Part 5

Becky glanced towards Allan, to see if he had nothing to propose. If they could neither mend the place nor leave it, it did seem a hard case. Allan was looking into the fire, musing. When Moss announced that the rain was over, Allan started, and said he must be fetching some of Abby’s things down, if it was fair. Becky really meant to help him: but she also wanted opportunity for consultation, as to whether it could really be God’s will that they should neither be able to mend their condition nor to escape from it. As they mounted the long flight of steps, they saw Mr. Nelson issue from the Station, looking about him to ascertain if the rain was over, and take his stand on the embankment, followed by a gentleman who had a roll of paper in his hand. As they stood, the one was seen to point with his stick, and the other with his roll of paper, this way and that. Allan set off in that direction, saying to his sister, as he went,

“Don’t you come. That gentleman is so rude, he will make you cry. Yes, I must go; and I won’t get angry; I won’t indeed. He may find as much fault as he pleases; I must show him how the water is standing in our furrows.”

“Hallo! what do you want here?” was Mr. Nelson’s greeting, when, after a minute or two, he saw Allan looking and listening. “What business have you here, hearkening to what we are saying?”

“I wanted to know whether anything is going to be done below there. I thought, if you wished it, I could tell you something about it.”

“You! what, a dainty little fellow like you?—a fellow that wears his Sunday clothes on a Tuesday, and a rainy Tuesday too! You must get working clothes and work.”

“I shall work to-morrow, Sir. My mother and my brother-in-law were buried to-day.”

“Lord bless me! You should have told me that. How should I know that unless you told me?” He proceeded in a much gentler tone, however, merely remonstrating with Allan for letting the wet stand in the furrows, in such a way as would spoil any garden. Allan had a good ally, all the while, in the stranger, who seemed to understand everything before it was explained. The gentleman was, in fact, an agricultural surveyor—one who could tell, when looking abroad from a height, what was swamp and what meadow; where there was a clean drain, and where an uneven ditch; where the soil was likely to be watered, and where flooded by the winter rains; where genially warmed, and where fatally baked by the summer’s sun. He had seen, before Allan pointed it out, how the great ditch cut across between the cultivated grounds and the little river into which those grounds should be drained: but he could not know, till told by Allan, who were the proprietors and occupiers of the parcels of land lying on either side the ditch. Mr. Nelson knew little or nothing under this head, though he contradicted the lad every minute; was sure such an one did not live here, nor another there: told him he was confusing Mr. Smith and Mr. Brown: did not believe a word of Mr. Taylor having bought yonder meadow, or Mrs. Scott now renting that field. All the while, the surveyor went on setting down the names as Allan told them; and then observed that they were not so many but that they might combine, if they would, to drain their properties, if they could be relieved of the obstruction of the ditch—if the surveyor of highways would see that the ditch were taken in hand. Mr. Nelson pronounced that there should be no difficulty about the ditch, if the rest could be managed: and then, after a few whispered words between the gentlemen, Allan was asked first, whether he was sure that he knew where every person lived whose name was down in the surveyor’s book; and next, whether he would act as guide to-morrow. For a moment he thought he should be wanted to move Abby’s things: but, remembering the vast importance of the plan which seemed now to be fairly growing under his eye, he replied that he would go: he should be happy to make it his day’s work to help, ever so little, towards what he wished above everything in the world.

“What makes you in such a hurry to suppose we want to get a day’s work out of you for nothing?” asked Mr. Nelson. He thrust half-a-crown into the lad’s waistcoat pocket, saying that he must give it back again, if he led the gentleman wrong. The gentleman had no time to go running about the country on a fool’s errand; Allan must mind that. As Allan touched his hat, and ran down the steps, Mr. Nelson observed that boys with good hearts did not fly about in that way, as if they were merry, on the day of their mother’s funeral.

“Perhaps he is rather thinking of saving his father,” observed the surveyor.

“Well; save as many of them as you can. They seem all going to pot as it is.”

When Allan burst in, carrying nothing of Abby’s, but having a little colour in his cheeks for once, his father sat up in his chair, the baby suddenly stopped crying, and Moss asked where he had been. At first, his father disappointed him by being listless—first refusing to believe anything good, and then saying that any good that could happen now was too late; and Abby could not help crying all the more because this was not thought about a year sooner. It was her poor husband that had made the stir; and now they were going to take his advice the very day that he was laid in his grave. They all tried to comfort her, and said how natural it was that she should feel it so; yet, amidst all their sympathy, they could not help being cheered that something was to be done at last.

By degrees, and not slow degrees, Woodruffe became animated. It was surprising how many things he desired Allan to be sure not to forget to point out to the surveyor, and to urge upon those he was to visit. At last he said he would go himself. It was a very serious business, and he ought to make an effort to have it done properly. It was a great effort, but he would make it. Not rheumatism, nor anything else, should keep him at home. Allan was glad at heart to see such signs of energy in his father, though he might feel some natural disappointment at being left at home, and some perplexity as to what, in that case, he ought to do about the half-crown, if Mr. Nelson should be gone home. The morning settled this, however. The surveyor was in his gig. If Allan could hang on, or keep up with it, it would be very well, as he would be wanted to open the gates, and to lead the way in places too wet for his father, who was not worth such a pair of patent waterproof tall boots as the surveyor had on.

The circuit was not a very wide one; yet it was dark before they got home. There are always difficulties in arrangements which require combined action. Here there were different levels in the land, and different tempers and views among the occupiers. Mr. Brown had heard nothing about the matter, and could not be hurried till he saw occasion. Mr. Taylor liked his field best, wet—would not have it drier on any account, for fear of the summer sun. When assured that drought took no hold on well-dried land in comparison with wet land, he shook with laughter, and asked if they expected him to believe that. Mrs. Scott, whose combination with two others was essential to the drainage of three portions, would wait another year. They must go on without her; and after another year, she would see what she would do. Another had drained his land in his own way long ago, and did not expect that anybody would ask him to put his spade into another man’s land, or to let any other man put his spade into his. These were all the obstructions. Everybody else was willing, or at least, not obstructive. By clever management, it was thought that the parties concerned could make an island of Mrs. Scott and her field, and win over Mr. Brown by the time he was wanted, and show Mr. Taylor that, as his field could no longer be as wet as it had been, he might as well try the opposite condition—they promising to flood his field as often and as thoroughly as he pleased, if he found it the worse for being drained. They could not obtain all they wished, where every body was not as wise as could be wished; but so much was agreed upon as made the experienced surveyor think that the rest would follow; enough, already, to set more labourers to work than the place could furnish. Two or three stout men were sent from a distance; and when they had once cut a clear descent from the ditch to the river, and had sunk the ditch to seven feet deep, and made the bottom even, and narrowed it to three feet, it was a curious thing to see how ready the neighbours became to unite their drains with it. It used to be said, that here—however it might be elsewhere—the winter was no time for digging: but that must have meant that no winter-digging would bring a spring crop; and that therefore it was useless. Now, the sound of the spade never ceased for the rest of the winter; and the labourers thought it the best winter they had ever known for constant work. Those who employed the labour hoped it would answer—found it expensive—must trust it was all right, and would yield a profit by and by. As for the Woodruffes, they were too poor to employ labourers. But some little hope had entered their hearts again, and brought strength, not only to their hearts, but to their very limbs. They worked like people beginning the world. As poor Abby could keep the house and sew, while attending to her little school, Becky did the lighter parts (and some which were far from light) of the garden work, finding easy tasks for Moss; and Allan worked like a man at the drains. They had been called good drains before; but now, there was an outfall for deeper ones; and deeper they must be made. Moreover, a strong rivalry arose among the neighbours about their respective portions of the combined drainage; and under the stimulus of ambition, Woodruffe recovered his spirits and the use of his limbs wonderfully. He suffered cruelly from his rheumatism; and in the evenings felt as if he could never more lift a spade; yet, not the less was he at work again in the morning, and so sanguine as to the improvement of his ground, that it was necessary to remind him, when calculating his gains, that it would take two years, at least, to prove the effects of his present labours.

LINES TO A DEAD LINNET.

BY A SOLITARY STUDENT.

Sweet little friend in hours of lonely thought, And studious toil thro’ the unresting day, Why hast thou left me to the sullen hours, So dull and changeless now? Thy light-heart song, And fluttering plume of joy, beguile no more My weary mind, happy when so estranged, From books, which are the bane of all repose.

The secret bustle of thy frequent meal, Like elfin working mischief, all unseen At bottom of thy cage; thy dipping bill, Oft splashing sportive o’er the learned tome, And rousing my ’rapt soul to homelier themes; The tuning twitter, snatch’d and interrupt— The timorous essay, low and querulous— The strain symphonious—and the full burst of song, That made my study-walls re-echo sweet, The harmonious peal, while all its tatter’d maps And prints unframed, responsive tremblings gave;— All these are past, and joy takes wing with thee.

Nor less, when in the dreary night, far spent, Still was I pondering o’er the murky page, Hast thou attracted notice by thy bill Battling along the wires; and in the twinkle— The clos’d—and then, bright little eye, half-oped. Well have I read thy meaning, and full soon, Thus warned of needful slumber, borne away The wasted lamp, and sought my lonely couch.

Thy empty cage now hangs against the wall! No one inhabits it—nothing is there— Thy seed-box is half full of dust and film; A spider weaves within thy water-glass: The wretchedness of silence—no response To calls and questionings of the heart—the mind— All show me thou art dead—for ever gone! I stand and gaze on thy perplexing cage— Like a friend’s house—deserted!—one we have loved— And before which, returning after years, We pause, and think of hours enjoyed within; And gaze upon the dusty shutters—closed!

THE GOOD GOVERNOR.

In a region where favourable latitude and tempering sea-breezes combine to produce perpetual summer, lie “the still vexed Bermoothes,” the Bermuda of modern navigators, where one-half of the year is the fitting seedtime for plants of the tropical, and the other half of the temperate zones. These islands, discovered to us by a shipwreck, with one exception, our oldest colony, offer a miniature copy of the institutions of the parent state.

About twenty square miles of surface, consisting of one island thirty miles long by two broad, and a half-dozen _aide-de-camp_ sort of islets, support a population rather less numerous, and considerably less wealthy, than that of the City of Canterbury; and enjoy the dignity of a capital, with two thousand inhabitants; of a Governor and Commander-in-Chief, who takes his seat on “the throne” when opening the Bermoothean Parliament; of a Council, or miniature House of Lords, and a Representative Assembly of thirty-six members, forming a miniature House of Commons. They had formerly an Archdeacon, but, by one of those extraordinary decisions that occasionally originate in high quarters, the Archdeacon has been metamorphosed into a Bishop of Newfoundland, whom the Bermudians never see, although they still have the honour of paying the salary of the late Archdeacon.

Formerly Bermuda, like Virginia, from which it was an offshoot, was a slave colony, and grew tobacco. But tobacco would not pay, and every Bermudian, being born within a mile of the water, was bred amphibious. Capital cedar for ship-building grows on the hills, and harbours are all around to receive the craft when built. So it came to pass, that the “‘Mudian” clippers became plentiful all over the neighbouring seas, and took a large share of the carrying trade between our American colonies and the West Indies. Even when a large slice of these said colonies had struggled into the Republic of the United States, the ’Mudians continued to do a good stroke of sea-faring business.

Then whales abounded in the neighbouring seas, and every ’Mudian took to handling the oar, the lance, or the harpoon, at a time of life when other children were driving hoops, or riding rocking-horses.

It was the natural result of these handy occupations in so limited a space, that the whole population, with the exception of that supported by the expenditure of the garrison, was occupied in building, or rigging, or manning, or loading, vessels of some kind, if not whaling or fishing. White or black, they were all sailors and sea-faring to a man, almost to a woman. The real mermaid still lingers round Bermuda’s coast. Breechless babies swaggered along with a mixture of long and short steps in true jack-tar style. Bermudian young ladies directed their maids to let out a reef in a petticoat, and officers driving tandem were bid “put yer helm down,” by native guides.

There are no records to show when first in Bermuda sea-faring arts began to devour all others; certain it is that just as the manufacture of glass and porcelain, purple dye, and other signal utilities and ornaments have been more than once discovered, lost, and re-discovered, so were agriculture and horticulture in the year 1839 of the islands of perpetual spring, among the lost arts. If in that year some convulsion had for ever separated them from external communications, the process of food-growing among a British race would have been left as rude in theory, more imperfect in practice, than among the New Zealanders or South Sea Islanders.

There were in that year two persons in the islands who could plough, but they did not. Haymaking and mowing was a theory learned in books, just as curious inquirers in Lancashire may have read of cotton cultivation. As for the state of gardening, it was about parallel with British gardening in the time of Queen Bess, who used to send to Holland for a salad.

So there was neither corn nor hay, and very little fruit, of the worst quality. A sort of bitter orange-tree abounded through the islands. Inquisitive strangers asked “Why not graft or bud sweet oranges on these luxuriant stocks, or why not sow sweet seeds?” But the natives were positive that buds would not take, and seeds would not grow.

Such was Bermuda in 1839; somewhat depressed in its fishing, whaling, ship-building, sea-carrying commerce, by the competition of New Brunswick and the United States. Although less affected than the sugar-growing islands by negro emancipation, still whites, who had lived easily although barely by hiring out a few black artisans, were reduced to sore straits.

It was in this year there arrived a new Governor. He travelled the length and breadth of his islands, and found all green and all barren; a light, but fertile soil, bearing fine timber, and luxuriant weeds. Round the government house was a waste of eight acres, within sight a great swamp. According to popular opinion, Colonial Governors are gentlemen of broken fortunes, and strong political connections, who endure temporary evils for the sake of future ease and dignity.

At any rate, among military martinet Governors; naval bashaw Governors; didactic despatch-writing Governors; Governors landing with crotchets all ready-cut and dry; Governors who support the Royal Prerogative by quarrelling with all their subjects, and Governors whose whole soul is in quiet and domestic economy, the popular Governor, the wise, conciliating Governor, is indeed a rare bird. According to stereotyped precedent, our Bermoothean Governor ought to have first sat down and written a flaming despatch home, painting the misery of the island, detailing his plans, and asking for money. Next he should have filled up a scheme on a scale large enough to satisfy the ideas of a Paxton in horticulture, or a Smith of Deanston in agriculture, and applied to his little parliament for a vote, in order to make a garden for himself, and a model farm for his own amusement and the benefit of the islanders.

But it happened that our “good” Governor as he was afterwards called with good reason, was not a stereotyped Governor, so that the people he was sent to rule became happy and prosperous. He cared not to become either rich or famous. Therefore, all his proceedings were on a humble, commonplace scale. Seeing that the climate was admirably adapted for oranges; which, if of good quality, would afford a valuable export, he sent for slips and seeds of the best kinds.

In front of Government House stands a bitter citron-tree: on this, with his own hands, he budded a sweet orange. The bud, contrary to all Bermudian opinions, sprouted, and grew, and flourished. After the living example of the Governor’s tree, it became a fashion—a rage—to bud sweet oranges; so by this simple and short cut an horticultural revolution was effected. Still working out the maxim that example is better than precept, our good Governor beat up for gardener recruits, accepting those who knew a little as well as those who knew nothing, but were willing to learn. With their aid, and at his own expense, the eight acres of waste round his residence, Mount Langton, were converted into a pleasure-ground, adorned with plants and shrubs of the tropical and temperate zones, which he threw open freely to the inhabitants without distinction of colour.

The next step was to drain the great marsh, the Langton Marsh, and grow hay upon it, so as to give the Bermudians a hint on the oddness of importing hay, while fine grass land lay waste. Two men who could plough were discovered, and pupils put under their hands; at the same time ploughs were imported. Having, out of his own pocket, offered prizes for garden flowers and vegetables, for corn and hay, for the best ploughman, and the best scytheman, the performances of these two being as wonderful to the islanders as skating to an Indian prince, or wine-making to a Yorkshireman, the Local Parliament willingly voted other prizes for the same purpose.

It would take up too much time to detail all the good Governor’s efforts—by example, by instruction, by rewards, by distribution of books, and by the promotion of industrial schools, to educate the rising generation of Bermuda in useful, civilising arts.

A grand holiday, held in May, 1846, showed that these efforts had not been without pleasant and practical results.

Mount Langton and all the pleasure-grounds created under the personal inspection and at the expense of the good Governor, were crowded with a noisy happy population, of all ranks, all ages, and all colours, black, white, and brown, assembled to enjoy and celebrate the taking stock of the revived Industry of the islands. Not equal in variety to the great Parisian Exposition, or in quality to the Royal Agricultural Shows, it was still an era in the history of the colony.

The Queen’s representative did not grudge to give up for the occasion his private domain, as that was the best site in the Island. Amid the luxuriant shrubs and gorgeous tropical flowers, the gay groups wandered; sweetly the sounds of the regimental band intermingled with the shouts and whip-crackings of the contending ploughmen as they turned up the brown furrows of long neglected soil, and with the switching of twenty-five scythe-men exhibiting their newly acquired skill on the drained pasture of Langton Marsh. Below lay the shipping in harbour, and far beyond the golden purple ocean was dotted over with the cloud-like canvas of the famous ’Mudian craft. Almost at once—one glance—it was possible to take in a view of the pursuits of old and young Bermuda. Government House was closed;—to have entertained the thousands who had assembled (beyond the needful supply of cold water found in huge jars and tubs in every shady place, a provision so grateful under a tropical sun,) was impossible; to have entertained a part—an exclusive few—on such an occasion, would have been contrary to the Governor’s principles; so for that day all personal attendants were enabled to share in the universal holiday.

In due time after the ploughing and mowing matches, came the competition in turnips, strawberries, potatoes, dahlias, barley, potherbs, flax, and cabbages, and the parading and comparison of horse-colts, ass-colts, calves, heifers, bulls, sows, and boars.

Now, before the advent of this reforming Governor, the Bermudians had been accustomed to no other competition than that of sailing or cricket matches or steeple-chases; to no other exhibitions than military reviews; all excellent in their way, but now usefully varied by a kind of competition that brought new comforts to every cottager.

Years have elapsed since the day of this well-remembered _fête_. But the good Governor is still affectionately remembered. The Bermudians love to show passing strangers the sweet orange-tree on Mount Langton which still blooms a green and golden monument of plain, practical, kind-hearted common sense. And this sketch of a remote and insignificant dependency has been thought worth telling for the benefit, not only of colonial Governors, but of well-meaning reformers in all parts of the world. If we would do good we must not be content with mere talk; we must not disdain to commence at our own doors by budding—a sweet orange on a bitter citron.

LONDON PAUPER CHILDREN.