sergeant made a very sensible remark, which put an end to our measures for the time. He observed that we were by no means certain of the fact regarding the common, which was indeed the case. But now, sir, we can proceed on your authority.”
“Remember,” said my father, “that I know no more than that the act is likely to be obtained, and——” “True, sir; very true: but we must bestir ourselves now or never.”
“Observe also, Carey, that the reason why I do not countenance your meeting is, that I believe it to be for the interest of Brooke and of every person in it that Brooke common should be cultivated.”
“Indeed, sir! Well, as Tom Webster says, there is no end to varieties of opinion in this strange world; and where there is a difference, discussion is a very good thing.”
“I am quite of Tom Webster’s opinion there, Carey; and therefore I shall always be ready to explain the grounds of my opinion to any one who cares to know them; and I am equally ready to hear any defence of the other side of the question.”
“Why, then, if I may ask, sir, do you refuse to attend our meeting?”
“Because I understood that the object of the meeting is not to discuss the question of inclosing waste lands, but to petition Parliament against the measure in our own case.”
“Exactly so. Tom Webster said nothing about a public meeting for the sake of mere argument.”
“Probably not. Besides, your evening conversations would answer the purpose as well, every man in Brooke being present, I believe. Only I suppose you are all on one side of the question.”
“With the exception of the sergeant, sir; and he is so quiet, that little could be made out of his opposition.”
“His quietness speaks in favour of his opinions to my mind,” observed my father; “for he is not too indolent or too timid to say what he thinks.
He is not afraid of standing alone, is he?”
“O dear, no, sir! Far from it. He was a brave soldier, and does not know what cowardice is, one way or another. I hope we all approve frankness and fair play; and therefore, sir, if I have your leave, I will declare to him for his encouragement that you are on his side, and will represent to him, as faithfully as I can, the views which you have done me the honour to explain.”
“I was not aware,” said my father, laughing, “that I had put you in possession of my views. They are no secret, however, and every one may know them who wishes it.”
With a compliment to my father’s condescension, the barber withdrew.
CHAPTER II.
GEORGE GRAY’S WAY OF LIVING.
We happened about this time to want an errand-boy, and looked round among the cottagers’ families to see who were the poorest or the most burdened with young children, that we might offer the place where it would be most acceptable. My brothers and I were willing to teach reading and writing to the lad that should be chosen, for there was no chance of his having learned so much beforehand; and my mother hoped she should have patience to bear with the dulness and awkwardness common to most of the children of the village, and to train him to be not only an honest, but an intelligent servant.
My mother went with us one day to the cottage of George Gray, a labourer, who had eight children, and but small wages to maintain them upon, and who would probably be very glad to send his eldest boy to service.
The children were, as usual, at play near the cottage. Billy, the eldest, was mounted on a donkey, while three or four of the little ones were attempting to drive the animal on by beating him with sticks and bunches of furze.
“Do look at that stupid animal,” cried Frederick. “Why does he not canter away with the boy instead of standing to be beaten in that manner?”
“He is heavily clogged,” said my mother.
Before the words were spoken, Frederick and Arthur were off at full speed, crying, “Holla! holla! down with your sticks. How can you beat the poor animal so when you see he is clogged, and can’t move a step with any one on his back?”
“He’ll go well enough sometimes,” said one of the children, raising his bunch of furze for another blow.
“Stop!”—cried Arthur. “Don’t you see that if he moves a step, down goes his head, and the rider slips off.”
One would have thought the donkey knew what was passing; for the next time he was touched, he stooped his head, kicked his hind-feet high in the air, and threw Billy to some distance. Away scampered the tormentors: my brothers laughed, and Billy got up whimpering and ashamed.
“Well, Billy,” said my mother, “you have had riding enough for to-day; and to-morrow you will remember that donkeys cannot run with their legs tied.”
We left him hiding his face and rubbing his knees. The eldest girl was sitting on the step of the door, hushing the baby to sleep. Three or four others were making mud-pies just under the dunghill. Hannah Gray, their mother, was in the cottage, setting out the table for dinner; for it was near one o’clock. The potatoes, which formed their daily meal, were boiling on the fire.
In answer to my mother’s inquiry how all went on at home, she answered that they were much as usual; that was, poorly off enough; for they had many mouths to fill, and but little to do it with. My mother thought that so fine-grown and healthy-looking as the children were, some of them might be able to bring in a little money. Their mother explained that the boys cut firing on the common and drove home the cow, and that Peggy nursed the baby. But she did not see how they could do anything more profitable. They were too young yet to work much, and would have hardship enough, poor things, when they grew up.—My mother believed that children thought it no hardship to be employed, but were proud to be useful, and often found their work as amusing as their play.
“Well, ma’am,” said Hannah, “I am sure I do not know what work I could give them that they would like.”
“Will you let me try?” inquired my mother. “I want a boy to clean the shoes and knives, and weed the flower-garden, and run errands; and I will make trial of your eldest boy, if you choose to let him come.”
Hannah dropped a curtsey and looked very thankful, but said she was afraid Billy was not fit to go into a gentleman’s family, he was so unmannerly. My mother said she should not make that an objection, if he was a good boy; knowing as she did that those who wish to please soon learn the way.
Hannah declared the boy to be a good boy, and very sharp-witted, considering how little he had been taught. How to get clothes for him, however, she did not know; for the rent had been paid the day before, and she had not a shilling at command. It was settled that he was to be clothed instead of having money-wages at first.
On inquiring into the condition of his clothes, it appeared that he had neither shoes nor stockings.
“I thought, Mrs. Gray,” said my mother, “that your children never went to church barefoot.”
“They never did till lately, ma’am; but I cannot afford stockings for so many, nor shoes either; and they do not mind going without, poor things!
I was so ashamed, ma’am, and my husband too, the first day they went to church on their bare feet. I thought everybody was taking notice, and I am sure the parson did when he spoke to us in the churchyard. But it can’t be helped.”
“I am not quite sure of that,” replied my mother. “You know I promised that my house-maid should teach your girls to knit; but you have never sent them.”
“Why, ma’am, I am not the less obliged to you; but they have no time, you see. There’s the baby to take care of.”
My mother looked out of the window and saw three little girls still making mud-pies.
“Why should not they be knitting at this moment,” said she, “instead of soiling their clothes and their faces, and learning habits of idleness?”
“Well, to be sure, ma’am, if you think they can learn——” “Let them try. In another twelvemonth, those three girls will be able to knit stockings for the whole family, and the elder boys might earn their George Gray was now seen approaching, talking earnestly with a well-dressed young man. They entered the cottage together.
“Your servant, ma’am,” said George. “This is Tom Webster,” he added, seeing that Tom looked awkward.
“What is the matter, George?” said his wife, who saw by his face that something disagreeable had happened.
“What is the matter!” cried he, flinging his hat into a corner in a passion. “We are going to be ruined; that is what’s the matter. Here have I been working as hard as a horse for years, and we have both been pinching ourselves just to be able to feed the children, and now after all we must go to ruin. We must give up our cow; we must give up our firing: the common is going to be inclosed!”
“Perhaps not, if we hold a meeting,” said Tom.
“Nonsense, Tom!” cried George. “You talk of your meeting; but what will be the use of all we can say, if the rich men and the parliament have settled the matter between them? No, no; the thing is done, and my landlord has got the last rent I shall ever pay.”
Hannah sank down in a chair as she heard these words.
“I hope you will find yourself mistaken there,” observed my mother.
“Have you heard that, in case of the common being inclosed, a piece of ground will be given to every housekeeper in return for his right of common?”
“A very great difference,” he replied, “if the lady be sure of it. I make bold, ma’am, to ask?”
On being assured of the fact, George turned round upon Tom to ask why he had not mentioned it.
“Such a promise as that is always made,” said Tom, “but it is never kept. Besides, if it was, what would you do with a piece of ground? You could not afford to till it.”
“Leave that to me,” said George, brightening up. “I may find my own ways and means to keep my cow after all: so remember I make no promises about the meeting till I am sure I have heard the whole truth about the common.”
Tom Webster went away, looking a little mortified; and, as it was dinner-time, and the potatoes were ready, my mother also took her leave, advising George not to be hasty in blaming public measures before he knew the reasons of them. George promised this all the more readily for hearing what favours were designed for his boy. Billy was called in to receive his first lesson in good manners, and to hear what brilliant fortune was in store for him. He was to get himself measured by the tailor and shoe-maker, and to make his appearance the next Monday morning.
Instead of turning homewards, we prolonged our walk through the lanes to a considerable distance.
When we entered the village, we observed as great a bustle in the street as if it had been the day of the much-talked-of meeting. A crowd was slowly making its way along the middle of the street. At first we thought it was a fight; but there was no scuffling, no rocking of the group backwards and forwards as in a fight, no giving way and closing again as if there was fear of any object within. Before we were near enough to see or hear, Sir H. Withers’s carriage came along the street, and the crowd being obliged to give way to let it pass, we saw in the midst a ballad-singer—a youth with tattered dress and a bundle of papers. As the carriage passed, he raised his voice in song, as if to catch the ears of the coachman and footman who were looking back from the box. Ballad-singers and ballads were sufficiently rare at Brooke to justify their curiosity. They soon heard what made them long to stop and hear more, as they no doubt would have done if the carriage had been empty. The singer bawled after them in something like music, ’Twill be all a humbug To talk of deprivations, When the pheasants roost snug.
In Sir Harry’s new plantations.
“It is about Sir Henry Withers!” cried my brothers; and they were running off to hear more, when my mother called them back and bade them walk quietly beside her, and wait till they got home, to hear the rest of this beautiful song. We were favoured with another verse, however, when the ballad-man saw that we were fairly within hearing. It ran thus: Let your babes cry with cold, For the turf it is sold, And the cows are all gone.—Why, you blockhead!
Fire and food are but trash, So they’re now turned to cash, And they dangle in Malton’s big pocket.
Just as the last quaver on the big pocket died away, we turned into Miss Black’s shop, where I wanted to make a purchase.
Miss Black appeared from an inner room with her usual trailing curtsey, her everlasting brown silk gown, black silk apron, mits on her hands, and scissors at her girdle. The only variation ever observed in her indoor dress was in the cap, which changed its make and the colour of its ribbons every month: the reason of which was, that she wished to be neither in the front nor in the rear of the fashion, and therefore adopted the youngest but one of the fashions for her own. Perhaps this was on the same principle which leads some tender mammas to pet the youngest but one of their tribe, feeling that it is unjust to discard it in favour of a newer, while it is not quite able to take care of itself.
Miss Black reaped the reward of thus bestowing her patronage where it was wanted; for she looked so well in whatever she wore, (from her manner of wearing it,) that her last month’s stocks sold off among the farmers’ families, within a few miles, who could aspire to nothing in the way of dress beyond looking as genteel as Miss Black.—In one respect she did not look like herself this day. There was a shade of care on her brow such as I had never seen before, but on occasion of the illness of a favourite apprentice, and once besides, when there was a report of a change in the silk-duties, and she could not make out whether it would be for her advantage or not. Her private anxieties, however, did not impair her civility to her customers, and she began,— “Great revolutions in these days, ma’am, both in public and private. I am sure I hope Billy Gray will be as sensible as we could wish of his good fortune.”
My mother, laughing, inquired how this piece of domestic news could have travelled so far already. The matter had not been mentioned till two hours before.
“So I understand, ma’am. But Mr. Webster carries news fast, as he has nothing else to do, you know. It was he who told somebody at the bar of the Arms, where Mr. Gregson’s boy was at the time, and Mr. Gregson just stepped across to tell me.—Not quite broad enough, miss? I am afraid I have not any of the same shade of any other breadth: but perhaps you are not exact about the shade.—Great revolutions as I was saying, madam.”
And she sighed.
“Have you taken the alarm too about the common?”
“As to alarm, ma’am, I hardly know what to say, for I do not wish to meddle in politics, and am not clear on the point. But I really am perplexed; for do you know, ma’am, I have had Mr. Webster and Mr. Carey both with me to say that, as the owner of a cow, I must be present at their meeting either in person or by proxy; and you know, ma’am, nothing is so injurious to a business like mine as taking any part in public affairs. On the other hand, these gentlemen assure me that silence will be construed as an affront to the public of this place. If I could only make out how to avoid offending any party——Three yards and a half, miss?
Thank you. Three yards and a half.——Then there is another circumstance, ma’am, which I am not afraid to mention to _you_. Mr. Webster assured me so positively that cockades would be worn at the meeting to mark the opposite parties, and he told me so particularly what the colours would be, that I did not hesitate to write to M—— to order ribbons: and now Mr. Carey insists upon it that there will be no cockades; so that I am quite at a loss whether or not to countermand my order. He says that laurel will be worn by one party and oak by the other; but he does not even know whether there is to be gold-leaf. Now really, this being the day that I must write to M——, I am quite perplexed.” And she looked inquiringly at my mother, who asked her whether she was sure there would be any public meeting at all. This new doubt was very astonishing to Miss Black; but it determined her to countermand the ribbons; and she heaved a deep sigh when the matter was settled, as if a heavy load was removed from her mind.
Carey waylaid us at the door, under pretence of a necessary inquiry, but evidently for the purpose of finding out whether we had heard the ballad. While talking about it, he smirked, and rubbed his hands and checked himself so strangely, as to excite some suspicions in my mother’s mind concerning the authorship. She remarked that it was astonishing that the people at M—— should take so much interest in the affair as to print songs about it, and send somebody to sing them to us.
Carey observed that ballad singers were always ready.——But this man, my mother was sure, was not a regular ballad-singer. Indeed! who was he then?—If my mother might guess, he was a gipsy, hired by some village poet; and that poet she fancied might be Mr. Carey.
Carey smiled, and fidgeted more than ever, while he pretended to disclaim the honour, and vowed that he never wrote a whole song in his life except on wedding occasions; and talked a great deal about his professional avocations, and the muses, and his desire at the same time to guide the public mind, &c.
My mother replied, that, as to the honour, there was none in stringing rhymes, unless they had reason in them; and that she hoped that before he and Webster composed their next joint production, they would make sure that they were “guiding the public mind” in the right track. She urged his calling in the remaining stock of ballads, but he was ready with the answer that every one was sold. This fact and the pleasure he felt in becoming known to us as a poet, supported his self-complacency under my mother’s mortifying remarks; and he looked as smiling as ever when he made his parting bow and tripped away to his shop.
His reports of the conversations under the elm continued for some days to be very interesting. Tom Webster bustled and declaimed, while Sergeant Rayne quietly argued. The light and giddy sung the ballad daily and hourly when they had once caught the tune; while the grave and thoughtful weighed the pros and cons of the argument till they had made up their minds. It was finally agreed that no petition should be sent to parliament. In reply to the angry remonstrances of the orators, some declared that it was too late; others that it would be of no use; some said that it was a folly to suppose that the poor could hold out against the rich; others, that as Sir H. Withers and Mr. Malton had always been kind landlords and good men, they ought to be trusted now. Some few declared that, from all they could learn, it seemed to them that the measure of inclosing the common would be of service to the interests of the village.
CHAPTER III.
GEORGE GRAY IN THE WAY TO PROSPER.
One fine September morning, on returning from a ride with my father and Frederick, I was surprised to see from a distance what an animated scene our common presented. There were groups of children; but they were not flying their kites. There were many women; but they were neither cutting furze, nor tending their cows. Men were arriving from all sides, seeming disposed to see what was going forward, rather than to sit down to dinner at home.
We put our horses to a canter, and soon arrived at the scene of action.
The people were observing the motions of the surveyors, who, accompanied by Sir H. Withers and Mr. Malton, were settling the boundaries of the land to be inclosed. The variety of countenances plainly declared how various were the feelings with which the proceedings were viewed. I was myself so sorry that the time was come when ugly hedges and ditches must spoil the beauty of my favourite walk, that I could not wonder at some of the lamentations I heard around me, or at the sour looks with which the strangers were regarded.
“It’s a fine thing,” said one, “to be a baronet. It’s a fine thing to have one’s own way with parliament, and to do as one likes with land that belongs to people who can’t defend their right to it.”
“It’s a fine thing to be a great farmer,” cried another. “There’s Mr.
Malton, who has so much land that it takes him hours to ride through it—he is able to get as much more as he likes because he is rich.
Parliament never asks whether the land he wants belongs to anybody else, or whether he has not enough already, but as soon as ever he wishes for more, he gets it.”
“Remember that he pays for it,” said a neighbour. “He takes no unfair advantage of anybody. You have no reason to complain, for you have no right of common; and if we who have choose to exchange ours for a bit of land, what is that to anybody but ourselves? I say it is very wrong in you to make your neighbours discontented without reason.”
“You say so,” retorted the other, “because you hope to get work under the surveyors. I hear you have hired yourself out as a labourer already, and I wonder you choose to have any thing to do with such a business. If my boy had the offer of work on this spot to-morrow, he should not take it.”
“Then somebody would soon be found to take it instead,” replied the neighbour. “It will be a happy chance for many of our labourers; and I do not believe anybody will be the worse in the end for Mr. Malton’s being richer.”
“How should that be, if he takes the money out of our pockets?”
“That is the very thing that I deny. I say he puts money into our pockets in return for our labour; and out of the ground and our labour together, he gets back more money than he paid to us. So that he grows richer without making us poorer.”
When we joined the gentlemen who were talking with the surveyors, Mr.
Malton was observing that he was sorry, but not very much surprised to remark how much discontent existed among the people on account of this new proceeding.
“One cannot expect,” said Sir Henry Withers, “that they should look forward beyond the present inconvenience to the future profits in which they will share with us. All that they think about now is, that their cows cannot feed where they have fed; but if they could see how, in a hundred years, a multitude of their descendants will be supported by the produce of your fields, and how the value of the land will be increased by my plantations, they would wonder at their own complaints.”
“They will not trouble you much, Sir Henry,” replied Mr. Malton. “You and your ancestors have always been allowed to take your own way in this neighbourhood. It is with me that they are the most angry; but I can bear it because I see where the mistake lies, and that time will explain it. It is natural enough that men should like being proprietors better than being labourers; and because I laid several small fields into one farm, they fancy I have injured the former proprietors; though they would find, if they chose to inquire, that the very men who were starving on land of their own, are now flourishing on the wages I give them. Now, in times like these, the friends of the people will think more about how to satisfy their wants than to flatter their pride.”
Frederick and I looked at one another, wondering how it could happen that a man should be richer without land than with it; but as my father seemed to agree with Mr. Malton, we supposed there was something more in the matter than we saw. My desire to understand the opinions of the gentlemen made me attend to whatever was said this morning or at any future time on the subject of this important inclosure. I had many opportunities of learning what my father’s opinions were and why he held them; for it was a common practice with his neighbours to come to him for advice when they were in doubt, as well as for assistance when they had need. On the present occasion, so much of his time was taken up in arguing, explaining, and advising, that he jokingly said he thought he must call the inhabitants together to hear a lecture, or conduct a public disputation. My own convictions, from all that I heard, were, that no man can be properly regarded as an enemy to the public who so manages his capital as that it may produce the largest returns, whether that capital consists of ten thousand acres, with droves of cattle and spacious granaries, or of half an acre with a single pig. If a man obtains his property by fair purchase, and makes it produce the utmost that it can, he is a friend to the public as well as to himself and his family; since production is the aim of all such management, and the interest of every individual in the society. I therefore looked on the baronet as a public benefactor when I saw him planting his pines, beeches, and alders here, and his oaks and chestnuts there; because I knew that a vast increase of capital would be the result. I looked on Mr. Malton as a public benefactor when I saw him draining and manuring his new land; because I foresaw that these tracts would afford food and work to hundreds of a future generation. I looked on every labourer as a public benefactor who put his wages out to increase, either on his slip of garden-ground, or in improving the condition of his cow and pigs, or in the Savings Bank. Every man who assists the accumulation of cattle is a public benefactor, because he improves the fund for the employment of labour, and adds to the means of human subsistence and comfort. It was now George Gray’s turn to try what he could do for society by improving his own condition. He was now a capitalist; and it remained to be seen whether he could, by prudence in the outlay and by saving, make his capital accumulate.
On the Monday morning he brought his boy Billy, according to appointment, to take the lowest place among our domestics. The lad was much abashed at being shown into the parlour; and being besides rather sorry to leave his brothers and sisters, and much encumbered with his shoes and stockings and other new clothes, he turned very red, twirled his hat round and round, shifted from one leg to the other, and at last, on being spoken to, began to cry. His father told him he ought to be ashamed of himself for crying before the ladies; but that only made the matter worse. My mother, wisely supposing that the best way to stop his tears was to give him something to do, took him into the garden and shewed him how to weed the flower-beds. His father did not immediately take his leave, but said that he wished to consult his Honour on a matter of some importance, if his Honour had time to listen to him.
My father laid down the newspaper and was ready to hear.
“I believe you know, sir, that every body who keeps a cow on the common is offered a bit of land in exchange for the grazing and fuel?”
“Half an acre each, I understand, Gray.”
“Yes, sir. Half an acre each; and we may have it at the back of our cottages, or farther on the common, whichever we like.”
“So I hear; and you may sell it to Mr. Malton, on fair terms, if not inclined to keep it.”
“There is another person too, sir, who has offered me the same price as Mr. Malton; and I think, being a friend, he should have it if I sell it at all. My neighbour Norton has a mind to begin upon a farm of his own; and this, to be sure, is his time, when land may be had cheap.”
“I hope he will take care what he is about,” replied my father. “He is doing very well now, I believe. Why cannot he be satisfied without running risks?”
“Why, sir, he has saved money for the first outlay upon the land; and I suppose he understands his business very well, having practised it so long on Mr. Malton’s ground. And you know every body likes to be an owner as soon as he can.”
“Many a proprietor would be glad to be a labourer again, in times like these,” said my father; “and I wish Norton may not feel that by and by.
However, that is his own concern, and neither you nor I have any business with it. Do you mean, then, to sell your allotment to him?”
“That is what I wished to consult your Honour about. Harper told me yesterday that he has settled his bargain already with Mr. Malton, and that you approved of it, but I hear this morning that you have advised one or two of my neighbours very differently.”
“I have given different advice where the cases were different, and I have always mentioned my reasons, so that my neighbours might have the power of judging for themselves. If you know my reasons, you can easily guess what I should recommend in your case.”
“I did not hear, sir, why you advised them as you did; and I supposed that what was good for one would be good for all.”
“By no means, Gray, till all are rich or poor alike, and otherwise circumstanced in the same way. A shopkeeper, like Harper, may find it convenient to have a cow, while he is at no expense for it beyond building a shed and paying a trifle for having her driven home, and at no trouble but having her milked; but it becomes a very different matter when he must cultivate a piece of ground to provide food for her. His time is taken up with his business, and he knows nothing about the management of land; so that he must employ labourers; and the utmost profit of a cow would not repay him for this. I think, therefore, that he and our other shopkeepers have done wisely in selling their land and their cows.”
“But you think, sir, that Sam Johnson should keep his half-acre?”
“Yes. I think he is in favourable circumstances for making it answer; and I have advised him to get another cow, if those of his neighbours who are without will agree to take milk of him. Johnson’s wife knows how to conduct a dairy; his children are growing strong enough to give him help in his tillage; and being a labourer, he has many hours at his own command which a shopkeeper has not. So, if he works hard and manages cleverly, I think he will make a good profit of his allotment; and so may you, for the same reasons.”
“Would you have me sell milk, sir?”
“No. I should think one cow and a couple of pigs are enough to have on your hands, as your children are young, and your wife much occupied with them. But milk is an article of so much importance in a large family, and the produce of a cow such a comfortable thing to depend on, that I am always glad to see a labourer able and inclined to make the most of it.”
“I have often thought, sir, that there was no telling what would have become of us if it had not been for our cow.”
“You will find her of much more use to you when she is properly fed. Her milk will be twice as good and twice as plentiful when her food is raised from your own land; especially if your wife knows how to manage her.”
“Pray,” inquired my mother, who had just entered the room, “has your eldest girl learned to milk and churn?”
“Why no, ma’am; but I think it is time she should. She might help her mother much that way.”
“Indeed she ought; and if you like to let her come here at milking-time, our dairy-maid shall teach her to milk. Very few people are aware how much the value of a cow depends on the skill of the milker.”
Gray bowed, and thankfully accepted the offer.
“I believe, sir,” he said turning to my father, “that I shall keep my bit of land, or part of it. But I shall want a little money, you know, to lay out upon it at first; and I have no means of getting that but by selling a part.”
“It seems a pity to sell,” said my father, “because as your boys grow up, you will be able to make a profit of the whole, perhaps. I am not sure, either, that you will want money at all. I will come down to your cottage and see the condition of the land and of the place altogether, and give you my opinion upon it.”
When Gray was gone, my father and mother agreed that it was a good opportunity of trying what could be done for the welfare of a large and very poor family by clever management on their side, encouraged by advice and countenance on ours. We hoped to improve their condition, without either lending or giving them money; and they were industrious and tolerably prudent, and we ourselves much interested for them. My father was not a man to forget his promises, or to keep his neighbours waiting for the performance of them. The same evening we directed our walk towards Gray’s cottage.
The ground was declared to be of a promising quality, and was conveniently situated behind the cottage. It was Gray’s intention to fence it immediately, and turn in his cow to bite off the grass and help to manure it. But the great difficulty was to feed his cow through the winter, as his own land would not be ready for many months, and the small pickings from the lanes and hedges would go but a little way. My father promised to consider the matter; and went on to examine the state of every part of Gray’s premises. The cowshed was in bad repair. There were holes large enough to admit the wind and rain: the floor was wet and uneven, and not paved, as the floors of all cowsheds ought to be. My father showed Gray the advantage of having the ground slope a little, and told him how easily he might manage to pave it with stones (which are to be had every where), and to mend the thatch with heath and furze from the common. He advised that a pit should be dug near the shed, and close by where the future pigstye was to be, to collect the manure; and that the sweepings from the cottage floors, the collections which the children might make from the roads, and the wash and boilings of all sorts, should be thrown into it to increase the stock. Gray seemed willing to receive and act upon all his advice, especially when he found there was no need at present to lay out money upon his land. He declared that he did not grudge labour, nor care how hard he worked, if he could have a fair prospect of bettering his condition.
“Such a prospect I think you have,” observed my father, “if you really do not mind hard work. But we have laid out a good deal for you. Here you have, besides your regular work, to fence your ground, and repair your shed, in the first place; and I should not wonder if you must pay for the subsistence of your cow this winter by extra labour.”
“I should be very glad to do so, sir, rather than part with her; and by this time twelvemonth, perhaps, I may see my way before me better than I do now.”
“Indeed I hope you will, Gray; and then we shall see you living upon something better than potatoes. Potatoes are very good food in part; but I like to see a hard-working man enjoying his bread and beer, and sometimes a dish of meat. If you manage to keep a pig, this will be in your power. In the mean time, do not be uneasy about how your cow is to be fed this winter. She will have the range of the common for two months to come: and I advise you to get on with your fencing and repairs before that time is over.”