upon her brow,
No tumult in her breast;
Her soaring soul had won its home,
And smiled there as at rest;
She felt no more those countless eyes
Upon her; she had gained
A region where they troubled not
The joy she had attained!
Now, now, she spoke her native speech,
An utterance fraught with spells
To wake the echoes of the heart
Within their slumber-cells;
For at her wild and gushing strain,
The spirit was led back
By windings of a silver chain,
On many a long-lost track;
And many a quick unbidden sigh,
And starting tear, revealed
How surely at her touch the springs
Of feeling were unsealed;
They who were always loved, seemed now
Yet more than ever dear;
Yet closer to the heart they came,
That ever were so near:
And, trembling to the silent lips,
As if they ne’er had changed
Their names, returned in kindness back
The severed and estranged;
And in the strain, like those that fall
On wanderers as they roam,
The Exiled Spirit found once more
Its country and its home!

She ceased, yet on her parted lips
A happy smile abode,
As if the sweetness of her song
Yet lingered whence it flowed;
But, for a while, her bosom heaved,
She was the same no more,
The light and spirit fled; she stood
As she had stood before;
Unheard, unheeded to her ear
The shouts of rapture came,
A voice had once more power to thrill,
That only spoke her name.
Unseen, unheeded at her feet,
Fell many a bright bouquet;
A single flower, in silence given,
Was once more sweet than they;
_Her_ heart had with her song returned
To days for ever gone,
Ere Woman’s gift of Fame was her’s,
The Many for the One.

E’en thus; O, Earth, before thee
Thy Poet Singers stand,
And bear the soul upon their songs
Unto its native land.
And even thus, with loud acclaim,
The praise of skill, of art,
Is dealt to those who only speak
The language of the heart!
While they who love and listen best,
Can little guess or know
The wounds that from the Singer’s breast
Have bid such sweetness flow;
They know not mastership must spring
From conflict and from strife.
“These, these are but the songs they sing;”
They are the Singer’s life!

A LITTLE PLACE IN NORFOLK.

Theodore Hook’s hero, Jack Bragg, boasted of his “little place in Surrey.” The Guardians of the Guiltcross poor have good reason to be proud of _their_ little place in Norfolk. When the Guiltcross Union was formed, Mr. Thomas Rackham, master of the “house,” set aside a small estate for the purpose of teaching the Workhouse children how to cultivate land. This pauper’s patrimony consisted of exactly one acre one rood and thirty-five poles of very rough “country.” A certain number of the boys worked upon it so diligently, that it was soon found expedient to enlarge the domain, by joining to it three acres of “hills and holes,” which in that state were quite useless for agricultural purposes. Two dozen spades were purchased at the outset to commence digging the land with, and six wheel-barrows were made by a pauper, who was a wheelwright; pickaxes and other tools were also fashioned with the assistance of the porter, who was a blacksmith. By means of these tools, and the labour of some fourteen sturdy boys, the whole of this barren territory was levelled, the top sward being carefully kept uppermost. We copy these and the other details from Mr. Rackham’s report to the Guardians, for the information and encouragement of other Workhouse masters, who may have the will and the power to “go and do likewise.”

It appears then, that by the autumn of 1846 one acre of the new land was planted with wheat, and two roods twenty three poles of the home land—the one acre one rood and thirty-five poles mentioned above—was also planted with wheat, making in all one acre two roods and twenty three poles under wheat for 1847. This land produced eighteen coombs three pecks beyond a sufficient quantity reserved for seed for the wheat crop of 1848. The remainder of the land was planted with Scotch kale, cabbages, potatoes, &c., &c., which began coming into use in March, 1847. The entire domain is now under fruitful cultivation.

“The quantity of vegetables actually consumed by the paupers according to the dietary tables only,” says Mr. Rackham, “is charged in the provision accounts. Persons acquainted with domestic management and the produce of land are aware that, where vegetables are purchased, a great deal is paid for that which is useless for cooking purposes. In the present case this refuse is carefully preserved and used for feeding pigs, which were first kept in April 1848. This accounts for the large amount of pork fatted, as compared with the small quantity of corn and pollard used for the pigs. The leaves, &c., not eaten by the pigs, become valuable manure. If the Guardians would consent to keep cows, different roots and vegetables might be grown to feed them with; and these would produce an increased quantity of manure, whilst an increased quantity of manure would afford the means of raising a larger amount of roots and green crops, and secure a more extended routine in cropping the land. This would add to the profit of the land account, and give much additional comfort to the aged people and the young children in the workhouse.” But Mr. Rackham is ambitious of a dairy, chiefly for the training of dairy-maids: who would become doubly acceptable as farm servants.

Besides other advantages, the experiment presents one dear to the minds of rate-payers—it tends to reduce the rates. The average profit per annum on each of the acres has been fifteen pounds. Here are the sums:—The profit of the first year was sixty pounds two shillings and fourpence farthing; second year, fifty-one pounds seventeen shillings and sixpence; to Christmas, 1849, three-quarters of a year, sixty-seven pounds two shillings and one penny farthing; total, one hundred and seventy-nine pounds one shilling and elevenpence halfpenny.

As at the Swinton and other pauper schools, a variety of industrial arts are taught in the Guiltcross Union house, and the fact that sixty of the boys and girls who have been trained in it are now earning their own living, is some evidence of the success of the system pursued there.

Of one of the cultivators of this “little place in Norfolk” (not we believe an inmate of the Union), an agreeable account was published in a letter from Miss Martineau lately in the Morning Chronicle. It shows to what good account a knowledge of small farming may be turned. That lady having two acres of land, at Ambleside, in Westmoreland, which she wished to cultivate, sent to Mr. Rackham to recommend her a farm servant. The man arrived, and his Guiltcross experience in cultivating small “estates” proved of essential service. He has managed to keep two cows and a pig, besides himself and a wife, on these narrow confines; for Miss Martineau calculates that the produce in milk, butter, vegetables, &c., obtained from his skill and economy for herself and household, quite pays his wages. This is her account of him:—

“He is a man of extraordinary industry and cleverness, as well as rigid honesty. His ambition is roused; for he knows that the success of the experiment mainly depends on himself. He is living in comfort, and laying by a little money, and he looks so happy that it would truly grieve me to have to give up; though I have no doubt that he would immediately find work at good wages in the neighbourhood. His wife and he had saved enough to pay their journey hither out of Norfolk. I gave him twelve shillings a week all the year round. His wife earns something by occasionally helping in the house, by assisting in my washing, and by taking in washing when she can get it. I built them an excellent cottage of the stone of the district, for which they pay one shilling and sixpence per week. They know that they could not get such another off the premises for five pounds a year.”

This is all very interesting and gratifying, but there are two sides to every account. Supposing the system of agricultural and other industrial training were pursued in all Unions in the country (and if it be a good system, it ought to be so followed), then, instead of boys and girls being turned out every three years in sixties, there would be accessions of farmers, tailors, carpenters, dairy-maids, and domestic servants every year to be reckoned by thousands. Supposing that every fourteen of the agricultural section of the community had been earning fifteen pounds a year profit per acre, we should then have a large amount of produce brought into the market in competition with that of the independent labourer. When, again, the multitude of boys had passed their probation, themselves would be thrown in the labour market (as the sixty Guiltcross boys already have been), so that their older and weaker competitors would, in their turn, be obliged to retire to the Workhouse, not only to their own ruin, but to the exceeding mortification of the entire body of parochial rate-payers. The axiom, that when there is a glut in a market any additional supply of the same commodity is an evil, applies most emphatically to labour. In this view, the adoption of the industrial training system for paupers and criminals would be an evil; and an evil of the very description it is meant to cure—a pauperising evil.

The easy and natural remedy is a combination of colonisation, with the industrial training system. In all our colonies ordinary, merely animal labour is eagerly coveted, and skilled labour is at a high premium. There a competition _for_, instead of against, all sorts of labour is keenly active. Yet great as is the demand, it is curious that no comprehensive system for the supply of skilled labour has yet been adopted. Except the excellent farm school of the Philanthropic Society at Red Hill, no attempt is made to _teach_ colonisation. The majority of even voluntary colonists are persons utterly ignorant of colonial wants. They have never learned to dig or to delve. Many clever artists have emigrated to Australia, where pictures are not wanted; not a few emigrant ladies, of undoubted talents in Berlin work and crochet, have always trembled at the approach of a cow, and never made so much as a pat of butter in their lives. Still they succeed in the end; but only after much misery and mortification, which would have been saved them if they had been better prepared for colonial exigencies. The same thing happens with the humbler classes. Boys, and even men, have been sent out to Canada and the Southern Colonies (especially from the Irish Unions), utterly unfitted for their new sphere of life and labour.

If, therefore, the small beginnings at Guiltcross be imitated in other Unions (and it is much to be wished that they should be), they will be made to grow into large results. But these results must be applied not to clog and glut the labour market at home; but to supply the labour market abroad.

If to every Union were attached an agricultural training school, upon a plan that would offer legitimate inducements for the pupils to emigrate when old enough and skilled enough to obtain their own livelihood, this country would, we are assured, at no distant date be de-pauperised.

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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

Page Changed from Changed to

565 the deuce—if the brand—the the deuce—if the brandy—the
alcohol-and-water alcohol-and-water

● Fixed typos; non-standard spelling and dialect retained. ● Renumbered footnotes. ● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_. ● The caret (^) is used to indicate superscript, whether applied to a single character (as in 2^d) or to an entire expression (as in 1^{st}).